available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/anapologyforlife cibbuoft project gutenberg has the other volume of this work. volume i: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). a carat character is used to denote superscription. a single character following the carat is superscripted (example: y^m). multiple superscripted characters are enclosed by curly brackets (example: ^{th}). the scribal abbreviation found in footnote is represented by the notation {c~o}. an apology for the life of mr. colley cibber. _volume the second._ _note._ _ copies printed on this fine deckle-edge demy vo paper for england and america, with the portraits as india proofs after letters._ _each copy is numbered, and the type distributed._ _no._ [illustration: colley cibber as lord foppington.] an apology for the life of mr. colley cibber _written by himself_ a new edition with notes and supplement by robert w. lowe _with twenty-six original mezzotint portraits by r. b. parkes, and eighteen etchings by adolphe lalauze_ _in two volumes_ volume the second london john c. nimmo , king william street, strand mdccclxxxix chiswick press printed by charles whittingham and co. tooks court, chancery lane, london, e.c. contents. chapter x. page the recruited actors in the hay-market encourag'd by a subscription, etc. chapter xi. some chimÆrical thoughts of making the stage useful, etc. chapter xii. a short view of the opera when first divided from the comedy, etc. chapter xiii. the patentee, having now no actors, rebuilds the new theatre in lincolns-inn-fields, etc. chapter xiv. the stage in its highest prosperity, etc. chapter xv. sir richard steele succeeds collier in the theatre-royal, etc. chapter xvi. the author steps out of his way. pleads his theatrical cause in chancery, etc. supplementary chapter bibliography of colley cibber a brief supplement to colley cibber, esq; his lives of the late famous actors and actresses memoirs of actors and actresses list of mezzotint portraits. newly engraved by r. b. parkes. volume the second. page i. colley cibber, in the character of "sir novelty fashion, newley created lord foppington," in vanbrugh's play of "the relapse; or, virtue in danger." from the painting by j. grisoni. the property of the garrick club. _frontispiece_ ii. owen swiney. after the painting by john baptist vanloo. iii. anne oldfield. from the picture by jonathan richardson. iv. theophilus cibber, in the character of "antient pistol." v. hester santlow (mrs. barton booth). after an original picture from the life. vi. robert wilks. after the painting by john ellys, . vii. richard steele. from the painting by jonathan richardson, . viii. barton booth. from the picture by george white. ix. susanna maria cibber. after a painting by thomas hudson. x. charles fleetwood. "sir fopling flutter arrested." "drawn from a real scene." john dixon _ad vivum del et fect_. xi. alexander pope, at the age of . after the picture by sir godfrey kneller, painted in . xii. susanna maria cibber, in the character of cordelia, "king lear," act iii. after the picture by peter van bleeck. xiii. cave underhill, in the character of obadiah, "the fanatic elder." after the picture by robert bing, . list of chapter headings. newly etched from contemporary drawings by adolphe lalauze. volume the second. x. scene illustrating cibber's "careless husband." after the picture by philip mercier. xi. coffee-house scene of cibber's day, "drawn from the life" by g. vander gucht. xii. scene illustrating "the italian opera," with senesino, cuzzoni, &c. from a contemporary design. xiii. scene illustrating farquhar's "recruiting officer." after the picture by philip mercier. xiv. scene illustrating addison's "cato." after the contemporary design by lud. du guernier. xv. scene illustrating vanbrugh and cibber's "provoked husband." after the contemporary design by j. vanderbank. xvi. scene illustrating vanbrugh's "provoked wife." after the contemporary design by arnold vanhaecken. xvii. "the stage mutiny," with portraits of theophilus cibber as "antient pistol," mrs. wilks, and others, in character; colley cibber as poet laureate, with his lap filled with bags of money. from a pictorial satire of the time. xviii. anthony aston's "the fool's opera." an apology for the life of mr. colley cibber, &c. chapter x. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the recruited actors in the_ hay-market _encourag'd by a subscription_. drury-lane _under a particular management_. _the power of a lord-chamberlain over the theatres consider'd. how it had been formerly exercis'd. a digression to tragick authors._ having shewn the particular conduct of the patentee in refusing so fair an opportunity of securing to himself both companies under his sole power and interest, i shall now lead the reader, after a short view of what pass'd in this new establishment of the _hay-market_ theatre, to the accidents that the year following compell'd the same patentee to receive both companies, united, into the _drury-lane_ theatre, notwithstanding his disinclination to it. it may now be imagin'd that such a detachment of actors from _drury-lane_ could not but give a new spirit to those in the _hay-market_; not only by enabling them to act each others plays to better advantage, but by an emulous industry which had lain too long inactive among them, and without which they plainly saw they could not be sure of subsistence. plays by this means began to recover a good share of their former esteem and favour; and the profits of them in about a month enabled our new menager to discharge his debt (of something more than two hundred pounds) to his old friend the patentee, who had now left him and his troop in trust to fight their own battles. the greatest inconvenience they still laboured under was the immoderate wideness of their house, in which, as i have observ'd, the difficulty of hearing may be said to have bury'd half the auditors entertainment. this defect seem'd evident from the much better reception several new plays (first acted there) met with when they afterwards came to be play'd by the same actors in _drury-lane_: of this number were the _stratagem_[ ] and the _wife's resentment_;[ ] to which i may add the _double gallant_.[ ] this last was a play made up of what little was tolerable in two or three others that had no success, and were laid aside as so much poetical lumber; but by collecting and adapting the best parts of them all into one play, the _double gallant_ has had a place every winter amongst the publick entertainments these thirty years. as i was only the compiler of this piece i did not publish it in my own name; but as my having but a hand in it could not be long a secret, i have been often treated as a plagiary on that account: not that i think i have any right to complain of whatever would detract from the merit of that sort of labour, yet a cobler may be allow'd to be useful though he is not famous:[ ] and i hope a man is not blameable for doing a little good, tho' he cannot do as much as another? but so it is--twopenny criticks must live as well as eighteenpenny authors![ ] while the stage was thus recovering its former strength, a more honourable mark of favour was shewn to it than it was ever known before or since to have receiv'd. the then lord _hallifax_ was not only the patron of the men of genius of this time, but had likewise a generous concern for the reputation and prosperity of the theatre, from whence the most elegant dramatick labours of the learned, he knew, had often shone in their brightest lustre. a proposal therefore was drawn up and addressed to that noble lord for his approbation and assistance to raise a publick subscription for reviving three plays of the best authors, with the full strength of the company; every subscriber to have three tickets for the first day of each play for his single payment of three guineas. this subscription his lordship so zealously encouraged, that from his recommendation chiefly, in a very little time it was compleated. the plays were _julius cæsar_ of _shakespear_; the _king and no king_ of _fletcher_, and the comic scenes of _drydens marriage à la mode_ and of his _maiden queen_ put together;[ ] for it was judg'd that, as these comic episodes were utterly independent of the serious scenes they were originally written to, they might on this occasion be as well episodes either to the other, and so make up five livelier acts between them: at least the project so well succeeded, that those comic parts have never since been replaced, but were continued to be jointly acted as one play several years after. by the aid of this subscription, which happen'd in , and by the additional strength and industry of this company, not only the actors (several of which were handsomely advanc'd in their sallaries) were duly paid, but the menager himself, too, at the foot of his account, stood a considerable gainer. at the same time the patentee of _drury-lane_ went on in his usual method of paying extraordinary prices to singers, dancers, and other exotick performers, which were as constantly deducted out of the sinking sallaries of his actors: 'tis true his actors perhaps might not deserve much more than he gave them; yet, by what i have related, it is plain he chose not to be troubled with such as visibly had deserv'd more: for it seems he had not purchas'd his share of the patent to mend the stage, but to make money of it: and to say truth, his sense of every thing to be shewn there was much upon a level with the taste of the multitude, whose opinion and whose money weigh'd with him full as much as that of the best judges. his point was to please the majority, who could more easily comprehend any thing they _saw_ than the daintiest things that could be said to them. but in this notion he kept no medium; for in my memory he carry'd it so far that he was (some few years before this time) actually dealing for an extraordinary large elephant at a certain sum for every day he might think fit to shew the tractable genius of that vast quiet creature in any play or farce in the theatre (then standing) in _dorset-garden_. but from the jealousy which so formidable a rival had rais'd in his dancers, and by his bricklayer's assuring him that if the walls were to be open'd wide enough for its entrance it might endanger the fall of the house, he gave up his project, and with it so hopeful a prospect of making the receipts of the stage run higher than all the wit and force of the best writers had ever yet rais'd them to.[ ] about the same time of his being under this disappointment he put in practice another project of as new, though not of so bold a nature; which was his introducing a set of rope-dancers into the same theatre; for the first day of whose performance he had given out some play in which i had a material part: but i was hardy enough to go into the pit and acquaint the spectators near me, that i hop'd they would not think it a mark of my disrespect to them, if i declin'd acting upon any stage that was brought to so low a disgrace as ours was like to be by that day's entertainment. my excuse was so well taken that i never after found any ill consequences, or heard of the least disapprobation of it: and the whole body of actors, too, protesting against such an abuse of their profession, our cautious master was too much alarm'd and intimidated to repeat it. after what i have said, it will be no wonder that all due regards to the original use and institution of the stage should be utterly lost or neglected: nor was the conduct of this menager easily to be alter'd while he had found the secret of making money out of disorder and confusion: for however strange it may seem, i have often observ'd him inclin'd to be cheerful in the distresses of his theatrical affairs, and equally reserv'd and pensive when they went smoothly forward with a visible profit. upon a run of good audiences he was more frighted to be thought a gainer, which might make him accountable to others, than he was dejected with bad houses, which at worst he knew would make others accountable to him: and as, upon a moderate computation, it cannot be supposed that the contested accounts of a twenty year's wear and tear in a play-house could be fairly adjusted by a master in chancery under four-score years more, it will be no surprize that by the neglect, or rather the discretion, of other proprietors in not throwing away good money after bad, this hero of a menager, who alone supported the war, should in time so fortify himself by delay, and so tire his enemies, that he became sole monarch of his theatrical empire, and left the quiet possession of it to his successors. if these facts seem too trivial for the attention of a sensible reader, let it be consider'd that they are not chosen fictions to _entertain_, but truths necessary to _inform_ him under what low shifts and disgraces, what disorders and revolutions, the stage labour'd before it could recover that strength and reputation wherewith it began to flourish towards the latter end of queen _anne_'s reign; and which it continued to enjoy for a course of twenty years following. but let us resume our account of the new settlement in the _hay-market_. it may be a natural question why the actors whom _swiney_ brought over to his undertaking in the _hay-market_ would tie themselves down to limited sallaries? for though he as their menager was obliged to make them certain payments, it was not certain that the receipts would enable him to do it; and since their own industry was the only visible fund they had to depend upon, why would they not for that reason insist upon their being sharers as well of possible profits as losses? how far in this point they acted right or wrong will appear from the following state of their case. it must first be consider'd that this scheme of their desertion was all concerted and put in execution in a week's time, which short warning might make them overlook that circumstance, and the sudden prospect of being deliver'd from having seldom more than half their pay was a contentment that had bounded all their farther views. besides, as there could be no room to doubt of their receiving their full pay previous to any profits that might be reap'd by their labour, and as they had no great reason to apprehend those profits could exceed their respective sallaries so far as to make them repine at them, they might think it but reasonable to let the chance of any extraordinary gain be on the side of their leader and director. but farther, as this scheme had the approbation of the court, these actors in reality had it not in their power to alter any part of it: and what induced the court to encourage it was, that by having the theatre and its menager more immediately dependent on the power of the lord chamberlain, it was not doubted but the stage would be recover'd into such a reputation as might now do honour to that absolute command which the court or its officers seem'd always fond of having over it. here, to set the constitution of the stage in a clearer light, it may not be amiss to look back a little on the power of a lord chamberlain, which, as may have been observ'd in all changes of the theatrical government, has been the main spring without which no scheme of what kind soever could be set in motion. my intent is not to enquire how far by law this power has been limited or extended; but merely as an historian to relate facts to gratify the curious, and then leave them to their own reflections: this, too, i am the more inclin'd to, because there is no one circumstance which has affected the stage wherein so many spectators, from those of the highest rank to the vulgar, have seem'd more positively knowing or less inform'd in. though in all the letters patent for acting plays, _&c._ since king _charles_ the _first_'s time there has been no mention of the lord chamberlain, or of any subordination to his command or authority, yet it was still taken for granted that no letters patent, by the bare omission of such a great officer's name, could have superseded or taken out of his hands that power which time out of mind he always had exercised over the theatre.[ ] the common opinions then abroad were, that if the profession of actors was unlawful, it was not in the power of the crown to license it; and if it were not unlawful, it ought to be free and independent as other professions; and that a patent to exercise it was only an honorary favour from the crown to give it a better grace of recommendation to the publick. but as the truth of this question seem'd to be wrapt in a great deal of obscurity, in the old laws made in former reigns relating to players, _&c._ it may be no wonder that the best companies of actors should be desirous of taking shelter under the visible power of a lord chamberlain who they knew had at his pleasure favoured and protected or born hard upon them: but be all this as it may, a lord chamberlain (from whencesoever his power might be derived) had till of later years had always an implicit obedience paid to it: i shall now give some few instances in what manner it was exercised. what appear'd to be most reasonably under his cognizance was the licensing or refusing new plays, or striking out what might be thought offensive in them: which province had been for many years assign'd to his inferior officer, the master of the revels; yet was not this license irrevocable; for several plays, though acted by that permission, had been silenced afterwards. the first instance of this kind that common fame has deliver'd down to us, is that of the _maid's tragedy_ of _beaumont_ and _fletcher_, which was forbid in king _charles_ the _second_'s time, by an order from the lord chamberlain. for what reason this interdiction was laid upon it the politicks of those days have only left us to guess. some said that the killing of the king in that play, while the tragical death of king _charles_ the _first_ was then so fresh in people's memory, was an object too horribly impious for a publick entertainment. what makes this conjecture seem to have some foundation, is that the celebrated _waller_, in compliment to that court, alter'd the last act of this play (which is printed at the end of his works) and gave it a new catastrophe, wherein the life of the king is loyally saved, and the lady's matter made up with a less terrible reparation. others have given out, that a repenting mistress, in a romantick revenge of her dishonour, killing the king in the very bed he expected her to come into, was shewing a too dangerous example to other _evadnes_ then shining at court in the same rank of royal distinction; who, if ever their consciences should have run equally mad, might have had frequent opportunities of putting the expiation of their frailty into the like execution. but this i doubt is too deep a speculation, or too ludicrous a reason, to be relied on; it being well known that the ladies then in favour were not so nice in their notions as to think their preferment their dishonour, or their lover a tyrant: besides, that easy monarch loved his roses without thorns; nor do we hear that he much chose to be himself the first gatherer of them.[ ] the _lucius junius brutus_ of _nat. lee_[ ] was in the same reign silenced after the third day of acting it; it being objected that the plan and sentiments of it had too boldly vindicated, and might enflame republican principles. a prologue (by _dryden_) to the _prophetess_ was forbid by the lord _dorset_ after the first day of its being spoken.[ ] this happen'd when king _william_ was prosecuting the war in _ireland_. it must be confess'd that this prologue had some familiar, metaphorical sneers at the revolution itself; and as the poetry of it was good, the offence of it was less pardonable. the tragedy of _mary_ queen of _scotland_[ ] had been offer'd to the stage twenty years before it was acted: but from the profound penetration of the master of the revels, who saw political spectres in it that never appear'd in the presentation, it had lain so long upon the hands of the author; who had at last the good fortune to prevail with a nobleman to favour his petition to queen _anne_ for permission to have it acted: the queen had the goodness to refer the merit of his play to the opinion of that noble person, although he was not her majesty's lord chamberlain; upon whose report of its being every way an innocent piece, it was soon after acted with success. reader, by your leave----i will but just speak a word or two to any author that has not yet writ one line of his next play, and then i will come to my point again----what i would say to him is this--sir, before you set pen to paper, think well and principally of your design or chief action, towards which every line you write ought to be drawn, as to its centre: if we can say of your finest sentiments, this or that might be left out without maiming the story, you would tell us, depend upon it, that fine thing is said in a wrong place; and though you may urge that a bright thought is not to be resisted, you will not be able to deny that those very fine lines would be much finer if you could find a proper occasion for them: otherwise you will be thought to take less advice from _aristotle_ or _horace_ than from poet _bays_ in the _rehearsal_, who very smartly says--_what the devil is the plot good for but to bring in fine things?_ compliment the taste of your hearers as much as you please with them, provided they belong to your subject, but don't, like a dainty preacher who has his eye more upon this world than the next, leave your text for them. when your fable is good, every part of it will cost you much less labour to keep your narration alive, than you will be forced to bestow upon those elegant discourses that are not absolutely conducive to your catastrophe or main purpose: scenes of that kind shew but at best the unprofitable or injudicious spirit of a genius. it is but a melancholy commendation of a fine thought to say, when we have heard it, _well! but what's all this to the purpose?_ take, therefore, in some part, example by the author last mention'd! there are three plays of his, the _earl_ of _essex_,[ ] _anna bullen_,[ ] and _mary queen of scots_, which, tho' they are all written in the most barren, barbarous stile that was ever able to keep possession of the stage, have all interested the hearts of his auditors. to what then could this success be owing, but to the intrinsick and naked value of the well-conducted tales he has simply told us? there is something so happy in the disposition of all his fables; all his chief characters are thrown into such natural circumstances of distress, that their misery or affliction wants very little assistance from the ornaments of stile or words to speak them. when a skilful actor is so situated, his bare plaintive tone of voice, the cast of sorrow from his eye, his slowly graceful gesture, his humble sighs of resignation under his calamities: all these, i say, are sometimes without a tongue equal to the strongest eloquence. at such a time the attentive auditor supplies from his own heart whatever the poet's language may fall short of in expression, and melts himself into every pang of humanity which the like misfortunes in real life could have inspir'd. after what i have observ'd, whenever i see a tragedy defective in its fable, let there be never so many fine lines in it; i hope i shall be forgiven if i impute that defect to the idleness, the weak judgment, or barren invention of the author. if i should be ask'd why i have not always my self follow'd the rules i would impose upon others; i can only answer, that whenever i have not, i lie equally open to the same critical censure. but having often observ'd a better than ordinary stile thrown away upon the loose and wandering scenes of an ill-chosen story, i imagin'd these observations might convince some future author of how great advantage a fable well plann'd must be to a man of any tolerable genius. all this i own is leading my reader out of the way; but if he has as much time upon his hands as i have, (provided we are neither of us tir'd) it may be equally to the purpose what he reads or what i write of. but as i have no objection to method when it is not troublesome, i return to my subject. hitherto we have seen no very unreasonable instance of this absolute power of a lord chamberlain, though we were to admit that no one knew of any real law, or construction of law, by which this power was given him. i shall now offer some facts relating to it of a more extraordinary nature, which i leave my reader to give a name to. about the middle of king _william_'s reign an order of the lord chamberlain was then subsisting that no actor of either company should presume to go from one to the other without a discharge from their respective menagers[ ] and the permission of the lord chamberlain. notwithstanding such order, _powel_, being uneasy at the favour _wilks_ was then rising into, had without such discharge left the _drury-lane_ theatre and engag'd himself to that of _lincolns-inn-fields_: but by what follows it will appear that this order was not so much intended to do both of them _good_, as to do that which the court chiefly favour'd (_lincolns-inn-fields_) no harm.[ ] for when _powel_ grew dissatisfy'd at his station there too, he return'd to _drury-lane_ (as he had before gone from it) without a discharge: but halt a little! here, on this side of the question, the order was to stand in force, and the same offence against it now was not to be equally pass'd over. he was the next day taken up by a messenger and confin'd to the porter's-lodge, where, to the best of my remembrance, he remain'd about two days; when the menagers of _lincolns-inn-fields_, not thinking an actor of his loose character worth their farther trouble, gave him up; though perhaps he was releas'd for some better reason.[ ] upon this occasion, the next day, behind the scenes at _drury-lane_, a person of great quality in my hearing enquiring of _powel_ into the nature of his offence, after he had heard it, told him, that if he had had patience or spirit enough to have staid in his confinement till he had given him notice of it, he would have found him a handsomer way of coming out of it. another time the same actor, _powel_, was provok'd at _will_'s coffee-house, in a dispute about the playhouse affairs, to strike a gentleman whose family had been sometimes masters of it; a complaint of this insolence was, in the absence of the lord-chamberlain, immediately made to the vice-chamberlain, who so highly resented it that he thought himself bound in honour to carry his power of redressing it as far as it could possibly go: for _powel_ having a part in the play that was acted the day after, the vice-chamberlain sent an order to silence the whole company for having suffer'd _powel_ to appear upon the stage before he had made that gentleman satisfaction, although the masters of the theatre had had no notice of _powel_'s misbehaviour: however, this order was obey'd, and remain'd in force for two or three days, 'till the same authority was pleas'd or advis'd to revoke it.[ ] from the measures this injur'd gentleman took for his redress, it may be judg'd how far it was taken for granted that a lord-chamberlain had an absolute power over the theatre. i shall now give an instance of an actor who had the resolution to stand upon the defence of his liberty against the same authority, and was reliev'd by it. in the same king's reign, _dogget_, who tho', from a severe exactness in his nature, he could be seldom long easy in any theatre, where irregularity, not to say injustice, too often prevail'd, yet in the private conduct of his affairs he was a prudent, honest man. he therefore took an unusual care, when he return'd to act under the patent in _drury-lane_, to have his articles drawn firm and binding: but having some reason to think the patentee had not dealt fairly with him, he quitted the stage and would act no more, rather chusing to lose his whatever unsatisfy'd demands than go through the chargeable and tedious course of the law to recover it. but the patentee, who (from other people's judgment) knew the value of him, and who wanted, too, to have him sooner back than the law could possibly bring him, thought the surer way would be to desire a shorter redress from the authority of the lord-chamberlain.[ ] accordingly, upon his complaint a messenger was immediately dispatch'd to _norwich_, where _dogget_ then was, to bring him up in custody: but doughty _dogget_, who had money in his pocket and the cause of liberty at his heart, was not in the least intimidated by this formidable summons. he was observ'd to obey it with a particular chearfulness, entertaining his fellow-traveller, the messenger, all the way in the coach (for he had protested against riding) with as much humour as a man of his business might be capable of tasting. and as he found his charges were to be defray'd, he, at every inn, call'd for the best dainties the country could afford or a pretended weak appetite could digest. at this rate they jollily roll'd on, more with the air of a jaunt than a journey, or a party of pleasure than of a poor devil in durance. upon his arrival in town he immediately apply'd to the lord chief justice _holt_ for his _habeas corpus_. as his case was something particular, that eminent and learned minister of the law took a particular notice of it: for _dogget_ was not only discharg'd, but the process of his confinement (according to common fame) had a censure pass'd upon it in court, which i doubt i am not lawyer enough to repeat! to conclude, the officious agents in this affair, finding that in _dogget_ they had mistaken their man, were mollify'd into milder proceedings, and (as he afterwards told me) whisper'd something in his ear that took away _dogget_'s farther uneasiness about it. by these instances we see how naturally power only founded on custom is apt, where the law is silent, to run into excesses, and while it laudably pretends to govern others, how hard it is to govern itself. but since the law has lately open'd its mouth, and has said plainly that some part of this power to govern the theatre shall be, and is plac'd in a proper person; and as it is evident that the power of that white staff, ever since it has been in the noble hand that now holds it, has been us'd with the utmost lenity, i would beg leave of the murmuring multitude who frequent the theatre to offer them a simple question or two, _viz._ pray, gentlemen, how came you, or rather your fore-fathers, never to be mutinous upon any of the occasional facts i have related? and why have you been so often tumultuous upon a law's being made that only confirms a less power than was formerly exercis'd without any law to support it? you cannot, sure, say such discontent is either just or natural, unless you allow it a maxim in your politicks that power exercis'd _without_ law is a less grievance than the same power exercis'd _according_ to law! having thus given the clearest view i was able of the usual regard paid to the power of a lord-chamberlain, the reader will more easily conceive what influence and operation that power must naturally have in all theatrical revolutions, and particularly in the complete re-union of both companies, which happen'd in the year following. chapter xi. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _some chimærical thoughts of making the stage useful: some, to its reputation. the patent unprofitable to all the proprietors but one. a fourth part of it given away to colonel_ brett. _a digression to his memory. the two companies of actors reunited by his interest and menagement. the first direction of operas only given to mr._ swiney. from the time that the company of actors in the _hay-market_ was recruited with those from _drury-lane_, and came into the hands of their new director, _swiney_, the theatre for three or four years following suffer'd so many convulsions, and was thrown every other winter under such different interests and menagement before it came to a firm and lasting settlement, that i am doubtful if the most candid reader will have patience to go through a full and fair account of it: and yet i would fain flatter my self that those who are not too wise to frequent the theatre (or have wit enough to distinguish what sort of sights there either do honour or disgrace to it) may think their national diversion no contemptible subject for a more able historian than i pretend to be: if i have any particular qualification for the task more than another it is that i have been an ocular witness of the several facts that are to fill up the rest of my volume, and am perhaps the only person living (however unworthy) from whom the same materials can be collected; but let them come from whom they may, whether at best they will be worth reading, perhaps a judgment may be better form'd after a patient perusal of the following digression. in whatever cold esteem the stage may be among the wise and powerful, it is not so much a reproach to those who contentedly enjoy it in its lowest condition, as that condition of it is to those who (though they cannot but know to how valuable a publick use a theatre, well establish'd, might be rais'd) yet in so many civiliz'd nations have neglected it. this perhaps will be call'd thinking my own wiser than all the wise heads in _europe_. but i hope a more humble sense will be given to it; at least i only mean, that if so many governments have their reasons for their disregard of their theatres, those reasons may be deeper than my capacity has yet been able to dive into: if therefore my simple opinion is a wrong one, let the singularity of it expose me: and tho' i am only building a theatre in the air, it is there, however, at so little expence and in so much better a taste than any i have yet seen, that i cannot help saying of it, as a wiser man did (it may be) upon a wiser occasion: --_si quid novisti rectius istis, candidus imperti; si non_-- hor.[ ] give me leave to play with my project in fancy. i say, then, that as i allow nothing is more liable to debase and corrupt the minds of a people than a licentious theatre, so under a just and proper establishment it were possible to make it as apparently the school of manners and of virtue. were i to collect all the arguments that might be given for my opinion, or to inforce it by exemplary proofs, it might swell this short digression to a volume; i shall therefore trust the validity of what i have laid down to a single fact that may be still fresh in the memory of many living spectators. when the tragedy of _cato_ was first acted,[ ] let us call to mind the noble spirit of patriotism which that play then infus'd into the breasts of a free people that crowded to it; with what affecting force was that most elevated of human virtues recommended? even the false pretenders to it felt an unwilling conviction, and made it a point of honour to be foremost in their approbation; and this, too, at a time when the fermented nation had their different views of government. yet the sublime sentiments of liberty in that venerable character rais'd in every sensible hearer such conscious admiration, such compell'd assent to the conduct of a suffering virtue, as even _demanded_ two almost irreconcileable parties to embrace and join in their equal applauses of it.[ ] now, not to take from the merit of the writer, had that play never come to the stage, how much of this valuable effect of it must have been lost? it then could have had no more immediate weight with the publick than our poring upon the many ancient authors thro' whose works the same sentiments have been perhaps less profitably dispers'd, tho' amongst millions of readers; but by bringing such sentiments to the theatre and into action, what a superior lustre did they shine with? there _cato_ breath'd again in life; and though he perish'd in the cause of liberty, his virtue was victorious, and left the triumph of it in the heart of every melting spectator. if effects like these are laudable, if the representation of such plays can carry conviction with so much pleasure to the understanding, have they not vastly the advantage of any other human helps to eloquence? what equal method can be found to lead or stimulate the mind to a quicker sense of truth and virtue, or warm a people into the love and practice of such principles as might be at once a defence and honour to their country? in what shape could we listen to virtue with equal delight or appetite of instruction? the mind of man is naturally free, and when he is compell'd or menac'd into any opinion that he does not readily conceive, he is more apt to doubt the truth of it than when his capacity is led by delight into evidence and reason. to preserve a theatre in this strength and purity of morals is, i grant, what the wisest nations have not been able to perpetuate or to transmit long to their posterity: but this difficulty will rather heighten than take from the honour of the theatre: the greatest empires have decay'd for want of proper heads to guide them, and the ruins of them sometimes have been the subject of theatres that could not be themselves exempt from as various revolutions: yet may not the most natural inference from all this be, that the talents requisite to form good actors, great writers, and true judges were, like those of wise and memorable ministers, as well the gifts of fortune as of nature, and not always to be found in all climes or ages. or can there be a stronger modern evidence of the value of dramatick performances than that in many countries where the papal religion prevails the holy policy (though it allows not to an actor christian burial) is so conscious of the usefulness of his art that it will frequently take in the assistance of the theatre to give even sacred history, in a tragedy, a recommendation to the more pathetick regard of their people. how can such principles, in the face of the world, refuse the bones of a wretch the lowest benefit of christian charity after having admitted his profession (for which they deprive him of that charity) to serve the solemn purposes of religion? how far then is this religious inhumanity short of that famous painter's, who, to make his _crucifix_ a master-piece of nature, stabb'd the innocent hireling from whose body he drew it; and having heighten'd the holy portrait with his last agonies of life, then sent it to be the consecrated ornament of an altar? though we have only the authority of common fame for this story, yet be it true or false the comparison will still be just. or let me ask another question more humanly political. how came the _athenians_ to lay out an hundred thousand pounds upon the decorations of one single tragedy of _sophocles_?[ ] not, sure, as it was merely a spectacle for idleness or vacancy of thought to gape at, but because it was the most rational, most instructive and delightful composition that human wit had yet arrived at, and consequently the most worthy to be the entertainment of a wise and warlike nation: and it may be still a question whether the _sophocles_ inspir'd this publick spirit, or this publick spirit inspir'd the _sophocles_?[ ] but alas! as the power of giving or receiving such inspirations from either of these causes seems pretty well at an end, now i have shot my bolt i shall descend to talk more like a man of the age i live in: for, indeed, what is all this to a common _english_ reader? why truly, as _shakespear_ terms it--_caviare to the multitude!_[ ] honest _john trott_ will tell you, that if he were to believe what i have said of the _athenians_, he is at most but astonish'd at it; but that if the twentieth part of the sum i have mentioned were to be apply'd out of the publick money to the setting off the best tragedy the nicest noddle in the nation could produce, it would probably raise the passions higher in those that did not like it than in those that did; it might as likely meet with an insurrection as the applause of the people, and so, mayhap, be fitter for the subject of a tragedy than for a publick fund to support it.----truly, mr. _trott_, i cannot but own that i am very much of your opinion: i am only concerned that the theatre has not a better pretence to the care and further consideration of those governments where it is tolerated; but as what i have said will not probably do it any great harm, i hope i have not put you out of patience by throwing a few good wishes after an old acquaintance. to conclude this digression. if for the support of the stage what is generally shewn there must be lower'd to the taste of common spectators; or if it is inconsistent with liberty to mend that vulgar taste by making the multitude less merry there; or by abolishing every low and senseless jollity in which the understanding can have no share; whenever, i say, such is the state of the stage, it will be as often liable to unanswerable censure and manifest disgraces. yet there _was_ a time, not yet out of many people's memory, when it subsisted upon its own rational labours; when even success attended an attempt to reduce it to decency; and when actors themselves were hardy enough to hazard their interest in pursuit of so dangerous a reformation. and this crisis i am my self as impatient as any tir'd reader can be to arrive at. i shall therefore endeavour to lead him the shortest way to it. but as i am a little jealous of the badness of the road, i must reserve to myself the liberty of calling upon any matter in my way, for a little refreshment to whatever company may have the curiosity or goodness to go along with me. when the sole menaging patentee at _drury-lane_ for several years could never be persuaded or driven to any account with the adventurers, sir _thomas skipwith_ (who, if i am rightly inform'd, had an equal share with him[ ]) grew so weary of the affair that he actually made a present of his entire interest in it upon the following occasion. sir _thomas_ happen'd in the summer preceding the re-union of the companies to make a visit to an intimate friend of his, colonel _brett_, of _sandywell_, in _gloucestershire_; where the pleasantness of the place, and the agreeable manner of passing his time there, had raised him to such a gallantry of heart, that in return to the civilities of his friend the colonel he made him an offer of his whole right in the patent; but not to overrate the value of his present, told him he himself had made nothing of it these ten years: but the colonel (he said) being a greater favourite of the people in power, and (as he believ'd) among the actors too, than himself was, might think of some scheme to turn it to advantage, and in that light, if he lik'd it, it was at his service. after a great deal of raillery on both sides of what sir _thomas_ had _not_ made of it, and the particular advantages the colonel was likely to make of it, they came to a laughing resolution that an instrument should be drawn the next morning of an absolute conveyance of the premises. a gentleman of the law well known to them both happening to be a guest there at the same time, the next day produced the deed according to his instructions, in the presence of whom and of others it was sign'd, seal'd, and deliver'd to the purposes therein contain'd.[ ] this transaction may be another instance (as i have elsewhere observed) at how low a value the interests in a theatrical license were then held, tho' it was visible from the success of _swiney_ in that very year that with tolerable menagement they could at no time have fail'd of being a profitable purchase. the next thing to be consider'd was what the colonel should do with his new theatrical commission, which in another's possession had been of so little importance. here it may be necessary to premise that this gentleman was the first of any consideration since my coming to the stage with whom i had contracted a personal intimacy; which might be the reason why in this debate my opinion had some weight with him: of this intimacy, too, i am the more tempted to talk from the natural pleasure of calling back in age the pursuits and happy ardours of youth long past, which, like the ideas of a delightful spring in a winter's rumination, are sometimes equal to the former enjoyment of them. i shall, therefore, rather chuse in this place to gratify my self than my reader, by setting the fairest side of this gentleman in view, and by indulging a little conscious vanity in shewing how early in life i fell into the possession of so agreeable a companion: whatever failings he might have to others, he had none to me; nor was he, where he had them, without his valuable qualities to balance or soften them. let, then, what was not to be commended in him rest with his ashes, never to be rak'd into: but the friendly favours i received from him while living give me still a pleasure in paying this only mite of my acknowledgment in my power to his memory. and if my taking this liberty may find pardon from several of his fair relations still living, for whom i profess the utmost respect, it will give me but little concern tho' my critical readers should think it all impertinence. this gentleman, then, _henry_, was the eldest son of _henry brett_, esq; of _cowley_, in _gloucestershire_, who coming early to his estate of about two thousand a year, by the usual negligences of young heirs had, before this his eldest son came of age, sunk it to about half that value, and that not wholly free from incumbrances. mr. _brett_, whom i am speaking of, had his education, and i might say, ended it, at the university of _oxford_; for tho' he was settled some time after at the _temple_, he so little followed the law there that his neglect of it made the law (like some of his fair and frail admirers) very often follow _him_. as he had an uncommon share of social wit and a handsom person, with a sanguine bloom in his complexion, no wonder they persuaded him that he might have a better chance of fortune by throwing such accomplishments into the gayer world than by shutting them up in a study. the first view that fires the head of a young gentleman of this modish ambition just broke loose from business, is to cut a figure (as they call it) in a side-box at the play, from whence their next step is to the _green room_ behind the scenes, sometimes their _non ultra_. hither at last, then, in this hopeful quest of his fortune, came this gentleman-errant, not doubting but the fickle dame, while he was thus qualified to receive her, might be tempted to fall into his lap. and though possibly the charms of our theatrical nymphs might have their share in drawing him thither, yet in my observation the most visible cause of his first coming was a more sincere passion he had conceived for a fair full-bottom'd perriwig which i then wore in my first play of the _fool in fashion_ in the year .[ ] for it is to be noted that the _beaux_ of those days were of a quite different cast from the modern stamp, and had more of the stateliness of the peacock in their mien than (which now seems to be their highest emulation) the pert air of a lapwing. now, whatever contempt philosophers may have for a fine perriwig, my friend, who was not to despise the world, but to live in it, knew very well that so material an article of dress upon the head of a man of sense, if it became him, could never fail of drawing to him a more partial regard and benevolence than could possibly be hoped for in an ill-made one.[ ] this perhaps may soften the grave censure which so youthful a purchase might otherwise have laid upon him: in a word, he made his attack upon this perriwig, as your young fellows generally do upon a lady of pleasure, first by a few familiar praises of her person, and then a civil enquiry into the price of it. but upon his observing me a little surprized at the levity of his question about a fop's perriwig, he began to railly himself with so much wit and humour upon the folly of his fondness for it, that he struck me with an equal desire of granting any thing in my power to oblige so facetious a customer. this singular beginning of our conversation, and the mutual laughs that ensued upon it, ended in an agreement to finish our bargain that night over a bottle. if it were possible the relation of the happy indiscretions which passed between us that night could give the tenth part of the pleasure i then received from them, i could still repeat them with delight: but as it may be doubtful whether the patience of a reader may be quite so strong as the vanity of an author, i shall cut it short by only saying that single bottle was the sire of many a jolly dozen that for some years following, like orderly children, whenever they were call'd for, came into the same company. nor, indeed, did i think from that time, whenever he was to be had, any evening could be agreeably enjoy'd without him.[ ] but the long continuance of our intimacy perhaps may be thus accounted for. he who can taste wit in another may in some sort be said to have it himself: now, as i always had, and (i bless my self for the folly) still have a quick relish of whatever did or can give me delight: this gentleman could not but see the youthful joy i was generally raised to whenever i had the happiness of a _tête à tête_ with him; and it may be a moot point whether wit is not as often inspired by a proper attention as by the brightest reply to it. therefore, as he had wit enough for any two people, and i had attention enough for any four, there could not well be wanting a sociable delight on either side. and tho' it may be true that a man of a handsome person is apt to draw a partial ear to every thing he says; yet this gentleman seldom said any thing that might not have made a man of the plainest person agreeable. such a continual desire to please, it may be imagined, could not but sometimes lead him into a little venial flattery rather than not succeed in it. and i, perhaps, might be one of those flies that was caught in this honey. as i was then a young successful author and an actor in some unexpected favour, whether deservedly or not imports not; yet such appearances at least were plausible pretences enough for an amicable adulation to enlarge upon, and the sallies of it a less vanity than mine might not have been able to resist. whatever this weakness on my side might be, i was not alone in it; for i have heard a gentleman of condition say, who knew the world as well as most men that live in it, that let his discretion be ever so much upon its guard, he never fell into mr. _brett_'s company without being loth to leave it or carrying away a better opinion of himself from it. if his conversation had this effect among the men; what must we suppose to have been the consequence when he gave it a yet softer turn among the fair sex? here, now, a _french_ novellist would tell you fifty pretty lies of him; but as i chuse to be tender of secrets of that sort, i shall only borrow the good breeding of that language, and tell you in a word, that i knew several instances of his being _un homme à bonne fortune_. but though his frequent successes might generally keep him from the usual disquiets of a lover, he knew this was a life too liquorish to last; and therefore had reflexion enough to be govern'd by the advice of his friends to turn these his advantages of nature to a better use. among the many men of condition with whom his conversation had recommended him to an intimacy, sir _thomas skipwith_ had taken a particular inclination to him; and as he had the advancement of his fortune at heart, introduced him where there was a lady[ ] who had enough in her power to disencumber him of the world and make him every way easy for life. while he was in pursuit of this affair, which no time was to be lost in (for the lady was to be in town but for three weeks) i one day found him idling behind the scenes before the play was begun. upon sight of him i took the usual freedom he allow'd me, to rate him roundly for the madness of not improving every moment in his power in what was of such consequence to him. why are you not (said i) where you know you only should be? if your design should once get wind in the town, the ill-will of your enemies or the sincerity of the lady's friends may soon blow up your hopes, which in your circumstances of life cannot be long supported by the bare appearance of a gentleman.----but it is impossible to proceed without some apology for the very familiar circumstance that is to follow----yet, as it might not be so trivial in its effect as i fear it may be in the narration, and is a mark of that intimacy which is necessary should be known had been between us, i will honestly make bold with my scruples and let the plain truth of my story take its chance for contempt or approbation. after twenty excuses to clear himself of the neglect i had so warmly charged him with, he concluded them with telling me he had been out all the morning upon business, and that his linnen was too much soil'd to be seen in company. oh, ho! said i, is that all? come along with me, we will soon get over that dainty difficulty: upon which i haul'd him by the sleeve into my shifting-room, he either staring, laughing, or hanging back all the way. there, when i had lock'd him in, i began to strip off my upper cloaths, and bad him do the same; still he either did not, or would not seem to understand me, and continuing his laugh, cry'd, what! is the puppy mad? no, no, only positive, said i; for look you, in short, the play is ready to begin, and the parts that you and i are to act to day are not of equal consequence; mine of young _reveller_ (in _greenwich-park_[ ]) is but a rake; but whatever you may be, you are not to appear so; therefore take my shirt and give me yours; for depend upon't, stay here you shall not, and so go about your business. to conclude, we fairly chang'd linnen, nor could his mother's have wrap'd him up more fortunately; for in about ten days he marry'd the lady.[ ] in a year or two after his marriage he was chosen a member of that parliament which was sitting when king _william_ dy'd. and, upon raising of some new regiments, was made lieutenant-colonel to that of sir _charles hotham_. but as his ambition extended not beyond the bounds of a park wall and a pleasant retreat in the corner of it, which with too much expence he had just finish'd, he, within another year, had leave to resign his company to a younger brother. this was the figure in life he made when sir _thomas skipwith_ thought him the most proper person to oblige (if it could be an obligation) with the present of his interest in the patent. and from these anecdotes of my intimacy with him, it may be less a surprise, when he came to town invested with this new theatrical power, that i should be the first person to whom he took any notice of it. and notwithstanding he knew i was then engag'd, in another interest, at the _hay-market_, he desired we might consider together of the best use he could make of it, assuring me at the same time he should think it of none to himself unless it could in some shape be turn'd to my advantage. this friendly declaration, though it might be generous in him to make, was not needful to incline me in whatever might be honestly in my power, whether by interest or negotiation, to serve him. my first advice, therefore, was, that he should produce his deed to the other menaging patentee of _drury-lane_, and demand immediate entrance to a joint possession of all effects and powers to which that deed had given him an equal title. after which, if he met with no opposition to this demand (as upon sight of it he did not) that he should be watchful against any contradiction from his collegue in whatever he might propose in carrying on the affair, but to let him see that he was determin'd in all his measures. yet to heighten that resolution with an ease and temper in his manner, as if he took it for granted there could be no opposition made to whatever he had a mind to. for that this method, added to his natural talent of persuading, would imperceptibly lead his collegue into a reliance on his superior understanding, that however little he car'd for business he should give himself the air at least of enquiry into what _had_ been done, that what he intended to do might be thought more considerable and be the readier comply'd with: for if he once suffer'd his collegue to seem wiser than himself, there would be no end of his perplexing him with absurd and dilatory measures; direct and plain dealing being a quality his natural diffidence would never suffer him to be master of; of which his not complying with his verbal agreement with _swiney_, when the _hay-market_ house was taken for both their uses, was an evidence. and though some people thought it depth and policy in him to keep things often in confusion, it was ever my opinion they over-rated his skill, and that, in reality, his parts were too weak for his post, in which he had always acted to the best of his knowledge. that his late collegue, sir _thomas skipwith_, had trusted too much to his capacity for this sort of business, and was treated by him accordingly, without ever receiving any profits from it for several years: insomuch that when he found his interest in such desperate hands he thought the best thing he could do with it was (as he saw) to give it away. therefore if he (mr. _brett_) could once fix himself, as i had advis'd, upon a different foot with this hitherto untractable menager, the business would soon run through whatever channel he might have a mind to lead it. and though i allow'd the greatest difficulty he would meet with would be in getting his consent to a union of the two companies, which was the only scheme that could raise the patent to its former value, and which i knew this close menager would secretly lay all possible rubs in the way to; yet it was visible there was a way of reducing him to compliance: for though it was true his caution would never part with a straw by way of concession, yet to a high hand he would give up any thing, provided he were suffer'd to keep his title to it: if his hat were taken from his head in the street, he would make no farther resistance than to say, i _am not willing to part with it_. much less would he have the resolution openly to oppose any just measures, when he should find one, who with an equal right to his and with a known interest to bring them about, was resolv'd to go thro' with them. now though i knew my friend was as thoroughly acquainted with this patentee's temper as myself, yet i thought it not amiss to quicken and support his resolution, by confirming to him the little trouble he would meet with, in pursuit of the union i had advis'd him to; for it must be known that on our side trouble was a sort of physick we did not much care to take: but as the fatigue of this affair was likely to be lower'd by a good deal of entertainment and humour, which would naturally engage him in his dealing with so exotick a partner, i knew that this softening the business into a diversion would lessen every difficulty that lay in our way to it. however copiously i may have indulg'd my self in this commemoration of a gentleman with whom i had pass'd so many of my younger days with pleasure, yet the reader may by this insight into his character, and by that of the other patentee, be better able to judge of the secret springs that gave motion to or obstructed so considerable an event as that of the re-union of the two companies of actors in .[ ] in histories of more weight, for want of such particulars we are often deceiv'd in the true causes of facts that most concern us to be let into; which sometimes makes us ascribe to policy, or false appearances of wisdom, what perhaps in reality was the mere effect of chance or humour. immediately after mr. _brett_ was admitted as a joint patentee, he made use of the intimacy he had with the vice-chamberlain to assist his scheme of this intended union, in which he so far prevail'd that it was soon after left to the particular care of the same vice-chamberlain to give him all the aid and power necessary to the bringing what he desired to perfection. the scheme was, to have but one theatre for plays and another for operas, under separate interests. and this the generality of spectators, as well as the most approv'd actors, had been some time calling for as the only expedient to recover the credit of the stage and the valuable interests of its menagers. as the condition of the comedians at this time is taken notice of in my _dedication_ of the _wife's resentment_ to the marquis (now duke) of _kent_, and then lord-chamberlain, which was publish'd above thirty years ago,[ ] when i had no thought of ever troubling the world with this theatrical history, i see no reason why it may not pass as a voucher of the facts i am now speaking of; i shall therefore give them in the very light i then saw them. after some acknowledgment for his lordship's protection of our (_hay-market_) theatre, it is further said---- "the stage has, for many years, 'till of late, groan'd under the greatest discouragements, which have been very much, if not wholly, owing to the mismenagement of those that have aukwardly govern'd it. great sums have been ventur'd upon empty projects and hopes of immoderate gains, and when those hopes have fail'd, the loss has been tyrannically deducted out of the actors sallary. and if your lordship had not redeem'd them--_this is meant of our being suffer'd to come over_ to swiney----they were very near being wholly laid aside, or, at least, the use of their labour was to be swallow'd up in the pretended merit of singing and dancing." what follows relates to the difficulties in dealing with the then impracticable menager, _viz._ "--and though your lordship's tenderness of oppressing is so very just that you have rather staid to convince a man of your good intentions to him than to do him even a service against his will; yet since your lordship has so happily begun the establishment of the separate diversions, we live in hope that the same justice and resolution will still persuade you to go as successfully through with it. but while any man is suffer'd to confound the industry and use of them by acting publickly in opposition to your lordship's equal intentions, under a false and intricate pretence of not being able to comply with them, the town is likely to be more entertain'd with the private dissensions than the publick performance of either, and the actors in a perpetual fear and necessity of petitioning your lordship every season for new relief." such was the state of the stage immediately preceding the time of mr. _brett_'s being admitted a joint patentee, who, as he saw with clearer eyes what was its evident interest, left no proper measures unattempted to make this so long despair'd-of union practicable. the most apparent difficulty to be got over in this affair was, what could be done for _swiney_ in consideration of his being oblig'd to give up those actors whom the power and choice of the lord-chamberlain had the year before set him at the head of, and by whose menagement those actors had found themselves in a prosperous condition. but an accident at this time happily contributed to make that matter easy. the inclination of our people of quality for foreign operas had now reach'd the ears of _italy_, and the credit of their taste had drawn over from thence, without any more particular invitation, one of their capital singers, the famous signior _cavaliero nicolini_: from whose arrival, and the impatience of the town to hear him, it was concluded that operas being now so completely provided could not fail of success, and that by making _swiney_ sole director of them the profits must be an ample compensation for his resignation of the actors. this matter being thus adjusted by _swiney_'s acceptance of the opera only to be perform'd at the _hay-market_ house, the actors were all order'd to return to _drury-lane_, there to remain (under the patentees) her majesty's only company of comedians.[ ] chapter xii. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _a short view of the opera when first divided from the comedy. plays recover their credit. the old patentee uneasy at their success. why. the occasion of colonel_ brett'_s throwing up his share in the patent. the consequences of it. anecdotes of_ goodman _the actor. the rate of favourite actors in his time. the patentees, by endeavouring to reduce their price, lose them all a second time. the principal comedians return to the_ hay-market _in shares with_ swiney. _they alter that theatre. the original and present form of the theatre in_ drury-lane _compar'd. operas fall off. the occasion of it. farther observations upon them. the patentee dispossess'd of_ drury-lane _theatre. mr._ collier, _with a new license, heads the remains of that company_. plays and operas being thus established upon separate interests,[ ] they were now left to make the best of their way into favour by their different merit. although the opera is not a plant of our native growth, nor what our plainer appetites are fond of, and is of so delicate a nature that without excessive charge it cannot live long among us; especially while the nicest _connoisseurs_ in musick fall into such various heresies in taste, every sect pretending to be the true one: yet, as it is call'd a theatrical entertainment, and by its alliance or neutrality has more or less affected our domestick theatre, a short view of its progress may be allow'd a place in our history. after this new regulation the first opera that appear'd was _pyrrhus_. subscriptions at that time were not extended, as of late, to the whole season, but were limited to the first six days only of a new opera. the chief performers in this were _nicolini_, _valentini_, and mrs. _tofts_;[ ] and for the inferior parts the best that were then to be found. whatever praises may have been given to the most famous voices that have been heard since _nicolini_, upon the whole i cannot but come into the opinion that still prevails among several persons of condition who are able to give a reason for their liking, that no singer since his time has so justly and gracefully acquitted himself in whatever character he appear'd as _nicolini_. at most the difference between him and the greatest favourite of the ladies, _farinelli_, amounted but to this, that he might sometimes more exquisitely surprize us, but _nicolini_ (by pleasing the eye as well as the ear) fill'd us with a more various and _rational_ delight. whether in this excellence he has since had any competitor, perhaps will be better judg'd by what the critical censor of _great britain_ says of him in his th _tatler_, _viz._ "_nicolini_ sets off the character he bears in an opera by his action, as much as he does the words of it by his voice; every limb and finger contributes to the part he acts, insomuch that a deaf man might go along with him in the sense of it. there is scarce a beautiful posture in an old statue which he does not plant himself in, as the different circumstances of the story give occasion for it--he performs the most ordinary action in a manner suitable to the greatness of his character, and shews the prince even in the giving of a letter or dispatching of a message, _&c._"[ ] his voice at this first time of being among us (for he made us a second visit when it was impair'd) had all that strong, clear sweetness of tone so lately admir'd in _senesino_. a blind man could scarce have distinguish'd them; but in volubility of throat the former had much the superiority. this so excellent performer's agreement was eight hundred guineas for the year, which is but an eighth part more than half the sum that has since been given to several that could never totally surpass him: the consequence of which is, that the losses by operas, for several seasons, to the end of the year , have been so great, that those gentlemen of quality who last undertook the direction of them, found it ridiculous any longer to entertain the publick at so extravagant an expence, while no one particular person thought himself oblig'd by it. mrs. _tofts_,[ ] who took her first grounds of musick here in her own country, before the _italian_ taste had so highly prevail'd, was then not an adept in it:[ ] yet whatever defect the fashionably skilful might find in her manner, she had, in the general sense of her spectators, charms that few of the most learned singers ever arrive at. the beauty of her fine proportion'd figure, and exquisitely sweet, silver tone of her voice, with that peculiar, rapid swiftness of her throat, were perfections not to be imitated by art or labour. _valentini_ i have already mention'd, therefore need only say farther of him, that though he was every way inferior to _nicolini_,[ ] yet, as he had the advantage of giving us our first impression of a good opera singer, he had still his admirers, and was of great service in being so skilful a second to his superior. [illustration: owen swiney.] three such excellent performers in the same kind of entertainment at once, _england_ till this time had never seen: without any farther comparison, then, with the much dearer bought who have succeeded them, their novelty at least was a charm that drew vast audiences of the fine world after them. _swiney_, their sole director, was prosperous, and in one winter a gainer by them of a moderate younger brother's fortune. but as musick, by so profuse a dispensation of her beauties, could not always supply our dainty appetites with equal variety, nor for ever please us with the same objects, the opera, after one luxurious season, like the fine wife of a roving husband, began to loose its charms, and every day discover'd to our satiety imperfections which our former fondness had been blind to: but of this i shall observe more in its place: in the mean time, let us enquire into the productions of our native theatre. it may easily be conceiv'd, that by this entire re-union of the two companies plays must generally have been perform'd to a more than usual advantage and exactness: for now every chief actor, according to his particular capacity, piqued himself upon rectifying those errors which during their divided state were almost unavoidable. such a choice of actors added a richness to every good play as it was then serv'd up to the publick entertainment: the common people crowded to them with a more joyous expectation, and those of the higher taste return'd to them as to old acquaintances, with new desires after a long absence. in a word, all parties seem'd better pleas'd but he who one might imagine had most reason to be so, the (lately) sole menaging patentee. he, indeed, saw his power daily mould'ring from his own hands into those of mr. _brett_,[ ] whose gentlemanly manner of making every one's business easy to him, threw their old master under a disregard which he had not been us'd to, nor could with all his happy change of affairs support. although this grave theatrical minister of whom i have been oblig'd to make such frequent mention, had acquired the reputation of a most profound politician by being often incomprehensible, yet i am not sure that his conduct at this juncture gave us not an evident proof that he was, like other frail mortals, more a slave to his passions than his interest; for no creature ever seem'd more fond of power that so little knew how to use it to his profit and reputation; otherwise he could not possibly have been so discontented, in his secure and prosperous state of the theatre, as to resolve at all hazards to destroy it. we shall now see what infallible measures he took to bring this laudable scheme to perfection. he plainly saw that, as this disagreeable prosperity was chiefly owing to the conduct of mr. _brett_, there could be no hope of recovering the stage to its former confusion but by finding some effectual means to make mr. _brett_ weary of his charge: the most probable he could for the present think of, in this distress, was to call in the adventurers (whom for many years, by his defence in law, he had kept out) now to take care of their visibly improving interests.[ ] this fair appearance of equity being known to be his own proposal, he rightly guess'd would incline these adventurers to form a majority of votes on his side in all theatrical questions, and consequently become a check upon the power of mr. _brett_, who had so visibly alienated the hearts of his theatrical subjects, and now began to govern without him. when the adventurers, therefore, were re-admitted to their old government, after having recommended himself to them by proposing to make some small dividend of the profits (though he did not design that jest should be repeated) he took care that the creditors of the patent, who were then no inconsiderable body, should carry off the every weeks clear profits in proportion to their several dues and demands. this conduct, so speciously just, he had hopes would let mr. _brett_ see that his share in the patent was not so valuable an acquisition as perhaps he might think it; and probably make a man of his turn to pleasure soon weary of the little profit and great plague it gave him. now, though these might be all notable expedients, yet i cannot say they would have wholly contributed to mr. _brett_'s quitting his post, had not a matter of much stronger moment, an unexpected dispute between him and sir _thomas skipwith_, prevailed with him to lay it down: for in the midst of this flourishing state of the patent, mr. _brett_ was surpriz'd with a subpoe into chancery from sir _thomas skipwith_, who alledg'd in his bill that the conveyance he had made of his interest in the patent to mr. _brett_ was only intended in trust. (whatever the intent might be, the deed it self, which i then read, made no mention of any trust whatever.) but whether mr. _brett_, as sir _thomas_ farther asserted, had previously, or after the deed was sign'd, given his word of honour that if he should ever make the stage turn to any account or profit, he would certainly restore it: that, indeed, i can say nothing to; but be the deed valid or void, the facts that apparently follow'd were, that tho' mr. _brett_ in his answer to this bill absolutely deny'd his receiving this assignment either in trust or upon any limited condition of what kind soever, yet he made no farther defence in the cause. but since he found sir _thomas_ had thought fit on any account to sue for the restitution of it, and mr. _brett_ being himself conscious that, as the world knew he had paid no consideration for it, his keeping it might be misconstrued, or not favourably spoken of; or perhaps finding, tho' the profits were great, they were constantly swallowed up (as has been observ'd) by the previous satisfaction of old debts, he grew so tir'd of the plague and trouble the whole affair had given him, and was likely still to engage him in, that in a few weeks after he withdrew himself from all concern with the theatre, and quietly left sir _thomas_ to find his better account in it. and thus stood this undecided right till, upon the demise of sir _thomas_, mr. _brett_ being allow'd the charges he had been at in this attendance and prosecution of the union, reconvey'd this share of the patent to sir _george skipwith_, the son and heir of sir _thomas_.[ ] our politician, the old patentee, having thus fortunately got rid of mr. _brett_, who had so rashly brought the patent once more to be a profitable tenure, was now again at liberty to chuse rather to lose all than not to have it all to himself. i have elsewhere observ'd that nothing can so effectually secure the strength, or contribute to the prosperity of a good company, as the directors of it having always, as near as possible, an amicable understanding with three or four of their best actors, whose good or ill-will must naturally make a wide difference in their profitable or useless manner of serving them: while the principal are kept reasonably easy the lower class can never be troublesome without hurting themselves: but when a valuable actor is hardly treated, the master must be a very cunning man that finds his account in it. we shall now see how far experience will verify this observation. the patentees thinking themselves secure in being restor'd to their former absolute power over this now only company, chose rather to govern it by the reverse of the method i have recommended: for tho' the daily charge of their united company amounted not, by a good deal, to what either of the two companies now in _drury-lane_ or _covent-garden_ singly arises, they notwithstanding fell into their former politicks of thinking every shilling taken from a hired actor so much clear gain to the proprietor: many of their people, therefore, were actually, if not injudiciously, reduced in their pay, and others given to understand the same fate was design'd them; of which last number i my self was one; which occurs to my memory by the answer i made to one of the adventurers, who, in justification of their intended proceeding,[ ] told me that my sallary, tho' it should be less than it was by ten shillings a week, would still be more than ever _goodman_ had, who was a better actor than i could pretend to be: to which i reply'd, this may be true, but then you know, sir, it is as true that _goodman_ was forced to go upon the high-way for a livelihood. as this was a known fact of _goodman_, my mentioning it on that occasion i believe was of service to me; at least my sallary was not reduced after it. to say a word or two more of _goodman_, so celebrated an actor in his time, perhaps may set the conduct of the patentees in a clearer light. tho' _goodman_ had left the stage before i came to it, i had some slight acquaintance with him. about the time of his being expected to be an evidence against sir _john fenwick_ in the assassination-plot,[ ] in , i happen'd to meet him at dinner at sir _thomas skipwith_'s, who, as he was an agreeable companion himself, liked _goodman_ for the same quality. here it was that _goodman_, without disguise or sparing himself, fell into a laughing account of several loose passages of _his_ younger life; as his being expell'd the university of _cambridge_ for being one of the hot-headed sparks who were concern'd in the cutting and defacing the duke of _monmouth_'s picture, then chancellor of that place. but this disgrace, it seems, had not disqualified him for the stage, which, like the sea-service, refuses no man for his morals that is able-bodied: there, as an actor, he soon grew into a different reputation; but whatever his merit might be, the pay of a hired hero in those days was so very low that he was forced, it seems, to take the air (as he call'd it) and borrow what money the first man he met had about him. but this being his first exploit of that kind which the scantiness of his theatrical fortune had reduced him to, king _james_ was prevail'd upon to pardon him: which _goodman_ said was doing him so particular an honour that no man could wonder if his acknowledgment had carried him a little farther than ordinary into the interest of that prince: but as he had lately been out of luck in backing his old master, he had now no way to get home the life he was out upon his account but by being under the same obligations to king _william_. another anecdote of him, though not quite so dishonourably enterprizing, which i had from his own mouth at a different time, will equally shew to what low shifts in life the poor provision for good actors, under the early government of the patent, reduced them. in the younger days of their heroism, captain _griffin_ and _goodman_ were confined by their moderate sallaries to the oeconomy of lying together in the same bed and having but one whole shirt between them: one of them being under the obligation of a rendezvous with a fair lady, insisted upon his wearing it out of his turn, which occasion'd so high a dispute that the combat was immediately demanded, and accordingly their pretensions to it were decided by a fair tilt upon the spot, in the room where they lay: but whether _clytus_ or _alexander_ was obliged to see no company till a worse could be wash'd for him, seems not to be a material point in their history, or to my purpose.[ ] by this rate of _goodman_, who, 'till the time of his quitting the stage never had more than what is call'd forty shillings a week, it may be judg'd how cheap the labour of actors had been formerly; and the patentees thought it a folly to continue the higher price, (which their divisions had since raised them to) now there was but one market for them; but alas! they had forgot their former fatal mistake of squabbling with their actors in ;[ ] nor did they make any allowance for the changes and operations of time, or enough consider the interest the actors had in the lord chamberlain, on whose protection they might always rely, and whose decrees had been less restrain'd by precedent than those of a lord chancellor. in this mistaken view of their interest, the patentees, by treating their actors as enemies, really made them so: and when once the masters of a hired company think not their actors hearts as necessary as their hands, they cannot be said to have agreed for above half the work they are able to do in a day: or, if an unexpected success should, notwithstanding, make the profits in any gross disproportion greater than the wages, the wages will always have something worse than a murmur at the head of them, that will not only measure the merit of the actor by the gains of the proprietor, but will never naturally be quiet till every scheme of getting into property has been tried to make the servant his own master: and this, as far as experience can make me judge, will always be in either of these cases the state of our _english_ theatre. what truth there may be in this observation we are now coming to a proof of. to enumerate all the particular acts of power in which the patentees daily bore hard upon _this_ now only company of actors, might be as tedious as unnecessary; i shall therefore come at once to their most material grievance, upon which they grounded their complaint to the lord chamberlain, who, in the year following, , took effectual measures for their relief. the patentees observing that the benefit-plays of the actors towards the latter end of the season brought the most crowded audiences in the year, began to think their own interests too much neglected by these partial favours of the town to their actors; and therefore judg'd it would not be impolitick in such wholesome annual profits to have a fellow-feeling with them. accordingly an _indulto_[ ] was laid of one third out of the profits of every benefit for the proper use and behoof of the patent.[ ] but that a clear judgment may be form'd of the equity or hardship of this imposition, it will be necessary to shew from whence and from what causes the actors claim to benefits originally proceeded. during the reign of king _charles_ an actor's benefit had never been heard of. the first indulgence of this kind was given to mrs. _barry_ (as has been formerly observed[ ]) in king _james_'s time, in consideration of the extraordinary applause that had followed her performance: but there this favour rested to her alone, 'till after the division of the only company in , at which time the patentees were soon reduced to pay their actors half in good words and half in ready money. in this precarious condition some particular actors (however binding their agreements might be) were too poor or too wise to go to law with a lawyer, and therefore rather chose to compound their arrears for their being admitted to the chance of having them made up by the profits of a benefit-play. this expedient had this consequence; that the patentees, tho' their daily audiences might, and did sometimes mend, still kept the short subsistance of their actors at a stand, and grew more steady in their resolution so to keep them, as they found them less apt to mutiny while their hopes of being clear'd off by a benefit were depending. in a year or two these benefits grew so advantageous that they became at last the chief article in every actor's agreement. now though the agreements of these united actors i am speaking of in were as yet only verbal, yet that made no difference in the honest obligation to keep them: but as honour at that time happen'd to have but a loose hold of their consciences, the patentees rather chose to give it the slip, and went on with their work without it. no actor, therefore, could have his benefit fix'd 'till he had first sign'd a paper signifying his voluntary acceptance of it upon the above conditions, any claims from custom to the contrary notwithstanding. several at first refus'd to sign this paper; upon which the next in rank were offer'd on the same conditions to come before the refusers; this smart expedient got some few of the fearful the preference to their seniors; who, at last, seeing the time was too short for a present remedy, and that they must either come into the boat or lose their tide, were forc'd to comply with what they as yet silently resented as the severest injury. in this situation, therefore, they chose to let the principal benefits be over, that their grievances might swell into some bulk before they made any application for redress to the lord-chamberlain; who, upon hearing their general complaint, order'd the patentees to shew cause why their benefits had been diminish'd one third, contrary to the common usage? the patentees pleaded the sign'd agreement, and the actors receipts of the other two thirds, in full satisfaction. but these were prov'd to have been exacted from them by the methods already mentioned. they notwithstanding insist upon them as lawful. but as law and equity do not always agree, they were look'd upon as unjust and arbitrary. whereupon the patentees were warn'd at their peril to refuse the actors full satisfaction.[ ] but here it was thought necessary that judgment should be for some time respited, 'till the actors, who had leave so to do, could form a body strong enough to make the inclination of the lord-chamberlain to relieve them practicable. accordingly _swiney_ (who was then sole director of the opera only) had permission to enter into a private treaty with such of the united actors in _drury-lane_ as might be thought fit to head a company under their own menagement, and to be sharers with him in the _hay-market_. the actors chosen for this charge were _wilks_, _dogget_, mrs. _oldfield_, and myself. but before i proceed, lest it should seem surprizing that neither _betterton_, mrs. _barry_, mrs. _bracegirdle_, or _booth_ were parties in this treaty, it must be observ'd that _betterton_ was now seventy-three, and rather chose, with the infirmities of age upon him, to rely on such sallary as might be appointed him, than to involve himself in the cares and hurry that must unavoidably attend the regulation of a new company. as to the two celebrated actresses i have named, this has been my first proper occasion of making it known that they had both quitted the stage the year before this transaction was thought of.[ ] and _booth_ as yet was scarce out of his minority as an actor, or only in the promise of that reputation which, in about four or five years after, he happily arriv'd at. however, at this juncture he was not so far overlook'd as not to be offer'd a valuable addition to his sallary: but this he declin'd, being, while the patentees were under this distress, as much, if not more, in favour with their chief menager as a schematist than as an actor: and indeed he appear'd, to my judgment, more inclin'd to risque his fortune in _drury-lane_, where he should have no rival in parts or power, than on any terms to embark in the _hay-market_, where he was sure to meet with opponents in both.[ ] however, this his separation from our interest when our all was at stake, afterwards kept his advancement to a share with us in our more successful days longer postpon'd than otherwise it probably might have been. when mrs. _oldfield_ was nominated as a joint sharer in our new agreement to be made with _swiney_, _dogget_, who had no objection to her merit, insisted that our affairs could never be upon a secure foundation if there was more than one sex admitted to the menagement of them. he therefore hop'd that if we offer'd mrs. _oldfield_ a _carte blanche_ instead of a share, she would not think herself slighted. this was instantly agreed to, and mrs. _oldfield_ receiv'd it rather as a favour than a disobligation: her demands therefore were two hundred pounds a year certain, and a benefit clear of all charges, which were readily sign'd to. her easiness on this occasion, some years after, when our establishment was in prosperity, made us with less reluctancy advance her two hundred pounds to three hundred guineas _per annum_, with her usual benefit, which, upon an average, for several years at least doubled that sum. [illustration: anne oldfield.] when a sufficient number of actors were engag'd under our confederacy with _swiney_, it was then judg'd a proper time for the lord-chamberlain's power to operate, which, by lying above a month dormant, had so far recover'd the patentees from any apprehensions of what might fall upon them from their late usurpations on the benefits of the actors, that they began to set their marks upon those who had distinguish'd themselves in the application for redress. several little disgraces were put upon them, particularly in the disposal of parts in plays to be reviv'd, and as visible a partiality was shewn in the promotion of those in their interest, though their endeavours to serve them could be of no extraordinary use. how often does history shew us, in the same state of courts, the same politicks have been practis'd? all this while the other party were passively silent, 'till one day the actor who particularly solicited their cause at the lord-chamberlain's office, being shewn there the order sign'd for absolutely silencing the patentees, and ready to be serv'd, flew back with the news to his companions, then at a rehearsal in which he had been wanted; when being call'd to his part, and something hastily question'd by the patentee for his neglect of business: this actor, i say, with an erected look and a theatrical spirit, at once threw off the mask and roundly told him----_sir, i have now no more business here than you have; in half an hour you will neither have actors to command nor authority to employ them._----the patentee, who though he could not readily comprehend his mysterious manner of speaking, had just a glimpse of terror enough from the words to soften his reproof into a cold formal declaration, that _if he would not do his work he should not be paid_.--but now, to complete the catastrophe of these theatrical commotions, enters the messenger with the order of silence in his hand, whom the same actor officiously introduc'd, telling the patentee that the gentleman wanted to speak with him from the lord-chamberlain. when the messenger had delivered the order, the actor, throwing his head over his shoulder towards the patentee, in the manner of _shakespear_'s _harry the eighth_ to cardinal _wolsey_, cry'd--_read o'er that! and now--to breakfast, with what appetite you may_. tho' these words might be spoken in too vindictive and insulting a manner to be commended, yet, from the fulness of a heart injuriously treated and now reliev'd by that instant occasion, why might they not be pardon'd?[ ] the authority of the patent now no longer subsisting, all the confederated actors immediately walk'd out of the house, to which they never return'd 'till they became themselves the tenants and masters of it. here agen we see an higher instance of the authority of a lord-chamberlain than any of those i have elsewhere mentioned: from whence that power might be deriv'd, as i have already said, i am not lawyer enough to know; however, it is evident that a lawyer obey'd it, though to his cost; which might incline one to think that the law was not clearly against it: be that as it may, since the law has lately made it no longer a question, let us drop the enquiry and proceed to the facts which follow'd this order that silenc'd the patent. from this last injudicious disagreement of the patentees with their principal actors, and from what they had suffered on the same occasion in the division of their only company in , might we not imagine there was something of infatuation in their menagement? for though i allow actors in general, when they are too much indulg'd, or govern'd by an unsteady head, to be as unruly a multitude as power can be plagued with; yet there is a medium which, if cautiously observed by a candid use of power, making them always know, without feeling, their superior, neither suffering their encroachments nor invading their rights, with an immoveable adherence to the accepted laws they are to walk by; such a regulation, i say, has never fail'd, in my observation, to have made them a tractable and profitable society. if the government of a well-establish'd theatre were to be compar'd to that of a nation, there is no one act of policy or misconduct in the one or the other in which the menager might not, in some parallel case, (laugh, if you please) be equally applauded or condemned with the statesman. perhaps this will not be found so wild a conceit if you look into the d _tatler_, vol. . where the affairs of the state and those of the very stage which i am now treating of, are, in a letter from _downs_ the promptor,[ ] compar'd, and with a great deal of wit and humour, set upon an equal foot of policy. the letter is suppos'd to have been written in the last change of the ministry in queen _anne_'s time. i will therefore venture, upon the authority of that author's imagination, to carry the comparison as high as it can possibly go, and say, that as i remember one of our princes in the last century to have lost his crown by too arbitrary a use of his power, though he knew how fatal the same measures had been to his unhappy father before him, why should we wonder that the same passions taking possession of men in lower life, by an equally impolitick usage of their theatrical subjects, should have involved the patentees in proportionable calamities. during the vacation, which immediately follow'd the silence of the patent, both parties were at leisure to form their schemes for the winter: for the patentee would still hold out, notwithstanding his being so miserably maim'd or over-match'd: he had no more regard to blows than a blind cock of the game; he might be beaten, but would never yield; the patent was still in his possession, and the broad-seal to it visibly as fresh as ever: besides, he had yet some actors in his service,[ ] at a much cheaper rate than those who had left him, the sallaries of which last, now they would not work for him, he was not oblig'd to pay.[ ] in this way of thinking, he still kept together such as had not been invited over to the _hay-market_, or had been influenc'd by _booth_ to follow his fortune in _drury-lane_. by the patentee's keeping these remains of his broken forces together, it is plain that he imagin'd this order of silence, like others of the same kind, would be recall'd, of course, after a reasonable time of obedience had been paid to it: but, it seems, he had rely'd too much upon former precedents; nor had his politicks yet div'd into the secret that the court power, with which the patent had been so long and often at variance, had now a mind to take the publick diversions more absolutely into their own hands: not that i have any stronger reasons for this conjecture than that the patent never after this order of silence got leave to play during the queen's reign. but upon the accession of his late majesty, power having then a different aspect, the patent found no difficulty in being permitted to exercise its former authority for acting plays, _&c._ which, however, from this time of their lying still, in , did not happen 'till , which the old patentee never liv'd to see: for he dy'd about six weeks before the new-built theatre in _lincoln's-inn-fields_ was open'd,[ ] where the first play acted was the _recruiting officer_, under the menagement of his heirs and successors. but of that theatre it is not yet time to give any further account. the first point resolv'd on by the comedians now re-established in the _hay-market_,[ ] was to alter the auditory part of their theatre, the inconveniencies of which have been fully enlarged upon in a former chapter. what embarrass'd them most in this design, was their want of time to do it in a more complete manner than it now remains in, otherwise they had brought it to the original model of that in _drury-lane_, only in a larger proportion, as the wider walls of it would require; as there are not many spectators who may remember what form the _drury-lane_ theatre stood in about forty years ago, before the old patentee, to make it hold more money, took it in his head to alter it, it were but justice to lay the original figure which sir _christopher wren_ first gave it, and the alterations of it now standing, in a fair light; that equal spectators may see, if they were at their choice, which of the structures would incline them to a preference. but in this appeal i only speak to such spectators as allow a good play well acted to be the most valuable entertainment of the stage. whether such plays (leaving the skill of the dead or living actors equally out of the question) have been more or less recommended in their presentation by either of these different forms of that theatre, is our present matter of enquiry. it must be observ'd, then,[ ] that the area or platform of the old stage projected about four foot forwarder, in a semi-oval figure, parallel to the benches of the pit; and that the former lower doors of entrance for the actors were brought down between the two foremost (and then only) pilasters; in the place of which doors now the two stage-boxes are fixt. that where the doors of entrance now are, there formerly stood two additional side-wings, in front to a full set of scenes, which had then almost a double effect in their loftiness and magnificence. by this original form, the usual station of the actors, in almost every scene, was advanc'd at least ten foot nearer to the audience than they now can be; because, not only from the stage's being shorten'd in front, but likewise from the additional interposition of those stage-boxes, the actors (in respect to the spectators that fill them) are kept so much more backward from the main audience than they us'd to be: but when the actors were in possession of that forwarder space to advance upon, the voice was then more in the centre of the house, so that the most distant ear had scarce the least doubt or difficulty in hearing what fell from the weakest utterance: all objects were thus drawn nearer to the sense; every painted scene was stronger; every grand scene and dance more extended; every rich or fine-coloured habit had a more lively lustre: nor was the minutest motion of a feature (properly changing with the passion or humour it suited) ever lost, as they frequently must be in the obscurity of too great a distance: and how valuable an advantage the facility of hearing distinctly is to every well-acted scene, every common spectator is a judge. a voice scarce raised above the tone of a whisper, either in tenderness, resignation, innocent distress, or jealousy suppress'd, often have as much concern with the heart as the most clamorous passions; and when on any of these occasions such affecting speeches are plainly heard, or lost, how wide is the difference from the great or little satisfaction received from them? to all this a master of a company may say, i now receive ten pounds more than could have been taken formerly in every full house! not unlikely. but might not his house be oftener full if the auditors were oftener pleas'd? might not every bad house too, by a possibility of being made every day better, add as much to one side of his account as it could take from the other? if what i have said carries any truth in it, why might not the original form of this theatre be restor'd? but let this digression avail what it may, the actors now return'd to the _hay-market_, as i have observ'd, wanting nothing but length of time to have govern'd their alteration of that theatre by this original model of _drury-lane_ which i have recommended. as their time therefore was short, they made their best use of it; they did something to it: they contracted its wideness by three ranges of boxes on each side, and brought down its enormous high ceiling within so proportionable a compass that it effectually cur'd those hollow undulations of the voice formerly complain'd of. the remedy had its effect; their audiences exceeded their expectation. there was now no other theatre open against them;[ ] they had the town to themselves; they were their own masters, and the profits of their industry came into their own pockets. [illustration: theophilus cibber as antient pistol.] yet with all this fair weather, the season of their uninterrupted prosperity was not yet arriv'd; for the great expence and thinner audiences of the opera (of which they then were equally directors) was a constant drawback upon their gains, yet not so far but that their income this year was better than in their late station at _drury-lane_. but by the short experience we had then had of operas; by the high reputation they seem'd to have been arriv'd at the year before; by their power of drawing the whole body of nobility as by enchantment to their solemnities; by that prodigality of expence at which they were so willing to support them; and from the late extraordinary profits _swiney_ had made of them, what mountains did we not hope from this molehill? but alas! the fairy vision was vanish'd; this bridal beauty was grown familiar to the general taste, and satiety began to make excuses for its want of appetite: or, what is still stranger, its late admirers now as much valued their judgment in being able to find out the faults of the performers, as they had before in discovering their excellencies. the truth is, that this kind of entertainment being so entirely sensual, it had no possibility of getting the better of our reason but by its novelty; and that novelty could never be supported but by an annual change of the best voices, which, like the finest flowers, bloom but for a season, and when that is over are only dead nose-gays. from this natural cause we have seen within these two years even _farinelli_ singing to an audience of five and thirty pounds, and yet, if common fame may be credited, the same voice, so neglected in one country, has in another had charms sufficient to make that crown sit easy on the head of a monarch, which the jealousy of politicians (who had their views in his keeping it) fear'd, without some such extraordinary amusement, his satiety of empire might tempt him a second time to resign.[ ] there is, too, in the very species of an _italian_ singer such an innate, fantastical pride and caprice, that the government of them (here at least) is almost impracticable. this distemper, as we were not sufficiently warn'd or apprized of, threw our musical affairs into perplexities we knew not easily how to get out of. there is scarce a sensible auditor in the kingdom that has not since that time had occasion to laugh at the several instances of it: but what is still more ridiculous, these costly canary-birds have sometimes infested the whole body of our dignified lovers of musick with the same childish animosities: ladies have been known to decline their visits upon account of their being of a different musical party. _cæsar_ and _pompey_ made not a warmer division in the _roman_ republick than those heroines, their country women, the _faustina_ and _cuzzoni_, blew up in our common-wealth of academical musick by their implacable pretensions to superiority.[ ] and while this greatness of soul is their unalterable virtue, it will never be practicable to make two capital singers of the same sex do as they should do in one opera at the same time! no, not tho' _england_ were to double the sums it has already thrown after them: for even in their own country, where an extraordinary occasion has called a greater number of their best to sing together, the mischief they have made has been proportionable; an instance of which, if i am rightly inform'd, happen'd at _parma_, where, upon the celebration of the marriage of that duke, a collection was made of the most eminent voices that expence or interest could purchase, to give as complete an opera as the whole vocal power of _italy_ could form. but when it came to the proof of this musical project, behold! what woful work they made of it! every performer would be a _cæsar_ or nothing; their several pretensions to preference were not to be limited within the laws of harmony; they would all choose their own songs, but not more to set off themselves than to oppose or deprive another of an occasion to shine: yet any one would sing a bad song, provided no body else had a good one, till at last they were thrown together, like so many feather'd warriors, for a battle-royal in a cock-pit, where every one was oblig'd to kill another to save himself! what pity it was these froward misses and masters of musick had not been engag'd to entertain the court of some king of _morocco_, that could have known a good opera from a bad one! with how much ease would such a director have brought them to better order? but alas! as it has been said of greater things, _suis et ipsa roma viribus ruit._ hor.[ ] imperial _rome_ fell by the too great strength of its own citizens! so fell this mighty opera, ruin'd by the too great excellency of its singers! for, upon the whole, it proved to be as barbarously bad as if malice it self had composed it. now though something of this kind, equally provoking, has generally embarrass'd the state of operas these thirty years, yet it was the misfortune of the menaging actors at the _hay-market_ to have felt the first effects of it: the honour of the singer and the interest of the undertaker were so often at variance, that the latter began to have but a bad bargain of it. but not to impute more to the caprice of those performers than was really true, there were two different accidents that drew numbers from our audiences before the season was ended; which were another company permitted to act in _drury-lane_,[ ] and the long trial of doctor _sacheverel_ in _westminster-hall_:[ ] by the way, it must be observed that this company was not under the direction of the patent (which continued still silenced) but was set up by a third interest, with a license from court. the person to whom this new license was granted was _william collier_, esq., a lawyer of an enterprizing head and a jovial heart; what sort of favour he was in with the people then in power may be judg'd from his being often admitted to partake with them those detach'd hours of life when business was to give way to pleasure: but this was not all his merit, he was at the same time a member of parliament for _truro_ in _cornwall_, and we cannot suppose a person so qualified could be refused such a trifle as a license to head a broken company of actors. this sagacious lawyer, then, who had a lawyer to deal with, observing that his antagonist kept possession of a theatre without making use of it, and for which he was not obliged to pay rent unless he actually _did_ use it, wisely conceived it might be the interest of the joint landlords, since their tenement was in so precarious a condition, to grant a lease to one who had an undisputed authority to be liable, by acting plays in it, to pay the rent of it; especially when he tempted them with an offer of raising it from three to four pounds _per diem_. his project succeeded, the lease was sign'd; but the means of getting into possession were to be left to his own cost and discretion. this took him up but little time; he immediately laid siege to it with a sufficient number of forces, whether lawless or lawful i forget, but they were such as obliged the old governor to give it up; who, notwithstanding, had got intelligence of his approaches and design time enough to carry off every thing that was worth moving, except a great number of old scenes and new actors that could not easily follow him.[ ] a ludicrous account of this transaction, under fictitious names, may be found in the th _tatler_, vol. . which this explanation may now render more intelligible to the readers of that agreeable author.[ ] this other new license being now in possession of the _drury-lane_ theatre, those actors whom the patentee ever since the order of silence had retain'd in a state of inaction, all to a man came over to the service of _collier_. of these _booth_ was then the chief.[ ] the merit of the rest had as yet made no considerable appearance, and as the patentee had not left a rag of their cloathing behind him, they were but poorly equip'd for a publick review; consequently at their first opening they were very little able to annoy us. but during the trial of _sacheverel_ our audiences were extremely weaken'd by the better rank of people's daily attending it: while, at the same time, the lower sort, who were not equally admitted to that grand spectacle, as eagerly crowded into _drury-lane_ to a new comedy call'd _the fair quaker of deal_. this play having some low strokes of natural humour in it, was rightly calculated for the capacity of the actors who play'd it, and to the taste of the multitude who were now more disposed and at leisure to see it:[ ] but the most happy incident in its fortune was the charm of the fair quaker which was acted by miss _santlow_, (afterwards mrs. _booth_) whose person was then in the full bloom of what beauty she might pretend to: before this she had only been admired as the most excellent dancer, which perhaps might not a little contribute to the favourable reception she now met with as an actress, in this character which so happily suited her figure and capacity: the gentle softness of her voice, the composed innocence of her aspect, the modesty of her dress, the reserv'd decency of her gesture, and the simplicity of the sentiments that naturally fell from her, made her seem the amiable maid she represented: in a word, not the enthusiastick maid of _orleans_ was more serviceable of old to the _french_ army when the _english_ had distressed them, than this fair quaker was at the head of that dramatick attempt upon which the support of their weak society depended.[ ] but when the trial i have mention'd and the run of this play was over, the tide of the town beginning to turn again in our favour, _collier_ was reduced to give his theatrical affairs a different scheme; which advanced the stage another step towards that settlement which, in my time, was of the longest duration. chapter xiii. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the patentee, having now no actors, rebuilds the new theatre in _lincolns-inn-fields_. a guess at his reasons for it. more changes in the state of the stage. the beginning of its better days under the _triumvirate_ of actors. a sketch of their governing characters._ as coarse mothers may have comely children, so anarchy has been the parent of many a good government; and by a parity of possible consequences, we shall find that from the frequent convulsions of the stage arose at last its longest settlement and prosperity; which many of my readers (or if i should happen to have but few of them, many of my spectators at least) who i hope have not yet liv'd half their time, will be able to remember. though the patent had been often under distresses, it had never felt any blow equal to this unrevoked order of silence; which it is not easy to conceive could have fallen upon any other person's conduct than that of the old patentee: for if he was conscious of his being under the subjection of that power which had silenc'd him, why would he incur the danger of a suspension by his so obstinate and impolitick treatment of his actors? if he thought such power over him illegal, how came he to obey it now more than before, when he slighted a former order that injoin'd him to give his actors their benefits on their usual conditions?[ ] but to do him justice, the same obstinacy that involv'd him in these difficulties, at last preserv'd to his heirs the property of the patent in its full force and value;[ ] yet to suppose that he foresaw a milder use of power in some future prince's reign might be more favourable to him, is begging at best but a cold question. but whether he knew that this broken condition of the patent would not make his troublesome friends the adventurers fly from it as from a falling house, seems not so difficult a question. however, let the reader form his own judgment of them from the facts that follow'd: it must therefore be observ'd, that the adventurers seldom came near the house but when there was some visible appearance of a dividend: but i could never hear that upon an ill run of audiences they had ever returned or brought in a single shilling, to make good the deficiencies of their daily receipts. therefore, as the patentee in possession had alone, for several years, supported and stood against this uncertainty of fortune, it may be imagin'd that his accounts were under so voluminous a perplexity that few of those adventurers would have leisure or capacity enough to unravel them: and as they had formerly thrown away their time and money at law in a fruitless enquiry into them, they now seem'd to have intirely given up their right and interest: and, according to my best information, notwithstanding the subsequent gains of the patent have been sometimes extraordinary, the farther demands or claims of right of the adventurers have lain dormant above these five and twenty years.[ ] having shewn by what means _collier_ had dispossess'd this patentee, not only of the _drury-lane_ house, but likewise of those few actors which he had kept for some time unemploy'd in it, we are now led to consider another project of the same patentee, which, if we are to judge of it by the event, has shewn him more a wise than a weak man; which i confess at the time he put it in execution seem'd not so clear a point: for notwithstanding he now saw the authority and power of his patent was superseded, or was at best but precarious, and that he had not one actor left in his service, yet, under all these dilemma's and distresses, he resolv'd upon rebuilding the new theatre in _lincolns-inn-fields_, of which he had taken a lease, at a low rent, ever since _betterton_'s company had first left it.[ ] this conduct seem'd too deep for my comprehension! what are we to think of his taking this lease in the height of his prosperity, when he could have no occasion for it? was he a prophet? could he then foresee he should, one time or other, be turn'd out of _drury-lane_? or did his mere appetite of architecture urge him to build a house, while he could not be sure he should ever have leave to make use of it? but of all this we may think as we please; whatever was his motive, he, at his own expence, in this interval of his having nothing else to do, rebuilt that theatre from the ground, as it is now standing.[ ] as for the order of silence, he seem'd little concern'd at it while it gave him so much uninterrupted leisure to supervise a work which he naturally took delight in. after this defeat of the patentee, the theatrical forces of _collier_ in _drury-lane_, notwithstanding their having drawn the multitude after them for about three weeks during the trial of _sacheverel_, had made but an indifferent campaign at the end of the season. _collier_ at least found so little account in it, that it obliged him to push his court-interest (which, wherever the stage was concern'd, was not inconsiderable) to support him in another scheme; which was, that in consideration of his giving up the _drury-lane_, cloaths, scenes, and actors, to _swiney_ and his joint sharers in the _hay-market_, he (_collier_) might be put into an equal possession of the _hay-market_ theatre, with all the singers, _&c._ and be made sole director of the opera. accordingly, by permission of the lord chamberlain, a treaty was enter'd into, and in a few days ratified by all parties, conformable to the said preliminaries.[ ] this was that happy crisis of theatrical liberty which the labouring comedians had long sigh'd for, and which, for above twenty years following, was so memorably fortunate to them. however, there were two hard articles in this treaty, which, though it might be policy in the actors to comply with, yet the imposition of them seem'd little less despotick than a tax upon the poor when a government did not want it. the first of these articles was, that whereas the sole license for acting plays was presum'd to be a more profitable authority than that for acting operas only, that therefore two hundred pounds a year should be paid to _collier_, while master of the opera, by the comedians; to whom a verbal assurance was given by the _plenipo'_s on the court-side, that while such payment subsisted no other company should be permitted to act plays against them within the liberties, _&c._ the other article was, that on every _wednesday_ whereon an opera could be perform'd, the plays should, _toties quoties_, be silent at _drury-lane_, to give the opera a fairer chance for a full house. this last article, however partial in the intention, was in its effect of great advantage to the sharing actors: for in all publick entertainments a day's abstinence naturally increases the appetite to them: our every _thursday_'s audience, therefore, was visibly the better by thus making the day before it a fast. but as this was not a favour design'd us, this prohibition of a day, methinks, deserves a little farther notice, because it evidently took a sixth part of their income from all the hired actors, who were only paid in proportion to the number of acting days. this extraordinary regard to operas was, in effect, making the day-labouring actors the principal subscribers to them, and the shutting out people from the play every _wednesday_ many murmur'd at as an abridgment of their usual liberty. and tho' i was one of those who profited by that order, it ought not to bribe me into a concealment of what was then said and thought of it. i remember a nobleman of the first rank, then in a high post, and not out of court-favour, said openly behind the scenes----_it was shameful to take part of the actors bread from them to support the silly diversion of people of quality_. but alas! what was all this grievance when weighed against the qualifications of so grave and staunch a senator as _collier_? such visible merit, it seems, was to be made easy, tho' at the expence of the--i had almost said, _honour_ of the court, whose gracious intention for the theatrical common-wealth might have shone with thrice the lustre if such a paltry price had not been paid for it. but as the government of the stage is but that of the world in miniature, we ought not to have wonder'd that _collier_ had interest enough to quarter the weakness of the opera upon the strength of the comedy. general good intentions are not always practicable to a perfection. the most necessary law can hardly pass, but a tenderness to some private interest shall often hang such exceptions upon particular clauses, 'till at last it comes out lame and lifeless, with the loss of half its force, purpose, and dignity. as, for instance, how many fruitless motions have been made in parliaments to moderate the enormous exactions in the practice of the law? and what sort of justice must that be call'd, which, when a man has not a mind to pay you a debt of ten pounds, it shall cost you fifty before you can get it? how long, too, has the publick been labouring for a bridge at _westminster_? but the wonder that it was not built a hundred years ago ceases when we are told, that the fear of making one end of _london_ as rich as the other has been so long an obstruction to it:[ ] and though it might seem a still greater wonder, when a new law for building one had at last got over that apprehension, that it should meet with any farther delay; yet experience has shewn us that the structure of this useful ornament to our metropolis has been so clogg'd by private jobs that were to be pick'd out of the undertaking, and the progress of the work so disconcerted by a tedious contention of private interests and endeavours to impose upon the publick abominable bargains, that a whole year was lost before a single stone could be laid to its foundation. but posterity will owe its praises to the zeal and resolution of a truly noble commissioner, whose distinguish'd impatience has broke thro' those narrow artifices, those false and frivolous objections that delay'd it, and has already began to raise above the tide that future monument of his publick spirit.[ ] [illustration: hester santlow.] how far all this may be allow'd applicable to the state of the stage is not of so great importance, nor so much my concern, as that what is observ'd upon it should always remain a memorable truth, to the honour of that nobleman. but now i go on: _collier_ being thus possess'd of his musical government, thought his best way would be to farm it out to a gentleman, _aaron hill_, esq.[ ] (who he had reason to suppose knew something more of theatrical matters than himself) at a rent, if i mistake not, of six hundred pounds _per annum_: but before the season was ended (upon what occasion, if i could remember, it might not be material to say) took it into his hands again: but all his skill and interest could not raise the direction of the opera to so good a post as he thought due to a person of his consideration: he therefore, the year following, enter'd upon another high-handed scheme, which, 'till the demise of the queen, turn'd to his better account. after the comedians were in possession of _drury-lane_, from whence during my time upon the stage they never departed, their swarm of audiences exceeded all that had been seen in thirty years before; which, however, i do not impute so much to the excellence of their acting as to their indefatigable industry and good menagement; for, as i have often said, i never thought in the general that we stood in any place of comparison with the eminent actors before us; perhaps, too, by there being now an end of the frequent divisions and disorders that had from time to time broke in upon and frustrated their labours, not a little might be contributed to their success. _collier_, then, like a true liquorish courtier, observing the prosperity of a theatre, which he the year before had parted with for a worse, began to meditate an exchange of theatrical posts with _swiney_, who had visibly very fair pretensions to that he was in, by his being first chosen by the court to regulate and rescue the stage from the disorders it had suffer'd under its former menagers:[ ] yet _collier_ knew that sort of merit could stand in no competition with his being a member of parliament: he therefore had recourse to his court-interest (where meer will and pleasure at that time was the only law that dispos'd of all theatrical rights) to oblige swiney to let him be off from his bad bargain for a better. to this it may be imagin'd _swiney_ demurred, and as he had reason, strongly remonstrated against it: but as _collier_ had listed his conscience under the command of interest, he kept it to strict duty, and was immoveable; insomuch that sir _john vanbrugh_, who was a friend to _swiney_, and who, by his intimacy with the people in power, better knew the motive of their actions, advis'd _swiney_ rather to accept of the change, than by a non-compliance to hazard his being excluded from any post or concern in either of the theatres: to conclude, it was not long before _collier_ had procured a new license for acting plays, _&c._ for himself, _wilks_, _dogget_, and _cibber_, exclusive of _swiney_, who by this new regulation was reduc'd to his _hobson_'s choice of the opera.[ ] _swiney_ being thus transferr'd to the opera[ ] in the sinking condition _collier_ had left it, found the receipts of it in the winter following, , so far short of the expences, that he was driven to attend his fortune in some more favourable climate, where he remain'd twenty years an exile from his friends and country, tho' there has been scarce an _english_ gentleman who in his _tour_ of _france_ or _italy_ has not renew'd or created an acquaintance with him. as this is a circumstance that many people may have forgot, i cannot remember it without that regard and concern it deserves from all that know him: yet it is some mitigation of his misfortune that since his return to _england_, his grey hairs and cheerful disposition have still found a general welcome among his foreign and former domestick acquaintance. _collier_ being now first-commission'd menager with the comedians, drove them, too, to the last inch of a hard bargain (the natural consequence of all treaties between power and necessity.) he not only demanded six hundred a year neat money, the price at which he had farm'd out his opera, and to make the business a _sine-cure_ to him, but likewise insisted upon a moiety of the two hundred that had been levied upon us the year before in aid of the operas; in all _l._ these large and ample conditions, considering in what hands we were, we resolv'd to swallow without wry faces; rather chusing to run any hazard than contend with a formidable power against which we had no remedy: but so it happen'd that fortune took better care of our interest than we ourselves had like to have done: for had _collier_ accepted of our first offer, of an equal share with us, he had got three hundred pounds a year more by complying with it than by the sum he imposed upon us, our shares being never less than a thousand annually to each of us, 'till the end of the queen's reign in . after which _collier_'s commission was superseded, his theatrical post, upon the accession of his late majesty, being given to sir _richard steele_.[ ] from these various revolutions in the government of the theatre, all owing to the patentees mistaken principle of increasing their profits by too far enslaving their people, and keeping down the price of good actors (and i could almost insist that giving large sallaries to bad ones could not have had a worse consequence) i say, when it is consider'd that the authority for acting plays, _&c._ was thought of so little worth that (as has been observ'd) sir _thomas skipwith_ gave away his share of it, and the adventurers had fled from it; that mr. _congreve_, at another time, had voluntarily resign'd it; and sir _john vanbrugh_ (meerly to get the rent of his new house paid) had, by leave of the court, farm'd out his license to _swiney_, who not without some hesitation had ventur'd upon it; let me say again, out of this low condition of the theatre, was it not owing to the industry of three or four comedians that a new place was now created for the crown to give away, without any expence attending it, well worth the acceptance of any gentleman whose merit or services had no higher claim to preferment, and which _collier_ and sir _richard steele_, in the two last reigns, successively enjoy'd? tho' i believe i may have said something like this in a former chapter,[ ] i am not unwilling it should be twice taken notice of. we are now come to that firm establishment of the theatre, which, except the admittance of _booth_ into a share and _dogget_'s retiring from it, met with no change or alteration for above twenty years after. _collier_, as has been said, having accepted of a certain appointment of seven hundred _per annum_, _wilks_, _dogget_, and myself were now the only acting menagers under the queen's license; which being a grant but during pleasure oblig'd us to a conduct that might not undeserve that favour. at this time we were all in the vigour of our capacities as actors, and our prosperity enabled us to pay at least double the sallaries to what the same actors had usually receiv'd, or could have hoped for under the government of the patentees. _dogget_, who was naturally an oeconomist, kept our expences and accounts to the best of his power within regulated bounds and moderation. _wilks_, who had a stronger passion for glory than lucre, was a little apt to be lavish in what was not always as necessary for the profit as the honour of the theatre: for example, at the beginning of almost every season, he would order two or three suits to be made or refresh'd for actors of moderate consequence, that his having constantly a new one for himself might seem less particular, tho' he had as yet no new part for it. this expeditious care of doing us good without waiting for our consent to it, _dogget_ always look'd upon with the eye of a man in pain: but i, who hated pain, (tho' i as little liked the favour as _dogget_ himself) rather chose to laugh at the circumstance, than complain of what i knew was not to be cured but by a remedy worse than the evil. upon these occasions, therefore, whenever i saw him and his followers so prettily dress'd out for an old play, i only commended his fancy; or at most but whisper'd him not to give himself so much trouble about others, upon whose performance it would but be thrown away: to which, with a smiling air of triumph over my want of penetration, he has reply'd--why, now, that was what i really did it for! to shew others that i love to take care of them as well as of myself. thus, whenever he made himself easy, he had not the least conception, let the expence be what it would, that we could possibly dislike it. and from the same principle, provided a thinner audience were liberal of their applause, he gave himself little concern about the receipt of it. as in these different tempers of my brother-menagers there might be equally something right and wrong, it was equally my business to keep well with them both: and tho' of the two i was rather inclin'd to _dogget_'s way of thinking, yet i was always under the disagreeable restraint of not letting _wilks_ see it: therefore, when in any material point of menagement they were ready to come to a rupture, i found it adviseable to think neither of them absolutely in the wrong; but by giving to one as much of the right in his opinion this way as i took from the other in that, their differences were sometimes soft'ned into concessions, that i have reason to think prevented many ill consequences in our affairs that otherwise might have attended them. but this was always to be done with a very gentle hand; for as _wilks_ was apt to be easily hurt by opposition, so when he felt it he was as apt to be insupportable. however, there were some points in which we were always unanimous. in the twenty years while we were our own directors, we never had a creditor that had occasion to come twice for his bill; every _monday_ morning discharged us of all demands before we took a shilling for our own use. and from this time we neither ask'd any actor, nor were desired by them, to sign any written agreement (to the best of my memory) whatsoever: the rate of their respective sallaries were only enter'd in our daily pay-roll; which plain record every one look'd upon as good as city-security: for where an honest meaning is mutual, the mutual confidence will be bond enough in conscience on both sides: but that i may not ascribe more to our conduct than was really its due, i ought to give fortune her share of the commendation; for had not our success exceeded our expectation, it might not have been in our power so thoroughly to have observ'd those laudable rules of oeconomy, justice, and lenity, which so happily supported us: but the severities and oppression we had suffer'd under our former masters made us incapable of imposing them on others; which gave our whole society the cheerful looks of a rescued people. but notwithstanding this general cause of content, it was not above a year or two before the imperfection of human nature began to shew itself in contrary symptoms. the merit of the hazards which the menagers had run, and the difficulties they had combated in bringing to perfection that revolution by which they had all so amply profited in the amendment of their general income, began now to be forgotten; their acknowledgments and thankful promises of fidelity were no more repeated, or scarce thought obligatory: ease and plenty by an habitual enjoyment had lost their novelty, and the largeness of their sallaries seem'd rather lessen'd than advanc'd by the extraordinary gains of the undertakers; for that is the scale in which the hired actor will always weigh his performance; but whatever reason there may seem to be in his case, yet, as he is frequently apt to throw a little self-partiality into the balance, that consideration may a good deal alter the justness of it. while the actors, therefore, had this way of thinking, happy was it for the menagers that their united interest was so inseparably the same, and that their skill and power in acting stood in a rank so far above the rest, that if the whole body of private men had deserted them, it would yet have been an easier matter for the menagers to have pick'd up recruits, than for the deserters to have found proper officers to head them. here, then, in this distinction lay our security: our being actors ourselves was an advantage to our government which all former menagers, who were only idle gentlemen, wanted: nor was our establishment easily to be broken, while our health and limbs enabled us to be joint-labourers in the work we were masters of. the only actor who, in the opinion of the publick, seem'd to have had a pretence of being advanc'd to a share with us was certainly _booth_: but when it is consider'd how strongly he had oppos'd the measures that had made us menagers, by setting himself (as has been observ'd) at the head of an opposite interest,[ ] he could not as yet have much to complain of: beside, if the court had thought him, now, an equal object of favour, it could not have been in our power to have oppos'd his preferment: this i mention, not to take from his merit, but to shew from what cause it was not as yet better provided for. therefore it may be no vanity to say, our having at that time no visible competitors on the stage was the only interest that rais'd us to be the menagers of it. but here let me rest a while, and since at my time of day our best possessions are but ease and quiet, i must be content, if i will have sallies of pleasure, to take up with those only that are to be found in imagination. when i look back, therefore, on the storms of the stage we had been toss'd in; when i consider that various vicissitude of hopes and fears we had for twenty years struggled with, and found ourselves at last thus safely set on shore to enjoy the produce of our own labours, and to have rais'd those labours by our skill and industry to a much fairer profit, than our task-masters by all their severe and griping government had ever reap'd from them, a good-natur'd reader, that is not offended at the comparison of great things with small, will allow was a triumph in proportion equal to those that have attended the most heroick enterprizes for liberty! what transport could the first _brutus_ feel upon his expulsion of the _tarquins_ greater than that which now danc'd in the heart of a poor actor, who, from an injur'd labourer, unpaid his hire, had made himself, without guilt, a legal menager of his own fortune? let the grave and great contemn or yawn at these low conceits, but let me be happy in the enjoyment of them! to this hour my memory runs o'er that pleasing prospect of life past with little less delight than when i was first in the real possession of it. this is the natural temper of my mind, which my acquaintance are frequently witnesses of: and as this was all the ambition providence had made my obscure condition capable of, i am thankful that means were given me to enjoy the fruits of it. ----_hoc est vivere bìs, vitâ; posse priore frui._[ ] something like the meaning of this the less learned reader may find in my title page. chapter xiv. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the stage in its highest prosperity. the menagers not without errors. of what kind._ cato _first acted. what brought it to the stage. the company go to _oxford_. their success and different auditors there. _booth_ made a sharer. _dogget_ objects to him. quits the stage upon his admittance. that not his true reason. what was. _dogget_'s theatrical character._ notwithstanding the menaging actors were now in a happier situation than their utmost pretensions could have expected, yet it is not to be suppos'd but wiser men might have mended it. as we could not all govern our selves, there were seasons when we were not all fit to govern others. our passions and our interest drew not always the same way. _self_ had a great sway in our debates: we had our partialities; our prejudices; our favourites of less merit; and our jealousies of those who came too near us; frailties which societies of higher consideration, while they are compos'd of men, will not always be free from. to have been constantly capable of unanimity had been a blessing too great for our station: one mind among three people were to have had three masters to one servant; but when that one servant is called three different ways at the same time, whose business is to be done first? for my own part, i was forced almost all my life to give up my share of him. and if i could, by art or persuasion, hinder others from making what i thought a wrong use of their power, it was the all and utmost i desired. yet, whatever might be our personal errors, i shall think i have no right to speak of them farther than where the publick entertainment was affected by them. if therefore, among so many, some particular actors were remarkable in any part of their private lives, that might sometimes make the world merry without doors, i hope my laughing friends will excuse me if i do not so far comply with their desires or curiosity as to give them a place in my history. i can only recommend such anecdotes to the amusement of a noble person, who (in case i conceal them) does me the flattering honour to threaten my work with a supplement. 'tis enough for me that such actors had their merits to the publick: let those recite their imperfections who are themselves without them: it is my misfortune not to have that qualification. let us see then (whatever was amiss in it) how our administration went forward. when we were first invested with this power, the joy of our so unexpectedly coming into it kept us for some time in amity and good-humour with one another: and the pleasure of reforming the many false measures, absurdities, and abuses, that, like weeds, had suck'd up the due nourishment from the fruits of the theatre, gave us as yet no leisure for private dissentions. our daily receipts exceeded our imagination: and we seldom met as a board to settle our weekly accounts without the satisfaction of joint-heirs just in possession of an unexpected estate that had been distantly intail'd upon them. such a sudden change of our condition it may be imagin'd could not but throw out of us a new spirit in almost every play we appear'd in: nor did we ever sink into that common negligence which is apt to follow good-fortune: industry we knew was the life of our business; that it not only conceal'd faults, but was of equal value to greater talents without it; which the decadence once of _betterton_'s company in _lincoln's-inn-fields_ had lately shewn us a proof of. this then was that happy period, when both actors and menagers were in their highest enjoyment of general content and prosperity. now it was that the politer world, too, by their decent attention, their sensible taste, and their generous encouragements to authors and actors, once more saw that the stage, under a due regulation, was capable of being what the wisest ages thought it _might_ be, the most rational scheme that human wit could form to dissipate with innocence the cares of life, to allure even the turbulent or ill-disposed from worse meditations, and to give the leisure hours of business and virtue an instructive recreation. if this grave assertion is less recommended by falling from the pen of a comedian, i must appeal for the truth of it to the tragedy of _cato_, which was first acted in .[ ] i submit to the judgment of those who were then the sensible spectators of it, if the success and merit of that play was not an evidence of every article of that value which i have given to a decent theatre? but (as i was observing) it could not be expected the summer days i am speaking of could be the constant weather of the year; we had our clouded hours as well as our sun-shine, and were not always in the same good-humour with one another: fire, air, and water could not be more vexatiously opposite than the different tempers of the three menagers, though they might equally have their useful as well as their destructive qualities. how variously these elements in our several dispositions operated may be judged from the following single instance, as well as a thousand others, which, if they were all to be told, might possibly make my reader wish i had forgot them. much about this time, then, there came over from _dublin_ theatre two uncelebrated actors to pick up a few pence among us in the winter, as _wilks_ had a year or two before done on their side the water in the summer.[ ] but it was not so clear to _dogget_ and myself that it was in their power to do us the same service in _drury-lane_ as _wilks_ might have done them in _dublin_. however, _wilks_ was so much a man of honour that he scorned to be outdone in the least point of it, let the cost be what it would to his fellow-menagers, who had no particular accounts of honour open with them. to acquit himself therefore with a better grace, _wilks_ so order'd it, that his _hibernian_ friends were got upon our stage before any other menager had well heard of their arrival. this so generous dispatch of their affair gave _wilks_ a very good chance of convincing his friends that himself was sole master of the masters of the company. here, now, the different elements in our tempers began to work with us. while _wilks_ was only animated by a grateful hospitality to his friends, _dogget_ was ruffled into a storm, and look'd upon this generosity as so much insult and injustice upon himself and the fraternity. during this disorder i stood by, a seeming quiet passenger, and, since talking to the winds i knew could be to no great purpose (whatever weakness it might be call'd) could not help smiling to observe with what officious ease and delight _wilks_ was treating his friends at our expence, who were scarce acquainted with them: for it seems all this was to end in their having a benefit-play in the height of the season, for the unprofitable service they had done us without our consent or desire to employ them. upon this _dogget_ bounc'd and grew almost as untractable as _wilks_ himself. here, again, i was forc'd to clap my patience to the helm to weather this difficult point between them: applying myself therefore to the person i imagin'd was most likely to hear me, i desired _dogget_ "to consider that i must naturally be as much hurt by this vain and over-bearing behaviour in _wilks_ as he could be; and that tho' it was true these actors had no pretence to the favour design'd them, yet we could not say they had done us any farther harm, than letting the town see the parts they had been shewn in, had been better done by those to whom they properly belong'd: yet as we had greatly profited by the extraordinary labour of _wilks_, who acted long parts almost every day, and at least twice to _dogget_'s once;[ ] and that i granted it might not be so much his consideration of our common interest, as his fondness for applause, that set him to work, yet even that vanity, if he supposed it such, had its merit to us; and as we had found our account in it, it would be folly upon a punctilio to tempt the rashness of a man, who was capable to undo all he had done, by any act of extravagance that might fly into his head: that admitting this benefit might be some little loss to us, yet to break with him upon it could not but be ten times of worse consequence, than our overlooking his disagreeable manner of making the demand upon us." [illustration: robert wilks] though i found this had made _dogget_ drop the severity of his features, yet he endeavoured still to seem uneasy, by his starting a new objection, which was, that we could not be sure even of the charge they were to pay for it: for _wilks_, said he, you know, will go any lengths to make it a good day to them, and may whisper the door-keepers to give them the ready-money taken, and return the account in such tickets only as these actors have not themselves disposed of. to make this easy too, i gave him my word to be answerable for the charge my self. upon this he acceded, and accordingly they had the benefit-play. but so it happen'd (whether as _dogget_ had suspected or not, i cannot say) the ready-money receiv'd fell ten pounds short of the sum they had agreed to pay for it. upon the _saturday_ following, (the day on which we constantly made up our accounts) i went early to the office, and inquired if the ten pounds had yet been paid in; but not hearing that one shilling of it had found its way thither, i immediately supply'd the sum out of my own pocket, and directed the treasurer to charge it received from me in the deficient receipt of the benefit-day. here, now, it might be imagined, all this silly matter was accommodated, and that no one could so properly say he was aggrieved as myself: but let us observe what the consequence says--why, the effect of my insolent interposing honesty prov'd to be this: that the party most oblig'd was the most offended; and the offence was imputed to me who had been ten pounds out of pocket to be able to commit it: for when _wilks_ found in the account how spitefully the ten pounds had been paid in, he took me aside into the adjacent stone-passage, and with some warmth ask'd me, what i meant by pretending to pay in this ten pounds? and that, for his part, he did not understand such treatment. to which i reply'd, that tho' i was amaz'd at his thinking himself ill-treated, i would give him a plain, justifiable answer.----that i had given my word to _dogget_ the charge of the benefit should be fully paid, and since his friends had neglected it, i found myself bound to make it good. upon which he told me i was mistaken if i thought he did not see into the bottom of all this--that _dogget_ and i were always endeavouring to thwart and make him uneasy; but he was able to stand upon his own legs, and we should find he would not be used so: that he took this payment of the ten pounds as an insult upon him and a slight to his friends; but rather than suffer it he would tear the whole business to pieces: that i knew it was in his power to do it; and if he could not do a civil thing to a friend without all this senseless rout about it, he could be received in _ireland_ upon his own terms, and could as easily mend a company there as he had done here: that if he were gone, _dogget_ and i would not be able to keep the doors open a week; and, by g--, he would not be a drudge for nothing. as i knew all this was but the foam of the high value he had set upon himself, i thought it not amiss to seem a little silently concerned, for the helpless condition to which his resentment of the injury i have related was going to reduce us: for i knew i had a friend in his heart that, if i gave him a little time to cool, would soon bring him to reason: the sweet morsel of a thousand pounds a year was not to be met with at every table, and might tempt a nicer palate than his own to swallow it, when he was not out of humour. this i knew would always be of weight with him, when the best arguments i could use would be of none. i therefore gave him no farther provocation than by gravely telling him, we all had it in our power to do one another a mischief; but i believed none of us much cared to hurt ourselves; that if he was not of my opinion, it would not be in my power to hinder whatever new scheme he might resolve upon; that _london_ would always have a play-house, and i should have some chance in it, tho' it might not be so good as it had been; that he might be sure, if i had thought my paying in the ten pounds could have been so ill received, i should have been glad to have saved it. upon this he seem'd to mutter something to himself, and walk'd off as if he had a mind to be alone. i took the occasion, and return'd to _dogget_ to finish our accounts. in about six minutes _wilks_ came in to us, not in the best humour, it may be imagined; yet not in so ill a one but that he took his share of the ten pounds without shewing the least contempt of it; which, had he been proud enough to have refused, or to have paid in himself, i might have thought he intended to make good his menaces, and that the injury i had done him would never have been forgiven; but it seems we had different ways of thinking. of this kind, more or less delightful, was the life i led with this impatient man for full twenty years. _dogget_, as we shall find, could not hold it so long; but as he had more money than i, he had not occasion for so much philosophy. and thus were our theatrical affairs frequently disconcerted by this irascible commander, this _achilles_ of our confederacy, who, i may be bold to say, came very little short of the spirit _horace_ gives to that hero in his-- _impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer._[ ] this, then, is one of those personal anecdotes of our variances, which, as our publick performances were affected by it, could not, with regard to truth and justice, be omitted. from this time to the year my memory (from which repository alone every article of what i write is collected) has nothing worth mentioning, 'till the first acting of the tragedy of _cato_.[ ] as to the play itself, it might be enough to say, that the author and the actors had their different hopes of fame and profit amply answer'd by the performance; but as its success was attended with remarkable consequences, it may not be amiss to trace it from its several years concealment in the closet, to the stage. in , nine years before it was acted, i had the pleasure of reading the first four acts (which was all of it then written) privately with sir _richard steele_: it may be needless to say it was impossible to lay them out of my hand 'till i had gone thro' them, or to dwell upon the delight his friendship to the author receiv'd upon my being so warmly pleas'd with them: but my satisfaction was as highly disappointed when he told me, whatever spirit mr. _addison_ had shewn in his writing it, he doubted he would never have courage enough to let his _cato_ stand the censure of an _english_ audience; that it had only been the amusement of his leisure hours in _italy_, and was never intended for the stage. this poetical diffidence[ ] sir _richard_ himself spoke of with some concern, and in the transport of his imagination could not help saying, _good god!_ what a part would _betterton_ make of _cato!_ but this was seven years before _betterton_ died, and when _booth_ (who afterwards made his fortune by acting it) was in his theatrical minority. in the latter end of queen _anne_'s reign, when our national politicks had changed hands, the friends of mr. _addison_ then thought it a proper time to animate the publick with the sentiments of _cato_; in a word, their importunities were too warm to be resisted; and it was no sooner finish'd than hurried to the stage, in _april_, ,[ ] at a time when three days a week were usually appointed for the benefit plays of particular actors: but a work of that critical importance was to make its way through all private considerations; nor could it possibly give place to a custom, which the breach of could very little prejudice the benefits, that on so unavoidable an occasion were (in part, tho' not wholly) postpon'd; it was therefore (_mondays_ excepted) acted every day for a month to constantly crowded houses.[ ] as the author had made us a present of whatever profits he might have claim'd from it, we thought our selves oblig'd to spare no cost in the proper decorations of it. its coming so late in the season to the stage prov'd of particular advantage to the sharing actors, because the harvest of our annual gains was generally over before the middle of _march_, many select audiences being then usually reserv'd in favour to the benefits of private actors; which fixt engagements naturally abated the receipts of the days before and after them: but this unexpected aftercrop of _cato_ largely supplied to us those deficiencies, and was almost equal to two fruitful seasons in the same year; at the close of which the three menaging actors found themselves each a gainer of thirteen hundred and fifty pounds: but to return to the first reception of this play from the publick. although _cato_ seems plainly written upon what are called _whig_ principles, yet the _torys_ of that time had sense enough not to take it as the least reflection upon their administration; but, on the contrary, they seem'd to brandish and vaunt their approbation of every sentiment in favour of liberty, which, by a publick act of their generosity, was carried so high, that one day, while the play was acting, they collected fifty guineas in the boxes, and made a present of them to _booth_, with this compliment----_for his honest opposition to a perpetual dictator, and his dying so bravely in the cause of liberty_: what was insinuated by any part of these words is not my affair;[ ] but so publick a reward had the appearance of a laudable spirit, which only such a play as _cato_ could have inspired; nor could _booth_ be blam'd if, upon so particular a distinction of his merit, he began himself to set more value upon it: how far he might carry it, in making use of the favour he stood in with a certain nobleman[ ] then in power at court, was not difficult to penetrate, and indeed ought always to have been expected by the menaging actors: for which of them (making the case every way his own) could with such advantages have contented himself in the humble station of an hired actor? but let us see how the menagers stood severally affected upon this occasion. _dogget_, who expected, though he fear'd not, the attempt of what after happen'd, imagin'd he had thought of an expedient to prevent it: and to cover his design with all the art of a statesman, he insinuated to us (for he was a staunch _whig_) that this present of fifty guineas was a sort of a _tory_ triumph which they had no pretence to; and that for his part he could not bear that so redoubted a champion for liberty as _cato_ should be bought off to the cause of a contrary party: he therefore, in the seeming zeal of his heart, proposed that the menagers themselves should make the same present to _booth_ which had been made him from the boxes the day before. this, he said, would recommend the equality and liberal spirit of our menagement to the town, and might be a means to secure _booth_ more firmly in our interest, it never having been known that the skill of the best actor had receiv'd so round a reward or gratuity in one day before. _wilks_, who wanted nothing but abilities to be as cunning as _dogget_, was so charm'd with the proposal that he long'd that moment to make _booth_ the present with his own hands; and though he knew he had no right to do it without my consent, had no patience to ask it; upon which i turned to _dogget_ with a cold smile, and told him, that if _booth_ could be purchas'd at so cheap a rate, it would be one of the best proofs of his oeconomy we had ever been beholden to: i therefore desired we might have a little patience; that our doing it too hastily might be only making sure of an occasion to throw the fifty guineas away; for if we should be obliged to do better for him, we could never expect that _booth_ would think himself bound in honour to refund them. this seem'd so absurd an argument to _wilks_ that he began, with his usual freedom of speech, to treat it as a pitiful evasion of their intended generosity: but _dogget_, who was not so wide of my meaning, clapping his hand upon mine, said, with an air of security, o! don't trouble yourself! there must be two words to that bargain; let me alone to menage that matter. _wilks_, upon this dark discourse, grew uneasy, as if there were some secret between us that he was to be left out of. therefore, to avoid the shock of his intemperance, i was reduc'd to tell him that it was my opinion, that _booth_ would never be made easy by any thing we could do for him, 'till he had a share in the profits and menagement; and that, as he did not want friends to assist him, whatever his merit might be before, every one would think, since his acting of _cato_, he had now enough to back his pretensions to it. to which _dogget_ reply'd, that nobody could think his merit was slighted by so handsome a present as fifty guineas; and that, for his farther pretensions, whatever the license might avail, our property of house, scenes, and cloaths were our own, and not in the power of the crown to dispose of. to conclude, my objections that the money would be only thrown away, _&c._ were over-rul'd, and the same night _booth_ had the fifty guineas, which he receiv'd with a thankfulness that made _wilks_ and _dogget_ perfectly easy, insomuch that they seem'd for some time to triumph in their conduct, and often endeavour'd to laugh my jealousy out of countenance: but in the following winter the game happen'd to take a different turn; and then, if it had been a laughing matter, i had as strong an occasion to smile at their former security. but before i make an end of this matter, i cannot pass over the good fortune of the company that followed us to the act at _oxford_, which was held in the intervening summer: perhaps, too, a short view of the stage in that different situation may not be unacceptable to the curious. after the restoration of king _charles_, before the _cavalier_ and _round-head_ parties, under their new denomination of _whig_ and _tory_, began again to be politically troublesome, publick acts at _oxford_ (as i find by the date of several prologues written by _dryden_[ ] for _hart_ on those occasions) had been more frequently held than in later reigns. whether the same party-dissentions may have occasion'd the discontinuance of them, is a speculation not necessary to be enter'd into. but these academical jubilees have usually been look'd upon as a kind of congratulatory compliment to the accession of every new prince to the throne, and generally, as such, have attended them. king _james_,[ ] notwithstanding his religion, had the honour of it; at which the players, as usual, assisted. this i have only mention'd to give the reader a theatrical anecdote of a liberty which _tony leigh_ the comedian took with the character of the well known _obadiah walker_,[ ] then head of _university college_, who in that prince's reign had turn'd _roman catholick_: the circumstance is this. in the latter end of the comedy call'd the _committee_, _leigh_, who acted the part of _teague_, hauling in _obadiah_ with an halter about his neck, whom, according to his written part, he was to threaten to hang for no better reason than his refusing to drink the king's health, (but here _leigh_) to justify his purpose with a stronger provocation, put himself into a more than ordinary heat with his captive _obadiah_, which having heightened his master's curiosity to know what _obadiah_ had done to deserve such usage, _leigh_, folding his arms, with a ridiculous stare of astonishment, reply'd--_upon my shoule, he has shange his religion_. as the merit of this jest lay chiefly in the auditors' sudden application of it to the _obadiah_ of _oxford_, it was received with all the triumph of applause which the zeal of a different religion could inspire. but _leigh_ was given to understand that the king was highly displeased at it, inasmuch as it had shewn him that the university was in a temper to make a jest of his proselyte. but to return to the conduct of our own affairs there in .[ ] it had been a custom for the comedians while at _oxford_ to act twice a day; the first play ending every morning before the college hours of dining, and the other never to break into the time of shutting their gates in the evening. this extraordinary labour gave all the hired actors a title to double pay, which, at the act in king _william_'s time, i had myself accordingly received there. but the present menagers considering that, by acting only once a day, their spirits might be fresher for every single performance, and that by this means they might be able to fill up the term of their residence, without the repetition of their best and strongest plays; and as their theatre was contrived to hold a full third more than the usual form of it had done, one house well fill'd might answer the profits of two but moderately taken up: being enabled, too, by their late success at _london_, to make the journey pleasant and profitable to the rest of their society, they resolved to continue to them their double pay, notwithstanding this new abatement of half their labour. this conduct of the menagers more than answered their intention, which was rather to get nothing themselves than not let their fraternity be the better for the expedition. thus they laid an obligation upon their company, and were themselves considerably, though unexpected, gainers by it. but my chief reason for bringing the reader to _oxford_ was to shew the different taste of plays there from that which prevail'd at _london_. a great deal of that false, flashy wit and forc'd humour, which had been the delight of our metropolitan multitude, was only rated there at its bare intrinsick value;[ ] applause was not to be purchased there but by the true sterling, the _sal atticum_ of a genius, unless where the skill of the actor pass'd it upon them with some extraordinary strokes of nature. _shakespear_ and _johnson_ had there a sort of classical authority; for whose masterly scenes they seem'd to have as implicit a reverence as formerly for the ethicks of _aristotle_; and were as incapable of allowing moderns to be their competitors, as of changing their academical habits for gaudy colours or embroidery. whatever merit, therefore, some few of our more politely-written comedies might pretend to, they had not the same effect upon the imagination there, nor were received with that extraordinary applause they had met with from the people of mode and pleasure in _london_, whose vain accomplishments did not dislike themselves in the glass that was held to them: the elegant follies of higher life were not at _oxford_ among their acquaintance, and consequently might not be so good company to a learned audience as nature, in her plain dress and unornamented, in her pursuits and inclinations seem'd to be. the only distinguish'd merit allow'd to any modern writer[ ] was to the author of _cato_, which play being the flower of a plant raised in that learned garden, (for there mr. _addison_ had his education) what favour may we not suppose was due to him from an audience of brethren, who from that local relation to him might naturally have a warmer pleasure in their benevolence to his fame? but not to give more weight to this imaginary circumstance than it may bear, the fact was, that on our first day of acting it our house was in a manner invested, and entrance demanded by twelve a clock at noon, and before one it was not wide enough for many who came too late for places. the same crowds continued for three days together, (an uncommon curiosity in that place) and the death of _cato_ triumph'd over the injuries of _cæsar_ every where. to conclude, our reception at _oxford_, whatever our merit might be, exceeded our expectation. at our taking leave we had the thanks of the vice-chancellor for the decency and order observ'd by our whole society, an honour which had not always been paid upon the same occasions; for at the act in king _william_'s time i remember some pranks of a different nature had been complain'd of. our receipts had not only enabled us (as i have observ'd) to double the pay of every actor, but to afford out of them towards the repair of st _mary_'s church the contribution of fifty pounds: besides which, each of the three menagers had to his respective share, clear of all charges, one hundred and fifty more for his one and twenty day's labour, which being added to his thirteen hundred and fifty shared in the winter preceding, amounted in the whole to fifteen hundred, the greatest sum ever known to have been shared in one year to that time: and to the honour of our auditors here and elsewhere be it spoken, all this was rais'd without the aid of those barbarous entertainments with which, some few years after (upon the re-establishment of two contending companies) we were forc'd to disgrace the stage to support it. this, therefore, is that remarkable period when the stage, during my time upon it, was the least reproachable: and it may be worth the publick observation (if any thing i have said of it can be so) that _one_ stage may, as i have prov'd it has done, very laudably support it self by such spectacles only as are fit to delight a sensible people; but the equal prosperity of _two_ stages has always been of a very short duration. if therefore the publick should ever recover into the true taste of that time, and stick to it, the stage must come into it, or _starve_; as, whenever the general taste is vulgar, the stage must come down to it to _live_.----but i ask pardon of the multitude, who, in all regulations of the stage, may expect to be a little indulg'd in what they like: if therefore they _will_ have a may-pole, why, the players must _give_ them a may-pole; but i only speak in case they should keep an old custom of changing their minds, and by their privilege of being in the _wrong_, should take a fancy, by way of variety, of being in the _right_----then, in such a case, what i have said may appear to have been no intended design against their liberty of judging for themselves. after our return from _oxford_, _booth_ was at full leisure to solicit his admission to a share in the menagement,[ ] in which he succeeded about the beginning of the following winter: accordingly a new license (recalling all former licenses) was issued, wherein _booth_'s name was added to those of the other menagers.[ ] but still there was a difficulty in his qualification to be adjusted; what consideration he should allow for an equal title to our stock of cloaths, scenes, _&c._ without which the license was of no more use than the stock was without the license; or, at least, if there were any difference, the former menagers seem'd to have the advantage in it; the stock being intirely theirs, and three parts in four of the license; for _collier_, though now but a fifth menager, still insisted on his former appointment of _l._ a year, which in equity ought certainly to have been proportionably abated: but court-favour was not always measur'd by _that_ yard; _collier's_ matter was soon out of the question; his pretensions were too visible to be contested; but the affair of _booth_ was not so clear a point: the lord chamberlain, therefore, only recommended it to be adjusted among our selves; which, to say the truth, at that time was a greater indulgence than i expected. let us see, then, how this critical case was handled. _wilks_ was of opinion, that to set a good round value upon our stock, was the only way to come near an equivalent for the diminution of our shares, which the admission of _booth_ must occasion: but _dogget_ insisted that he had no mind to dispose of any part of his property, and therefore would set no price upon it at all. though i allow'd that both these opinions might be grounded on a good deal of equity, yet i was not sure that either of them was practicable; and therefore told them, that when they could both agree which of them could be made so, they might rely on my consent in any shape. in the mean time i desired they would consider, that as our license subsisted only during pleasure, we could not pretend that the queen might not recall or alter it: but that to speak out, without mincing the matter on either side, the truth was plainly this: that _booth_ had a manifest merit as an actor; and as he was not supposed to be a _whig_, it was as evident that a good deal for that reason a secretary of state had taken him into his protection, which i was afraid the weak pretence of our invaded property would not be able to contend with: that his having signaliz'd himself in the character of _cato_ (whose principles the _tories_ had affected to have taken into their own possession) was a very popular pretence of making him free of the stage, by advancing him to the profits of it. and, as we had seen that the stage was frequently treated as if it was not suppos'd to have any property at all, this favour intended to _booth_ was thought a right occasion to avow that opinion by disposing of its property at pleasure: but be that as it might, i own'd it was not so much my apprehensions of what the _court_ might do, that sway'd me into an accommodation with _booth_, as what the _town_, (in whose favour he now apparently stood) might think _ought_ to be done: that there might be more danger in contesting their arbitrary will and pleasure than in disputing this less terrible strain of the prerogative. that if _booth_ were only impos'd upon us from his merit to the court, we were then in the condition of other subjects: then, indeed, law, right, and possession might have a tolerable tug for our property: but as the town would always look upon his merit to _them_ in a stronger light, and be judges of it themselves, it would be a weak and idle endeavour in us not to sail with the stream, when we might possibly make a merit of our cheerfully admitting him: that though his former opposition to our interest might, between man and man, a good deal justify our not making an earlier friend of him; yet that was a disobligation out of the town's regard, and consequently would be of no weight against so approv'd an actor's being preferr'd. but all this notwithstanding, if they could both agree in a different opinion, i would, at the hazard of any consequence, be guided by it. here, now, will be shewn another instance of our different tempers: _dogget_ (who, in all matters that concern'd our common weal and interest, little regarded our opinion, and even to an obstinacy walk'd by his own) look'd only out of humour at what i had said, and, without thinking himself oblig'd to give any reason for it, declar'd he would maintain his property. _wilks_ (who, upon the same occasions, was as remarkably ductile, as when his superiority on the stage was in question he was assuming and intractable) said, for his part, provided our business of acting was not interrupted, he did not care what we did: but, in short, he was for playing on, come what would of it. this last part of his declaration i did not dislike, and therefore i desir'd we might all enter into an immediate treaty with _booth_, upon the terms of his admission. _dogget_ still sullenly reply'd, that he had no occasion to enter into any treaty. _wilks_ then, to soften him, propos'd that, if i liked it, _dogget_ might undertake it himself. i agreed. no! he would not be concern'd in it. i then offer'd the same trust to _wilks_, if _dogget_ approv'd of it. _wilks_ said he was not good at making of bargains, but if i was willing, he would rather leave it to me. _dogget_ at this rose up and said, we might both do as we pleas'd, but that nothing but the law should make him part with his property--and so went out of the room. after which he never came among us more, either as an actor or menager.[ ] by his having in this abrupt manner abdicated his post in our government, what he left of it naturally devolv'd upon _wilks_ and myself. however, this did not so much distress our affair as i have reason to believe _dogget_ thought it would: for though by our indentures tripartite we could not dispose of his property without his consent; yet those indentures could not oblige us to fast because he had no appetite; and if the mill did not grind, we could have no bread: we therefore determin'd, at any hazard, to keep our business still going, and that our safest way would be to make the best bargain we could with _booth_; one article of which was to be, that _booth_ should stand equally answerable with us to _dogget_ for the consequence: to which _booth_ made no objection, and the rest of his agreement was to allow us six hundred pounds for his share in our property, which was to be paid by such sums as should arise from half his profits of acting, 'till the whole was discharg'd: yet so cautious were we in this affair, that this agreement was only verbal on our part, tho' written and sign'd by _booth_ as what intirely contented him: however, bond and judgment could not have made it more secure to him; for he had his share, and was able to discharge the incumbrance upon it by his income of that year only. let us see what _dogget_ did in this affair after he had left us. might it not be imagin'd that _wilks_ and myself, by having made this matter easy to _booth_, should have deserv'd the approbation at least, if not the favour of the court that had exerted so much power to prefer him? but shall i be believed when i affirm that _dogget_, who had so strongly oppos'd the court in his admission to a share, was very near getting the better of us both upon that account, and for some time appeared to have more favour there than either of us? let me tell out my story, and then think what you please of it. _dogget_, who was equally oblig'd with us to act upon the stage, as to assist in the menagement of it, tho' he had refus'd to do either, still demanded of us his whole share of the profits, without considering what part of them _booth_ might pretend to from our late concessions. after many fruitless endeavours to bring him back to us, _booth_ join'd with us in making him an offer of half a share if he had a mind totally to quit the stage, and make it a _sine-cure_. no! he wanted the whole, and to sit still himself, while we (if we pleased) might work for him or let it alone, and none of us all, neither he nor we, be the better for it. what we imagin'd encourag'd him to hold us at this short defiance was, that he had laid up enough to live upon without the stage (for he was one of those close oeconomists whom prodigals call a miser) and therefore, partly from an inclination as an invincible _whig_ to signalize himself in defence of his property, and as much presuming that our necessities would oblige us to come to his own terms, he was determin'd (even against the opinion of his friends) to make no other peace with us. but not being able by this inflexible perseverance to have his wicked will of us, he was resolv'd to go to the fountain-head of his own distress, and try if from thence he could turn the current against us. he appeal'd to the vice-chamberlain,[ ] to whose direction the adjusting of all these theatrical difficulties was then committed: but there, i dare say, the reader does not expect he should meet with much favour: however, be that as it may; for whether any regard was had to his having some thousands in his pocket; or that he was consider'd as a man who would or could make more noise in the matter than courtiers might care for: or what charms, spells, or conjurations he might make use of, is all darkness to me; yet so it was, he one way or other play'd his part so well, that in a few days after we received an order from the vice-chamberlain, positively commanding us to pay _dogget_ his whole share, notwithstanding we had complain'd before of his having withdrawn himself from acting on the stage, and from the menagement of it. this i thought was a dainty distinction, indeed! that _dogget_'s defiance of the commands in favour of _booth_ should be rewarded with so ample a _sine-cure_, and that we for our obedience should be condemn'd to dig in the mine to pay it him! this bitter pill, i confess, was more than i could down with, and therefore soon determin'd at all events never to take it. but as i had a man in power to deal with, it was not my business to speak _out_ to him, or to set forth our treatment in its proper colours. my only doubt was, whether i could bring _wilks_ into the same sentiments (for he never car'd to litigate any thing that did not affect his figure upon the stage.) but i had the good fortune to lay our condition in so precarious and disagreeable a light to him, if we submitted to this order, that he fir'd before i could get thro' half the consequences of it; and i began now to find it more difficult to keep him within bounds than i had before to alarm him. i then propos'd to him this expedient: that we should draw up a remonstrance, neither seeming to refuse or comply with this order; but to start such objections and perplexing difficulties that should make the whole impracticable: that under such distractions as this would raise in our affairs we could not be answerable to keep open our doors, which consequently would destroy the fruit of the favour lately granted to _booth_, as well as of this intended to _dogget_ himself. to this remonstrance we received an answer in writing, which varied something in the measures to accommodate matters with _dogget_. this was all i desir'd; when i found the style of _sic jubeo_ was alter'd, when this formidable power began to _parley_ with us, we knew there could not be much to be fear'd from it: for i would have remonstrated 'till i had died, rather than have yielded to the roughest or smoothest persuasion, that could intimidate or deceive us. by this conduct we made the affair at last too troublesome for the ease of a courtier to go thro' with. for when it was consider'd that the principal point, the admission of _booth_, was got over, _dogget_ was fairly left to the law for relief.[ ] upon this disappointment _dogget_ accordingly preferred a bill in _chancery_ against us. _wilks_, who hated all business but that of entertaining the publick, left the conduct of our cause to me; in which we had, at our first setting out, this advantage of _dogget_, that we had three pockets to support our expence, where he had but one. my first direction to our solicitor was, to use all possible delay that the law would admit of, a direction that lawyers seldom neglect; by this means we hung up our plaintiff about two years in _chancery_, 'till we were at full leisure to come to a hearing before the lord-chancellor _cooper_, which did not happen 'till after the accession of his late majesty. the issue of it was this. _dogget_ had about fourteen days allow'd him to make his election whether he would return to act as usual: but he declaring, by his counsel, that he rather chose to quit the stage, he was decreed six hundred pounds for his share in our property, with _per cent._ interest from the date of the last license: upon the receipt of which both parties were to sign general-releases, and severally to pay their own costs. by this decree, _dogget_, when his lawyer's bill was paid, scarce got one year's purchase of what we had offer'd him without law, which (as he surviv'd but seven years after it) would have been an annuity of five hundred pounds and a _sine cure_ for life.[ ] tho' there are many persons living who know every article of these facts to be true: yet it will be found that the strongest of them was not the strongest occasion of _dogget_'s quitting the stage. if therefore the reader should not have curiosity enough to know how the publick came to be depriv'd of so valuable an actor, let him consider that he is not obliged to go through the rest of this chapter, which i fairly tell him before-hand will only be fill'd up with a few idle anecdotes leading to that discovery. after our law-suit was ended, _dogget_ for some few years could scarce bear the sight of _wilks_ or myself; tho' (as shall be shewn) for different reasons: yet it was his misfortune to meet with us almost every day. _button_'s coffee-house, so celebrated in the _tatlers_ for the good-company that came there, was at this time in its highest request. _addison_, _steele_, _pope_, and several other gentlemen of different merit, then made it their constant _rendezvous_. nor could _dogget_ decline the agreeable conversation there, tho' he was daily sure to find _wilks_ or myself in the same place to sour his share of it: for as _wilks_ and he were differently proud, the one rejoicing in a captious, over-bearing, valiant pride, and the other in a stiff, sullen, purse-pride, it may be easily conceiv'd, when two such tempers met, how agreeable the sight of one was to the other. and as _dogget_ knew i had been the conductor of our defence against his law-suit, which had hurt him more for the loss he had sustain'd in his reputation of understanding business, which he valued himself upon, than his disappointment had of getting so little by it; it was no wonder if i was intirely out of his good graces, which i confess i was inclin'd upon any reasonable terms to have recover'd; he being of all my theatrical brethren the man i most delighted in: for when he was not in a fit of wisdom, or not over-concerned about his interest, he had a great deal of entertaining humour: i therefore, notwithstanding his reserve, always left the door open to our former intimacy, if he were inclined to come into it. i never failed to give him my hat and _your servant_ wherever i met him; neither of which he would ever return for above a year after; but i still persisted in my usual salutation, without observing whether it was civilly received or not. this ridiculous silence between two comedians, that had so lately liv'd in a constant course of raillery with one another, was often smil'd at by our acquaintance who frequented the same coffee-house: and one of them carried his jest upon it so far, that when i was at some distance from town he wrote me a formal account that _dogget_ was actually dead. after the first surprize his letter gave me was over, i began to consider, that this coming from a droll friend to both of us, might possibly be written to extract some merriment out of my real belief of it: in this i was not unwilling to gratify him, and returned an answer as if i had taken the truth of his news for granted; and was not a little pleas'd that i had so fair an opportunity of speaking my mind freely of _dogget_, which i did, in some favour of his character; i excused his faults, and was just to his merit. his law-suit with us i only imputed to his having naturally deceived himself in the justice of his cause. what i most complain'd of was, his irreconcilable disaffection to me upon it, whom he could not reasonably blame for standing in my own defence; that not to endure me after it was a reflection upon his sense, when all our acquaintance had been witnesses of our former intimacy, which my behaviour in his life-time had plainly shewn him i had a mind to renew. but since he was now gone (however great a churl he was to me) i was sorry my correspondent had lost him. this part of my letter i was sure, if _dogget_'s eyes were still open, would be shewn to him; if not, i had only writ it to no purpose. but about a month after, when i came to town, i had some little reason to imagine it had the effect i wish'd from it: for one day, sitting over-against him at the same coffee-house where we often mixt at the same table, tho' we never exchanged a single syllable, he graciously extended his hand for a pinch of my snuff: as this seem'd from him a sort of breaking the ice of his temper, i took courage upon it to break silence on my side, and ask'd him how he lik'd it? to which, with a slow hesitation naturally assisted by the action of his taking the snuff, he reply'd--_umh! the best--umh!--i have tasted a great while!_--if the reader, who may possibly think all this extremely trifling, will consider that trifles sometimes shew characters in as strong a light as facts of more serious importance, i am in hopes he may allow that my matter less needs an excuse than the excuse itself does; if not, i must stand condemn'd at the end of my story.----but let me go on. after a few days of these coy, lady-like compliances on his side, we grew into a more conversable temper: at last i took a proper occasion, and desired he would be so frank with me as to let me know what was his real dislike, or motive, that made him throw up so good an income as his share with us annually brought him in? for though by our admission of _booth_, it might not probably amount to so much by a hundred or two a year as formerly, yet the remainder was too considerable to be quarrel'd with, and was likely to continue more than the best actors before us had ever got by the stage. and farther, to encourage him to be open, i told him, if i had done any thing that had particularly disobliged him, i was ready, if he could put me in the way, to make him any amends in my power; if not, i desired he would be so just to himself as to let me know the real truth without reserve: but reserve he could not, from his natural temper, easily shake off. all he said came from him by half sentences and _inuendos_, as--no, he had not taken any thing particularly ill--for his part, he was very easy as he was; but where others were to dispose of his property as they pleas'd--if you had stood it out as i did, _booth_ might have paid a better price for it.--you were too much afraid of the court--but that's all over.--there were other things in the play-house.--no man of spirit.--in short, to be always pester'd and provok'd by a trifling wasp--a--vain--shallow!--a man would sooner beg his bread than bear it--(here it was easy to understand him: i therefore ask'd him what he had to bear that i had not my share of?) no! it was not the same thing, he said.--you can play with a bear, or let him alone and do what he would, but i could not let him lay his paws upon me without being hurt; you did not feel him as i did.--and for a man to be cutting of throats upon every trifle at my time of day!--if i had been as covetous as he thought me, may be i might have born it as well as you--but i would not be a lord of the treasury if such a temper as _wilks_'s were to be at the head of it.-- here, then, the whole secret was out. the rest of our conversation was but explaining upon it. in a word, the painful behaviour of _wilks_ had hurt him so sorely that the affair of _booth_ was look'd upon as much a relief as a grievance, in giving him so plausible a pretence to get rid of us all with a better grace. _booth_ too, in a little time, had his share of the same uneasiness, and often complain'd of it to me: yet as we neither of us could then afford to pay _dogget_'s price for our remedy, all we could do was to avoid every occasion in our power of inflaming the distemper: so that we both agreed, tho' _wilks_'s nature was not to be changed, it was a less evil to live with him than without him. tho' i had often suspected, from what i had felt myself, that the temper of _wilks_ was _dogget_'s real quarrel to the stage, yet i could never thoroughly believe it 'till i had it from his own mouth. and i then thought the concern he had shewn at it was a good deal inconsistent with that understanding which was generally allow'd him. when i give my reasons for it, perhaps the reader will not have a better opinion of my own: be that as it may, i cannot help wondering that he who was so much more capable of reflexion than _wilks_, could sacrifice so valuable an income to his impatience of another's natural frailty! and though my stoical way of thinking may be no rule for a wiser man's opinion, yet, if it should happen to be right, the reader may make his use of it. why then should we not always consider that the rashness of abuse is but the false reason of a weak man? and that offensive terms are only used to supply the want of strength in argument? which, as to the common practice of the sober world, we do not find every man in business is oblig'd to resent with a military sense of honour: or if he should, would not the conclusion amount to this? because another wants sense and manners i am obliged to be a madman: for such every man is, more or less, while the passion of anger is in possession of him. and what less can we call that proud man who would put another out of the world only for putting him out of humour? if accounts of the tongue were always to be made up with the sword, all the wisemen in the world might be brought in debtors to blockheads. and when honour pretends to be witness, judge, and executioner in its own cause, if honour were a man, would it be an untruth to say honour is a very impudent fellow? but in _dogget_'s case it may be ask'd, how was he to behave himself? were passionate insults to be born for years together? to these questions i can only answer with two or three more, was he to punish himself because another was in the wrong? how many sensible husbands endure the teizing tongue of a froward wife only because she is the weaker vessel? and why should not a weak man have the same indulgence? daily experience will tell us that the fretful temper of a friend, like the personal beauty of a fine lady, by use and cohabitation may be brought down to give us neither pain nor pleasure. such, at least, and no more, was the distress i found myself in upon the same provocations, which i generally return'd with humming an air to myself; or if the storm grew very high, it might perhaps sometimes ruffle me enough to sing a little out of tune. thus too (if i had any ill nature to gratify) i often saw the unruly passion of the aggressor's mind punish itself by a restless disorder of the body. what inclines me, therefore, to think the conduct of _dogget_ was as rash as the provocations he complain'd of, is that in some time after he had left us he plainly discover'd he had repented it. his acquaintance observ'd to us, that he sent many a long look after his share in the still prosperous state of the stage: but as his heart was too high to declare (what we saw too) his shy inclination to return, he made us no direct overtures. nor, indeed, did we care (though he was a golden actor) to pay too dear for him: for as most of his parts had been pretty well supply'd, he could not now be of his former value to us. however, to shew the town at least that he had not forsworn the stage, he one day condescended to play for the benefit of mrs. _porter_,[ ] in the _wanton wife_, at which he knew his late majesty was to be present.[ ] now (tho' i speak it not of my own knowledge) yet it was not likely mrs. _porter_ would have ask'd that favour of him without some previous hint that it would be granted. his coming among us for that day only had a strong appearance of his laying it in our way to make him proposals, or that he hoped the court or town might intimate to us their desire of seeing him oftener: but as he acted only to do a particular favour, the menagers ow'd him no compliment for it beyond common civilities. and, as that might not be all he proposed by it, his farther views (if he had any) came to nothing. for after this attempt he never returned to the stage. to speak of him as an actor: he was the most an original, and the strictest observer of nature, of all his contemporaries.[ ] he borrow'd from none of them: his manner was his own: he was a pattern to others, whose greatest merit was that they had sometimes tolerably imitated him. in dressing a character to the greatest exactness he was remarkably skilful; the least article of whatever habit he wore seem'd in some degree to speak and mark the different humour he presented; a necessary care in a comedian, in which many have been too remiss or ignorant. he could be extremely ridiculous without stepping into the least impropriety to make him so. his greatest success was in characters of lower life, which he improv'd from the delight he took in his observations of that kind in the real world. in songs, and particular dances, too, of humour, he had no competitor. _congreve_ was a great admirer of him, and found his account in the characters he expressly wrote for him. in those of _fondlewife_, in his _old batchelor_, and _ben_, in _love for love_, no author and actor could be more obliged to their mutual masterly performances. he was very acceptable to several persons of high rank and taste: tho' he seldom car'd to be the comedian but among his more intimate acquaintance. and now let me ask the world a question. when men have any valuable qualities, why are the generality of our modern wits so fond of exposing their failings only, which the wisest of mankind will never wholly be free from? is it of more use to the publick to know their errors than their perfections? why is the account of life to be so unequally stated? though a man may be sometimes debtor to sense or morality, is it not doing him wrong not to let the world see, at the same time, how far he may be creditor to both? are defects and disproportions to be the only labour'd features in a portrait? but perhaps such authors may know how to please the world better than i do, and may naturally suppose that what is delightful to themselves may not be disagreeable to others. for my own part, i confess myself a little touch'd in conscience at what i have just now observ'd to the disadvantage of my other brother-menager. if, therefore, in discovering the true cause of the publick's losing so valuable an actor as _dogget_, i have been obliged to shew the temper of _wilks_ in its natural complexion, ought i not, in amends and balance of his imperfections, to say at the same time of him, that if he was not the most correct or judicious, yet (as _hamlet_ says of the king his father) _take him_ for _all in all_, &c. he was certainly the most diligent, most laborious, and most useful actor that i have seen upon the stage in fifty years.[ ] chapter xv. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _sir_ richard steele _succeeds_ collier _in the theatre-royal_. lincoln's-inn-fields _house rebuilt_. _the patent restored. eight actors at once desert from the king's company. why. a new patent obtain'd by sir_ richard steele, _and assign'd in shares to the menaging actors of_ drury-lane. _of modern pantomimes. the rise of them. vanity invincible and asham'd. the_ non-juror _acted_. _the author not forgiven, and rewarded for it._ upon the death of the queen, plays (as they always had been on the like occasions) were silenc'd for six weeks. but this happening on the first of _august_,[ ] in the long vacation of the theatre, the observance of that ceremony, which at another juncture would have fallen like wet weather upon their harvest, did them now no particular damage. their license, however, being of course to be renewed, that vacation gave the menagers time to cast about for the better alteration of it: and since they knew the pension of seven hundred a year, which had been levied upon them for _collier_, must still be paid to somebody, they imagined the merit of a _whig_ might now have as good a chance for getting into it, as that of a _tory_ had for being continued in it: having no obligations, therefore, to _collier_, who had made the last penny of them, they apply'd themselves to sir _richard steele_, who had distinguished himself by his zeal for the house of _hanover_, and had been expell'd the house of commons for carrying it (as was judg'd at a certain crisis) into a reproach of the government. this we knew was his pretension to that favour in which he now stood at court: we knew, too, the obligations the stage had to his writings; there being scarce a comedian of merit in our whole company whom his _tatlers_ had not made better by his publick recommendation of them. and many days had our house been particularly fill'd by the influence and credit of his pen. obligations of this kind from a gentleman with whom they all had the pleasure of a personal intimacy, the menagers thought could not be more justly return'd than by shewing him some warm instance of their desire to have him at the head of them. we therefore beg'd him to use his interest for the renewal of our license, and that he would do us the honour of getting our names to stand with his in the same commission. this, we told him, would put it still farther into his power of supporting the stage in that reputation, to which his lucubrations had already so much contributed; and that therefore we thought no man had better pretences to partake of its success.[ ] though it may be no addition to the favourable part of this gentleman's character to say with what pleasure he receiv'd this mark of our inclination to him, yet my vanity longs to tell you that it surpriz'd him into an acknowledgment that people who are shy of obligations are cautious of confessing. his spirits took such a lively turn upon it, that had we been all his own sons, no unexpected act of filial duty could have more endear'd us to him. it must be observ'd, then, that as _collier_ had no share in any part of our property, no difficulties from that quarter could obstruct this proposal. and the usual time of our beginning to act for the winter-season now drawing near, we press'd him not to lose any time in his solicitation of this new license. accordingly sir _richard_ apply'd himself to the duke of _marlborough_, the hero of his heart, who, upon the first mention of it, obtain'd it of his majesty for sir _richard_ and the former menagers who were actors. _collier_ we heard no more of.[ ] the court and town being crowded very early in the winter-season, upon the critical turn of affairs so much expected from the _hanover_ succession, the theatre had its particular share of that general blessing by a more than ordinary concourse of spectators. about this time the patentee, having very near finish'd his house in _lincoln's-inn fields_, began to think of forming a new company; and in the mean time found it necessary to apply for leave to employ them. by the weak defence he had always made against the several attacks upon his interest and former government of the theatre, it might be a question, if his house had been ready in the queen's time, whether he would then have had the spirit to ask, or interest enough to obtain leave to use it: but in the following reign, as it did not appear he had done any thing to forfeit the right of his patent, he prevail'd with mr. _craggs_ the younger (afterwards secretary of state) to lay his case before the king, which he did in so effectual a manner that (as mr. _craggs_ himself told me) his majesty was pleas'd to say upon it, "that he remember'd when he had been in _england_ before, in king _charles_ his time, there had been two theatres in _london_; and as the patent seem'd to be a lawful grant, he saw no reason why two play-houses might not be continued."[ ] the suspension of the patent being thus taken off, the younger multitude seem'd to call aloud for two play-houses! many desired another, from the common notion that _two_ would always create emulation in the actors (an opinion which i have consider'd in a former chapter). others, too, were as eager for them, from the natural ill-will that follows the fortunate or prosperous in any undertaking. of this low malevolence we had, now and then, had remarkable instances; we had been forced to dismiss an audience of a hundred and fifty pounds, from a disturbance spirited up by obscure people, who never gave any better reason for it, than that it was their fancy to support the idle complaint of one rival actress against another, in their several pretensions to the chief part in a new tragedy. but as this tumult seem'd only to be the wantonness of _english_ liberty, i shall not presume to lay any farther censure upon it.[ ] now, notwithstanding this publick desire of reestablishing two houses; and though i have allow'd the former actors greatly our superiors; and the menagers i am speaking of not to have been without their private errors: yet under all these disadvantages, it is certain the stage, for twenty years before this time, had never been in so flourishing a condition: and it was as evident to all sensible spectators that this prosperity could be only owing to that better order and closer industry now daily observ'd, and which had formerly been neglected by our predecessors. but that i may not impose upon the reader a merit which was not generally allow'd us, i ought honestly to let him know, that about this time the publick papers, particularly _mist_'s journal, took upon them very often to censure our menagement, with the same freedom and severity as if we had been so many ministers of state: but so it happen'd, that these unfortunate reformers of the world, these self-appointed _censors_, hardly ever hit upon what was really wrong in us; but taking up facts upon trust, or hear-say, piled up many a pompous paragraph that they had ingeniously conceiv'd was sufficient to demolish our administration, or at least to make us very uneasy in it; which, indeed, had so far its effect, that my equally-injur'd brethren, _wilks_ and _booth_, often complain'd to me of these disagreeable aspersions, and propos'd that some publick answer might be made to them, which i always oppos'd by, perhaps, too secure a contempt of what such writers could do to hurt us; and my reason for it was, that i knew but of one way to silence authors of that stamp; which was, to grow insignificant and good for nothing, and then we should hear no more of them: but while we continued in the prosperity of pleasing others, and were not conscious of having deserv'd what they said of us, why should we gratify the little spleen of our enemies by wincing at it,[ ] or give them fresh opportunities to dine upon any reply they might make to our publickly taking notice of them? and though silence might in some cases be a sign of guilt or error confess'd, our accusers were so low in their credit and sense, that the content we gave the publick almost every day from the stage ought to be our only answer to them. however (as i have observ'd) we made many blots, which these unskilful gamesters never hit: but the fidelity of an historian cannot be excus'd the omission of any truth which might make for the other side of the question. i shall therefore confess a fact, which, if a happy accident had not intervened, had brought our affairs into a very tottering condition. this, too, is that fact which in a former chapter i promis'd to set forth as a sea-mark of danger to future menagers in their theatrical course of government.[ ] when the new-built theatre in _lincoln's-inn fields_ was ready to be open'd, seven or eight actors in one day deserted from us to the service of the enemy,[ ] which oblig'd us to postpone many of our best plays for want of some inferior part in them which these deserters had been used to fill: but the indulgence of the royal family, who then frequently honour'd us by their presence, was pleas'd to accept of whatever could be hastily got ready for their entertainment. and tho' this critical good fortune prevented, in some measure, our audiences falling so low as otherwise they might have done, yet it was not sufficient to keep us in our former prosperity: for that year our profits amounted not to above a third part of our usual dividends; tho' in the following year we intirely recover'd them. the chief of these deserters were _keene_, _bullock_, _pack_,[ ] _leigh_, son of the famous _tony leigh_,[ ] and others of less note. 'tis true, they none of them had more than a negative merit, in being only able to do us more harm by their leaving us without notice, than they could do us good by remaining with us: for though the best of them could not support a play, the worst of them by their absence could maim it; as the loss of the least pin in a watch may obstruct its motion. but to come to the true cause of their desertion: after my having discover'd the (long unknown) occasion that drove _dogget_ from the stage before his settled inclination to leave it, it will be less incredible that these actors, upon the first opportunity to relieve themselves, should all in one day have left us from the same cause of uneasiness. for, in a little time after, upon not finding their expectations answer'd in _lincoln's-inn fields_, some of them, who seem'd to answer for the rest, told me the greatest grievance they had in our company was the shocking temper of _wilks_, who, upon every, almost no occasion, let loose the unlimited language of passion upon them in such a manner as their patience was not longer able to support. this, indeed, was what we could not justify! this was a secret that might have made a wholesome paragraph in a critical news-paper! but as it was our good fortune that it came not to the ears of our enemies, the town was not entertain'd with their publick remarks upon it.[ ] after this new theatre had enjoy'd that short run of favour which is apt to follow novelty, their audiences began to flag: but whatever good opinion we had of our own merit, we had not so good a one of the multitude as to depend too much upon the delicacy of their taste: we knew, too, that this company, being so much nearer to the city than we were, would intercept many an honest customer that might not know a good market from a bad one; and that the thinnest of their audiences must be always taking something from the measure of our profits. all these disadvantages, with many others, we were forced to lay before sir _richard steele_, and farther to remonstrate to him, that as he now stood in _collier_'s place, his pension of _l._ was liable to the same conditions that _collier_ had receiv'd it upon; which were, that it should be only payable during our being the only company permitted to act, but in case another should be set up against us, that then this pension was to be liquidated into an equal share with us; and which we now hoped he would be contented with. while we were offering to proceed, sir _richard_ stopt us short by assuring us, that as he came among us by our own invitation, he should always think himself oblig'd to come into any measures for our ease and service: that to be a burthen to our industry would be more disagreeable to him than it could be to us; and as he had always taken a delight in his endeavours for our prosperity, he should be still ready on our own terms to continue them. every one who knew sir _richard steele_ in his prosperity (before the effects of his good-nature had brought him to distresses) knew that this was his manner of dealing with his friends in business: another instance of the same nature will immediately fall in my way. [illustration: richard steele.] when we proposed to put this agreement into writing, he desired us not to hurry ourselves; for that he was advised, upon the late desertion of our actors, to get our license (which only subsisted during pleasure) enlarg'd into a more ample and durable authority, and which he said he had reason to think would be more easily obtain'd, if we were willing that a patent for the same purpose might be granted to him only, for his life and three years after, which he would then assign over to us. this was a prospect beyond our hopes; and what we had long wish'd for; for though i cannot say we had ever reason to grieve at the personal severities or behaviour of any one lord-chamberlain in my time, yet the several officers under them who had not the hearts of noblemen, often treated us (to use _shakespear_'s expression) with all the _insolence_ of _office_ that narrow minds are apt to be elated with; but a patent, we knew, would free us from so abject a state of dependency. accordingly, we desired sir _richard_ to lose no time; he was immediately promised it: in the interim, we sounded the inclination of the actors remaining with us; who had all sense enough to know, that the credit and reputation we stood in with the town, could not but be a better security for their sallaries, than the promise of any other stage put into bonds could make good to them. in a few days after, sir _richard_ told us, that his majesty being apprised that others had a joint power with him in the license, it was expected we should, under our hands, signify that his petition for a patent was preferr'd by the consent of us all. such an acknowledgment was immediately sign'd, and the patent thereupon pass'd the great seal; for which i remember the lord chancellor _cooper_, in compliment to sir _richard_, would receive no fee. we receiv'd the patent _january , _,[ ] and (sir _richard_ being obliged the next morning to set out for _burrowbridge_ in _yorkshire_, where he was soon after elected member of parliament) we were forced that very night to draw up in a hurry ('till our counsel might more adviseably perfect it) his assignment to us of equal shares in the patent, with farther conditions of partnership:[ ] but here i ought to take shame to myself, and at the same time to give this second instance of the equity and honour of sir _richard_: for this assignment (which i had myself the hasty penning of) was so worded, that it gave sir _richard_ as equal a title to our property as it had given us to his authority in the patent: but sir _richard_, notwithstanding, when he return'd to town, took no advantage of the mistake, and consented in our second agreement to pay us twelve hundred pounds to be equally intitled to our property, which at his death we were obliged to repay (as we afterwards did) to his executors; and which, in case any of us had died before him, the survivors were equally obliged to have paid to the executors of such deceased person upon the same account. but sir _richard_'s moderation with us was rewarded with the reverse of _collier_'s stiffness: _collier_, by insisting on his pension, lost three hundred pounds a year; and sir _richard_, by his accepting a share in lieu of it, was, one year with another, as much a gainer. the grant of this patent having assured us of a competent term to be relied on, we were now emboldened to lay out larger sums in the decorations of our plays:[ ] upon the revival of _dryden_'s _all for love_, the habits of that tragedy amounted to an expence of near six hundred pounds; a sum unheard of, for many years before, on the like occasions.[ ] but we thought such extraordinary marks of our acknowledgment were due to the favours which the publick were now again pouring in upon us. about this time we were so much in fashion, and follow'd, that our enemies (who they were it would not be fair to guess, for we never knew them) made their push of a good round lye upon us, to terrify those auditors from our support whom they could not mislead by their private arts or publick invectives. a current report that the walls and roof of our house were liable to fall, had got such ground in the town, that on a sudden we found our audiences unusually decreased by it: _wilks_ was immediately for denouncing war and vengeance on the author of this falshood, and for offering a reward to whoever could discover him. but it was thought more necessary first to disprove the falshood, and then to pay what compliments might be thought adviseable to the author. accordingly an order from the king was obtained, to have our tenement surveyed by sir _thomas hewet_, then the proper officer; whose report of its being in a safe and sound condition, and sign'd by him, was publish'd in every news-paper.[ ] this had so immediate an effect, that our spectators, whose apprehensions had lately kept them absent, now made up our losses by returning to us with a fresh inclination and in greater numbers. when it was first publickly known that the new theatre would be open'd against us; i cannot help going a little back to remember the concern that my brother-menagers express'd at what might be the consequences of it. they imagined that now all those who wish'd ill to us, and particularly a great party who had been disobliged by our shutting them out from behind our scenes, even to the refusal of their money,[ ] would now exert themselves in any partial or extravagant measures that might either hurt us or support our competitors: these, too, were some of those farther reasons which had discouraged them from running the hazard of continuing to sir _richard steele_ the same pension which had been paid to _collier_. upon all which i observed to them, that, for my own part, i had not the same apprehensions; but that i foresaw as many good as bad consequences from two houses: that tho' the novelty might possibly at first abate a little of our profits; yet, if we slacken'd not our industry, that loss would be amply balanced by an equal increase of our ease and quiet: that those turbulent spirits which were always molesting us, would now have other employment: that the question'd merit of our acting would now stand in a clearer light when others were faintly compared to us: that though faults might be found with the best actors that ever were, yet the egregious defects that would appear in others would now be the effectual means to make our superiority shine, if we had any pretence to it: and that what some people hoped might ruin us, would in the end reduce them to give up the dispute, and reconcile them to those who could best entertain them. in every article of this opinion they afterwards found i had not been deceived; and the truth of it may be so well remember'd by many living spectators, that it would be too frivolous and needless a boast to give it any farther observation. but in what i have said i would not be understood to be an advocate for two play-houses: for we shall soon find that two sets of actors tolerated in the same place have constantly ended in the corruption of the theatre; of which the auxiliary entertainments that have so barbarously supply'd the defects of weak action have, for some years past, been a flagrant instance; it may not, therefore, be here improper to shew how our childish pantomimes first came to take so gross a possession of the stage. i have upon several occasions already observ'd, that when one company is too hard for another, the lower in reputation has always been forced to exhibit some new-fangled foppery to draw the multitude after them: of these expedients, singing and dancing had formerly been the most effectual;[ ] but, at the time i am speaking of, our _english_ musick had been so discountenanced since the taste of _italian_ operas prevail'd, that it was to no purpose to pretend to it.[ ] dancing therefore was now the only weight in the opposite scale, and as the new theatre sometimes found their account in it, it could not be safe for us wholly to neglect it. to give even dancing therefore some improvement, and to make it something more than motion without meaning, the fable of _mars_ and _venus_[ ] was form'd into a connected presentation of dances in character, wherein the passions were so happily expressed, and the whole story so intelligibly told by a mute narration of gesture only, that even thinking spectators allow'd it both a pleasing and a rational entertainment; though, at the same time, from our distrust of its reception, we durst not venture to decorate it with any extraordinary expence of scenes or habits; but upon the success of this attempt it was rightly concluded, that if a visible expence in both were added to something of the same nature, it could not fail of drawing the town proportionably after it. from this original hint then (but every way unequal to it) sprung forth that succession of monstrous medlies that have so long infested the stage, and which arose upon one another alternately, at both houses outvying in expence, like contending bribes on both sides at an election, to secure a majority of the multitude. but so it is, truth may complain and merit murmur with what justice it may, the few will never be a match for the many, unless authority should think fit to interpose and put down these poetical drams, these gin-shops of the stage, that intoxicate its auditors and dishonour their understanding with a levity for which i want a name.[ ] if i am ask'd (after my condemning these fooleries myself) how i came to assent or continue my share of expence to them? i have no better excuse for my error than confessing it. i did it against my conscience! and had not virtue enough to starve by opposing a multitude that would have been too hard for me.[ ] now let me ask an odd question: had _harry the fourth_ of _france_ a better excuse for changing his religion?[ ] i was still, in my heart, as much as he could be, on the side of truth and sense, but with this difference, that i had their leave to quit them when they could not support me: for what equivalent could i have found for my falling a martyr to them? how far the heroe or the comedian was in the wrong, let the clergy and the criticks decide. necessity will be as good a plea for the one as the other. but let the question go which way it will, _harry_ iv. has always been allow'd a great man: and what i want of his grandeur, you see by the inference, nature has amply supply'd to me in vanity; a pleasure which neither the pertness of wit or the gravity of wisdom will ever persuade me to part with. and why is there not as much honesty in owning as in concealing it? for though to hide it may be wisdom, to be without it is impossible; and where is the merit of keeping a secret which every body is let into? to say we have no vanity, then, is shewing a great deal of it; as to say we _have_ a great deal cannot be shewing so much: and tho' there may be art in a man's accusing himself, even then it will be more pardonable than self-commendation. do not we find that even good actions have their share of it? that it is as inseparable from our being as our nakedness? and though it may be equally decent to cover it, yet the wisest man can no more be without it, than the weakest can believe he was born in his cloaths. if then what we say of ourselves be true, and not prejudicial to others, to be called vain upon it is no more a reproach than to be called a brown or a fair man. vanity is of all complexions; 'tis the growth of every clime and capacity; authors of all ages have had a tincture of it; and yet you read _horace_, _montaign_, and sir _william temple_, with pleasure. nor am i sure, if it were curable by precept, that mankind would be mended by it! could vanity be eradicated from our nature, i am afraid that the reward of most human virtues would not be found in this world! and happy is he who has no greater sin to answer for in the next! but what is all this to the theatrical follies i was talking of? perhaps not a great deal; but it is to my purpose; for though i am an historian, i do not write to the wise and learned only; i hope to have readers of no more judgment than some of my _quondam_ auditors; and i am afraid they will be as hardly contented with dry matters of fact, as with a plain play without entertainments: this rhapsody, therefore, has been thrown in as a dance between the acts, to make up for the dullness of what would have been by itself only proper. but i now come to my story again. notwithstanding, then, this our compliance with the vulgar taste, we generally made use of these pantomimes but as crutches to our weakest plays: nor were we so lost to all sense of what was valuable as to dishonour our best authors in such bad company: we had still a due respect to several select plays that were able to be their own support; and in which we found our constant account, without painting and patching them out, like prostitutes, with these follies in fashion: if therefore we were not so strictly chaste in the other part of our conduct, let the error of it stand among the silly consequences of two stages. could the interest of both companies have been united in one only theatre, i had been one of the few that would have us'd my utmost endeavour of never admitting to the stage any spectacle that ought not to have been seen there; the errors of my own plays, which i could not see, excepted. and though probably the majority of spectators would not have been so well pleas'd with a theatre so regulated; yet sense and reason cannot lose their intrinsick value because the giddy and the ignorant are blind and deaf, or numerous; and i cannot help saying, it is a reproach to a sensible people to let folly so publickly govern their pleasures. while i am making this grave declaration of what i _would_ have done had one only stage been continued; to obtain an easier belief of my sincerity i ought to put my reader in mind of what i _did_ do, even after two companies were again establish'd. about this time _jacobitism_ had lately exerted itself by the most unprovoked rebellion that our histories have handed down to us since the _norman_ conquest:[ ] i therefore thought that to set the authors and principles of that desperate folly in a fair light, by allowing the mistaken consciences of some their best excuse, and by making the artful pretenders to conscience as ridiculous as they were ungratefully wicked, was a subject fit for the honest satire of comedy, and what might, if it succeeded, do honour to the stage by shewing the valuable use of it.[ ] and considering what numbers at that time might come to it as prejudic'd spectators, it may be allow'd that the undertaking was not less hazardous than laudable. to give life, therefore, to this design, i borrow'd the _tartuffe_ of _moliere_, and turn'd him into a modern _nonjuror_:[ ] upon the hypocrisy of the _french_ character i ingrafted a stronger wickedness, that of an _english_ popish priest lurking under the doctrine of our own church to raise his fortune upon the ruin of a worthy gentleman, whom his dissembled sanctity had seduc'd into the treasonable cause of a _roman catholick_ out-law. how this design, in the play, was executed, i refer to the readers of it; it cannot be mended by any critical remarks i can make in its favour: let it speak for itself. all the reason i had to think it no bad performance was, that it was acted eighteen days running,[ ] and that the party that were hurt by it (as i have been told) have not been the smallest number of my back friends ever since. but happy was it for this play that the very subject was its protection; a few smiles of silent contempt were the utmost disgrace that on the first day of its appearance it was thought safe to throw upon it; as the satire was chiefly employ'd on the enemies of the government, they were not so hardy as to own themselves such by any higher disapprobation or resentment. but as it was then probable i might write again, they knew it would not be long before they might with more security give a loose to their spleen, and make up accounts with me. and to do them justice, in every play i afterwards produced they paid me the balance to a tittle.[ ] but to none was i more beholden than that celebrated author mr. _mist_, whose _weekly journal_,[ ] for about fifteen years following, scarce ever fail'd of passing some of his party compliments upon me: the state and the stage were his frequent parallels, and the minister and _minheer keiber_ the menager were as constantly droll'd upon: now, for my own part, though i could never persuade my wit to have an open account with him (for as he had no effects of his own, i did not think myself oblig'd to answer his bills;) notwithstanding, i will be so charitable to his real _manes_, and to the ashes of his paper, as to mention one particular civility he paid to my memory, after he thought he had ingeniously kill'd me. soon after the _nonjuror_ had receiv'd the favour of the town, i read in one of his journals the following short paragraph, _viz._ _yesterday died mr._ colley cibber, _late comedian of the theatre-royal, notorious for writing the_ nonjuror. the compliment in the latter part i confess i did not dislike, because it came from so impartial a judge; and it really so happen'd that the former part of it was very near being true; for i had that very day just crawled out, after having been some weeks laid up by a fever: however, i saw no use in being thought to be thoroughly dead before my time, and therefore had a mind to see whether the town cared to have me alive again: so the play of the _orphan_ being to be acted that day, i quietly stole myself into the part of the _chaplain_, which i had not been seen in for many years before. the surprize of the audience at my unexpected appearance on the very day i had been dead in the news, and the paleness of my looks, seem'd to make it a doubt whether i was not the ghost of my real self departed: but when i spoke, their wonder eas'd itself by an applause; which convinc'd me they were then satisfied that my friend _mist_ had told a _fib_ of me. now, if simply to have shown myself in broad life, and about my business, after he had _notoriously_ reported me dead, can be called a reply, it was the only one which his paper while alive ever drew from me. how far i may be vain, then, in supposing that this play brought me into the disfavour of so many wits[ ] and valiant auditors as afterwards appear'd against me, let those who may think it worth their notice judge. in the mean time, 'till i can find a better excuse for their sometimes particular treatment of me, i cannot easily give up my suspicion: and if i add a more remarkable fact, that afterwards confirm'd me in it, perhaps it may incline others to join in my opinion. on the first day of the _provok'd husband_, ten years after the _nonjuror_ had appear'd,[ ] a powerful party, not having the fear of publick offence or private injury before their eyes, appear'd most impetuously concern'd for the demolition of it; in which they so far succeeded, that for some time i gave it up for lost; and to follow their blows, in the publick papers of the next day it was attack'd and triumph'd over as a dead and damn'd piece; a swinging criticism was made upon it in general invective terms, for they disdain'd to trouble the world with particulars; their sentence, it seems, was proof enough of its deserving the fate it had met with. but this damn'd play was, notwithstanding, acted twenty-eight nights together, and left off at a receipt of upwards of a hundred and forty pounds; which happen'd to be more than in fifty years before could be then said of any one play whatsoever. now, if such notable behaviour could break out upon so successful a play (which too, upon the share sir _john vanbrugh_ had in it, i will venture to call a good one) what shall we impute it to? why may not i plainly say, it was not the play, but me, who had a hand in it, they did not like? and for what reason? if they were not asham'd of it, why did not they publish it? no! the reason had publish'd itself, i was the author of the _nonjuror_! but, perhaps, of all authors, i ought not to make this sort of complaint, because i have reason to think that that particular offence has made me more honourable friends than enemies; the latter of which i am not unwilling should know (however unequal the merit may be to the reward) that part of the bread i now eat was given me for having writ the _nonjuror_.[ ] and yet i cannot but lament, with many quiet spectators, the helpless misfortune that has so many years attended the stage! that no law has had force enough to give it absolute protection! for 'till we can civilize its auditors, the authors that write for it will seldom have a greater call to it than necessity; and how unlikely is the imagination of the needy to inform or delight the many in affluence? or how often does necessity make many unhappy gentlemen turn authors in spite of nature? what a blessing, therefore, is it! what an enjoy'd deliverance! after a wretch has been driven by fortune to stand so many wanton buffets of unmanly fierceness, to find himself at last quietly lifted above the reach of them! but let not this reflection fall upon my auditors without distinction; for though candour and benevolence are silent virtues, they are as visible as the most vociferous ill-nature; and i confess the publick has given me more frequently reason to be thankful than to complain. chapter xvi. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the author steps out of his way. pleads his theatrical cause in chancery. carries it. plays acted at_ hampton-court. _theatrical anecdotes in former reigns. ministers and menagers always censur'd. the difficulty of supplying the stage with good actors consider'd. courtiers and comedians govern'd by the same passions. examples of both. the author quits the stage. why._ having brought the government of the stage through such various changes and revolutions, to this settled state in which it continued to almost the time of my leaving it;[ ] it cannot be suppos'd that a period of so much quiet and so long a train of success (though happy for those who enjoy'd it) can afford such matter of surprize or amusement, as might arise from times of more distress and disorder. a quiet time in history, like a calm in a voyage, leaves us but in an indolent station: to talk of our affairs when they were no longer ruffled by misfortunes, would be a picture without shade, a flat performance at best. as i might, therefore, throw all that tedious time of our tranquillity into one chasm in my history, and cut my way short at once to my last exit from the stage, i shall at least fill it up with such matter only as i have a mind should be known,[ ] how few soever may have patience to read it: yet, as i despair not of some readers who may be most awake when they think others have most occasion to sleep; who may be more pleas'd to find me languid than lively, or in the wrong than in the right; why should i scruple (when it is so easy a matter too) to gratify their particular taste by venturing upon any error that i like, or the weakness of my judgment misleads me to commit? i think, too, i have a very good chance for my success in this passive ambition, by shewing myself in a light i have not been seen in. by your leave then, gentlemen! let the scene open, and at once discover your comedian at the bar! there you will find him a defendant, and pleading his own theatrical cause in a court of _chancery_: but, as i chuse to have a chance of pleasing others as well as of indulging you, gentlemen; i must first beg leave to open my case to them; after which my whole speech upon that occasion shall be at your mercy. in all the transactions of life, there cannot be a more painful circumstance, than a dispute at law with a man with whom we have long liv'd in an agreeable amity: but when sir _richard steele_, to get himself out of difficulties, was oblig'd to throw his affairs into the hands of lawyers and trustees, that consideration, then, could be of no weight: the friend, or the gentleman, had no more to do in the matter! thus, while sir _richard_ no longer acted from himself, it may be no wonder if a flaw was found in our conduct for the law to make work with. it must be observed, then, that about two or three years before this suit was commenc'd, upon sir _richard_'s totally absenting himself from all care and menagement of the stage (which by our articles of partnership he was equally and jointly oblig'd with us to attend) we were reduc'd to let him know that we could not go on at that rate; but that if he expected to make the business a _sine-cure_, we had as much reason to expect a consideration for our extraordinary care of it; and that during his absence we therefore intended to charge our selves at a sallary of _l._ _s._ _d._ every acting day (unless he could shew us cause to the contrary) for our menagement: to which, in his compos'd manner, he only answer'd; that to be sure we knew what was fitter to be done than he did; that he had always taken a delight in making us easy, and had no reason to doubt of our doing him justice. now whether, under this easy stile of approbation, he conceal'd any dislike of our resolution, i cannot say. but, if i may speak my private opinion, i really believe, from his natural negligence of his affairs, he was glad, at any rate, to be excus'd an attendance which he was now grown weary of. but, whether i am deceiv'd or right in my opinion, the fact was truly this, that he never once, directly nor indirectly, complain'd or objected to our being paid the above-mention'd daily sum in near three years together; and yet still continued to absent himself from us and our affairs. but notwithstanding he had seen and done all this with his eyes open; his lawyer thought here was still a fair field for a battle in chancery, in which, though his client might be beaten, he was sure his bill must be paid for it: accordingly, to work with us he went. but, not to be so long as the lawyers were in bringing this cause to an issue, i shall at once let you know, that it came to a hearing before the late sir _joseph jekyll_, then master of the rolls, in the year .[ ] now, as the chief point in dispute was, of what kind or importance the business of a menager was, or in what it principally consisted; it could not be suppos'd that the most learned council could be so well appriz'd of the nature of it, as one who had himself gone through the care and fatigue of it. i was therefore encourag'd by our council to speak to that particular head myself; which i confess i was glad he suffer'd me to undertake; but when i tell you that two of the learned council against us came afterwards to be successively lord-chancellors, it sets my presumption in a light that i still tremble to shew it in: but however, not to assume more merit from its success than was really its due, i ought fairly to let you know, that i was not so hardy as to deliver my pleading without notes, in my hand, of the heads i intended to enlarge upon; for though i thought i could conquer my fear, i could not be so sure of my memory: but when it came to the critical moment, the dread and apprehension of what i had undertaken so disconcerted my courage, that though i had been us'd to talk to above fifty thousand different people every winter, for upwards of thirty years together; an involuntary and unaffected proof of my confusion fell from my eyes; and, as i found myself quite out of my element, i seem'd rather gasping for life than in a condition to cope with the eminent orators against me. but, however, i soon found, from the favourable attention of my hearers, that my diffidence had done me no disservice: and as the truth i was to speak to needed no ornament of words, i delivered it in the plain manner following, _viz._ in this cause, sir, i humbly conceive there are but two points that admit of any material dispute. the first is, whether sir _richard steele_ is as much obliged to do the duty and business of a menager as either _wilks_, _booth_, or _cibber_: and the second is, whether by sir _richard_'s totally withdrawing himself from the business of a menager, the defendants are justifiable in charging to each of themselves the _l._ _s._ _d._ _per diem_ for their particular pains and care in carrying on the whole affairs of the stage without any assistance from sir _richard steele_. as to the first, if i don't mistake the words of the assignment, there is a clause in it that says, all matters relating to the government or menagement of the theatre shall be concluded by a majority of voices. now i presume, sir, there is no room left to alledge that sir _richard_ was ever refused his voice, though in above three years he never desir'd to give it: and i believe there will be as little room to say, that he could have a voice if he were not a menager. but, sir, his being a menager is so self-evident, that it is amazing how he could conceive that he was to take the profits and advantages of a menager without doing the duty of it. and i will be bold to say, sir, that his assignment of the patent to _wilks_, _booth_, and _cibber_, in no one part of it, by the severest construction in the world, can be wrested to throw the heavy burthen of the menagement only upon their shoulders. nor does it appear, sir, that either in his bill, or in his answer to our cross-bill, he has offer'd any hint, or glimpse of a reason, for his withdrawing from the menagement at all; or so much as pretend, from the time complained of, that he ever took the least part of his share of it. now, sir, however unaccountable this conduct of sir _richard_ may seem, we will still allow that he had some cause for it; but whether or no that cause was a reasonable one your honour will the better judge, if i may be indulged in the liberty of explaining it. sir, the case, in plain truth and reality, stands thus: sir _richard_, though no man alive can write better of oeconomy than himself, yet, perhaps, he is above the drudgery of practising it: sir _richard_, then, was often in want of money; and while we were in friendship with him, we often assisted his occasions: but those compliances had so unfortunate an effect, that they only heightened his importunity to borrow more, and the more we lent, the less he minded us, or shew'd any concern for our welfare. upon this, sir, we stopt our hands at once, and peremptorily refus'd to advance another shilling 'till by the balance of our accounts it became due to him. and this treatment (though, we hope, not in the least unjustifiable) we have reason to believe so ruffled his temper, that he at once was as short with us as we had been with him; for, from that day, he never more came near us: nay, sir, he not only continued to neglect what he _should_ have done, but actually did what he ought _not_ to have done: he made an assignment of his share without our consent, in a manifest breach of our agreement: for, sir, we did not lay that restriction upon ourselves for no reason: we knew, before-hand, what trouble and inconvenience it would be to unravel and expose our accounts to strangers, who, if they were to do us no hurt by divulging our secrets, we were sure could do us no good by keeping them. if sir _richard_ had had our common interest at heart, he would have been as warm in it as we were, and as tender of hurting it: but supposing his assigning his share to others may have done us no great injury, it is, at least, a shrewd proof that he did not care whether it did us any or no. and if the clause was not strong enough to restrain him from it in law, there was enough in it to have restrain'd him in honour from breaking it. but take it in its best light, it shews him as remiss a menager in our affairs as he naturally was in his own. suppose, sir, we had all been as careless as himself, which i can't find he has any more right to be than we have, must not our whole affair have fallen to ruin? and may we not, by a parity of reason, suppose, that by his neglect a fourth part of it _does_ fall to ruin? but, sir, there is a particular reason to believe, that, from our want of sir _richard_, more than a fourth part _does_ suffer by it: his rank and figure in the world, while he gave us the assistance of them, were of extraordinary service to us: he had an easier access, and a more regarded audience at court, than our low station of life could pretend to, when our interest wanted (as it often did) a particular solicitation there. but since we have been deprived of him, the very end, the very consideration of his share in our profits is not perform'd on his part. and will sir _richard_, then, make us no compensation for so valuable a loss in our interests, and so palpable an addition to our labour? i am afraid, sir, if we were all to be as indolent in the menaging-part as sir _richard_ presumes he has a right to be; our patent would soon run us as many hundreds in debt, as he had (and still seems willing to have) his share of, for doing of nothing. sir, our next point in question is whether _wilks_, _booth_, and _cibber_ are justifiable in charging the _l._ _s._ _d._ _per diem_ for their extraordinary menagement in the absence of sir _richard steele_. i doubt, sir, it will be hard to come to the solution of this point, unless we may be a little indulg'd in setting forth what is the daily and necessary business and duty of a menager. but, sir, we will endeavour to be as short as the circumstances will admit of. sir, by our books it is apparent that the menagers have under their care no less than one hundred and forty persons in constant daily pay: and among such numbers, it will be no wonder if a great many of them are unskilful, idle, and sometimes untractable; all which tempers are to be led, or driven, watch'd, and restrain'd by the continual skill, care, and patience of the menagers. every menager is oblig'd, in his turn, to attend two or three hours every morning at the rehearsal of plays and other entertainments for the stage, or else every rehearsal would be but a rude meeting of mirth and jollity. the same attendance is as necessary at every play during the time of its publick action, in which one or more of us have constantly been punctual, whether we have had any part in the play then acted or not. a menager ought to be at the reading of every new play when it is first offer'd to the stage, though there are seldom one of those plays in twenty which, upon hearing, proves to be fit for it; and upon such occasions the attendance must be allow'd to be as painfully tedious as the getting rid of the authors of such plays must be disagreeable and difficult. besides this, sir, a menager is to order all new cloaths, to assist in the fancy and propriety of them, to limit the expence, and to withstand the unreasonable importunities of some that are apt to think themselves injur'd if they are not finer than their fellows. a menager is to direct and oversee the painters, machinists, musicians, singers, and dancers; to have an eye upon the door-keepers, under-servants, and officers that, without such care, are too often apt to defraud us, or neglect their duty. and all this, sir, and more, much more, which we hope will be needless to trouble you with, have we done every day, without the least assistance from sir _richard_, even at times when the concern and labour of our parts upon the stage have made it very difficult and irksome to go through with it. in this place, sir, it may be worth observing that sir _richard_, in his answer to our cross-bill, seems to value himself upon _cibber_'s confessing, in the dedication of a play which he made to sir _richard_, that he (sir _richard_) had done the stage very considerable service by leading the town to our plays, and filling our houses by the force and influence of his _tatlers_.[ ] but sir _richard_ forgets that those _tatlers_ were written in the late queen's reign, long before he was admitted to a share in the play-house: and in truth, sir, it was our real sense of those obligations, and sir _richard_'s assuring us they should be continued, that first and chiefly inclin'd us to invite him to share the profits of our labours, upon such farther conditions as in his assignment of the patent to us are specified. and, sir, as _cibber_'s publick acknowledgment of those favours is at the same time an equal proof of sir _richard_'s _power_ to continue them; so, sir, we hope it carries an equal probability that, without his promise to _use_ that power, he would never have been thought on, much less have been invited by us into a joint-menagement of the stage, and into a share of the profits: and, indeed, what pretence could he have form'd for asking a patent from the crown, had he been possess'd of no eminent qualities but in common with other men? but, sir, all these advantages, all these hopes, nay, certainties of greater profits from those great qualities, have we been utterly depriv'd of by the wilful and unexpected neglect of sir _richard_. but we find, sir, it is a common thing in the practice of mankind to justify one error by committing another: for sir _richard_ has not only refused us the extraordinary assistance which he is able and bound to give us; but, on the contrary, to our great expence and loss of time, now calls us to account, in this honourable court, for the wrong we have done him, in not doing his business of a menager for nothing. but, sir, sir _richard_ has not met with such treatment from us: he has not writ plays for us for _nothing_, we paid him very well, and in an extraordinary manner, for his late comedy of the _conscious lovers_: and though, in writing that play, he had more assistance from one of the menagers[ ] than becomes me to enlarge upon, of which evidence has been given upon oath by several of our actors; yet, sir, he was allow'd the full and particular profits of that play as an author, which amounted to three hundred pounds, besides about three hundred more which he received as a joint-sharer of the general profits that arose from it. now, sir, though the menagers are not all of them able to write plays, yet they have all of them been able to do (i won't say as good, but at least) as profitable a thing. they have invented and adorn'd a spectacle that for forty days together has brought more money to the house than the best play that ever was writ. the spectacle i mean, sir, is that of the coronation-ceremony of _anna bullen_:[ ] and though we allow a good play to be the more laudable performance, yet, sir, in the profitable part of it there is no comparison. if, therefore, our spectacle brought in as much, or more money than sir _richard_'s comedy, what is there on his side but usage that intitles him to be paid for one, more than we are for t'other? but then, sir, if he is so profitably distinguish'd for his play, if we yield him up the preference, and pay him for his extraordinary composition, and take nothing for our own, though it turn'd out more to our common profit; sure, sir, while we do such extraordinary duty as menagers, and while he neglects his share of that duty, he cannot grudge us the moderate demand we make for our separate labour? [illustration: barton booth.] to conclude, sir, if by our constant attendance, our care, our anxiety (not to mention the disagreeable contests we sometimes meet with, both within and without doors, in the menagement of our theatre) we have not only saved the whole from ruin, which, if we had all follow'd sir _richard_'s example, could not have been avoided; i say, sir, if we have still made it so valuable an income to him, without his giving us the least assistance for several years past; we hope, sir, that the poor labourers that have done all this for sir _richard_ will not be thought unworthy of their hire. how far our affairs, being set in this particular light, might assist our cause, may be of no great importance to guess; but the issue of it was this: that sir _richard_ not having made any objection to what we had charged for menagement for three years together; and as our proceedings had been all transacted in open day, without any clandestine intention of fraud; we were allow'd the sums in dispute above-mention'd; and sir _richard_ not being advised to appeal to the lord-chancellor, both parties paid their own costs, and thought it their mutual interest to let this be the last of their law-suits. and now, gentle reader, i ask pardon for so long an imposition on your patience: for tho' i may have no ill opinion of this matter myself; yet to you i can very easily conceive it may have been tedious. you are, therefore, at your own liberty of charging the whole impertinence of it, either to the weakness of my judgment, or the strength of my vanity; and i will so far join in your censure, that i farther confess i have been so impatient to give it you, that you have had it out of its turn: for, some years before this suit was commenced, there were other facts that ought to have had a precedence in my history: but that, i dare say, is an oversight you will easily excuse, provided you afterwards find them worth reading. however, as to that point i must take my chance, and shall therefore proceed to speak of the theatre which was order'd by his late majesty to be erected in the great old hall at _hampton-court_; where plays were intended to have been acted twice a week during the summer-season. but before the theatre could be finish'd, above half the month of _september_ being elapsed, there were but seven plays acted before the court returned to _london_.[ ] this throwing open a theatre in a royal palace seem'd to be reviving the old _english_ hospitable grandeur, where the lowest rank of neighbouring subjects might make themselves merry at court without being laugh'd at themselves. in former reigns, theatrical entertainments at the royal palaces had been perform'd at vast expence, as appears by the description of the decorations in several of _ben. johnson_'s masques in king _james_ and _charles the first_'s time;[ ] many curious and original draughts of which, by sir _inigo jones_, i have seen in the _musæum_ of our greatest master and patron of arts and architecture, whom it would be a needless liberty to name.[ ] but when our civil wars ended in the decadence of monarchy, it was then an honour to the stage to have fallen with it: yet, after the restoration of _charles_ ii. some faint attempts were made to revive these theatrical spectacles at court; but i have met with no account of above one masque acted there by the nobility; which was that of _calisto_, written by _crown_, the author of sir _courtly nice_. for what reason _crown_ was chosen to that honour rather than _dryden_, who was then poet-laureat and out of all comparison his superior in poetry, may seem surprizing: but if we consider the offence which the then duke of _buckingham_ took at the character of _zimri_ in _dryden_'s _absalom_, &c. (which might probably be a return to his grace's _drawcansir_ in the _rehearsal_) we may suppose the prejudice and recommendation of so illustrious a pretender to poetry might prevail at court to give crown this preference.[ ] in the same reign the king had his comedians at _windsor_, but upon a particular establishment; for tho' they acted in st. _george_'s hall, within the royal palace, yet (as i have been inform'd by an eye-witness) they were permitted to take money at the door of every spectator; whether this was an indulgence, in conscience i cannot say; but it was a common report among the principal actors, when i first came into the _theatre-royal_, in , that there was then due to the company from that court about one thousand five hundred pounds for plays commanded, _&c._ and yet it was the general complaint, in that prince's reign, that he paid too much ready-money for his pleasures: but these assertions i only give as i received them, without being answerable for their reality. this theatrical anecdote, however, puts me in mind of one of a more private nature, which i had from old solemn _boman_, the late actor of venerable memory.[ ] _boman_, then a youth, and fam'd for his voice, was appointed to sing some part in a concert of musick at the private lodgings of mrs. _gwin_; at which were only present the king, the duke of _york_, and one or two more who were usually admitted upon those detach'd parties of pleasure. when the performance was ended, the king express'd himself highly pleased, and gave it extraordinary commendations: then, sir, said the lady, to shew you don't speak like a courtier, i hope you will make the performers a handsome present: the king said he had no money about him, and ask'd the duke if he had any? to which the duke reply'd, i believe, sir, not above a guinea or two. upon which the laughing lady, turning to the people about her, and making bold with the king's common expression, cry'd, _od's fish! what company am i got into!_ whether the reverend historian of his _own time_,[ ] among the many other reasons of the same kind he might have for stiling this fair one the _indiscreetest and wildest creature that ever was in a court_, might know this to be one of them, i can't say: but if we consider her in all the disadvantages of her rank and education, she does not appear to have had any criminal errors more remarkable than her sex's frailty to answer for: and if the same author, in his latter end of that prince's life, seems to reproach his memory with too kind a concern for her support, we may allow that it becomes a bishop to have had no eyes or taste for the frivolous charms or playful _badinage_ of a king's mistress: yet, if the common fame of her may be believ'd, which in my memory was not doubted, she had less to be laid to her charge than any other of those ladies who were in the same state of preferment: she never meddled in matters of serious moment, or was the tool of working politicians: never broke into those amorous infidelities which others in that grave author are accus'd of; but was as visibly distinguish'd by her particular personal inclination to the king, as her rivals were by their titles and grandeur. give me leave to carry (perhaps the partiality of) my observation a little farther. the same author, in the same page, ,[ ] tells us, that "another of the king's mistresses, the daughter of a clergyman, mrs. _roberts_, in whom her first education had so deep a root, that though she fell into many scandalous disorders, with very dismal adventures in them all, yet a principle of religion was so deep laid in her, that tho' it did not restrain her, yet it kept alive in her such a constant horror of sin, that she was never easy in an ill course, and died with a great sense of her former ill life." to all this let us give an implicit credit: here is the account of a frail sinner made up with a reverend witness! yet i cannot but lament that this mitred historian, who seems to know more personal secrets than any that ever writ before him, should not have been as inquisitive after the last hours of our other fair offender, whose repentance i have been unquestionably inform'd, appear'd in all the contrite symptoms of a christian sincerity. if therefore you find i am so much concern'd to make this favourable mention of the one, because she was a sister of the _theatre_, why may not--but i dare not be so presumptuous, so uncharitably bold, as to suppose the other was spoken better of merely because she was the daughter of a _clergyman_. well, and what then? what's all this idle prate, you may say, to the matter in hand? why, i say your question is a little too critical; and if you won't give an author leave, now and then, to embellish his work by a natural reflexion, you are an ungentle reader. but i have done with my digression, and return to our theatre at _hampton-court_, where i am not sure the reader, be he ever so wise, will meet with any thing more worth his notice: however, if he happens to read, as i write, for want of something better to do, he will go on; and perhaps wonder when i tell him that: a play presented at court, or acted on a publick stage, seem to their different auditors a different entertainment. now hear my reason for it. in the common theatre the guests are at home, where the politer forms of good-breeding are not so nicely regarded: every one there falls to, and likes or finds fault according to his natural taste or appetite. at court, where the prince gives the treat, and honours the table with his own presence, the audience is under the restraint of a circle, where laughter or applause rais'd higher than a whisper would be star'd at. at a publick play they are both let loose, even 'till the actor is sometimes pleas'd with his not being able to be heard for the clamour of them. but this coldness or decency of attention at court i observ'd had but a melancholy effect upon the impatient vanity of some of our actors, who seem'd inconsolable when their flashy endeavours to please had pass'd unheeded: their not considering where they were quite disconcerted them; nor could they recover their spirits 'till from the lowest rank of the audience some gaping _john_ or _joan_, in the fullness of their hearts, roar'd out their approbation: and, indeed, such a natural instance of honest simplicity a prince himself, whose indulgence knows where to make allowances, might reasonably smile at, and perhaps not think it the worst part of his entertainment. yet it must be own'd, that an audience may be as well too much reserv'd, as too profuse of their applause: for though it is possible a _betterton_ would not have been discourag'd from throwing out an excellence, or elated into an error, by his auditors being too little or too much pleas'd, yet, as actors of his judgment are rarities, those of less judgment may sink into a flatness in their performance for want of that applause, which from the generality of judges they might perhaps have some pretence to: and the auditor, when not seeming to feel what ought to affect him, may rob himself of something more that he might have had by giving the actor his due, who measures out his power to please according to the value he sets upon his hearer's taste or capacity. but, however, as we were not here itinerant adventurers, and had properly but one royal auditor to please; after that honour was attain'd to, the rest of our ambition had little to look after: and that the king was often pleas'd, we were not only assur'd by those who had the honour to be near him; but could see it, from the frequent satisfaction in his looks at particular scenes and passages: one instance of which i am tempted to relate, because it was at a speech that might more naturally affect a sovereign prince than any private spectator. in _shakespear_'s _harry the eighth_, that king commands the cardinal to write circular letters of indemnity into every county where the payment of certain heavy taxes had been disputed: upon which the cardinal whispers the following directions to his secretary _cromwell_: _----a word with you: let there be letters writ to every shire of the king's grace and pardon: the griev'd commons hardly conceive of me. let it be nois'd that through our intercession this revokement and pardon comes.--i shall anon advise you farther in the proceeding----_ the solicitude of this spiritual minister, in filching from his master the grace and merit of a good action, and dressing up himself in it, while himself had been author of the evil complain'd of, was so easy a stroke of his temporal conscience, that it seem'd to raise the king into something more than a smile whenever that play came before him: and i had a more distinct occasion to observe this effect; because my proper stand on the stage when i spoke the lines required me to be near the box where the king usually sate:[ ] in a word, this play is so true a dramatick chronicle of an old _english_ court, and where the character of _harry the eighth_ is so exactly drawn, even to a humourous likeness, that it may be no wonder why his majesty's particular taste for it should have commanded it three several times in one winter. this, too, calls to my memory an extravagant pleasantry of sir _richard steele_, who being ask'd by a grave nobleman, after the same play had been presented at _hampton-court_, how the king lik'd it, reply'd, _so terribly well, my lord, that i was afraid i should have lost all my actors_! _for i was not sure the king would not keep them to fill the posts at court that he saw them so fit for in the play._ it may be imagin'd that giving plays to the people at such a distance from _london_ could not but be attended with an extraordinary expence; and it was some difficulty, when they were first talk'd of, to bring them under a moderate sum; i shall therefore, in as few words as possible, give a particular of what establishment they were then brought to, that in case the same entertainments should at any time hereafter be call'd to the same place, future courts may judge how far the precedent may stand good, or need an alteration. though the stated fee for a play acted at _whitehall_ had been formerly but twenty pounds;[ ] yet, as that hinder'd not the company's acting on the same day at the publick theatre, that sum was almost all clear profits to them: but this circumstance not being practicable when they were commanded to _hampton-court_, a new and extraordinary charge was unavoidable: the menagers, therefore, not to inflame it, desired no consideration for their own labour, farther than the honour of being employ'd in his majesty's commands; and, if the other actors might be allow'd each their day's pay and travelling charges, they should hold themselves ready to act any play there at a day's warning: and that the trouble might be less by being divided, the lord-chamberlain was pleas'd to let us know that the houshold-musick, the wax lights, and a _chaise-marine_ to carry our moving wardrobe to every different play, should be under the charge of the proper officers. notwithstanding these assistances, the expence of every play amounted to fifty pounds: which account, when all was over, was not only allow'd us, but his majesty was graciously pleas'd to give the menagers two hundred pounds more for their particular performance and trouble in only seven times acting.[ ] which last sum, though it might not be too much for a sovereign prince to give, it was certainly more than our utmost merit ought to have hop'd for: and i confess, when i receiv'd the order for the money from his grace the duke of _newcastle_, then lord-chamberlain, i was so surpris'd, that i imagin'd his grace's favour, or recommendation of our readiness or diligence, must have contributed to so high a consideration of it, and was offering my acknowledgments as i thought them due; but was soon stopt short by his grace's declaration, that we had no obligations for it but to the king himself, who had given it from no other motive than his own bounty. now whether we may suppose that cardinal _wolsey_ (as you see _shakespear_ has drawn him) would silently have taken such low acknowledgments to himself, perhaps may be as little worth consideration as my mentioning this circumstance has been necessary: but if it is due to the honour and integrity of the (then) lord-chamberlain, i cannot think it wholly impertinent. since that time there has been but one play given at _hampton-court_, which was for the entertainment of the duke of _lorrain_; and for which his present majesty was pleased to order us a hundred pounds. the reader may now plainly see that i am ransacking my memory for such remaining scraps of theatrical history as may not perhaps be worth his notice: but if they are such as tempt me to write them, why may i not hope that in this wide world there may be many an idle soul, no wiser than my self, who may be equally tempted to read them? i have so often had occasion to compare the state of the stage to the state of a nation, that i yet feel a reluctancy to drop the comparison, or speak of the one without some application to the other. how many reigns, then, do i remember, from that of _charles_ the second, through all which there has been, from one half of the people or the other, a succession of clamour against every different ministry for the time being? and yet, let the cause of this clamour have been never so well grounded, it is impossible but that some of those ministers must have been wiser and honester men than others: if this be true, as true i believe it is, why may i not then say, as some fool in a _french_ play does upon a like occasion--_justement, comme chez nous!_ 'twas exactly the same with our menagement! let us have done never so well, we could not please every body: all i can say in our defence is, that though many good judges might possibly conceive how the state of the stage might have been mended, yet the best of them never pretended to remember the time when it was better! or could shew us the way to make their imaginary amendments practicable. for though i have often allow'd that our best merit as actors was never equal to that of our predecessors, yet i will venture to say, that in all its branches the stage had never been under so just, so prosperous, and so settled a regulation, for forty years before, as it was at the time i am speaking of. the most plausible objection to our administration seemed to be, that we took no care to breed up young actors to succeed us;[ ] and this was imputed as the greater fault, because it was taken for granted that it was a matter as easy as planting so many cabbages: now, might not a court as well be reproached for not breeding up a succession of complete ministers? and yet it is evident, that if providence or nature don't supply us with both, the state and the stage will be but poorly supported. if a man of an ample fortune should take it into his head to give a younger son an extraordinary allowance in order to breed him a great poet, what might we suppose would be the odds that his trouble and money would be all thrown away? not more than it would be against the master of a theatre who should say, this or that young man i will take care shall be an excellent actor! let it be our excuse, then, for that mistaken charge against us; that since there was no garden or market where accomplished actors grew or were to be sold, we could only pick them up, as we do pebbles of value, by chance: we may polish a thousand before we can find one fit to make a figure in the lid of a snuff-box. and how few soever we were able to produce, it is no proof that we were not always in search of them: yet, at worst, it was allow'd that our deficiency of men actors was not so visible as our scarcity of tolerable women: but when it is consider'd, that the life of youth and beauty is too short for the bringing an actress to her perfection; were i to mention, too, the many frail fair ones i remember who, before they could arrive to their theatrical maturity, were feloniously stolen from the tree, it would rather be thought our misfortune than our fault that we were not better provided.[ ] even the laws of a nunnery, we find, are thought no sufficient security against temptations without iron grates and high walls to inforce them; which the architecture of a theatre will not so properly admit of: and yet, methinks, beauty that has not those artificial fortresses about it, that has no defence but its natural virtue (which upon the stage has more than once been met with) makes a much more meritorious figure in life than that immur'd virtue which could never be try'd. but alas! as the poor stage is but the show-glass to a toy-shop, we must not wonder if now and then some of the bawbles should find a purchaser. [illustration: susanna maria cibber.] however, as to say more or less than truth are equally unfaithful in an historian, i cannot but own that, in the government of the theatre, i have known many instances where the merit of promising actors has not always been brought forward, with the regard or favour it had a claim to: and if i put my reader in mind, that in the early part of this work i have shewn thro' what continued difficulties and discouragements i myself made my way up the hill of preferment, he may justly call it too strong a glare of my vanity: i am afraid he is in the right; but i pretend not to be one of those chaste authors that know how to write without it: when truth is to be told, it may be as much chance as choice if it happens to turn out in my favour: but to shew that this was true of others as well as myself, _booth_ shall be another instance. in , when _swiney_ was the only master of the company in the _hay-market_; _wilks_, tho' he was then but an hired actor himself, rather chose to govern and give orders than to receive them; and was so jealous of _booth_'s rising, that with a high hand he gave the part of _pierre_, in _venice preserv'd_, to _mills_ the elder, who (not to undervalue him) was out of sight in the pretensions that _booth_, then young as he was, had to the same part:[ ] and this very discouragement so strongly affected him, that not long after, when several of us became sharers with _swiney_, _booth_ rather chose to risque his fortune with the old patentee in _drury-lane_, than come into our interest, where he saw he was like to meet with more of those partialities.[ ] and yet, again, _booth_ himself, when he came to be a menager, would sometimes suffer his judgment to be blinded by his inclination to actors whom the town seem'd to have but an indifferent opinion of. this again inclines me to ask another of my odd questions, _viz._ have we never seen the same passions govern a court! how many white staffs and great places do we find, in our histories, have been laid at the feet of a monarch, because they chose not to give way to a rival in power, or hold a second place in his favour? how many _whigs_ and _tories_ have chang'd their parties, when their good or bad pretensions have met with a check to their higher preferment? thus we see, let the degrees and rank of men be ever so unequal, nature throws out their passions from the same motives; 'tis not the eminence or lowliness of either that makes the one, when provok'd, more or less a reasonable creature than the other: the courtier and the comedian, when their ambition is out of humour, take just the same measures to right themselves. if this familiar stile of talking should, in the nostrils of gravity and wisdom, smell a little too much of the presumptuous or the pragmatical, i will at least descend lower in my apology for it, by calling to my assistance the old, humble proverb, _viz._ _'tis an ill bird that, &c._ why then should i debase my profession by setting it in vulgar lights, when i may shew it to more favourable advantages? and when i speak of our errors, why may i not extenuate them by illustrious examples? or by not allowing them greater than the greatest men have been subject to? or why, indeed, may i not suppose that a sensible reader will rather laugh than look grave at the pomp of my parallels? now, as i am tied down to the veracity of an historian whose facts cannot be supposed, like those in a romance, to be in the choice of the author to make them more marvellous by invention; if i should happen to sink into a little farther insignificancy, let the simple truth of what i have farther to say, be my excuse for it. i am obliged, therefore, to make the experiment, by shewing you the conduct of our theatrical ministry in such lights as on various occasions it appear'd in. though _wilks_ had more industry and application than any actor i had ever known, yet we found it possible that those necessary qualities might sometimes be so misconducted as not only to make them useless, but hurtful to our common-wealth;[ ] for while he was impatient to be foremost in every thing, he frequently shock'd the honest ambition of others, whose measures might have been more serviceable, could his jealousy have given way to them. his own regards for himself, therefore, were, to avoid a disagreeable dispute with him, too often complied with: but this leaving his diligence to his own conduct, made us, in some instances, pay dearly for it: for example; he would take as much, or more pains, in forwarding to the stage the water-gruel work of some insipid author that happen'd rightly to make his court to him,[ ] than he would for the best play wherein it was not his fortune to be chosen for the best character. so great was his impatience to be employ'd, that i scarce remember, in twenty years, above one profitable play we could get to be reviv'd, wherein he found he was to make no considerable figure, independent of him: but the _tempest_ having done wonders formerly, he could not form any pretensions to let it lie longer dormant: however, his coldness to it was so visible, that he took all occasions to postpone and discourage its progress, by frequently taking up the morning-stage with something more to his mind. having been myself particularly solicitous for the reviving this play, _dogget_ (for this was before booth came into the menagement) consented that the extraordinary decorations and habits should be left to my care and direction, as the fittest person whose temper could jossle through the petulant opposition that he knew _wilks_ would be always offering to it, because he had but a middling part in it, that of _ferdinand_: notwithstanding which, so it happen'd, that the success of it shew'd (not to take from the merit of _wilks_) that it was possible to have good audiences without his extraordinary assistance. in the first six days of acting it we paid all our constant and incidental expence, and shar'd each of us a hundred pounds: the greatest profit that in so little a time had yet been known within my memory! but, alas! what was paltry pelf to glory? that was the darling passion of _wilks_'s heart! and not to advance in it was, to so jealous an ambition, a painful retreat, a mere shade to his laurels! and the common benefit was but a poor equivalent to his want of particular applause! to conclude, not prince _lewis_ of _baden_, though a confederate general with the duke of _marlborough_, was more inconsolable upon the memorable victory at _blenheim_, at which he was not present, than our theatrical hero was to see any action prosperous that he was not himself at the head of. if this, then, was an infirmity in _wilks_, why may not my shewing the same weakness in so great a man mollify the imputation, and keep his memory in countenance. this laudable appetite for fame in _wilks_ was not, however, to be fed without that constant labour which only himself was able to come up to: he therefore bethought him of the means to lessen the fatigue, and at the same time to heighten his reputation; which was, by giving up now and then a part to some raw actor who he was sure would disgrace it, and consequently put the audience in mind of his superior performance: among this sort of indulgences to young actors he happen'd once to make a mistake that set his views in a clear light. the best criticks, i believe, will allow that in _shakespear_'s _macbeth_ there are, in the part of _macduff_, two scenes, the one of terror, in the second act, and the other of compassion, in the fourth, equal to any that dramatick poetry has produc'd: these scenes _wilks_ had acted with success, tho' far short of that happier skill and grace which _monfort_ had formerly shewn in them.[ ] such a part, however, one might imagine would be one of the last a good actor would chuse to part with: but _wilks_ was of a different opinion; for _macbeth_ was thrice as long, had more great scenes of action, and bore the name of the play: now, to be a second in any play was what he did not much care for, and had been seldom us'd to: this part of _macduff_, therefore, he had given to one _williams_, as yet no extraordinary, though a promising actor.[ ] _williams_, in the simplicity of his heart, immediately told _booth_ what a favour _wilks_ had done him. _booth_, as he had reason, thought _wilks_ had here carried his indulgence and his authority a little too far; for as _booth_ had no better a part in the same play than that of _banquo_, he found himself too much disregarded in letting so young an actor take place of him: _booth_, therefore, who knew the value of _macduff_, proposed to do it himself, and to give _banquo_ to _williams_; and to make him farther amends, offer'd him any other of his parts that he thought might be of service to him. _williams_ was content with the exchange, and thankful for the promise. this scheme, indeed, (had it taken effect) might have been an ease to _wilks_, and possibly no disadvantage to the play; but softly----that was not quite what we had a mind to! no sooner, then, came this proposal to _wilks_, but off went the masque and out came the secret! for though _wilks_ wanted to be eas'd of the part, he did not desire to be _excell'd_ in it; and as he was not sure but that might be the case if _booth_ were to act it,[ ] he wisely retracted his own project, took _macduff_ again to himself, and while he liv'd never had a thought of running the same hazard by any farther offer to resign it. here i confess i am at a loss for a fact in history to which this can be a parallel! to be weary of a post, even to a real desire of resigning it; and yet to chuse rather to drudge on in it than suffer it to be well supplied (though to share in that advantage) is a delicacy of ambition that _machiavil_ himself has made no mention of: or if in old _rome_, the jealousy of any pretended patriot equally inclin'd to abdicate his office may have come up to it, 'tis more than my reading remembers. as nothing can be more impertinent than shewing too frequent a fear to be thought so, i will, without farther apology, rather risque that imputation than not tell you another story much to the same purpose, and of no more consequence than my last. to make you understand it, however, a little preface will be necessary. if the merit of an actor (as it certainly does) consists more in the quality than the quantity of his labour; the other menagers had no visible reason to think this needless ambition of _wilks_, in being so often and sometimes so unnecessarily employ'd, gave him any title to a superiority; especially when our articles of agreement had allow'd us all to be equal. but what are narrow contracts to great souls with growing desires? _wilks_, therefore, who thought himself lessen'd in appealing to any judgment but his own, plainly discovered by his restless behaviour (though he did not care to speak out) that he thought he had a right to some higher consideration for his performance: this was often _booth_'s opinion, as well as my own. it must be farther observ'd, that he actually had a separate allowance of fifty pounds a year for writing our daily play-bills for the printer: which province, to say the truth, was the only one we car'd to trust to his particular intendance, or could find out for a pretence to distinguish him. but, to speak a plainer truth, this pension, which was no part of our original agreement, was merely paid to keep him quiet, and not that we thought it due to so insignificant a charge as what a prompter had formerly executed. this being really the case, his frequent complaints of being a drudge to the company grew something more than disagreeable to us: for we could not digest the imposition of a man's setting himself to work, and then bringing in his own bill for it. _booth_, therefore, who was less easy than i was to see him so often setting a merit upon this quantity of his labour, which neither could be our interest or his own to lay upon him, proposed to me that we might remove this pretended grievance by reviving some play that might be likely to live, and be easily acted, without _wilks_'s having any part in it. about this time an unexpected occasion offer'd itself to put our project in practice: what follow'd our attempt will be all (if any thing be) worth observation in my story. in we were call'd upon, in a manner that could not be resisted, to revive the _provok'd wife_,[ ] a comedy which, while we found our account in keeping the stage clear of those loose liberties it had formerly too justly been charg'd with, we had laid aside for some years.[ ] the author, sir _john vanbrugh_, who was conscious of what it had too much of, was prevail'd upon[ ] to substitute a new-written scene in the place of one in the fourth act, where the wantonness of his wit and humour had (originally) made a rake[ ] talk like a rake in the borrow'd habit of a clergyman: to avoid which offence, he clapt the same debauchee into the undress of a woman of quality: now the character and profession of a fine lady not being so indelibly sacred as that of a churchman, whatever follies he expos'd in the petticoat kept him at least clear of his former prophaneness, and were now innocently ridiculous to the spectator. this play being thus refitted for the stage, was, as i have observ'd, call'd for from court and by many of the nobility.[ ] now, then, we thought, was a proper time to come to an explanation with _wilks_: accordingly, when the actors were summon'd to hear the play read and receive their parts, i address'd myself to _wilks_, before them all, and told him, that as the part of _constant_, which he seem'd to chuse, was a character of less action than he generally appear'd in, we thought this might be a good occasion to ease himself by giving it to another.--here he look'd grave.--that the love-scenes of it were rather serious than gay or humourous, and therefore might sit very well upon _booth_.----down dropt his brow, and furl'd were his features.--that if we were never to revive a tolerable play without him, what would become of us in case of his indisposition?----here he pretended to stir the fire.--that as he could have no farther advantage or advancement in his station to hope for, his acting in this play was but giving himself an unprofitable trouble, which neither _booth_ or i desired to impose upon him.--softly.--now the pill began to gripe him.----in a word, this provoking civility plung'd him into a passion which he was no longer able to contain; out it came, with all the equipage of unlimited language that on such occasions his displeasure usually set out with; but when his reply was stript of those ornaments, it was plainly this: that he look'd upon all i had said as a concerted design, not only to signalize our selves by laying him aside, but a contrivance to draw him into the disfavour of the nobility, by making it suppos'd his own choice that he did not act in a play so particularly ask'd for; but we should find he could stand upon his own bottom, and it was not all our little caballing should get our ends of him: to which i answer'd with some warmth, that he was mistaken in our ends; for those, sir, said i, you have answer'd already by shewing the company you cannot bear to be left out of any play. are not you every day complaining of your being over-labour'd? and now, upon our first offering to ease you, you fly into a passion, and pretend to make that a greater grievance than t'other: but, sir, if your being in or out of the play is a hardship, you shall impose it upon yourself: the part is in your hand, and to us it is a matter of indifference now whether you take it or leave it. upon this he threw down the part upon the table, cross'd his arms, and sate knocking his heel upon the floor, as seeming to threaten most when he said least; but when no body persuaded him to take it up again, _booth_, not chusing to push the matter too far, but rather to split the difference of our dispute, said, that, for his part, he saw no such great matter in acting every day; for he believed it the wholsomest exercise in the world; it kept the spirits in motion, and always gave him a good stomach. though this was, in a manner, giving up the part to _wilks_, yet it did not allow he did us any favour in receiving it. here i observ'd mrs. _oldfield_ began to titter behind her fan: but _wilks_ being more intent upon what _booth_ had said, reply'd, every one could best feel for himself, but he did not pretend to the strength of a pack-horse; therefore if mrs. _oldfield_ would chuse any body else to play with her,[ ] he should be very glad to be excus'd: this throwing the negative upon mrs. _oldfield_ was, indeed, a sure way to save himself; which i could not help taking notice of, by saying, it was making but an ill compliment to the company to suppose there was but one man in it fit to play an ordinary part with her. here mrs. _oldfield_ got up, and turning me half round to come forward, said with her usual frankness, pooh! you are all a parcel of fools, to make such a rout about nothing! rightly judging that the person most out of humour would not be more displeas'd at her calling us all by the same name. as she knew, too, the best way of ending the debate would be to help the weak; she said, she hop'd mr. _wilks_ would not so far mind what had past as to refuse his acting the part with her; for tho' it might not be so good as he had been us'd to, yet she believed those who had bespoke the play would expect to have it done to the best advantage, and it would make but an odd story abroad if it were known there had been any difficulty in that point among ourselves. to conclude, _wilks_ had the part, and we had all we wanted; which was an occasion to let him see, that the accident or choice of one menager's being more employ'd than another would never be allow'd a pretence for altering our indentures, or his having an extraordinary consideration for it.[ ] however disagreeable it might be to have this unsociable temper daily to deal with; yet i cannot but say, that from the same impatient spirit that had so often hurt us, we still drew valuable advantages: for as _wilks_ seem'd to have no joy in life beyond his being distinguish'd on the stage, we were not only sure of his always doing his best there himself, but of making others more careful than without the rod of so irascible a temper over them they would have been. and i much question if a more temperate or better usage of the hired actors could have so effectually kept them to order. not even _betterton_ (as we have seen) with all his good sense, his great fame and experience, could, by being only a quiet example of industry himself, save his company from falling, while neither gentleness could govern or the consideration of their common interest reform them.[ ] diligence, with much the inferior skill or capacity, will beat the best negligent company that ever came upon a stage. but when a certain dreaming idleness or jolly negligence of rehearsals gets into a body of the ignorant and incapable (which before _wilks_ came into _drury-lane_, when _powel_ was at the head of them, was the case of that company) then, i say, a sensible spectator might have look'd upon the fallen stage as _portius_ in the play of _cato_ does upon his ruin'd country, and have lamented it in (something near) the same exclamation, _viz._ _--o ye immortal bards! what havock do these blockheads make among your works! how are the boasted labours of an age defac'd and tortured by ungracious action?_[ ] of this wicked doings _dryden_, too, complains in one of his prologues at that time, where, speaking of such lewd actors, he closes a couplet with the following line, _viz._ _and murder plays, which they miscall reviving._[ ] the great share, therefore, that _wilks_, by his exemplary diligence and impatience of neglect in others, had in the reformation of this evil, ought in justice to be remember'd; and let my own vanity here take shame to itself when i confess, that had i had half his application, i still think i might have shewn myself twice the actor that in my highest state of favour i appear'd to be. but if i have any excuse for that neglect (a fault which, if i loved not truth, i need not have mentioned) it is that so much of my attention was taken up in an incessant labour to guard against our private animosities, and preserve a harmony in our menagement, that i hope and believe it made ample amends for whatever omission my auditors might sometimes know it cost me some pains to conceal. but nature takes care to bestow her blessings with a more equal hand than fortune does, and is seldom known to heap too many upon one man: one tolerable talent in an individual is enough to preserve him from being good for nothing; and, if that was not laid to my charge as an actor, i have in this light too, less to complain of than to be thankful for. before i conclude my history, it may be expected i should give some further view of these my last cotemporaries of the theatre, _wilks_ and _booth_, in their different acting capacities. if i were to paint them in the colours they laid upon one another, their talents would not be shewn with half the commendation i am inclined to bestow upon them, when they are left to my own opinion. but people of the same profession are apt to see themselves in their own clear glass of partiality, and look upon their equals through a mist of prejudice. it might be imagin'd, too, from the difference of their natural tempers, that _wilks_ should have been more blind to the excellencies of _booth_ than _booth_ was to those of _wilks_; but it was not so: _wilks_ would sometimes commend _booth_ to me; but when _wilks_ excell'd, the other was silent:[ ] _booth_ seem'd to think nothing valuable that was not tragically great or marvellous: let that be as true as it may; yet i have often thought that, from his having no taste of humour himself,[ ] he might be too much inclin'd to depreciate the acting of it in others. the very slight opinion which in private conversation with me he had of _wilks_'s acting sir _harry wildair_, was certainly more than could be justified; not only from the general applause that was against that opinion (tho' applause is not always infallible) but from the visible capacity which must be allow'd to an actor, that could carry such slight materials to such a height of approbation: for, though the character of _wildair_ scarce in any one scene will stand against a just criticism; yet in the whole there are so many gay and false colours of the fine gentleman, that nothing but a vivacity in the performance proportionably extravagant could have made them so happily glare upon a common audience. _wilks_, from his first setting out, certainly form'd his manner of acting upon the model of _monfort_;[ ] as _booth_ did his on that of _betterton_. but----_haud passibus æquis_: i cannot say either of them came up to their original. _wilks_ had not that easy regulated behaviour, or the harmonious elocution of the one, nor _booth_ that conscious aspect of intelligence nor requisite variation of voice that made every line the other spoke seem his own natural self-deliver'd sentiment: yet there is still room for great commendation of both the first mentioned; which will not be so much diminish'd in my having said they were only excell'd by such predecessors, as it will be rais'd in venturing to affirm it will be a longer time before any successors will come near them. thus one of the greatest praises given to _virgil_ is, that no successor in poetry came so near _him_ as _he_ himself did to _homer_. though the majority of publick auditors are but bad judges of theatrical action, and are often deceiv'd into their approbation of what has no solid pretence to it; yet, as there are no other appointed judges to appeal to, and as every single spectator has a right to be one of them, their sentence will be definitive, and the merit of an actor must, in some degree, be weigh'd by it: by this law, then, _wilks_ was pronounced an excellent actor; which, if the few true judges did not allow him to be, they were at least too candid to slight or discourage him. _booth_ and he were actors so directly opposite in their manner, that if either of them could have borrowed a little of the other's fault, they would both have been improv'd by it: if _wilks_ had sometimes too violent a vivacity; _booth_ as often contented himself with too grave a dignity: the latter seem'd too much to heave up his words, as the other to dart them to the ear with too quick and sharp a vehemence: thus _wilks_ would too frequently break into the time and measure of the harmony by too many spirited accents in one line; and _booth_, by too solemn a regard to harmony, would as often lose the necessary spirit of it: so that (as i have observ'd) could we have sometimes rais'd the one and sunk the other, they had both been nearer to the mark. yet this could not be always objected to them: they had their intervals of unexceptionable excellence, that more than balanc'd their errors. the master-piece of _booth_ was _othello_: there he was most in character, and seemed not more to animate or please himself in it than his spectators. 'tis true he owed his last and highest advancement to his acting _cato_: but it was the novelty and critical appearance of that character that chiefly swell'd the torrent of his applause: for let the sentiments of a declaiming patriot have all the sublimity that poetry can raise them to; let them be deliver'd, too, with the utmost grace and dignity of elocution that can recommend them to the auditor: yet this is but one light wherein the excellence of an actor can shine: but in _othello_ we may see him in the variety of nature: there the actor is carried through the different accidents of domestick happiness and misery, occasionally torn and tortur'd by the most distracting passion that can raise terror or compassion in the spectator. such are the characters that a master actor would delight in; and therefore in _othello_ i may safely aver that _booth_ shew'd himself thrice the actor that he could in _cato_. and yet his merit in acting _cato_ need not be diminish'd by this comparison. _wilks_ often regretted that in tragedy he had not the full and strong voice of _booth_ to command and grace his periods with: but _booth_ us'd to say, that if his ear had been equal to it, _wilks_ had voice enough to have shewn himself a much better tragedian. now, though there might be some truth in this; yet these two actors were of so mixt a merit, that even in tragedy the superiority was not always on the same side: in sorrow, tenderness, or resignation, _wilks_ plainly had the advantage, and seem'd more pathetically to feel, look, and express his calamity: but in the more turbulent transports of the heart, _booth_ again bore the palm, and left all competitors behind him. a fact perhaps will set this difference in a clearer light. i have formerly seen _wilks_ act _othello_,[ ] and _booth_ the _earl of essex_,[ ] in which they both miscarried: neither the exclamatory rage or jealousy of the one, or the plaintive distresses of the other, were happily executed, or became either of them; though in the contrary characters they were both excellent. when an actor becomes and naturally looks the character he stands in, i have often observ'd it to have had as fortunate an effect, and as much recommended him to the approbation of the common auditors, as the most correct or judicious utterance of the sentiments: this was strongly visible in the favourable reception _wilks_ met with in _hamlet_, where i own the half of what he spoke was as painful to my ear as every line that came from _betterton_ was charming;[ ] and yet it is not impossible, could they have come to a poll, but _wilks_ might have had a majority of admirers: however, such a division had been no proof that the præeminence had not still remain'd in _betterton_; and if i should add that _booth_, too, was behind _betterton_ in _othello_, it would be saying no more than _booth_ himself had judgment and candour enough to know and confess. and if both he and _wilks_ are allow'd, in the two above-mention'd characters, a second place to so great a master as _betterton_, it will be a rank of praise that the best actors since my time might have been proud of. i am now come towards the end of that time through which our affairs had long gone forward in a settled course of prosperity. from the visible errors of former menagements we had at last found the necessary means to bring our private laws and orders into the general observance and approbation of our society: diligence and neglect were under an equal eye; the one never fail'd of its reward, and the other, by being very rarely excus'd, was less frequently committed. you are now to consider us in our height of favour, and so much in fashion with the politer part of the town, that our house every _saturday_ seem'd to be the appointed assembly of the first ladies of quality: of this, too, the common spectators were so well appriz'd, that for twenty years successively, on that day, we scarce ever fail'd of a crowded audience; for which occasion we particularly reserv'd our best plays, acted in the best manner we could give them.[ ] among our many necessary reformations; what not a little preserv'd to us the regard of our auditors, was the decency of our clear stage;[ ] from whence we had now, for many years, shut out those idle gentlemen, who seem'd more delighted to be pretty objects themselves, than capable of any pleasure from the play: who took their daily stands where they might best elbow the actor, and come in for their share of the auditor's attention. in many a labour'd scene of the warmest humour and of the most affecting passion have i seen the best actors disconcerted, while these buzzing muscatos have been fluttering round their eyes and ears. how was it possible an actor, so embarrass'd, should keep his impatience from entering into that different temper which his personated character might require him to be master of? future actors may perhaps wish i would set this grievance in a stronger light; and, to say the truth, where auditors are ill-bred, it cannot well be expected that actors should be polite. let me therefore shew how far an artist in any science is apt to be hurt by any sort of inattention to his performance. while the famous _corelli_,[ ] at _rome_, was playing some musical composition of his own to a select company in the private apartment of his patron-cardinal, he observed, in the height of his harmony, his eminence was engaging in a detach'd conversation; upon which he suddenly stopt short, and gently laid down his instrument: the cardinal, surpriz'd at the unexpected cessation, ask'd him if a string was broke? to which _corelli_, in an honest conscience of what was due to his musick, reply'd, no, sir, i was only afraid i interrupted business. his eminence, who knew that a genius could never shew itself to advantage where it had not its proper regards, took this reproof in good part, and broke off his conversation to hear the whole _concerto_ play'd over again. another story will let us see what effect a mistaken offence of this kind had upon the _french_ theatre; which was told me by a gentleman of the long robe, then at _paris_, and who was himself the innocent author of it. at the tragedy of _zaire_, while the celebrated mademoiselle _gossin_[ ] was delivering a soliloquy, this gentleman was seiz'd with a sudden fit of coughing, which gave the actress some surprize and interruption; and his fit increasing, she was forced to stand silent so long, that it drew the eyes of the uneasy audience upon him; when a _french_ gentleman, leaning forward to him, ask'd him, if this actress had given him any particular offence, that he took so publick an occasion to resent it? the _english_ gentleman, in the utmost surprize, assured him, so far from it, that he was a particular admirer of her performance; that his malady was his real misfortune, and if he apprehended any return of it, he would rather quit his seat than disoblige either the actress or the audience. this publick decency in their theatre i have myself seen carried so far, that a gentleman in their _second loge_, or middle-gallery, being observ'd to sit forward himself while a lady sate behind him, a loud number of voices call'd out to him from the pit, _place à la dame!_ _place à la dame!_ when the person so offending, either not apprehending the meaning of the clamour, or possibly being some _john trott_ who fear'd no man alive; the noise was continued for several minutes; nor were the actors, though ready on the stage, suffer'd to begin the play 'till this unbred person was laugh'd out of his seat, and had placed the lady before him. whether this politeness observ'd at plays may be owing to their clime, their complexion, or their government, is of no great consequence; but if it is to be acquired, methinks it is pity our accomplish'd countrymen, who every year import so much of this nation's gawdy garniture, should not, in this long course of our commerce with them, have brought over a little of their theatrical good-breeding too. i have been the more copious upon this head, that it might be judg'd how much it stood us upon to have got rid of those improper spectators i have been speaking of: for whatever regard we might draw by keeping them at a distance from our stage, i had observed, while they were admitted behind our scenes, we but too often shew'd them the wrong side of our tapestry; and that many a tolerable actor was the less valued when it was known what ordinary stuff he was made of. among the many more disagreeable distresses that are almost unavoidable in the government of a theatre, those we so often met with from the persecution of bad authors were what we could never intirely get rid of. but let us state both our cases, and then see where the justice of the complaint lies. 'tis true, when an ingenious indigent had taken perhaps a whole summer's pains, _invitâ minervâ_, to heap up a pile of poetry into the likeness of a play, and found, at last, the gay promise of his winter's support was rejected and abortive, a man almost ought to be a poet himself to be justly sensible of his distress! then, indeed, great allowances ought to be made for the severe reflections he might naturally throw upon those pragmatical actors, who had no sense or taste of good writing. and yet, if his relief was only to be had by his imposing a bad play upon a good set of actors, methinks the charity that first looks at home has as good an excuse for its coldness as the unhappy object of it had a plea for his being reliev'd at their expence. but immediate want was not always confess'd their motive for writing; fame, honour, and _parnassian_ glory had sometimes taken a romantick turn in their heads; and then they gave themselves the air of talking to us in a higher strain--gentlemen were not to be so treated! the stage was like to be finely govern'd when actors pretended to be judges of authors, &_c._ but, dear gentlemen! if they were good actors, why not? how should they have been able to act, or rise to any excellence, if you supposed them not to feel or understand what you offer'd them? would you have reduc'd them to the meer mimickry of parrots and monkies, that can only prate, and play a great many pretty tricks, without reflection? or how are you sure your friend, the infallible judge to whom you read your fine piece, might be sincere in the praises he gave it? or, indeed, might not you have thought the best judge a bad one if he had disliked it? consider, too, how possible it might be that a man of sense would not care to tell you a truth he was sure you would not believe! and if neither _dryden_, _congreve_, _steele_, _addison_, nor _farquhar_, (if you please) ever made any complaint of their incapacity to judge, why is the world to believe the slights you have met with from them are either undeserved or particular? indeed! indeed, i am not conscious that we ever did you or any of your fraternity the least injustice![ ] yet this was not all we had to struggle with; to supersede our right of rejecting, the recommendation, or rather imposition, of some great persons (whom it was not prudence to disoblige) sometimes came in with a high hand to support their pretensions; and then, _cout que cout_, acted it must be! so when the short life of this wonderful nothing was over, the actors were perhaps abus'd in a preface for obstructing the success of it, and the town publickly damn'd us for our private civility.[ ] i cannot part with these fine gentlemen authors without mentioning a ridiculous _disgraccia_ that befel one of them many years ago: this solemn bard, who, like _bays_, only writ for fame and reputation; on the second day's publick triumph of his muse, marching in a stately full-bottom'd perriwig into the lobby of the house, with a lady of condition in his hand, when raising his voice to the sir _fopling_ sound, that _became the mouth of a man of quality_, and calling out--hey! box-keeper, where is my lady such-a-one's servant, was unfortunately answer'd by honest _john trott_, (which then happen'd to be the box-keeper's real name) sir, we have dismiss'd, there was not company enough to pay candles. in which mortal astonishment it may be sufficient to leave him. and yet had the actors refus'd this play, what resentment might have been thought too severe for them? thus was our administration often censured for accidents which were not in our power to prevent: a possible case in the wisest governments. if, therefore, some plays have been preferr'd to the stage that were never fit to have been seen there, let this be our best excuse for it. and yet, if the merit of our rejecting the many bad plays that press'd hard upon us were weigh'd against the few that were thus imposed upon us, our conduct in general might have more amendments of the stage to boast of than errors to answer for. but it is now time to drop the curtain. during our four last years there happen'd so very little unlike what has been said before, that i shall conclude with barely mentioning those unavoidable accidents that drew on our dissolution. the first, that for some years had led the way to greater, was the continued ill state of health that render'd _booth_[ ] incapable of appearing on the stage. the next was the death of mrs. _oldfield_,[ ] which happen'd on the d of _october_, . about the same time, too, mrs. _porter_, then in her highest reputation for tragedy, was lost to us by the misfortune of a dislocated limb from the overturning of a _chaise_.[ ] and our last stroke was the death of _wilks_, in _september_ the year following, .[ ] [illustration: charles fleetwood.] notwithstanding such irreparable losses; whether, when these favourite actors were no more to be had, their successors might not be better born with than they could possibly have hop'd while the former were in being; or that the generality of spectators, from their want of taste, were easier to be pleas'd than the few that knew better: or that, at worst, our actors were still preferable to any other company of the several then subsisting: or to whatever cause it might be imputed, our audiences were far less abated than our apprehensions had suggested. so that, though it began to grow late in life with me; having still health and strength enough to have been as useful on the stage as ever, i was under no visible necessity of quitting it: but so it happen'd that our surviving fraternity having got some chimærical, and, as i thought, unjust notions into their heads, which, though i knew they were without much difficulty to be surmounted; i chose not, at my time of day, to enter into new contentions; and as i found an inclination in some of them to purchase the whole power of the patent into their own hands; i did my best while i staid with them to make it worth their while to come up to my price; and then patiently sold out my share to the first bidder, wishing the crew i had left in the vessel a good voyage.[ ] what commotions the stage fell into the year following, or from what provocations the greatest part of the actors revolted, and set up for themselves in the little house in the _hay-market_, lies not within the promise of my title page to relate: or, as it might set some persons living in a light they possibly might not chuse to be seen in, i will rather be thankful for the involuntary favour they have done me, than trouble the publick with private complaints of fancied or real injuries. _finis_. supplementary chapter. by robert w. lowe. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] the transaction to which cibber alludes in his last paragraph is one with regard to which he probably felt that his conduct required some explanation. after the death of steele, a patent was granted to cibber, wilks, and booth, empowering them to give plays at drury lane, or elsewhere, for a period of twenty-one years from st september, .[ ] just after it came into operation wilks died, and his share in the patent became the property of his wife. booth, shortly before his death, which occurred in may, , sold half of his share for £ , , to john highmore, a gentleman who seems to have been a typical amateur manager, being possessed of some money, no judgment, and unbounded vanity. in making this purchase highmore stipulated that, with half of booth's share, he should receive the whole of his authority; and he accordingly exercised the same power of control as had belonged to booth. mrs. wilks deputed mr. john ellys, the painter, to be her representative, so that cibber had to manage the affairs of the theatre in conjunction with a couple of amateurs, both ignorant, and one certainly presumptuous also. he delegated his authority for a time to his scapegrace son, theophilus, who probably made himself so objectionable that highmore was glad to buy the father's share in the patent also.[ ] he paid three thousand guineas for it, thus purchasing a whole share for a sum not much exceeding that which he had paid for one-half. highmore's first purchase took place in the autumn of , his second somewhere about may, ; so that, when drury lane opened for the season - , he possessed one-half of the three shares into which the patent was divided. mrs. wilks retained her share, but mrs. booth had sold her remaining half-share to henry giffard,[ ] the manager of goodman's fields theatre, at which, eight years later, garrick made his first appearance. highmore had scarcely entered upon his fuller authority when a revolt was spirited up among his actors, the chief of whom left him in a body to open the little theatre in the haymarket. shameful to relate, the ringleader in this mutiny was theophilus cibber; and, what is still more disgraceful, colley cibber lent them his active countenance. benjamin victor, though a devoted friend of colley cibber, characterizes the transaction as most dishonest,[ ] and there is no reason to doubt the accuracy of his information or the soundness of his judgment. davies ("life of garrick," i. ) states that colley cibber applied to the duke of grafton, then lord chamberlain, for a new license or patent in favour of his son; but the duke, on inquiring into the matter, was so disgusted at cibber's conduct that he refused the application with strong expressions of disapprobation. the seceders had of course no patent or license under which to act; but, from the circumstance that they took the name of comedians of his majesty's revels, it is probable that they received a license from the master of the revels, charles henry lee. highmore, deserted by every actor of any importance except miss raftor (mrs. clive), mrs. horton, and bridgwater, was at his wits' end. he summoned the seceders for an infringement of his patent, but his case, tried on th november, , was dismissed, apparently on some technical plea. he could not prevail upon the lord chamberlain to exert his authority to close the haymarket, so he determined to try the efficacy of the vagrant act ( queen anne) against the irregular performers. john harper accordingly was arrested on th november, , and committed to bridewell. on the th of the same month he was tried before the court of king's bench as a rogue and vagabond; but, whether from the circumstance that harper was a householder, or from a decision that playing at the haymarket was not an act of vagrancy,[ ] he was discharged upon his own recognizance, and the manager's action failed. he had therefore to bring actors from the country to make up his company; but of these macklin was the only one who proved of any assistance, and the unfortunate highmore, after meeting deficiencies of fifty or sixty pounds each week for some months, was forced to give up the struggle.[ ] another amateur then stepped into the breach--charles fleetwood, who purchased the shares of highmore and mrs. wilks for little more than the former had paid for his own portion. giffard seems to have retained his sixth of the patent. fleetwood first set about regaining the services of the seceders, and, as the majority of them were probably ashamed of following the leadership of theophilus cibber, he succeeded at once. the last performance at the haymarket took place on th march, , and on the th the deserters reappeared on drury lane stage. this transaction ended colley cibber's direct interference in the affairs of the theatre, and his only subsequent connection with the stage was as an actor. his first appearance after his retirement was on st october, , when he played his great character of bayes. during the season he acted lord foppington, sir john brute, sir courtly nice, and sir fopling flutter; and on th february, , he appeared as fondlewife for the benefit of his old friend and partner, owen swiney.[ ] at the end of the season - , an arrangement was under consideration by which a committee of actors, including mills, johnson, miller, theo. cibber, mrs. heron, mrs. butler, and others, were to rent drury lane from fleetwood, for fifteen years, at £ per annum; but the arrangement does not appear to have been carried out, and fleetwood continued patentee of drury lane until - . the rival company, under the control of john rich, acted at lincoln's inn fields from th december, , to th december, ; then they removed to the new covent garden theatre, which was opened on th december with "the way of the world." for several seasons both companies dragged along very uneventfully, so far as the artistic advancement of the stage was concerned, although the passing of the licensing act of , already fully commented on, was an event of great historical importance. artistically the period was one of rest, if not of retrogression; the methods of the older time were losing their meaning and vitality, and were becoming mere dry bones of tradition. the high priest of the stage was james quin, a great actor, though not of the first order; and among the younger players perhaps the most notable was charles macklin, rough in manner as in person, but full of genius and a thorough reformer. garrick was the direct means of revolutionizing the methods of the theatre, and it was his genius that swept away the formality and dulness of the old school; but it ought to be remembered that the way was prepared for him by charles macklin, whose rescue of shylock from low comedy was an achievement scarcely inferior to garrick's greatest. during this dull period cibber's appearances must have had an importance and interest, which, after garrick's advent, they lacked. in the season - he acted sir courtly nice and bayes, and in the next season his play of "papal tyranny in the reign of king john," a miserable mutilation of shakespeare's "king john," was put in rehearsal at drury lane. but such a storm of ridicule and abuse arose when this play was announced, that cibber withdrew it,[ ] and it was not seen till , when, the nation being in fear of a popish pretender, it was produced at covent garden from patriotic motives. cibber's implacable foe, fielding, was one of the ringleaders in the attack on him for mutilating shakespeare; and in his "historical register for ,"[ ] in which colley is introduced as "ground-ivy,"[ ] gives him the following excellent rebuke:-- "_medley._ as _shakspear_ is already good enough for people of taste, he must be alter'd to the palates of those who have none; and if you will grant that, who can be properer to alter him for the worse?" in , having, as victor says ("history," ii. ), "health and strength enough to be as useful as ever," he agreed with fleetwood to perform a round of his favourite characters. he was successful in comedy, but in tragedy he felt that his strength was no longer sufficient; and victor relates that, going behind the scenes while the third act of "richard iii." was on, he was told in a whisper by the old man, "that he would give fifty guineas to be then sitting in his easy chair by his own fire-side." probably he never played in tragedy again until the production of his own "papal tyranny"--at least i cannot discover that he did. in - he acted fondlewife for the benefit of chetwood, late prompter at drury lane, who was then imprisoned in the king's bench for debt; and his reception was so favourable that he repeated the character a second and third time for his own profit.[ ] upon these occasions he spoke an "epilogue upon himself," which is given in "the egotist" (p. _et seq._), and forms so good an epitome of cibber's philosophy, besides giving an excellent specimen of his style, that i quote it at length:-- "now worn with years, and yet in folly strong, now to act parts, your grandsires saw when young! what could provoke me!--i was always wrong. to hope, with age, i could advance in merit! even age well acted, asks a youthful spirit: to feel my wants, yet shew 'em thus detected, is living to the dotage, i have acted! t' have acted only once excus'd might be, when i but play'd the fool for charity! but fondly to repeat it!--senseless ninny! --no--now--as doctors do--i touch the guinea! and while i find my doses can affect you, 'twere greater folly still, should i neglect you. though this excuse, at _white'_s they'll not allow me; the ralliers there, in diff'rent lights will shew me. they'll tell you there: i only act--sly rogue! to play with _cocky_![ ]--o! the doting dog! and howsoe'er an audience might regard me, one--_tiss ye nykin_,[ ] amply might reward me! let them enjoy the jest, with laugh incessant! for true, or false, or right, or wrong, 'tis pleasant! mixt, in the wisest heads, we find some folly; yet i find few such happy fools--as _colley_! so long t'have liv'd the daily satire's stroke, } unmov'd by blows, that might have fell'd an oak, } and yet have laugh'd the labour'd libel to a joke. } suppose such want of feeling prove me dull! what's my aggressor then--a peevish fool! the strongest satire's on a blockhead lost; for none but fools or madmen strike a post. if for my folly's larger list you call, my life has lump'd 'em! there you'll read 'em all. there you'll find vanity, wild hopes pursuing; a wide attempt: to save the stage from ruin! there i confess, i have _out-done_ my _own out-doing_![ ] as for what's left of life, if still 'twill do; 'tis at your service, pleas'd while pleasing you: but then, mistake me not! when you've enough; one slender house declares both parties off: or truth in homely proverb to advance, i pipe no longer than you care to dance." the representative of lætitia (or _cocky_) alluded to in this epilogue was mrs. woffington, with whom stage-history has identified the "susannah" of the following well-known anecdote, which i quote from an attack upon cibber, published in , entitled "a blast upon _bays_; or, a new lick at the laureat." the author writes: "no longer ago than when the _bedford coffee house_ was in vogue, and mr. _cibber_ was writing _an apology for his own life_, there was one mr. s---- (the importer of an expensive _haymarket_ comedy) an old acquaintance of mr. _cibber_, who, as well as he, retain'd a smack of his antient taste. in those days there was also a fair smirking damsel, whose name was _susannah-maria_ * * *, who happen'd to have charms sufficient to revive the decay'd vigour of these two friends. they equally pursued her, even to the _hazard of their health_, and were frequently seen dangling after her, with tottering knees, at one and the same time. you have heard, sir, what a witty friend of your own said once on this occasion: _lo! yonder goes_ susannah _and the two elders._" even genest has applied this anecdote to mrs. woffington, but the only circumstance that lends confirmation to this view is the fact that swiney (who is mr. s----) left her his estate. against this must be set the important points that susannah maria was not mrs. woffington's name, and that the joke depended for its neatness and applicability on the name susannah. the narrator of the story, also, gives no hint that the damsel was the famous actress, as he certainly would have done; and, most important of all, it must be pointed out that at the period mentioned, that is, while cibber was writing his "apology," mrs. woffington had not appeared in london. the "apology" was published in april, , and had probably been completed in the preceding november; while mrs. woffington made her london _débût_ on th november, .[ ] during the season - , "at the particular desire of several persons of quality," cibber made a few appearances at covent garden; the purpose being, in all probability, to oppose the extraordinary attraction of garrick at goodman's fields. in - he played at the same theatre as garrick, being engaged at drury lane for a round of his famous characters; but there is no record that garrick and he appeared in the same play. for the new actor cibber had, naturally enough, no great admiration. he must have resented deeply the alteration in the method of acting tragedy which garrick introduced, and is always reported as having lost no opportunity of expressing his low opinion of the new school.[ ] his last appearances on the stage were in direct rivalry with his young opponent. as has been related, cibber's alteration of "king john," which had been "burked" in - , was produced, from patriotic motives, in . as the principal purpose of the alteration was to make king john resent the insolence of the pope's nuncio in a much more emphatic manner than he does in shakespeare, it may easily be imagined how wretched a production cibber's play is. genest's criticism is not too strong when he says (iv. ): "in a word, cibber has on this occasion shown himself utterly void of taste, judgment and modesty--well might fielding call him ground-ivy, and say that no man was better calculated to alter shakspeare for the worse ... in the epilogue (which was spoken by mrs. clive) cibber speaks of himself with modesty, but in the dedication, being emboldened by the favourable reception of his tragedy, he has the insolence to say '_i have endeavoured to make it more like a play than i found it in shakspeare._'" "papal tyranny" was produced at covent garden on th february, ,[ ] and, in opposition to it, shakespeare's play was put up at drury lane, with garrick as king john, macklin as pandulph, and mrs. cibber (the great mrs. cibber, wife of theophilus) as constance. cibber's play was, nevertheless, successful; the profit resulting to the author being, according to victor, four hundred pounds, which he wisely laid out in a profitable annuity with lord mountford. in this play cibber made his last appearance on the stage, on th february, , on which day "papal tyranny" was played for the tenth time. "after which," says victor ("history," ii. ) "he retired to his easy chair and his chariot, to waste the remains of life with a chearful, contented mind, without the least bodily complaint, but that of a slow, unavoidable decay." his state of mind was probably the more "chearful and contented" because of his unquestionable success in his tilt with the formidable author of "the dunciad;" a success none the less certain at the time, that the enduring fame of pope has caused cibber's triumph over him to be lost sight of now. the progress of the quarrel between these enemies has already been related up to the publication of cibber's "apology" (see vol. i. p. ), and on pages , , and of the first volume of this edition will be found cibber's perfectly good-natured and proper remarks on pope's attacks on him. whether the very fact that cibber did not show temper irritated his opponent, i do not know; but it probably did so, for in the fourth book of "the dunciad," published in , pope had another fling at his opponent (line ):-- "she mounts the throne: her head a cloud conceal'd, in broad effulgence all below reveal'd; ('tis thus aspiring dulness ever shines:) soft on her lap her laureate son reclines." and in line he talks of "cibberian forehead" as typical of unblushing impudence. it is not surprising that this last attack exhausted cibber's patience. he had hitherto received his punishment with good temper and good humour; but his powerful enemy had not therefore held his hand. he now determined to retaliate. conscious of the diseased susceptibility of pope to ridicule, he felt himself quite capable of replying, not with equal literary power, but with much superior practical effect. accordingly in there appeared a pamphlet entitled "a letter from mr. cibber, to mr. pope, inquiring into the motives that might induce him in his satyrical works, to be so frequently fond of mr. cibber's name." to it was prefixed the motto: "_out of thy own mouth will i judge thee._ pref. to the _dunciad_." cibber commences by stating that he had been persuaded to reply to pope by his friends; who insisted that for him to treat his attacker any longer with silent disdain might be thought a confession of dulness indeed. this is a highly probable statement; for an encounter between the vivacious cibber and the thin-skinned pope promised a wealth of amusement for those who looked on--a promise which was amply fulfilled. cibber proceeds to assure pope that, having entered the lists, he will not in future avoid the fray, but reply to every attack made on him.[ ] he confesses his vast inferiority to pope, but adds: "i own myself so contented a dunce, that i would not have even your merited fame in poetry, if it were to be attended with half the fretful solicitude you seem to have lain under to maintain it; of which the laborious rout you make about it, in those loads of prose rubbish, wherewith you have almost smother'd your _dunciad_, is so sore a proof." on page of his "letter" cibber gives an interesting account of a quarrel between pope and himself, to which he, with sufficient probability, attributes much of pope's enmity. the passage is curious and important, so i quote it in full:-- [illustration: alexander pope.] "the play of the _rehearsal_, which had lain some few years dormant, being by his present majesty (then prince of _wales_) commanded to be revived, the part of _bays_ fell to my share. to this character there had always been allow'd such ludicrous liberties of observation, upon any thing new, or remarkable, in the state of the stage, as mr. _bays_ might think proper to take. much about this time, then, _the three hours after marriage_ had been acted without success;[ ] when mr. _bays_, as usual, had a fling at it, which, in itself, was no jest, unless the audience would please to make it one: but however, flat as it was, mr. _pope_ was mortally sore upon it. this was the offence. in this play, two coxcombs, being in love with a learned virtuoso's wife, to get unsuspected access to her, ingeniously send themselves, as two presented rarities, to the husband, the one curiously swath'd up like an _egyptian_ mummy, and the other slily cover'd in the pasteboard skin of a crocodile: upon which poetical expedient, i, mr. _bays_, when the two kings of _brentford_ came from the clouds into the throne again, instead of what my part directed me to say, made use of these words, viz. 'now, sir, this revolution, i had some thoughts of introducing, by a quite different contrivance; but my design taking air, some of your sharp wits, i found, had made use of it before me; otherwise i intended to have stolen one of them in, in the shape of a _mummy_, and t'other, in that of a _crocodile_.' upon which, i doubt, the audience by the roar of their applause shew'd their proportionable contempt of the play they belong'd to. but why am i answerable for that? i did not lead them, by any reflection of my own, into that contempt: surely to have used the bare word _mummy_, and _crocodile_, was neither unjust, or unmannerly; where then was the crime of simply saying there had been two such things in a former play? but this, it seems, was so heinously taken by mr. _pope_, that, in the swelling of his heart, after the play was over, he came behind the scenes, with his lips pale and his voice trembling, to call me to account for the insult: and accordingly fell upon me with all the foul language, that a wit out of his senses could be capable of----how durst i have the impudence to treat any gentleman in that manner? _&c. &c. &c._ now let the reader judge by this concern, who was the true mother of the child! when he was almost choked with the foam of his passion, i was enough recover'd from my amazement to make him (as near as i can remember) this reply, _viz._ 'mr. _pope_----you are so particular a man, that i must be asham'd to return your language as i ought to do: but since you have attacked me in so monstrous a manner; this you may depend upon, that so long as the play continues to be acted, i will never fail to repeat the same words over and over again.' now, as he accordingly found i kept my word, for several days following, i am afraid he has since thought, that his pen was a sharper weapon than his tongue to trust his revenge with. and however just cause this may be for his so doing, it is, at least, the only cause my conscience can charge me with. now, as i might have concealed this fact if my conscience would have suffered me, may we not suppose, mr. _pope_ would certainly have mention'd it in his _dunciad_, had he thought it could have been of service to him?" cibber afterwards proceeds to criticise and reply to allusions to himself in pope's works, some of which are in conspicuously bad taste. cibber, of course, does not miss the obvious point that to attack his successful plays was a foolish proceeding on pope's part, whose own endeavours as a dramatist had been completely unsuccessful, and who thus laid himself open to the charge of envy. nor is this accusation so ridiculous as it may seem to readers of to-day, for a successful playwright was a notable public figure, and the delicious applause of the crowded theatre was eagerly sought by even the most eminent men. and again, it must be remembered that pope's fame was not then the perfectly assured matter that it is now. but cibber's great point, which made his opponent writhe with fury, was a little anecdote--dr. johnson terms it "an idle story of pope's behaviour at a tavern"--which raised a universal shout of merriment at pope's expense. the excuse for its introduction was found in these lines from the "epistle to dr. arbuthnot":-- "whom have i hurt? has poet yet or peer lost the arch'd eyebrow or parnassian sneer? and has not colley still his lord and whore? his butchers henley? his freemasons moore?" cibber's anecdote cannot be defended on the ground of decency, but it is extremely ludicrous, and in the state of society then existing it must have been a knock-down blow to the unhappy subject of it. there can be little doubt that it was this pamphlet which pope received on the occasion when the richardsons visited him, as related by johnson in his life of the poet: "i have heard mr. richardson relate that he attended his father the painter on a visit, when one of cibber's pamphlets came into the hands of pope, who said, 'these things are my diversion.' they sat by him while he perused it, and saw his features writhing with anguish: and young richardson said to his father, when they returned, that he hoped to be preserved from such diversion as had been that day the lot of pope." how deeply pope was galled by cibber's ludicrous picture of him is manifested by the extraordinary revenge he took. and even now we can realize the bitterness of the provocation when we read the maliciously comic story of the vivacious colley:-- "as to the first part of the charge, the _lord_; why--we have both had him, and sometimes the _same_ lord; but as there is neither vice nor folly in keeping our betters company; the wit or satyr of the verse! can only point at my lord for keeping such _ordinary_ company. well, but if so! then _why_ so, good mr. _pope_? if either of us could be _good_ company, our being professed poets, i hope would be no objection to my lord's sometimes making one with us? and though i don't pretend to write like you, yet all the requisites to make a good companion are not confined to poetry! no, sir, even a man's inoffensive follies and blunders may sometimes have their merits at the best table; and in those, i am sure, you won't pretend to vie with me: why then may not my lord be as much in the right, in his sometimes choosing _colley_ to laugh at, as at other times in his picking up _sawney_, whom he can only admire? "thus far, then, i hope we are upon a par; for the lord, you see, will fit either of us. "as to the latter charge, the _whore_, there indeed, i doubt you will have the better of me; for i must own, that i believe i know more of _your_ whoring than you do of _mine_; because i don't recollect that ever i made you the least confidence of _my_ amours, though i have been very near an eye-witness of _yours_----by the way, gentle reader, don't you think, to say only, _a man has his whore_, without some particular circumstances to aggravate the vice, is the flattest piece of satyr that ever fell from the formidable pen of mr. _pope_? because (_defendit numerus_) take the first ten thousand men you meet, and i believe, you would be no loser, if you betted ten to one that every single sinner of them, one with another, had been guilty of the same frailty. but as mr. _pope_ has so particularly picked me out of the number to make an example of: why may i not take the same liberty, and even single him out for another to keep me in countenance? he must excuse me, then, if in what i am going to relate, i am reduced to make bold with a little private conversation: but as he has shewn no mercy to _colley_, why should so unprovok'd an aggressor expect any for himself? and if truth hurts him, i can't help it. he may remember, then (or if he won't i will) when _button_'s coffee-house was in vogue, and so long ago, as when he had not translated above two or three books of _homer_; there was a late young nobleman (as much his _lord_ as mine) who had a good deal of wicked humour, and who, though he was fond of having wits in his company, was not so restrained by his conscience, but that he lov'd to laugh at any merry mischief he could do them: this noble wag, i say, in his usual _gayetè de coeur_, with another gentleman still in being,[ ] one evening slily seduced the celebrated mr. _pope_ as a wit, and myself as a laugher, to a certain house of carnal recreation, near the _hay-market_; where his lordship's frolick propos'd was to slip his little _homer_, as he call'd him, at a girl of the game, that he might see what sort of figure a man of his size, sobriety, and vigour (in verse) would make, when the frail fit of love had got into him; in which he so far succeeded, that the smirking damsel, who serv'd us with tea, happen'd to have charms sufficient to tempt the little-tiny manhood of mr. _pope_ into the next room with her: at which you may imagine, his lordship was in as much joy, at what might happen within, as our small friend could probably be in possession of it: but i (forgive me all ye mortified mortals whom his fell satyr has since fallen upon) observing he had staid as long as without hazard of his health he might, i, _prick'd to it by foolish honesty and love,_ as _shakespear_ says, without ceremony, threw open the door upon him, where i found this little hasty hero, like a terrible _tom tit_, pertly perching upon the mount of love! but such was my surprize, that i fairly laid hold of his heels, and actually drew him down safe and sound from his danger. my lord, who staid tittering without, in hopes the sweet mischief he came for would have been compleated, upon my giving an account of the action within, began to curse, and call me an hundred silly puppies, for my impertinently spoiling the sport; to which with great gravity i reply'd; pray, my lord, consider what i have done was, in regard to the honour of our nation! for would you have had so glorious a work as that of making _homer_ speak elegant _english_, cut short by laying up our little gentleman of a malady, which his thin body might never have been cured of? no, my lord! _homer_ would have been too serious a sacrifice to our evening merriment. now as his _homer_ has since been so happily compleated, who can say, that the world may not have been obliged to the kindly care of _colley_ that so great a work ever came to perfection? "and now again, gentle reader, let it be judged, whether the _lord_ and the _whore_ above-mentioned might not, with equal justice, have been apply'd to sober _sawney_ the satyrist, as to _colley_ the criminal? "though i confess recrimination to be but a poor defence for one's own faults; yet when the guilty are accusers, it seems but just, to make use of any truth, that may invalidate their evidence: i therefore hope, whatever the serious reader may think amiss in this story, will be excused, by my being so hardly driven to tell it." in the remainder of cibber's pamphlet there is not much that is of any importance, though an allusion to one of pope's victims having hung up a birch in button's coffee house, wherewith to chastise his satirist, was skilfully calculated to rouse pope's temper. cibber thoroughly succeeded in this object,[ ] perhaps to a degree that he rather regretted. pope made no direct reply to his banter, but in the following year ( ) a new edition of "the dunciad" appeared, in which theobald was deposed from the throne of dulness, and cibber elevated in his place. by doing this pope gratified his vengeance, but injured his poem, for the carefully painted peculiarities of theobald, a slow and pedantic scholar, sat ill on the pert and vivacious colley.[ ] to this retaliation cibber, as he had promised,[ ] replied with another pamphlet, entitled "another occasional letter from mr. cibber to mr. pope. wherein the new hero's preferment to his throne, in the _dunciad_, seems not to be accepted. and the author of that poem his more rightful claim to it, is asserted. with an expostulatory address to the reverend mr. _w. w----n_, author of the new preface, and adviser in the curious improvements of that satire." the motto on the title-page was:-- "----_remember_ sauney's _fate!_ _bang'd by the blockhead, whom he strove to beat._ parodie on lord _roscommon_." there is little that is of any note in this production, which is characterized by the same real or affected good-nature as marked the former pamphlet. the most interesting passages to us are those alluding to the effect of cibber's previous attack, and exulting over pope's distress at it. for instance (on page ):-- "and now, sir, give me leave to be a little surpriz'd at the impenetrable skull of your courage, that (after i had in my first letter) so heartily teiz'd, and toss'd, and tumbled you through all the mire, and dirt, the madness of your muse had been throwing at other people, it could still, so vixen like, sprawl out the same feeble paw of its satyr, to have t'other scratch at my nose: but as i know the vulgar (with whose applause i humbly content my self) are apt to laugh when they see a curst cat in a kennel; so whenever i observe your _grimalkin_ spirit shew but the least grinning gasp of life, i shall take the honest liberty of old _towser_ the house-dog, and merrily lift up my leg to have a little more game with you. "well sir, in plainer terms, i am now, you see, once more willing to bring matters to an issue, or (as the boxers say) to answer your challenge, and come to a trial of manhood with you; though by our slow proceedings, we seem rather to be at _law_, than at _loggerheads_ with one another; and if you had not been a blinder booby, than my self, you would have sate down quietly, with the last black eye i gave you: for so loath was i to squabble with you, that though you had been snapping, and snarling at me for twenty years together, you saw, i never so much as gave you a single growl, or took any notice of you. at last, 'tis true, in meer sport for others, rather than from the least tincture of concern for my self, i was inticed to be a little wanton, not to say waggish, with your character; by which having (you know) got the strong laugh on my side, i doubt i have so offended the gravity, and greatness of your soul, that to secure your more ample revenge, you have prudently taken the full term of thirteen months consideration, before you would pour it, upon me! but at last, it seems, we have it, and now souse! out comes your old _dunciad_, in a new dress, like fresh gold, upon stale gingerbread, sold out in penny-worth's of shining king _colley_, crown'd the hero of immortal stupidity!" and again (on page ): "at your peril be it, little gentleman, for i shall have t'other frisk with you, and don't despair that the very notice i am now taking of you, will once more make your fame fly, like a yelping cur with a bottle at his tail, the jest and joy of every bookseller's prentice between _wapping_ and _westminster_!" to this pamphlet pope, whose infirmities were very great, made no reply, and cibber had, as he had vowed, the last word. round the central articles of this quarrel a crowd of supplementary productions had gathered, a list of which will be found in the bibliography of cibber a few pages on. cibber's position of poet laureate furnished him with a steady income during his declining years, and his odes were turned out as required, with mechanical precision and most unpoetic spirit. they were the standing joke of the pamphleteers and news-sheet writers, and were always accompanied with a running fire of banter and parody. those curious in the matter will find excellent specimens, both of the odes and the burlesques, in the early volumes of the "gentleman's magazine." after the termination of his quarrel with pope, cibber's life was very uneventful; and, although it extended far beyond the allotted span, he continued to enjoy it to the very end. horace walpole greeted him one day, saying, "i am glad, sir, to see you looking so well." "egad, sir," replied the old man, "at eighty-four it is well for a man that he can look at all." on th december, , he died, having attained the great age of eighty-six.[ ] dr. doran "their majesties' servants," ( edition, ii. ) says: "i read in contemporary publications that there 'died at his house in berkeley square, colley cibber, esq., poet laureate;'" and although it has been stated that he died at islington, i see no reason to doubt dr. doran's explicit statement. cibber was buried in the danish church, wellclose square.[ ] so far as we know, only two of cibber's children survived him, his ne'er-do-well son theophilus, and his equally scapegrace daughter charlotte, who married charke the musician. the former was born in , and was drowned in the winter of , while crossing to ireland to fulfil an engagement in dublin. as an actor he was chiefly famous for playing ancient pistol, but he was also excellent in some of his father's characters, such as lord foppington, bayes, and sir francis wronghead. his private life was in the last degree disreputable, and especially so in his relations with his second wife, susanna maria arne--the great mrs. cibber. the literature regarding theophilus cibber is considerable in quantity and curious in quality. some account of it will be found in my "bibliographical account of english theatrical literature," pp. - . charlotte charke, who was born about , and died in april, , was of no note as an actress. her private life, however, was madly eccentric, and her autobiography, published in , is a curious and scarce work. cibber's principal plays have been noted in the course of his "apology;" but, for the sake of convenience, i give here a complete list of his regular dramatic productions:-- love's last shift--comedy--produced at drury lane, . woman's wit--comedy--drury lane, . xerxes--tragedy--lincoln's inn fields, . richard iii.--tragedy (alteration of shakespeare's play)--drury lane, . love makes a man--comedy--drury lane, . the school boy--comedy--drury lane, th october, . she would and she would not--comedy--drury lane, th november, . the careless husband--comedy--drury lane, th december, . perolla and izadora--tragedy--drury lane, rd december, . the comical lovers--comedy--haymarket, th february, . the double gallant--comedy--haymarket, st november, . the lady's last stake--comedy--haymarket, th december, . the rival fools--comedy--drury lane, th january, . the rival queans--comical-tragedy--haymarket, th june, . ximena--tragedy--drury lane, th november, . venus and adonis--masque--drury lane, . bulls and bears--farce--drury lane, st december, . myrtillo--pastoral interlude--drury lane, . the nonjuror--comedy--drury lane, th december, . the refusal--comedy--drury lane, th february, . cæsar in egypt--tragedy--drury lane, th december, . the provoked husband--comedy (in conjunction with vanbrugh)--drury lane, th january, . love in a riddle--pastoral--drury lane, th january, . damon and phillida--pastoral farce--haymarket, . papal tyranny in the reign of king john--tragedy (alteration of shakespeare's "king john")--covent garden, th february, . of these, his alteration of "richard iii." had practically undisputed possession of the stage, until the taste and judgment of mr. henry irving gave us back the original play.[ ] but in the provinces, when stars of the old school play a round of legitimate parts, the adulterated version still reigns triumphant, and the great effect of the night is got in cibber's famous line:-- "off with his head! so much for buckingham!" in "the hypocrite," a comedy still played at intervals, cibber's "nonjuror" survives. bickerstaffe, who was the author of the alteration, retained a very large portion of the original play, his chief change being the addition of the inimitable mawworm. that another of cibber's plays survives is owing to the taste of an american manager and to the genius of an american company of comedians. mr. augustin daly's company includes among its repertory cibber's comedy of "she would and she would not," and has shown in london as well as in new york how admirable a comedy it is. it goes without saying to those who have seen this company, that much of the success was due to miss ada rehan, who showed in hypolita, as she has done in katharine ("taming of the shrew"), that she is mistress of classical comedy as of modern touch-and-go farce.[ ] [illustration: susanna maria cibber as cordelia.] cibber was the cause of quite a considerable literature, mostly abusive. the following list, taken from my "bibliographical account of english theatrical literature" ( ), is, i believe, a complete catalogue of all separate publications by, or relating to, colley cibber:-- a clue to the comedy of the non-juror. with some hints of consequence relating to that play. in a letter to n. rowe, esq; poet laureat to his majesty. london (curll): . vo. d. cibber's "non-juror," produced at drury-lane, december , , was written in favour of the hanoverian succession. rowe wrote the prologue, which was very abusive of nonjurors. this tract is not an attack on the play, but a satire on, it is said, bishop hoadly. a lash for the laureat: or an address by way of satyr; most humbly inscrib'd to the unparallel'd mr. rowe, on occasion of a late insolent prologue to the non-juror. london (j. morphew): . folio. title, leaf: pref. leaf. pp. . d. a furious attack on rowe on account of his prologue. a tract of extreme rarity. a compleat key to the non-juror. explaining the characters in that play, with observations thereon. by mr. joseph gay. the second edioion (_sic_). london (curll): . vo. pp. including title and half-title. rd edition: . joseph gay is a pseudonym. pope is said to be the author of the pamphlet, which is very unfriendly to cibber. the theatre-royal turn'd into a mountebank's stage. in some remarks upon mr. cibber's quack-dramatical performance, called the non-juror. by a non-juror. london (morphew): . vo. title leaf. pp. . d. the comedy call'd the non-juror. shewing the particular scenes wherein that hypocrite is concern'd. with remarks, and a key, explaining the characters of that excellent play. london (printed for j. l.): . vo. pp. , including title. d. some cursory remarks on the play call'd the non-juror, written by mr. cibber. in a letter to a friend. london (chetwood): . vo. dated from button's coffee-house and signed "h. s." very laudatory. a journey to london. being part of a comedy written by the late sir john vanbrugh, knt. and printed after his own copy: which (since his decease) has been made an intire play, by mr. cibber, and call'd the provok'd husband, &c. london (watts): . vo. pp. , including title. "the provok'd husband," by vanbrugh and cibber, was produced at drury lane, january , ; and though cibber's nonjuror enemies tried to condemn it, was very successful. this tract shows how much of the play was written by vanbrugh. reflections on the principal characters in the provoked husband. london: . vo. an apology for the life of mr. colley cibber, comedian, and late patentee of the theatre-royal. with an historical view of the stage during his own time. written by himself. london (printed by john watts for the author): . to. port. second edition, london, , vo., no portrait; third edition, london, , vo., portrait; fourth edition, , vols. mo., portrait. a good edition was published, london, , vo., with notes by e. bellchambers and a portrait. the "apology" forms one of hunt's series of autobiographies, london, . one of the most famous and valuable of theatrical books. an apology for the life of mr. t---- c----, comedian. being a proper sequel to the apology for the life of mr. colley cibber, comedian. with an historical view of the stage to the present year. supposed to be written by himself. in the stile and manner of the poet laureat. london (mechell): . vo. s. the object of this pamphlet, ascribed to fielding, is chiefly to ridicule colley cibber's "apology." herman, s. a brief supplement to colley cibber, esq; his lives of the late famous actors and actresses. _si tu scis, melior ego._ by anthony, vulgò tony aston. printed for the author, n.p. (london): n.d. ( - ). vo. pp. including title. a pamphlet of extreme rarity. isaac reed purchased a copy in ; and in he notes on it that, though he has had it twenty-six years, he has never seen another copy. reed's copy was bought by field for s., at whose sale, in , genest bought it for s. the tryal of colley cibber, comedian, &c. for writing a book intitled an apology for his life, &c. being a thorough examination thereof; wherein he is proved guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors against the english language, and in characterising many persons of distinction.... together with an indictment exhibited against alexander pope of twickenham, esq; for not exerting his talents at this juncture: and the arraignment of george cheyne, physician at bath, for the philosophical, physical, and theological heresies, uttered in his last book on regimen. london (for the author): . vo. pp. vii. . s. with motto--"lo! he hath written a book!" the dedication is signed "t. johnson." the laureat: or, the right side of colley cibber, esq; containing explanations, amendments, and observations, on a book intituled, an apology for the life, and writings of mr. colley cibber. not written by himself. with some anecdotes of the laureat, which he (thro' an excess of modesty) omitted. to which is added, the history of the life, manners and writings of Æsopus the tragedian, from a fragment of a greek manuscript found in the library of the vatican; interspers'd with observations of the translator. london (roberts): . vo. s. d. a furious attack on cibber. the life of Æsopus is a burlesque life of cibber. daniel. s. d. the history of the stage. in which is included, the theatrical characters of the most celebrated actors who have adorn'd the theatre. among many others are the following, _viz._ mr. betterton, mr. montfort, mr. dogget, mr. booth, mr. wilks, mr. nokes. mrs. barry, mrs. montfort, mrs. gwin, mrs. bracegirdle, mrs. porter, mrs. oldfield. together with, the theatrical life of mr. colly cibber. london (miller): . vo. a "boil-down" of cibber's apology. a letter from mr. cibber, to mr. pope, inquiring into the motives that might induce him in his satyrical works, to be so frequently fond of mr. cibber's name. london (lewis): . vo. s. second edition, london, , vo.; reprinted, london, , vo. the sting of this pamphlet lies in an anecdote told of pope at a house of ill-fame, in retaliation for his line: "and has not colley still his lord and whore?" a letter to mr. c--b--r, on his letter to mr. p---- london (roberts): . vo. pp. d. very scarce. abusive of pope--laudatory towards cibber. difference between verbal and practical virtue. with a prefatory epistle from mr. c--b--r to mr. p. london (roberts): . folio. title leaf: epistle leaf: pp. . very rare. a rhymed attack on pope. a blast upon bays; or, a new lick at the laureat. containing, remarks upon a late tatling performance, entitled, a letter from mr. cibber to mr. pope, &c. _and lo there appeared an old woman!_ vide the letter throughout. london (robbins): . vo. pp. . d. a bitter attack on cibber. sawney and colley, a poetical dialogue: occasioned by a late letter from the laureat of st. james's, to the homer of twickenham. something in the manner of dr. swift. london (for j. h.): n.d. ( ). folio. title leaf: pp. . s. very scarce. a coarse and ferocious attack on pope in rhyme. the egotist: or, colley upon cibber. being his own picture retouch'd, to so _plain_ a likeness, that no one, _now_, would have the face to own it, but himself. london (lewis): . vo. pp. including title. s. anonymous, but undoubtedly by cibber himself. another occasional letter from mr. cibber to mr. pope. wherein the new hero's preferment to his throne, in the dunciad, seems not to be accepted. and the author of that poem his more rightful claim to it, is asserted. with an expostulatory address to the reverend mr. w. w----n, author of the new preface, and adviser in the curious improvements of that satire. by mr. colley cibber. london (lewis): . vo. s. the rev. w. w----n is warburton. this tract was reprinted, glasgow, n. d., vo. the two "letters" were reprinted, london, , with, i believe, a curious frontispiece representing the adventure related by cibber at pope's expense in the first "letter." i am not certain whether the frontispiece was issued with the london or glasgow reprint, having seen it in copies of both. in bonn's "lowndes" ( ) is mentioned a parody on this first "letter," with the same title, except that "mrs. cibber's name" is substituted for "mr. cibber's name." lowndes says: "a copy is described in mr. thorpe's catalogue, p. iv, , 'with the frontispiece of pope surprized with mrs. cibber.'" i gravely doubt the existence of any such work, and fancy that this frontispiece is the one just mentioned, but wrongly described. herman (two letters, with scarce front.), s. a letter to colley cibber, esq; on his transformation of king john. london. . vo. cibber's mangling of "king john," entitled "papal tyranny in the reign of king john," was produced at covent garden, february , . a new book of the dunciad: occasion'd by mr. warburton's new edition of the dunciad complete. by a gentleman of one of the inns of court. with several of mr. warburton's own notes, and likewise notes _variorum_. london (j. payne & j. bouquet): . to. s. cibber dethroned and warburton elevated to the throne of dulness. shakspere's tragedy of richard iii., considered dramatically and historically; and in comparison with cibber's alteration as at present in use on the stage, in a lecture delivered to the members of the liverpool literary, scientific and commercial institution, by thos. stuart, of the theatre royal. (liverpool): n. d. (about ). mo. cibber published in a work entitled "the character and conduct of cicero, considered from the history of his life by dr. middleton;" but it is of little value or interest. a brief supplement to _colley cibber_, esq; his lives of the late famous actors and actresses. _si tu scis, melior ego._ by _anthony_, } vulgò _tony_} _aston_. [illustration] printed for the author. * * * * * mr. cibber _is guilty of omission, that he hath not given us any description of the several personages' beauties, or faults----faults (i say) of the several_ actors, &c. _for_ nemo sine crimine vivit. _or, as the late duke of_ buckingham _says of_ characters, _that, to shew a man not defective,_ ------------------------------------were to draw a faultless monster, that the world ne'er saw. * * * * * a brief supplement to colley cibber, esq; his lives of the late famous actors and actresses. [illustration] mr. _betterton_ (although a superlative good actor) labour'd under ill figure, being clumsily made, having a great head, a short thick neck, stoop'd in the shoulders, and had fat short arms, which he rarely lifted higher than his stomach.--his left hand frequently lodg'd in his breast, between his coat and waist-coat, while, with his right, he prepar'd his speech.--his actions were few, but just.--he had little eyes, and a broad face, a little pock-fretten, a corpulent body, and thick legs, with large feet.--he was better to meet, than to follow; for his aspect was serious, venerable, and majestic; in his latter time a little paralytic.--his voice was low and grumbling; yet he could tune it by an artful _climax_, which enforc'd universal attention, even from the _fops_ and _orange-girls_.--he was incapable of dancing, even in a country-dance; as was mrs. _barry_: but their good qualities were more than equal to their deficiencies.--while mrs. _bracegirdle_ sung very agreeably in the loves of _mars_ and _venus_, and danced in a country-dance, as well as mr. _wilks_, though not with so much art and foppery, but like a well-bred gentlewoman.--mr. _betterton_ was the most extensive actor, from _alexander_ to sir _john falstaff_; but, in _that_ last character, he wanted the waggery of _estcourt_, the drollery of _harper_, the sallaciousness of _jack evans_.--but, then, _estcourt_ was too trifling; _harper_ had too much of the _bartholomew-fair_; and _evans_ misplac'd his humour.--thus, you see what _flaws_ are in _bright diamonds_:--and i have often wish'd that mr. _betterton_ would have resign'd the part of hamlet to some young actor, (who might have personated, though not have acted, it better) for, when he threw himself at _ophelia's_ feet, he appear'd a little too grave for a young student, lately come from the university of _wirtemberg_; and his _repartees_ seem'd rather as _apopthegms_ from a _sage philosopher_, than the _sporting flashes_ of a young hamlet; and no one else could have pleas'd the town, he was so rooted in their opinion.--his younger cotemporary, (_betterton_ , _powel_ , years old) _powel_, attempted several of _betterton's_ parts, as _alexander_, _jaffier_, &c. but lost his credit; as, in _alexander_, he maintain'd not the dignity of a king, but _out-heroded_ herod; and in his poison'd, mad scene, _out-rav'd all probability_; while _betterton_ kept his passion under, and shew'd it most (as fume smoaks most, when stifled). _betterton_, from the time he was dress'd, to the end of the play, kept his mind in the same temperament and adaptness, as the present character required.--if i was to write of him all day, i should still remember fresh matter in his behalf; and, before i part with him, suffer this facetious story of him, and a country tenant of his. mr. _betterton_ had a small farm near _reading_, in the county of _berks_; and the countryman came, in the time of _bartholomew-fair_, to pay his rent.--mr. _betterton_ took him to the fair, and going to one _crawley's_ puppet-shew, offer'd _two shillings_ for himself and _roger_, his tenant.--_no, no, sir_, said _crawley_; _we never take money of one another_. this affronted mr. _betterton_ who threw down the money, and they enter'd.--_roger_ was hugeously diverted with _punch_, and bred a great noise, saying, that he would drink with him, for he was a merry fellow.--mr. _betterton_ told him, he was only a puppet, made up of _sticks and rags_: however, _roger_ still cried out, that he would go and drink with _punch_.--when master took him behind, where the puppets hung up, he swore, he thought _punch_ had been alive.--_however_, said he, _though he be but_ sticks and rags, _i'll give him six-pence to drink my health_.--at night, mr. _betterton_ went to the _theatre_, when was play'd the orphan; mr. _betterton_ acting _castalio_; mrs. _barry_, _monimia_.----_well_ (said master) _how dost like this play_, roger? _why, i don't knows_, (says _roger_) _its well enought for_ sticks and rags. to end with this _phoenix_ of the stage, i must say of him, as _hamlet_ does of his father: "he was a man (take him for all in all) i cannot look upon his like again." his favourite, mrs. _barry_, claims the next in Æstimation. they were both never better pleas'd, than in playing together.--mrs. _barry_ outshin'd mrs. _bracegirdle_ in the character of zara in the _mourning bride_, altho' mr. _congreve_ design'd almeria for that favour.--and yet, this fine creature was not handsome, her mouth op'ning most on the right side, which she strove to draw t'other way, and, at times, composing her face, as if sitting to have her picture drawn.--mrs. _barry_ was middle-siz'd, and had darkish hair, light eyes, dark eye-brows, and was indifferently plump:--her face somewhat preceded her action, as the latter did her words, her face ever expressing the passions; not like the actresses of late times, who are afraid of putting their faces out of the form of non-meaning, lest they should crack the cerum, white-wash, or other cosmetic, trowel'd on. mrs. _barry_ had a manner of drawing out her words, which became her, but not mrs. _braidshaw_, and mrs. _porter_, (successors.)----to hear her speak the following speech in the orphan, was a charm: _i'm ne'er so well pleas'd, as when i hear thee speak, and listen to the music of thy voice._ and again: _who's he that speaks with a voice so sweet, as the shepherd pipes upon the mountain, when all his little flock are gath'ring round him?_ neither she, nor any of the actors of those times, had any tone in their speaking, (too much, lately, in use.)--in _tragedy_ she was solemn and august--in _free comedy_ alert, easy, and genteel--pleasant in her face and action; filling the stage with variety of gesture.--she was woman to lady _shelton_, of _norfolk_, (my godmother)--when lord _rochester_ took her on the stage; where for some time, they could make nothing of her.--she could neither sing, nor dance, no, not in a country-dance. * * * * * mrs. _bracegirdle_, that _diana_ of the stage, hath many places contending for her birth--the most received opinion is, that she was the daughter of a coachman, coachmaker, or letter-out of coaches, in the town of _northampton_.--but i am inclinable to my father's opinion, (who had a great value for her reported virtue) that she was a distant relation, and came out of _staffordshire_, from about _walsal_ or _wolverhampton_.--she had many assailants on her virtue, as lord _lovelace_, mr. _congreve_, the last of which had her company most; but she ever resisted his vicious attacks, and, yet, was always uneasy at his leaving her; on which observation he made the following song: pious celinda _goes to pray'rs, whene'er i ask the favour; yet, the tender fool's in tears, when she believes i'll leave her. wou'd i were free from this restraint, or else had power to win her! wou'd she cou'd make of me a saint, or i of her a sinner!_ and, as mr. _durfey_ alludes to it in his puppet song--in _don quixot_, _since that our fate intends our amity shall be no dearer, still let us kiss and be friends, and sigh we shall never come nearer._ she was very shy of lord _lovelace's_ company, as being an engaging man, who drest well: and as, every day, his servant came to her, to ask her how she did, she always return'd her answer in the most obeisant words and behaviour, _that she was indifferent well, she humbly thank'd his lordship_.--she was of a lovely height, with dark-brown hair and eye-brows, black sparkling eyes, and a fresh blushy complexion; and, whenever she exerted herself, had an involuntary flushing in her breast, neck and face, having continually a chearful aspect, and a fine set of even white teeth; never making an _exit_, but that she left the audience in an imitation of her pleasant countenance. genteel comedy was her chief essay, and that too when in men's cloaths, in which she far surmounted all the actresses of that and this age.--yet she had a defect scarce perceptible, _viz._ her right shoulder a little protended, which, when in men's cloaths, was cover'd by a long or campaign peruke.--she was finely shap'd, and had very handsome legs and feet; and her gait, or walk, was free, manlike, and modest, when in breeches.--her virtue had its reward, both in applause and _specie_; for it happen'd, that as the dukes of _dorset_ and _devonshire_, lord _hallifax_, and other nobles, over a bottle, were all extolling mrs. _bracegirdle's_ virtuous behaviour, come, says lord _hallifax_--_you all commend her virtue, &c. but why do we not present this incomparable woman with something worthy her acceptance?_ his lordship deposited guineas, which the rest made up , and sent to her, with encomiums on her virtue.--she was, when on the _stage_, diurnally charitable, going often into _clare-market_, and giving money to the poor unemploy'd basket-women, insomuch that she could not pass that neighbourhood without the thankful acclamations of people of all degrees; so that, if any person had affronted her, they would have been in danger of being kill'd directly; and yet this good woman was an actress.--she has been off the stage these years or more, but was alive _july , _; for i saw her in the _strand, london_, then--with the remains of charming _bracegirdle_. * * * * * mr. _sandford_, although not usually deem'd an actor of the first rank, yet the characters allotted him were such, that none besides, then, or since, ever topp'd; for his figure, which was diminutive and mean, (being round-shoulder'd, meagre-fac'd, spindle-shank'd, splay-footed, with a sour countenance, and long lean arms) render'd him a proper person to discharge _jago_, _foresight_, and _ma'lignij_, in the villain. but he fail'd in succeeding in a fine description of a triumphant cavalcade, in _alonzo_, in the mourning bride, because his figure was despicable, (although his energy was, by his voice and action, enforc'd with great soundness of art, and justice.)--this person acted strongly with his face,--and (as king _charles_ said) was the best villain in the world.--he proceeded from the _sandfords_ of _sandford_, that lies between _whitchurch_ and _newport_, in shropshire.--he would not be concern'd with mr. _betterton_, mrs. _barry_, _&c._ as a sharer in the revolt from _drury-lane_ to _lincoln's-inn-fields_; but said, _this is my agreement_.--_to_ samuel sandford, _gentleman_, threescore shillings a week.----pho! pho! _said mr._ betterton, _three pounds a week_.----_no, no, said_ sandford;--_to_ samuel sandford, _gentleman_, threescore shillings a week. for which _cave underhill_, who was a / sharer, would often jeer _sandford_; saying, _samuel sandford, gent, my man._----go, you sot, said _sandford_.--to which t'other ever replied, _samuel sandford, my man_ samuel. [illustration: cave underhill.] _cave underhill_, and mr. _dogget_, will be the next treated of. * * * * * _cave underhill_, though not the best actor in the course of precedency, was more admired by the actors than the audience--there being then no rivals in his dry, heavy, downright way in low comedy.--his few parts were, the first grave-digger in hamlet,--_sancho pancha_, in the first part of don quixot,--_ned blunt_, in the rover,--_jacomo_, in the libertine, and the _host_, in the villain:--all which were dry, heavy characters, except in _jacomo_; in which, when he aim'd at any archness, he fell into downright insignificance.--he was about years of age the latter end of king _william's_ reign, about six foot high, long and broad-fac'd, and something more corpulent than this author; his face very like the _homo sylvestris_, or _champanza_; for his nose was flattish and short, and his upper lip very long and thick, with a wide mouth and short chin, a churlish voice, and awkward action, (leaping often up with both legs at a time, when he conceived any thing waggish, and afterwards hugging himself at the thought.)----he could not enter into any serious character, much more tragedy; and was the most confin'd actor i ever saw: and could scarce be brought to speak a short _latin_ speech in don quixot, when _sancho_ is made to say, _sit bonus populus, bonus ero gubernator_; which he pronounced thus: _shit bones and bobble arse, bones, and ears goble nature._ he was obliged to mr. _betterton_ for thrusting him into the character of _merryman_ in his _wanton wife_, or _amorous widow_; but _westheart cave_ was too much of a dullman.--his chief atchievement was in _lolpoop_, in the _'squire of alsatia_; where it was almost impossible for him to deviate from himself: but he did great injustice to sir _sampson legend_ in _love for love_, unless it had been true, that the knight had been bred a hog-driver.--in short, _underhill_ was far from being a good actor--as appear'd by the late _ben. johnson's_ assuming his parts of _jacomo_--the grave-digger in _hamlet_--and judge _grypus_ in _amphytrion_.--i know, mr. _underhill_ was much cry'd up in his time; but i am so stupid as not to know why. * * * * * mr. _dogget_, indeed, cannot reasonably be so censur'd; for whoever decry'd him, must inevitably have laugh'd much, whenever he saw him act. mr. _dogget_ was but little regarded, 'till he chopp'd on the character of _solon_ in the _marriage-hater match'd_; and from that he vegetated fast in the parts of _fondlewife_ in the _old batchelor_--_colignii_, in the _villain_--_hob_, in the _country wake_--and _ben_ the sailor, in _love for love_.--but, on a time, he suffer'd himself to be expos'd, by attempting the serious character of _phorbas_ in _oedipus_, than which nothing cou'd be more ridiculous--for when he came to these words--(_but, oh! i wish_ phorbas _had perish'd in that very moment_)--the audience conceived that it was spoke like _hob_ in his dying-speech.--they burst out into a loud laughter; which sunk _tom dogget's_ progress in tragedy from that time. _fælix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum._ but our present laureat had a better opinion of himself;--for, in a few nights afterwards, _colley_, at the old theatre, attempted the same character; but was hiss'd,--his voice sounding like _lord foppington's_--_ne sutor ultra crepidam._ mr. _dogget_ was a little, lively, spract man, about the stature of mr. l----, sen. bookseller in b--h, but better built.--his behaviour modest, chearful, and complaisant.--he sung in company very agreeably, and in public very comically.--he danc'd the _cheshire round_ full as well as the fam'd capt. _george_, but with much more nature and nimbleness.--i have had the pleasure of his conversation for one year, when i travell'd with him in his strolling company, and found him a man of very good sense, but illiterate; for he wrote me word thus--_sir, i will give you a_ hole instead of (_whole_) _share_.--he dress'd neat, and something fine--in a plain cloth coat, and a brocaded waistcoat:--but he is so recent, having been so often at _bath_,--_satis est_.--he gave his yearly water-badge, out of a warm principle, (being a _staunch revolution-whig_.)----i cannot part with this _nonpareil_, without saying, that he was the most faithful, pleasant actor that ever was--for he never deceiv'd his audience--because, while they gaz'd at him, he was working up the joke, which broke out suddenly in involuntary acclamations and laughter.--whereas our modern actors are fumbling the dull minutes, keeping the gaping pit in suspence of something delightful a coming,--_et parturiunt montes, nascitur ridiculus mus_. he was the best face-player and gesticulator, and a thorough master of the several dialects, except the _scots_, (for he never was in _scotland_) but was, for all that, a most excellent _sawney_. whoever would see him pictur'd, may view his picture, in the character of _sawney_, at the _duke's head_ in _lynn-regis_, in _norfolk_.----while i travell'd with him, each sharer kept his horse, and was every where respected as a gentleman. _jack verbruggen_, in point of merit, will salute you next. _jack verbruggen_, that rough diamond, shone more bright than all the artful, polish'd brillants that ever sparkled on our stage.--(_jack bore the bell away._)--he had the words perfect at one view, and nature directed 'em into voice and action, in which last he was always pleasing--his person being tall, well-built and clean; only he was a little in-kneed, which gave him a shambling gate, which was a carelessness, and became him.--his chief parts were _bajazet_, _oroonoko_, _edgar_ in king _lear_, _wilmore_ in the _rover_, and _cassius_, when mr. _betterton_ play'd _brutus_ with him.--then you might behold the grand contest, _viz._ whether nature or art excell'd--_verbruggen_ wild and untaught, or _betterton_ in the trammels of instruction.---in _edgar_, in king _lear_, _jack_ shew'd his judgment most; for his madness was unlimited: whereas he sensibly felt a tenderness for _cordelia_, in these words, (speaking to her)--_as you did once know_ edgar!--and you may best conceive his manly, wild starts, by these words in _oroonoko_,--_ha! thou hast rous'd the lyon [in] his den; he stalks abroad, and the wild forest trembles at his roar:_--which was spoke, like a lyon, by _oroonoko_, and _jack verbruggen_; for nature was so predominant, that his second thoughts never alter'd his prime performance.--the late marquess of _hallifax_ order'd oroonoko to be taken from _george powel_, saying to mr. _southern_, the author,--that _jack_ was the unpolish'd hero, and wou'd do it best.--in the _rover_ (_wilmore_) never were more beautiful scenes than between him, and mrs. _bracegirdle_, in the character of _helena_; for, what with _verbruggen's_ untaught airs, and her smiling repartees, the audience were afraid they were going off the stage every moment.--_verbruggen_ was nature, without extravagance--freedom, without licentiousness--and vociferous, without bellowing.----he was most indulgently soft, when he says to _imoinda_,--_i cannot, as i wou'd, bestow thee; and, as i ought, i dare not._--yet, with all these perfections, _jack_ did, and said, more silly things than all the actors besides; for he was drawn in at the common cheat of pricking at the girdle, cups and balls, _&c._ and told his wife one day that he had found out a way to raise a great benefit.--_i hope_, said she, _you'll have your_ bills _printed in_ gold letters.--_no, no, better than that_, said he; _for i'll have the king's-arms all in gold letters_.--as mr. _verbruggen_ had nature for his directress in acting, so had a known singer, _jemmy bowen_, the same in music:--he, when practising a song set by mr. purcell, some of the music told him to grace and run a division in such a place. _o let him alone_, said mr. _purcell_; _he will grace it more naturally than you, or i, can teach him_.--in short, an actor, like a poet, _nascitur, non fit._ and this author prizes himself on that attempt, as he hath had the judgment of all the best critics in the character of _fondlewife_ in the _old batchelor_.--_if you wou'd see nature_, say they, _see_ tony aston--_if art_, colley cibber;--and, indeed, i have shed mock tears in that part often involuntarily. * * * * * mrs. _verbruggen_ claims a place next. she was all art, and her acting all acquir'd, but dress'd so nice, it look'd like nature. there was not a look, a motion, but what were all design'd; and these at the same word, period, occasion, incident, were every night, in the same character, alike; and yet all sat charmingly easy on her.--her face, motion, _&c._ chang'd at once: but the greatest, and usual, position was laughing, flirting her fan, and _je ne scay quois_,--with a kind of affected twitter.--she was very loath to accept of the part of _weldon_ in _oroonoko_, and that with just reason, as being obliged to put on men's cloaths--having thick legs and thighs, corpulent and large posteriours;--but yet the town (that respected her) compounded, and receiv'd her with applause; for she was the most pleasant creature that ever appear'd: adding to these, that she was a fine, fair woman, plump, full-featur'd; her face of a fine, smooth oval, full of beautiful, well-dispos'd moles on it, and on her neck and breast--whatever she did was not to be call'd acting; no, no, it was what she represented: she was neither more nor less, and was the most easy actress in the world. the late mrs. oldfield borrow'd something of her manner in free comedy;--as for tragedy, mrs. _verbruggen_ never attempted it. _melanthe_ was her master-piece; and the part of _hillaria_ in _tunbridge-walks_ cou'd not be said to be acted by any one but her.--her maiden-name was _percival_; and she was the widow of mr. _mountford_, (who was kill'd by lord _mohun_) when mr. _verbruggen_ married her.--she was the best conversation possible; never captious, or displeas'd at any thing but what was gross or indecent; for she was cautious, lest fiery _jack_ shou'd so resent it as to breed a quarrel;--for he wou'd often say,--_dammee! tho' i don't much value my wife, yet no body shall affront her, by g--d_; and his sword was drawn on the least occasion, which was much in fashion at the latter end of king _william's_ reign;--at which time i came on the stage, when mr. _dogget_ left it; and then the facetious _joe haines_ was declining in years and reputation, tho' a good actor and poet, his prologues exceeding all ever wrote.--[_vide_ love and a bottle.] * * * * * _joe haines_ is more remarkable for the witty, tho' wicked, pranks he play'd, and for his prologues and epilogues, than for acting.--he was, at first, a dancer.--after he had made his tour of _france_, he narrowly escaped being seiz'd, and sent to the _bastile_, for personating an _english_ peer, and running livres in debt in _paris_; but, happily landing at dover, he went to _london_, where in _bartholomew-fair_, he set up a droll-booth, and acted a new droll, call'd, _the whore of babylon, the devil, and the pope_. this was in the first year of king _james_ ii. when _joe_ was sent for, and roundly admonish'd, by judge _pollixfen_ for it. _joe_ reply'd, _that he did it in respect to his_ holiness; _for, whereas many ignorant people believed the_ pope _to be a_ beast, _he shew'd him to be a fine, comely old gentleman, as he was; not with seven heads, and ten horns, as the_ scotch _parsons describe him_. however, this affair spoil'd _joe's_ expiring credit; for next morning, a couple of bailiffs seiz'd him in an action of _l._ as the bishop of _ely_ was passing by in his coach.--quoth _joe_ to the bailiffs,--_gentlemen, here's my cousin, the bishop of_ ely, _going into his house; let me but speak to him, and he'll pay the debt and charges_. the bailiffs thought they might venture that, as they were within three or four yards of him. so, up goes _joe_ to the coach, pulling off his hat, and got close to it. the bishop order'd the coach to stop, whilst _joe_ (close to his ear) said softly, _my lord, here are two poor men, who have such great scruples of conscience, that, i fear, they'll hang themselves._--very well, _said the bishop_. so, calling to the bailiffs, he said, _you two men, come to me to-morrow morning, and i'll satisfy you_. the men bow'd, and went away. _joe_ (hugging himself with his fallacious device) went also his way. in the morning, the bailiffs (expecting the debt and charges) repair'd to the bishop's; where being introduced,--_well_, said the bishop, _what are your scruples of conscience?_--_scruples!_ (said the bailiffs) _we have no scruples: we are bailiffs, my lord, who, yesterday, arrested your cousin_, joe haines, _for l. your lordship promised to satisfy us to-day, and we hope your lordship will be as good as your word._--the bishop, reflecting that his honour and name would be expos'd, (if he complied not) paid the debt and charges.--there were two parts of plays (_nol bluff_ in the _old batchelor_, and _roger_ in _Æsop_) which none ever touch'd but _joe haines_.--i own, i have copied him in _roger_, as i did mr. _dogget_ in _fondlewife_.--but, now, for another story of him. in the long vacation, when harlots, poets, and players, are all poor,--_joe_ walking in _cross-street_, by _hatton-garden_, sees a fine venison-pasty come out of _glassop's_, a pastry-cook's shop, which a boy carried to a gentleman's house thereby.--_joe_ watch'd it; and seeing a gentleman knock at the door, he goes to the door, and ask'd him if he had knock'd at it: _yes_, said the gentleman; _the door is open'd_.--in goes the gentleman, and _joe_ after him, to the dining-room.--chairs were set, and all ready for the pasty. the master of the house took _joe_ for the gentleman's friend, whom he had invited to dinner; which being over, the gentleman departed. _joe_ sat still.--says the master of the house to _joe_, _sir, i thought you would have gone with your friend_!--_my friend_, said _joe_; _alas! i never saw him before in my life_.--_no, sir_, replied the other: _pray, sir, then how came you to dinner here?_--_sir_, said _joe_, _i saw a venison-pasty carried in here; and, by this means, have din'd very heartily of it_. _my name is_ joe haines, (said he) _i belong to the_ theatre.--_oh, mr._ haines, (continued the gentleman) _you are very welcome; you are a man of wit: come, bring t'other bottle_; which being finish'd, _joe_, with good manners, departed, and purposely left his cane behind him, which he design'd to be an introduction to another dinner there: for, next day, when they were gone to dinner, _joe_ knock'd briskly at the door, to call for his cane, when the gentleman of the house was telling a friend of his the trick he play'd the day before.--_pray call mr._ haines _in_.--_so, mr._ haines, said he; _sit down, and partake of another dinner_.--_to tell you the truth_, said _joe_, _i left my cane yesterday on purpose_: at which they all laugh'd.--now _joe_ (altho' while greedily eating) was very attentive to a discourse on humanity begun, and continued, by the stranger gentleman; wherein he advanced, that every man's duty was to assist another, whether with advice, money, cloaths, food, or whatever else. this sort of principle suited _joe's_ end, as by the sequel will appear. the company broke up, and _joe_, and the gentleman, walk'd away, (_joe_ sighing as he went along.) the gentleman said to him, _what do you sigh for?_--_dear sir_, (quoth _joe_) _i fear my landlord will, this day, seize my goods for only a quarter's rent, due last week_.--_how much is the money?_ said the gentleman.--_fifty shillings_, said _joe_, _and the patentees owe me ten pounds, which will be paid next week._--_come_, said the gentleman, _i'll lend thee fifty shillings on your note, to pay me faithfully in three weeks_. which _joe_, with many promises and imprecations, sign'd.--but _joe_, thereafter, had his eyes looking out before him; and, whenever he saw the gentleman, would carefully avoid him; which the gentleman one day perceiv'd, and going a-cross _smithfield_, met _joe_ full in the face, and, in the middle of the _rounds_, stopp'd him. taking him by the collar, _sirrah_, said he, _pray pay me now, you impudent, cheating dog, or i'll beat you into a jelly_.--_joe_ fell down on his knees, making a dismal outcry, which drew a mob about them, who enquir'd into the occasion, which was told them; and they, upon hearing it, said to the gentleman, _that the poor man could not pay it, if he had it not_.--_well_, said he, _let him kneel down, and eat up that thin sirreverence, and i'll forgive him, and give up his note_.--_joe_ promis'd he would, and presently eat it all up, smearing his lips and nose with the human conserve. the gentleman gave him his note; when _joe_ ran and embrac'd him, kissing him, and bedaubing his face, and setting the mob a hollowing. * * * * * _the_ second part _of their_ lives, _with the continuation of_ joe haines'_s pranks, the author hopes a fresh advance for.----in the_ interim, _he thanks his friends._ _finis._ memoirs of the actors and actresses mentioned by cibber, taken from edmund bellchambers's edition of the "apology," . william smith. this judicious actor, who is said to have been originally a barrister, came into the duke's company, when acting under sir william d'avenant, in lincoln's inn fields, about the year . he rose soon after to the duties of _buckingham_, in "king henry the eighth," and subsequently filled a range of characters distinguished by their variety and importance. _sir william stanley_, in caryl's wretched play of the "english princess," procured him additional estimation and applause, which were still farther enlarged by his performance of _stanford_ in shadwell's "sullen lovers." mr. smith was the original _chamont_ in otway's "orphan," and played many parts of as much local consequence in pieces that are now forgotten. note.--all passages enclosed in square brackets are by the present editor, who is also responsible for the notes marked (l.). chetwood informs us that mr. smith was zealously attached to the interests of king james the second, in whose army, attended by two servants, he entered as a volunteer. upon the abdication of that monarch, he returned to the stage, by the persuasions of many friends, who admired his performances, and resumed his original part of _wilmore_ in the "rover;" but having been received with considerable disapprobation, on account of his party principles, the audience was dismissed, and he departed from public life in the manner already mentioned. it is difficult to reconcile these discrepancies. chetwood's minuteness looks like credibility, and cibber has committed a mistake in stating that mr. smith "entirely quitted" the stage at this secession, he having returned in , when at the earnest solicitations of his sincere friends mr. betterton and mrs. barry, strengthened by the influence of congreve over many of his connections in high life, he consented to sustain the part of _scandal_ in that author's comedy of "love for love," upon its production at the new theatre in little lincoln's inn fields, when his inimitable performance imparted an extra charm to that admirable play. continued peals of applause attested the satisfaction which his auditors felt at the return of their old favourite, and it seems singular that congreve should have wholly overlooked this memorable event, in the "prologue" at least, where the defection of williams and mrs. mountfort is thus obscurely stated: forbear your wonder, and the fault forgive if in our larger family we grieve one falling adam, and one tempted eve. mr. smith continued on the stage till about twelve months after this period, when, according to downes, having a long part in banks's tragedy of "cyrus," , he fell sick on the fourth day of performance, and died from a cold, as chetwood relates, occasioned by cramp, which having seized him while in bed, he rose to get rid of it, and remained so long in his naked condition, that a fever ensued from disordered lungs, and, in three days, put an end to his existence. we have but a slender clue to the stage-management of mr. smith, which was exercised over the duke's company in dorset-garden, conjointly with betterton and dr. d'avenant, when the famous agreement which bears their signatures was concluded with hart and kynaston, for an union of the theatres. it has been said that booth [who wrote an epitaph on smith] applied to him for an engagement, which was refused from a fear of offending his relatives, but with that kindness of expression and deportment so warmly distinguished in his epitaph. this assertion, however, is unfounded, for when mr. smith died, barton booth was a westminster scholar, and in the fourteenth year of his age; the character of this eminent comedian must, accordingly, have been drawn up from such intelligence as the writer acquired at a subsequent period. it only remains to be remarked, that chetwood has placed mr. smith's original return to the stage in the year ; but, not to insist upon the known looseness of this writer's information, let us ask if a political offence would be so vehemently remembered, after the lapse of four years, as to drive an estimable actor from the harmless pursuance of his ordinary duties? cibber is doubtless correct in the floating date of this fact, which must have happened _previous_ to the revolution. mr. smith was a principal actor in lee's later tragedies, but in the "princess of cleve," to, , we find the part he would naturally have played to betterton's _nemours_, supported by mr. williams. smith's value as an actor, may be immediately felt by a reference to the parts he enjoyed under betterton, with whom he lived till death in the most cordial manner, enhancing his fame by honourable emulation, and promoting his interests by unbroken amity. no instance has been recorded of their dissention or dispute, and from the notice which betterton extended to booth, he very possibly communicated that high account of his departed friend, which the latter has recorded with such spirit and fidelity. from cibber's admission, it appears, that smith's moral qualities and professional excellence, procured him an extensive reception among people of rank, a patronage which his polished manners continued to exact, till society, by his death, sustained one of its deepest deprivations. (b.) chetwood's story is now incapable either of proof or disproof. the known facts about smith's retirement are, that his name appears to constantine the great, to courtine in otway's "atheist," and to lorenzo in southerne's "disappointment," in ; that it then disappears, and does not again occur till . it is probable that he retired in , as it is unlikely that his name should not appear in one or other of the bills. (l.) charles hart. charles hart was the great nephew of shakspeare, his father, william, being the eldest son of our poet's sister joan. brought up as an apprentice under robinson, a celebrated actor, he commenced his career, conformably to the practice of that time, by playing female parts, among which the _duchess_, in shirley's tragedy of the "cardinal," was the first that exhibited his talents, or enhanced his reputation. puritanism having gathered great strength, opposed theatrical amusements as vicious and profane institutions, which it was at length enabled to abolish and suppress. on the th day of february, ,[ ] and the subsequent d of october, two ordinances were issued by the long parliament, whereby all stage-players were made liable to punishment for following their usual occupation. before the appearance of this severe edict, most of the actors had gone into the army, and fought with distinguished spirit for their unfortunate master; when, however, his fate was determined, the surviving dependants on the drama were compelled to renew their former efforts, in pursuance of which they returned, just before the death of charles, to act a few plays at the "cockpit" theatre, where, while performing the tragedy of "rollo," they were taken into custody by soldiers, and committed to prison.[ ] upon this occasion, hart, who had been a lieutenant of horse, under sir thomas dallison, in prince rupert's own regiment, sustained the character of _otto_, a part which he afterwards relinquished to kynaston, in exchange for the fierce energies of his ambitious brother. at the restoration, hart was enrolled among the company constituting his majesty's servants, by whom the new theatre royal, drury-lane, was opened on the th of april, , with beaumont and fletcher's play of the "humourous lieutenant," in which he sustained a principal character for twelve days of successive representation. about the year ,[ ] hart introduced mrs. gwyn upon the dramatic boards, and has acquired the distinction of being ranked among that lady's first felicitous lovers, by having succeeded to lacy, in the possession of her charms. nell had been tutored for the stage by these admirers in conjunction, and after testifying her gratitude to both, passed into the hands of lord buckhurst, by whom she was transferred to the custody of king charles the second. the principal parts, according to downes, sustained by mr. hart, were _arbaces_, in "king and no king;" _amintor_, in the "maid's tragedy;" _othello_, _rolla_, _brutus_, and _alexander the great_. such was his attraction in all these characters, that, to use the language of that honest prompter, "if he acted in any one of these but once in a fortnight, the house was filled as at a new play; especially _alexander_, he acting that with such grandeur and agreeable majesty, that one of the court was pleased to honour him with this commendation--'that hart might teach any king on earth how to comport himself.'" his merit has also been specified as _mosca_, in the "fox," _don john_, in the "chances," and _wildblood_, in an "evening's love;" which, however, according to the same authority, merely harmonised with his general efforts, in commanding a vast superiority over the best of his successors. rymer has said that hart's action could throw a lustre round the meanest characters, and, by dazzling the eyes of the spectator, protect the poet's deformities from discernment. he was taller, and more genteelly shaped than mohun, on which account he probably claimed the choice of parts, and was prescriptively invested with the attributes of youth and agility. he possessed a considerable share in the profits and direction of the theatre, which were divided among the principal performers; and besides his salary of £ a week, and an allowance as a proprietor, amounting to six shillings and three-pence a day, is supposed to have occasionally cleared about £ per annum. [on the th of october, , a memorandum was signed between dr. charles davenant, betterton, and smith, of the one part, and hart and kynaston, of the other, by which the two last mentioned, in consideration of five shillings each for every day on which there shall be a play at the duke's theatre, undertake to do all they can to break up the king's company. the result of this agreement was the union of . this agreement is given in gildon's "life of betterton" (p. ), and in genest (i. ). i suppose it is a genuine document, but i confess to some doubts, based chiefly on my belief that betterton was too honest to enter into so shabby an intrigue.] declining age had rendered hart less fit for exertion than in the vigour of life, and certain of the young actors, such as goodman and clark, became impatient to get possession of his and mohun's characters. a violent affliction, however, of the stone and gravel, compelled him to relinquish his professional efforts, and having stipulated for the payment of five shillings a-day, during the season,[ ] he retired from the stage, and died a short time after. hart was always esteemed a constant observer of decency in manners, and the following anecdote will evince his respect for the clergy. that witty, but abandoned fellow, jo haynes, had persuaded a silly divine, into whose company he had unaccountably fallen, that the players were a set of people, who wished to be reformed, and wanted a chaplain to the theatre, an appointment for which, with a handsome yearly income, he could undertake to recommend him. he then directed the clergyman to summon his hearers, by tolling a bell to prayers every morning, a scheme, in pursuance of which haynes introduced his companion, with a bell in his hand, behind the scenes, which he frequently rang, and cried out, audibly, "players! players! come to prayers!" while jo and some others were enjoying this happy contrivance, hart came into the theatre, and, on discovering the imposition, was extremely angry with haynes, whom he smartly reprehended, and having invited the clergyman to dinner, convinced him that this buffoon was an improper associate for a man of his function.[ ] michael mohun. the life of michael mohun, though passed in its early stages beneath a different teacher, was chequered by the very shades which distinguished that of hart, with whom he acquired his military distinctions, and reverted to a theatrical life. he was brought up with shatterel, under beeston, at the "cock-pit," in drury-lane, where, in shirley's play of "love's cruelty," he sustained the part of _bellamente_, among other female characters,[ ] and held it even after the restoration. having attained the rank of captain in the royal forces, mohun went to flanders upon the termination of the civil war, where he received pay as a major, and acquitted himself with distinguished credit. at the restoration, he resumed his pristine duties, and became an able second to hart, with whom he was equally admired for superlative knowledge of his arduous profession. he is celebrated by lord rochester, as the great Æsopus of the stage; praise, which, though coming from one of so capricious a temper, may be relied on, since it is confirmed by more respectable testimony. he was particularly remarkable for the dignity of his deportment, and the elegance of his step, which mimics, said his lordship, attempted to imitate, though they could not reach the sublimity of his elocution. the duke's comedians, it would seem, endeavoured to emulate his manner, when reduced by age and infirmity, a baseness which the same noble observer has thus warmly reprehended:-- yet these are they, who durst expose the age of the great wonder of the english stage. whom nature seem'd to form for your delight, and bid him speak, as she bid shakespeare write. these blades indeed are cripples in their art, mimick his foot, but not his speaking part. let them the _traytor_ or _volpone_ try, could they rage like _cethegus_, or like _cassius_ die? (epilogue to fane's "love in the dark.") mohun, from his inferior height and muscular form, generally acted grave, solemn, austere parts, though upon more than one occasion, as in _valentine_, in "wit without money," and _face_, in the "alchemist,"--one of his most capital characters,--he was frequently seen in gay and buoyant assumptions to great advantage. he was singularly eminent as _melantius_, in the "maid's tragedy;" _mardonius_, in "king and no king;" _clytus_, _mithridates_, and the parts alluded to by lord rochester. no man had more skill in putting spirit and passion into the dullest poetry than mohun, an excellence with which lee was so delighted, that on seeing him act his own king of pontus, he suddenly exclaimed, "o, mohun, mohun, thou little man of mettle, if i should write a hundred plays, i'd write a part for thy mouth!" and yet lee himself was so exquisite a reader, that mohun once threw down a part in despair of approaching the force of the author's expression. the "tatler" has adverted to his singular science;[ ] "in all his parts, too," says downes, "he was most accurate and correct;" and perhaps no encomium can transcend the honours of unbroken propriety. about the year , there are some reasons to suspect that the king's company was divided by feuds and animosities, which their adversaries in dorset-garden so well improved, as to produce an union of the separate patents. hart and kynaston were dexterously detached from their old associates, by the management of betterton, whose conduct, though grounded upon maxims of policy, can derive no advantage from so unfair an expedient. upon the completion of this nefarious treaty, mohun, who found means to retain the services of kynaston, with the remnant of the royal company, continued to act in defiance of the junction just concluded, as an independent body. downes, in his "roscius anglicanus," so far as the imperfect structure of its sentences can be relied on, expressly asserts this; and yet if "the patentees of each company united patents, and, by so incorporating, the duke's company were made the king's, and immediately removed to the theatre royal in drury-lane," what field did mohun and his followers select for their operations, to pitch their tents, and hoist their standard? till some period, at least, of the year , this party were in possession of their antient domicile, as mohun at that time, acted _burleigh_, in banks's "unhappy favourite," and sustained a principal character in southern's "loyal brother," with, for his heroine, in both pieces, the famous nell gwyn.[ ] [bellchambers is here very inaccurate. the union of was, no doubt, opposed by some of the king's company, from november, , when the memorandum between davenant, betterton, hart, and others, was executed, and the date of the actual conclusion of the union. this is clearly indicated in dryden's prologue on the opening of drury lane by the united company on th november, . but, whatever the opposition had been, it had ceased then, because in the cast of the "duke of guise," produced less than three weeks later, appear the names of kynaston and wiltshire, whom bellchambers represents as supporting mohun in his supposed opposition theatre. (l.)] cardell goodman. cardell goodman, according to his own admissions, as detailed by cibber elsewhere, was expelled the university of cambridge, for certain political reasons, a disgrace, however, which did not disqualify him for the stage. he came upon it, accordingly, by repairing to drury-lane theatre, where downes has recorded [what was probably] his first appearance, as _polyperchon_, in the "rival queens," to. . here, although we cannot trace his success in any character of importance, mr. cibber has adverted to his rapid advances in reputation. he followed the fortunes of mohun in opposing the united actors, but, about three years afterwards, resorted to them, (in ,) and sustained the hero of lord rochester's "valentinian." it is about this period that his excellence must have blazed out as _alexander the great_, since cibber, who went upon the stage in , says goodman had retired before the time of his appearance. the highest salary enjoyed at that period we are now treating of, was six shillings and three pence per diem, a stipend that was by no means equal to the strong passions and large appetites of a gay, handsome, inconsiderate young fellow. he was consequently induced to commit a robbery on the highway, and sentenced upon detection, to make a summary atonement for his fatal error; but this being the first exploit of that kind to which the scantiness of his income had urged him, king james was persuaded to pardon him, a favour for which goodman was so grateful, that, in the year , he shared with sir john fenwick in a design to assassinate king william, who spared his life in consideration of the testimony he was to render against his accomplice. this condition, however, goodman did not fulfil, as he withdrew clandestinely to the continent, to avoid giving evidence, and died in exile. having been selected as a fit instrument for her abandoned pleasures by the duchess of cleveland, goodman, long before his death, became so happy in his circumstances, that he acted only at intervals, when his titled mistress most probably desired to see him; for he used to say, he would not even act _alexander_, unless his duchess were in front to witness the performance. richard estcourt. richard estcourt, according to the biographical notice of chetwood, was born at tewksbury, in glostershire, in the year , and received a competent education at the latin grammar-school of his native town. influenced by an early attachment to the stage, he left his father's house, in the fifteenth year of his age, with an itinerant company, and on reaching worcester, to elude the possibility of detection, made his first appearance as _roxana_, in the "rival queens." having received a correct intimation of this theatrical purpose, his father sent to secure the fugitive, who slipped away in a suit of woman's clothes, borrowed from one of his kind-hearted companions, and travelled to chipping-norton, a distance of five-and-twenty miles, in the course of the day. to prevent such excursions for the future, he was quickly carried up to london, and apprenticed to an apothecary in hatton-garden, with whom, according to some authorities, he continued till the expiration of his indentures, and duly entered into business; which, either from want of liking or success he soon afterwards renounced, and returned to his favourite avocation.[ ] chetwood, on the contrary, asserts that he broke away from his master's authority, and after strolling about england for two years, went over to dublin, where his performances were sanctioned by ardent and universal applause. about the opening of the eighteenth century [that is, th october, ], mr. estcourt was engaged at drury-lane theatre, where he made his débût as _dominic_, in the "spanish friar," and established his efforts, it is said, by a close imitation of leigh, the original possessor of that part. in the year [should be ], such was his merit or reputation, that farquhar selected him for _sergeant kite_, in the "recruiting officer," a character to which downes has alluded in terms of unqualified praise. it is asserted in the "biographia dramatica," that mr. estcourt was "mostly indebted for his applause to his powers of mimicry, in which he was inimitable; and which not only at times afforded him opportunities of appearing a much better actor than he really was,--by enabling him to copy very exactly several performers of capital merit, whose manner he remembered and assumed,--but also, by recommending him to a very numerous acquaintance in private life, secured him an indulgence for faults in his public profession, that he might otherwise, perhaps, never have been pardoned." as if an actor, in defiance of peculiar incapacity, associated emulation, and public disgust, could maintain, for twelve successive years, the very highest station in the drury-lane company, attainable by talents, such as he was only flattered with possessing! that estcourt was happy in a "very numerous acquaintance," there is no reason to conceal or deny. he was remarkable for the promptitude of his wit, and the permanence of his pleasantry, qualifications that recommended him to the most cordial intercourse with addison, steele, parnell, who has honoured him in a bacchanalian poem, by the name of jocus, and other choice spirits of the age, who enjoyed the variety of his talents, and acknowledged the goodness of his heart. he was highly in favour with the great duke of marlborough, but those who know his grace's character, will hardly be surprised to learn that he did not improve his fortune by that dazzling distinction. estcourt's honours, indeed, were strictly nominal, for though constituted providore of the beef-steak club,--an assemblage comprising the chief wits and greatest men of the nation,--he gained nothing by the office but their badge of employment,--a small golden gridiron, suspended from his neck by a bit of green riband. if the foregoing remarks should be held sufficient to redeem his dramatic character from the obloquy with which it has so long been attended, the following anecdote will perhaps be accepted as ample evidence of his great talent for private mimicry. secretary craggs, when very young, in company with some of his friends, went, with estcourt, to sir godfrey kneller's, and whispered to him that a gentleman present was able to give such a representation of many among his most powerful patrons, as would occasion the greatest surprise. estcourt accordingly, at the artist's earnest desire, mimicked lords somers, halifax, godolphin, and others, so exactly, that kneller was delighted, and laughed heartily at the imitations. craggs gave a signal, as concerted, and estcourt immediately mimicked sir godfrey himself, who cried out in a transport of ungovernable conviction, "nay, there you are out, man! by g--, that's not me!" about a twelvemonth before his death, having retired from the stage, estcourt opened the bumper tavern, in covent-garden, and by enlarging his acquaintance, most probably shortened his days. he died in the year [should be ], and was buried near his brother comedian, jo haynes, in the church-yard of st. paul's, covent-garden. thomas betterton. thomas betterton was born in tothill-street, westminster, in the year [baptized th august, ], his father at that time being under-cook to king charles the first. he received the rudiments of a genteel education, and testified such a propensity to literature, that it was the steadfast intention of his family to have had him qualified for some congenial employment. this design, the confusion and violence of the times most probably prevented, though a fondness for reading induced them to consult his inclinations, and he was accordingly apprenticed to mr. rhodes, a respectable bookseller, residing at the bible, in charing-cross. this person, who had been wardrobe-keeper to the theatre in blackfriars, before the suppression of dramatic amusements, on general monk's approach to london, in the year , obtained a license from the [governing powers] to collect a company of actors, and employ them at the "cockpit," in drury-lane. here, while kynaston, his fellow-apprentice, sustained the principal female parts, betterton was distinguished by the vigour and elegance of his manly personations. the fame of beaumont and fletcher was then at its zenith, and in their plays of the "loyal subject," and the "mad lover," added to "pericles," the "bondman," and the "changeling," mr. betterton established the groundwork of his great reputation. sir william d'avenant having been favoured with a patent before the civil wars broke out, obtained a renewal of that royal grant upon the restoration, and in the spring of [should be june, ], after rehearsing various plays at apothecaries'-hall, he opened a new theatre in lincoln's-inn-fields, where rhodes's comedians, with the addition of harris, and three others, were sworn before the lord chamberlain, as servants of the crown, and honoured by the sanction of the duke of york. here sir william d'avenant produced his "siege of rhodes," a play in two parts, embellished with such scenery and decorations as had never been before exhibited on the boards of a british theatre. the parts were strongly cast, and this drama, assisted by its splendid appendages, was represented for twelve days, successively, with unbounded approbation. at this period mr. betterton first assumed the part of _hamlet_, deriving considerable advantage from the hints of sir william d'avenant, to whom the acting of taylor [who had been instructed by shakespeare] had been formerly familiar. downes expressly declares that this character enhanced mr. betterton's reputation to the utmost, and there is much collateral evidence to substantiate its brilliant superiority.[ ] mr. betterton was so favourably considered by charles the second, that, upon his performance of _alvaro_, in "love and honour," he received that monarch's coronation-suit for the character, as a token of esteem. public opinion kept pace with his efforts to secure it, and by evincing unparalleled talent in such diversified parts as _mercutio_, _sir toby belch_, and _henry the eighth_, (the last of which was adopted from his manager's remembrance of lowin) he speedily attained to that eminence in his art, above which no human exertion can probably ascend. at the king's especial command, it has been asserted by some of his biographers that mr. betterton went over to paris to take a view of the french stage, and suggest such means as might ensure a corresponding improvement upon our own. they even go so far as to term him the first who publicly introduced our moving scenes, though sir william d'avenant, to whom that honour decidedly belongs, had attached them, less perfectly, perhaps, in , to his "cruelty of the spaniards in peru." by or before , mr. betterton had married mrs. saunderson, a performer in the same company, of matchless merit and unsullied virtue, though that event, by the "biographia dramatica," and other incautious compilations, is referred to the year . this lady, it may be remarked, was single, while denominated mistress; the appellation of miss not being made familiar to the middle classes, till after the commencement of the ensuing century. the duke's company, notwithstanding the favour and excellence to which betterton, harris, smith, and other members were admitted, began to feel its want of attraction so forcibly, that sir william d'avenant was induced to try the effects of a new theatre, which was accordingly opened, with unparalleled magnificence, in dorset-garden, salisbury-court, notwithstanding an earnest opposition by the city of london, in november, . opinion, however, still inclining to their antagonists, dramatic operas were invented, and soon enabled the players at this place to achieve a triumph over merit unassisted by such expensive frivolity. at the death of d'avenant, on the th of april, , mr. betterton succeeded to a portion of the management, and so great was the estimation in which both he and his lady were held, that in the year , when a pastoral, called "calisto; or, the chaste nymph," written by mr. crown, at the request of king charles's consort, was to be performed at court by persons of the greatest distinction, they were appointed to instruct them in their respective parts. in , an union was effected with the rival company, which mr. betterton continued to direct, till rich, in , obtained possession of the patent, and dispossessed him of importance and authority. exasperated by ill treatment, mr. betterton confederated with the principal performers to procure an independent license, which being granted by king william, they built a new theatre in lincoln's-inn-fields, by subscription, and opened it on the th of april, , with congreve's comedy of "love for love." in , enfeebled by age and infirmity, this distinguished veteran transferred his license to sir john vanbrugh, who erected a handsome theatre in the haymarket, at which, divested of influence or control, he accepted an engagement as an actor. mr. betterton's salary never exceeded eighty shillings a-week, and having sustained the loss of more than £ , , by a commercial venture to the east indies, in , necessity compelled him to pursue his professional avocations. on thursday, april the th, ,[ ] the play of "love for love" was performed for his benefit, an occasion which summoned mrs. barry and mrs. bracegirdle from their retirement, to aid this antient coadjutor by the resumption of those parts they had originally sustained. congreve is said to have furnished a prologue, though withdrawn and never submitted to print, which was delivered by the latter lady, the former reciting an epilogue from the pen of rowe, which remains in lasting testimony of his affectionate regard. from this address the following lines are worthy of transcription: but since, like friends to wit, thus throng'd you meet, go on, and make the generous work complete; be true to merit, and still own his cause, find something for him more than bare applause. in just remembrance of your pleasures past, be kind and give him a discharge at last; in peace and ease life's remnant let him wear, and hang his consecrated buskin here. this hint, however, proved unavailing, and "old thomas" still continued to labour, when permitted by intermissions of disease, for that subsistence his age and his services should long before have secured. mr. betterton accordingly performed at intervals in the course of the ensuing winter, and on the th of april, [should be th april], was admitted to another benefit, which, with the patronage bestowed upon its predecessor, is supposed to have netted nearly £ . upon this occasion, he was announced for his celebrated part of _melantius_, in the "maid's tragedy," from the performance of which he ought, however, upon strict consideration, to have been deterred; for having been suddenly seized with the gout, a determination not to disappoint the expectancy of his friends, induced him to employ a repellatory medicine, which lessened the swelling of his feet, and permitted him to walk in slippers. he acted, accordingly, with peculiar spirit, and was received with universal applause; but such were the fatal effects of his laudable anxiety, that the distemper returned with unusual violence, ascended to his head, and terminated his existence, in three days from the date of this fatal assumption. on the nd of may his remains were deposited with much form in the cloisters of westminster-abbey. mr. betterton was celebrated for polite behaviour to the dramatic writers of his time, and distinguished by singular modesty, in not presuming to understand the chief points of any character they offered him, till their ideas had been asked, and, if possible, adopted. he is also praised in some verses published with the "state poems," for extending pecuniary assistance to embarrassed writers, till the success of a doubtful production might enable them to remunerate their generous creditor. indeed, mr. betterton's benevolence was coupled with such magnanimity, that upon the death of that unhappy friend to whose counsels his little fortune had been sacrificed, he took charge of a surviving daughter, educated her at considerable expense, and not only made her an accomplished actress, but a valuable woman.[ ] among many testimonies of deference to his judgment, and regard for his zeal, the tributes of dryden and rowe have been brilliantly recorded. he was naturally of a cheerful temper, with a pious reliance upon the dispensations of providence, and nothing can yield a higher idea of his great affability, than the effect his behaviour produced upon pope, who must have been a mere boy, when first admitted to his society. he sat to the poet for his picture, which pope painted in oil,[ ] and so eager was the bard to perpetuate his memory, that he published a modernization of chaucer's "prologues," in this venerable favourite's name, though palpably the produce of his own elegant pen.[ ] as an author, mr. betterton's labours were confined to the drama, and if his original pieces are not entitled to much praise, his alterations exhibit some judicious amendments. edward kynaston. edward kynaston made his first appearance in , at the "cockpit" in drury-lane, under the management of rhodes, to whom, in his trade of bookselling, he had previously been apprenticed. here he took the lead in personating female parts, among which he sustained _calis_, in the "mad lover;" _ismenia_, in the "maid in the mill;" the heroine of sir john suckling's "aglaura;" _arthiope_, in the "unfortunate lovers;" and _evadne_, in the "maid's tragedy." the three last of these parts have been distinguished by downes and our author as the best of his efforts, and being then but a "mannish youth," he made a suitable representative of feminine beauty. kynaston's _forte_, at this period, appears to have consisted in moving compassion and pity, "in which," says old downes, "it has since been disputable among the judicious, whether any woman that succeeded him so sensibly touched the audience as he." at the restoration, when his majesty's servants re-opened the "red bull" playhouse, in st. john-street, next shifted to gibbons's tennis-court, in clare-market, and finally settled, in , at their new theatre in drury-lane, kynaston was admitted to their ranks, and played _peregrine_, in jonson's comedy of the "fox." he also held _sir dauphine_, a minor personage, in the same author's "silent woman," and soon after succeeded to _otto_, in the "duke of normandy," a part which was followed by others of variety and importance. in derogation of cibber's panegyric, we are assured by davies, upon the authority of some old comedians, that, from his juvenile familiarity with female characters, kynaston contracted some disagreeable tones in speaking, which resembled the whine or cant that genuine taste has at all times been impelled to explode. when george powel was once discharging the intemperance of a recent debauch from his stomach, kynaston asked him if he still felt sick. "how is it possible to be otherwise," said powel, "when i hear you speak?" much as kynaston, however, might have been affected by the peculiarities of early practice, we cannot consent, upon evidence such as this, to rob him of the laurels that have sprung from respectable testimony. in he followed the fortunes of betterton to lincoln's-inn-fields, and supported a considerable character in john banks's "cyrus the great," produced the year after this removal. the time of his retirement is not known, but it appears from our author that he continued upon the stage till his memory and spirit both began to fail him. he had left it, however, before , when betterton and underhill have been specified by downes, as "being the only remains of the duke of york's servants," at that time before the public. kynaston died wealthy, and was buried in the church-yard of st. paul's, covent-garden. kynaston bore a great resemblance to the noted sir charles sidley, a similitude of which he was so proud, that he endeavoured to display it by the most particular expedients. on one occasion, he got a suit of laced clothes made in imitation of the baronet's, and appearing publicly in it, sir charles, whose wit very seldom atoned for his ill-nature, punished this vain propensity in his usual mischievous manner. he hired a bravo to accost kynaston in the park, one day when he wore his finery, pick a quarrel with him on account of a pretended affront from his prototype, and beat him unmercifully. this scheme was duly put in practice, and though kynaston protested that he was not the person his antagonist took him for, the ruffian redoubled his blows, on account of what he affected to consider his scandalous falsehood. when sir charles sidley was remonstrated with upon the cruelty of this transaction, he told the actor's friends that their pity was misplaced, for that kynaston had not suffered so much in his bones as _he_ had in his character, the whole town believing that it was he who had undergone the disgrace of this chastisement. william mountfort. william mountfort, according to cibber's estimate, was born in , and having, i suppose, joined the king's company at a very early age, about the year , "grew," in the words of old downes, "to the maturity of a good actor." at drury-lane theatre, he sustained _alfonso corso_, in the "duke of guise," in . his rise was so rapid, that in we find him selected for the hero of crowne's "sir courtly nice," "which," says downes, "was so _nicely_ performed," that none of his successors, but colley cibber, could equal him. perhaps the last new character assumed by mountfort was _cleanthes_, in dryden's "cleomenes," a play to which he spoke the prologue. i here present the reader with a narrative of those circumstances attending the death of mountfort, which have so long been misunderstood and misrepresented. a captain richard hill had made proposals of marriage to mrs. bracegirdle, which were declined from what hill appeared to consider an injurious preference for mountfort, between whom, though a married man, and the lady, at least a platonic attachment was often thought to subsist. enraged at mountfort's superior success, and affecting to treat him as the only obstacle to his wishes, hill expressed a determination at various times, and before several persons, to be revenged upon him, and as it was proved upon the trial, coupled this threat with some of the bitterest invectives that could spring from brutal animosity. among hill's associates was lord mohun, a peer of very dissolute manners, whose extreme youth afforded but a faint palliative for his participation in the act of violence and debauchery to which hill resorted. this nobleman, however, who seems to have felt a chivalric devotion to the interests of his friend, engaged with hill in a cruel and perfidious scheme for the abduction of mrs. bracegirdle, whom hill proposed to carry off, violate, and afterwards marry. they arranged with one dixon, an owner of hackney carriages, to provide a coach and six horses to take them to totteridge, and appointed him to wait with this conveyance over against the horse-shoe tavern in drury-lane. a small party of soldiers was also hired to assist in this notable exploit, and as mrs. bracegirdle, who had been supping at a mr. page's in prince's-street, was going down drury-lane towards her lodgings in howard-street, strand, about ten o'clock at night, on friday the th of december, , two of these soldiers pulled her away from mr. page, who was attending her home, nearly knocked her mother down, and tried to lift her into the vehicle. her mother, upon whom the blow given by these ruffians had providentially made but a short impression, hung very obstinately about her neck, and prevented the success of their endeavours. while mr. page was calling loudly for assistance, hill ran at him with his sword drawn, and again endeavoured to get mrs. bracegirdle into the coach, a task he was hindered from accomplishing, by the alarm that page had successfully given. company came up, on which hill insisted on seeing mrs. bracegirdle home, and actually led her by the hand to the house in which she resided. lord mohun, who during this scuffle was seated quietly in the coach, joined hill in howard-street, the soldiers having been previously dismissed, and there they paraded, with their swords drawn, for about an hour and a half, before mrs. bracegirdle's door. hill's scabbard, it ought to be remarked, was clearly proved to have been lost during the scuffle in drury-lane, and lord mohun, when challenged by the watch, not only sheathed his weapon, but offered to surrender it. these were strong points at least in his lordship's favour, and deserve to be noted, because the prescriptive assertion that mountfort was treacherously killed, is weakened by the establishment of those facts. mrs. brown, the mistress of the house where mrs. bracegirdle lodged, went out on her arrival, to expostulate with lord mohun and his confederate, and after exchanging a few words of no particular importance, dispatched her maid servant to mountfort's house,[ ] hard by in norfolk-street, to apprise mrs. mountfort of the danger to which, in case of coming home, he would be subjected. mrs. mountfort sent in search of her husband, but without success, and the watch on going their round, between eleven and twelve o'clock, found lord mohun and hill drinking wine in the street, a drawer having brought it from an adjacent tavern. at this juncture mrs. brown, the landlady, hearing the voices of the watch, went to the door with a design of directing them to secure both lord mohun and hill, and some conversation passed upon that subject, although her directions were not obeyed. seeing mountfort, just as he had turned the corner into howard-street, and was apparently coming towards her house, mrs. brown hurried out to meet him, and mention his danger, but he would not stop, so as to allow her time for the slightest communication. on gaining the spot where lord mohun stood, hill being a little farther off, he saluted his lordship with great respect, and was received by him with unequivocal kindness. lord mohun hinted to mountfort that he had been sent for by mrs. bracegirdle, in consequence of her projected seizure, a charge which mountfort immediately denied. lord mohun then touched upon the affair, and mountfort expressed a hope, with some warmth, that he would not vindicate hill's share in the business, against which, while disclaiming any tenderness for mrs. bracegirdle, he protested with much asperity. hill approached in time to catch the substance of mountfort's remark, and having hastily said that he could vindicate himself, gave him a blow on the ear, and at the same moment a challenge to fight. they both went from the pavement into the middle of the road, and after making two or three passes at each other, mountfort was mortally wounded. he threw down his sword, which broke by the fall, and staggered to his own house, where mrs. page, who had gone to concert with mrs. mountfort for her husband's safety, hearing a cry of "murder" in the street, threw open the door, and received him pale, bleeding, and exhausted, in her arms. hill fled and escaped, but lord mohun, having surrendered himself, was arraigned before parliament as an accomplice, on the st of january, , and, after a laborious, patient, protracted, and impartial trial, acquitted of the crime, in which he certainly bore no conspicuous part. mountfort languished till noon the next day, and solemnly declared, at the very point of death, that hill stabbed him with one hand while he struck him with the other, lord mohun holding him in conversation when the murder was committed. from the fact, however, of mountfort's sword being taken up unsheathed and broken, there is no doubt, without insisting upon the testimony to that effect, that he used it; and that he could have used it after receiving the desperate wound of which he died, does not appear, by his flight and exhaustion, to have been possible. some of his fellow-players, it seems, had sifted the evidence of a material witness, the day after his death, and at this evidence they openly expressed their dissatisfaction. mountfort, it was indisputably shown, too, _went out of the way to his own house_, in going down howard-street at all, as he ought to have crossed it, his door being the second from the south-west corner. these circumstances will perhaps support a conjecture that some part of the odium heaped upon lord mohun and hill has proceeded from the cowardice and exasperation of a timid and vindictive fraternity, coupled with the individual artifices of mrs. bracegirdle, to redeem a character which the real circumstances of mountfort's death, dying as her champion, severely affected. cibber's assurance of her purity, may merely prove the extent of his dulness or dissimulation, for on calmly reviewing this case in all its aspects, chequered as it is by hill's impetuosity, mrs. bracegirdle's lewdness, and mountfort's presumption, i cannot help inferring that he fell a victim, not unfairly, to one of those casual encounters which mark the general violence of the times. the record of his murder is therefore erroneous, and we may hope to see it amended in every future collection of theatrical lives.[ ] samuel sandford. samuel sandford made his first appearance upon the stage, under d'avenant's authority, in the year ,[ ] at the time when that company was strengthened by the accession of smith and matthew medbourn. the first part for which he has been mentioned by downes, is _sampson_, in "romeo and juliet;" he soon after sustained a minor part in the "adventures of five hours," fol. ; and when d'avenant produced his comedy of the "man's the master," he and harris sung an eccentric epilogue in the character of two street ballad-singers. sandford was the original _foresight_, in "love for love," and though mr. cibber has exclusively insisted upon his tragic excellence, he must have been a comedian of strong and diversified humour. when betterton and his associates seceded to the new theatre in lincoln's-inn-fields, he refused to join them as a sharer, but was engaged at a salary of three pounds per week. as sandford is not enumerated by downes among the actors transferred to swiney, in the latter end of , when betterton and underhill, indeed, are mentioned as "the only remains" of the duke's company, it is clear he must have died during the previous six years, having been referred to by cibber, as exercising his profession in . his ancestors were long and respectably settled at sandford, a village in shropshire; and he seems to have prided himself, absurdly, upon the superiority of his birth. james nokes. james nokes formed part of the company collected at the "cockpit," in , and is first mentioned by downes for _norfolk_, in "king henry the eighth," some time after d'avenant's opening in lincoln's-inn-fields. upon this assumption mr. davies has expressed a very reasonable doubt, and conjectured, with much plausibility, that it was sustained by robert nokes. in cowley's "cutter of coleman-street" [ ], the part of _puny_ was allotted to nokes, whose reputation at that period appears to have been but feebly established, as the more important comic characters were intrusted to lovel and underhill. we find the name of nokes affixed to _lovis_, in etherege's "comical revenge," , but his performance of that part, whatever merit it might have evinced, acquired no distinction. [this is wrong; nokes played sir nicholas cully: the part of lovis was acted by norris.] the plague then beginning to rage, theatrical exhibitions were suspended, in may, , and the company ceased to act, on account of the great fire, till [about] christmas, , when their occupation was resumed in lincoln's-inn-fields, and lord orrery produced his play of "mr. anthony." in this piece there was an odd sort of duel between nokes and angel, in which one was armed with a blunderbuss, and the other with a bow and arrow. though this frivolous incident procured nokes some accession of public notice, it was dryden's "sir martin mar-all," [ ,] which developed his powers to their fullest extent, and raised him to the highest pitch of popularity. according to downes, the duke of newcastle gave a literal translation of molière's "etourdi" to dryden, who adapted the part of _sir martin mar-all_ "purposely for the mouth of mr. nokes;" and the old prompter has corroborated mr. cibber's assertion of his success. nokes added largely to his reputation, in [ ], by performing _sir oliver_, in "she would if she could;" and strengthened shadwell's "sullen lovers," by accepting the part of _poet ninny_. nokes acted _barnaby brittle_ at the original appearance--about --of betterton's "amorous widow," and [in ] performed _old jorden_, in ravenscroft's "citizen turned gentleman," a part which the king and court were said to have been more delighted with than any other, except _sir martin mar-all_. his _nurse_, in "caius marius," , excited such uncommon merriment, that he carried the name of nurse nokes to his grave. in , he supported the hero of shadwell's "'squire of alsatia," a play which was acted in every part with remarkable excellence, and enjoyed the greatest popularity. we find no farther mention of him, subsequent to this period, though included by cibber among those who were performing under the united patents, in , when he first came into the company. according to brown, who has peculiarly marked out his "gaiety and openness" upon the stage, he kept a "nicknackatory, or toy-shop," opposite the spot which has since received the denomination of exeter change. the date of his death is uncertain, but there is some reason to presume that it happened about the year .[ ] william pinkethman. the first mention of pinkethman, by downes, is for the part of _ralph_, in "sir salomon," when commanded at court, in the beginning of [ ], but he had been alluded to, two years before, in gildon's "comparison between the two stages," as the "flower of bartholomew-fair, and the idol of the rabble. a fellow that overdoes every thing, and spoils many a part with his own stuff." [he was on the stage as early as .] he is again mentioned in the "roscius anglicanus" for _dr. caius_, in the "merry wives of windsor," and continued to act in the drury-lane company till his death, about the year . pinkethman was a serviceable actor, notwithstanding his irregularities, and performed many characters of great importance. he was the original _don lewis_, in "love makes a man," , a proof that his talents were soon and greatly appreciated. his eccentric turn led him, in too many instances, from the sphere of respectability, and we find him in the constant habit of frequenting fairs, for the low purpose of theatrical exhibition. his stage talents were marred, it is true, by an extravagant habit of saying more than had been "set down" for him; and though this abominable blemish is fully admitted, still its toleration proves that pinkethman must have been an actor of uncommon value. his son was a comedian of merit, who played _waitwell_, in the "way of the world," at the opening of covent-garden theatre, in december, , and died in may, . anthony leigh. the "famous mr. anthony leigh," as downes denominates him, came into the duke's company, about the year [ ], upon the deaths of several eminent actors, whose places he and others were admitted to supply. he played _bellair_, _sen_., in etherege's "man of mode," at its production in . in , leigh supported _father dominic_, in dryden's "spanish friar;" a piece, which, according to the "roscius anglicanus," was "admirably acted, and produced vast profit to the company." leigh's success was so great in this character, that a full-length portrait was taken of him in his clerical habit, by sir godfrey kneller, for the earl of dorset, from which a good mezzotinto engraving is now in the hands of theatrical collectors. in , we find him allotted to _sir nicholas calico_, in "sir courtly nice;" in he supported _sir william belfond_, in shadwell's "squire of alsatia," and these parts, with a few others, appear to have constituted his peculiar excellence. the satirical allusions of such a random genius as brown, are rarely to be relied upon, or we might suspect leigh, from the following extract, to have been distinguished by pious hypocrisy:-- "at last, my friend nokes, pointing to a little edifice, which exactly resembles dr. burgess's conventicle in russel-court, says he, 'your old acquaintance tony leigh, who turned presbyterian parson upon his coming into these quarters, holds forth most notably here every sunday.'"--"letters from the dead to the living" [ , ii. ]. cave underhill. cave underhill was a member of the company collected by rhodes, and which, soon afterwards, submitted to the authority of sir william d'avenant. he is first mentioned by downes, for his performance of _sir morglay thwack_, in the "wits," after which he sustained the _grave-digger_, in "hamlet," and soon testified such ability, that the manager publicly termed him "the truest comedian" at that time upon his stage.[ ] underhill, about this time, strengthened the cast of "romeo and juliet," by playing _gregory_, and though the custom of devoting the best talent which the theatres afford, to parts of minor importance, has ceased, it is a practice to which the managers, were public amusement consulted, might safely recur. in shakspeare's "twelfth night," which, says downes, "had mighty success by its well performance," underhill soon after supported the _clown_, a character in which the latter attributes delineated by cibber, could alone have been employed. underhill's reputation appears to have been speedily established, as we find him intrusted by cowley, in [ ], with the hero of his "cutter of coleman-street;" and he is mentioned by downes for especial excellence in performing _jodelet_, in d'avenant's "man's the master." his first new part after the accession of james, was _hothead_, in "sir courtly nice;" on the th of april, , he distinguished himself by his chaste and spirited performance of _sir sampson legend_, in congreve's "love for love," and in , closed a long, arduous, and popular career of original parts, by playing _sir wilful witwou'd_, in the "way of the world." [he continued on the stage till .] a brief account of this valuable comedian has been furnished by mr. davies, which, for the satisfaction of our readers, we shall proceed to transcribe. "underhill was a jolly and droll companion, who, if we may believe such historians as tom brown, divided his gay hours between bacchus and venus, with no little ardour. tom, i think, makes underhill one of the gill-drinkers of his time; men who resorted to taverns, in the middle of the day, under pretence of drinking bristol milk, (for so good sherry was then called) to whet their appetites, where they indulged themselves too often in ebriety. underhill acted till he was past eighty. he was so excellent in the part of trinculo, in the tempest, that he was called prince trinculo.[ ] he had an admirable vein of pleasantry, and told his lively stories, says brown, with a bewitching smile. the same author says, he was so afflicted with the gout, that he prayed one minute and cursed the other. his shambling gait, in his old age, was no hindrance to his acting particular parts. he retired from the theatre in ."--"dram. misc.," iii. . on the st of may, , underhill applied for a benefit, and procured it, upon which occasion he played his favourite part of the _grave-digger_, and received the following cordial recommendation from sir richard steele:-- "my chief business here [will's coffee house] this evening, was to speak to my friends in behalf of honest cave underhill, who has been a comic for three generations; my father admired him extremely when he was a boy. there is certainly nature excellently represented in his manner of action; in which he ever avoided that general fault in players, of doing too much. it must be confessed, he has not the merit of some ingenious persons now on the stage, of adding to his authors; for the actors were so dull in the last age, that many of them have gone out of the world, without having ever spoken one word of their own in the theatre. poor cave is so mortified, that he quibbles and tells you, he pretends only to act a part fit for a man who has one foot in the grave; _viz._ a _grave-digger_. all admirers of true comedy, it is hoped, will have the gratitude to be present on the last day of his acting, who, if he does not happen to please them, will have it then to say, that it is the first time."--"tatler," no. . george powell. the father of george powell was an actor in the king's company at the time of its junction, in , with the duke's. powell's access to the theatre was, therefore, easy; and we are intitled to suspect, though the time is not to be ascertained, that he began to act at a very early period. even, according to cibber's allowance, when powell was appointed to the principal parts abandoned by betterton and his revolters, they were parts for which, whether serious or comic, he had both elocution and humour. it is remarked by davies,[ ] that cibber "seems to have hated powell," and if so, we have a ready clue to the neglect and asperity with which he has treated him. powell succeeded betterton, it is supposed, in the part of _hotspur_, when that excellent comedian exchanged its choleric attributes, in his declining years, for the gaiety and humour of _falstaff_. _edgar_, in "king lear," was also one of his most successful characters, but of this, owing to his irregularities, he was dispossessed by wilks. to such a height, indeed, was the intemperance of this actor carried, that sir john vanbrugh, in his preface to the "relapse," to, , speaking of powell's _worthy_, has exposed it in following manner: one word more about the bawdy, and i have done. i own the first night this thing was acted, some indecencies had like to have happened; but it was not my fault. the fine gentleman of the play, drinking his mistress's health in nantes brandy, from six in the morning to the time he waddled on upon the stage in the evening, had toasted himself up to such a pitch of vigour, i confess i once gave up _amanda_ for gone, and am since, with all due respect to mrs. rogers, very sorry she escaped: for i am confident a certain lady, (let no one take it to herself that is handsome) who highly blames the play, for the barrenness of the conclusion, would then have allowed it a very natural close. to the folly of intoxication he added the horrors of debt, and was so hunted by the sheriffs' officers, that he usually walked the streets with a sword (sheathed) in his hand, and if he saw any of them at a distance, he would roar out, "get on the other side of the way, you dog!" the bailiff, who knew his old customer, would obligingly answer, "we do not want you _now_, master powell." harassed by his distresses, and unnerved by drink, it is hardly to be wondered at if his reputation decreased, and his ability slackened; but that his efforts were still marked by a possession of the very highest qualities that criticism can attest, is proved by the following extract from the "spectator:" having spoken of mr. powell as sometimes raising himself applause from the ill taste of an audience, i must do him the justice to own, that he is excellently formed for a tragedian, and, when he pleases, deserves the admiration of the best judges.--no. . addison and steele continued their regard for this unhappy man as long as they could render him any service, and that he acted _portius_, in "cato," on its appearance in , must have been with the author's approbation. the last trace we have of powell is confined to a playbill, for his benefit, in the year , since when no vestige has been found of his career. he lies buried, it has been said, in the vault of st. clement-danes; but though the period of his death may be fixed not far from the date of this document, it cannot be minutely ascertained. [genest says powell died th december, .] in the intervals of excess powell found time for repeated literary labour, having written four plays, and superintended the publication of three more. his fault was too great a passion for social pleasure, but though the irregularities this passion produced, disabled him from exerting the talents he was allowed to possess, still his excellence on the stage is not to be disputed. he was esteemed at one period of his life a rival to betterton, and had the prudence of his conduct been equal to the vigour of his genius, he would have held, as well as reached, that lofty station for which nature had designed him. if the testimony of aston can be relied on, powell was born in the year , being incidentally mentioned by that facetious writer, as betterton's junior by three and twenty years. john verbruggen. john verbruggen, it appears from the assertion of mr. davies, was a dissipated young fellow, who determined, in opposition to the advice of his friends, to be an actor, and accordingly loitered about drury-lane theatre, at the very time when cibber was also endeavouring to get admittance, in expectation of employment. on the death of mountfort, whose widow he married, verbruggen was intrusted, i have no doubt, with the part of _alexander_, his fondness for which was such, that he suffered the players and the public, for many years, to call him by no other name. [he seems to have been called alexander from his first appearing on the stage, till .] it is mentioned in more than one pamphlet, that cibber and verbruggen were at variance, and hence the animosity and unfairness with which the latter has been treated.[ ] the first part to which verbruggen can be traced, is _aurelius_, in "king arthur," to, [he played _termagant_ ("squire of alsatia") in ]: in the year , mr. southern assigned him the character of _oroonoko_, by the special advice of william cavendish, the first duke of devonshire; and as the author informs us in his preface, "it was verbruggen's endeavour, in the performance of that part, to merit the duke's recommendation." a further proof of mr. cibber's partiality, is the constant respect paid to verbruggen by such judges of ability as rowe and congreve, for whose pieces he was uniformly selected. his _mirabel_, in the "way of the world," and _bajazet_, in "tamerlane," were parts of the highest importance, and it will be difficult to show that an ordinary actor could have been intrusted, by writers of equal power and fastidity, with duties of which he was not thoroughly deserving. when verbruggen died it is impossible to ascertain. he played _sullen_, in the "beaux' stratagem," at its production in , and as elrington made his appearance in _bajazet_, in , there is some reason to conclude that verbruggen's death occurred during that interval. [he died before april, .] though gildon, a scribbler whose venality was only exceeded by his dulness, has mentioned verbruggen in the most derogatory terms,[ ] there is ample evidence in the bare record of his business, to justify the most unqualified merit we may incline to ascribe. chetwood alludes to him, in pointing out elrington's imitation of his excellencies, as "a very great actor in tragedy, and polite parts in comedy,"[ ] and the author of the "laureat" enumerates a variety of important characters, in which he commanded universal applause. joseph williams. joseph williams,[ ] who was bred a seal-cutter, came into the duke's company, about the year , when but a boy, and according to the practice of that period, being apprenticed to an eminent actor, "served mr. harris." i find him first mentioned by downes, for _pylades_, in the serious opera of "circe;" his next character of importance being _polydore_, in the "orphan," ; and, same year, _theodosius_, in lee's tragedy of that name. the union in , without diminishing his merit, appears to have lessened his value, by the introduction of kynaston and others, who had more established pretensions to parts of importance. the secession of williams from betterton's company, just before the opening in , has been noticed and explained by mr. cibber, in a subsequent passage. greatly, as i have no doubt, he has depreciated the merit of this actor, no materials remain of a more recent date than those already quoted, by which we may conjecture his talents, or enforce his estimation. williams is not to be confounded with an actor of the same appellation, who was at drury-lane theatre in the year , and relieved cibber of _scipio_, in thomson's "sophonisba," a curious account of which is given in the "dramatic miscellanies." elizabeth barry. elizabeth barry, it is said, was the daughter of edward barry, esq., a barrister, who was afterwards called colonel barry, from his having raised a regiment for the service of charles the first, in the course of the civil wars. the misfortunes arising from this engagement, involved him in such distress, that his children were obliged to provide for their own maintenance. lady d'avenant, a relation of the noted laureat, from her friendship to colonel barry, gave this daughter a genteel education, and made her a constant associate in the circle of polite intercourse. these opportunities gave an ease and grace to mrs. barry's behaviour, which were of essential benefit, when her patroness procured her an introduction to the stage. this happened in the year , when mrs. barry's efforts were so extremely unpropitious, that the directors of the duke's company pronounced her incapable of making any progress in the histrionic art. three times, according to curll's "history of the stage," she was dismissed, and by the interest of her benefactor, re-instated. when otway, however, produced his "alcibiades," in , her merit was such, as not only to excite the public attention, but to command the author's praise, which has been glowingly bestowed upon her in the preface to that production. we find her, next season, filling the lively character of _mrs. lovit_, in etherege's "man of mode;" and in , her performance of _monimia_, in the "orphan," seems to have raised that reputation to its greatest height, which had been gradually increasing. the part of _belvidera_, two years afterwards, and the heroine of southern's "fatal marriage," in , elicited unrivalled talent, and procured her universal distinction. when mrs. barry first resorted to the theatre, her pretensions to notice were a good air and manner, and a very powerful and pleasing voice. her ear, however, was so extremely defective, that several eminent judges, on seeing her attempt a character of some importance, gave their opinion that she never could be an actress. upon the authority of curll's historian, mr. davies[ ] has compiled what appears to me an apocryphal tale of her sudden rise to the pinnacle of excellence, though there is no reason to dispute her criminal intimacy with the earl of rochester. i am not inclined, while doubting the precise anecdote of his assistance, to deny that much advantage might have been derived from his general instructions. mrs. barry was not only remarkable for the brilliancy of her talent, but the earnestness of her zeal, and the ardour of her assiduity. betterton, that kind, candid, and judicious observer, bore this testimony to her eminent abilities, and unyielding good-nature, that she often exerted herself so greatly in a pitiful character, that her acting has given success to plays which would disgust the most patient reader.[ ] when she accepted a part, it was her uniform practice to consult the author's intention. her last new character was the heroine of smith's "phædra and hippolytus," and though mrs. oldfield and the poet fell out concerning a few lines in the part of _ismena_, mrs. barry and he were in perfect harmony. [_valide_, in goring's "irene," , was her last new part.] mrs. barry must have closed her career with this performance, being mentioned by steele, in the "tatler," when assisting at betterton's benefit, on thursday, april th, , as "not at present concerned in the house." she died on the th of november, , aged fifty-five years, and was buried in acton church-yard. mr. davies ascribes her death to the bite of a favourite lap-dog, who, unknown to her, had been seized with madness, and there seems to be no grounds for disturbing his supposition. mrs. betterton. when sir william d'avenant undertook the management of the duke's company, he lodged and boarded four principal actresses in his house, among whom was mrs. saunderson, the subject of this article. mrs. saunderson's first appearance in d'avenant's company, was made as _ianthe_, in the "siege of rhodes," on the opening of his new theatre in lincoln's-inn-fields, in april, [should be june, ]. she played _ophelia_ soon afterwards, and that part being followed by shakspeare's _juliet_, evinces the consideration in which her services were held. [about] , she married mr. betterton, and not in , as it is erroneously mentioned in the "biographia dramatica," and other worthless compilations.[ ] the principal characters sustained by mrs. betterton, were _queen catharine_, in "henry the eighth;" the _duchess of malfy_; the _amorous widow_; those enumerated in the text, and many others, not less remarkable for their importance than their variety. on the death of her husband, in april, , she was so strongly affected by that event, as to lose her senses, which were recovered, however, a short time previous to her own decease. mr. cibber may be right in stating that she only enjoyed the bounty of her royal mistress for about half a year; but, in that case, the pension could not have been granted directly he died, as we find that mrs. betterton was alive on the th of june, , more than thirteen months after, and had the play of "sir fopling flutter," performed at drury-lane for her benefit. mrs. betterton, though prevented from performing, by age and infirmity, enjoyed a sinecure situation in drury-lane theatre, till she withdrew from it, in , and was paid at the rate of [one pound] a-week. the "biographia britannica" says she survived her husband eighteen months, but the precise date of her decease has never been discovered. [mrs. betterton made a will on th march, . in all probability bellchambers is right in supposing that the annuity was not granted till some time after her husband's death.] benjamin johnson. this excellent actor, who was familiarly known by the appellation of his great namesake, ben jonson, came into the theatre royal, from an itinerant company, as mr. cibber relates, about the year . he was bred a sign painter, but took more pleasure in hearing the actors, than in handling his pencil or spreading his colours, and, as he used to say in his merry mood, left the saint's occupation at last to take that of the sinner. johnson's merit was evinced as _sir william wisewould_, in cibber's comedy of "love's last shift," to, ; but i find him first mentioned by downes, for _justice wary_, in caryl's "sir salomon" [about or ]; the old prompter, in a species of postscript to his valuable tract, then terms him "a true copy of mr. underhill," and instances his _morose_, _corbaccio_, and _hothead_, as very admirable efforts. johnson passed over to the management of old swiney, in , with other members of betterton's company, and established a very high reputation by his chaste and studied manner of acting. when rich, in , opened his new theatre in lincoln's-inn-fields, booth, wilks, and cibber, the managers of drury-lane, solicitous to retain in their service comedians of merit, paid a particular respect to johnson, by investing him with such parts of dogget, who had taken leave of them, as were adapted to his powers. here he continued with fame and profit, till august, , when he expired in the seventy-seventh year of his age. mr. davies, who appears to have been familiar with his excellencies, has given a description of johnson, which, for its evident taste and candour, i shall do myself the pleasure to transcribe. "that chaste copier of nature, ben johnson, the comedian, for above forty years, gave a true picture of an arch clown in the _grave-digger_. his jokes and repartees had a strong effect from his seeming insensibility of their force. his large, speaking, blue eyes he fixed steadily on the person to whom he spoke, and was never known to have wandered from the stage to any part of the theatre."--"dram. misc.," iii. . william bullock. this excellent actor came to london, as we see, about , deriving his engagement from the distress in which drury-lane theatre was involved by the desertion of betterton, and other principal performers. he quitted this establishment in , owing, as mr. cibber insinuates, to the ungovernable temper of wilks; and passed over to john rich, at the opening of lincoln's-inn-fields. he is first mentioned by downes, for the _host_, in shakspeare's "merry wives of windsor" [about or ], and appears to be pointed at in dennis's "epistle dedicatory" to the "comical gallant," where the irascible writer thus addresses the hon. george granville:-- "falstaff's part, which you know to be the principal one of the play, and that which on all the rest depends, was by no means acted to the satisfaction of the audience, upon which several fell from disliking the action, to disapproving the play." [as noted before, p. , bullock was probably not the actor aimed at.] this piece was printed in , as acted "at the theatre royal in drury-lane;" with a list of the _dramatis personæ_, but the names of the actors not annexed. bullock, however, sustained the part of _sir tunbelly clumsy_, in vanbrugh's "relapse," which had been previously performed under the same auspices, and from its nature, most probably by the same actor. william bullock was a comedian of great glee and much vivacity, and in his person large, with a lively countenance, full of humourous information. steele, in the "tatler," with his usual kind sensibility, very often adverts to bullock's faculty of exciting amusement, but sometimes censures his habit of interpolation.[ ] in gildon's "comparison between the two stages," [p. ], he is termed the "best comedian since nokes and leigh, and a fellow that has a very humble opinion of himself." bullock's abilities have been ratified by the sanction of macklin, who denominated him a true theatrical genius; and mr. davies saw him act several parts with great applause, and particularly the _spanish friar_, when beyond the age of eighty. he died on the th of june, . [genest, iii. , points out that bullock was acting in .] john mills. our first notice of this actor is found in the "roscius anglicanus," where downes, who seems anxious to dispatch his subject, says summarily that "he excels in tragedy," but without making the remotest allusion to any characters in which his talent had been displayed. john mills the elder was, in person, inclined to the athletic size; his features were large, though not expressive; his voice was full, but not flexible; and his deportment was manly, without being graceful or majestic. he was considered one of the most useful actors that ever served in a theatre, but though invested by the patronage of wilks with many parts of the highest order, he had no pretensions to quit the secondary line in which he ought to have been placed. steele[ ] taxes him very broadly with a want of "sentiment," and insinuates that by making gesture too much his study, he neglected the better attributes of his art. on the death of betterton, or soon after, wilks, who took upon himself to regulate the theatrical cast, gave _macbeth_, with great partiality, to mills, while booth and powell were condemned to represent the inferior parts of _banquo_ and _lenox_. mills, though he spoke the celebrated soliloquy on time,-- to-morrow, and to-morrow, etc., with propriety, feeling, and effect, wanted genius to realise the turbulent scenes in which this character abounds. so much, indeed, was his deficiency perceived, that the indignation of a country gentleman broke out one night, during the performance of this play, in a very odd manner. the 'squire, after having been heartily tired with mills, on the appearance of his old companion, powell, in the fourth act, exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by the audience, "for god's sake, george, give us a speech, and let me go home."[ ] i recollect an incident of the same sort occurring at bristol, where a very indifferent actor, declaimed so long and to such little purpose, that an honest farmer, who sat in the pit, started up with evident signs of disgust, and waving his hand, to motion the speaker off, cried out, "tak' un away, tak' un away, and let's have another." one of the best parts sustained by mills, was that of _pierre_, which he acted so much to the taste of the public, that the applause it produced him exceeded all that was bestowed upon his best efforts in every thing else. he also acted _ventidius_ with the true spirit of a rough and generous old soldier, and in _bajazet_, by the aid of his strong, deep, melodious voice, he displayed more than ordinary power. it is supposed that mills died in [december], , respected by the public as a decent actor, and beloved by his friends as a worthy man. theophilus keen. theophilus keen received his first instructions in acting from mr. ashbury, of the dublin theatre, in which he made his appearance about the year . he most probably came into the drury-lane company with johnson and others, when rich had beaten up for recruits. on the opening of the new house in lincoln's inn fields, he went over to it, and, according to chetwood, had a share not only of the management, but in the profit and loss, which latter speculation proved so disastrous to him, that he died in the year , of a broken heart. he was buried in the church of st. clement-danes, and so much does he seem to have been respected, that more than two hundred persons in deep mourning, attended his funeral. the influence he possessed in the theatre sometimes led him to assume such parts as _edgar_, _oroonoko_, and _essex_, while his excellence lay in _clytus_, and characters of a similar cast. his figure and voice, though neither elegant nor soft, were good, and his action was so complete, that it obtained for him the epithet of majestic, and when he spoke those lines of the _king_, in "hamlet," where he descants upon the dignity that "doth hedge" a monarch, his look and whole deportment were so commanding, that the audience accompanied them always with the loudest applause. mrs. mary porter. this valuable and respected actress, who was not only an honour to the stage, but an ornament to human nature, obtained the notice of betterton by performing, when a child, the _genius of britain_, in a lord mayor's pageant, during the reign of charles or james the second. it was the custom for fruit-women in the theatre formerly to stand fronting the pit, with their backs to the stage, and their oranges, &c. covered with vine leaves, under one of which betterton threatened to put his little pupil, who was extremely diminutive, if she did not speak and act as he would have her. mrs. porter was the genuine successor of mrs. barry, and had an elevated consequence in her manner, which has seldom been equalled. one of her greatest parts was shakspeare's _queen catherine_, in which her sensibility and intelligence, her graceful elocution and dignified behaviour, commanded applause and attention in passages of little importance. when the scene was not agitated by passion, to the general spectator she failed in communicating equal pleasure; her recitation of fact or sentiment being so modulated as to resemble musical cadence rather than speaking. where passion, however, predominated, she exerted her powers to a supreme degree, and exhibited that enthusiastic ardour which filled her audience with animation, astonishment, and delight. the dislocation of her thigh-bone, in the summer of , was attended with a circumstance that deserves to be recorded. she lived at heywood-hill, near hendon, and, after the play, went home every night in a one-horse chaise, prepared to defend herself against robbery, with a brace of pistols. she was stopped on one of those occasions by a highwayman, who demanded her money, and having the courage to level one of her pistols at him, the assailant, who was probably unfurnished with a similar weapon, assured her that he was no common thief, and had been driven to his present course by the wants of a starving family. he told her, at the same time, where he lived, and urged his distresses with such earnestness, that she spared him all the money in her purse, which was about ten guineas. the man left her, on which she gave a lash to the horse, who suddenly started out of the track, overturned her vehicle, and caused the accident already related. let it be remembered to this good woman's credit, that notwithstanding the pain and loss to which he had, innocently, subjected her, she made strict inquiry into the highwayman's character, and finding that he had told the truth, she raised about sixty pounds among her acquaintance, and sent it, without delay, to the relief of his wretched family. there is a romantic generosity in this deed that captivates me more than its absolute justice. about the year , mrs. porter returned to the stage, and acted many of her principal characters, with much vigour and great applause, though labouring under advanced age and unconquerable infirmity. she had the misfortune to outlive an annuity upon which she depended, and died in narrow circumstances, about the year . [she published lord cornbury's comedy of "the mistakes," in , by which she realized a large sum of money.] though her voice was harsh and unpleasing, she surmounted its defects by her exquisite judgment. in person she was tall and well shaped; her complexion was fair; and her features, though not handsome, were made susceptible of all that strong feeling could desire to convey. her deportment was easy, and her action unaffected; and the testimony upon which the merits of mrs. porter are placed, entitles us to rank her in the very first class of theatrical performers. mrs. anne oldfield. anne oldfield was born in the year , and would have possessed a tolerable fortune, had not her father, a captain in the army, expended it at a very early period. in consequence of this deprivation, she went to reside with her aunt, who kept the mitre tavern, in st. james's-market, where farquhar, the dramatist, one day heard her reading a few passages from beaumont and fletcher's "scornful lady," in which she manifested such spirit, ease, and humour, that being struck by her evident advantages for the stage, he framed an excuse to enter the room, a little parlour behind the bar, in which miss nancy was sitting. vanbrugh, who frequented the house, and was known to mrs. oldfield's mother, received a communication from that lady of the very great warmth with which his friend farquhar had extolled her daughter's abilities. vanbrugh, who seems to have been a zealous and sincere friend to all by whom his assistance was courted, immediately addressed himself to our heroine, and having ascertained that her fancy tended to parts of a sprightly nature, he recommended her to rich, the manager of drury-lane, by whom she was immediately engaged, at a salary of fifteen shillings _per_ week. her qualifications soon rendered her conspicuous among the young actresses of that time, and a man of rank being pleased to express himself in her favour, mr. rich increased her weekly terms to the sum of twenty shillings. the rise of mrs. oldfield was gradual but secure, and soon after the death of mrs. verbruggen she succeeded to the line of comic parts so happily held by that popular actress. her _lady betty modish_, in , before which she was little known, and barely suffered, discovered accomplishments the public were not apprised of, and rendered her one of the greatest favourites upon whom their sanction had ever been bestowed. she was tall, genteel, and well shaped; her pleasing and expressive features were enlivened by large speaking eyes, which, in some particular comic situations, were kept half shut, especially when she intended to realise some brilliant idea; in sprightliness of air, and elegance of manner, she excelled all actresses; and was greatly superior in the strength, compass, and harmony of her voice. though highly appreciated as a tragic performer, mrs. oldfield, in the full round of glory, used to slight her best personations of that sort, and would often say, "i hate to have a page dragging my train about. why don't they give porter those parts? she can put on a better tragedy face than i can." the constant applause by which she was followed in characters of this description, so far reconciled her to melpomene, that the last new one in which she appeared was thomson's _sophonisba_. upon her action and deportment the author has expressed himself with great ardour in the following lines: mrs. oldfield, in the character of _sophonisba_, has excelled what, even in the fondness of an author, i could either wish or imagine. the grace, dignity, and happy variety, of her action have been universally applauded, and are truly admirable. thomson's praise, indeed, is not more liberal than just, for we learn, that in reply to some degrading expression of _massinissa_, relating to carthage, she uttered the following line,-- not one base word of carthage, for thy soul!-- with such grandeur of port, a look so tremendous, and in a voice so powerful, that it is said she even astonished wilks, her _massinissa_; it is certain the audience were struck, and expressed their feelings by the most uncommon applause.[ ] testimony like this is sufficient to protect her claim to tragic excellence, eclipsed as it certainly is by the superiority of her comic reputation. _lady townly_ has been universally adduced as her _ne plus ultra_ in acting. she slided so gracefully into the foibles, and displayed so humourously the excesses, of a fine woman too sensible of her charms, too confident in her strength, and led away by her pleasures, that no succeeding _lady townly_ arrived at her many distinguished excellencies in the character. by being a welcome and constant visitor to families of distinction, mrs. oldfield acquired a graceful carriage in representing women of high rank, and expressed their sentiments in a manner so easy, natural, and flowing, that they appeared to be of her own genuine utterance. notwithstanding her amorous connexions[ ] were publicly known, she was invited to the houses of women of fashion, as conspicuous for unblemished character as elevated rank. even the royal family did not disdain to see mrs. oldfield at their levees. george the second and queen caroline, when prince and princess of wales, often condescended to converse with her. one day the princess told mrs. oldfield, she had heard that general churchill and she were married: "so it is said, may it please your royal highness," replied mrs. oldfield, "but we have not owned it yet." in private, mrs. oldfield was generous, humane, witty, and well-bred. though she disliked the man, and disapproved of his conduct, yet the misfortunes of savage recommended him to her pity, and she often relieved him by a handsome donation. her influence with walpole contributed to procure his pardon when convicted, on false evidence, of murder, and adjudged to death, a fate which his most unnatural mother did her utmost to enforce. it is not true that she either allowed this poet an annuity, or admitted his conversation,[ ] but still the benefits she did confer upon him were quite numerous enough to warrant his celebration of her memory. the goodness of her heart, and the splendour of her talents, were topics upon which savage might have ventured to insist, without endangering his piety or wounding his pride. dr. johnson has sanctioned the silence of this author,[ ] on the grounds of mrs. oldfield's condition; but that dogmatic man would have shown a truer taste for benevolence, had he recommended the most ardent devotion to individuals of any stamp, who were actuated by so glorious a principle. pope, who seems to have persecuted the name of player with a malignancy unworthy of his genius, has stigmatised the conversation of mrs. oldfield by the word "_oldfieldismos_," which he printed in greek characters; nor can there be a doubt that he meant her by the dying coquette, in one of his epistles. that mrs. oldfield was touched by the vanity of weak minds, and drew an absurd importance from the popularity of her low station, may be fairly inferred, and might have been fairly derided;[ ] but pope, with his usual want of candour, has appealed to less tangible failings, and tried, as in most cases, much more to ridicule the person than correct the fault. i do not dispute the brilliancy of his sarcasm, but i would rather hail the rigour of his justice.[ ] mrs. oldfield died on the d of october, , most sincerely lamented by those to whom her general value was not unknown. index. abbé, monsieur l', a french dancer, i. xxvii., i. . acting, excellence of, about, , i. xlviii.; cibber's views on versatility in, i. . actors, their names not given in old plays, i. xxv.; join charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; the prejudice against, i. - ; taken into society, i. ; their delight in applause, i. ; entitled gentlemen of the great chamber, i. ; must be born, not made, i. ; their private characters influence audiences, i. - ; their arrangement with swiney in , ii. ; refused christian burial by the romish church, ii. ; badly paid, ii. ; dearth of young, ii. . ---- the old, played secretly during the commonwealth, i. xxx.; arrested for playing, i. xxx.; bribed officers of guard to let them play, i. xxx. actress (miss santlow), insulted, i. . actresses, first english, i. , _note_ , i. , i. ; who were charles ii.'s mistresses, i. ; difficulty of getting good, ii. . addison, joseph, i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; pope's attack on, i. ; his opinion of wilks's hamlet, i. ; his view regarding humour in tragedy, i. ; his play of "cato," ii. ; its great success, ii. - ; presents the profits of "cato" to the managers, ii. ; its success at oxford, ii. ; his "cato" quoted, ii. , _note_ . admission to theatres, cheap, before , i. xxvii. adventurers--subscribers to the building of dorset garden theatre, i. , _note_ ; their interest in the drury lane patent, ii. , _note_ ; rich uses them against brett, ii. ; names of the principal, ii. , _note_ . agreement preliminary to the union of , ii. , ii. . "albion queens, the," ii. , _note_ . "alexander the great," by lee, i. . allen, william, an eminent actor, i. xxvi.; a major in charles i.'s army, i. xxix. alleyn, edward, caused the fortune theatre to be built for his company, i. xxviii.; endowed dulwich college, i. xxviii.; ben jonson's eulogium of, i. xxviii. "amphytrion," by dryden, i. . angel, a comedian, ii. . anne, queen (while princess of denmark), deserts her father, james ii., i. , i. ; pensions mrs. betterton, i. ; at the play, i. ; forbids audience on the stage, i. , _note_ ; her death, ii. . applause, i. ; the pleasure of, i. . archer, william, his investigations regarding the truth of diderot's "paradoxe sur le comédien," i. , _note_ ; his "about the theatre," i. , _note_ . aristophanes, referred to, i. . arlington, earl of, his death, i. , _note_ . arthur, son of henry vii., pageants at his marriage, i. xliii. ashbury, joseph, the dublin patentee, i. , ii. ; engages mrs. charlotte butler, i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ . aston, anthony, quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. ; on his own acting of fondlewife, ii. ; his "brief supplement" to cibber's lives of his contemporaries, reprint of, ii. ; his description of mrs. barry, ii. ; betterton, ii. ; mrs. bracegirdle, ii. ; dogget, ii. ; haines, ii. ; mrs. mountfort, ii. ; sandford, ii. ; underhill, ii. ; verbruggen, ii. . audience on the stage, i. , ii. . audiences rule the stage for good or evil, i. ; authors discouraged by their severity, i. . authors abusing managers and actors, ii. ; managers' troubles with, ii. ; cibber censured for his treatment of, ii. , _note_ . bacon, lord, quoted, i. xlv. baddeley, robert, the last actor who wore the uniform of their majesties' servants, i. , _note_ . balon, mons., a french dancer, i. . banks, john, the excellence of his plots, ii. ; his "unhappy favourite," ii. . baron, michael (french actor), i. . barry, mrs. elizabeth, i. , i. , _note_ , i. , i. , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her great genius, i. ; dryden's compliment to, i. ; her unpromising commencement as an actress, i. ; her power of exciting pity, i. ; her dignity and fire, i. ; the first performer who had a benefit, i. ; her death, i. ; her retirement, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . beaumont and fletcher's "wild-goose chase," published for lowin and taylor's benefit, i. xxxi. beeston, christopher, ii. . "beggar's opera," i. , i. . behn, mrs. aphra, i. . bellchambers, edmund, his edition of cibber's "apology" quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his memoir of mrs. barry, ii. ; betterton, ii. ; mrs. betterton, ii. ; w. bullock, ii. ; estcourt, ii. ; goodman, ii. ; hart, ii. ; b. johnson, ii. ; keen, ii. ; kynaston, ii. ; anthony leigh, ii. ; john mills, ii. ; mohun, ii. ; mountfort, ii. ; james nokes, ii. ; mrs. oldfield, ii. ; pinkethman, ii. ; mrs. porter, ii. ; powell, ii. ; sandford, ii. : smith, ii. ; underhill, ii. ; verbruggen, ii. ; joseph williams, ii. . benefits, their origin, i. ; mrs. elizabeth barry the first performer to whom granted, i. , ii. ; part confiscated by rich, ii. ; rich ordered to refund the part confiscated, ii. ; amounts realized by principal actors, ii. , _note_ . betterton, mrs. mary, i. , i. , ii. ; said to be the first english actress, i. , _note_ ; cibber's account of, i. - ; without a rival in shakespeare's plays, i. ; her unblemished character, i. ; pensioned by queen anne, i. ; her death, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . ---- thomas, i. , i. , i. , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. . ii. , ii. , ii. ; improves scenery, i. xxii.; taken into good society, i. ; famous for hamlet, i. ; cibber's eulogium of, i. - ; his supreme excellence, i. ; description of his hamlet, i. ; booth's veneration for, i. , _note_ ; his hotspur, i. ; his brutus, i. ; the grace and harmony of his elocution, i. ; his success in "alexander the great," i. , i. ; his just estimate of applause, i. ; his perfect elocution, i. ; description of his voice and person, i. ; kneller's portrait of, i. ; his last appearance, i. ; his death, i. ; the "tatler's" eulogium of, i. , _note_ ; gildon's life of, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; mrs. bracegirdle returns to play for his benefit, i. ; ill-treated by the patentees, i. ; makes a party against them, i. ; obtains a licence in , i. , _note_ , i. ; mimicked by powell, i. , i. , _note_ ; his versatility, i. ; his difficulty in managing at lincoln's inn fields, i. ; as a prologue-speaker, i. ; inability to keep order in his company, i. ; said to be specially favoured by the lord chamberlain, ii. ; declines management in, , ii. ; advertisement regarding his salary ( ), ii. , _note_ ; his superiority to wilks and booth, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; and the puppet-show keeper, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . betterton's company ( to, ), their decline, i. ; disorders in, i. . biblical narratives dramatized in the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxvii. _et seq._ bibliography of colley cibber, ii. - . bickerstaffe, isaac (author), ii. . bickerstaffe, john (actor), ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; threatens cibber for reducing his salary, i. , _note_ . bignell, mrs., ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . "biographia britannica," ii. . "biographia dramatica," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . bird, theophilus, an eminent actor, i. xxvi. blackfriar's company, "men of grave and sober behaviour," i. xxvii. ---- theatre, i. xxv., i. xxvi., i. xxviii., i. xlix.; its excellent company, i. xxiv., i. xxvi. blanc, abbé le, his account of a theatre riot, i. , _note_ . "blast upon bays, a," ii. . "bloody brother, the," actors arrested while playing, i. xxx. booth, barton, i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; memoirs of, published immediately after his death, i. ; story told by him of cibber, i. , _note_ ; his veneration for betterton, i. , _note_ ; his indolence alluded to by cibber, i. ; his reverence for tragedy, i. ; his morat, i. ; his life, by theo. cibber, quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his henry viii., i. , _note_ ; is warned by powell's excesses to avoid drinking, i. ; as a prologue-speaker, i. ; elects to continue at drury lane in , ii. ; his marriage, ii. , _note_ ; the reason of the delay in making him a manager, ii. ; his success as cato, ii. - ; his claim to be made a manager on account of his success, ii. ; supported by lord bolingbroke, ii. , _note_ ; his name added to the licence, ii. ; the terms of his admission as sharer, ii. ; his suffering from wilks's temper, ii. ; his connection with steele during the dispute about steele's patent, ii. , _note_ ; wilks's jealousy of, ii. ; a scene with wilks, ii. - ; and wilks, their opinion of each other, ii. ; his deficiency in humour, ii. ; formed his style on betterton, ii. ; cibber's comparison of wilks and booth, ii. - ; his othello and cato, ii. ; memoir of, ii. , _note_ ; patent granted to him, wilks, and cibber, after steele's death, ii. ; sells half of his share of the patent to highmore, ii. . booth, mrs. barton (see also santlow, hester), insulted by capt. montague, i. - ; sells the remainder of booth's share to giffard, ii. . boswell, james, his "life of dr. johnson," quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . bourgogne, hotel de, a theatre originally used for religious plays, i. xxxv. boutell, mrs., mentioned, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . bowen, james (singer), ii. . bowman (actor), memoir of, ii. , _note_ ; sings before charles ii., ii. . ---- mrs., ii. , _note_ . bowyer, michael, an eminent actor, i. xxvi. boy-actresses, i. ; still played after the appearance of women, i. . bracegirdle, mrs. anne, i. , i. , i. , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; admitted into good society, i. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her good character, i. - ; her character attacked by bellchambers, i. , _note_ ; tom brown's scandal about her, i. , _note_ ; attacked in "poems on affairs of state," i. , _note_ ; her best parts, i. ; her retirement, i. ; memoir of her, i. , _note_ ; her rivalry with mrs. oldfield, i. , _note_ ; declines to play some of mrs. barry's parts, i. - ; her retirement, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; her attempted abduction by capt. hill, ii. . bradshaw, mrs., ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. . brett, colonel henry, a share in the drury lane patent presented to him by skipwith, ii. ; his acquaintance with cibber, ii. ; cibber's account of, ii. - ; admires cibber's perriwig, ii. ; and the countess of macclesfield, ii. - ; his dealings with rich, ii. - , ii. - ; makes wilks, estcourt, and cibber his deputies in management, ii. , _note_ ; gives up his share to skipwith, ii. . ---- mrs. (see also miss mason, and countess of macclesfield), cibber's high opinion of her taste, ii. , _note_ ; his "careless husband" submitted to her, ii. , _note_ ; her judicious treatment of her husband, ii. , _note_ . bridgwater (actor), ii. . brown, tom, ii. , ii. ; his scandal on mrs. bracegirdle, i. , _note_ . buck, sir george, his "third university of england," quoted, i. xlviii. buckingham, duke of, ii. . "buffoon, the," an epigram on cibber's admission into society, i. , _note_ . bullen, a. h., his "lyrics from elizabethan song-books," i. , _note_ . bullock, christopher, ii. , _note_ . ---- mrs. christopher, i. , _note_ . ---- william, i. , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . burbage, richard, i. xxvi. burgess, colonel, killed horden, an actor, i. ; his punishment, i. , _note_ . burlington, earl of, ii. . burnet, bishop, his observations on nell gwynne, ii. ; on mrs. roberts, ii. . burney, dr., his "history of music," ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his mss. in the british museum, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . burt (actor), superior to his successors, i. xxiv.; apprenticed to shank, i. xxv.; and to beeston, i. xxv.; a "boy-actress," i. xxv.; a cornet in charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; arrested for acting, i. xxx. butler, mrs. charlotte, i. , i. , ii. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; patronized by charles ii., i. ; a good singer and dancer, i. ; a pleasant and clever actress, i. ; compared with mrs. oldfield, i. ; goes to the dublin theatre, i. ; note regarding her, i. , _note_ . byrd, william, his "psalmes, sonets, etc.," i. , _note_ . byron, lord, a practical joke erroneously attributed to him while at cambridge, i. , _note_ . cambridge. see trinity college, cambridge. "careless husband," cast of, i. , _note_ . carey, henry, deprived of the freedom of the theatre for bantering cibber, ii. , _note_ . carlile, james, memoir of, i. , _note_ ; is killed at aughrim, i. , _note_ , i. . cartwright (actor), belonged to the salisbury court theatre, i. xxiv. castil-blaze, mons., his "la danse et les ballets" quoted, i. , _note_ . catherine of arragon, pageants at her marriage with prince arthur, i. xliii. "cato," by addison, cast of, ii. , _note_ ; its success, ii. - ; at oxford, ii. ; its influence, ii. ; cibber's syphax in, i. . chalmers, george, his "apology for the shakspeare-believers," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . "champion" (by henry fielding), quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . charke, charlotte, ii. . ---- (musician), husband of cibber's daughter, ii. . charles ii. mentioned, i. , i. ; his escape from presbyterian tyranny, i. ; cibber sees him at whitehall, i. ; writes a funeral oration on his death while still at school, i. ; patents granted by him to davenant and killigrew, i. ; wittily reproved by killigrew, i. , _note_ ; called anthony leigh "his actor," i. ; his court theatricals, ii. ; and bowman the actor, ii. ; his opinion of sandford's acting, ii. . chesterfield, lord, his powers of raillery, i. , i. ; refers ironically to cibber in "common sense," i. , _note_ ; opposes the licensing act of , i. . chetwood, william rufus, cibber acts for his benefit, ii. ; his "history of the stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. - , ii. , ii. , ii. . "children of her majesty's chapel," i. xxxvi. "children of paul's," i. xxxvi. churchill, general, ii. , _note_ . ---- lady (duchess of marlborough), i. ; cibber attends her at table, i. ; his admiration of her, i. ; her beauty and good fortune, i. . cibber, caius gabriel, father of colley cibber, i. , _note_ ; his statues and other works, i. ; his marriage, i. , _note_ ; his death, i. , _note_ ; presents a statue to winchester college, i. ; employed at chatsworth, i. ; statues carved by him for trinity college library, cambridge, i. . cibber, colley, account of his life:-- his apology written at bath, i. , _note_ ; his reasons for writing his own life, i. , i. ; his birth, i. ; his baptism recorded, i. , _note_ ; sent to school at grantham, i. ; his character at school, i. ; writes an ode at school on charles ii.'s death, i. ; and on james ii.'s coronation, i. ; his prospects in life, i. ; his first taste for the stage, i. ; stifles his love for the stage and desires to go to the university, i. ; serves against james ii. in , i. ; attends lady churchill at table, i. ; his admiration of her, i. ; disappointed in his expectation of receiving a commission in the army, i. ; petitions the duke of devonshire for preferment, i. ; determines to be an actor, i. ; hangs about downes the prompter, i. , _note_ ; his account of his own first appearances, i. ; his first salary, i. ; description of his personal appearance, i. ; his first success, i. ; his marriage, i. ; plays kynaston's part in "the double dealer," i. ; remains with patentees in, , i. ; writes his first prologue, i. ; not allowed to speak it, i. ; forced to play fondlewife, i. ; plays it in imitation of dogget, i. ; his slow advancement as an actor, i. , i. ; writes his first play, "love's last shift," i. ; as sir novelty fashion, i. ; encouraged and helped by vanbrugh, i. ; begins to advance as an actor, i. ; better in comedy than tragedy, i. ; tragic parts played by him, i. ; his iago abused, i. , _note_ ; description of his justice shallow, i. , _note_ ; leaves drury lane for lincoln's inn fields, i. , _note_ ; returns to drury lane, i. , _note_ ; his "love in a riddle" condemned, i. - ; accused of having gay's "polly" vetoed, i. ; his damon and phillida, i. , _note_ ; consulted by rich on matters of management, i. ; his disputes with wilks, i. ; his "woman's wit" a failure, i. ; distinguished by dryden, i. ; attacked by jeremy collier, i. ; his adaptation of "richard iii.," i. ; his "richard iii." mutilated by the master of the revels, i. ; attacked by george chalmers, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; declines to pay fees to killigrew, master of revels, i. ; his surprise at mrs. oldfield's excellence, i. ; writes "the careless husband" chiefly for mrs. oldfield, i. ; finishes "the provoked husband," begun by vanbrugh, i. , _note_ ; invited to join swiney at the haymarket, i. ; leaves rich and goes to swiney, i. ; his "lady's last stake," ii. ; his "double gallant," ii. ; his "marriage à la mode," ii. ; declines to act on the same stage as rope-dancers, ii. ; advises col. brett regarding the patent, ii. , ii. ; his first introduction to him, ii. ; his account of brett, - ; as young reveller in "greenwich park," ii. ; made deputy-manager by brett, ii. , _note_ ; advertisement regarding his salary, , ii. , _note_ ; made joint manager with swiney and others in , ii. ; and his fellow-managers, wilks and dogget, ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; mediates between wilks and dogget, ii. ; his troubles with wilks, ii. ; his views and conduct on booth's claiming to become a manager, ii. - , ii. - ; his meetings with dogget after their law-suit, ii. ; his "nonjuror," i. , _note_ , ii. - ; accused of stealing his "nonjuror," ii. , _note_ ; makes the jacobites his enemies, ii. - ; reported dead by "mist's weekly journal," ii. ; his "provoked husband" hissed by his jacobite enemies, ii. ; his appointment as poet laureate in , i. , _note_ ; the reason of his being made laureate, ii. ; his "ximena," ii. , _note_ ; his suspension by the duke of newcastle, ii. , _note_ ; his connection with steele during the dispute about steele's patent, ii. , _note_ ; his account of a suit brought by steele against his partners, ii. - ; his pleading in person in the suit brought by steele, ii. - ; his success in pleading, ii. , _note_ , ii. ; assisted steele in his "conscious lovers," ii. ; his playing of wolsey before george i., ii. ; admitted into good society, i. ; elected a member of white's, i. , _note_ ; an epigram on his admission into good society, i. , _note_ ; patent granted to cibber, wilks, and booth after steele's death, ii. ; sells his share of the patent to highmore, ii. ; his sale of his share in the patent, i. ; his shameful treatment of highmore, ii. ; his retirement, ii. ; gives a reason for retiring from the stage, i. , i. , _note_ ; his appearances after his retirement, ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his remarks on his successful reappearances, i. ; his last appearances, i. , _note_ ; his adaptation of "king john," i. , _note_ ; his "papal tyranny in the reign of king john" withdrawn from rehearsal, ii. ; his "papal tyranny" produced, ii. ; its success, ii. ; his quarrel with pope, ii. - ; and horace walpole, ii. ; his death and burial, ii. ; list of his plays, ii. - ; bibliography of, ii. - ; anthony aston's "supplement" to, ii. . cibber, colley, attacks on him:-- commonly accused of cowardice, i. , _note_ ; threatened by john bickerstaffe, for reducing his salary, i. , _note_ ; accused of "venom" towards booth, i. , _note_ ; abused by dennis, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his offer of a reward for discovery of dennis, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; charged with envy of estcourt, i. , _note_ ; fielding's attacks upon, quoted (see under fielding, hy.); his galling retaliation on fielding, i. ; said to have been thrashed by gay, i. , _note_ ; "the laureat's" attacks upon (see "laureat"); satirized on his appointment as laureate, i. ; epigrams on his appointment quoted, i. , _note_ ; writes verses in his own dispraise, i. ; his odes attacked by fielding, i. , _note_ ; and by johnson, i. , _note_ ; charges against him of levity and impiety, i. , _note_ ; accused of negligence in acting, i. , _note_ ; attacked by the daily papers, i. ; his disregard of them, i. , i. , _note_ ; on newspaper attacks, ii. ; on principle never answered newspaper attacks, ii. ; his famous quarrel with pope, ii. ; "the nonjuror" a cause of pope's enmity to cibber, ii. , _note_ ; attacked by pope for countenancing pantomimes, ii. , _note_ ; his reply, ii. , _note_ ; his first allusion to pope's enmity, i. ; his opinion of pope's attacks, i. ; his odes, i. , _note_ ; supposed to be referred to in preface to shadwell's "fair quaker of deal," ii. , _note_ ; attacked for mutilating shakespeare, ii. ; accused of stealing "love's last shift," i. , and "the careless husband," i. , _note_ ; satirized by swift, i. , _note_ ; his defence of his follies, i. , i. . cibber, colley, criticisms of contemporaries:-- on the production of addison's "cato," ii. , ii. - ; his description of mrs. barry, i. - ; on the excellence of betterton and his contemporaries, i. ; his eulogium of betterton, i. - ; his description of mrs. betterton, i. - ; his account of booth and wilks as actors, ii. - ; his description of mrs. bracegirdle, i. - ; his description of mrs. butler, i. - ; his high opinion of mrs. brett's taste, ii. , _note_ ; submits every scene of his "careless husband" to mrs. brett, ii. , _note_ ; on his own acting, i. - ; his "epilogue upon himself," ii. ; on dogget's acting, ii. ; his low opinion of garrick, ii. ; his description of kynaston, i. - ; his description of leigh, i. - ; his description of mrs. leigh, i. - ; his description of mountfort, i. - ; his description of mrs. mountfort, i. - ; his praise of nicolini, ii. ; his description of nokes, i. - ; his hyperbolical praise of mrs. oldfield's lady townly, i. , i. , _note_ ; on rich's misconduct, ii. ; his description of sandford, i. ; his description of cave underhill, i. - ; his unfairness to verbruggen, i. , _note_ ; his account of wilks and booth as actors, ii. - ; on wilks's hamlet, i. ; praises wilks's diligence, ii. , ii. ; on wilks's love of acting, ii. ; on wilks's temper, ii. , ii. ; a scene with wilks, - . cibber, colley, reflections and opinions:-- on acting, i. , i. ; on acting villains, i. - , i. ; on the prejudice against actors, i. - ; his advice to dramatists, ii. ; on applause, i. , ii. ; on the severity of audiences, i. ; on politeness in audiences, ii. ; on troubles with authors, ii. ; on the effect of comedy-acting, i. ; on court influence, ii. ; on criticism, i. ; on his critics, ii. ; on humour in tragedy, i. ; on the italian opera, ii. - ; on the difficulty of managing italian singers, ii. ; on laughter, i. ; on the liberty of the stage, i. ; on the validity of the licence, i. ; on the power of the lord chamberlain, ii. - ; his principles as manager, i. ; on management, ii. ; on judicious management, ii. ; on the duties and responsibilities of management, ii. - ; on the success of his management, ii. ; on morality in plays, i. , i. ; on the power of music, i. ; on oxford theatricals, ii. - ; on pantomimes, i. , ii. ; on prologue-speaking, i. ; on the difficulties of promotion in the theatre, ii. ; on the queen's theatre in the haymarket, i. ; on raillery, i. ; on the revolution of , i. - ; on satire, i. ; on the reformation of the on making the stage useful, ii. - ; on the benefit of only one theatre, i. , ii. , ii. - ; on the shape of the theatre, ii. ; on his own vanity, ii. . ---- miscellaneous:-- profit arising from his works, i. , _note_ ; frequently the object of envy, i. ; his obtrusive loyalty, i. , _note_ , i. ; banters his critics by allowing his "apology" to be impudent and ill-written, i. ; his easy temper under criticism and abuse, i. ; confesses the faults of his writing, i. ; his "quavering tragedy tones," i. , _note_ ; his playing of richard iii. an imitation of sandford, i. ; his "careless husband" quoted, i. , _note_ ; his wigs, ii. , _note_ ; his treatment of authors, ii. , _note_ ; reproved by col. brett for his treatment of authors, ii. , _note_ ; his dedication of the "wife's resentment" to the duke of kent, ii. ; censured for his treatment of authors, ii. , _note_ ; his satisfaction in looking back on his career, ii. ; his acknowledgment of steele's services to the theatre, ii. ; his dedication of "ximena" to steele, ii. , _note_ ; his omission of many material circumstances in the history of the stage, ii. , _note_ ; wilks his constant supporter and admirer, ii. , _note_ ; his "odes," ii. ; hissed as phorbas, ii. ; aston on cibber's acting, ii. . cibber, mrs. colley, her marriage, i. ; her character, i. , _note_ ; her father's objection to her marriage, i. , _note_ . ---- lewis (brother of colley), admitted to winchester college, i. ; cibber's affection for, i. ; his great abilities, i. ; his death, i. . ---- susanna maria (wife of theophilus), ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; her speaking described, i. , _note_ . ---- theophilus, ii. , _note_ , ii. ; mentioned ironically by lord chesterfield, i. , _note_ ; in "art and nature," i. , _note_ ; acts as his father's deputy in heads a mutiny against highmore, ii. ; account of him, ii. ; his "life of booth" quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . "circe," an opera, i. . civil war, the, closing of theatres during, i. . clark, actor, memoir of, i. , _note_ . cleveland, duchess of, and goodman, ii. . clive, mrs. catherine, ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; her acting in "love in a riddle," i. , _note_ . clun, a "boy-actress," i. xxiv. cock-fighting prohibited in, , i. lii. cockpit, the (or phoenix), i. xxv.; its company, i. xxvi., i. xxviii., i. xlix.; rhodes's company at, i. xxviii.; secret performances at, during the commonwealth, i. xxx. coke, rt. hon. thomas, vice-chamberlain, his interference in dogget's dispute with his partners, ii. . coleman, mrs., the first english actress, i. , _note_ . colley, the family of, i. , i. . ---- jane, mother of colley cibber, i. , _note_ . collier, jeremy, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ ; his "short view of the profaneness, &c., of the english stage," i. xxi., i. xxxiii., i. , i. ; his arguments confuted, i. xxxiii. collier, william, m.p., i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; procures a licence for drury lane, ii. ; evicts rich, ii. ; appoints aaron hill his manager, ii. , _note_ ; his unjust treatment of swiney, ii. , ii. ; takes the control of the opera from swiney, ii. ; farms the opera to aaron hill, ii. ; forces swiney to resume the opera, ii. ; made partner with cibber, wilks, and dogget at drury lane, ii. ; his shabby treatment of his partners, ii. , ii. ; his downfall, ii. ; replaced by steele in the licence, ii. . comedy-acting, the effect of, i. . "common sense," a paper by lord chesterfield, quoted, i. , _note_ . "comparison between the two stages," by gildon, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. . complexion, black, of evil characters on the stage, i. . congreve, william, i. , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; memoir of, mentioned, i. , _note_ ; his "love for love," i. , i. ; scandal about him and mrs. bracegirdle, i. , _note_ ; a sharer with betterton in his licence in , i. , _note_ , i. ; his "mourning bride," i. ; his "way of the world," i. ; his opinion of "love's last shift," i. ; and vanbrugh manage the queen's theatre, i. , i. ; gives up his share in the queen's theatre, i. ; and mrs. bracegirdle, ii. . cooper, lord chancellor, ii. , ii. . coquelin, constant, his controversy with henry irving regarding diderot's "paradoxe sur le comédien," i. , _note_ . corelli, arcangelo, ii. . cory (actor), ii. , _note_ . court, theatrical performances at, see royal theatricals; interference of the, in the management of the stage, i. . covent garden, drury lane theatre sometimes described as the theatre in, i. , _note_ . covent garden theatre, i. , _note_ . coventry, the old leet book of, i. xl. craggs, mr. secretary, ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; chastises captain montague for insulting miss santlow, i. . craufurd, david, his account of the disorders in betterton's company, i. , _note_ . crawley, keeper of a puppet-show, ii. . creation, the, dramatized in the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxviii. cromwell, lady mary, i. , _note_ . cross, mrs., i. , _note_ . ---- richard, prompter of drury lane, i. , _note_ . crowne, john, his masque of "calisto," ii. . cumberland, richard, his description of mrs. cibber's speaking, i. , _note_ . cunningham, lieut.-col. f., doubts if ben jonson was an unsuccessful actor, i. , _note_ . curll, edmund, his "history of the stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. ; his "life of mrs. oldfield," i. , _note_ ; his memoirs of wilks, i. , _note_ . curtain theatre, the, mentioned by stow as recently erected, i. xlviii. cuzzoni, francesca, her rivalry with faustina, ii. . "cynthia's revels," played by the children of her majesty's chapel, i. xxxvi. "daily courant," quoted, ii. , _note_ . daly, augustin, his company of comedians, ii. . dancers and singers introduced by davenant, i. . davenant, alexander, ii. , _note_ ; his share in the patent, i. , _note_ . ---- dr. charles, ii. . ---- sir william, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; first introduces scenery, i. xxxii.; copy of his patent, i. liii.; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; poet laureate, i. , _note_ ; receives a patent from charles i., i. , _note_ ; from charles ii., i. ; his company worse than killigrew's, i. ; he introduces spectacle and opera to attract audiences, i. ; unites with killigrew's, i. ; his "macbeth," ii. , _note_ . davies, thomas, his "dramatic miscellanies," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. . _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ . ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his "life of garrick," i. lv., _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. . davis, mary (moll), i. , _note_ . denmark, prince of, his support of william of orange, i. , i. . dennis, john, i. , _note_ , ii. ; abuses cibber for his loyalty, i. , _note_ ; accuses cibber of stealing his "love's last shift," i. ; his attacks on steele and cibber, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; attacks wilks, ii. , _note_ ; abuses one of the actors of his "comic gallant," ii. , _note_ . "deserving favourite, the," i. xxv. devonshire, duke of, ii. ; his quarrel with james ii., i. ; cibber presents a petition to, i. . diderot, denis, his "paradoxe sur le comédien," i. , _note_ . dillworth, w. h., his "life of pope," ii. , _note_ . dixon, a member of rhodes's company, i. , _note_ . dobson, austin, his "fielding" quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . dodington, bubb, mentioned by bellchambers, i. , _note_ . dodsley, robert, purchased the copyright of cibber's "apology," i. , _note_ . dogget, thomas, i. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his excellence in fondlewife, i. ; cibber plays fondlewife in imitation of, i. ; his intractability in betterton's company, i. ; deserts betterton at lincoln's inn fields, and comes to drury lane, i. ; arrested for deserting drury lane, ii. ; defies the lord chamberlain, ii. ; wins his case, ii. ; made joint manager with swiney and others in , ii. ; his characteristics as a manager, ii. , ii. ; his behaviour on booth's claiming to become a manager, ii. , ii. ; retires because of booth's being made a manager, ii. ; his refusal to come to any terms after booth's admission, ii. ; goes to law for his rights, ii. ; the result, ii. ; wilks's temper, the real reason of his retirement, ii. - ; shows a desire to return to the stage, ii. ; his final appearances, ii. ; cibber's account of his excellence, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. . doran, dr. john, his "annals of the stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. . dorset, earl of, ii. ; has leigh's portrait painted in "the spanish friar," i. ; when lord chamberlain, supports betterton in - , i. ; compliments cibber on his first play, i. . dorset garden, duke's theatre, i. xxxii. ---- theatre, built for davenant's company, i. , _note_ ; the subscribers to, called adventurers, i. , _note_ . "double dealer, the," i. , _note_ . "double gallant," cast of, ii. , _note_ . downes, john, his "roscius anglicanus," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; attended constantly by cibber and verbruggen in hope of employment on the stage, i. , _note_ ; the "tatler" publishes a supposed letter from, ii. . "dramatic censor," , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . dramatists, cibber's advice to, ii. . drury lane theatre, i. , _note_ ; opened by king's company, i. xxxii.; built for killigrew's company, i. ; sometimes called "the theatre in covent garden," i. , _note_ ; desertion from in , i. ; company ( ), their improvement, i. ; its patent, ii. ; its original construction, ii. ; why altered, ii. ; under w. collier's management, , ii. ; report on its stability, ii. - . dryden, john, ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; his prologue on opening drury lane, , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; a bad elocutionist, i. ; his morat("aurenge-zebe"), i. ; his high praise of mrs. elizabeth barry, i. ; his prologue to "the prophetess," i. , _note_ ; his "king arthur," i. , _note_ ; a sharer in the king's company, i. ; his address to the author of "heroic love" quoted, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his indecent plays, i. ; his epilogue to "the pilgrim," i. ; his "secular masque," i. , _note_ ; his prologue to "the prophetess" vetoed, ii. ; his prologues at oxford, ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; expensive revival of his "all for love," ii. . dublin, wilks's success in, i. . "duchess of malfy," i. xxv. dugdale, sir william, his "antiquities of warwickshire" quoted, i. xxxvi.; mentions the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxviii. duke's servants, the, i. , _note_ , i. . duke's theatre, ii. ; first theatre to introduce scenery, i. xxxii. dulwich college, built and endowed by edward alleyn, i. xxviii. "dunciad, the," i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; on italian opera, i. , _note_ . dyer, mrs., actress, i. , _note_ . edicts to suppress plays, - , ii. . edward, son of henry vi., pageant played before, i. xl. ---- son of edward iv., pageant played before, i. xlii. edwin, john, his "eccentricities" quoted, ii. , _note_ . e----e, mr. [probably erskine], his powers of raillery, i. , i. , _note_ , i. . egerton, william, his memoirs of mrs. oldfield, i. , _note_ . "egotist, the," i. lv., _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. . elephants on the stage, ii. , _note_ . elizabeth, queen, and the spanish armada, allusion to, i. ; her rule of government, i. . elocution, importance of, i. . elrington, thomas, his visit to drury lane in , ii. , _note_ ; cibber said to have refused to let him play a certain character, ii. , _note_ . ely, bishop of, and joe haines, ii. . erskine, mr., probably the person mentioned by cibber, i. , i. , _note_ , i. . estcourt, richard, i. , i. . i. . i. , _note_ ; a marvellous mimic, i. ; yet not a good actor, i. ; said to be unfairly treated by cibber, i. , _note_ ; could not mimic nokes, i. ; his "gag" on the union of the companies in, , i. ; his first coming to london, i. ; made deputy-manager by brett, ii. , _note_ ; advertisement regarding his salary, , ii. , _note_ ; his falstaff, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . eusden, laurence, poet laureate, his death, i. , _note_ . evans, john, his visit to drury lane in , ii. , _note_ ; his falstaff, ii. . "faction display'd," ii. , _note_ . "fair maid of the west, the," i. xxv. fairplay, francis, a name assumed by cibber on one occasion, i. . "fairy queen," preface to, quoted, i. , _note_ . farinelli (singer), ii. . farquhar, george, ii. , ii. , ii. . fashionable nights, ii. . faustina (faustina bordoni hasse), her rivalry with cuzzoni, ii. . fees for performances at court, ii. . fenwick, sir john, ii. . fideli, signor, i. xxvii. field, nathaniel, originally a "chapel boy," i. xxxvii. fielding, henry, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. ; attacks cibber in "the champion," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; in "joseph andrews," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; in "pasquin," i. , _note_ ; attacks cibber for mutilating shakespeare, ii. ; manager of a company at the haymarket, i. , _note_ ; cibber's retaliation on, i. ; austin dobson's memoir of, quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; said to have caused the licensing act of , i. . fitzgerald, percy, his "new history of the english stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . fitzharding, lady, i. . fitzstephen, william, his "description of the city of london," i. xxxvii. fleetwood, charles, ii. ; purchases from highmore and mrs. wilks their shares of the patent, i. , ii. ; the deserters return to him, ii. . fletcher, john, his plays, i. xxv. footmen, admitted gratis to drury lane, i. ; this privilege abolished, i. , _note_ . fortune theatre, i. xxvi., i. xxix. fox, bishop, had charge of pageants in which sacred persons were introduced, i. xlv. french actors at lincoln's inn fields, ii. , _note_ . ---- audience, conduct of, ii. . "funeral, the," i. . gaedertz, herr, his "zur kenntniss der altenglischen bühne," ii. , _note_ . "gammer gurton's needle," one of the earliest regular comedies, i. xlvii. garrick, david, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; his influence in reforming the stage, ii. ; cibber plays against, ii. ; cibber's low opinion of, ii. ; davies's life of, i. lv., _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. . gaussin, jeanne catherine, ii. . gay, john, said to have thrashed cibber, i. , _note_ ; his "beggar's opera," i. ; his "polly" forbidden to be played, i. , i. , _note_ . genest, rev. john, his "account of the english stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his opinion of cibber's richard iii., i. , _note_ . "gentleman's magazine," ii. . gentlemen of the great chamber, actors entitled, i. . george i. has theatrical performances at hampton court, ii. ; his amusement at a scene of "henry viii.," ii. ; his present to the actors for playing at court, ii. . ---- ii., i. , ii. . giffard, henry, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; his theatre in goodman's fields, i. , _note_ ; purchases half of booth's share of the patent, ii. . gifford, william, doubts if ben jonson was an unsuccessful actor, i. , _note_ . gildon, charles, his life of betterton, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. . globe theatre, i. xxvi., i. xxix. goffe, alexander, a "boy-actress," i. xxx.; employed to give notice of secret performances during the commonwealth, i. xxx. "golden rump, the," a scurrilous play, i. , _note_ . goodman, cardell, mentioned, i. , _note_ , i. ; prophesies cibber's success as an actor, i. ; a highway robber, ii. , ii. ; his connection with the fenwick and charnock plot, ii. ; he and captain griffin have one shirt between them, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . goodman's fields, unlicensed theatre in, i. ; attempt to suppress it, i. ; odell's theatre, i. , _note_ ; giffard's theatre, i. , _note_ . ---- theatre, i. , _note_ ; closed by licensing act ( ), i. , _note_ . grafton, duke of, ii. ; blamed for making cibber laureate, i. , _note_ . grantham, cibber sent to school at, i. . griffin, captain (actor), i. , _note_ ; admitted into good society, i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; and goodman have one shirt between them, ii. . griffith, thomas, his visit to drury lane in , ii. , _note_ . "grub street journal," ii. , _note_ . guiscard, his attack on lord oxford referred to, i. . gwyn, nell, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. ; and charles ii., ii. ; bishop burnet's opinion of, ii. . haines, joseph, ii. , _note_ ; his _bon mot_ on jeremy collier, i. ; account of his career, i. , _note_ ; aston's description of, ii. ; his pranks, ii. , ii. ; life of, ii. , _note_ . halifax, lord, i. , ii. ; a patron of the theatre, ii. ; his testimonial to mrs. bracegirdle, ii. . hamlet, incomparably acted by taylor, i. xxvi.; betterton as, i. ; wilks's mistakes in, i. . hammerton, stephen, a famous "boy-actress," i. xxvi.; played amyntor, i. xxvi. hampton court, theatrical performances at, ii. , ii. , ii. . "hannibal and scipio," i. xxv. harlequin, cibber's low opinion of the character, i. - ; played without a mask by pinkethman, i. . "harlequin sorcerer," a noted pantomime, ii. , _note_ . harper, john, arrested as a rogue and vagabond, i. ; trial, ii. ; the result of his trial, i. ; his falstaff, ii. . harris, ii. , ii. . harrison, general, murders w. robinson the actor, i. xxix. hart, charles, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ ; superior to his successors, i. xxiv.; apprenticed to robinson, i. xxiv.; a "boy-actress," i. xxiv.; a lieutenant in charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; arrested for acting, i. xxx.; grows old and wishes to retire, i. xxxii.; his acting of the plain dealer, i. , _note_ ; famous for othello, i. ; his retirement, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . haymarket, little theatre in the, i. , _note_ ; opened by the mutineers from highmore in , ii. ; closed by licensing act ( ), i. , _note_ . ---- the queen's theatre in the (now her majesty's), i. ; its history, i. , _note_ ; opened for betterton's company, i. ; defects in its construction, i. , i. ; inconvenience of its situation, i. . hemming, john, i. xxvi. "henry viii.," ii. . heron, mrs., ii. . hewett, sir thomas, his report on the stability of drury lane, ii. . highmore, john, at variance with his actors, i. ; his purchase of the patent, i. , _note_ ; the price he paid for the patent, i. , _note_ ; purchases half of booth's share of the patent, ii. ; purchases cibber's share, ii. : his actors mutiny, ii. ; he summons harper as a rogue and vagabond, ii. ; sells his share in the patent, ii. . hill, aaron, on "tone" in speaking, i. , _note_ ; appointed by w. collier to manage drury lane, ii. , _note_ ; defied and beaten by his actors, ii. , _note_ ; farms the opera from collier, ii. ; on booth's lack of humour, ii. , _note_ . ---- captain richard, his murder of mountfort, i. , _note_ , ii. . "historia histrionica," reprint of, i. xix.; preface to, i. xxi. "historical register for ," ii. . hitchcock, robert, his "historical view of the irish stage," i. , _note_ . "holland's leaguer," i. xxv. holt, lord chief justice, ii. . horden, hildebrand, a promising actor, killed in a brawl, i. . horton, mrs., ii. . howard, j. b., plays iago in english to salvini's othello, i. , _note_ . ---- sir robert, i. , _note_ . hughes, margaret, said to be the first english actress, i. , _note_ . hutton, laurence, his "literary landmarks of london" quoted, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . irving, henry, his controversy with constant coquelin regarding diderot's "paradoxe sur le comédien," i. , _note_ ; restores shakespeare's "richard iii." to the stage, ii. . italian opera, introduced into england, i. ; "the dunciad" on, i. , _note_ . jackson, john, his "history of the scottish stage" referred to, ii. , _note_ . jacobites attacked in cibber's "nonjuror," ii. ; repay cibber for his attack by hissing his plays, ii. ; hiss his "nonjuror," ii. . james ii., ii. ; cibber, at school, writes an ode on his coronation, i. ; cibber serves against, at the revolution, i. ; his flight to france, i. ; his quarrel with the duke of devonshire, i. . jekyll, sir joseph, ii. . jevon, thomas, i. , _note_ . johnson, benjamin (actor), i. , _note_ , i. , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . johnson, dr. samuel, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his opinion of cibber's odes, i. , _note_ ; his epigram on cibber's laureateship quoted, i. , _note_ ; his "life of pope," ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his "lives of the poets," ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; his famous prologue ( ) quoted, i. , _note_ . jones, inigo, ii. . jonson, ben, i. ; out of fashion in , i. xxiii.; no actors in who could rightly play his characters, i. xxiv.; his plays, i. xxv.; his epigram on alleyn, i. xxviii.; on sal pavy, i. xxxvi.; said by cibber to have been an unsuccessful actor, i. ; this denied by gifford and cunningham, his editors, i. , _note_ ; his masques, ii. . jordan, thomas, his "prologue to introduce the first woman that came to act on the stage," , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . "joseph andrews" quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . "julius cæsar," special revival of, in , ii. . keen, theophilus, i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . kemble, john p., mentioned, i. lv., _note_ . kent, duke of, ii. . ---- mrs., ii. , _note_ . killigrew, charles, ii. , _note_ ; his share in the patent, i. , _note_ . ---- thomas, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; granted a patent similar to davenant's, i. liii., i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; his witty reproof of charles ii., i. , _note_ ; his company better than davenant's, i. ; unites with davenant's, i. . "king and no king," special revival of, in , ii. . "king arthur," i. . "king john" mutilated by colley cibber, ii. . "king john and matilda," i. xxv. king's servants, the, i. , _note_ , i. ; before , i. xxvi.; after the restoration, i. xxxi. kirkman, francis, his "wits," ii. , _note_ . knap, ii. , _note_ . kneller, sir godfrey, his portrait of betterton, i. ; his portrait of anthony leigh, i. , ii. ; imitated by estcourt, ii. . knight, mrs. frances, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . ---- joseph, his edition of the "roscius anglicanus" referred to, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . knip, mrs., i. , _note_ . kynaston, edward, i. , i. , ii. , ii. , i. , i. ; petted by ladies of quality, i. ; the beauty of his person, i. ; his voice and appearance, i. ; his bold acting in inflated passages, i. ; his majesty and dignity, i. - ; lingered too long on the stage, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . lacy, john, superior to his successors, i. xxiv. lady of title, prevented by relatives from becoming an actress, i. . "lady's last stake," cast of, ii. , _note_ . langbaine, gerard, his "account of the english poets," ii. , _note_ . laughter, reflections on, i. . "laureat, the" (a furious attack on cibber), i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. . lebrun, charles, painter, alluded to, i. . lee, charles henry, master of the revels, ii. . ---- mrs. mary, i. , _note_ . ---- nathaniel, ii. ; his "alexander the great," i. ; a perfect reader of his own works, i. ; mohun's compliment to him, i. ; failed as an actor, i. . leigh, anthony, i. , i. , i. , i. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; his exuberant humour, i. ; in "the spanish friar," i. ; painted in the character of the spanish friar, i. ; his best characters, i. , i. ; and nokes, their combined excellence, i. , his superiority to pinkethman, i. ; the favourite actor of charles ii., i. ; compared with nokes, i. ; his death, i. , i. ; his "gag" regarding obadiah walker's change of religion, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . leigh, mrs. elizabeth, i. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her peculiar comedy powers, i. ; note regarding her, i. , _note_ . ---- francis, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . leveridge, richard, ii. , _note_ . licence granted by king william in , i. . licensing act of , i. , _note_ , i. , i. , _note_ , ii. . "lick at the laureat," said to be the title of a pamphlet, i. , _note_ . lincoln's inn fields, duke's old theatre in, i. xxxii., i. , _note_ . ---- betterton's theatre in, i. ; its opening, i. ; its success at first, i. ; its speedy disintegration, i. . ---- rich's theatre in, ii. , ii. ; its exact situation, ii. , _note_ ; rich's patent revived at, ii. ; its opening, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; actors desert drury lane to join, ii. . "london cuckolds," i. . "london news-letter," i. , _note_ . lord chamberlain, cibber on the power of the, ii. - , ii. ; his name not mentioned in the patents, ii. ; sir spencer ponsonby-fane on the power of, ii. , _note_ ; his power of licensing plays, ii. ; plays vetoed by him, ii. - ; actors arrested by his orders, ii. - ; his edicts against desertions, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; said to favour betterton at the expense of rival managers, ii. ; various edicts regarding powell, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; warrant to arrest dogget, ii. , _note_ ; his edict separating plays and operas in , ii. , _note_ ; interferes on behalf of actors in their dispute with the patentees in , ii. ; silences patentees for contumacy, ii. ; his order for silence, , quoted, ii. , _note_ . lord chamberlain's records, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . lorraine, duke of, ii. . louis xiv., mentioned, i. . ---- prince, of baden, ii. . "love in a riddle," cast of, i. , _note_ . lovel (actor), ii. . lovelace, lord, ii. . "love's last shift," cast of, i. , _note_ . lowin, john, ii. ; arrested for acting, i. xxx.; superior to hart, i. xxiv.; his chief characters, i. xxvi.; too old to go into charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; becomes an inn-keeper, and dies very poor, i. xxxi. "lucius junius brutus," by lee, vetoed, ii. . "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxviii.; these plays acted at other towns besides coventry, i. xxxviii.; a description of them, i. xxxviii. _et seq._ "lunatick, the," ii. , _note_ . luttrell's diary quoted, i. , _note_ . macaulay, lord, his "history of england" referred to, ii. , _note_ . "macbeth" _in the nature of an opera_, i. , _note_ ; ii. , ii. , _note_ . macclesfield, countess of, ii. . see also mrs. brett. macklin, charles, ii. , ii. ; his first coming to london, ii. ; a great reformer, ii. . macready, william c, mentioned, i. , _note_ . macswiney, owen. see swiney, owen. "maid's tragedy" vetoed in charles ii.'s time, ii. ; played with altered catastrophe, ii. . mainwaring, arthur, ii. , _note_ . malone, edmond, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . management, cibber on the duties and responsibilities of, ii. - . margaret, queen of henry vi., pageant played before her, i. xl. marlborough, duchess of. see churchill, lady. ---- duke of, ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. . "marriage à la mode," by cibber, cast of, ii. , _note_ . marshall, anne, i. , _note_ ; said to be the first english actress, i. , _note_ . ---- julian, his "annals of tennis" quoted, i. , _note_ . mary, the virgin, and joseph, characters in the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxix. ---- queen, her death, i. . "mary, queen of scotland," by banks, vetoed, ii. . masculus, a comedian, who was a christian martyr, i. xxii. masks, ladies wearing, at the theatre, i. ; ultimately the mark of a prostitute, i. , _note_ . mason, miss. see countess of macclesfield, and mrs. brett. masques, enormous expense of, ii. . master of the revels. see revels. mathews, charles (the elder), his powers of imitation referred to, i. , _note_ . mathias, st., the choosing of, as an apostle, dramatized in the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxviii. matthews, brander, ii. , _note_ . maynard, serjeant, a whig lawyer, satirized, i. , _note_ . medbourn, matthew, ii. . melcombe, lord, mentioned, i. , _note_ . "mery play between the pardoner and the frere, the curate and neybour pratte, a," described, i. xlv. miller, james, his "art and nature" failed, i. , _note_ . ---- josias (actor), ii. . mills, john, i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; his friendship with wilks, i. , ii. ; his honesty and diligence, i. ; his large salary, i. ; advertisement regarding his salary, , ii. , _note_ ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. ; and the country squire, ii. . milward, william, i. , _note_ . mist, nathaniel. see "mist's weekly journal." "mist's weekly journal," ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. . mohun, lord, ii. ; implicated in mountfort's death, i. , _note_ , ii. . ---- michael, superior to his successors, i. xxiv.; apprentice to beeston, i. xxv.; acted bellamente, i. xxv.; a captain in charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; his death, i. ; his admiration of nat. lee's elocution, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . montague, captain, insults miss santlow, i. ; chastised by mr. craggs, i. . moore, mrs., ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . morley, professor henry, his edition of the "spectator," ii. , _note_ . mountfort, william, i. , i. , i. , _note_ , i. , ii. ; taken into good society, i. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; his voice and appearance, i. ; his alexander the great, i. ; his excellent acting of fine gentlemen, i. ; his delivery of witty passages, i. ; his rover, i. ; his versatility, i. , i. ; his sparkish ("country wife") and his sir courtly nice, i. ; copied by cibber in sir courtly nice, i. ; his tragic death, i. , i. ; memoir of him, i. , _note_ ; tom brown on his connection with mrs. bracegirdle, i. , _note_ ; his comedy of "greenwich park," ii. ; copied by wilks, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. ; full account of his death by the hands of capt. hill, ii. - . ---- mrs., i. , i. , ii. , ii. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her variety of humour, i. ; her artistic feeling, i. ; her acting of the western lass, i. ; in male parts, i. ; plays bayes with success, i. ; the excellence of her melantha, i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; leaves betterton's company in , i. ; her death, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. . mountfort, susanna, i. , _note_ . music in the theatre, i. xxxii. newcastle, duke of, ii. ; (lord chamberlain), his persecution of steele, ii. , _note_ . newington butts, i. xlix. newman, thomas, actor, one of their majesties' servants, i. , _note_ . nichols, john, his "theatre, anti-theatre, &c.," ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . nicolini (nicolo grimaldi), singer, ii. , ii. ; cibber's high praise of, ii. ; praised by the "tatler," ii. . noblemen's companies of players, i. xlvii. nokes, james, i. ; cibber's description of, i. - ; his natural simplicity, i. ; could not be imitated, i. ; his best characters, i. ; his ludicrous distress, i. ; his voice and person, i. ; and leigh, their combined excellence, i. ; compared with leigh, i. ; his death, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. ; why called "nurse nokes," ii. . nokes, robert, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. . "nonjuror, the," a line in the epilogue quoted, i. ; cast of, ii. , _note_ . norris, henry, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . ---- mrs., said to be the first english actress, i. , _note_ . northey, sir edward, his "opinion" on the patent, ii. , _note_ . oates, titus, i. . odell, thomas, his theatre in goodman's fields, i. , _note_ . "old and new london," referred to, ii. , _note_ . oldfield, mrs. anne, i. , i. , _note_ , i. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; memoirs of, published immediately after her death, i. ; her acting of lady townly praised in high-flown terms by cibber, i. , i. , _note_ ; admitted into good society, i. ; her unpromising commencement as an actress, i. , i. ; compared with mrs. butler, i. ; her rivalry with mrs. bracegirdle, i. , _note_ ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her good sense, i. ; her unexpected excellence, i. ; cibber writes "the careless husband" chiefly for her, i. ; her perfect acting in it, i. ; and wilks playing in same pieces, i. ; proposed to be made a manager, ii. ; gets increased salary instead, ii. ; advertisement regarding her salary, , ii. , _note_ ; riot directed against, ii. ; settles a dispute between wilks, cibber, and booth, ii. ; her death, ii. ; copied mrs. mountfort in comedy, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. ; and richard savage, ii. . opera, i. ; control of, given to swiney, ii. . ---- italian, account of its first separate establishment, ii. - ; decline of italian, ii. - . otway, thomas, his failure as an actor, i. , _note_ ; his "orphan," i. , _note_ . oxford, visited by the actors in , ii. , ii. ; dryden's prologues at, ii. , ii. , _note_ ; its critical discernment, ii. . ---- lord, guiscard's attack on, referred to, i. . pack, george, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; account of, ii. , _note_ . pageants formed part in receptions of princes, &c., i. xl. _et seq._ painting the face on the stage, i. , _note_ . pantomimes, the origin of, ii. ; cibber's opinion of, ii. ; "the dunciad" on, ii. , _note_ . "papal tyranny in the reign of king john," cast of, ii. , _note_ . parish-clerks, play acted by, in , i. xxxv. parliamentary reports on the theatres, i. , _note_ . "parson's wedding, the," played entirely by women, i. xxxii. "pasquin" quoted, i. , _note_ . patent, copy of, granted to sir william davenant in , i. liii.; steele's, ii. . patentees, the, their foolish parsimony, i. ; their ill-treatment of betterton and other actors, i. ; the actors combine against them, i. ; their deserted condition, i. . (for transactions of the patentees, see also rich, c.) pavy, sal, a famous child-actor, i. xxxvi.; ben jonson's epigram on, i. xxxvi. pelham, hon. henry, cibber's "apology" dedicated to, i. lv., _note_ . pembroke, earl of, ii. , _note_ . pepys, samuel, his "diary," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . percival (actor), i. , _note_ . perkins, an eminent actor, i. xxvi.; his death, i. xxxi. perrin, mons. (of the théâtre français), ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . perriwigs, enormous, worn by actors, ii. , _note_ . phoenix, the, or cockpit, i. xxvi. "picture, the," i. xxv. pinkethman, william, i. , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his inferiority to anthony leigh, i. ; his liberties with the audience, i. ; hissed for them, i. , _note_ ; his lack of judgment, i. ; plays harlequin without the mask, i. ; his success as lory in "the relapse," i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . ---- the younger, ii. . plays, value of old, for information on manners, i. xxi.; old, no actors' names given, i. xxv.; originally used for religious purposes, i. xxxiv., i. xxxv.; their early introduction, i. xxxvii.; began to alter in form about the time of henry viii., i. xlv.; origin of, in greece and england, i. xlviii.; the alteration in their subjects noticed by stow in , i. xlviii.; temporarily suspended, i. xlix.; arranged to be divided between davenant's and killigrew's companies, i. ; expenses of, i. , _note_ . players defended regarding character, i. xxii.; not to be described as rogues and vagabonds, i. xlix.; entirely suppressed by ordinances of the long parliament, i. li. playhouses, large number of, in , i. xlix. "poems on affairs of state," quoted, i. , _note_ . "poetaster, the," played by the children of her majesty's chapel, i. xxxvi. poet laureate, cibber appointed, , i. , _note_ . pollard, thomas, a comedian, i. xxvi.; superior to hart, i. xxiv.; too old to go into charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; arrested for acting, i. xxx.; his retirement and death, i. xxxi. pollixfen, judge, ii. . ponsonby-fane, sir spencer, his memorandum on the power of the lord chamberlain, ii. , _note_ . pope, alexander, ii. ; cibber's "letter" to, quoted, i. , _note_ ; cibber's first allusion to pope's enmity, i. ; an epigram comparing pope and cibber in society, i. , _note_ ; cibber's opinion of pope's attacks, i. ; some of pope's attacks quoted, i. , _note_ ; his attack on atticus (addison), i. ; cibber's "letter" to, quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; epigram attributed to him, on cibber's laureateship, i. , _note_ ; his "moral essays," quoted, i. , _note_ ; attacks cibber for countenancing pantomimes, ii. , _note_ ; "the nonjuror" a cause of his enmity to cibber, ii. , _note_ ; his "epistle to dr. arbuthnot," ii. , _note_ ; his quarrel with cibber, ii. - ; cibber's "letter" to him, ii. ; his famous adventure, ii. ; cibber's second "letter" to, ii. ; his portrait of betterton, ii. ; his attacks on mrs. oldfield, ii. . (see also "dunciad.") porter, mrs. mary, ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; dogget plays for her benefit after his retirement, ii. ; accident to, ii. , ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . portuguese, the, and religious plays, i. xxxv. "post-boy rob'd of his mail," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . powell, george, i. , i. , i. , _note_ , i. , i. , i. . _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; offered some of betterton's parts, i. ; his indiscretion as a manager, i. ; mimics betterton, i. , i. , _note_ ; the contest between him and wilks for supremacy at drury lane, i. - , i. - ; his carelessness, i. , i. ; deserts drury lane, i. ; returns to drury lane, i. ; arrested for deserting his manager, ii. ; arrested for striking young davenant, ii. ; discharged for assaulting aaron hill in , ii. , _note_ ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . price, joseph, account of him by bellchambers, i. , _note_ . prince's servants, the, before, , i. xxvi. pritchard, mrs., ii. , _note_ . profits made by the old actors, i. xxxii.; of the theatre, how divided in , i. . prologue-speaking, the art of, i. . "prophetess, the," i. . "provoked husband," cast of, i. , _note_ . "provoked wife," altered, ii. . "psyche," an opera, i. . puppet-show in salisbury change, i. . purcell, henry, i. , _note_ , ii. . quantz, mons., ii. , _note_ . queen's servants, the, before , i. xxvi. ---- theatre in the haymarket, success of swiney's company in, ii. ; set aside for operas only, ii. ; its interior altered, ii. ; opened by the seceders from drury lane in , ii. . quin, james, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; the chief actor at garrick's appearance, ii. . raftor, catherine. see clive. ---- james, i. , _note_ . raillery, reflections on, i. . raymond, his "opinion" on the patent, ii. , _note_ . red bull theatre, i. xxvi., i. xxix.; used by king's company after the restoration, i. xxxi.; drawing of the stage of the, ii. , _note_ . reformation of the stage, cibber on, i. . rehan, ada, a great comedian, ii. . religion and the stage, i. xxi., i. xxxiii. "renegado, the," i. xxv. revels, master of the, his unreasonableness to cibber, i. ; his fees refused to be paid, i. . rhodes, the prompter, ii. , ii. ; his company, at the cockpit, i. xxviii.; his company of actors engaged by davenant, i. , _note_ . rich, christopher, patentee of drury lane, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. ; description of, i. , _note_ ; admits servants to theatre gratis, i. ; his treatment of his actors, i. ; consults cibber on matters of management, i. ; his principles of management, i. , ii. - ; his tactics to avoid settling with his partners, i. ; his objections to an union of the two companies, i. ; permits swiney to rent the queen's theatre, i. ; his foolish neglect of his actors, i. ; declines to execute his agreement with swiney, i. ; wishes to bring an elephant on the stage, ii. ; introduces rope-dancers at drury lane, ii. ; silenced for receiving powell, ii. , _note_ ; his share in the patent, ii. , _note_ , ii. ; his dealings with col. brett, ii. - , ii. - ; cibber on his misconduct, ii. ; his foolish mismanagement, ii. , ii. ; confiscates part of his actors' benefits, ii. ; ordered to refund this, ii. ; silenced by the lord chamberlain ( ), ii. ; his proceedings after being silenced, ii. , ii. , _note_ ; an advertisement issued by him regarding actors' salaries in , ii. , _note_ ; evicted by collier from drury lane ( ), ii. ; his patent revived in , ii. , ii. ; his extraordinary behaviour to the lord chamberlain, ii. ; genest's character of him, ii. , _note_ ; rebuilds lincoln's inn fields theatre, ii. ; his death, ii. , _note_ . rich, john, ii. , ii. , _note_ ; opens lincoln's inn fields theatre, ii. , _note_ ; an excellent harlequin, ii. , _note_ ; manages the lincoln's inn fields company, ii. ; opens covent garden, ii. . "richard iii.," cibber's adaptation of, i. ; his playing in, i. , i. ; cast of, ii. , _note_ . richardson, jonathan, ii. . roberts, mrs., one of charles ii.'s mistresses, ii. . robins, a comedian, i. xxvi. robinson, william, ii. ; hart apprenticed to, i. xxiv.; a comedian, i. xxvi.; murdered by harrison, i. xxix. rochester, lord, ii. , _note_ , ii. . rogers, mrs., i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; her affectation of prudery, i. ; becomes wilks's mistress, i. ; her eldest daughter, i. ; riot caused by, ii. . rogues and vagabonds, players not to be described as, i. xlix., i. . "roman actor, the," i. xxv. roman catholic religion, attacked by cibber, i. . rope-dancers on the stage, ii. . "roscius anglicanus." see downes, john. rose tavern, the, i. , _note_ . rowe, nicholas, in love with mrs. bracegirdle, i. ; complains of french dancers, i. . royal theatricals during george i.'s reign, ii. ; during previous reigns, ii. ; effect of audience on actors, ii. ; fees for, ii. . rymer, thomas, ii. . sacheverel, doctor, his trial hurtful to the theatres, ii. . st. giles's-in-the-fields, colley cibber christened at, i. , _note_ . "st. james's evening post," ii. , _note_ . st. paul's singing school, i. xlix. salisbury court, the private theatre in, i. xxiv., i. xxvi., i. xxviii. salvini, tommaso, the great italian tragedian, plays in italian, while his company plays in english, i. , _note_ . sandford, samuel, i. , i. , ii. , _note_ ; the "spagnolet" of the theatre, i. ; cibber's account of him, i. - ; his personal appearance, i. ; an actor of villains, i. , i. ; his creon ("oedipus"), i. ; the "tatler" on his acting, i. , _note_ ; anecdote of his playing an honest character, i. ; "a theatrical martyr to poetical justice," i. ; his voice and manner of speaking, i. ; would have been a perfect richard iii., i. ; cibber plays richard iii. in imitation of, i. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . santlow, hester, her first appearance as an actress, ii. ; her manner and appearance, ii. ; her character, ii. , _note_ ; her marriage with booth, ii. , _note_ . (see also booth, mrs. barton.) satire, reflections on, i. ; cibber's opinion regarding a printed and an acted, i. . saunderson, mrs. see betterton, mrs. savage, richard, ii. , _note_ ; and mrs. oldfield, ii. . scenes, first introduced by sir william davenant, i. xxxii., i. , _note_ . "secular masque, the," i. , _note_ . sedley, sir charles, kynaston's resemblance to, ii. . senesino (singer), ii. . sewell, dr. george, his "sir walter raleigh," ii. , _note_ . shadwell, charles, his "fair quaker of deal," ii. . ---- thomas, his comedy of "the squire of alsatia," i. . shaftesbury, first earl of, i. , _note_ . shakespeare, william (see also names of his plays), a better author than actor, i. xxv., i. ; his plays, i. xxv.; his plays depend less on women than on men, i. ; expenses of plays in his time, i. . "sham lawyer, the," ii. , _note_ . shank, john, a comedian, i. xxvi.; played sir roger ("scornful lady"), i. xxvi. shatterel, ii. ; superior to his successors, i. xxiv.; apprentice to beeston, i. xxv.; a quartermaster in charles i.'s army, i. xxix. shelton, lady, ii. . shore, john, brother-in-law of colley cibber, i. , _note_ . ---- miss. see cibber, mrs. colley, i. , _note_ . "shore's folly," i. , _note_ . "silent woman," i. xxiv. singers and dancers introduced by davenant, i. ; difficulty in managing, ii. . skipwith, sir george, ii. . ---- sir thomas (one of the patentees of drury lane), ii. ; does vanbrugh a service, i. ; receives "the relapse" in return, i. ; a sharer in the drury lane patent, ii. ; assigns his share to colonel brett, ii. ; his friendship for brett, ii. ; claims his share from brett, ii. . smith, william, i. , ii. , ii. ; insulted by one of the audience, i. ; defended by the king, i. ; driven from the stage because of the king's support of him, i. ; taken into good society, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . sophocles, his tragedies, ii. . southampton house, bloomsbury, i. , _note_ . southerne, thomas, ii. ; prophesies the success of cibber's first play, i. ; his "oroonoko," i. , _note_ . spaniards, the, and religious plays, i. xxxv. "spectator," ii. . spiller, james, ii. , _note_ . stage, and religion, i. xxi., i. xxxiii.; the, cibber on the reformation of, i. ; audience on, forbidden, i. ; cibber on the influence of, ii. - ; shape of the, described, ii. ; doors, ii. , _note_ . statute regarding rogues and vagabonds, i. .; against profanity on the stage, i. .; against persons meeting out of their own parishes on sundays for sports, etc., i. .; entirely suppressing players, i. li. steele, sir richard, i. , _note_ , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; substituted for collier in the licence, ii. ; the benefits he had conferred on cibber and his partners, ii. ; dennis's attacks on, ii. , _note_ ; receives a patent, ii. ; assigns equal shares in the patent to his partners, ii. ; account of his transactions in connection with the theatre which are ignored by cibber, ii. , _note_ ; persecuted by the duke of newcastle, then lord chamberlain, ii. , _note_ ; his licence revoked, ii. , _note_ ; restored to his position, ii. , _note_ ; the expiry of his patent, ii. , _note_ ; assigns his share of the patent, ii. ; brings an action against his partners, ii. ; account of the pleadings, ii. - ; his recommendation of underhill's benefit, ii. . stow, john, his "survey of london" quoted, i. xxxv., i. xlviii. strolling players, i. xl., i. xlvii., i. . subligny, madlle., a french dancer, i. . "summer miscellany, the," ii. , _note_ . sumner, an eminent actor, i. xxvi.; his death, i. xxxi. sunderland, lady (the little whig), i. . swan theatre, drawing of the stage of the, ii. , _note_ . swanston, eliard, acted othello, i. xxvi.; the only actor that took the presbyterian side in the civil war, i. xxix. swift, jonathan, an attack on cibber by him in his "rhapsody on poetry" quoted, i. , _note_ . swiney, owen, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his "quacks," i. , _note_ ; account of his character, i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; rents the queen's theatre from vanbrugh, i. . i. . _note_ ; his agreement with rich about renting the queen's theatre, i. ; rich declines to execute it, i. ; his success at the queen's theatre in - , ii. ; his arrangement with his actors in , ii. ; control of the opera given to, ii. ; his gain by the opera in , ii. ; has joint control of plays and operas ( ), ii. ; forced to hand over the opera to collier, ii. ; forced to resume the opera, ii. ; goes abroad on account of debt, ii. ; his return to england, ii. ; cibber plays for his benefit, ii. . "tatler," the, i. , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. ; its eulogium of betterton, i. , _note_ ; recommends cave underhill's benefit, i. ; praises nicolini, ii. ; its influence on audiences, ii. . taylor, john, his "records of my life" quoted, i. lxv., _note_ . ---- joseph, ii. ; superior to hart, i. xxiv.; his chief characters, i. xxvi.; too old to go into charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; arrested for acting, i. xxx.; his death, i. xxxi. "tempest, the," as an opera, i. ; revival of, ii. . theatre, the, mentioned by stow as recently erected, i. xlviii. théâtre français, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . theatres, number of, before , i. xxvi.; more reputable before , i. xxvii.; less reputable after the restoration, i. xxvii.; evil, artistically, of multiplying, i. . theobald, lewis, deposed from the throne of dulness, ii. . thomson, james, his "sophonisba," ii. . tofts, mrs. katherine, i. , _note_ , ii. ; cibber's account of, ii. . "tone" in speaking, i. , _note_ . trinity college, cambridge, caius cibber's statues on the library, i. ; particulars regarding these, i. , _note_ . underhill, cave, i. , i. , i. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his chief parts, i. - ; cibber's account of, i. - ; his particular excellence in stupid characters, i. ; the peculiarity of his facial expression, i. ; his retirement and last appearances, i. , _note_ ; his death, i. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . underwood, john, originally a "chapel boy," i. xxxvii. union of companies in , i. xxxii., i. ; in , i. ; causes that led up to, ii. , ii. . valentini (valentini urbani), singer, i. , ii. , ii. . vanbrugh, sir john, i. , i. , i. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his opinion of cibber's acting of richard iii., i. ; his "relapse," i. , i. ; his high opinion of cibber's acting, i. ; his "provoked wife," i. - ; in gratitude to sir thomas skipwith presents him with "the relapse," i. ; his "Æsop," i. , i. ; his great ability, i. ; alters his "provoked wife," ii. ; his share in the "provoked husband," i. , _note_ ; builds the queen's theatre, i. ; and congreve manage the queen's theatre, i. , i. ; his "confederacy," i. ; "the cuckold in conceit" (attributed to him), i. ; his "squire trelooby," i. ; his "mistake," i. ; sole proprietor of the queen's theatre, i. ; lets it to swiney, i. , i. , _note_ . vaughan, commissioner, ii. , _note_ . "venice preserved," ii. , _note_ . verbruggen, john, i. , _note_ ; mentioned, i. , i. ; hangs about downes, the prompter, i. , _note_ ; note regarding, i. , _note_ ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . ---- mrs. see mrs. mountfort. vere street, clare market, theatre in, i. xxxii. versatility, cibber's views on, i. . victor, benjamin, ii. ; a story told by him of cibber's cowardice, i. , _note_ ; his "history of the theatres," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; his "letters" quoted, i. , _note_ ; his "life of booth," i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . villains, cibber's views on, i. ; macready's views on, referred to, i. , _note_ ; e. s. willard mentioned as famous for representing, i. , _note_ ; on the acting of, i. . vizard-masks (women of the town), i. xxvii. see also masks. voltaire, his "zaïre," ii. . walker, obadiah, his change of religion, ii. . waller, edmund, altered the last act of the "maid's tragedy," ii. . walpole, horace, and cibber, ii. . warburton, bishop, mentioned, i. , _note_ , ii. . ward, professor a. w., his "english dramatic literature," i. , _note_ . warwick, earl of, his frolic with pope and cibber, ii. . weaver, john, his "loves of mars and venus," ii. , _note_ . webster, benjamin, i. , _note_ . "wedding, the," i. xxv. "weekly packet" quoted, ii. , _note_ . welsted, leonard, satirically mentioned by swift, i. , _note_ . westminster bridge, difficulties in getting permission to build, ii. . whig, the little (lady sunderland), i. . white's club, cibber a member, i. , _note_ . whitefriars, i. xlix. "whitehall evening post," cibber sends verses to, regarding himself, i. . whitelocke's "memorials," ii. , _note_ . wigs. see perriwigs. wildair, sir harry, i. . "wild-goose chase, the," i. xxv. wilks, robert, i. , _note_ , i. , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; memoirs published immediately after his death, i. ; mistakes in his hamlet, i. , _note_ ; lives with mrs. rogers, i. ; distressed by pinkethman's "gagging," i. , _note_ ; his impetuous temper, i. , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. - , ii. ; his return to drury lane from dublin, i. ; his commencing as actor, i. ; the contest between him and powell for supremacy at drury lane, i. - , i. - ; his wonderful memory, i. , i. ; his diligence and care, i. , ii. ; his good character, i. ; made chief actor at drury lane, under rich, i. ; his energy in managing, i. ; his disputes with cibber, i. ; his friendship with mills, i. ; as a prologue-speaker, i. ; the occasion of his coming to london, i. ; and mrs. oldfield playing in same pieces, i. ; made deputy-manager by brett, ii. , _note_ ; made joint-manager with swiney and others in , ii. ; advertisement regarding his salary, , ii. , _note_ ; his characteristics as a manager, ii. , ii. ; his patronage of his friends, ii. ; his behaviour on booth's claiming to become a manager, ii. , ii. ; his favour for mills, ii. ; his connection with steele during the dispute about steele's patent, ii. , _note_ ; his love of acting, ii. ; a genuine admirer of cibber, ii. , _note_ ; attacked by dennis, ii. , _note_ ; his excellence as macduff, ii. ; gives the part to williams, ii. ; but withdraws it, ii. ; complains of acting so much, ii. ; a scene between him and his partners, ii. - ; benefits arising from his enthusiasm for acting, ii. ; and booth, their opinion of each other, ii. ; formed his style on mountfort's, ii. ; cibber's comparison of booth and wilks, ii. - ; his othello, ii. ; death of, ii. ; memoir of, ii. , _note_ ; patent granted to him, cibber, and booth, after steele's death, ii. . wilks, mrs., inherits wilks's share in the patent, ii. ; delegates her authority to john ellys, ii. ; her share sold to fleetwood, ii. . willard, e. s., mentioned, i. , _note_ . william of orange, cibber a supporter of, at the revolution, i. ; made king, i. ; gives a licence to betterton, i. , _note_ . williams, charles, wilks gives him the part of macduff, ii. ; but withdraws it, ii. ; hissed in mistake for cibber, i. , _note_ . ---- joseph, mentioned, i. , i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . wiltshire (actor), leaves the stage for the army, i. ; killed in flanders, i. . winchester college, cibber stands for election to, and is unsuccessful, i. ; his brother, lewis cibber, is afterwards successful, i. ; his father presents a statue to, i. ; communication from the head master of, i. , _note_ . wintershal (actor), belonged to the salisbury court theatre, i. xxiv. woffington, margaret, her artistic feeling, i. , _note_ ; an anecdote wrongly connected with her, ii. . "woman's wit," cast of, i. , _note_ . women, their first introduction on the stage, i. xxxii., i. , _note_ , i. . wren, sir christopher, the designer of drury lane theatre, ii. . wright, james, his "history of rutlandshire," i. ; quoted, i. , _note_ ; his "historia histrionica," i. xix. wykeham, william of, cibber connected with by descent, i. . "ximena," cast of, ii. , _note_ . york, duke of (james ii.), at whitehall, i. . young, dr. edward, his "epistle to mr. pope" quoted, i. , _note_ . young actors, dearth of, ii. . end of vol. ii. [illustration] chiswick press:--c. whittingham and co., tooks court, chancery lane. footnotes [footnote : that is, "the beaux' stratagem," by farquhar, produced th march, . cibber played the part of gibbet.] [footnote : "lady's last stake; or, the wife's resentment," a comedy by cibber, produced th december, . lord wronglove mr. wilks. sir george brillant mr. cibber. sir friendly moral mr. keene. lady wronglove mrs. barry. lady gentle mrs. rogers. mrs. conquest mrs. oldfield. miss notable mrs. cross.] [footnote : "the double gallant; or, the sick lady's cure," a comedy by cibber, produced st november, . sir solomon sadlife mr. johnson. clerimont mr. booth. careless mr. wilks. atall mr. cibber. captain strut mr. bowen. sir squabble splithair mr. norris. saunter mr. pack. old mr. wilful mr. bullock. sir harry atall mr. cross. supple mr. fairbank. lady dainty mrs. oldfield. lady sadlife mrs. crosse. clarinda mrs. rogers. sylvia mrs. bradshaw. wishwell mrs. saunders. situp mrs. brown.] [footnote : the plays from which cibber compiled "the double gallant" are "love at a venture," "the lady's visiting day," and "the reformed wife" (genest, ii. ).] [footnote : eighteenpence was for many years the recognized price of plays when published.] [footnote : these were played on th january, st january, and th february, , in the order cibber gives them. the alteration of dryden's plays was done by cibber, and was called "marriage à la mode; or, the comical lovers." celadon mr. cibber. palamede mr. wilks. rhodophil mr. booth. melantha mrs. bracegirdle. florimel mrs. oldfield. doralice mrs. porter. i have not seen a copy of this, so take the cast from genest.] [footnote : an elephant was introduced into the pantomime of "harlequin and padmanaba," at covent garden, th december, . genest points out that one had appeared at smock alley theatre, dublin, in - .] [footnote : in mr. percy fitzgerald's "new history of the english stage" (ii. ) he gives an interesting memorandum by the hon. sir spencer ponsonby-fane regarding this point. it begins: "that the chamberlain's authority proceeded from the sovereign alone is clear, from the fact that no act of parliament, previous to the geo. ii., c. (passed in ), alludes to his licensing powers, though he was constantly exercising them."] [footnote : langbaine, in his "account of the english dramatick poets," , says (p. ): "_maids tragedy_, a play which has always been acted with great applause at the king's theatre; and which had still continu'd on the english stage, had not king _charles_ the _second_], for some particular reasons forbid its further appearance during his reign. it has since been reviv'd by mr. _waller_, the last act having been wholly alter'd to please the court." i think there can be little doubt that the last reason suggested by cibber was the real cause of the prohibition.] [footnote : produced at dorset garden, .] [footnote : produced at dorset garden, . see _ante_, vol. i. p. . i presume that the lines alluded to by cibber are:-- "never content with what you had before, but true to change, and englishmen all o'er."] [footnote : in the "biographia dramatica" (iii. ) the following note appears: "mary queen of scotland. a play under this title was advertised, among others, as sold by wellington, in st. paul's churchyard, in ." but the work cibber refers to is "the island queens; or, the death of mary queen of scots," a tragedy by john banks, printed in , but not produced till th march, , when it was played at drury lane as "the albion queens."] [footnote : "the unhappy favourite; or, the earl of essex," produced at the theatre royal, .] [footnote : "virtue betrayed; or, anna bullen," first acted at dorset garden, .] [footnote : bellchambers notes here that this order was superfluous, because the prohibition was inserted in the patents given to davenant and killigrew. but, whether superfluous or not, i find from the records of the lord chamberlain's office that this order was frequently made. on th april, , an edict was issued forbidding actors to desert from betterton's company; on th july, , desertions from either company were forbidden; and this latter order was reiterated on th may, .] [footnote : i do not know whether it is merely a coincidence, but it is curious that, after betterton got his license (on th march, ), an edict was issued that no one was to desert from his company to that of the theatre royal; while a general order against any desertion from either company to the other was not issued for more than three months after the first edict. the dates, as given in the records of the lord chamberlain's office, are th april and th july respectively. if this were intentional, it would form a curious commentary on cibber's statement.] [footnote : genest supposes that this incident occurred about june, . but the lord chamberlain's records of that time contain no note of it, and cibber's language scarcely bears the interpretation that three years elapsed between powell's leaving drury lane and returning to it, as was the case at that time; for he was at lincoln's inn fields for three seasons, to . i find, however, a warrant, dated th november, , to apprehend powell for refusing to act his part at the haymarket, so that the audience had to be dismissed, and for trying to raise a mutiny in the company. he was ordered to be confined in the porter's lodge until further notice. on the th november rich was informed that powell had deserted the haymarket, and was warned not to engage him. now these desertions must have followed each other pretty closely, for he was at drury lane in the beginning of ; at the haymarket in april of the same year; and about six months later had deserted the latter. the sequel to this difficulty seems to be the silencing of rich for receiving powell, on th march in the fifth year of queen anne's reign, that is, . unless the transcriber of the records has made a mistake in the year, powell was thus suspended for about eighteen months. it will be noticed that cibber does not say that he was acting the night after his release, but merely that he was behind the scenes.] [footnote : among the lord chamberlain's records is a copy of a decree suspending all performances at drury lane because powell had been allowed to play. this is dated rd may, . his offence was that he had drawn his sword on colonel stanhope and young davenant. the suspension was removed the following day; but on the th of the same month powell was forbidden to be received at either drury lane or dorset garden.] [footnote : a warrant was issued to apprehend dogget and take him to the knight marshall's prison, on rd november, , his offence being desertion of the company of drury lane and dorset garden. the records contain no note as to the termination of the matter; but this is, beyond doubt, the occasion referred to by cibber.] [footnote : horace, _epis._, i. , .] [footnote : at drury lane, th april, .] [footnote : this is a pretty way of putting what johnson, in his life of addison, afterwards stated in the well-known words: "the whigs applauded every line in which liberty was mentioned, as a satire on the tories; and the tories echoed every clap to show that the satire was unfelt." in the next paragraph johnson describes the play as "supported by the emulation of factious praise."] [footnote : i confess i do not know cibber's authority for this statement.] [footnote : "the laureat" abuses cibber for this sentence, declaring that he evidently considered "sophocles" to be the name of a tragedy. but cibber's method of expression, though curious, does not justify this attack.] [footnote : "caviare to the general."--"hamlet," act ii. sc. .] [footnote : malone supposes that skipwith acquired his shares from the killigrew family, but in the indenture by which he transferred his interest to brett, it seems as if he had acquired part of it from alexander davenant, and the remainder by buying up shares of the original adventurers. the indenture will be found at length in mr. percy fitzgerald's "new history of the english stage," i. . skipwith is described in the "biog. dram." (i. ) as "a weak, vain, conceited coxcomb." the proportion in which the shares were divided among the various holders is shown by the "opinion" of northey and raymond, in , to have been this: three-twentieths belonged to charles killigrew. the remainder was divided into tenths, of which two-tenths belonged to rich; the other eight parts were owned by the mortgagees or adventurers. if cibber's supposition is correct, two of these parts belonged to shipwith.] [footnote : it is dated th october, .] [footnote : as noted vol. i. p. , january, , old style; that is, january, .] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) says: "the heads of the english actors were, for a long time, covered with large full-bottomed perriwigs, a fashion introduced in the reign of charles ii., which was not entirely disused in public till about the year . addison, congreve, and steele, met at button's coffee-house, in large, flowing, flaxen wigs; booth, wilks, and cibber, when full-dressed, wore the same. till within these twenty-five years, our tamerlanes and catos had as much hair on their heads as our judges on the bench.... i have been told, that he [booth] and wilks bestowed forty guineas each on the exorbitant thatching of their heads."] [footnote : "the laureat," p. , relates with great acrimony an anecdote of colonel brett's reproving cibber harshly for his treatment of an author who had submitted a play to him. cibber is said to have opened the author's m.s., and, having read two lines only, to have returned it to him saying, "sir, it will not do." going to button's, he related his exploit with great glee, but was rebuked in the strongest terms by colonel brett, who is said to have put him to shame before the whole company. this is related as having occurred many years after the time cibber now writes of; the suggestion being that brett did not consider cibber as a friend.] [footnote : this was the countess of macclesfield, the supposed mother of richard savage, who had a large fortune in her own right, of which she was not deprived on her divorce from the earl of macclesfield. shortly after her divorce, probably about , she married brett. she lived to be eighty, or over it, dying th october, .] [footnote : a comedy by mountfort the actor, originally played at the theatre royal, . the part of young reveller was then taken by the author, and we have no record of cibber's playing it before ; but from this anecdote he must have done so ten years earlier.] [footnote : in boswell's life of johnson (i. ) there is a note by boswell himself:-- "miss mason, after having forfeited the title of lady macclesfield by divorce, was married to colonel brett, and, it is said, was well known in all the polite circles. colley cibber, i am informed, had so high an opinion of her taste and judgement as to genteel life, and manners, that he submitted every scene of his _careless husband_ to mrs. brett's revisal and correction. colonel brett was reported to be too free in his gallantry with his lady's maid. mrs. brett came into a room one day in her own house, and found the colonel and her maid both fast asleep in two chairs. she tied a white handkerchief round her husband's neck, which was a sufficient proof that she had discovered his intrigue; but she never at any time took notice of it to him. this incident, as i am told, gave occasion to the well-wrought scene of sir charles and lady easy and edging."] [footnote : see note, vol. i. p. .] [footnote : . see note on page of this vol.] [footnote : the edict which ordered this division of plays and operas is dated st december, . each theatre is ordered to confine itself to its own sphere on pain of being silenced; and no other theatre is permitted to be built. a copy of the edict is given by mr. percy fitzgerald ("new history," i. ), but it is not a _verbatim_ copy of the original in the lord chamberlain's office, though it contains all that is of importance in it.] [footnote : at the union, - , the lord chamberlain took measures to assert his supremacy. under date th january, , he orders that no actors are to be engaged at drury-lane who are not her majesty's servants, and he therefore directs the managers to send a list of all actors to be sworn in.] [footnote : bellchambers notes that mrs. tofts "sang in english, while her associates responded in italian."] [footnote : the whole passage regarding nicolini is:-- "i went on _friday_ last to the opera, and was surprised to find a thin house at so noble an entertainment, till i heard that the tumbler was not to make his appearance that night. for my own part, i was fully satisfied with the sight of an actor, who, by the grace and propriety of his action and gesture, does honour to an human figure, as much as the other vilifies and degrades it. every one will easily imagine i mean signior _nicolini_, who sets off the character he bears in an opera by his action, as much as he does the words of it by his voice. every limb, and every finger, contributes to the part he acts, insomuch that a deaf man might go along with him in the sense of it. there is scarce a beautiful posture in an old statue which he does not plant himself in, as the different circumstances of the story give occasion for it. he performs the most ordinary action in a manner suitable to the greatness of his character, and shows the prince even in the giving of a letter, or the dispatching of a message. our best actors are somewhat at a loss to support themselves with proper gesture, as they move from any considerable distance to the front of the stage; but i have seen the person of whom i am now speaking, enter alone at the remotest part of it, and advance from it with such greatness of air and mien, as seemed to fill the stage, and at the same time commanded the attention of the audience with the majesty of his appearance."--"tatler," no. , january rd, .] [footnote : an excellent account of mrs. tofts is given by mr. henry morley in a note on page of his valuable edition of the "spectator." she was the daughter of one of bishop burnet's household, and had great natural gifts. in she was obliged to quit the stage, her mental faculties having failed; but she afterwards recovered, and married mr. joseph smith, a noted art patron, who was appointed english consul at venice. her intellect again became disordered, and she died about the year .] [footnote : cibber's most notorious blunder in language was made in this sentence. in his first edition he wrote "was then _but_ an adept in it," completely reversing the meaning of the word "adept." fielding ("champion," nd april, ) declares cibber to be a most absolute master of english, "for surely he must be absolute master of that whose laws he can trample under feet, and which he can use as he pleases. this power he hath exerted, of which i shall give a _barbarous_ instance in the case of the poor word _adept_.... this word our great _master_ hath tortured and wrested to signify a _tyro_ or _novice_, being directly contrary to the sense in which it hath been hitherto used." it is of course conceivable that the error was a printer's error not corrected in reading the proof.] [footnote : nicolini was the stage name of the cavalier nicolo grimaldi. dr. burney says: "this great singer, and still greater actor, was a neapolitan; his voice was at first a _soprano_, but afterwards descended into a fine _contralto_." he first appeared, about , in rome, and paid his first visit to england in . valentini urbani was a _castrato_, his voice was not so strong as nicolini's, but his action was so excellent that his vocal defects were not noticed.--"general history of music," , iv. , .] [footnote : colonel brett, by an indenture dated st march, , made wilks, estcourt, and cibber, his deputies in the management of the theatre. genest (ii. ) says this was probably " st march, , old style," by which i suppose he means march, . but i cannot see why he should think this. brett entered into management in january, , and was probably out of it by march, . it may be that genest supposes that this indenture marks the end of brett's connection with the theatre; whereas it was probably one of his first actions. it will be remembered that he stated his intention of benefitting cibber by taking the patent (see _ante_, p. ). a copy of the indenture is given by mr. percy fitzgerald ("new history," ii. ). it is dated st march in the seventh year of queen anne's reign, that is, .] [footnote : on p. of vol. i. cibber says that rich (about ) had led the adventurers "a chace in chancery several years." from the petition presented in against the order silencing rich, we learn that the principal adventurers were: lord guilford, lord john harvey, dame alice brownlow, mrs. shadwell, sir edward smith, bart., sir thomas skipwith, bart., george sayer, charles killegrew, christopher rich, charles davenant, john metcalf, thomas goodall, ashburnham toll, ashburnham frowd, william east, richard middlemore, robert gower, and william collier. it is curious that everyone who has reproduced this list has, as far as i know, mistaken the name "frowd," calling it "trowd." the earliest reproduction of the list of names which i know is in the "dramatic censor," , col. iii.] [footnote : i do not know when sir thomas skipwith died; but in the petition of the adventurers, &c., is signed by, among others, sir thomas skipwith.] [footnote : this anecdote shows that rich had some sort of committee of shareholders to aid (or hinder) him. subsequent experience has shown, as witness the drury lane committee at the beginning of this century, how disastrous such form of management is.] [footnote : dr. doran ("their majesties' servants," edition, i. ) gives the following account of goodman's connection with this plot:-- "king james having saved cardell's neck, goodman, out of pure gratitude, perhaps, became a tory, and something more, when william sat in the seat of his father-in-law. after queen mary's death, scum was in the fenwick and charnock plot to kill the king. when the plot was discovered, scum was ready to peach. as fenwick's life was thought by his friends to be safe if goodman could be bought off and got out of the way, the rogue was looked for, at the _fleece_, in covent garden, famous for homicides, and at the robbers' and the revellers' den, the _dog_, in drury lane. fenwick's agent, o'bryan, erst soldier and highwayman, now a jacobite agent, found scum at the _dog_, and would then and there have cut his throat, had not scum consented to the pleasant alternative of accepting £ a year, and a residence abroad.... scum suddenly disappeared, and lord manchester, our ambassador in paris, inquired after him in vain. it is impossible to say whether the rogue died by an avenging hand, or starvation."] [footnote : this anecdote is valuable as establishing the identity of _captain_ griffin with the griffin who retired (temporarily) from the stage about . see note on page of vol. i.] [footnote : when betterton and his associates left the theatre royal and opened lincoln's inn fields theatre. see chapter vi.] [footnote : indulto--in spain, a duty, tax, or custom, paid to the king for all goods imported.] [footnote : in the "answer to steele's state of the case," (nichols's ed. p. ), it is said: "after mr. rich was again restored to the management of the play-house, he made an order to stop a certain proportion of the clear profits of every benefit-play without exception; which being done, and reaching the chief players as well as the underlings, zealous application was made to the lord chamberlain, to oblige mr. rich to return the money stopped to each particular. the dispute lasted some time, and mr. rich, not giving full satisfaction upon that head, was silenced; during the time of which silence, the chief players, either by a new license, or by some former (which i cannot absolutely determine, my memoirs being not at this time by me) set up for themselves, and got into the possession of the play-house in drury-lane."] [footnote : see _ante_, vol. i. p. .] [footnote : this warning is dated th april, , and is a very peremptory document. rich's treasurer is ordered to pay the actors the full receipts of their benefits, under deduction only of £ for the charges of the house. see the order for silence quoted _post_, page .] [footnote : mrs. bracegirdle retired in february, . mrs. barry played up to the end of the season, , that is, up to june, . she does not seem to have been engaged in - , but she was a member of the haymarket company in - .] [footnote : from chapter xvi. it will be seen that wilks's unfair partiality for john mills, whom he forced into prominence at booth's expense, was the leading reason for booth's remaining with rich.] [footnote : the order for silence has never, i believe, been quoted. i therefore give it in full. the theatre closed on the th of june, , which was saturday, and did not open again under rich's management, the order for silence being issued on the next monday. "_play house in covent garden silenc'd._ whereas by an order dated the ^{th} day of apr^{ll} last upon the peti{c~o}n of sev^{ll} players &c: i did then direct and require you to pay to the respective comedians who had benfit plays last winter the full receip^{ts} of such plays deducting only from each the sume of l. for the charges of the house pursuant to the articles made w^{th} y^m at y^e theatre in the haymarkett and w^{ch} were promis^d to be made good upon their removall to the theatre in covent garden. "and whereas i am inform^d y^t in contempt of the said ord^r y^u still refuse to pay and detain from the s^d comedians y^e profits of y^e s^d benefit plays i do therefore for the s^d contempt hereby silence you from further acting & require you not to perform any plays or other theatricall entertainm^{ts} till further ord^r; and all her maj^{ts} sworn comedians are hereby forbid to act any plays at y^e theatre in covent gard^n or else where w^{th}out my leave as they shall answer the contrary at their perill and &c: given &c: this ^{th} day of june in the eighth year of her majesty's reign. "(signed) kent. "to the manager or manag^{rs} } of her maj^{ts} company of comedi^{ns} } for their patentees." } i have copied this from the lord chamberlain's records.] [footnote : "_honoured sir_, _july_ . . "finding by divers of your late papers, that you are a friend to the profession of which i was many years an unworthy member, i the rather make bold to crave your advice, touching a proposal that has been lately made me of coming into business, and the sub-administration of stage affairs. i have, from my youth, been bred up behind the curtain, and been a prompter from the time of the restoration. i have seen many changes, as well of scenes as of actors, and have known men within my remembrance arrive to the highest dignities of the theatre, who made their entrance in the quality of mutes, joynt-stools, flower-pots, and tapestry hangings. it cannot be unknown to the nobility and gentry, that a gentleman of the inns of court, and a deep intriguer, had some time since worked himself into the sole management and direction of the theatre. nor is it less notorious, that his restless ambition, and subtle machinations, did manifestly tend to the extirpation of the good old _british_ actors, and the introduction of foreign pretenders; such as harlequins, _french_ dancers, and _roman_ singers; which, tho' they impoverish'd the proprietors, and imposed on the audience, were for some time tolerated, by reason of his dextrous insinuations, which prevailed upon a few deluded women, especially the vizard masks, to believe, that the stage was in danger. but his schemes were soon exposed, and the great ones that supported him withdrawing their favour, he made his _exit_, and remained for a season in obscurity. during this retreat the machiavilian was not idle, but secretly fomented divisions, and wrought over to his side some of the inferior actors, reserving a trap door to himself, to which only he had a key. this entrance secured, this cunning person, to compleat his company, bethought himself of calling in the most eminent of strollers from all parts of the kingdom. i have seen them all ranged together behind the scenes; but they are many of them persons that never trod the stage before, and so very aukward and ungainly, that it is impossible to believe the audience will bear them. he was looking over his catalogue of plays, and indeed picked up a good tolerable set of grave faces for counsellors, to appear in the famous scene of _venice preserved_, when the danger is over; but they being but meer outsides, and the actors having a great mind to play the _tempest_, there is not a man of them when he is to perform any thing above dumb show is capable of acting with a good grace so much as the part of _trincalo_. however, the master persists in his design, and is fitting up the old storm; but i am afraid he will not be able to procure able sailors or experienced officers for love or money. "besides all this, when he comes to cast the parts there is so great a confusion amongst them for want of proper actors, that for my part i am wholly discouraged. the play with which they design to open is, _the duke and no duke_; and they are so put to it, that the master himself is to act the conjurer, and they have no one for the general but honest _george powell_. "now, sir, they being so much at a loss for the _dramatis personæ_, _viz._ the persons to enact, and the whole frame of the house being designed to be altered, i desire your opinion, whether you think it advisable for me to undertake to prompt 'em: for tho' i can clash swords when they represent a battel, and have yet lungs enough to huzza their victories, i question, if i should prompt 'em right, whether they would act accordingly.--i am your honour's most humble servant, "j. downes. "_p.s._ sir, since i writ this, i am credibly informed, that they design a new house in _lincoln's-inn-fields_, near the popish chapel, to be ready by _michaelmas_ next; which indeed is but repairing an old one that has already failed. you know the honest man who kept the office is gone already."] [footnote : the chief actor who remained with rich was booth. among the others were powell, bickerstaffe, pack, keene, francis leigh, norris, mrs. bignell, mrs. moor, mrs. bradshaw, and mrs. knight.] [footnote : an interesting advertisement was published on rich's behalf in july, , which gives curious particulars regarding the actors' salaries. i quote it from "edwin's eccentricities," i. - , without altering the figures, which, as regards the pence, are rather eccentric:-- "advertisement concerning the poor actors, who, under pretence of hard usage from the patentees, are about to desert their service. "some persons having industriously spread about amongst the quality and others, what small allowances the chief actors have had this last winter from the patentees of drury lane play-house, as if they had received no more than so many poor palatines; it was thought necessary to print the following account. "the whole company began to act on the th of october, , and left off on the th of the same month, by reason of prince george's illness and death; and began again the th of december following, and left off upon the lord chamberlain's order, on the th of june last, . so acted, during that time, in all days, which is weeks and three days, accounting six acting days to a week. in that time £ s. d. to mr. wilkes, by salary, for acting, and taking care of the rehearsals; paid by his benefit play; total ------------- to mr. betterton by salary, for acting, _l._ a week for himself, and _l._ week for his wife, although she does not act; paid by a benefit play at common prices, besides what he got by high prices, and guineas; paid ------------- ------------- to mr. eastcourt, at _l._ a week salary; paid by a benefit play; paid ------------- ------------- to mr. cibber, at _l._ a week salary; paid by a benefit play; paid ------------- ------------- to mr. mills, at _l._ a week for himself, and _l._ a week for his wife, for little or nothing by a benefit play paid to him (not including therein what she got by a benefit play) ------------- ------------- to mrs. oldfield, at _l._ a week salary, which for weeks and one day; she leaving off acting presently after her benefit (viz.) on the th of march last, , though the benefit was intended for her whole nine months acting, and she refused to assist others in their benefits; her salary for these weeks and one day came to, and she was paid, in january she required, and was paid ten guineas, to wear on the stage in some plays, during the whole season, a mantua petticoat that was given her for the stage, and though she left off three months before she should, yet she hath not returned any part of the ten guineas and she had for wearing in some plays a suit of boys cloaths on the stage; paid by a benefit play; paid ------------- ------------- certainties in all ------------- "besides which certain sums above-mentioned, the same actors got by their benefit plays, as follows: £ s. d. note, that mr. betterton having had _l._ _s._ _d._ as above mentioned, for two-thirds of the profits by a benefit play, reckoning his tickets for the boxes at _s._ a piece, the pit at _s._ the first gallery at _s._ and the upper gallery at _s._----but the boxes, pit, and stage, laid together on his day, and no person admitted but by his tickets, the lowest at half a guinea a ticket; nay he had much more, for one lady gave him ten guineas, some five guineas, some two guineas, and most one guinea, supposing that he designed not to act any more, and he delivered tickets out for more persons, than the boxes, pit, and stage could hold; it is thought he cleared at least _l._ over and besides the _l._ _s._ _d._ 'tis thought mr. estcourt cleared _l._ besides the said _l._ _s._ _d._ that mr. wilkes cleared by guineas, as it is thought, about _l._ besides the said _l._ _s._ _d._ that mr. cibber got by guineas, as it is thought, about _l._ besides the said _l._ _s._ _d._ that mr. mills got by guineas about _l._ as it is thought, besides the said _l._ _s._ _d._ that mrs. oldfield, it is thought, got _l._ by guineas over and above the said _l._ _s._ _d._ ------------- in all ------------- "so that these six comedians, who are the unsatisfied people, have between the th of october and the th of june last, cleared in all the following sums: £ s. d. acted times, mr. wilkes certain and more by computation ------------- both ------------- acted times, mr. betterton certain and more by computation ------------- ------------- acted times, mr. estcourt certain and more by computation ------------- ------------- acted times, mr. cibber certain and more by computation ------------- ------------- acted -- times, mr. mills certain and more by computation ------------- ------------- acted times, mrs. oldfield certain and more by computation ------------- ------------- in all ------------- "had not acting been forbid seven weeks on the occasion of prince george's death, and my lord chamberlain forbad acting about five weeks before the tenth of july instant; each of these actors would have had twelve weeks salary more than is above-mentioned. "as to the certainties expressed in this paper, to be paid to the six actors, the same are positively true: and as to the sums they got over and above such certainties, i believe the same to be true, according to the best of my computation. "witness my hand, who am receiver and treasurer at the theatre royal, drury lane, "july th, . "zachary baggs."] [footnote : it was opened th december, .] [footnote : the lord chamberlain's records enable an exact account to be given of the transactions which led to the formation of this haymarket company. after rich was silenced, his actors petitioned the lord chamberlain on three separate occasions, namely, th june, th june, and th july, , and in answer to their petitions, the haymarket, which was then devoted solely to opera, was permitted to be used for plays also. in an answer to the actors' petitions, the lord chamberlain permits the manager of the haymarket to engage such of them as he wished, and to act plays four times a week, the other days being devoted to operas. this license is dated th july, . this is, of course, only a formal sanction of the private arrangement mentioned by cibber _ante_ p. ; and was resented by booth and others who were in rich's favour. they therefore petitioned the queen direct, in despite of the lord chamberlain (see "dramatic censor," , col. ; genest, ii. ; mr. fitzgerald's "new history," i. ), but no result followed, until collier's advent, as is related further on.] [footnote : the description of the shape of the stage which follows is interesting and valuable. in early times the stage was a platform surrounded by the audience, not, as now, a picture framed by the proscenium. this is evident, not only from descriptive allusions, but from the two drawings which have come down to us of the interior of pre-restoration theatres--de witt's drawing of the swan theatre in , reproduced in herr gaedertz's "zur kenntniss der altenglischen bühne" (bremen, ), and the well-known print of the red bull theatre during the commonwealth, which forms the frontispiece to kirkman's "the wits, or sport upon sport" ( ). in both of them the pit entirely surrounds the stage on three sides, while the fourth side also contains spectators in boxes placed above the entrance-doors. by gradual modifications the shape of the stage has changed, till now the audience is confined to one side. the doors used for entrances and exits, to which cibber alludes, have disappeared comparatively recently. they may be seen, for instance, in cruikshank's plates to dickens's "grimaldi."] [footnote : the haymarket opened on th september, , and there was no rival theatre till rd november, when drury lane opened; but from this latter date till the end of the season both theatres were open.] [footnote : bellchambers has here the following note:--"the monarch alluded to, i suppose, was victor amadeus, king of sardinia. carlo broschi, better known by the name of farinelli, was born in the dukedom of modena, in , and suffered emasculation, from an accident, when young. the spanish king ferdinand created him a knight of calatrava, honoured him with his friendship, and added to his fortune. he returned to italy on his patron's death, and died in ."] [footnote : francesca cuzzoni and faustina bordoni hasse, whose famous rivalry in and is here referred to, were singers of remarkable powers. cuzzoni's voice was a _soprano_, her rival's a _mezzo-soprano_, and while the latter excelled in brilliant execution, the former was supreme in pathetic expression. dr. burney ("history of music," iv. ) quotes from m. quantz the statement that so keen was their supporters' party spirit, that when one party began to applaud their favourite, the other party hissed!] [footnote : horace, _epod._ xvi. .] [footnote : see note on page .] [footnote : the trial opened on th february, , and lasted for more than three weeks. the political excitement it caused must have done great harm to theatricals. shadwell, in the preface to "the fair quaker of deal," mentioned _post_, page , says it was a success, "notwithstanding the trial in westminster-hall, and the rehearsal of the new opera."] [footnote : in the british museum will be found a copy of the report by the attorney-general and solicitor-general, who were ordered by queen anne to inquire into this business. rich declared that collier broke into the theatre with an armed mob of soldiers, &c., but collier denied the soldiers, though he admitted the breaking in. he gave as his authority for taking possession a letter signed by sir james stanley, dated th november, , by which the queen gave him authority to act, and required him not to allow rich to have any concern in the theatre. his authority was appointed to run from rd november, .] [footnote : "tatler," no. , th november, : "_divito_ [rich] was too modest to know when to resign it, till he had the opinion and sentence of the law for his removal.... the lawful ruler [of drury lane] sets up an attorney to expel an attorney, and chose a name dreadful to the stage [that is collier], who only seemed able to beat _divito_ out of his intrenchments. "on the d instant, a night of public rejoycing, the enemies of _divito_ made a largess to the people of faggots, tubs, and other combustible matter, which was erected into a bonfire before the palace. plentiful cans were at the same time distributed among the dependences of that principality; and the artful rival of _divito_ observing them prepared for enterprize, presented the lawful owner of the neighbouring edifice, and showed his deputation under him. war immediately ensued upon the peaceful empire of wit and the muses; _the goths_ and _vandals_ sacking _rome_ did not threaten a more barbarous devastation of arts and sciences. but when they had forced their entrance, the experienced _divito_ had detached all his subjects, and evacuated all his stores. the neighbouring inhabitants report, that the refuse of _divito_'s followers marched off the night before disguised in magnificence; door-keepers came out clad like cardinals, and scene-drawers like heathen gods. _divito_ himself was wrapped up in one of his black clouds, and left to the enemy nothing but an empty stage, full of trap-doors, known only to himself and his adherents."] [footnote : barton booth, theophilus keen, norris, john bickerstaffe, george powell, francis leigh, george pack, mrs. knight, mrs. bradshaw, and mrs. moore were collier's chief performers. as most of them had signed the petition in rich's favour which i mentioned in a note on page , it is not wonderful that disturbances soon arose. collier appointed aaron hill to manage the company, and his post seems to have been a somewhat lively one. on th june, , the lord chamberlain's records contain an entry which proves how rebellious the company were. powell, booth, bickerstaffe, keen, and leigh, are stated to have defied and beaten aaron hill, to have broken open the doors of the theatre, and made a riot generally. for this powell is discharged, and the others suspended. mr. fitzgerald ("new history," i. _et seq._) quotes a letter from hill, in which some account of this matter is given.] [footnote : charles shadwell's "fair quaker of deal" was produced at drury lane on th february, . in the preface the author says, "this play was written about three years since, and put into the hands of a famous comedian belonging to the haymarket playhouse, who took care to beat down the value of it so much, as to offer the author to alter it fit to appear on the stage, on condition he might have half the profits of the third day, and the dedication entire; that is as much as to say, that it may pass for one of his, according to custom. the author not agreeing to this reasonable proposal, it lay in his hands till the beginning of this winter, when mr. booth read it, and liked it, and persuaded the author, that, with a little alteration, it would please the town" (bell's edition). if, as is likely, cibber is the actor referred to, his abuse of the play and the actors is not unintelligible.] [footnote : hester santlow, the "santlow, fam'd for dance" of gay, married barton booth. she appears to have retired from the stage about . genest (iii. ) says, "she seems to have been a pleasing actress with no great powers." her reputation was none of the best before her marriage, for she was said to have been the mistress of the duke of marlborough and of secretary craggs. see memoir of booth.] [footnote : genest (ii. ) has the following outspoken character of rich: "he seems in his public capacity of patentee and manager to have been a despicable character--without spirit to bring the power of the lord chamberlain to a legal test--without honesty to account to the other proprietors for the receipts of the theatre--without any feeling for his actors--and without the least judgment as to players and plays."] [footnote : rich's patent was revived, as cibber states (p. ), in , when it was the property of his son, john rich.] [footnote : there is no more curious transaction in theatrical history than the acquisition of the entire right in the patent by rich and his son. christopher rich's share (see note on p. ) was seventeen one-hundredths, or about one-sixth; yet, by obstinate dishonesty, he succeeded in annexing the remainder.] [footnote : in march, .] [footnote : there has been some doubt as to the locality of the theatre in little lincoln's inn fields, in which betterton acted, one authority at least holding that he played in gibbons' tennis court in vere street, clare market. but cibber distinctly states that rich rented the building which betterton left in , and old maps of london show clearly that rich's theatre was in portugal street, just opposite the end of the then unnamed street, now called carey street. in "a new and exact plan of the cities of london and westminster," published th august, , by george foster, "the new play house" is given as the name of this building, and it is worthy of notice that cibber, a few lines above, writes of "the new theatre in lincoln's inn fields." see also vol. i. p. , note , where i quote downes, who calls betterton's theatre the new theatre in lincoln's inn fields. about this house was made a barrack; it was afterwards an auction room; then the china repository of messrs. spode and copeland, and was ultimately pulled down about to make room for the extension of the museum of the royal college of surgeons.] [footnote : the licence to swiney, wilks, cibber, and dogget, for drury lane, is dated th november, . in it swiney's name is spelled "swyny," and cibber's "cybber."] [footnote : westminster bridge was authorized to be built in the face of virulent opposition from the corporation of london, who feared that its existence would damage the trade of the city. dr. potter, archbishop of canterbury, and others interested, applied for an act of parliament in ; the bridge was begun in , and not finished till , the opening ceremony being held on th november of that year. until this time the only bridge was london bridge. see "old and new london," iii. .] [footnote : i presume the noble commissioner is the earl of pembroke, who laid the first stone of the bridge on th january, .] [footnote : collier seems to have relied on aaron hill in all his theatrical enterprises, for, as previously noted, hill had been manager for him at drury lane.] [footnote : at the end of the season - . see _ante_, p. .] [footnote : collier's treatment of swiney was so discreditable, that when he in his turn was evicted from drury lane ( ) we cannot help feeling gratified at his downfall.] [footnote : swiney's licence for the opera is dated th april, .] [footnote : for a further account of steele's being given a share of the patent, which he got through marlborough's influence, see the beginning of chapter xv.] [footnote : see vol. i. - .] [footnote : that is, he had been the chief of collier's company at drury lane at his opening in november, . see _ante_, p. .] [footnote : martial, x. , .] [footnote : this is a blunder, which, by the way, bellchambers does not correct. "cato" was produced at drury lane on th april, . the cast was:-- cato mr. booth. lucius mr. keen. sempronius mr. mills. juba mr. wilks. syphax mr. cibber. portius mr. powell. marcus mr. ryan. decius mr. bowman. marcia mrs. oldfield. lucia mrs. porter.] [footnote : "the laureat" says these irish actors were elrington and griffith, but i venture to think that evans's name should be substituted for that of griffith. all three came from ireland to drury lane in ; but, while elrington and evans played many important characters, griffith did very little. again, i can find no record of the latter's benefit, but the others had benefits in the best part of the season. the fact that they had _separate_ benefits makes my theory contradict cibber on this one point; but what he says may have occurred in connection with one of the two benefits. cibber's memory is not infallible.] [footnote : genest's record gives wilks about one hundred and fifty different characters, dogget only about sixty.] [footnote : horace, _ars poetica_, .] [footnote : see note on page .] [footnote : johnson (life of addison) terms this "the despicable cant of literary modesty."] [footnote : th april, . see note on page .] [footnote : mrs. oldfield, powell, mills, booth, pinkethman, and mrs. porter, had their benefits before "cato" was produced. "cato" was then acted twenty times--april th to may th--that is, every evening except monday in each week, as cibber states. on monday nights the benefits continued--being one night in the week instead of three. johnson, keen, and mrs. bicknell had their benefits during the run of "cato," and on may th the regular benefit performances recommenced, mrs. rogers taking her benefit on that night.] [footnote : the duke of marlborough is the person pointed at.] [footnote : theo. cibber ("life of booth," p. ) says that booth in his early days as an actor became intimate with lord bolingbroke, and that this "was of eminent advantage to mr. _booth_,--when, on his great success in the part of cato (of which he was the original actor) my lord's interest (then secretary of state) established him as a manager of the theatre."] [footnote : there are five prologues by dryden spoken at oxford; one in , and the others probably about .] [footnote : james ii.] [footnote : obadiah walker, born , died , is famous only for the change of religion to which cibber's anecdote refers. macaulay ("history," , ii. - ) relates the story of his perversion, and in the same volume, page , refers to the incident here told by cibber.] [footnote : . the performance on rd june, , was announced as the last that season, as the company were obliged to go immediately to oxford.] [footnote : dryden writes, in one of his prologues (about ), to the university of oxford:-- "when our fop gallants, or our city folly, clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: we doubt that scene which does their wonder raise, and, for their ignorance, contemn their praise. judge, then, if we who act, and they who write, should not be proud of giving you delight. london likes grossly; but this nicer pit examines, fathoms, all the depths of wit; the ready finger lays on every blot; knows what should justly please, and what should not."] [footnote : in a prologue by dryden, spoken by hart in , at oxford, the poet says:-- "none of our living poets dare appear; for muses so severe are worshipped here, that, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye, and, as profane, from sacred places fly, rather than see the offended god, and die." malone (dryden's prose works, vol. i. part ii. p. ) gives a letter from dryden to lord rochester, in which he says: "your lordship will judge [from the success of these prologues, &c.] how easy 'tis to pass anything upon an university, and how gross flattery the learned will endure."] [footnote : theo. cibber ("life of booth," p. ) says that colley cibber and booth "used frequently to set out, after play (in the month of _may_) to _windsor_, where the _court_ then was, to push their different interests." chetwood ("history," p. ) states that the other patentees "to prevent his solliciting his patrons at court, then at _windsor_, gave out plays every night, where mr. _booth_ had a principal part. notwithstanding this step, he had a chariot and six of a nobleman's waiting for him at the end of every play, that whipt him the twenty miles in three hours, and brought him back to the business of the theatre the next night."] [footnote : the new licence was dated th november, . dogget's name was of course included as well as booth's.] [footnote : this must have been in november, .] [footnote : the right hon. thomas coke.] [footnote : the dates regarding this quarrel with dogget are very difficult to fix satisfactorily. in the collection of mr. francis harvey of st. james's street are some valuable letters by dogget in connection with this matter. from these, and from mr. percy fitzgerald's "new history" (i. - ), i have made up a list of dates, which, however, i give with all reserve. we know from "the laureat" that dogget had some funds of the theatre in his hands when he ceased acting, and this fact makes a petition by cibber and wilks, that he should account with them for money, intelligible. this is dated th january, --it cannot be , as mr. fitzgerald says, for booth was not admitted then, and the quarrel had not arisen. then follows a petition from cibber, booth, and wilks, dated th february, , praying the chamberlain to settle the dispute. petitions by dogget bear date th april, ; and, i think, th june, . mr. fitzgerald gives this latter date as th january, , and certainly the date on the document itself is more like "jan" than "june;" but in the course of the petition dogget says that the season will end in a few days, which seems to fix june as the correct month. the season - ended th june, . next comes a petition that dogget should be compelled to act if he was to draw his share of the profits, which is dated rd november, . in this case we are on sure ground, for the petition is preserved among the lord chamberlain's papers. another petition by dogget, in which he talks of his being forced into westminster hall to obtain his rights, is dated "jan. ye ," that is, . after this, legal action was no doubt commenced, as related by cibber.] [footnote : so full an account of dogget is given by cibber and by aston, that i need only add, that he first appeared about ; and that he died in .] [footnote : see memoir of mrs. porter at the end of this volume.] [footnote : on march th, . cibber is wrong in stating that this was dogget's last appearance; for a week after he played ben in "love for love" (march th, ), and made his last appearance, after the lapse of another week (april st, ), when he acted hob in "the country wake."] [footnote : downes ("rosc. ang.," p. ) gives a quaint description of dogget: "mr. _dogget_, on the stage, he's very aspectabund, wearing a farce in his face; his thoughts deliberately framing his utterance congruous to his looks: he is the only comick original now extant: witness, _ben. solon_, _nikin_, the _jew_ of _venice_, &c."] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "thy partiality is so notorious, with relation to _wilks_, that every one sees you never praise him, but to rail at him; and only oil your hone, to whet your razor."] [footnote : .] [footnote : in the dedication to steele of "ximena" ( ) cibber warmly acknowledges the great service steele had done to the theatre, not only in improving the tone of its performances, but also in the mere attracting of public attention to it. "how many a time," he says, "have we known the most elegant audiences drawn together at a day's warning, by the influence or warrant of a single _tatler_, when our best endeavours without it, could not defray the charge of the performance." in the same dedication cibber's gratitude overstepped his judgment, in applying to steele's generous acknowledgment of his indebtedness to addison's help in his "spectator," &c., dryden's lines:-- "fool that i was! upon my eagle's wings i bore this wren, 'till i was tir'd with soaring, and now, he mounts above me----" the following epigram is quoted in "the laureat," p. . it originally appeared in "mist's journal," st october, :-- "_thus_ colley cibber _to his partner_ steele, _see here, sir knight, how i've outdone_ corneille; _see here, how i, my patron to inveigle, make_ addison _a_ wren, _and you an_ eagle. _safe to the silent shades, we bid defiance; for living dogs are better than dead lions_." in one of his odes, at which johnson laughed (boswell, i. ) cibber had the couplet:-- "perch'd on the eagle's soaring wing, the lowly linnet loves to sing." "ximena; or, the heroic daughter," produced on th november, , was an adaptation of corneille's "cid." we do not know the cast of , but that of (drury lane, st november) was the following:-- don ferdinand mr. mills. don alvarez mr. cibber. don gormaz mr. booth. don carlos mr. wilks. don sanchez mr. elrington. don alonzo mr. thurmond. don garcia mr. boman. ximena mrs. oldfield. belzara mrs. porter.] [footnote : a royal licence was granted on th october, , to steele, wilks, cibber, dogget, and booth. the theatre opened before the licence was granted. the first bill given by genest is for st september, .] [footnote : christopher rich died before the theatre was opened, and it was under the management of john rich, his son, that lincoln's inn fields opened on th december, , with "the recruiting officer." the company was announced as playing under letters patent granted by king charles the second.] [footnote : this refers to a riot raised by the supporters of mrs. rogers, on mrs. oldfield's being cast for the character of andromache in philips's tragedy of "the distressed mother," produced at drury lane on th march, .] [footnote : cibber on one occasion manifested temper to a rather unexpected degree. in , when dennis published his attacks on steele, in connection with his being deprived of the patent, he accused cibber of impiety and various other crimes and misdemeanours; and cibber is said in the "answer to the character of sir john edgar" to have inserted the following advertisement in the "daily post": "ten pounds will be paid by mr. cibber, of the theatre royal, to any person who shall (by a legal proof) discover the author of a pamphlet, intituled, 'the characters and conduct of sir john edgar, &c.'" (nichols, p. .)] [footnote : cibber refers to his remarks (see vol. i. p. ) on the conduct of the patentees which caused betterton's secession in - .] [footnote : in addition to keen, bullock (william), pack, and leigh, whom cibber mentions a few lines after, spiller and christopher bullock were among the deserters; and probably cory and knap. mrs. rogers, mrs. knight, and mrs. kent also deserted.] [footnote : george pack is an actor of whom chetwood ("history," p. ) gives some account. he first came on the stage as a singer, performing the female parts in duets with leveridge. his first appearance chronicled by genest was at lincoln's inn fields in , as westmoreland in the first part of "henry iv." chetwood says he was excellent as marplot in "the busy body," beau maiden in "tunbridge walks," beau mizen in "the fair quaker of deal," &c.: "_indeed nature seem'd to mean him for those sort of characters_." on th march, , he announced his last appearance on any stage; but he returned on st april and th may, , on which latter date he had a benefit. chetwood says that on his retirement he opened the globe tavern, near charing-cross, over against the hay-market. when chetwood wrote ( ) pack was no longer alive.] [footnote : francis leigh. there were several actors of the name of leigh, and it is sometimes difficult to distinguish them. this particular actor died about .] [footnote : in the "weekly packet," th december, , the following appears:-- "this day the new play-house in lincolns-inn fields, is to be open'd and a comedy acted there, call'd, the recruiting officer, by the company that act under the patent; tho' it is said, that some of the gentlemen who have left the house in drury-lane for that service, are order'd to return to their colours, upon pain of not exercising their lungs elsewhere; which may in time prove of ill service to the patentee, that has been at vast expence to make his theatre as convenient for the reception of an audience as any one can possibly be." genest remarks that this seems to show that the lord chamberlain threatened to interfere in the interests of drury lane. he adds: "cibber's silence proves nothing to the contrary, as in more than one instance he does not tell the whole truth" (ii. ). in defence of cibber i may say that the chamberlain's records contain no hint that he threatened to interfere with the lincoln's inn fields theatre or its actors.] [footnote : in both the first and second editions cibber writes , but this is so obviously a misprint that i correct the text. steele was elected for boroughbridge in the first parliament of george i., which met th march, .] [footnote : "the very night i received it, i participated the power and use of it, with relation to the profits that should arise from it, between the gentlemen who invited me into the licence."--steele, in "the theatre," no. [nichols, p. ].] [footnote : the managers also expended money on the decoration of the theatre before the beginning of the next season after the patent was granted. in the "daily courant," th october, , they advertise: "his majesty's company of comedians give notice, that the middle of next week they will begin to act plays, every day, as usual; they being oblig'd to lye still so long, to finish the new decorations of the house."] [footnote : this revival was on nd december, . dennis, whose "invader of his country" was, as he considered, unfairly postponed on account of this production, wrote to steele:-- "well, sir, when the winter came on, what was done by your deputies? why, instead of keeping their word with me, they spent above two months of the season in getting up "all for love, or, the world well lost," a play which has indeed a noble first act, an act which ends with a scene becoming of the dignity of the tragic stage. but if horace had been now alive, and been either a reader or spectator of that entertainment, he would have passed his old sentence upon the author. "'_infelix operis summâ, quia ponere totum nesciet._'" [_ars poetica, ._] nichols' "theatre," p. .] [footnote : cibber here skips a few years, for the report by sir thomas hewitt is dated some years after the granting of the patent. the text of it will be found in nichols's "theatre," p. :-- "my lord, _scotland-yard, jan. , _. "in obedience to his majesty's commands signified to me by your grace the th instant, i have surveyed the play-house in drury-lane; and took with me mr. ripley, commissioner of his majesty's board of works, the master bricklayer, and carpenter: we examined all its parts with the greatest exactness we could; and found the walls, roofing, stage, pit, boxes, galleries, machinery, scenes, &c. sound, and almost as good as when first built; neither decayed, nor in the least danger of falling; and when some small repairs are made, and an useless stack of chimnies (built by the late mr. rich) taken down, the building may continue for a long time, being firm, the materials and joints good, and no part giving way; and capable to bear much greater weight than is put on them. "my lord duke, "your grace's most humble and obedient servant, "thomas hewett. "n.b. the stack of chimnies mentioned in this report (which were placed over the stone passage leading to the boxes) are actually taken down."] [footnote : see _ante_, vol. i. p. .] [footnote : cibber, vol. i. p. , relates how, when the king's company proved too strong for their rivals, davenant, "to make head against their success, was forced to add spectacle and music to action."] [footnote : in the season - , rich at lincoln's inn fields frequently produced french pieces and operas. he must have had a company of french players engaged.] [footnote : this is, no doubt, john weaver's dramatic entertainment called "the loves of mars and venus," which was published, as acted at drury lane, in .] [footnote : the following lines ("dunciad," iii. verses - ) are descriptive of such pantomimes as cibber refers to:-- "he look'd, and saw a sable sorc'rer rise, swift to whose hand a winged volume flies: all sudden, gorgons hiss, and dragons glare, and ten-horn'd fiends and giants rush to war. hell rises, heav'n descends, and dance on earth, gods, imps, and monsters, music, rage, and mirth, a fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball, till one wide conflagration swallows all. thence a new world, to nature's laws unknown, breaks out refulgent, with a heav'n its own: another cynthia her new journey runs, and other planets circle other suns: the forests dance, the rivers upward rise, whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the skies, and last, to give the whole creation grace, lo! one vast egg produces human race." the allusion in the last line is to "harlequin sorcerer," in which harlequin is hatched from a large egg on the stage. see jackson's "history of the scottish stage," pages - , for description of john rich's excellence in this scene.] [footnote : in the "dunciad" (book iii. verses - ) pope writes:-- "but lo! to dark encounter in mid air new wizards rise: here booth, and cibber there: booth in his cloudy tabernacle shrin'd, on grinning dragons cibber mounts the wind." on these lines cibber remarks, in his "letter to mr. pope," (page ): "if you, figuratively, mean by this, that i was an encourager of those fooleries, you are mistaken; for it is not true: if you intend it literally, that i was dunce enough to mount a machine, there is as little truth in that too."] [footnote : henry of navarre, of whom it has been said that he regarded religion mainly as a diplomatic instrument.] [footnote : it is hardly necessary to note that this was the scottish rebellion of ; yet bellchambers indicates the period as .] [footnote : cibber's most notorious play, "the nonjuror," was produced at drury lane on th december, . the cast was:-- sir john woodvil mr. mills. colonel woodvil mr. booth. mr. heartly mr. wilks. doctor wolf mr. cibber. charles mr. walker. lady woodvil mrs. porter. maria mrs. oldfield.] [footnote : genest (ii. ) quotes the epilogue to sewell's "sir walter raleigh," produced at lincoln's inn fields th january, :-- "yet to write plays is easy, faith, enough, as you have seen by--cibber--in tartuffe. with how much wit he did your hearts engage! he only stole the _play_;--he writ the _title-page_."] [footnote : genest says it was acted twenty-three times.] [footnote : genest remarks (ii. ) that "cibber deserved all the abuse and enmity that he met with--the stage and the pulpit ought never to dabble in politics." theo. cibber, in a petition to the king, given in his "dissertations" (letter to garrick, p. ), says that his father's "writings, and public professions of loyalty, created him many enemies, among the disaffected."] [footnote : "mist's weekly journal" was an anti-hanoverian sheet, which was prominent in opposition to the protestant succession. nathaniel mist, the proprietor, and, i suppose, editor, suffered sundry pains and penalties for his jacobitism. in his preface to the second volume of "letters" selected from his paper, he relates how he had, among other things, suffered imprisonment and stood in the pillory.] [footnote : there can be little doubt that the "nonjuror" was one of the causes of pope's enmity to cibber. pope's father was a nonjuror. see "epistle to dr. arbuthnot," where the poet says of his father:-- "no courts he saw, no suits would ever try, nor dar'd an oath, nor hazarded a lie."] [footnote : produced th january, . see vol. i. p. , for list of characters, &c.] [footnote : meaning, no doubt, that the post of poet laureate was given to him as a reward for his services to the government.] [footnote : .] [footnote : in leaping from to , as cibber does here, he omits to notice much that is of the greatest interest in stage history. steele's connection with the theatre was of a chequered complexion, and it is curious as well as regrettable that an interested observer like cibber should have simply ignored the great points which were at issue while steele was a sharer in the patent. in order to bridge over the chasm i give a bare record of steele's transactions in connection with the patent. his first authority was a licence granted to him and his partners, wilks, cibber, dogget, and booth, and dated october th, . this was followed by a patent, in steele's name alone, for the term of his life, and three years after his death, which bore date january th, . cibber (p. ) relates that steele assigned to wilks, booth, and himself, equal shares in this patent. all went smoothly for more than two years, until the appointment of the duke of newcastle (april th, ) as lord chamberlain. he seems soon to have begun to interfere in the affairs of the theatre. steele, in the eighth number of "the theatre," states that shortly after his appointment the duke demanded that he should resign his patent and accept a licence in its place. this steele naturally and rightly declined to do, and here the matter rested for many months. with reference to this it is interesting to note that among the lord chamberlain's papers is the record of a consultation of the attorney-general whether steele's patent made him independent of the lord chamberlain's authority. unfortunately it is impossible to decide, from the terms of the queries put to the attorney-general, whether these were caused by aggressive action on steele's part, or merely by his defence of his rights. the next molestation was an order, dated december th, , addressed to steele, wilks, and booth, ordering them to dismiss cibber; which they did. his suspension, for it was nothing more, lasted till january th, . steele, in the seventh number of "the theatre," january rd, , alludes to his suspension as then existing, and in no. talks of cibber's being just restored to the "begging bridge," that is, the theatre. the allusion is to an apologue by steele ("reader," no. ii.) which cibber quotes, and applies to steele, in his dedication of "ximena" to him. a peasant had succeeded in barricading, with his whole belongings, a bridge over which an enemy attempted to invade his native country. he kept them back till his countrymen were roused; but when the forces of his friends attacked the enemy, the peasant's property was destroyed in the fray and he was left destitute. he received no compensation, but it was enacted that he and his descendants were alone to have the privilege of _begging_ on this bridge. cibber applies this fable to the treatment of steele by the lord chamberlain, and there can be no doubt that this dedication must have caused great offence to that official, and contributed materially to cibber's suspension, though steele declared that the attack upon his partner was merely intended as an oblique attack on himself. the author of the "answer to the case of sir richard steele," (nichols's ed., p. ), says that cibber had offended the duke by an attack on the king and the ministry in the dedication of his "ximena" to steele. he also says that when the chamberlain wanted a certain actor to play a part which belonged to one of the managers, cibber flatly refused to allow him, and was thereupon silenced. (the actor is said to have been elrington, and the part torrismond; but i doubt if elrington was at drury lane in - .) a recent stage historian curiously says that the play which gave offence was "the nonjuror," which is about as likely as that a man should be accused of high treason because he sang "god save the queen!" steele then, being made to understand that the attack on cibber was the beginning of evil directed against himself, wrote to two great ministers of state, and presented a petition to the king on january nd, , praying to be protected from molestation by the lord chamberlain. the result of this action was a revocation of steele's licence (_not_ his patent specially, which is curious) dated january rd, ; and on the next monday, the th, an order for silence was sent to the managers and actors at drury lane. the theatre accordingly remained closed monday, tuesday, and wednesday, january th to th, , and on the th re-opened, wilks, cibber, and booth having made their submission and received a licence dated the previous day. on the th of march following the actors of drury lane were sworn at the lord chamberlain's office, "pursuant to an order occasioned by their acting in obedience to his majesty's licence, lately granted, exclusive of a patent formerly obtained by sir richard steele, knight." the tenor of the oath was, that as his majesty's servants they should act subservient to the lord chamberlain, vice-chamberlain, and gentleman-usher in waiting. whether steele took any steps to test the legality of this treatment is doubtful; but, on the accession of his friend walpole to office, he was restored to his position at the head of the theatre. on may nd, , cibber and his partners were ordered to account with steele for his past and present share of the profits of the theatre, as if all the regulations from which his name had been excluded had never been made. this edict is signed by the duke of newcastle, and must, i fancy, have been rather a bitter pill for that nobleman. how steele subsequently conducted himself, and how much interest he took in the theatre, cibber very fully relates in the next few pages. after steele's death a new patent was granted to cibber, wilks, and booth, as will be related further on. it may be noted here, however, that the date of the new patent proves conclusively that steele's grant was never superseded. the new power was dated july rd, , but it did not take effect till september st, , exactly three years after steele's death, according to the terms of his original patent.] [footnote : this is one of cibber's bad blunders. the case was heard in . genest (iii. ) refers to the _st. james's evening post's_ mention of the hearing; and, in the burney mss. in the british museum, a copy of the paragraph is given. it is not, however, a cutting, but a manuscript copy. "saty. feb. . there was an hearing in the rolls chapel in a cause between sir richard steele, mr. cibber, mr. wilks, and others belonging to drury-lane theatre, which held five hours--one of which was taken up by a speech of mr. wilks, which had so good an effect, that the cause went against sir richard steele."--st. james's evening post, feb. to feb. , . in its next issue, feb. to feb. , it corrects the blunder which it had made in attributing cibber's speech to wilks.] [footnote : this was in the dedication to "ximena." the passage will be found quoted by me in a note on page of this volume.] [footnote : cibber himself, of course.] [footnote : this coronation was tacked to the play of "henry viii.," which was revived at drury lane on th october, . special interest attached to it on account of the recent coronation of george ii.] [footnote : this was in . on th september, , the bills announce "the same entertainments that were performed yesterday before his majesty at hampton court."] [footnote : in whitelocke's "memorials" there is an account of a masque played in , before charles i. and his queen, by the gentlemen of the temple, which cost £ , .] [footnote : the earl of burlington.] [footnote : "calisto" was published in . genest (i. ) says: "cibber, with his usual accuracy as to dates, supposes that crowne was selected to write a mask for the court in preference to dryden, through the influence of the duke of buckingham, who was offended at what dryden had said of him in absalom and achitophel--dryden's poem was not written till --lord rochester was the person who recommended crowne." i may add that dryden furnished an epilogue to "calisto," which was not spoken.] [footnote : boman, or bowman, was born about , and lived till rd march, . he made his first appearance about , and acted to within a few months of his death, having thus been on the stage for the extraordinary period of sixty-five years. he was very sensitive on the subject of his age, and, if asked how old he was, only replied, that he was very well. davies speaks highly of boman's acting in his extreme old age ("dram. misc.," i. and ii. ). mrs. boman was the adopted daughter of betterton.] [footnote : bishop burnet.] [footnote : first edition, vol. i.] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," i. ) says: "wolsey's filching from his royal master the honour of bestowing grace and pardon on the subject, appeared so gross and impudent a prevarication, that, when this play was acted before george i. at hampton-court, about the year , the courtiers laughed so loudly at this ministerial craft, that his majesty, who was unacquainted with the english language, asked the lord-chamberlain the meaning of their mirth; upon being informed of it, the king joined in a laugh of approbation." davies adds that this scene "was not unsuitably represented by colley cibber;" but, in scenes requiring dignity or passion, he expresses an unfavourable opinion of cibber's playing.] [footnote : from the lord chamberlain's records it is clear that £ was the fee for a play at whitehall during the time of charles i. if the performance was at hampton court, or if it took place at such a time of day as to prevent the ordinary playing at the theatre, £ was allowed.] [footnote : the warrant for the payment of these performances is dated th november, . the expenses incurred by the actors amounted to £ _s._ _d._, and the present given by the king, as cibber states, was £ ; the total payment being thus £ _s._ _d._] [footnote : m. perrin, the late manager of the theatre français, was virulently attacked for giving _la jeune troupe_ no opportunities, and so doing nothing to provide successors to the great actors of his time.] [footnote : after the death of wilks and booth, and the retirement of cibber, the stage experienced a period of dulness, which was the natural result of the want of good young talent in the lifetime of the old actors. such periods seem to recur at stated intervals in the history of the stage.] [footnote : "venice preserved" was acted at the haymarket on nd february, , but dr. burney's mss. do not give the cast. on th november, , pierre was played by mills.] [footnote : for an account of this matter, see _ante_, page .] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) has the following interesting statement regarding cibber and wilks, which he gives on victor's authority:-- "however colley may complain, in his apology, of wilks's fire and impetuosity, he in general was cibber's great admirer; he supported him on all occasions, where his own passion or interest did not interpose; nay, he deprived the inoffensive harry carey of the liberty of the scenes, because he had, in common with others, made merry with cibber in a song, on his being appointed poet laureat; saying at the same time, he was surprised at his impertinence, in behaving so improperly _to a man of such great merit_."] [footnote : john dennis, in an advertisement to the "invader of his country," remarks on this foible. he says:-- "i am perfectly satisfied that any author who brings a play to _drury-lane_, must, if 'tis a good one, be sacrificed to the jealousie of this fine writer, unless he has either a powerful cabal, or unless he will flatter mr. _robert wilks_, and make him believe that he is an excellent tragedian." the "fine writer" is, of course, cibber.] [footnote : "in the trajedy of _mackbeth_, where _wilks_ acts the part of a man whose family has been murder'd in his absence, the wildness of his passion, which is run over in a torrent of calamitous circumstances, does but raise my spirits and give me the alarm; but when he skilfully seems to be out of breath, and is brought too low to say more; and upon a second reflection, cry, only wiping his eyes, what, both my children! both, both my children gone--there is no resisting a sorrow which seems to have cast about for all the reasons possible for its consolation, but has no recource. there is not one left, but both, both are murdered! such sudden starts from the thread of the discourse, and a plain sentiment express'd in an artless way, are the irresistible strokes of eloquence and poetry."--"tatler," no. , september th, . the extraordinary language of macduff is quoted from davenant's mutilation of shakespeare's play. obviously it is not shakespeare's language.] [footnote : charles williams was a young actor of great promise, who died in . on the production of thomson's "sophonisba" at drury lane, on february th, , cibber played scipio, but was so hissed by a public that would not suffer him in tragic parts, that he resigned the character to williams. (see footnote , vol. i. anchored on page .) this would seem to indicate that williams was an actor of some position, for scipio is a good part.] [footnote : "in the strong expression of horror on the murder of the king, and the loud exclamations of surprize and terror, booth might have exceeded the utmost efforts of wilks. but, in the touches of domestic woe, which require the feelings of the tender father and the affectionate husband, wilks had no equal. his skill, in exhibiting the emotions of the overflowing heart with corresponding look and action, was universally admired and felt. his rising, after the suppression of his anguish, into ardent and manly resentment, was highly expressive of noble and generous anger."--"dram. misc.," ii. .] [footnote : this revival took place th january, . the play was acted eleven times.] [footnote : jeremy collier specially attacked vanbrugh and his comedies for their immorality and profanity, and for their abuse of the clergy. even less strict critics than collier considered vanbrugh's pieces as more indecent than the average play. thus the author of "faction display'd," , writes:-- "_van_'s baudy, plotless plays were once our boast, but now the poet's in the builder lost."] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) says that he supposes cibber prevailed upon vanbrugh to alter the disguise which sir john brute assumes from a clergyman's habit to that of a woman of fashion.] [footnote : sir john brute.] [footnote : cibber's meaning is not very clear, but if he intends to convey the idea that it was for this revival that vanbrugh made these alterations, he is probably wrong, for when the play was revived at the haymarket, on th january, , it was announced as "with alterations."] [footnote : mrs. oldfield played lady brute, whose lover constant is.] [footnote : wilks played constant; booth, heartfree; and cibber, sir john brute.] [footnote : cibber begins the seventh chapter of this work with an account of betterton's troubles as a manager. see vol. i. p. . see also vol. i. p. .] [footnote : "ye gods, what havock does ambition make among your works!"--"cato," act i. sc. .] [footnote : "and, in despair their empty pit to fill, set up some foreign monster in a bill. thus they jog on, still tricking, never thriving, and murdering plays, which they miscall reviving." "address to granville, on his tragedy, _heroic love_."] [footnote : "during booth's inability to act, ... wilks was called upon to play two of his parts--jaffier, and lord hastings in jane shore. booth was, at times, in all other respects except his power to go on the stage, in good health, and went among the players for his amusement his curiosity drew him to the playhouse on the nights when wilks acted these characters, in which himself had appeared with uncommon lustre. all the world admired wilks, except his brother-manager: amidst the repeated bursts of applause which he extorted, booth alone continued silent."--davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ).] [footnote : aaron hill, quoted by victor in his "life of barton booth," page , says: "the passions which he found in comedy were not strong enough to excite his fire; and what seem'd want of qualification, was only absence of impression."] [footnote : wilks can have seen mountfort only in his early career, for he did not leave ireland till, at least, ; and in that year mountfort was killed.] [footnote : wilks first played othello in this country on june nd, , for cibber's benefit. steele draws attention to the event in "tatler," no. , and in no. states his intention of stealing out to see it, "out of curiosity to observe how _wilks_ and _cibber_ touch those places where _betterton_ and _sandford_ so very highly excelled." cibber was the iago on this occasion. steele probably found little to praise in either.] [footnote : the earl of essex, in banks's "unhappy favourite," was one of wilks's good parts, in which steele ("tatler," no. ) specially praises him. booth acted the part at drury lane on november th, .] [footnote : see cibber on betterton's hamlet and on wilks's mistakes in the part, vol. i. page .] [footnote : in the theatre français a similar arrangement holds to this day, tuesday being now the fashionable night. m. perrin, the late manager, was accused of a too great attention to his _abonnés du mardi_, to the detriment of the theatre and of the general public.] [footnote : see _ante,_ vol. i. page .] [footnote : arcangelo corelli, a famous italian musician, born , died , who has been called the father of modern instrumental music.] [footnote : jeanne catherine gaussin, a very celebrated actress of the comédie française, was the original representative of zaïre, in voltaire's tragedy, to which cibber refers. she made her first parisian appearance in ; she retired in , and died on th june, . voltaire's "zaïre" owed much of its success to her extraordinary ability.] [footnote : cibber has been strongly censured for his treatment of authors. "the laureat" gives the following account of an author's experiences: "_the court sitting, chancellor cibber_ (for the other two, like m----rs in _chancery_, sat only for form sake, and did not presume to judge) nodded to the author to open his manuscript. the author begins to read, in which if he failed to please the _corrector_, he wou'd condescend sometimes to read it for him: when, if the play strook him very warmly, as it wou'd if he found any thing new in it, in which he conceived he cou'd particularly shine as an actor, he would lay down his pipe, (for the _chancellor_ always smoaked when he made a decree) and cry, _by g--d there is something in this: i do not know but it may do; but i will play such a part_. well, when the reading was finished, he made his proper corrections and sometimes without any propriety; nay, frequently he very much and very hastily maimed what he pretended to mend" (p. ). the author also accuses cibber of delighting in repulsing dramatic writers, which he called "choaking of singing birds." however, in cibber's defence, genest's opinion may be quoted (iii. ): "after all that has been said against chancellor cibber, it does not appear that he often made a wrong decree: most of the good plays came out at drury lane--nor am i aware that cibber is much to be blamed for rejecting any play, except the siege of damascus in the first instance."] [footnote : in the preface to "the lunatick" ( ) the actors are roundly abused; but the most amusing attack on actors is in the following title-page: "the sham lawyer: or the lucky extravagant. as it was _damnably_ acted at the theatre-royal in drury lane." this play, by drake, was played in , and among the cast were cibber, bullock, johnson, haines, and pinkethman. bellchambers notes: "such was the case in dennis's 'comic gallant,' where one of the actors, whom i believe to be bullock, is most severely handled." i think he is wrong in imagining bullock to be the actor criticised. dennis says that falstaffe was the character that was badly sustained, and i cannot believe bullock's position would entitle him to play that part in . genest (ii. ) suggests powell as the delinquent.] [footnote : cibber's account of booth is so complete that there is little to be added to it. booth was born in , and was of a good english family. he first appeared in dublin in , under ashbury, but returned to england in , and joined the lincoln's inn fields company. he followed the fortunes of betterton until, as related by cibber in chapter xii., the secession of occurred. from that point to his retirement the only event demanding special notice is his marriage with hester santlow (see p. of this volume). this took place in , and was the cause of much criticism and slander, some of which bellchambers reproduces with evident gusto. i do not repeat his statements, because i consider them wildly extravagant. they are fully refuted by booth's will, from the terms of which it is clear that his marriage was a happy one, and that he esteemed his wife as well as loved her. booth's illness, to which cibber refers above, seized him early in the season of - , and though after it he was able to play occasionally, he was never restored to health. his last appearance was on th january, , but he lived till th may, .] [footnote : see memoir of mrs. oldfield at end of volume.] [footnote : mrs. porter met with the accident referred to in the summer of . see davies, "dram. misc.," iii. . she returned to the stage in january, .] [footnote : wilks died th september, . he was of english parentage, and was born near dublin, whither his father had removed, about . he was in a government office, but about he gave this up, and went on the stage. after a short probation in dublin he came over to london, and was engaged by rich, with whom he remained till about . he returned to dublin, and became so great a favourite there, that it is said that the lord lieutenant issued a warrant to prevent his leaving again for london. however, he came to drury lane about , and from that time his fortunes are closely interwoven with cibber's, and are fully related by him.] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "as to the occasion of your parting with your share of the patent, i cannot think you give us the true reason; for i have been very well inform'd, it was the intention, not only of you, but of your brother menagers, as soon as you could get the great seal to your patent, (which stuck for some time, the then lord _chancellor_ not being satisfied in the legality of the grant) to dispose it to the best bidder. this was at first kept as a secret among you; but as soon as the grant was compleated, you sold to the first who wou'd come up to your price."] [footnote : among the lord chamberlain's papers is a copy of a warrant to prepare this patent. it is dated th may, , and the patent itself is dated rd july, , though it did not take effect till st september, . the reason for this is noted on page .] [footnote : "the grub-street journal," th june, , says: "one little creature, only the deputy and representative of his father, was turbulent enough to balk their measures, and counterbalance all the civility and decency in the other scale.... to remedy this, the gentleman who bought into the patent first, purchased his father's share, and set him down in the same obscure place from whence he rose."] [footnote : in "the case of john mills, james quin," &c., given in theo. cibber's "dissertations" (appendix, p. ), it is stated that "such has been the inveteracy of some of the late patentees to the actors, that when mrs. _booth_, executrix of her late husband, _barton booth_, esq; sold her sixth part of the patent to mr. _giffard_, she made him covenant, not to sell or assign it to actors."] [footnote : "i must own, i was heartily disgusted with the conduct of the family of the _cibbers_ on this occasion, and had frequent and violent disputes with father and son, whenever we met! it appeared to me something shocking that the son should immediately render void, and worthless, what the father had just received thirty-one hundred and fifty pounds for, as a valuable consideration."--victor's "history," i. .] [footnote : cibber, in chapter viii. (vol. i. p. ), alludes to this trial, and gives the first of these two suppositions as the reason of harper's acquittal, but victor ("history," i. ) says that he has been informed that this is an error.] [footnote : "he was a man of humanity and strict honour; many instances fatally proved, that his word, when solemnly given, (which was his custom) was sufficient for the performance, though ever so injurious to himself."--victor's "history," i. .] [footnote : see _ante_, chapter ix. (vol. i. footnote anchored on page )] [footnote : "the clamour against the author, whose presumption was highly censured for daring to alter shakspeare, increased to such a height, that colley, who had smarted more than once for dabbling in tragedy, went to the playhouse, and, without saying a word to any body, took the play from the prompter's desk, and marched off with it in his pocket."--"dram. misc.," i. .] [footnote : produced at the haymarket, .] [footnote : "enter ground-ivy. _ground._ what are you doing here? _apollo._ i am casting the parts in the tragedy of king _john_. _ground._ then you are casting the parts in a tragedy that won't do. _apollo._ how, sir! was it not written by _shakespear_, and was not _shakespear_ one of the greatest genius's that ever lived? _ground._ no, sir, _shakespear_ was a pretty fellow, and said some things that only want a little of my licking to do well enough; king _john_, as now writ, will not do----but a word in your ear, i will make him do. _apollo._ how? _ground._ by alteration, sir; it was a maxim of mine when i was at the head of theatrical affairs, that no play, tho' ever so good, would do without alteration."--"historical register," act iii. sc. .] [footnote : these appearances took place on january th, th, and th, .] [footnote : fondlewife's pet name for his wife lætitia.] [footnote : lætitia's pet name for fondlewife. see vol. i. page .] [footnote : an allusion to his own phrase in the preface to "the provoked husband." see vol. i. page .] [footnote : the name "susannah maria" naturally suggests susanna maria arne, the wife of theo. cibber; but the anecdote cannot refer to her, because she was married in , some years before cibber began his "apology."] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) says: "mr. garrick asked him [cibber] if he had not in his possession, a comedy or two of his own writing.--'what then?' said cibber.--'i should be glad to have the honour of bringing it into the world.'--'who have you to act it?'--'why, there are (said garrick) clive and pritchard, myself, and some others,' whom he named.--'no! (said the old man, taking a pinch of snuff, with great nonchalance) it won't do.'" davies (iii. ) relates how garrick drew on himself a rebuke from cibber. discussing in company the old school, "garrick observed that the old style of acting was banishing the stage, and would not go down. 'how do you know? (said cibber); you never tried it.'"] [footnote : "papal tyranny in the reign of king john." king john mr. quin. arthur, his nephew miss j. cibber. salisbury mr. ridout. pembroke mr. rosco. arundel mr. anderson. falconbridge mr. ryan. hubert mr. bridgewater. king philip } { mr. hale. lewis the dauphin } of france { mr. cibber, jun. melun, a nobleman } { mr. cashell. pandulph, legate from pope innocent mr. cibber, sen. abbot } of angiers { mr. gibson. governor } { mr. carr. lady constance mrs. pritchard. blanch, niece to king john mrs. bellamy.] [footnote : "_on_ cibber's _declaration that he will have the last word with mr. pope._ quoth _cibber_ to _pope_, tho' in verse you foreclose, i'll have the last word, for by g--d i'll write prose. poor _colley_, thy reas'ning is none of the strongest, for know, the last word is the word that lasts longest." "the summer miscellany," .] [footnote : this play was produced at drury lane, th january, ; and the performance of "the rehearsal" referred to took place on the th february.] [footnote : the earl of warwick was the young nobleman, and it is said in dillworth's "life of pope" that "the late commissioner vaughan" was the other gentleman.] [footnote : "but pope's irascibility prevailed, and he resolved to tell the whole english world that he was at war with cibber; and, to show that he thought him no common adversary, he prepared no common vengeance; he published a new edition of the 'dunciad,' in which he degraded theobald from his painful pre-eminence, and enthroned cibber in his stead."--johnson's "life of pope."] [footnote : "unhappily the two heroes were of opposite characters, and pope was unwilling to lose what he had already written; he has therefore depraved his poem by giving to cibber the old books, the old pedantry, and the sluggish pertinacity of theobald."--johnson's "life of pope."] [footnote : see _ante_, p. .] [footnote : it has been generally stated that cibber died on th december, , but "the public advertiser" of monday, th december, announces his death as having occurred "yesterday morning." the "gentleman's magazine" and the "london magazine," in their issues for december, , give the th as the date.] [footnote : mr. laurence hutton, in his "literary landmarks of london" (p. ), gives the following interesting particulars regarding cibber's last resting-place: "cibber was buried by the side of his father and mother, in a vault under the danish church, situated in wellclose square, ratcliff highway (since named st. george street). this church, according to an inscription placed over the doorway, was built in by caius gabriel cibber himself, by order of the king of denmark, for the use of such of his majesty's subjects as might visit the port of london. the church was taken down some years ago ( - ), and st. paul's schools were erected on its foundation, which was left intact. rev. dan. greatorex, vicar of the parish of st. paul, dock street, in a private note written in the summer of , says:-- "'colley cibber and his father and mother were buried in the vault of the old danish church. when the church was removed, the coffins were all removed carefully into the crypt under the apse, and then bricked up. so the bodies are still there. the danish consul was with me when i moved the bodies. the coffins had perished except the bottoms. i carefully removed them myself personally, and laid them side by side at the back of the crypt, and covered them with earth.'"] [footnote : shakespeare's "richard iii." was produced at the lyceum theatre on th january, . it was announced as "strictly the original text, without interpolations, but simply with such omissions and transpositions as have been found essential for dramatic representation." in richard mr. irving's great powers are seen to special advantage. the cast of cibber's play in was-- king henry vi., _designed for_ mr. wilks. edward, prince of wales mrs. allison. richard, duke of york miss chock. richard, duke of gloucester mr. cibber. duke of buckingham mr. powel. lord stanley mr. mills. duke of norfolk mr. simpson. ratcliff mr. kent. catesby mr. thomas. henry, earl of richmond mr. evans. oxford mr. fairbank. queen elizabeth mrs. knight. lady ann mrs. rogers. cicely mrs. powel.] [footnote : a beautiful portfolio of sketches of mr. daly's company has been published, in which is a portrait of miss rehan as hypolita, with a critical note by mr. brander matthews.] [footnote : this is a specimen of that commonest of blunders, the confusing of the dates of the first month or two of the year. the edict was issued february, - , that is, . what bellchambers calls the "subsequent" october was therefore the preceding october. (l.)] [footnote : see "historia histrionica."] [footnote : nell gwyn made her first appearance not later than . pepys, on the rd of april, , mentions "pretty, witty nell, at the king's house." (l.)] [footnote : should be for the remainder of his life. (l.)] [footnote : vide davies's "dramatic miscellanies," vol. iii. p. . another anecdote of the same kind is found in a "life of the late famous comedian, j. haynes," vo. , which, as it preserves a characteristic trait of this valuable actor, is worth repeating. "about this time [ ] there happened a small pick between mr. hart and jo, upon the account of his late negotiation in france,{a} and there spending so much money to so little purpose, or, as i may more properly say, to no purpose at all. {a} soon after the theatre in drury-lane was burnt down, jan. - , haynes had been sent to paris by mr. hart and mr. killegrew, to examine the machinery employed in the french operas.--_malone._ "there happened to be one night a play acted, called 'cataline's conspiracy,' wherein there was wanting a great number of senators. now mr. hart being chief of the house, would oblige jo to dress for one of these senators, although his salary, being _s._ per week, freed him from any such obligation. but mr. hart, as i said before, being sole governor of the playhouse, and at a small variance with jo, commands it, and the other must obey. "jo being vexed at the slight mr. hart had put upon him, found out this method of being revenged on him. he gets a scaramouch dress, a large full ruff, makes himself whiskers from ear to ear, puts on his head a long merry-andrew's cap, a short pipe in his mouth, a little three-legged stool in his hand; and in this manner follows mr. hart on the stage, sets himself down behind him, and begins to smoke his pipe, laugh, and point at him, which comical figure put all the house in an uproar, some laughing, some clapping, and some hollaing. now mr. hart, as those who knew him can aver, was a man of that exactness and grandeur on the stage, that let what would happen, he'd never discompose himself, or mind any thing but what he then represented; and had a scene fallen behind him, he would not at that time look back, to have seen what was the matter; which jo knowing, remained still smoking. the audience continued laughing, mr. hart acting, and wondering at this unusual occasion of their mirth; sometimes thinking it some disturbance in the house, again that it might be something amiss in his dress: at last turning himself toward the scenes, he discovered jo in the aforesaid posture; whereupon he immediately goes off the stage, swearing he would never set foot on it again, unless jo was immediately turned out of doors, which was no sooner spoke, but put in practice."] [footnote : bellamente is not a female, but a male character. by referring to the mention of this matter in the "historia histrionica," it will at once be seen how bellchambers's blunder was caused. (l.)] [footnote : "my old friends hart and mohun, the one by his natural and proper force, the other _by his great skill and art_, never failed to send me home full of such ideas as affected my behaviour, and made me insensibly more courteous and human to my friends and acquaintance."--"tatler," no. .] [footnote : the following extract from a pamphlet, called "a comparison between the two stages," will amply evince the popular estimation in which hart and mohun were held:-- "the late duke of monmouth was a good judge of dancing, and a good dancer himself; when he returned from france, he brought with him st andré, then the best master in france. the duke presented him to the stage, the stage to gratify the duke admitted him, and the duke himself thought he would prove a mighty advantage to them, though he had nobody else of his opinion. a day was published in the bills for him to dance, but not one more, besides the duke and his friends came to see him; the reason was, the plays were then so good, and hart and mohun acted them so well, that the audience would not be interrupted, for so short a time, though 'twas to see the best master in europe." i suspect that mohun was born about the year , from the circumstance of his acting _bellamente_, the heroine of shirley's "love's cruelty," in , when he had probably reached, and could hardly have exceeded, the age of fifteen years. (b.) as has been before pointed out, bellamente is not a female character. he is the husband of clariana, and could scarcely be played by a boy. if mohun represented the character in , he must have been considerably older than bellchambers imagines. (l.)] [footnote : this account, though generally rejected, appears to me more deserving of credit than chetwood's notoriously neglectful habits, in gleaning intelligence, or making assertion.] [footnote : "i have lately been told by a gentleman who has frequently seen mr. _betterton_ perform this part of _hamlet_, that he has observ'd his countenance (which was naturally ruddy and sanguin) in this scene of the fourth act where his father's ghost appears, thro' the violent and sudden emotions of amazement and horror, turn instantly on the sight of his father's spirit, as pale as his neckcloath, when every article of his body seem'd to be affected with a tremor inexpressible; so that, had his father's ghost actually risen before him; he could not have been seized with more real agonies; and this was felt so strongly by the audience, that the blood seemed to shudder in their veins likewise, and they in some measure partook of the astonishment and horror, with which they saw this excellent actor affected."--"laureat," , p. . ----"i have seen a pamphlet, written above forty years ago, by an intelligent man, who greatly extols the performance of betterton in this last scene, commonly called the closet scene."--davies's "dramatic miscellanies," vol. iii. p. , ed. .] [footnote : in gildon's "life," &c., , there is a copy of rowe's "epilogue," stated to have been spoken by mrs. barry "at the theatre royal, in drury-lane, april the th," and this mistaken date has been perpetuated by the "biographia dramatica." [in spite of this contradiction of gildon and the "biographia dramatica," they are right, and bellchambers is wrong. the date was th april, .]] [footnote : this lady, who was remarkably handsome, married boman, the actor.] [footnote : this curiosity, i believe, is still preserved in the earl of mansfield's mansion, at caen-wood.] [footnote : pope, in the postscript of a letter to cromwell, writes thus:-- "----this letter of death puts me in mind of poor betterton's, over whom i would have this sentence of tully for an epitaph, which will serve for his moral as well as his theatrical capacity: '_vitæ bene actæ jucundissima est recordatio._'" in another part of his correspondence, he intimates that betterton's "remains" had been taken care of, alluding, i suppose, to this post-humous forgery.] [footnote : mrs. brown swore she went herself, but appears to have been mistaken.] [footnote : bellchambers seems to have had a craze on the subject of mrs. bracegirdle's character, which he vilifies on every possible opportunity. his opinion here appears to me very questionable.] [footnote : sandford played worm in "the cutter of coleman street" as early as . (l.)] [footnote : cibber says that nokes, mountfort, and leigh, "died about the same year," _viz._ .] [footnote : "roscius anglicanus."] [footnote : i find, on looking over the "roscius anglicanus," that _trinculo_ is termed _duke trinculo_, in a short reference to the "tempest."] [footnote : "dramatic miscellanies," vol. ii. p. .] [footnote : "that verbruggen and cibber did not accord, is plainly insinuated by the author of the laureat. it was known that the former would resent an injury, and that the latter's valour was entirely passive. the temper of verbruggen may be known, from a story which i have often been told by the old comedians as a certain fact, and which found its way into some temporary publication. "verbruggen, in a dispute with one of king charles's illegitimate sons, was so far transported by sudden anger, as to strike him, and call him a son of a whore. the affront was given, it seems, behind the scenes of drury-lane. complaint was made of this daring insult on a nobleman, and verbruggen was told, he must either not act in london, or submit publicly to ask the nobleman's pardon. during the time of his being interdicted acting, he had engaged himself to betterton's theatre. he consented to ask pardon, on liberty granted to express his submission in his own terms. he came on the stage dressed for the part of _oroonoko_, and, after the usual preface, owned that he had called the duke of st. a. a son of a whore. 'it is true,' said verbruggen, 'and i am sorry for it.' on saying this, he invited the company present to see him act the part of _oroonoko_, at the theatre in lincoln's-inn-fields."--"dramatic miscellanies," vol. iii. p. .] [footnote : "a fellow with a crackt voice: he clangs his words as if he spoke out of a broken drum."--"comparison, &c.," .] [footnote : "history of the stage," p. .] [footnote : there was also a david williams; perhaps the person who played the _ d grave-digger_, in "hamlet." (b.) [genest gives this part to joseph williams.]] [footnote : "dramatic miscellanies," vol. iii. p. .] [footnote : "life of betterton," p. .] [footnote : downes expressly mentions her as mrs. betterton for _camilla_ [should be _portia_], in the "adventures of five hours," ; and she also acted by that name, a few months after, in the "slighted maid." this error originated with the "biographia britannica," but mr. jones, the late slovenly editor of the book alluded to, had ample means to correct it. (b.)] [footnote : "you'll have pinkethman and bullock helping out beaumont and fletcher."--tatler, no. .] [footnote : "tatler," no. .] [footnote : "dramatic miscellanies," vol. ii. p. .] [footnote : "dramatic miscellanies," vol. iii. p. .] [footnote : it is supposed that she was engaged in a tender intercourse with farquhar, and was the "penelope" of his amatory correspondence. she lived successively with arthur mainwaring, one of the most accomplished characters of his age, and general churchill; by each of whom she had a son.] [footnote : this fact is firmly denied in cibber's "lives of the poets," and with a pointed reference to johnson's admission of it.--vol. v. p. .] [footnote : savage, however, was _not_ silent; though he abstained from putting his name to the poem, he indisputably wrote upon mrs. oldfield's death. it is preserved in chetwood's "history."] [footnote : what can be more ridiculous than the following anecdote? mrs. oldfield happened to be in some danger in a gravesend boat, and when the rest of the passengers lamented their imagined approaching fate, she, with a conscious dignity, told them their deaths would be only a private loss;--"but i am a public concern."--"dramatic miscellanies," vol. i. p. .] [footnote : the bitterness of pope's muse subsided upon no occasion, where the name of mrs. oldfield might be aptly introduced. thus in the "sober advice from horace," one of his inedited poems: engaging oldfield! who, with grace and ease, could join the arts to ruin and to please.] * * * * * * transcription note: the original spelling and grammar have been retained. footnotes have been moved to the end of this work. minor adjustments to hyphenation and other punctuation have been made without annotation. typographical changes to this volume: pg sir thomas shipwith[skipwith], had trusted pg of so grave and stanch[staunch] a senator pg have been in our power so throughly[thoroughly] to pg he expresly[expressly] wrote for him pg upon the model of monfort[mountfort not corrected] pg the "famous mr. antony[anthony] leigh," pg nor can their[there] be a doubt pg added heading [bibliography of colley cibber] fn two of these parts belonged to skipwith[shipwith] proofreading team. plays acting and music a book of theory by arthur symons london _to maurice maeterlinck in friendship and admiration_ preface when this book was first published it contained a large amount of material which is now taken out of it; additions have been made, besides many corrections and changes; and the whole form of the book has been remodelled. it is now more what it ought to have been from the first; what i saw, from the moment of its publication, that it ought to have been: a book of theory. the rather formal announcement of my intentions which i made in my preface is reprinted here, because, at all events, the programme was carried out. this book, i said then, is intended to form part of a series, on which i have been engaged for many years. i am gradually working my way towards the concrete expression of a theory, or system of æsthetics, of all the arts. in my book on "the symbolist movement in literature" i made a first attempt to deal in this way with literature; other volumes, now in preparation, are to follow. the present volume deals mainly with the stage, and, secondarily, with music; it is to be followed by a volume called "studies in seven arts," in which music will be dealt with in greater detail, side by side with painting, sculpture, architecture, handicraft, dancing, and the various arts of the stage. and, as life too is a form of art, and the visible world the chief storehouse of beauty, i try to indulge my curiosity by the study of places and of people. a book on "cities" is now in the press, and a book of "imaginary portraits" is to follow, under the title of "spiritual adventures." side by side with these studies in the arts i have my own art, that of verse, which is, after all, my chief concern. in all my critical and theoretical writing i wish to be as little abstract as possible, and to study first principles, not so much as they exist in the brain of the theorist, but as they may be discovered, alive and in effective action, in every achieved form of art. i do not understand the limitation by which so many writers on æsthetics choose to confine themselves to the study of artistic principles as they are seen in this or that separate form of art. each art has its own laws, its own capacities, its own limits; these it is the business of the critic jealously to distinguish. yet in the study of art as art, it should be his endeavour to master the universal science of beauty. , . contents introduction an apology for puppets plays and acting nietzsche on tragedy sarah bernhardt coquelin and molière réjane yvette guilbert sir henry irving duse in some of her parts annotations m. capus in england a double enigma drama professional and unprofessional tolstoi and others some problem plays "monna vanna" the question of censorship a play and the public the test of the actor the price of realism on crossing stage to right the speaking of verse great acting in english a theory of the stage the sicilian actors music on writing about music technique and the artist pachmann and the piano paderewski a reflection at a dolmetsch concert the dramatisation of song the meiningen orchestra mozart in the mirabell-garten notes on wagner at bayreuth conclusion: a paradox on art introduction an apology for puppets after seeing a ballet, a farce, and the fragment of an opera performed by the marionettes at the costanzi theatre in rome, i am inclined to ask myself why we require the intervention of any less perfect medium between the meaning of a piece, as the author conceived it, and that other meaning which it derives from our reception of it. the living actor, even when he condescends to subordinate himself to the requirements of pantomime, has always what he is proud to call his temperament; in other words, so much personal caprice, which for the most part means wilful misunderstanding; and in seeing his acting you have to consider this intrusive little personality of his as well as the author's. the marionette may be relied upon. he will respond to an indication without reserve or revolt; an error on his part (we are all human) will certainly be the fault of the author; he can be trained to perfection. as he is painted, so will he smile; as the wires lift or lower his hands, so will his gestures be; and he will dance when his legs are set in motion. seen at a distance, the puppets cease to be an amusing piece of mechanism, imitating real people; there is no difference. i protest that the knight who came in with his plumed hat, his shining sword, and flung back his long cloak with so fine a sweep of the arm, was exactly the same to me as if he had been a living actor, dressed in the same clothes, and imitating the gesture of a knight; and that the contrast of what was real, as we say, under the fiction appears to me less ironical in the former than in the latter. we have to allow, you will admit, at least as much to the beneficent heightening of travesty, if we have ever seen the living actor in the morning, not yet shaved, standing at the bar, his hat on one side, his mouth spreading in that abandonment to laughter which has become from the necessity of his profession, a natural trick; oh, much more, i think, than if we merely come upon an always decorative, never an obtrusive, costumed figure, leaning against the wall, nonchalantly enough, in a corner of the coulisses. to sharpen our sense of what is illusive in the illusion of the puppets, let us sit not too far from the stage. choosing our place carefully, we shall have the satisfaction of always seeing the wires at their work, while i think we shall lose nothing of what is most savoury in the feast of the illusion. there is not indeed the appeal to the senses of the first row of the stalls at a ballet of living dancers. but is not that a trifle too obvious sentiment for the true artist in artificial things? why leave the ball-room? it is not nature that one looks for on the stage in this kind of spectacle, and our excitement in watching it should remain purely intellectual. if you prefer that other kind of illusion, go a little further away, and, i assure you, you will find it quite easy to fall in love with a marionette. i have seen the most adorable heads, with real hair too, among the wooden dancers of a theatre of puppets; faces which might easily, with but a little of that good-will which goes to all falling in love, seem the answer to a particular dream, making all other faces in the world but spoilt copies of this inspired piece of painted wood. but the illusion, to a more scrupulous taste, will consist simply in that complication of view which allows us to see wood and wire imitating an imitation, and which delights us less when seen at what is called the proper distance, where the two are indistinguishable, than when seen from just the point where all that is crudely mechanical hides the comedy of what is, absolutely, a deception. losing, as we do, something of the particularity of these painted faces, we are able to enjoy all the better what it is certainly important we should appreciate, if we are truly to appreciate our puppets. this is nothing less than a fantastic, yet a direct, return to the masks of the greeks: that learned artifice by which tragedy and comedy were assisted in speaking to the world with the universal voice, by this deliberate generalising of emotion. it will be a lesson to some of our modern notions; and it may be instructive for us to consider that we could not give a play of ibsen's to marionettes, but that we could give them the "agamemnon." above all, for we need it above all, let the marionettes remind us that the art of the theatre should be beautiful first, and then indeed what you will afterwards. gesture on the stage is the equivalent of rhythm in verse, and it can convey, as a perfect rhythm should, not a little of the inner meaning of words, a meaning perhaps more latent in things. does not gesture indeed make emotion, more certainly and more immediately than emotion makes gesture? you may feel that you may suppress emotion; but assume a smile, lifted eyebrows, a clenched fist, and it is impossible for you not to assume along with the gesture, if but for a moment, the emotion to which that gesture corresponds. in our marionettes, then, we get personified gesture, and the gesture, like all other forms of emotion, generalised. the appeal in what seems to you these childish manoeuvres is to a finer, because to a more intimately poetic, sense of things than the merely rationalistic appeal of very modern plays. if at times we laugh, it is with wonder at seeing humanity so gay, heroic, and untiring. there is the romantic suggestion of magic in this beauty. maeterlinck wrote on the title-page of one of his volumes "drames pour marionettes," no doubt to intimate his sense of the symbolic value, in the interpretation of a profound inner meaning of that external nullity which the marionette by its very nature emphasises. and so i find my puppets, where the extremes meet, ready to interpret not only the "agamemnon," but "la mort de tintagiles"; for the soul, which is to make, we may suppose, the drama of the future, is content with as simple a mouthpiece as fate and the great passions, which were the classic drama. plays and acting nietzsche on tragedy i have been reading nietzsche on the origin of tragedy with the delight of one who discovers a new world, which he has seen already in a dream. i never take up nietzsche without the surprise of finding something familiar. sometimes it is the answer to a question which i have only asked; sometimes it seems to me that i have guessed at the answer. and, in his restless energy, his hallucinatory, vision, the agility of this climbing mind of the mountains, i find that invigoration which only a "tragic philosopher" can give. "a sort of mystic soul," as he says of himself, "almost the soul of a mænad, who, troubled, capricious, and half irresolute whether to cede or fly, stammers out something in a foreign tongue." the book is a study in the origin of tragedy among the greeks, as it arose out of music through the medium of the chorus. we are apt to look on the chorus in greek plays as almost a negligible part of the structure; as, in fact, hardly more than the comments of that "ideal spectator" whom schlegel called up out of the depths of the german consciousness. we know, however, that the chorus was the original nucleus of the play, that the action on which it seems only to comment is no more than a development of the chorus. here is the problem to which nietzsche endeavours to find an answer. he finds it, unlike the learned persons who study greek texts, among the roots of things, in the very making of the universe. art arises, he tells us, from the conflict of the two creative spirits, symbolised by the greeks in the two gods, apollo and dionysus; and he names the one the apollonian spirit, which we see in plastic art, and the other the dionysiac spirit, which we see in music. apollo is the god of dreams, dionysus the god of intoxication; the one represents for us the world of appearances, the other is, as it were, the voice of things in themselves. the chorus, then, which arose out of the hymns to dionysus, is the "lyric cry," the vital ecstasy; the drama is the projection into vision, into a picture, of the exterior, temporary world of forms. "we now see that the stage and the action are conceived only as vision: that the sole 'reality' is precisely the chorus, which itself produces the vision, and expresses it by the aid of the whole symbolism of dance, sound, and word." in the admirable phrase of schiller, the chorus is "a living rampart against reality," against that false reality of daily life which is a mere drapery of civilisation, and has nothing to do with the primitive reality of nature. the realistic drama begins with euripides; and euripides, the casuist, the friend of socrates (whom nietzsche qualifies as the true decadent, an "instrument of decomposition," the slayer of art, the father of modern science), brings tragedy to an end, as he substitutes pathos for action, thought for contemplation, and passionate sentiments for the primitive ecstasy. "armed with the scourge of its syllogisms, an optimist dialectic drives the music out of tragedy: that is to say, destroys the very essence of tragedy, an essence which can be interpreted only as a manifestation and objectivation of dionysiac states, as a visible symbol of music, as the dream-world of a dionysiac intoxication." there are many pages, scattered throughout his work, in which pater has dealt with some of the greek problems very much in the spirit of nietzsche; with that problem, for instance, of the "blitheness and serenity" of the greek spirit, and of the gulf of horror over which it seems to rest, suspended as on the wings of the condor. that myth of dionysus zagreus, "a bacchus who had been in hell," which is the foundation of the marvellous new myth of "denys l'auxerrois," seems always to be in the mind of nietzsche, though indeed he refers to it but once, and passingly. pater has shown, as nietzsche shows in greater detail and with a more rigorous logic, that this "serenity" was but an accepted illusion, and all olympus itself but "intermediary," an escape, through the æsthetics of religion, from the trouble at the heart of things; art, with its tragic illusions of life, being another form of escape. to nietzsche the world and existence justify themselves only as an æsthetic phenomenon, the work of a god wholly the artist; "and in this sense the object of the tragic myth is precisely to convince us that even the horrible and the monstrous are no more than an æsthetic game played with itself by the will in the eternal plenitude of its joy." "the will" is schopenhauer's "will," the vital principle. "if it were possible," says nietzsche, in one of his astonishing figures of speech, "to imagine a dissonance becoming a human being (and what is man but that?), in order to endure life, this dissonance would need some admirable illusion to hide from itself its true nature, under a veil of beauty." this is the aim of art, as it calls up pictures of the visible world and of the little temporary actions of men on its surface. the hoofed satyr of dionysus, as he leaps into the midst of these gracious appearances, drunk with the young wine of nature, surly with the old wisdom of silenus, brings the real, excessive, disturbing truth of things suddenly into the illusion; and is gone again, with a shrill laugh, without forcing on us more of his presence than we can bear. i have but touched on a few points in an argument which has itself the ecstatic quality of which it speaks. a good deal of the book is concerned with the latest development of music, and especially with wagner. nietzsche, after his change of sides, tells us not to take this part too seriously: "what i fancied i heard in the wagnerian music has nothing to do with wagner." few better things have been said about music than these pages; some of them might be quoted against the "programme" music which has been written since that time, and against the false theory on which musicians have attempted to harness music in the shafts of literature. the whole book is awakening; in nietzsche's own words, "a prodigious hope speaks in it." sarah bernhardt i am not sure that the best moment to study an artist is not the moment of what is called decadence. the first energy of inspiration is gone; what remains is the method, the mechanism, and it is that which alone one can study, as one can study the mechanism of the body, not the principle of life itself. what is done mechanically, after the heat of the blood has cooled, and the divine accidents have ceased to happen, is precisely all that was consciously skilful in the performance of an art. to see all this mechanism left bare, as the form of the skeleton is left bare when age thins the flesh upon it, is to learn more easily all that is to be learnt of structure, the art which not art but nature has hitherto concealed with its merciful covering. the art of sarah bernhardt has always been a very conscious art, but it spoke to us, once, with so electrical a shock, as if nerve touched nerve, or the mere "contour subtil" of the voice were laid tinglingly on one's spinal cord, that it was difficult to analyse it coldly. she was phèdre or marguerite gautier, she was adrienne lecouvreur, fédora, la tosca, the actual woman, and she was also that other actual woman, sarah bernhardt. two magics met and united, in the artist and the woman, each alone of its kind. there was an excitement in going to the theatre; one's pulses beat feverishly before the curtain had risen; there was almost a kind of obscure sensation of peril, such as one feels when the lioness leaps into the cage, on the other side of the bars. and the acting was like a passionate declaration, offered to some one unknown; it was as if the whole nervous force of the audience were sucked out of it and flung back, intensified, upon itself, as it encountered the single, insatiable, indomitable nervous force of the woman. and so, in its way, this very artificial acting seemed the mere instinctive, irresistible expression of a temperament; it mesmerised one, awakening the senses and sending the intelligence to sleep. after all, though réjane skins emotions alive, and duse serves them up to you on golden dishes, it is sarah bernhardt who prepares the supreme feast. in "la dame aux camélias," still, she shows herself, as an actress, the greatest actress in the world. it is all sheer acting; there is no suggestion, as with duse, there is no canaille attractiveness, as with réjane; the thing is plastic, a modelling of emotion before you, with every vein visible; she leaves nothing to the imagination, gives you every motion, all the physical signs of death, all the fierce abandonment to every mood, to grief, to delight, to lassitude. when she suffers, in the scene, for instance, where armand insults her, she is like a trapped wild beast which some one is torturing, and she wakes just that harrowing pity. one's whole flesh suffers with her flesh; her voice caresses and excites like a touch; it has a throbbing, monotonous music, which breaks deliciously, which pauses suspended, and then resolves itself in a perfect chord. her voice is like a thing detachable from herself, a thing which she takes in her hands like a musical instrument, playing on the stops cunningly with her fingers. prose, when she speaks it, becomes a kind of verse, with all the rhythms, the vocal harmonies, of a kind of human poetry. her whisper is heard across the whole theatre, every syllable distinct, and yet it is really a whisper. she comes on the stage like a miraculous painted idol, all nerves; she runs through the gamut of the sex, and ends a child, when the approach of death brings marguerite back to that deep infantile part of woman. she plays the part now with the accustomed ease of one who puts on and off an old shoe. it is almost a part of her; she knows it through all her senses. and she moved me as much last night as she moved me when i first saw her play the part eleven or twelve years ago. to me, sitting where i was not too near the stage, she might have been five-and-twenty. i saw none of the mechanism of the art, as i saw it in "l'aiglon"; here art still concealed art. her vitality was equal to the vitality of réjane; it is differently expressed, that is all. with réjane the vitality is direct; it is the appeal of gavroche, the sharp, impudent urchin of the streets; sarah bernhardt's vitality is electrical, and shoots its currents through all manner of winding ways. in form it belongs to an earlier period, just as the writing of dumas fils belongs to an earlier period than the writing of meilhac. it comes to us with the tradition to which it has given life; it does not spring into our midst, unruly as nature. but it is in "phèdre" that sarah bernhardt must be seen, if we are to realise all that her art is capable of. in writing "phèdre," racine anticipated sarah bernhardt. if the part had been made for her by a poet of our own days, it could not have been brought more perfectly within her limits, nor could it have more perfectly filled those limits to their utmost edge. it is one of the greatest parts in poetical drama, and it is written with a sense of the stage not less sure than its sense of dramatic poetry. there was a time when racine was looked upon as old-fashioned, as conventional, as frigid. it is realised nowadays that his verse has cadences like the cadences of verlaine, that his language is as simple and direct as prose, and that he is one of the most passionate of poets. of the character of phèdre racine tells us that it is "ce que j'ai peut-être mis de plus raisonnable sur le théâtre." the word strikes oddly on our ears, but every stage of the passion of phèdre is indeed reasonable, logical, as only a french poet, since the greeks themselves, could make it. the passion itself is an abnormal, an insane thing, and that passion comes to us with all its force and all its perversity; but the words in which it is expressed are never extravagant, they are always clear, simple, temperate, perfectly precise and explicit. the art is an art exquisitely balanced between the conventional and the realistic, and the art of sarah bernhardt, when she plays the part, is balanced with just the same unerring skill. she seems to abandon herself wholly, at times, to her "fureurs"; she tears the words with her teeth, and spits them out of her mouth, like a wild beast ravening upon prey; but there is always dignity, restraint, a certain remoteness of soul, and there is always the verse, and her miraculous rendering of the verse, to keep racine in the right atmosphere. of what we call acting there is little, little change in the expression of the face. the part is a part for the voice, and it is only in "phèdre" that one can hear that orchestra, her voice, in all its variety of beauty. in her modern plays, plays in prose, she is condemned to use only a few of the instruments of the orchestra: an actress must, in such parts, be conversational, and for how much beauty or variety is there room in modern conversation? but here she has racine's verse, along with racine's psychology, and the language has nothing more to offer the voice of a tragic actress. she seems to speak her words, her lines, with a kind of joyful satisfaction; all the artist in her delights in the task. her nerves are in it, as well as her intelligence; but everything is coloured by the poetry, everything is subordinate to beauty. well, and she seems still to be the same phèdre that she was eleven or twelve years ago, as she is the same "dame aux camélias." is it reality, is it illusion? illusion, perhaps, but an illusion which makes itself into a very effectual kind of reality. she has played these pieces until she has got them, not only by heart, but by every nerve and by every vein, and now the ghost of the real thing is so like the real thing that there is hardly any telling the one from the other. it is the living on of a mastery once absolutely achieved, without so much as the need of a new effort. the test of the artist, the test which decides how far the artist is still living, as more than a force of memory, lies in the power to create a new part, to bring new material to life. last year, in "l'aiglon," it seemed to me that sarah bernhardt showed how little she still possessed that power, and this year i see the same failure in "francesca da rimini." the play, it must be admitted, is hopelessly poor, common, melodramatic, without atmosphere, without nobility, subtlety, or passion; it degrades the story which we owe to dante and not to history (for, in itself, the story is a quite ordinary story of adultery: dante and the flames of his hell purged it), it degrades it almost out of all recognition. these middle-aged people, who wrangle shrewishly behind the just turned back of the husband and almost in the hearing of the child, are people in whom it is impossible to be interested, apart from any fine meanings put into them in the acting. and yet, since m. de max has made hardly less than a creation out of the part of giovanni, filling it, as he has, with his own nervous force and passionately restrained art, might it not have been possible once for sarah bernhardt to have thrilled us even as this francesca of mr. marion crawford? i think so; she has taken bad plays as willingly as good plays, to turn them to her own purpose, and she has been as triumphant, if not as fine, in bad plays as in good ones. now her francesca is lifeless, a melodious image, making meaningless music. she says over the words, cooingly, chantingly, or frantically, as the expression marks, to which she seems to act, demand. the interest is in following her expression-marks. the first thing one notices in her acting, when one is free to watch it coolly, is the way in which she subordinates effects to effect. she has her crescendos, of course, and it is these which people are most apt to remember, but the extraordinary force of these crescendos comes from the smooth and level manner in which the main part of the speaking is done. she is not anxious to make points at every moment, to put all the possible emphasis into every separate phrase; i have heard her glide over really significant phrases which, taken by themselves, would seem to deserve more consideration, but which she has wisely subordinated to an overpowering effect of ensemble. sarah bernhardt's acting always reminds me of a musical performance. her voice is itself an instrument of music, and she plays upon it as a conductor plays upon an orchestra. one seems to see the expression marks: piano, pianissimo, largamente, and just where the tempo rubato comes in. she never forgets that art is not nature, and that when one is speaking verse one is not talking prose. she speaks with a liquid articulation of every syllable, like one who loves the savour of words on the tongue, giving them a beauty and an expressiveness often not in them themselves. her face changes less than you might expect; it is not over-possessed by detail, it gives always the synthesis. the smile of the artist, a wonderful smile which has never aged with her, pierces through the passion or languor of the part. it is often accompanied by a suave, voluptuous tossing of the head, and is like the smile of one who inhales some delicious perfume, with half-closed eyes. all through the level perfection of her acting there are little sharp snaps of the nerves; and these are but one indication of that perfect mechanism which her art really is. her finger is always upon the spring; it touches or releases it, and the effect follows instantaneously. the movements of her body, her gestures, the expression of her face, are all harmonious, are all parts of a single harmony. it is not reality which she aims at giving us, it is reality transposed into another atmosphere, as if seen in a mirror, in which all its outlines become more gracious. the pleasure which we get from seeing her as francesca or as marguerite gautier is doubled by that other pleasure, never completely out of our minds, that she is also sarah bernhardt. one sometimes forgets that réjane is acting at all; it is the real woman of the part, sapho, or zaza, or yanetta, who lives before us. also one sometimes forgets that duse is acting, that she is even pretending to be magda or silvia; it is duse herself who lives there, on the stage. but sarah bernhardt is always the actress as well as the part; when she is at her best, she is both equally, and our consciousness of the one does not disturb our possession by the other. when she is not at her best, we see only the actress, the incomparable craftswoman openly labouring at her work. coquelin and moliÈre: some aspects to see coquelin in molière is to see the greatest of comic actors at his best, and to realise that here is not a temperament, or a student, or anything apart from the art of the actor. his art may be compared with that of sarah bernhardt for its infinite care in the training of nature. they have an equal perfection, but it may be said that coquelin, with his ripe, mellow art, his passion of humour, his touching vehemence, makes himself seem less a divine machine, more a delightfully faulty person. his voice is firm, sonorous, flexible, a human, expressive, amusing voice, not the elaborate musical instrument of sarah, which seems to go by itself, câline, cooing, lamenting, raging, or in that wonderful swift chatter which she uses with such instant and deliberate effect. and, unlike her, his face is the face of his part, always a disguise, never a revelation. i have been seeing the three coquelins and their company at the garrick theatre. they did "tartuffe," "l'avare," "le bourgeois gentilhomme," "les précieuses ridicules," and a condensed version of "le dépit amoureux," in which the four acts of the original were cut down into two. of these five plays only two are in verse, "tartuffe" and "le dépit amoureux," and i could not help wishing that the fashion of molière's day had allowed him to write all his plays in prose. molière was not a poet, and he knew that he was not a poet. when he ventured to write the most shakespearean of his comedies, "l'avare," in prose, "le même préjugé," voltaire tells us, "qui avait fait tomber 'le festin de pierre,' parce qu'il était en prose, nuisit au succès de 'l'avare.' cependant le public qui, à la longue, se rend toujours au bon, finit par donner à cet ouvrage les applaudissements qu'il mérite. on comprit alors qu'il peut y avoir de fort bonnes comédies en prose." how infinitely finer, as prose, is the prose of "l'avare" than the verse of "tartuffe" as verse! in "tartuffe" all the art of the actor is required to carry you over the artificial jangle of the alexandrines without allowing you to perceive too clearly that this man, who is certainly not speaking poetry, is speaking in rhyme. molière was a great prose writer, but i do not remember a line of poetry in the whole of his work in verse. the temper of his mind was the temper of mind of the prose-writer. his worldly wisdom, his active philosophy, the very mainspring of his plots, are found, characteristically, in his valets and his servant-maids. he satirises the miser, the hypocrite, the bas-bleu, but he chuckles over frosine and gros-rené; he loves them for their freedom of speech and their elastic minds, ready in words or deeds. they are his chorus, if the chorus might be imagined as directing the action. but molière has a weakness, too, for the bourgeois, and he has made m. jourdain immortally delightful. there is not a really cruel touch in the whole character; we laugh at him so freely because molière lets us laugh with such kindliness. m. jourdain has a robust joy in life; he carries off his absurdities by the simple good faith which he puts into them. when i speak of m. jourdain i hardly know whether i am speaking of the character of molière or of the character of coquelin. probably there is no difference. we get molière's vast, succulent farce of the intellect rendered with an art like his own. if this, in every detail, is not what molière meant, then so much the worse for molière. molière is kind to his bourgeois, envelops him softly in satire as in cotton-wool, dandles him like a great baby; and coquelin is without bitterness, stoops to make stupidity heroic, a distinguished stupidity. a study in comedy so profound, so convincing, so full of human nature and of the art-concealing art of the stage, has not been seen in our time. as mascarille, in "les précieuses ridicules," coquelin becomes delicate and extravagant, a scented whirlwind; his parody is more splendid than the thing itself which he parodies, more full of fine show and nimble bravery. there is beauty in this broadly comic acting, the beauty of subtle detail. words can do little to define a performance which is a constant series of little movements of the face, little intonations of the voice, a way of lolling in the chair, a way of speaking, of singing, of preserving the gravity of burlesque. in "tartuffe" we get a form of comedy which is almost tragic, the horribly serious comedy of the hypocrite. coquelin, who remakes his face, as by a prolonged effort of the muscles, for every part, makes, for this part, a great fish's face, heavy, suppressed, with lowered eyelids and a secret mouth, out of which steals at times some stealthy avowal. he has the movements of a great slug, or of a snail, if you will, putting out its head and drawing it back into its shell. the face waits and plots, with a sleepy immobility, covering a hard, indomitable will. it is like a drawing of daumier, if you can imagine a drawing which renews itself at every instant, in a series of poses to which it is hardly necessary to add words. i am told that coquelin, in the creation of a part, makes his way slowly, surely, inwards, for the first few weeks of his performance, and that then the thing is finished, to the least intonation or gesture, and can be laid down and taken up at will, without a shade of difference in the interpretation. the part of maître jacques in "l'avare," for instance, which i have just seen him perform with such gusto and such certainty, had not been acted by him for twenty years, and it was done, without rehearsal, in the midst of a company that required prompting at every moment. i suppose this method of moulding a part, as if in wet clay, and then allowing it to take hard, final form, is the method natural to the comedian, his right method. i can hardly think that the tragic actor should ever allow himself to become so much at home with his material; that he dare ever allow his clay to become quite hard. he has to deal with the continually shifting stuff of the soul and of the passions, with nature at its least generalised moments. the comic actor deals with nature for the most part generalised, with things palpably absurd, with characteristics that strike the intelligence, not with emotions that touch the heart or the senses. he comes to more definite and to more definable results, on which he may rest, confident that what has made an audience laugh once will make it laugh always, laughter being a physiological thing, wholly independent of mood. in thinking of some excellent comic actors of our own, i am struck by the much greater effort which they seem to make in order to drive their points home, and in order to get what they think variety. sir charles wyndham is the only english actor i can think of at the moment who does not make unnecessary grimaces, who does not insist on acting when the difficult thing is not to act. in "tartuffe" coquelin stands motionless for five minutes at a time, without change of expression, and yet nothing can be more expressive than his face at those moments. in chopin's g minor nocturne, op. , there is an f held for three bars, and when rubinstein played the nocturne, says mr. huneker in his instructive and delightful book on chopin, he prolonged the tone, "by some miraculous means," so that "it swelled and diminished, and went singing into d, as if the instrument were an organ." it is that power of sustaining an expression, unchanged, and yet always full of living significance, that i find in coquelin. it is a part of his economy, the economy of the artist. the improviser disdains economy, as much as the artist cherishes it. coquelin has some half-dozen complete variations of the face he has composed for tartuffe; no more than that, with no insignificances of expression thrown away; but each variation is a new point of view, from which we see the whole character. rÉjane the genius of réjane is a kind of finesse: it is a flavour, and all the ingredients of the dish may be named without defining it. the thing is parisian, but that is only to say that it unites nervous force with a wicked ease and mastery of charm. it speaks to the senses through the brain, as much as to the brain through the senses. it is the feminine equivalent of intellect. it "magnetises our poor vertebrae," in verlaine's phrase, because it is sex and yet not instinct. it is sex civilised, under direction, playing a part, as we say of others than those on the stage. it calculates, and is unerring. it has none of the vulgar warmth of mere passion, none of its health or simplicity. it leaves a little red sting where it has kissed. and it intoxicates us by its appeal to so many sides of our nature at once. we are thrilled, and we admire, and are almost coldly appreciative, and yet aglow with the response of the blood. i have found myself applauding with tears in my eyes. the feeling and the critical approval came together, hand in hand: neither counteracted the other: and i had to think twice, before i could remember how elaborate a science went to the making of that thrill which i had been almost cruelly enjoying. the art of réjane accepts things as they are, without selection or correction; unlike duse, who chooses just those ways in which she shall be nature. what one remembers are little homely details, in which the shadow, of some overpowering impulse gives a sombre beauty to what is common or ugly. she renders the despair of the woman whose lover is leaving her by a single movement, the way in which she wipes her nose. to her there is but one beauty, truth; and but one charm, energy. where nature has not chosen, she will not choose; she is content with whatever form emotion snatches for itself as it struggles into speech out of an untrained and unconscious body. in "sapho" she is the everyday "venus toute entière à sa proie attachée," and she has all the brutality and all the clinging warmth of the flesh; vice, if you will, but serious vice, vice plus passion. her sordid, gluttonous, instructed eyes, in which all the passions and all the vices have found a nest, speak their own language, almost without the need of words, throughout the play; the whole face suffers, exults, lies, despairs, with a homely sincerity which cuts more sharply than any stage emphasis. she seems at every moment to throw away her chances of effect, of ordinary stage-effect; then, when the moment seems to have gone, and she has done nothing, you will find that the moment itself has penetrated you, that she has done nothing with genius. réjane can be vulgar, as nature is vulgar: she has all the instincts of the human animal, of the animal woman, whom man will never quite civilise. there is no doubt of it, nature lacks taste; and woman, who is so near to nature, lacks taste in the emotions. réjane, in "sapho" or in "zaza" for instance, is woman naked and shameless, loving and suffering with all her nerves and muscles, a gross, pitiable, horribly human thing, whose direct appeal, like that of a sick animal, seizes you by the throat at the instant in which it reaches your eyes and ears. more than any actress she is the human animal without disguise or evasion; with all the instincts, all the natural cries and movements. in "sapho" or "zaza" she speaks the language of the senses, no more; and her acting reminds you of all that you may possibly have forgotten of how the senses speak when they speak through an ignorant woman in love. it is like an accusing confirmation of some of one's guesses at truth, before the realities of the flesh and of the affections of the flesh. scepticism is no longer possible: here, in "sapho," is a woman who flagellates herself before her lover as the penitent flagellates himself before god. in the scene where her lover repulses her last attempt to win him back, there is a convulsive movement of the body, as she lets herself sink to the ground at his feet, which is like the movement of one who is going to be sick: it renders, with a ghastly truth to nature, the abject collapse of the body under overpowering emotion. here, as elsewhere, she gives you merely the thing itself, without a disturbing atom of self-consciousness; she is grotesque, she is what you will: it is no matter. the emotion she is acting possesses her like a blind force; she is sapho, and sapho could only move and speak and think in one way. where sarah bernhardt would arrange the emotion for some thrilling effect of art, where duse would purge the emotion of all its attributes but some fundamental nobility, réjane takes the big, foolish, dirty thing just as it is. and is not that, perhaps, the supreme merit of acting? yvette guilbert i she is tall, thin, a little angular, most winningly and girlishly awkward, as she wanders on to the stage with an air of vague distraction. her shoulders droop, her arms hang limply. she doubles forward in an automatic bow in response to the thunders of applause, and that curious smile breaks out along her lips and rises and dances in her bright light-blue eyes, wide open in a sort of child-like astonishment. her hair, a bright auburn, rises in soft masses above a large, pure forehead. she wears a trailing dress, striped yellow and pink, without ornament. her arms are covered with long black gloves. the applause stops suddenly; there is a hush of suspense; she is beginning to sing. and with the first note you realise the difference between yvette guilbert and all the rest of the world. a sonnet by mr. andré raffalovich states just that difference so subtly that i must quote it to help out my interpretation: if you want hearty laughter, country mirth-- or frantic gestures of an acrobat, heels over head--or floating lace skirts worth i know not what, a large eccentric hat and diamonds, the gift of some dull boy-- then when you see her do not wrong yvette, because yvette is not a clever toy, a tawdry doll in fairy limelight set ... and should her song sound cynical and base at first, herself ungainly, or her smile monotonous--wait, listen, watch her face: the sufferings of those the world calls vile she sings, and as you watch yvette guilbert, you too will shiver, seeing their despair. now to me yvette guilbert was exquisite from the first moment. "exquisite!" i said under my breath, as i first saw her come upon the stage. but it is not merely by her personal charm that she thrills you, though that is strange, perverse, unaccountable. it is not merely that she can do pure comedy, that she can be frankly, deliciously, gay. there is one of her songs in which she laughs, chuckles, and trills a rapid flurry of broken words and phrases, with the sudden, spontaneous, irresponsible mirth of a bird. but where she is most herself is in a manner of tragic comedy which has never been seen on the music-hall stage from the beginning. it is the profoundly sad and essentially serious comedy which one sees in forain's drawings, those rapid outlines which, with the turn of a pencil, give you the whole existence of those base sections of society which our art in england is mainly forced to ignore. people call the art of forain immoral, they call yvette guilbert's songs immoral. that is merely the conventional misuse of a conventional word. the art of yvette guilbert is certainly the art of realism. she brings before you the real life-drama of the streets, of the pot-house; she shows you the seamy side of life behind the scenes; she calls things by their right names. but there is not a touch of sensuality about her, she is neither contaminated nor contaminating by what she sings; she is simply a great, impersonal, dramatic artist, who sings realism as others write it. her gamut in the purely comic is wide; with an inflection of the voice, a bend of that curious long thin body which seems to be embodied gesture, she can suggest, she can portray, the humour that is dry, ironical, coarse (i will admit), unctuous even. her voice can be sweet or harsh; it can chirp, lilt, chuckle, stutter; it can moan or laugh, be tipsy or distinguished. nowhere is she conventional; nowhere does she resemble any other french singer. voice, face, gestures, pantomime, all are different, all are purely her own. she is a creature of contrasts, and suggests at once all that is innocent and all that is perverse. she has the pure blue eyes of a child, eyes that are cloudless, that gleam with a wicked ingenuousness, that close in the utter abasement of weariness, that open wide in all the expressionlessness of surprise. her naïveté is perfect, and perfect, too, is that strange, subtle smile of comprehension that closes the period. a great impersonal artist, depending as she does entirely on her expressive power, her dramatic capabilities, her gift for being moved, for rendering the emotions of those in whom we do not look for just that kind of emotion, she affects one all the time as being, after all, removed from what she sings of; an artist whose sympathy is an instinct, a divination. there is something automatic in all fine histrionic genius, and i find some of the charm of the automaton in yvette guilbert. the real woman, one fancies, is the slim bright-haired girl who looks so pleased and so amused when you applaud her, and whom it pleases to please you, just because it is amusing. she could not tell you how she happens to be a great artist; how she has found a voice for the tragic comedy of cities; how it is that she makes you cry when she sings of sordid miseries. "that is her secret," we are accustomed to say; and i like to imagine that it is a secret which she herself has never fathomed. ii the difference between yvette guilbert and every one else on the music-hall stage is precisely the difference between sarah bernhardt and every one else on the stage of legitimate drama. elsewhere you may find many admirable qualities, many brilliant accomplishments, but nowhere else that revelation of an extraordinarily interesting personality through the medium of an extraordinarily finished art. yvette guilbert has something new to say, and she has discovered a new way of saying it. she has had precursors, but she has eclipsed them. she sings, for instance, songs of aristide bruant, songs which he had sung before her, and sung admirably, in his brutal and elaborately careless way. but she has found meanings in them which bruant, who wrote them, never discovered, or, certainly, could never interpret; she has surpassed him in his own quality, the _macabre_; she has transformed the rough material, which had seemed adequately handled until she showed how much more could be done with it, into something artistically fine and distinguished. and just as, in the brutal and _macabre_ style, she has done what bruant was only trying to do, so, in the style, supposed to be traditionally french, of delicate insinuation, she has invented new shades of expression, she has discovered a whole new method of suggestion. and it is here, perhaps, that the new material which she has known, by some happy instinct, how to lay her hands on, has been of most service to her. she sings, a little cruelly, of the young girl; and the young girl of her songs (that _demoiselle de pensionnat_ who is the heroine of one of the most famous of them) is a very different being from the fair abstraction, even rosier and vaguer to the french mind than it is to the english, which stands for the ideal of girlhood. it is, rather, the young girl as goncourt has rendered her in "chérie," a creature of awakening, half-unconscious sensations, already at work somewhat abnormally in an anæmic frame, with an intelligence left to feed mainly on itself. and yvette herself, with her bright hair, the sleepy gold fire of her eyes, her slimness, her gracious awkwardness, her air of delusive innocence, is the very type of the young girl of whom she sings. there is a certain malice in it all, a malicious insistence on the other side of innocence. but there it is, a new figure; and but one among the creations which we owe to this "comic singer," whose comedy is, for the most part, so serious and so tragic. for the art of yvette guilbert is of that essentially modern kind which, even in a subject supposed to be comic, a subject we are accustomed to see dealt with, if dealt with at all, in burlesque, seeks mainly for the reality of things (and reality, if we get deep enough into it, is never comic), and endeavour to find a new, searching, and poignant expression for that. it is an art concerned, for the most part, with all that part of life which the conventions were intended to hide from us. we see a world where people are very vicious and very unhappy; a sordid, miserable world which it is as well sometimes to consider. it is a side of existence which exists; and to see it is not to be attracted towards it. it is a grey and sordid land, under the sway of "eros vanné"; it is, for the most part, weary of itself, without rest, and without escape. this is yvette guilbert's domain; she sings it, as no one has ever sung it before, with a tragic realism, touched with a sort of grotesque irony, which is a new thing on any stage. the _rouleuse_ of the quartier bréda, praying to the one saint in her calendar, "sainte galette"; the _soûlarde_, whom the urchins follow and throw stones at in the street; the whole life of the slums and the gutter: these are her subjects, and she brings them, by some marvellous fineness of treatment, into the sphere of art. it is all a question of _métier_, no doubt, though how far her method is conscious and deliberate it is difficult to say. but she has certain quite obvious qualities, of reticence, of moderation, of suspended emphasis, which can scarcely be other than conscious and deliberate. she uses but few gestures, and these brief, staccato, and for an immediate purpose; her hands, in their long black gloves, are almost motionless, the arms hang limply; and yet every line of the face and body seems alive, alive and repressed. her voice can be harsh or sweet, as she would have it, can laugh or cry, be menacing or caressing; it is never used for its own sake, decoratively, but for a purpose, for an effect. and how every word tells! every word comes to you clearly, carrying exactly its meaning; and, somehow, along with the words, an emotion, which you may resolve to ignore, but which will seize upon you, which will go through and through you. trick or instinct, there it is, the power to make you feel intensely; and that is precisely the final test of a great dramatic artist. sir henry irving as i watched, at the lyceum, the sad and eager face of duse, leaning forward out of a box, and gazing at the eager and gentle face of irving, i could not help contrasting the two kinds of acting summed up in those two faces. the play was "olivia," w.g. wills' poor and stagey version of "the vicar of wakefield," in which, however, not even the lean intelligence of a modern playwright could quite banish the homely and gracious and tender charm of goldsmith. as dr. primrose, irving was almost at his best; that is to say, not at his greatest, but at his most equable level of good acting. all his distinction was there, his nobility, his restraint, his fine convention. for irving represents the old school of acting, just as duse represents the new school. to duse, acting is a thing almost wholly apart from action; she thinks on the stage, scarcely moves there; when she feels emotion, it is her chief care not to express it with emphasis, but to press it down into her soul, until only the pained reflection of it glimmers out of her eyes and trembles in the hollows of her cheeks. to irving, on the contrary, acting is all that the word literally means; it is an art of sharp, detached, yet always delicate movement; he crosses the stage with intention, as he intentionally adopts a fine, crabbed, personal, highly conventional elocution of his own; he is an actor, and he acts, keeping nature, or the too close resemblance of nature, carefully out of his composition. with miss terry there is permanent charm of a very natural nature, which has become deliciously sophisticated. she is the eternal girl, and she can never grow old; one might say, she can never grow up. she learns her part, taking it quite artificially, as a part to be learnt; and then, at her frequent moments of forgetfulness, charms us into delight, though not always into conviction, by a gay abandonment to the self of a passing moment. irving's acting is almost a science, and it is a science founded on tradition. it is in one sense his personality that makes him what he is, the only actor on the english stage who has a touch of genius. but he has not gone to himself to invent an art wholly personal, wholly new; his acting is no interruption of an intense inner life, but a craftsmanship into which he has put all he has to give. it is an art wholly of rhetoric, that is to say wholly external; his emotion moves to slow music, crystallises into an attitude, dies upon a long-drawn-out word. he appeals to us, to our sense of what is expected, to our accustomed sense of the logic, not of life, but of life as we have always seen it on the stage, by his way of taking snuff, of taking out his pocket-handkerchief, of lifting his hat, of crossing his legs. he has observed life in order to make his own version of life, using the stage as his medium, and accepting the traditional aids and limitations of the stage. take him in one of his typical parts, in "louis xi." his louis xi. is a masterpiece of grotesque art. it is a study in senility, and it is the grotesque art of the thing which saves it from becoming painful. this shrivelled carcase, from which age, disease, and fear have picked all the flesh, leaving the bare framework of bone and the drawn and cracked covering of yellow skin, would be unendurable in its irreverent copy of age if it were not so obviously a picture, with no more malice than there is in the delicate lines and fine colours of a picture. the figure is at once punch and the oldest of the chelsea pensioners; it distracts one between pity, terror, and disgust, but is altogether absorbing; one watches it as one would watch some feeble ancient piece of mechanism, still working, which may snap at any moment. in such a personation, make-up becomes a serious part of art. it is the picture that magnetises us, and every wrinkle seems to have been studied in movement; the hands act almost by themselves, as if every finger were a separate actor. the passion of fear, the instinct of craft, the malady of suspicion, in a frail old man who has power over every one but himself: that is what sir henry irving represents, in a performance which is half precise physiology, half palpable artifice, but altogether a unique thing in art. see him in "the merchant of venice." his shylock is noble and sordid, pathetic and terrifying. it is one of his great parts, made up of pride, stealth, anger, minute and varied picturesqueness, and a diabolical subtlety. whether he paws at his cloak, or clutches upon the handle of his stick, or splutters hatred, or cringes before his prey, or shakes with lean and wrinkled laughter, he is always the great part and the great actor. see him as mephistopheles in "faust." the lyceum performance was a superb pantomime, with one overpowering figure drifting through it and in some sort directing it, the red-plumed devil mephistopheles, who, in sir henry irving's impersonation of him, becomes a kind of weary spirit, a melancholy image of unhappy pride, holding himself up to the laughter of inferior beings, with the old acknowledgment that "the devil is an ass." a head like the head of dante, shown up by coloured lights, and against chromolithographic backgrounds, while all the diabolic intelligence is set to work on the cheap triumph of wheedling a widow and screwing rhenish and tokay with a gimlet out of an inn table: it is partly goethe's fault, and partly the fault of wills, and partly the lowering trick of the stage. mephistopheles is not really among irving's great parts, but it is among his picturesque parts. with his restless strut, a blithe and aged tripping of the feet to some not quite human measure, he is like some spectral marionette, playing a game only partly his own. in such a part no mannerism can seem unnatural, and the image with its solemn mask lives in a kind of galvanic life of its own, seductively, with some mocking suggestion of his "cousin the snake." here and there some of the old power may be lacking; but whatever was once subtle and insinuating remains. shakespeare at the lyceum is always a magnificent spectacle, and "coriolanus," the last shakespearean revival there, was a magnificent spectacle. it is a play made up principally of one character and a crowd, the crowd being a sort of moving background, treated in shakespeare's large and scornful way. a stage crowd at the lyceum always gives one a sense of exciting movement, and this roman rabble did all that was needed to show off the almost solitary splendour of coriolanus. he is the proudest man in shakespeare, and sir henry irving is at his best when he embodies pride. his conception of the part was masterly; it had imagination, nobility, quietude. with opportunity for ranting in every second speech, he never ranted, but played what might well have been a roaring part with a kind of gentleness. with every opportunity for extravagant gesture, he stood, as the play seemed to foam about him, like a rock against which the foam beats. made up as a kind of roman moltke, the lean, thoughtful soldier, he spoke throughout with a slow, contemptuous enunciation, as of one only just not too lofty to sneer. restrained in scorn, he kept throughout an attitude of disdainful pride, the face, the eyes, set, while only his mouth twitched, seeming to chew his words, with the disgust of one swallowing a painful morsel. where other actors would have raved, he spoke with bitter humour, a humour that seemed to hurt the speaker, the concise, active humour of the soldier, putting his words rapidly into deeds. and his pride was an intellectual pride; the weakness of a character, but the angry dignity of a temperament. i have never seen irving so restrained, so much an artist, so faithfully interpretative of a masterpiece. something of energy, no doubt, was lacking; but everything was there, except the emphasis which i most often wish away in acting. duse in some of her parts i the acting of duse is a criticism; poor work dissolves away under it, as under a solvent acid. not one of the plays which she has brought with her is a play on the level of her intelligence and of her capacity for expressing deep human emotion. take "the second mrs. tanqueray." it is a very able play, it is quite an interesting glimpse into a particular kind of character, but it is only able, and it is only a glimpse. paula, as conceived by mr. pinero, is a thoroughly english type of woman, the nice, slightly morbid, somewhat unintelligently capricious woman who has "gone wrong," and who finds it quite easy, though a little dull, to go right when the chance is offered to her. she is observed from the outside, very keenly observed; her ways, her surface tricks of emotion, are caught; she is a person whom we know or remember. but what is skin-deep in paula as conceived by mr. pinero becomes a real human being, a human being with a soul, in the paula conceived by duse. paula as played by duse is sad and sincere, where the englishwoman is only irritable; she has the italian simplicity and directness in place of that terrible english capacity for uncertainty in emotion and huffiness in manner. she brings profound tragedy, the tragedy of a soul which has sinned and suffered, and tries vainly to free itself from the consequences of its deeds, into a study of circumstances in their ruin of material happiness. and, frankly, the play cannot stand it. when this woman bows down under her fate in so terrible a spiritual loneliness, realising that we cannot fight against fate, and that fate is only the inevitable choice of our own natures, we wait for the splendid words which shall render so great a situation; and no splendid words come. the situation, to the dramatist, has been only a dramatic situation. here is duse, a chalice for the wine of imagination, but the chalice remains empty. it is almost painful to see her waiting for the words that do not come, offering tragedy to us in her eyes, and with her hands, and in her voice, only not in the words that she says or in the details of the action which she is condemned to follow. see mrs. patrick campbell playing "the second mrs. tanqueray," and you will see it played exactly according to mr. pinero'a intention, and played brilliantly enough to distract our notice from what is lacking in the character. a fantastic and delightful contradiction, half gamine, half burne-jones, she confuses our judgment, as a paula in real life might, and leaves us attracted and repelled, and, above all, interested. but duse has no resources outside simple human nature. if she cannot convince you by the thing in itself, she cannot disconcert you by a paradox about it. well, this passionately sincere acting, this one real person moving about among the dolls of the piece, shows up all that is mechanical, forced, and unnatural in the construction of a play never meant to withstand the searchlight of this woman's creative intelligence. whatever is theatrical and obvious starts out into sight. the good things are transfigured, the bad things merely discovered. and so, by a kind of naïveté in the acceptance of emotion for all it might be, instead of for the little that it is, by an almost perverse simplicity and sincerity in the treatment of a superficial and insincere character, duse plays "the second mrs. tanqueray" in the grand manner, destroying the illusion of the play as she proves over again the supremacy of her own genius. ii while i watch duse's magda, i can conceive, for the time, of no other. realising the singer as being just such an artist as herself, she plays the part with hardly a suggestion of the stage, except the natural woman's intermittent loathing for it. she has been a great artist; yes, but that is nothing to her. "i am i," as she says, and she has lived. and we see before us, all through the play, a woman who has lived with all her capacity for joy and sorrow, who has thought with all her capacity for seeing clearly what she is unable, perhaps, to help doing. she does not act, that is, explain herself to us, emphasise herself for us. she lets us overlook her, with a supreme unconsciousness, a supreme affectation of unconsciousness, which is of course very conscious art, an art so perfect as to be almost literally deceptive. i do not know if she plays with exactly the same gestures night after night, but i can quite imagine it. she has certain little caresses, the half awkward caresses of real people, not the elegant curves and convolutions of the stage, which always enchant me beyond any mimetic movements i have ever seen. she has a way of letting her voice apparently get beyond her own control, and of looking as if emotion has left her face expressionless, as it often leaves the faces of real people, thus carrying the illusion of reality almost further than it is possible to carry it, only never quite. i was looking this afternoon at whistler's portrait of carlyle at the guildhall, and i find in both the same final art: that art of perfect expression, perfect suppression, perfect balance of every quality, so that a kind of negative thing becomes a thing of the highest achievement. name every fault to which the art of the actor is liable, and you will have named every fault which is lacking in duse. and the art of the actor is in itself so much a compound of false emphasis and every kind of wilful exaggeration, that to have any negative merit is to have already a merit very positive. having cleared away all that is not wanted, duse begins to create. and she creates out of life itself an art which no one before her had ever imagined: not realism, not a copy, but the thing itself, the evocation of thoughtful life, the creation of the world over again, as actual and beautiful a thing as if the world had never existed. iii "la gioconda" is the first play in which duse has had beautiful words to speak, and a poetical conception of character to render; and her acting in it is more beautiful and more poetical than it was possible for it to be in "magda," or in "the second mrs. tanqueray." but the play is not a good play; at its best it is lyrical rather than dramatic, and at its worst it is horrible with a vulgar material horror. the end of "titus andronicus" is not so revolting as the end of "la gioconda." d'annunzio has put as a motto on his title-page the sentence of leonardo da vinci: "cosa bella mortal passa, e non d'arte," and the action of the play is intended as a symbol of the possessing and destroying mastery of art and of beauty. but the idea is materialised into a form of grotesque horror, and all the charm of the atmosphere and the grace of the words cannot redeem a conclusion so inartistic in its painfulness. but, all the same, the play is the work of a poet, it brings imagination upon the stage, and it gives duse an opportunity of being her finest self. all the words she speaks are sensitive words, she moves in the midst of beautiful things, her whole life seems to flow into a more harmonious rhythm, for all the violence of its sorrow and suffering. her acting at the end, all through the inexcusable brutality of the scene in which she appears before us with her mutilated hands covered under long hanging sleeves, is, in the dignity, intensity, and humanity of its pathos, a thing of beauty, of a profound kind of beauty, made up of pain, endurance, and the irony of pitiable things done in vain. here she is no longer transforming a foreign conception of character into her own conception of what character should be; she is embodying the creation of an italian, of an artist, and a creation made in her honour. d'annunzio's tragedy is, in the final result, bad tragedy, but it is a failure of a far higher order than such successes as mr. pinero's. it is written with a consciousness of beauty, with a feverish energy which is still energy, with a sense of what is imaginative in the facts of actual life. it is written in italian which is a continual delight to the ear, prose which sounds as melodious as verse, prose to which, indeed, all dramatic probability is sacrificed. and duse seems to acquire a new subtlety, as she speaks at last words in themselves worthy of her speaking. it is as if she at last spoke her own language. iv dumas fils has put his best work into the novel of "la dame aux camélias," which is a kind of slighter, more superficial, more sentimental, more modern, but less universal "manon lescaut." there is a certain artificial, genuinely artificial, kind of nature in it: if not "true to life," it is true to certain lives. but the play lets go this hold, such as it is, on reality, and becomes a mere stage convention as it crosses the footlights; a convention which is touching, indeed, far too full of pathos, human in its exaggerated way, but no longer to be mistaken, by the least sensitive of hearers, for great or even fine literature. and the sentiment in it is not so much human as french, a factitious idealism in depravity which one associates peculiarly with paris. marguerite gautier is the type of the nice woman who sins and loves, and becomes regenerated by an unnatural kind of self-sacrifice, done for french family reasons. she is the parisian whom sarah bernhardt impersonates perfectly in that hysterical and yet deliberate manner which is made for such impersonations. duse, as she does always, turns her into quite another kind of woman; not the light woman, to whom love has come suddenly, as a new sentiment coming suddenly into her life, but the simple, instinctively loving woman, in whom we see nothing of the demi-monde, only the natural woman in love. throughout the play she has moments, whole scenes, of absolute greatness, as fine as anything she has ever done: but there are other moments when she seems to carry repression too far. her pathos, as in the final scene, and at the end of the scene of the reception, where she repeats the one word "armando" over and over again, in an amazed and agonising reproachfulness, is of the finest order of pathos. she appeals to us by a kind of goodness, much deeper than the sentimental goodness intended by dumas. it is love itself that she gives us, love utterly unconscious of anything but itself, uncontaminated, unspoilt. she is mlle. de lespinasse rather than marguerite gautier; a creature in whom ardour is as simple as breath, and devotion a part of ardour. her physical suffering is scarcely to be noticed; it is the suffering of her soul that duse gives us. and she gives us this as if nature itself came upon the boards, and spoke to us without even the ordinary disguise of human beings in their intercourse with one another. once more an artificial play becomes sincere; once more the personality of a great impersonal artist dominates the poverty of her part; we get one more revelation of a particular phase of duse. and it would be unreasonable to complain that "la dame aux camélias" is really something quite different, something much inferior; here we have at least a great emotion, a desperate sincerity, with all the thoughtfulness which can possibly accompany passion. v dumas, in a preface better than his play, tells us that "la princesse georges" is "a soul in conflict with instincts." but no, as he has drawn her, as he has placed her, she is only the theory of a woman in conflict with the mechanical devices of a plot. all these characters talk as they have been taught, and act according to the tradition of the stage. it is a double piece of mechanism, that is all; there is no creation of character, there is a kind of worldly wisdom throughout, but not a glimmer of imagination; argument drifts into sentiment, and sentiment returns into argument, without conviction; the end is no conclusion, but an arbitrary break in an action which we see continuing, after the curtain has fallen. and, as in "fédora," duse comes into the play resolved to do what the author has not done. does she deliberately choose the plays most obviously not written for her in order to extort a triumph out of her enemies? once more she acts consciously, openly, making every moment of an unreal thing real, by concentrating herself upon every moment as if it were the only one. the result is a performance miraculous in detail, and, if detail were everything, it would be a great part. with powdered hair, she is beautiful and a great lady; as the domesticated princess, she has all the virtues, and honesty itself, in her face and in her movements; she gives herself with a kind of really unreflecting thoughtfulness to every sentiment which is half her emotion. if such a woman could exist, and she could not, she would be that, precisely that. but just as we are beginning to believe, not only in her but in the play itself, in comes the spying lady's maid, or the valet who spies on the lady's maid, and we are in melodrama again, and among the strings of the marionettes. where are the three stages, truth, philosophy, conscience, which dumas offers to us in his preface as the three stages by which a work of dramatic art reaches perfection? shown us by duse, from moment to moment, yes; but in the piece, no, scarcely more than in "fédora." so fatal is it to write for our instruction, as fatal as to write for our amusement. a work of art must suggest everything, but it must prove nothing. bad imaginative work like "la gioconda" is really, in its way, better than this unimaginative and theoretical falseness to life; for it at least shows us beauty, even though it degrades that beauty before our eyes. and duse, of all actresses the nearest to nature, was born to create beauty, that beauty which is the deepest truth of natural things. why does she after all only tantalise us, showing us little fragments of her soul under many disguises, but never giving us her whole self through the revealing medium of a masterpiece? vi "fédora" is a play written for sarah bernhardt by the writer of plays for sarah bernhardt, and it contains the usual ingredients of that particular kind of sorcery: a russian tigress, an assassination, a suicide, exotic people with impulses in conflict with their intentions, good working evil and evil working good, not according to a philosophical idea, but for the convenience of a melodramatic plot. as artificial, as far from life on the one hand and poetry on the other, as a jig of marionettes at the end of a string, it has the absorbing momentary interest of a problem in events. character does not exist, only impulse and event. and duse comes into this play with a desperate resolve to fill it with honest emotion, to be what a woman would really perhaps be if life turned melodramatic with her. visibly, deliberately, she acts: "fédora" is not to be transformed unawares into life. but her acting is like that finest kind of acting which we meet with in real life, when we are able to watch some choice scene of the human comedy being played before us. she becomes the impossible thing that fédora is, and, in that tour de force, she does some almost impossible things by the way. there is a scene in which the blood fades out of her cheeks until they seem to turn to dry earth furrowed with wrinkles. she makes triumphant point after triumphant point (her intelligence being free to act consciously on this unintelligent matter), and we notice, more than in her finer parts, individual movements, gestures, tones: the attitude of her open hand upon a door, certain blind caresses with her fingers as they cling for the last time to her lover's cheeks, her face as she reads a letter, the art of her voice as she almost deliberately takes us in with these emotional artifices of sardou. when it is all over, and we think of the silvia of "la gioconda," of the woman we divine under magda and under paula tanqueray, it is with a certain sense of waste; for even paula can be made to seem something which fédora can never be made to seem. in "fédora" we have a sheer, undisguised piece of stagecraft, without even the amount of psychological intention of mr. pinero, much less of sudermann. it is a detective story with horrors, and it is far too positive and finished a thing to be transformed into something not itself. sardou is a hard taskmaster; he chains his slaves. without nobility or even coherence of conception, without inner life or even a recognisable semblance of exterior life, the piece goes by clockwork; you cannot make the hands go faster or slower, or bring its mid-day into agreement with the sun. a great actress, who is also a great intelligence, is seen accepting it, for its purpose, with contempt, as a thing to exercise her technical skill upon. as a piece of technical skill, duse's acting in "fédora" is as fine as anything she has done. it completes our admiration of her genius, as it proves to us that she can act to perfection a part in which the soul is left out of the question, in which nothing happens according to nature, and in which life is figured as a long attack of nerves, relieved by the occasional interval of an uneasy sleep. annotations by the way i. "pellÉas and mÉlisande" "pelléas and mélisande" is the most beautiful of maeterlinck's plays, and to say this is to say that it is the most beautiful contemporary play. maeterlinck's theatre of marionettes, who are at the same time children and spirits, at once more simple and more abstract than real people, is the reaction of the imagination against the wholly prose theatre of ibsen, into which life comes nakedly, cruelly, subtly, but without distinction, without poetry. maeterlinck has invented plays which are pictures, in which the crudity of action is subdued into misty outlines. people with strange names, living in impossible places, where there are only woods and fountains, and towers by the sea-shore, and ancient castles, where there are no towns, and where the common crowd of the world is shut out of sight and hearing, move like quiet ghosts across the stage, mysterious to us and not less mysterious to one another. they are all lamenting because they do not know, because they cannot understand, because their own souls are so strange to them, and each other's souls like pitiful enemies, giving deadly wounds unwillingly. they are always in dread, because they know that nothing is certain in the world or in their own hearts, and they know that love most often does the work of hate and that hate is sometimes tenderer than love. in "pelléas and mélisande" we have two innocent lovers, to whom love is guilt; we have blind vengeance, aged and helpless wisdom; we have the conflict of passions fighting in the dark, destroying what they desire most in the world. and out of this tragic tangle maeterlinck has made a play which is too full of beauty to be painful. we feel an exquisite sense of pity, so impersonal as to be almost healing, as if our own sympathy had somehow set right the wrongs of the play. and this play, translated with delicate fidelity by mr. mackail, has been acted again by mrs. patrick campbell and mr. martin harvey, to the accompaniment of m. fauré's music, and in the midst of scenery which gave a series of beautiful pictures, worthy of the play. mrs. campbell, in whose art there is so much that is pictorial, has never been so pictorial as in the character of mélisande. at the beginning i thought she was acting with more effort and less effect than in the original performance; but as the play went on she abandoned herself more and more simply to the part she was acting, and in the death scene had a kind of quiet, poignant, reticent perfection. a plaintive figure out of tapestry, a child out of a nursery tale, she made one feel at once the remoteness and the humanity of this waif of dreams, the little princess who does know that it is wrong to love. in the great scene by the fountain in the park, mrs. campbell expressed the supreme unconsciousness of passion, both in face and voice, as no other english actress could have done; in the death scene she expressed the supreme unconsciousness of innocence with the same beauty and the same intensity. her palpitating voice, in which there is something like the throbbing of a wounded bird, seemed to speak the simple and beautiful words as if they had never been said before. and that beauty and strangeness in her, which make her a work of art in herself, seemed to find the one perfect opportunity for their expression. the only actress on our stage whom we go to see as we would go to see a work of art, she acts pinero and the rest as if under a disguise. here, dressed in wonderful clothes of no period, speaking delicate, almost ghostly words, she is herself, her rarer self. and mr. martin harvey, who can be so simple, so passionate, so full of the warmth of charm, seemed until almost the end of the play to have lost the simple fervour which he had once shown in the part of pelléas; he posed, spoke without sincerity, was conscious of little but his attitudes. but in the great love scene by the fountain in the park he had recovered sincerity, he forgot himself, remembering pelléas: and that great love scene was acted with a sense of the poetry and a sense of the human reality of the thing, as no one on the london stage but mr. harvey and mrs. campbell could have acted it. no one else, except mr. arliss as the old servant, was good; the acting was not sufficiently monotonous, with that fine monotony which is part of the secret of maeterlinck. these busy actors occupied themselves in making points, instead of submitting passively to the passing through them of profound emotions, and the betrayal of these emotions in a few, reticent, and almost unwilling words. ii. "everyman" the elizabethan stage society's performance of "everyman" deserves a place of its own among the stage performances of our time. "everyman" took one into a kind of very human church, a church in the midst of the market-place, like those churches in italy, in which people seem so much at home. the verse is quaint, homely, not so archaic when it is spoken as one might suppose in reading it; the metre is regular in heat, but very irregular in the number of syllables, and the people who spoke it so admirably under mr. poel's careful training had not been trained to scan it as well as they articulated it. "everyman" is a kind of "pilgrim's progress," conceived with a daring and reverent imagination, so that god himself comes quite naturally upon the stage, and speaks out of a clothed and painted image. death, lean and bare-boned, rattles his drum and trips fantastically across the stage of the earth, leading his dance; everyman is seen on his way to the grave, taking leave of riches, fellowship, kindred, and goods (each personified with his attributes), escorted a little way by strength, discretion, beauty, and the five wits, and then abandoned by them, and then going down into the grave with no other attendance than that of knowledge and good deeds. the pathos and sincerity of the little drama were shown finely and adequately by the simple cloths and bare boards of a shakespearean stage, and by the solemn chanting of the actors and their serious, unspoilt simplicity in acting. miss wynne-matthison in the part of everyman acted with remarkable power and subtlety; she had the complete command of her voice, as so few actors or actresses have, and she was able to give vocal expression to every shade of meaning which she had apprehended. iii. "faust" at the lyceum in the version of "faust" given by irving at the lyceum, wills did his best to follow the main lines of goethe's construction. unfortunately he was less satisfied with goethe's verse, though it happens that the verse is distinctly better than the construction. he kept the shell and threw away the kernel. faust becomes insignificant in this play to which he gives his name. in goethe he was a thinker, even more than a poet. here he speaks bad verse full of emptiness. even where goethe's words are followed, in a literal translation, the meaning seems to have gone out of them; they are displaced, they no longer count for anything. the walpurgis night is stripped of all its poetry, and faust's study is emptied of all its wisdom. the witches' kitchen brews messes without magic, lest the gallery should be bewildered. the part of martha is extended, in order that his red livery may have its full "comic relief." mephistopheles throws away a good part of his cunning wit, in order that he may shock no prejudices by seeming to be cynical with seriousness, and in order to get in some more than indifferent spectral effect. margaret is to be seen full length; the little german soubrette does her best to be the helen faust takes her for; and we are meant to be profoundly interested in the love-story. "most of all," the programme assures us, wills "strove to tell the love-story in a manner that might appeal to an english-speaking audience." now if you take the philosophy and the poetry out of goethe's "faust," and leave the rest, it does not seem to me that you leave the part which is best worth having. in writing the first part of "faust" goethe made free use of the legend of dr. faustus, not always improving that legend where he departed from it. if we turn to marlowe's "dr. faustus" we shall see, embedded among chaotic fragments of mere rubbish and refuse, the outlines of a far finer, a far more poetic, conception of the legend. marlowe's imagination was more essentially a poetic imagination than goethe's, and he was capable, at moments, of more satisfying dramatic effects. when his faustus says to mephistopheles: one thing, good servant, let me crave of thee, to glut the longing of my heart's desire: that i may have unto my paramour that heavenly helen which i saw of late; and when, his prayer being granted, he cries: was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless towers of ilium? he is a much more splendid and significant person than the faust of goethe, who needs the help of the devil and of an old woman to seduce a young girl who has fallen in love with him at first sight. goethe, it is true, made what amends he could afterwards, in the second part, when much of the impulse had gone and all the deliberation in the world was not active enough to replace it. helen has her share, among other abstractions, but the breath has not returned into her body, she is glacial, a talking enigma, to whom marlowe's faustus would never have said with the old emphasis: and none but thou shalt be my paramour! what remains, then, in wills' version, is the gretchen story, in all its detail, a spectacular representation of the not wholly sincere witchcraft, and the impressive outer shell of mephistopheles, with, in sir henry irving's pungent and acute rendering, something of the real savour of the denying spirit. mephistopheles is the modern devil, the devil of culture and polite negation; the comrade, in part the master, of heine, and perhaps the grandson and pupil of voltaire. on the lyceum stage he is the one person of distinction, the one intelligence; though so many of his best words have been taken from him, it is with a fine subtlety that he says the words that remain. and the figure, with its lightness, weary grace, alert and uneasy step, solemnity, grim laughter, remains with one, after one has come away and forgotten whether he told us all that goethe confided to him. iv. the japanese players when i first saw the japanese players i suddenly discovered the meaning of japanese art, so far as it represents human beings. you know the scarcely human oval which represents a woman's face, with the help of a few thin curves for eyelids and mouth. well, that convention, as i had always supposed it to be, that geometrical symbol of a face, turns out to be precisely the face of the japanese woman when she is made up. so the monstrous entanglements of men fighting, which one sees in the pictures, the circling of the two-handed sword, the violence of feet in combat, are seen to be after all the natural manner of japanese warfare. this unrestrained energy of body comes out in the expression of every motion. men spit and sneeze and snuffle, without consciousness of dignity or hardly of humanity, under the influence of fear, anger, or astonishment. when the merchant is awaiting shylock's knife he trembles convulsively, continuously, from head to feet, unconscious of everything but death. when shylock has been thwarted, he stands puckering his face into a thousand grimaces, like a child who has swallowed medicine. it is the emotion of children, naked sensation, not yet clothed by civilisation. only the body speaks in it, the mind is absent; and the body abandons itself completely to the animal force of its instincts. with a great artist like sada yacco in the death scene of "the geisha and the knight," the effect is overwhelming; the whole woman dies before one's sight, life ebbs visibly out of cheeks and eyes and lips; it is death as not even sarah bernhardt has shown us death. there are moments, at other times and with other performers, when it is difficult not to laugh at some cat-like or ape-like trick of these painted puppets who talk a toneless language, breathing through their words as they whisper or chant them. they are swathed like barbaric idols, in splendid robes without grace; they dance with fans, with fingers, running, hopping, lifting their feet, if they lift them, with the heavy delicacy of the elephant; they sing in discords, striking or plucking a few hoarse notes on stringed instruments, and beating on untuned drums. neither they nor their clothes have beauty, to the limited western taste; they have strangeness, the charm of something which seems to us capricious, almost outside nature. in our ignorance of their words, of what they mean to one another, of the very way in which they see one another, we shall best appreciate their rarity by looking on them frankly as pictures, which we can see with all the imperfections of a western misunderstanding. v. the paris music-hall it is not always realised by englishmen that england is really the country of the music-hall, the only country where it has taken firm root and flowered elegantly. there is nothing in any part of europe to compare, in their own way, with the empire and the alhambra, either as places luxurious in themselves or as places where a brilliant spectacle is to be seen. it is true that, in england, the art of the ballet has gone down; the prima ballerina assoluta is getting rare, the primo uomo is extinct. the training of dancers as dancers leaves more and more to be desired, but that is a defect which we share, at the present time, with most other countries; while the beauty of the spectacle, with us, is unique. think of "les papillons" or of "old china" at the empire, and then go and see a fantastic ballet at paris, at vienna, or at berlin! and it is not only in regard to the ballet, but in regard also to the "turns," that we are ahead of all our competitors. i have no great admiration for most of our comic gentlemen and ladies in london, but i find it still more difficult to take any interest in the comic gentlemen and ladies of paris. take marie lloyd, for instance, and compare with her, say, marguerite deval at the scala. both aim at much the same effect, but, contrary to what might have been expected, it is the englishwoman who shows the greater finesse in the rendering of that small range of sensations to which both give themselves up frankly. take polin, who is supposed to express vulgarities with unusual success. those automatic gestures, flapping and flopping; that dribbling voice, without intonation; that flabby droop and twitch of the face; all that soapy rubbing-in of the expressive parts of the song: i could see no skill in it all, of a sort worth having. the women here sing mainly with their shoulders, for which they seem to have been chosen, and which are undoubtedly expressive. often they do not even take the trouble to express anything with voice or face; the face remains blank, the voice trots creakily. it is a doll who repeats its lesson, holding itself up to be seen. the french "revue," as one sees it at the folies-bergère, done somewhat roughly and sketchily, strikes one most of all by its curious want of consecution, its entire reliance on the point of this or that scene, costume, or performer. it has no plan, no idea; some ideas are flung into it in passing; but it remains as shapeless as an english pantomime, and not much more interesting. both appeal to the same undeveloped instincts, the english to a merely childish vulgarity, the french to a vulgarity which is more frankly vicious. really i hardly know which is to be preferred. in england we pretend that fancy dress is all in the interests of morality; in france they make no such pretence, and, in dispensing with shoulder-straps, do but make their intentions a little clearer. go to the moulin-rouge and you will see a still clearer object-lesson. the goods in the music-halls are displayed so to speak, behind glass, in a shop window; at the moulin-rouge they are on the open booths of a street market. m. capus in england an excellent parisian company from the variétés has been playing "la veine" of m. alfred capus, and this week it is playing "les deux ecoles" of the same entertaining writer. the company is led by mme. jeanne granier, an actress who could not be better in her own way unless she acquired a touch of genius, and she has no genius. she was thoroughly and consistently good, she was lifelike, amusing, never out of key; only, while she reminded one at times of réjane, she had none of réjane's magnetism, none of réjane's exciting naturalness. the whole company is one of excellent quality, which goes together like the different parts of a piece of machinery. there is mme. marie magnier, so admirable as an old lady of that good, easy-going, intelligent, french type. there is mlle. lavallière, with her brilliant eyes and her little canaille voice, vulgarly exquisite. there is m. numès, m. guy, m. guitry. m. guitry is the french equivalent of mr. fred kerr, with all the difference that that change of nationality means. his slow manner, his delaying pantomine, his hard, persistent eyes, his uninflected voice, made up a type which i have never seen more faithfully presented on the stage. and there is m. brasseur. he is a kind of french arthur roberts, but without any of that extravagant energy which carries the english comedian triumphantly through all his absurdities. m. brasseur is preposterously natural, full of aplomb and impertinence. he never flags, never hesitates; it is impossible to take him seriously, as we say of delightful, mischievous people in real life. i have been amused to see a discussion in the papers as to whether "la veine" is a fit play to be presented to the english public. "max" has defended it in his own way in the _saturday review_, and i hasten to say that i quite agree with his defence. above all, i agree with him when he says: "let our dramatic critics reserve their indignation for those other plays in which the characters are self-conscious, winkers and gigglers over their own misconduct, taking us into their confidence, and inviting us to wink and giggle with them." there, certainly, is the offence; there is a kind of vulgarity which seems native to the lower english mind and to the lower english stage. m. capus is not a moralist, but it is not needful to be a moralist. he is a skilful writer for the stage, who takes an amiable, somewhat superficial, quietly humorous view of things, and he takes people as he finds them in a particular section of the upper and lower middle classes in paris, not going further than the notion which they have of themselves, and presenting that simply, without comment. we get a foolish young millionaire and a foolish young person in a flower shop, who take up a collage together in the most casual way possible, and they are presented as two very ordinary people, neither better nor worse than a great many other ordinary people, who do or do not do much the same thing. they at least do not "wink or giggle"; they take things with the utmost simplicity, and they call upon us to imitate their bland unconsciousness. "la veine" is a study of luck, in the person of a very ordinary man, not more intelligent or more selfish or more attractive than the average, but one who knows when to take the luck which comes his way. the few, quite average, incidents of the play are put together with neatness and probability, and without sensational effects, or astonishing curtains; the people are very natural and probable, very amusing in their humours, and they often say humorous things, not in so many set words, but by a clever adjustment of natural and probable nothings. throughout the play there is an amiable and entertaining common sense which never becomes stage convention; these people talk like real people, only much more à-propos. in "les deux ecoles" the philosophy which could be discerned in "la veine," that of taking things as they are and taking them comfortably, is carried to a still further development. i am prepared to be told that the whole philosophy is horribly immoral; perhaps it is; but the play, certainly, is not. it is vastly amusing, its naughtiness is so naïve, so tactfully frank, that even the american daughter might take her mother to see it, without fear of corrupting the innocence of age. "on peut très bien vivre sans être la plus heureuse des femmes": that is one of the morals of the piece; and, the more you think over questions of conduct, the more you realise that you might just as well not have thought about them at all, might be another. the incidents by which these excellent morals are driven home are incidents of the same order as those in "la veine," and not less entertaining. the mounting, simple as it was, was admirably planned; the stage-pictures full of explicit drollery. and, as before, the whole company worked with the effortless unanimity of a perfect piece of machinery. a few days after seeing "la veine" i went to wyndham's theatre to see a revival of sir francis burnand's "betsy." "betsy," of course, is adapted from the french, though, by an accepted practice which seems to me dishonest, in spite of its acceptance, that fact is not mentioned on the play-bill. but the form is undoubtedly english, very english. what vulgarity, what pointless joking, what pitiable attempts to serve up old impromptus réchauffés! i found it impossible to stay to the end. some actors, capable of better things, worked hard; there was a terrible air of effort in these attempts to be sprightly in fetters, and in rusty fetters. think of "la veine" at its worst, and then think of "betsy"! i must not ask you to contrast the actors; it would be almost unfair. we have not a company of comedians in england who can be compared for a moment with mme. jeanne granier's company. we have here and there a good actor, a brilliant comic actor, in one kind or another of emphatic comedy; but wherever two or three comedians meet on the english stage, they immediately begin to checkmate, or to outbid, or to shout down one another. no one is content, or no one is able, to take his place in an orchestra in which it is not allotted to every one to play a solo. a double enigma when it was announced that mrs. tree was to give a translation of "l'enigme" of m. paul hervieu at wyndham's theatre, the play was announced under the title "which?" and as "which?" it appeared on the placards. suddenly new placards appeared, with a new title, not at all appropriate to the piece, "cæsar's wife." rumours of a late decision, or indecision, of the censor were heard. the play had not been prohibited, but it had been adapted to more polite ears. but how? that was the question. i confess that to me the question seemed insoluble. here is the situation as it exists in the play; nothing could be simpler, more direct, more difficult to tamper with. two brothers, raymond and gérard de gourgiran, are in their country house, with their two wives, giselle and léonore, and two guests, the old marquis de neste and the young m. de vivarce. the brothers surprise vivarce on the stairs: was he coming from the room of giselle or of léonore? the women are summoned; both deny everything; it is impossible for the audience, as for the husbands, to come to any conclusion. a shot is heard outside: vivarce has killed himself, so that he may save the reputation of the woman he loves. then the self-command of léonore gives way; she avows all in a piercing shriek. after that there is some unnecessary moralising ("là-bas un cadavre! ici, des sanglots de captive!" and the like), but the play is over. now, the situation is perfectly precise; it is not, perhaps, very intellectually significant, but there it is, a striking dramatic situation. above all, it is frank; there are no evasions, no sentimental lies, no hypocrisies before facts. if adultery may not be referred to on the english stage except at the gaiety, between a wink and a laugh, then such a play becomes wholly impossible. not at all: listen. we are told to suppose that vivarce and léonore have had a possibly quite harmless flirtation; and instead of vivarce being found on his way from léonore's room, he has merely been walking with léonore in the garden: at midnight remember, and after her husband has gone to bed. in order to lead up to this, a preposterous speech has been put into the mouth of the marquis de neste, an idiotic rhapsody about love and the stars, and i forget what else, which i imagine we are to take as an indication of vivarce's sentiments as he walks with léonore in the garden at midnight. but all these precautions are in vain; the audience is never deceived for an instant. a form of words has been used, like the form of words by which certain lies become technically truthful. the whole point of the play: has a husband the right to kill his wife or his wife's lover if he discovers that his wife has been unfaithful to him? is obviously not a question of whether a husband may kill a gentleman who has walked with his wife in the garden, even after midnight. the force of the original situation comes precisely from the certainty of the fact and the uncertainty of the person responsible for it. "cæsar's wife" may lend her name for a screen; the screen is no disguise; the play; remains what it was in its moral bearing; a dramatic stupidity has been imported into it, that is all. here, then, in addition to the enigma of the play is a second, not so easily explained, enigma: the enigma of the censor, and of why he "moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform." the play, i must confess, does not seem to me, as it seems to certain french critics, "une pièce qui tient du chef-d'oeuvre ... la tragédie des mâitres antiques et de shakespeare." to me it is rather an insubstantial kind of ingenuity, ingenuity turning in a circle. as a tragic episode, the dramatisation of a striking incident, it has force and simplicity, the admirable quality of directness. occasionally the people are too eager to express the last shade of the author's meaning, as in the conversation between neste and vivarce, when the latter decides to commit suicide, or in the supplementary comments when the action is really at an end. but i have never seen a piece which seemed to have been written so kindly and so consistently for the benefit of the actors. there are six characters of equal importance; and each in turn absorbs the whole flood of the limelight. the other piece which made saturday evening interesting was a version of "au téléphone," one of antoine's recent successes at his theatre in paris. it was brutal and realistic, it made just the appeal of an accident really seen, and, so far as success in horrifying one is concerned, it was successful. a husband hearing the voice of his wife through the telephone, at the moment when some murderous ruffians are breaking into the house, hearing her last cry, and helpless to aid her, is as ingeniously unpleasant a situation as can well be imagined. it is brought before us with unquestionable skill; it makes us as uncomfortable as it wishes to make us. but such a situation has absolutely no artistic value, because terror without beauty and without significance is not worth causing. when the husband, with his ear at the telephone, hears his wife tell him that some one is forcing the window-shutters with a crowbar, we feel, it is true, a certain sympathetic suspense; but compare this crude onslaught on the nerves with the profound and delicious terror that we experience when, in "la mort de tintagiles" of maeterlinck, an invisible force pushes the door softly open, a force intangible and irresistible as death. in his acting mr. charles warner was powerful, thrilling; it would be difficult to say, under the circumstances, that he was extravagant, for what extravagance, under the circumstances, would be improbable? he had not, no doubt, what i see described as "le jeu simple et terrible" of antoine, a dry, hard, intellectual grip on horror; he had the ready abandonment to emotion of the average emotional man. mr. warner has an irritating voice and manner, but he has emotional power, not fine nor subtle, but genuine; he feels and he makes you feel. he has the quality, in short, of the play itself, but a quality more tolerable in the actor, who is concerned only with the rendering of a given emotion, than in the playwright, whose business it is to choose, heighten, and dignify the emotion which he gives to him to render. drama professional and unprofessional last week gave one an amusing opportunity of contrasting the merits and the defects of the professional and the unprofessional kind of play. "the gay lord quex" was revived at the duke of york's theatre, and mr. alexander produced at the st. james's theatre a play called "the finding of nancy," which had been chosen by the committee of the playgoers' club out of a large number of plays sent in for competition. the writer, miss netta syrett, has published one or two novels or collections of stories; but this, as far as i am aware, is her first attempt at a play. both plays were unusually well acted, and therefore may be contrasted without the necessity of making allowances for the way in which each was interpreted on the stage. mr. pinero is a playwright with a sharp sense of the stage, and eye for what is telling, a cynical intelligence which is much more interesting than the uncertain outlook of most of our playwrights. he has no breadth of view, but he has a clear view; he makes his choice out of human nature deliberately, and he deals in his own way with the materials that he selects. before saying to himself: what would this particular person say or do in these circumstances? he says to himself: what would it be effective on the stage for this particular person to do or say? he suggests nothing, he tells you all he knows; he cares to know nothing but what immediately concerns the purpose of his play. the existence of his people begins and ends with their first and last speech on the boards; the rest is silence, because he can tell you nothing about it. sophy fullgarney is a remarkably effective character as a stage-character, but when the play is over we know no more about her than we should know about her if we had spied upon her, in her own way, from behind some bush or keyhole. we have seen a picturesque and amusing exterior, and that is all. lord quex does not, i suppose, profess to be even so much of a character as that, and the other people are mere "humours," quite amusing in their cleverly contrasted ways. when these people talk, they talk with an effort to be natural and another effort to be witty; they are never sincere and without self-consciousness; they never say inevitable things, only things that are effective to say. and they talk in poor english. mr. pinero has no sense of style, of the beauty or expressiveness of words. his joking is forced and without ideas; his serious writing is common. in "the gay lord quex" he is continually trying to impress upon his audience that he is very audacious and distinctly improper. the improprieties are childish in the innocence of their vulgarity, and the audacities are no more than trifling lapses of taste. he shows you the interior of a duchess's bedroom, and he shows you the duchess's garter, in a box of other curiosities. he sets his gentlemen and ladies talking in the allusive style which you may overhear whenever you happen to be passing a group of london cabmen. the duchess has written in her diary, "warm afternoon." that means that she has spent an hour with her lover. many people in the audience laugh. all the cabmen would have laughed. now look for a moment at the play by the amateur and the woman. it is not a satisfactory play as a whole, it is not very interesting in all its developments, some of the best opportunities are shirked, some of the characters (all the characters who are men) are poor. but, in the first place, it is well written. those people speak a language which is nearer to the language of real life than that used by mr. pinero, and when they make jokes there is generally some humour in the joke and some intelligence in the humour. they have ideas and they have feelings. the ideas and the feelings are not always combined with faultless logic into a perfectly clear and coherent presentment of character, it is true. but from time to time we get some of the illusion of life. from time to time something is said or done which we know to be profoundly true. a woman has put into words some delicate instinct of a woman's soul. here and there is a cry of the flesh, here and there a cry of the mind, which is genuine, which is a part of life. miss syrett has much to learn if she is to become a successful dramatist, and she has not as yet shown that she knows men as well as women; but at least she has begun at the right end. she has begun with human nature and not with the artifices of the stage, she has thought of her characters as people before thinking of them as persons of the drama, she has something to say through them, they are not mere lines in a pattern. i am not at all sure that she has the makings of a dramatist, or that if she writes another play it will be better than this one. you do not necessarily get to your destination by taking the right turning at the beginning of the journey. the one certain thing is that if you take the wrong turning at the beginning, and follow it persistently, you will not get to your destination at all. the playwright who writes merely for the stage, who squeezes the breath out of life before he has suited it to his purpose, is at the best only playing a clever game with us. he may amuse us, but he is only playing ping-pong with the emotions. and that is why we should welcome, i think, any honest attempt to deal with life as it is, even if life as it is does not always come into the picture. tolstoi and others there is little material for the stage in the novels of tolstoi. those novels are full, it is true, of drama; but they cannot be condensed into dramas. the method of tolstoi is slow, deliberate, significantly unemphatic; he works by adding detail to detail, as a certain kind of painter adds touch to touch. the result is, in a sense, monotonous, and it is meant to be monotonous. tolstoi endeavours to give us something more nearly resembling daily life than any one has yet given us; and in daily life the moment of spiritual crisis is rarely the moment in which external action takes part. in the drama we can only properly realise the soul's action through some corresponding or consequent action which takes place visibly before us. you will find, throughout tolstoi's work, many striking single scenes, but never, i think, a scene which can bear detachment from that network of detail which has led up to it and which is to come out of it. often the scene which most profoundly impresses one is a scene trifling in itself, and owing its impressiveness partly to that very quality. take, for instance, in "resurrection," book ii., chapter xxviiii., the scene in the theatre "during the second act of the eternal 'dame aux camélias,' in which a foreign actress once again, and in a novel manner, showed how women died of consumption." the general's wife, mariette, smiles at nekhludoff in the box, and, outside, in the street, another woman, the other "half-world," smiles at him, just in the same way. that is all, but to nekhludoff it is one of the great crises of his life. he has seen something, for the first time, in what he now feels to be its true light, and he sees it "as clearly as he saw the palace, the sentinels, the fortress, the river, the boats and the stock exchange. and just as on this northern summer night there was no restful darkness on the earth, but only a dismal, dull light coming from an invisible source, so in nekhludoff's soul there was no longer the restful darkness, ignorance." the chapter is profoundly impressive; it is one of those chapters which no one but tolstoi has ever written. imagine it transposed to the stage, if that were possible, and the inevitable disappearance of everything that gives it meaning! in tolstoi the story never exists for its own sake, but for the sake of a very definite moral idea. even in his later novels tolstoi is not a preacher; he gives us an interpretation of life, not a theorising about life. but, to him, the moral idea is almost everything, and (what is of more consequence) it gives a great part of its value to his "realism" of prisons and brothels and police courts. in all forms of art, the point of view is of more importance than the subject-matter. it is as essential for the novelist to get the right focus as it is for the painter. in a page of zola and in a page of tolstoi you might find the same gutter described with the same minuteness; and yet in reading the one you might see only the filth, while in reading the other you might feel only some fine human impulse. tolstoi "sees life steadily" because he sees it under a divine light; he has a saintly patience with evil, and so becomes a casuist through sympathy, a psychologist out of that pity which is understanding. and then, it is as a direct consequence of this point of view, in the mere process of unravelling things, that his greatest skill is shown as a novelist. he does not exactly write well; he is satisfied if his words express their meaning, and no more; his words have neither beauty nor subtlety in themselves. but, if you will only give him time, for he needs time, he will creep closer and closer up to some doubtful and remote truth, not knowing itself for what it is: he will reveal the soul to itself, like "god's spy." if you want to know how, daily life goes on among people who know as little about themselves as you know about your neighbours in a street or drawing-room, read jane austen, and, on that level, you will be perfectly satisfied. but if you want to know why these people are happy or unhappy, why the thing which they do deliberately is not the thing which they either want or ought to do, read tolstoi; and i can hardly add that you will be satisfied. i never read tolstoi without a certain suspense, sometimes a certain terror. an accusing spirit seems to peer between every line; i can never tell what new disease of the soul those pitying and unswerving eyes may not have discovered. such, then, is a novel of tolstoi; such, more than almost any of his novels, is "resurrection," the masterpiece of his old age, into which he has put an art but little less consummate than that of "anna karenina," together with the finer spirit of his later gospel. out of this novel a play in french was put together by m. henry bataille and produced at the odéon. now m. bataille is one of the most powerful and original dramatists of our time. a play in english, said to be by mm. henry bataille and michael morton, has been produced by mr. tree at his majesty's theatre; and the play is called, as the french play was called, tolstoi's "resurrection." what mr. morton has done with m. bataille i cannot say. i have read in a capable french paper that "l'on est heureux d'avoir pu applaudir une oeuvre vraiment noble, vraiment pure," in the play of m. bataille; and i believe it. are those quite the words one would use about the play in english? they are not quite the words i would use about the play in english. it is a melodrama with one good scene, the scene in the prison; and this is good only to a certain point. there is another scene which is amusing, the scene of the jury, but the humour is little more than clowning, and the tragic note, which should strike through it, is only there in a parody of itself. indeed the word parody is the only word which can be used about the greater part of the play, and it seems to me a pity that the name of tolstoi should be brought into such dangerous companionship with the vulgarities and sentimentalities of the london stage. i heard people around me confessing that they had not read the book. how terrible must have been the disillusion of those people, if they had ever expected anything of tolstoi, and if they really believed that this demagogue prince, who stands in nice poses in the middle of drawing-rooms and of prison cells, talking nonsense with a convincing disbelief, was in any sense a mouthpiece for tolstoi's poor simple little gospel. tolstoi according to captain marshall, i should be inclined to define him; but i must give mr. tree his full credit in the matter. when he crucifies himself, so to speak, symbolically, across the door of the jury-room, remarking in his slowest manner: "the bird flutters no longer; i must atone, i must atone!" one is, in every sense, alone with the actor. mr. tree has many arts, but he has not the art of sincerity. his conception of acting is, literally, to act, on every occasion. even in the prison scene, in which miss ashwell is so good, until she begins to shout and he to rant, "and then the care is over," mr. tree cannot be his part without acting it. that prison scene is, on the whole, well done, and the first part of it, when the women shout and drink and quarrel, is acted with a satisfying sense of vulgarity which contrasts singularly with what is meant to be a suggestion of the manners of society in st. petersburg in the scene preceding. perhaps the most lamentable thing in the play is the first act. this act takes the place of those astounding chapters in the novel in which the seduction of katusha is described with a truth, tact, frankness, and subtlety unparalleled in any novel i have ever read. i read them over before i went to the theatre, and when i got to the theatre i found a scene before me which was not tolstoi's scene, a foolish, sentimental conversation in which i recognised hardly more than a sentence of tolstoi (and this brought in in the wrong place), and, in short, the old make-believe of all the hack-writers for the stage, dished up again, and put before us, with a simplicity of audacity at which one can only marvel ("a thing imagination boggles at"), as an "adaptation" from tolstoi. tolstoi has been hardly treated by some translators and by many critics; in his own country, if you mention his name, you are as likely as not to be met by a shrug and an "ah, monsieur, il divague un peu!" in his own country he has the censor always against him; some of his books he has never been able to print in full in russian. but in the new play at his majesty's theatre we have, in what is boldly called tolstoi's "resurrection," something which is not tolstoi at all. there is m. bataille, who is a poet of nature and a dramatist who has created a new form of drama: let him be exonerated. mr. morton and mr. tree between them may have been the spoilers of m. bataille; but tolstoi, might not the great name of tolstoi have been left well alone? some problem plays i. "the marrying of ann leete" it was for the production of such plays as mr. granville barker's that the stage society was founded, and it is doing good service to the drama in producing them. "the marrying of ann leete" is the cleverest and most promising new play that i have seen for a long time; but it cannot be said to have succeeded even with the stage society audience, and no ordinary theatrical manager is very likely to produce it. the author, it is true, is an actor, but he is young; his play is immature, too crowded with people, too knotted up with motives, too inconclusive in effect. he knows the stage, and his knowledge has enabled him to use the stage for his own purposes, inventing a kind of technique of his own, doing one or two things which have never, or never so deftly, been done before. but he is something besides all that; he can think, he can write, and he can suggest real men and women. the play opens in the dark, and remains for some time brilliantly ambiguous. people, late eighteenth-century people, talk with bewildering abruptness, not less bewildering point; they, their motives, their characters, swim slowly into daylight. some of the dialogue is, as the writer says of politics, "a game for clever children, women, and fools"; it is a game demanding close attention. a courtly indolence, an intellectual blackguardism, is in the air; people walk, as it seems, aimlessly in and out, and the game goes on; it fills one with excitement, the excitement of following a trail. it is a trail of ideas, these people think, and they act because they have thought. they know the words they use, they use them with deliberation, their hearts are in their words. their actions, indeed, are disconcerting; but these people, and their disconcerting actions, are interesting, holding one's mind in suspense. mr. granville barker has tried to tell the whole history of a family, and he interests us in every member of that family. he plays them like chessmen, and their moves excite us as chess excites the mind. they express ideas; the writer has thought out their place in the scheme of things, and he has put his own faculty of thinking into their heads. they talk for effect, or rather for disguise; it is part of their keen sense of the game. they talk at cross-purposes, as they wander in and out of the garden terrace; they plan out their lives, and life comes and surprises them by the way. then they speak straight out of their hearts, sometimes crudely, sometimes with a naïveté which seems laughable; and they act on sudden impulses, accepting the consequences when they come. they live an artificial life, knowing lies to be lies, and choosing them; they are civilised, they try to do their duty by society; only, at every moment, some ugly gap opens in the earth, right in their path, and they have to stop, consider, choose a new direction. they seem to go their own way, almost without guiding; and indeed may have escaped almost literally out of their author's hands. the last scene is an admirable episode, a new thing on the stage, full of truth within its own limits; but it is an episode, not a conclusion, much less a solution. mr. barker can write: he writes in short, sharp sentences, which go off like pistol-shots, and he keeps up the firing, from every corner of the stage. he brings his people on and off with an unconventionality which comes of knowing the resources of the theatre, and of being unfettered by the traditions of its technique. the scene with the gardener in the second act has extraordinary technical merit, and it has the art which conceals its art. there are other inventions in the play, not all quite so convincing. sometimes mr. barker, in doing the right or the clever thing, does it just not quite strongly enough to carry it against opposition. the opposition is the firm and narrow mind of the british playgoer. such plays as mr. barker's are apt to annoy without crushing. the artist, who is yet an imperfect artist, bewilders the world with what is novel in his art; the great artist convinces the world. mr. barker is young: he will come to think with more depth and less tumult; he will come to work with less prodigality and more mastery of means. but he has energy already, and a sense of what is absurd and honest in the spectacle of this game, in which the pawns seem to move themselves. ii. "the lady from the sea" on seeing the stage society's performance of ibsen's "lady from the sea," i found myself wondering whether ibsen is always so unerring in his stagecraft as one is inclined to assume, and whether there are not things in his plays which exist more satisfactorily, are easier to believe in, in the book than on the stage. does not the play, for instance, lose a little in its acceptance of those narrow limits of the footlights? that is the question which i was asking myself as i saw the performance of the stage society. the play is, according to the phrase, a problem-play, but the problem is the problem of all ibsen's plays: the desire of life, the attraction of life, the mystery of life. only, we see the eternal question under a new, strange aspect. the sea calls to the blood of this woman, who has married into an inland home; and the sea-cry, which is the desire of more abundant life, of unlimited freedom, of an unknown ecstasy, takes form in a vague stranger, who has talked to her of the seabirds in a voice like their own, and whose eyes seem to her to have the green changes of the sea. it is an admirable symbol, but when a bearded gentleman with a knapsack on his back climbs over the garden wall and says: "i have come for you; are you coming?" and then tells the woman that he has read of her marriage in the newspaper, it seemed as if the symbol had lost a good deal of its meaning in the gross act of taking flesh. the play haunts one, as it is, but it would have haunted one with a more subtle witchcraft if the stranger had never appeared upon the stage. just as wagner insisted upon a crawling and howling dragon, a fafner with a name of his own and a considerable presence, so ibsen brings the supernatural or the subconscious a little crudely into the midst of his persons of the drama. to use symbol, and not to use it in the surprising and inevitable way of the poet, is to fall into the dry, impotent sin of allegory. iii. "the new idol" it was an interesting experiment on the part of the stage society to give a translation of "la nouvelle idole," one of those pieces by which m. françois de curel has reached that very actual section of the french public which is interested in ideas. "the new idol" is a modern play of the most characteristically modern type; its subject-matter is largely medical, it deals with the treatment of cancer; we are shown a doctor's laboratory, with a horrible elongated diagram of the inside of the human body; a young girl's lungs are sounded in the doctor's drawing-room; nearly every, character talks science and very little but science. when they cease talking science, which they talk well, with earnestness and with knowledge, and try to talk love or intrigue, they talk badly, as if they were talking of things which they knew nothing about. now, personally, this kind of talk does not interest me; it makes me feel uncomfortable. but i am ready to admit that it is justified if i find that the dramatic movement of the play requires it, that it is itself an essential part of the action. in "the new idol" i think this is partly the case. the other medical play which has lately been disturbing paris, "les avariés," does not seem to me to fulfil this condition at any moment: it is a pamphlet from beginning to end, it is not a satisfactory pamphlet, and it has no other excuse for existence. but m. de curel has woven his problem into at least a semblance of action; the play is not a mere discussion of irresistible physical laws; the will enters into the problem, and will fights against will, and against not quite irresistible physical laws. the suggestion of love interests, which come to nothing, and have no real bearing on the main situation, seems to me a mistake; it complicates things, things which must appear to us so very real if we are to accept them at all, with rather a theatrical kind of complication. m. de curel is more a thinker than a dramatist, as he has shown lately in the very original, interesting, impossible "fille sauvage." he grapples with serious matters seriously, and he argues well, with a closely woven structure of arguments; some of them bringing a kind of hard and naked poetry out of mere closeness of thinking and closeness of seeing. in "the new idol" there is some dialogue, real dialogue, natural give-and-take, about the fear of death and the horror of indestructibility (a variation on one of the finest of coventry patmore's odes) which seemed to me admirable: it held the audience because it was direct speech, expressing a universal human feeling in the light of a vivid individual crisis. but such writing as this was rare; for the most part it was the problem itself which insisted on occupying our attention, or, distinct from this, the too theatrical characters. iv. "mrs. warren's profession" the stage society has shown the courage of its opinions by giving an unlicensed play, "mrs. warren's profession," one of the "unpleasant plays" of mr. george bernard shaw, at the theatre of the new lyric club. it was well acted, with the exception of two of the characters, and the part of mrs. warren was played by miss fanny brough, one of the cleverest actresses on the english stage, with remarkable ability. the action was a little cramped by the smallness of the stage, but, for all that, the play was seen under quite fair conditions, conditions under which it could be judged as an acting play and as a work of art. it is brilliantly clever, with a close, detective cleverness, all made up of merciless logic and unanswerable common sense. the principal characters are well drawn, the scenes are constructed with a great deal of theatrical skill, the dialogue is telling, the interest is held throughout. to say that the characters, without exception, are ugly in their vice and ugly in their virtue; that they all have, men and women, something of the cad in them; that their language is the language of vulgar persons, is, perhaps, only to say that mr. shaw has chosen, for artistic reasons, to represent such people just as they are. but there is something more to be said. "mrs. warren's profession" is not a representation of life; it is a discussion about life. now, discussion on the stage may be interesting. why not? discussion is the most interesting thing in the world, off the stage; it is the only thing that makes an hour pass vividly in society; but when discussion ends art has not begun. it is interesting to see a sculptor handling bits of clay, sticking them on here, scraping them off there; but that is only the interest of a process. when he has finished i will consider whether his figure is well or ill done; until he has finished i can have no opinion about it. it is the same thing with discussion on the stage. the subject of mr. shaw's discussion is what is called a "nasty" one. that is neither here nor there, though it may be pointed out that there is no essential difference between the problem that he discusses and the problem that is at the root of "the second mrs. tanqueray." but mr. shaw, i believe, is never without his polemical intentions, and i should like, for a moment, to ask whether his discussion of his problem, taken on its own merits, is altogether the best way to discuss things. mr. shaw has an ideal of life: he asks that men and women should be perfectly reasonable, that they should clear their minds of cant, and speak out everything that is in their minds. he asks for cold and clear logic, and when he talks about right and wrong he is really talking about right and wrong logic. now, logic is not the mainspring of every action, nor is justice only the inevitable working out of an equation. humanity, as mr. shaw sees it, moves like clockwork; and must be regulated as a watch is, and praised or blamed simply in proportion to its exactitude in keeping time. humanity, as mr. shaw knows, does not move by clockwork, and the ultimate justice will have to take count of more exceptions and irregularities than mr. shaw takes count of. there is a great living writer who has brought to bear on human problems as consistent a logic as mr. shaw's, together with something which mr. shaw disdains. mr. shaw's logic is sterile, because it is without sense of touch, sense of sight, or sense of hearing; once set going it is warranted to go straight, and to go through every obstacle. tolstoi's logic is fruitful, because it allows for human weakness, because it understands, and because to understand is, among other things, to pardon. in a word, the difference between the spirit of tolstoi and the spirit of mr. shaw is the difference between the spirit of christ and the spirit of euclid. "monna, vanna" in his earlier plays maeterlinck invented a world of his own, which was a sort of projection into space of the world of nursery legends and of childish romances. it was at once very abstract and very local. there was a castle by the sea, a "well at the world's end," a pool in a forest; princesses with names out of the "morte d'arthur" lost crowns of gold; and blind beggars without a name wandered in the darkness of eternal terror. death was always the scene-shifter of the play, and destiny the stage-manager. the people who came and went had the blind gestures of marionettes, and one pitied their helplessness. pity and terror had indeed gone to the making of this drama, in a sense much more literal than aristotle's. in all these plays there were few words and many silences, and the words were ambiguous, hesitating, often repeated, like the words of peasants or children. they were rarely beautiful in themselves, rarely even significant, but they suggested a singular kind of beauty and significance, through their adjustment in a pattern or arabesque. atmosphere, the suggestion of what was not said, was everything; and in an essay in "le trésor des humbles" maeterlinck told us that in drama, as he conceived it, it was only the words that were not said which mattered. gradually the words began to mean more in the scheme of the play. with "aglavaine et sélysette" we got a drama of the inner life, in which there was little action, little effective dramatic speech, but in which people thought about action and talked about action, and discussed the morality of things and their meaning, very beautifully. "monna vanna" is a development out of "aglavaine et sélysette," and in it for the first time maeterlinck has represented the conflicts of the inner life in an external form, making drama, while the people who undergo them discuss them frankly at the moment of their happening. in a significant passage of "la sagesse et la destinée," maeterlinck says: "on nous affirme que toutes les grandes tragédies ne nous offrent pas d'autre spectacle que la lutte de l'homme contre la fatalité. je crois, au contraire, qu'il n'existe pas une seule tragédie où la fatalité règne réellement. j'ai beau les parcourir, je n'en trouve pas une où le héros combatte le destin pur et simple. au fond, ce n'est jamais le destin, c'est toujours la sagesse, qu'il attaque." and, on the preceding page, he says: "observons que les poètes tragiques osent très rarement permettre au sage de paraître un moment sur la scène. ils craignent une âme haute parce que les événements la craignent." now it is this conception of life and of drama that we find in "monna vanna." we see the conflict of wisdom, personified in the old man marco and in the instinctively wise giovanna, with the tragic folly personified in the husband guido, who rebels against truth and against life, and loses even that which he would sacrifice the world to keep. the play is full of lessons in life, and its deepest lesson is a warning against the too ready acceptance of this or that aspect of truth or of morality. here is a play in which almost every character is noble, in which treachery becomes a virtue, a lie becomes more vital than truth, and only what we are accustomed to call virtue shows itself mean, petty, and even criminal. and it is most like life, as life really is, in this: that at any moment the whole course of the action might be changed, the position of every character altered, or even reversed, by a mere decision of the will, open to each, and that things happen as they do because it is impossible, in the nature of each, that the choice could be otherwise. character, in the deepest sense, makes the action, and there is something in the movement of the play which resembles the grave and reasonable march of a play of sophocles, in which men and women deliberate wisely and not only passionately, in which it is not only the cry of the heart and of the senses which takes the form of drama. in maeterlinck's earlier plays, in "les aveugles," "intérieur," and even "pelléas et mélisande," he is dramatic after a new, experimental fashion of his own; "monna vanna" is dramatic in the obvious sense of the word. the action moves, and moves always in an interesting, even in a telling, way. but at the same time i cannot but feel that something has been lost. the speeches, which were once so short as to be enigmatical, are now too long, too explanatory; they are sometimes rhetorical, and have more logic than life. the playwright has gained experience, the thinker has gained wisdom, but the curious artist has lost some of his magic. no doubt the wizard had drawn his circle too small, but now he has stepped outside his circle into a world which no longer obeys his formulas. in casting away his formulas, has he the big human mastery which alone could replace them? "monna vanna" is a remarkable and beautiful play, but it is not a masterpiece. "la mort de tintagiles" was a masterpiece of a tiny, too deliberate kind; but it did something which no one had ever done before. we must still, though we have seen "monna vanna," wait, feeling that maeterlinck has not given us all that he is capable of giving us. the question of censorship. the letter of protest which appeared in the _times_ of june , , signed by mr. swinburne, mr. meredith, and mr. hardy, the three highest names in contemporary english literature, will, i hope, have done something to save the literary reputation of england from such a fate as one eminent dramatic critic sees in store for it. "once more," says the _athenæum_, "the caprice of our censure brings contempt upon us, and makes, or should make, us the laughing-stock of europe." the _morning post_ is more lenient, and is "sincerely sorry for the unfortunate censor," because "he has immortalised himself by prohibiting the most beautiful play of his time, and must live to be the laughing-stock of all sensible people." now the question is: which is really made ridiculous by this ridiculous episode of the prohibition of maeterlinck's "monna vanna," england or mr. redford? mr. redford is a gentleman of whom i only know that he is not himself a man of letters, and that he has not given any public indication of an intelligent interest in literature as literature. if, as a private person, before his appointment to the official post of censor of the drama, he had expressed in print an opinion on any literary or dramatic question, that opinion would have been taken on its own merits, and would have carried only the weight of its own contents. the official appointment, which gives him absolute power over the public life or death of a play, gives to the public no guarantee of his fitness for the post. so far as the public can judge, he was chosen as the typical "man in the street," the "plain man who wants a plain answer," the type of the "golden mean," or mediocrity. we hear that he is honest and diligent, that he reads every word of every play sent for his inspection. these are the virtues of the capable clerk, not of the penetrating judge. now the position, if it is to be taken seriously, must require delicate discernment as well as inflexible uprightness. is mr. redford capable of discriminating between what is artistically fine and what is artistically ignoble? if not, he is certainly incapable of discriminating between what is morally fine and what is morally ignoble. it is useless for him to say that he is not concerned with art, but with morals. they cannot be dissevered, because it is really the art which makes the morality. in other words, morality does not consist in the facts of a situation or in the words of a speech, but in the spirit which informs the whole work. whatever may be the facts of "monna vanna" (and i contend that they are entirely above reproach, even as facts), no one capable of discerning the spirit of a work could possibly fail to realise that the whole tendency of the play is noble and invigorating. all this, all that is essential, evidently escapes mr. redford. he licenses what the _times_ rightly calls "such a gross indecency as 'the girl from maxim's.'" but he refuses to license "monna vanna," and he refuses to state his reason for withholding the license. the fact is, that moral questions are discussed in it, not taken for granted, and the plain man, the man in the street, is alarmed whenever people begin to discuss moral questions. "the girl from maxim's" is merely indecent, it raises no problems. "monna vanna" raises problems. therefore, says the censor, it must be suppressed. by his decision in regard to this play of maeterlinck, mr. redford has of course conclusively proved his unfitness for his post. but that is only one part of the question. the question is: could any one man be found on whose opinion all england might safely rely for its dramatic instruction and entertainment? i do not think such a man could be found. with mr. redford, as the _times_ puts it, "any tinge of literary merit seems at once to excite his worst suspicions." but with a censor whose sympathies were too purely literary, literary in too narrow a sense, would not scruples of some other kind begin to intrude themselves, scruples of the student who cannot tolerate an innocent jesting with "serious" things, scruples of the moralist who must choose between maeterlinck and d'annunzio, between tolstoi and ibsen? i cannot so much as think of a man in all england who would be capable of justifying the existence of the censorship. is it, then, merely mr. redford who is made ridiculous by this ridiculous episode, or is it not, after all, england, which has given us the liberty of the press and withheld from us the liberty of the stage? a play and the public john oliver hobbes, mrs. craigie, once wrote a play called "the bishop's move," which was an attempt to do artistically what so many writers for the stage have done without thinking about art at all. she gave us good writing instead of bad, delicate worldly wisdom instead of vague sentiment or vague cynicism, and the manners of society instead of an imitation of some remote imitation of those manners. the play is a comedy, and the situations are not allowed to get beyond the control of good manners. the game is after all the thing, and the skill of the game. when the pawns begin to cry out in the plaintive way of pawns, they are hushed before they become disturbing. it is in this power to play the game on its own artificial lines, and yet to play with pieces made scrupulously after the pattern of nature, that mrs. craigie's skill, in this play, seems to me to consist. here then, is a play which makes no demands on the pocket handkerchief, to stifle either laughter or sobs, but in which the writer is seen treating the real people of the audience and the imaginary people of the play as if they were alike ladies and gentlemen. how this kind of work will appeal to the general public i can hardly tell. when i saw "sweet and twenty" on its first performance, i honestly expected the audience to burst out laughing. on the contrary, the audience thrilled with delight, and audience after audience went on indefinitely thrilling with delight. if the caricature of the natural emotions can give so much pleasure, will a delicate suggestion of them, as in this play, ever mean very much to the public? the public in england is a strange creature, to be studied with wonder and curiosity and i am not sure that a native can ever hope to understand it. at the performance of a recent melodrama, "sweet nell of old drury," i happened to be in the last row of the stalls. my seat was not altogether well adapted for seeing and hearing the play, but it was admirably adapted for observing the pit, and i gave some of my attention to my neighbours there. whenever a foolish joke was made on the stage, when miss julia neilson, as nell, the orange girl, stuttered with laughter or romped heavily across the stage, the pit thrilled and quivered with delight. at every piece of clowning there was the same responsive gurgle of delight. tricks of acting so badly done that i should have thought a child would have seen through them, and resented them as an imposition, were accepted in perfect good faith, and gloated over. i was turning over the matter in my mind afterwards, when i remembered something that was said to me the other day by a young swedish poet who is now in london. he told me that he had been to most of the theatres, and he had been surprised to find that the greater part of the pieces which were played at the principal london theatres were such pieces as would be played in norway and sweden at the lower class theatres, and that nobody here seemed to mind. the english audience, he said, reminded him of a lot of children; they took what was set before them with ingenuous good temper, they laughed when they were expected to laugh, cried when they were expected to cry. but of criticism, preference, selection, not a trace. he was amazed, for he had been told that london was the centre of civilisation. well, in future i shall try to remember, when i hear an audience clapping its hands wildly over some bad play, badly acted: it is all right, it is only the children. the test of the actor the interest of bad plays lies in the test which they afford of the capability of the actor. to what extent, however, can an actor really carry through a play which has not even the merits of its defects, such a play, for instance, as mr. henry arthur jones has produced in "the princess's nose"? mr. jones has sometimes been mistaken for a man of letters, as by a distinguished dramatic critic, who, writing a complimentary preface, has said: "the claim of mr. henry arthur jones's more ambitious plays to rank as literature may have been in some cases grudgingly allowed, but has not been seriously contested." mr. jones himself has assured us that he has thought about life, and would like to give some representation of it in his plays. that is apparently what he means by this peroration, which once closed an article in the _nineteenth century_: "o human life! so varied, so vast, so complex, so rich and subtle in tremulous deep organ tones, and soft proclaim of silver flutes, so utterly beyond our spell of insight, who of us can govern the thunder and whirlwind of thy ventages to any utterance of harmony, or pluck out the heart of thy eternal mystery?" does mr. jones, i wonder, or the distinguished critic, really hear any "soft proclaim of silver flutes," or any of the other organ effects which he enumerates, in "the princess's nose"? does anyone "seriously contest" its right not to "rank as literature"? the audience, for once, was unanimous. mr. jones was not encouraged to appear. and yet there had been applause, prolonged applause, at many points throughout this bewildering evening. the applause was meant for the actors. if mr. jones had shown as much tact in the construction of his play as in the selection of his cast, how admirable the play would have been! i have rarely seen a play in which each actor seemed to fit into his part with such exactitude. but the play! well, the play began as a comedy, continued as a tragedy, and ended as a farce. it came to a crisis every five minutes, it suggested splendid situations, and then caricatured them unintentionally, it went shilly-shallying about among the emotions and sensations which may be drama or melodrama, whichever the handling makes them. "you see there is a little poetical justice going about the world," says the princess, when she hears that her rival, against whom she has fought in vain, has been upset by providence in the form of a motor-car, and the bridge of her nose broken. the broken nose is mr. jones's symbol for poetical justice; it indicates his intellectual attitude. there are many parts of the play where he shows, as he has so often shown, a genuine skill in presenting and manipulating humorous minor characters. as usual, they have little to do with the play, but they are amusing for their moment. it is the serious characters who will not be serious. they are meant well, the action hovers about them with little tempting solicitations, continually offering them an opportunity to be fine, to be genuine, and then withdrawing it before it can be grasped. the third act has all the material of tragedy, but the material is wasted; only the actress makes anything of it. we know how sullivan will take a motive of mere farce, such words as the "o captain shaw!" of "iolanthe," and will write a lovely melody to go with it, fitting his music to the feeling which the words do but caricature. that is how miss irene vanbrugh handled mr. jones's unshapen material. by the earnestness, sincerity, sheer nature, power, fire, dignity, and gaiety of her acting, she made for us a figure which mr. jones had not made. mr. jones would set his character in some impossible situation, and miss vanbrugh would make us, for the moment, forget its impossibility. he would give her a trivial or a grotesque or a vulgar action to do, and she would do it with distinction. she had force in lightness, a vivid malice, a magnetic cheerfulness; and she could suffer silently, and be sincere in a tragedy which had been conceived without sincerity. if acting could save a play, "the princess's nose" would have been saved. it was not saved. and the reason is that even the best of actors cannot save a play which insists on defeating them at every turn. yet, as we may realise any day when sarah bernhardt acts before us, there is a certain kind of frankly melodramatic play which can be lifted into at all events a region of excited and gratified nerves. i have lately been to see a melodrama called "the heel of achilles," which miss julia neilson has been giving at the globe theatre. the play was meant to tear at one's susceptibilities, much as "la tosca" tears at them. "la tosca" is not a fine play in itself, though it is a much better play than "the heel of achilles." but it is the vivid, sensational acting of sarah bernhardt which gives one all the shudders. "the heel of achilles" did not give me a single shudder, not because it was not packed with the raw material of sensation, but because miss julia neilson went through so many trying experiences with nerves of marble. i cannot help wondering at the curious lack of self-knowledge in actors. here is a play, which depends for a great deal of its effect on a scene in which lady leslie, a young englishwoman in russia, promises to marry a russian prince whom she hates, in order to save her betrothed lover from being sent to siberia. the lover is shut in between two doors, unable to get out; he is the bearer of a state secret, and everything depends on his being able to catch the eleven p.m. train for berlin. the russian prince stands before the young englishwoman, offering her the key of the door, the safety of her lover, and his own hand in marriage. now, she has to express by her face and her movements all the feelings of astonishment, horror, suspense, love, hatred, distraction, which such a situation would call up in her. if she does not express them the scene goes for nothing. the actress stakes all on this scene. now, is it possible that miss julia neilson really imagined herself to be capable of rendering this scene as it should be rendered? it is a scene that requires no brains, no subtle emotional quality, none of the more intellectual merits of acting. it requires simply a great passivity to feeling, the mere skill of letting horrors sweep over the face and the body like drenching waves. the actress need not know how she does it; she may do it without an effort, or she may obtain her spontaneity by an elaborate calculation. but to do it at all she must be the actress in every fibre of her body; she must be able to vibrate freely. if the emotion does not seize her in its own grasp, and then seize us through her, it will all go for nothing. well, miss neilson sat, and walked, and started, and became rigid, and glanced at the clock, and knelt, and fell against the wall, and cast her eyes about, and threw her arms out, and made her voice husky; and it all went for nothing. never for an instant did she suggest what she was trying to suggest, and after the first moment of disappointment the mind was left calmly free to watch her attempt as if it were speculating round a problem. how many english actresses, i wonder, would have been capable of dealing adequately with such a scene as that? i take it, not because it is a good scene, but because it affords so rudimentary a test of the capacity for acting. the test of the capacity for acting begins where words end; it is independent of words; you may take poor words as well as fine words; it is all the same. the embodying power, the power to throw open one's whole nature to an overcoming sensation, the power to render this sensation in so inevitable a way that others shall feel it: that is the one thing needful. it is not art, it is not even the beginning of art; but it is the foundation on which alone art can be built. the other day, in "ulysses," there was only one piece of acting that was quite convincing: the acting of mr. brough as the swineherd. it is a small part and an easy part, but it was perfectly done. almost any other part would have been more striking and surprising if it had been done as perfectly, but no other part was done as perfectly. mr. brough has developed a stage-personality of his own, with only a limited range of emotion, but he has developed it until it has become a second nature with him. he has only to speak, and he may say what he likes; we accept him after the first word, and he remains what that first word has shown him to be. mr. tree, with his many gifts, his effective talents, all his taste, ambition, versatility, never produces just that effect: he remains interestingly aside from what he is doing; you see his brain working upon it, you enjoy his by-play; his gait, his studied gestures, absorb you; "how well this is done!" you say, and "how well that is done!" and, indeed, you get a complete picture out of his representation of that part: a picture, not a man. i am not sure that melodrama is not the hardest test of the actor: it is, at least, the surest. all the human emotions throng noisily together in the making of melodrama: they are left there, in their naked muddle, and they come to no good end; but there they are. to represent any primary emotion, and to be ineffective, is to fail in the fundamental thing. all actors should be sent to school in melodrama, as all dramatic authors should learn their trade there. the price of realism modern staging, which has been carried in england to its highest point of excellence, professes to aim at beauty, and is, indeed, often beautiful in detail. but its real aim is not at the creation of beautiful pictures, in subordination to the words and actions of the play, but at supplementing words and actions by an exact imitation of real surroundings. imitation, not creation, is its end, and in its attempt to imitate the general aspect of things it leads the way to the substitution of things themselves for perfectly satisfactory indications of them. "real water" we have all heard of, and we know its place in the theatre; but this is only the simplest form of this anti-artistic endeavour to be real. sir henry irving will use, for a piece of decoration meant to be seen only from a distance, a garland of imitation flowers, exceedingly well done, costing perhaps two pounds, where two or three brushes of paint would have supplied its place more effectively. when d'annunzio's "francesca da rimini" was put on the stage in rome, a pot of basil was brought daily from naples in order that it might be laid on the window-sill of the room in which francesca and paolo read of lancelot and guinevere. in an interview published in one of the english papers, d'annunzio declared that he had all his stage decorations made in precious metal by fine craftsmen, and that he had done this for an artistic purpose, and not only for the beauty of the things themselves. the gesture, he said, of the actor who lifts to his lips a cup of finely-wrought gold will be finer, more sincere, than that of the actor who uses a gilded "property." if so, i can but answer, the actor is no actor, but an amateur. the true actor walks in a world as real in its unreality as that which surrounds the poet or the enthusiast. the bare boards, chairs, and t-light, in the midst of which he rehearses, are as significantly palaces or meadows to him, while he speaks his lines and lives himself into his character, as all the real grass and real woodwork with which the manager will cumber the stage on the first night. as little will he need to distinguish between the gilt and the gold cup as between the imaginary characters who surround him, and his mere friends and acquaintances who are speaking for them. this costly and inartistic aim at reality, then, is the vice of the modern stage, and, at its best or worst, can it be said that it is really even what it pretends to be: a perfectly deceptive imitation of the real thing? i said once, to clinch an argument against it, by giving it its full possible credit, that the modern staging can give you the hour of the day and the corner of the country with precise accuracy. but can it? has the most gradual of stage-moons ever caught the miraculous lunar trick to the life? has the real hedgerow ever brought a breath of the country upon the stage? i do not think so, and meanwhile, we have been trying our hardest to persuade ourselves that it is so, instead of abandoning ourselves to a new, strange atmosphere, to the magic of the play itself. what mr. craig does is to provide a plain, conventional, or darkened background for life, as life works out its own ordered lines on the stage; he gives us suggestion instead of reality, a symbol instead of an imitation; and he relies, for his effects, on a new system of lighting from above, not from below, and on a quite new kind of drill, as i may call it, by which he uses his characters as masses and patterns, teaching them to move all together, with identical gestures. the eye is carried right through or beyond these horizons of canvas, and the imagination with it; instead of stopping entangled among real stalks and painted gables. i have seen nothing so imaginative, so restful, so expressive, on the english stage as these simple and elaborately woven designs, in patterns of light and drapery and movement, which in "the masque of love" had a new quality of charm, a completeness of invention, for which i would have given all d'annunzio's golden cups and mr. tree's boats on real thames water. here, for once, we see the stage treated in the proper spirit, as material for art, not as a collection of real objects, or the imitation of real objects. why should not the visible world be treated in the same spirit as the invisible world of character and temperament? a fine play is not the copy of an incident or the stenography of a character. a poetical play, to limit myself to that, requires to be put on the stage in such a way as to suggest that atmosphere which, if it is a true poem, will envelop its mental outlines. that atmosphere, which is of its essence, is the first thing to be lost, in the staging of most poetical plays. it is precisely what the stage-manager, if he happens to have the secret of his own art, will endeavour most persistently to suggest. he will make it his business to compete with the poet, and not, after the manner of drury lane, with the accidents of life and the vulgarities of nature. on crossing stage to right if you look into the actors' prompt-books, the most frequent direction which you will find is this: "cross stage to right." it is not a mere direction, it is a formula; it is not a formula only, but a universal remedy. whenever the action seems to flag, or the dialogue to become weak or wordy, you must "cross stage to right"; no matter what is wrong with the play, this will set it right. we have heard so much of the "action" of a play, that the stage-manager in england seems to imagine that dramatic action is literally a movement of people across the stage, even if for no other reason than for movement's sake. is the play weak? he tries to strengthen it, poor thing, by sending it out walking for its health. if we take drama with any seriousness, as an art as well as an improvisation, we shall realise that one of its main requirements is that it should make pictures. that is the lesson of bayreuth, and when one comes away, the impression which remains, almost longer than the impression of the music itself, is that grave, regulated motion of the actors. as i have said elsewhere, no actor makes a gesture which has not been regulated for him; there is none of that unintelligent haphazard known as being "natural"; these people move like music, or with that sense of motion which it is the business of painting to arrest. but here, of course, i am speaking of the poetic drama, of drama which does not aim at the realistic representation of modern life. maeterlinck should be acted in this solemn way, in a kind of convention; but i admit that you cannot act ibsen in quite the same way. the other day, when mme. jeanne granier's company came over here to give us some lessons in acting, i watched a little scene in "la veine," which was one of the telling scenes of the play: guitry and brasseur standing face to face for some minutes, looking at their watches, and then waiting, each with a single, fixed expression on his face, in which the whole temperament of each is summed up. one is inclined to say: no english actor could have done it. perhaps; but then, no english stage-manager would have let them do it. they would have been told to move, to find "business," to indulge in gesture which would not come naturally to them. again, in "tartuffe," when, at the end, the hypocrite is exposed and led off to prison, coquelin simply turns his back on the audience, and stands, with head sullenly down, making no movement; then, at the end, he turns half-round and walks straight off, on the nearer side of the stage, giving you no more than a momentary glimpse of a convulsed face, fixed into a definite, gross, raging mood. it would have taken mr. tree five minutes to get off the stage, and he would have walked to and fro with a very multiplication of gesture, trying on one face, so to speak, after another. would it have been so effective, that is to say, so real? a great part of the art of french acting consists in knowing when and how not to do things. their blood helps them, for there is movement in their blood, and they have something to restrain. but they have realised the art there is in being quite still, in speaking naturally, as people do when they are really talking, in fixing attention on the words they are saying and not on their antics while saying them. the other day, in the first act of "the bishop's move" at the garrick, there is a duchess talking to a young novice in the refectory of a french abbey. after standing talking to him for a few minutes, with only such movements as would be quite natural under the circumstances, she takes his arm, not once only but twice, and walks him up and down in front of the footlights, for no reason in the world except to "cross stage to right." the stage trick was so obvious that it deprived the scene at once of any pretence to reality. the fact is, that we do not sufficiently realise the difference between what is dramatic and what is merely theatrical. drama is made to be acted, and the finest "literary" play in the world, if it wholly fails to interest people on the stage, will have wholly failed in its first and most essential aim. but the finer part of drama is implicit in the words and in the development of the play, and not in its separate small details of literal "action." two people should be able to sit quietly in a room, without ever leaving their chairs, and to hold our attention breathless for as long as the playwright likes. given a good play, french actors are able to do that. given a good play, english actors are not allowed to do it. is it not partly the energy, the restless energy, of the english character which prevents our actors from ever sitting or standing still on the stage? we are a nation of travellers, of sailors, of business people; and all these have to keep for ever moving. our dances are the most vigorous and athletic of dances, they carry us all over the stage, with all kinds of leaping and kicking movements. our music-hall performers have invented a kind of clowning peculiar to this country, in which kicking and leaping are also a part of the business. our melodramas are constructed on more movable planes, with more formidable collapses and collisions, than those of any other country. is not, then, the persistent english habit of "crossing stage to right" a national characteristic, ingrained in us, and not only a matter of training? it is this reflection which hinders me from hoping, with much confidence, that a reform in stage-management will lead to a really quieter and simpler way of acting. but might not the experiment be tried? might not some stage-manager come forward and say: "for heaven's sake stand still, my dear ladies and gentlemen, and see if you cannot interest your audience without moving more than twice the length of your own feet?" the speaking of verse was there ever at any time an art, an acquired method, of speaking verse, as definite as the art and method of singing it? the greeks, it has often been thought, had such a method, but we are still puzzling in vain over their choruses, and wondering how far they were sung, how far they were spoken. wagner pointed out the probability that these choruses were written to fixed tunes, perhaps themselves the accompaniment to dances, because it can hardly be believed that poems of so meditative a kind could have themselves given rise to such elaborate and not apparently expressive rhythms. in later times there have been stage traditions, probably developed from the practice of some particular actor, many conflicting traditions; but, at the present day, there is not even a definite bad method, but mere chaos, individual caprice, in the speaking of verse as a foolish monotonous tune or as a foolishly contorted species of prose. an attempt has lately been made by mr. yeats, with the practical assistance of mr. dolmetsch and miss florence farr, to revive or invent an art of speaking verse to a pitch sounded by a musical instrument. mr. dolmetsch has made instruments which he calls psalteries, and miss farr has herself learnt and has taught others, to chant verse, in a manner between speaking and singing, to the accompaniment of the psaltery. mr. yeats has written and talked and lectured on the subject; and the experiment has been tried in the performances of mr. gilbert murray's translation of the "hippolytus" of euripides. here, then, is the only definite attempt which has been made in our time to regulate the speech of actors in their speaking of verse. no problem of the theatre is more important, for it is only by the quality of the verse, and by the clearness, beauty, and expressiveness of its rendering, that a play of shakespeare is to be distinguished, when we see it on the stage, from any other melodrama. "i see no reason," says lamb, in the profoundest essay which has ever been written on the acting of drama, "to think that if the play of hamlet were written over again by some such writer as banks or lillo, retaining the process of the story, but totally omitting all the poetry of it, all the divine features of shakespeare, his stupendous intellect; and only taking care to give us enough of passionate dialogue, which banks or lillo were never at a loss to furnish; i see not how the effect could be much different upon an audience, nor how the actor has it in his power to represent shakespeare to us differently from his representation of banks or lillo." it is precisely by his speaking of that poetry, which one is accustomed to hear hurried over or turned into mere oratory, that the actor might, if he were conscious of the necessity of doing it, and properly trained to do it, bring before the audience what is essential in shakespeare. here, in the rendering of words, is the actor's first duty to his author, if he is to remember that a play is acted, not for the exhibition of the actor, but for the realisation of the play. we should think little of the "dramatic effect" of a symphony, in which every individual note had not been given its precise value by every instrument in the orchestra. when do we ever, on the stage, see the slightest attempt, on the part of even the "solo" players, to give its precise value to every word of that poetry which is itself a not less elaborate piece of concerted music? the two great dangers in the speaking of verse are the danger of over-emphasising the meaning and the danger of over-emphasising the sound. i was never more conscious of the former danger than when i heard a lecture given in london by m. silvain, of the comédie francaise, on the art of speaking on the stage. the method of m. silvain (who, besides being an actor, is professor of declamation at the conservatoire) is the method of the elocutionist, but of the elocutionist at his best. he has a large, round, vibrating voice, over which he has perfect command. "m. silvain," says m. catulle mendès, "est de ceux, bien rares au théâtre français, qu'on entend même lorsqu'ils par lent bas." he has trained his voice to do everything that he wants it to do; his whole body is full of life, energy, sensitiveness to the emotion of every word; his gestures seem to be at once spontaneous and calculated. he adores verse, for its own sake, as a brilliant executant adores his violin; he has an excellent contempt for prose, as an inferior form. in all his renderings of verse, he never forgot that it was at the same time speech, the direct expression of character, and also poetry, a thing with its own reasons for existence. he gave la fontaine in one way, molière in another, victor hugo in another, some poor modern verse in yet another. but in all there was the same attempt: to treat verse in the spirit of rhetoric, that is to say, to over-emphasise it consistently and for effect. in a tirade from corneille's "cinna," he followed the angry reasoning of the lines by counting on his fingers: one, two, three, as if he were underlining the important words of each clause. the danger of this method is that it is apt to turn poetry into a kind of bad logic. there, precisely, is the danger of the french conception of poetry, and m. silvain's method brings out the worst faults of that conception. now in speaking verse to musical notes, as mr. yeats would have us do, we are at least safe from this danger. mr. yeats, being a poet, knows that verse is first of all song. in purely lyrical verse, with which he is at present chiefly concerned, the verse itself has a melody which demands expression by the voice, not only when it is "set to music," but when it is said aloud. every poet, when he reads his own verse, reads it with certain inflections of the voice, in what is often called a "sing-song" way, quite different from the way in which he would read prose. most poets aim rather at giving the musical effect, and the atmosphere, the vocal atmosphere, of the poem, than at emphasising individual meanings. they give, in the musician's sense, a "reading" of the poem, an interpretation of the poem as a composition. mr. yeats thinks that this kind of reading can be stereotyped, so to speak, the pitch noted down in musical notes, and reproduced with the help of a simple stringed instrument. by way of proof, miss farr repeated one of mr. yeats' lyrics, as nearly as possible in the way in which mr. yeats himself is accustomed to say it. she took the pitch from certain notes which she had written down, and which she struck on mr. dolmetsch's psaltery. now miss farr has a beautiful voice, and a genuine feeling for the beauty of verse. she said the lines better than most people would have said them, but, to be quite frank, did she say them so as to produce the effect mr. yeats himself produces whenever he repeats those lines? the difference was fundamental. the one was a spontaneous thing, profoundly felt; the other, a deliberate imitation in which the fixing of the notes made any personal interpretation, good or bad, impossible. i admit that the way in which most actors speak verse is so deplorable that there is much to be said for a purely mechanical method, even if it should turn actors into little more than human phonographs. many actors treat verse as a slightly more stilted kind of prose, and their main aim in saying it is to conceal from the audience the fact that it is not prose. they think of nothing but what they take to be the expression, and when they come to a passage of purely lyric quality they give it as if it were a quotation, having nothing to do with the rest of the speech. anything is better than this haphazard way of misdoing things, either m. silvain's oratory or the intoning into which mr. yeats' method would almost certainly drift. but i cannot feel that it is possible to do much good by a ready-made method of any kind. let the actor be taught how to breathe, how to articulate, let his voice be trained to express what he wants to express, and then let him be made to feel something of what verse means by being verse. let him, by all means, study one of mr. yeats' readings, interpreted to him by means of notes; it will teach him to unlearn something and to learn something more. but then let him forget his notes and mr. yeats' method, if he is to make verse live on the stage. great acting in english why is it that we have at the present moment no great acting in england? we can remember it in our own time, in irving, who was a man of individual genius. in him it was the expression of a romantic temperament, really cornish, that is, celtic, which had been cultivated like a rare plant, in a hothouse. irving was an incomparable orchid, a thing beautiful, lonely, and not quite normal. we have one actress now living, an exception to every rule, in whom a rare and wandering genius comes and goes: i mean, of course, mrs. patrick campbell. she enchants us, from time to time, with divine or magical improvisations. we have actresses who have many kinds of charm, actors who have many kinds of useful talent; but have we in our whole island two actors capable of giving so serious, so intelligent, so carefully finished, so vital an interpretation of shakespeare, or, indeed, of rendering any form of poetic drama on the stage, as the englishman and englishwoman who came to us in from america, in the guise of americans: julia marlowe and edward sothern? the business of the manager, who in most cases is also the chief actor, is to produce a concerted action between his separate players, as the conductor does between the instruments in his orchestra. if he does not bring them entirely under his influence, if he (because, like the conductor of a pot-house band, he himself is the first fiddle) does not subordinate himself as carefully to the requirements of the composition, the result will be worthless as a whole, no matter what individual talents may glitter out of it. what should we say if the first fiddle insisted on having a cadenza to himself in the course of every dozen bars of the music? what should we say if he cut the best parts of the 'cellos, in order that they might not add a mellowness which would slightly veil the acuteness of his own notes? what should we say if he rearranged the composer's score for the convenience of his own orchestra? what should we say if he left out a beautiful passage on the horn because he had not got one of the two or three perfectly accomplished horn-players in europe? what should we say if he altered the time of one movement in order to make room for another, in which he would himself be more prominent? what should we say if the conductor of an orchestra committed a single one of these criminal absurdities? the musical public would rise against him as one man, the pedantic critics and the young men who smoke as they stand on promenade floors. and yet this, nothing more nor less, is done on the stage of the theatre whenever a shakespeare play, or any serious work of dramatic art, is presented with any sort of public appeal. in the case of music, fortunately, something more than custom forbids: the nature of music forbids. but the play is at the mercy of the actor-manager, and the actor-manager has no mercy. in england a serious play, above all a poetic play, is not put on by any but small, unsuccessful, more or less private and unprofessional people with any sort of reverence for art, beauty, or, indeed, for the laws and conditions of the drama which is literature as well as drama. personal vanity and the pecuniary necessity of long runs are enough in themselves to account for the failure of most attempts to combine shakespeare with show, poetry with the box-office. or is there in our actor-managers a lack of this very sense of what is required in the proper rendering of imaginative work on the stage? it is in the staging and acting, the whole performance and management, of such typical plays of shakespeare as "hamlet," "romeo and juliet," and "twelfth night" that mr. sothern and miss marlowe have shown the whole extent of their powers, and have read us the lesson we most needed. the mission of these two guests has been to show us what we have lost on our stage and what we have forgotten in our shakespeare. and first of all i would note the extraordinary novelty and life which they give to each play as a whole by their way of setting it in action. i have always felt that a play of shakespeare, seen on the stage, should give one the same kind of impression as when one is assisting at "a solemn music." the rhythm of shakespeare's art is not fundamentally different from that of beethoven, and "romeo and juliet" is a suite, "hamlet" a symphony. to act either of these plays with whatever qualities of another kind, and to fail in producing this musical rhythm from beginning to end, is to fail in the very foundation. here the music was unflawed; there were no digressions, no eccentricities, no sacrifice to the actor. this astonishing thing occurred: that a play was presented for its own sake, with reverence, not with ostentation; for shakespeare's sake, not for the actor-manager's. and from this intelligent, unostentatious way of giving shakespeare there come to us, naturally, many lessons. until i saw this performance of "romeo and juliet" i thought there was rhetoric in the play, as well as the natural poetry of drama. but i see that it only needs to be acted with genius and intelligence, and the poetry consumes the rhetoric. i never knew before that this play was so near to life, or that every beauty in it could be made so inevitably human. and this is because no one else has rendered, with so deep a truth, with so beautiful a fidelity, all that is passionate and desperate and an ecstatic agony in this tragic love which glorifies and destroys juliet. the decorative juliet of the stage we know, the lovely picture, the _ingenue_, the prattler of pretty phrases; but this mysterious, tragic child, whom love has made wise in making her a woman, is unknown to us outside shakespeare, and perhaps even there. mr. sothern's romeo has an exquisite passion, young and extravagant as a lover's, and is alive. but miss marlowe is not only lovely and pathetic as juliet; she is juliet. i would not say that mr. sothern's hamlet is the only hamlet, for there are still, no doubt, "points in hamlet's soul unseized by the germans yet." yet what a hamlet! how majestical, how simple, how much a poet and a gentleman! to what depth he suffers! how magnificently he interprets, in the crucifixion of his own soul, the main riddles of the universe! in "hamlet," too, i saw deeper meanings than i had ever seen in the play when it was acted. mr. sothern was the only quite sane hamlet; his madness is all the outer coverings of wisdom; there was nothing fantastic in his grave, subdued, powerful, and piteous representation, in which no symbol, no metaphysical faust, no figment of a german brain, loomed before us, but a man, more to be pitied and not less to be honoured than any man in elsinore. i have seen romantic, tragic, exceptional hamlets, the very bells on the cap of "fortune's fool." but at last i have seen the man himself, as shakespeare saw him living, a gentleman, as well as a philosopher, a nature of fundamental sincerity; no melancholy clown, but the greatest of all critics of life. and the play, with its melodrama and its lyrical ecstasy, moved before one's eyes like a religious service. how is it that we get from the acting and management of these two actors a result which no one in england has ever been able to get? well, in the first place, as i have said, they have the odd caprice of preferring shakespeare to themselves; the odd conviction that fidelity to shakespeare will give them the best chance of doing great things themselves. nothing is accidental, everything obeys a single intention; and what, above all, obeys that intention is the quality of inspiration, which is never absent and never uncontrolled. intention without the power of achievement is almost as lamentable a thing as achievement not directed by intention. now here are two players in whom technique has been carried to a supreme point. there is no actor on our stage who can speak either english or verse as these two american actors can. it is on this preliminary technique, this power of using speech as one uses the notes of a musical instrument, that all possibility of great acting depends. who is there that can give us, not the external gesture, but the inner meaning, of some beautiful and subtle passage in shakespeare? one of our actors will give it sonorously, as rhetoric, and another eagerly, as passionate speech, but no one with the precise accent of a man who is speaking his thoughts, which is what shakespeare makes his characters do when he puts his loveliest poetry into their mouths. look at mr. sothern when he gives the soliloquy "to be or not to be," which we are accustomed to hear spoken to the public in one or another of many rhetorical manners. mr. sothern's hamlet curls himself up in a chair, exactly as sensitive reflective people do when they want to make their bodies comfortable before setting their minds to work; and he lets you overhear his thoughts. every soliloquy of shakespeare is meant to be overheard, and just so casually. to render this on the stage requires, first, an understanding of what poetry is; next, a perfect capacity of producing by the sound and intonation of the voice the exact meaning of those words and cadences. who is there on our stage who has completely mastered those two first requirements of acting? no one now acting in english, except julia marlowe and edward sothern. what these two players do is to give us, not the impression which we get when we see and admire fine limitations, but the impression which we get from real people who, when they speak in verse, seem to be speaking merely the language of their own hearts. they give us every character in the round, whereas with our actors we see no more than profiles. look, for contrast, at the malvolio of mr. sothern. it is an elaborate travesty, done in a disguise like the solemn dandy's head of disraeli. he acts with his eyelids, which move while all the rest of the face is motionless; with his pursed, reticent mouth, with his prim and pompous gestures; with that self-consciousness which brings all malvolio's troubles upon him. it is a fantastic, tragically comic thing, done with rare calculation, and it has its formal, almost cruel share in the immense gaiety of the piece. the play is great and wild, a mockery and a happiness; and it is all seen and not interpreted, but the mystery of it deepened, in the clown's song at the end, which, for once, has been allowed its full effect, not theatrical, but of pure imagination. so far i have spoken only of those first requirements, those elementary principles of acting, which we ought to be able to take for granted; only in england, we cannot. these once granted, the individual work of the actor begins, his power to create with the means at his disposal. let us look, then, a little more closely at miss marlowe. i have spoken of her juliet, which is no doubt her finest part. but now look at her ophelia. it is not, perhaps, so great a triumph as her juliet, and merely for the reason that there is little in ophelia but an image of some beautiful bright thing broken. yet the mad scene will be remembered among all other renderings for its edged lightness, the quite simple poetry it makes of madness; above all, the natural pity which comes into it from a complete abandonment to what is essence, and not mere decoration, in the spoiled brain of this kind, loving and will-less woman. she suffers, and is pitifully unaware of it, there before you, the very soul naked and shameless with an innocence beyond innocence. she makes the rage and tenderness of hamlet towards her a credible thing. in juliet miss marlowe is ripe humanity, in ophelia that same humanity broken down from within. as viola, in "twelfth night" she is the woman let loose, to be bewitching in spite of herself; and here again her art is tested, and triumphs, for she is bewitching, and never trespasses into jauntiness on the one hand, or, on the other, into that modern sentiment which the theatre has accustomed itself to under the name of romance. she is serious, with a calm and even simplicity, to which everything is a kind of child's play, putting no unnecessary pathos into a matter destined to come right in the end. and so her delicate and restrained gaiety in masquerade interprets perfectly, satisfies every requirement, of what for the moment is whimsical in shakespeare's art. now turn from shakespeare, and see what can be done with the modern make-believe. here, in "jeanne d'arc," is a recent american melodrama, written ambitiously, in verse which labours to be poetry. the subject was made for miss marlowe, but the play was made for effect, and it is lamentable to see her, in scenes made up of false sentiment and theatrical situations, trying to do what she is ready and able to do; what, indeed, some of the scenes give her the chance to be: the little peasant girl, perplexed by visions and possessed by them, and also the peasant saint, too simple to know that she is heroic. out of a play of shreds and patches one remembers only something which has given it its whole value: the vital image of a divine child, a thing of peace and love, who makes war angelically. yet even in this play there was ambition and an aim. turn, last of all, to a piece which succeeded with london audiences better than shakespeare, a burlesque of american origin, called "when knighthood was in flower." here too i seemed to discern a lesson for the english stage. even through the silly disguises of this inconceivable production, which pleased innocent london as it had pleased indifferent new york, one felt a certain lilt and go, a touch of nature among the fool's fabric of the melodrama, which set the action far above our steady practitioners in the same art of sinking. and, above all, a sense of parody pierced through words and actions, commenting wittily on the nonsense of romance which so many were so willing to take seriously. she was a live thing, defiantly and gaily conscious of every absurdity with which she indulged the babyish tastes of one more public. an actor or actress who is limited by talent, personality, or preference to a single kind of _rôle_ is not properly an artist at all. it is the curse of success that, in any art, a man who has pleased the public in any single thing is called upon, if he would turn it into money, to repeat it, as exactly as he can, as often as he can. if he does so, he is, again, not an artist. it is the business of every kind of artist to be ceaselessly creative, and, above all, not to repeat himself. when i have seen miss marlowe as juliet, as ophelia, and as viola, i am content to have seen her also in a worthless farce, because she showed me that she could go without vulgarity, lightly, safely, through a part that she despised: she did not spoil it out of self-respect; out of a rarer self-respect she carried it through without capitulating to it. then i hear of her having done lady teazle and imogen, the fiammetta of catulle mendès and the salome of hauptmann; i do not know even the names of half the parts she has played, but i can imagine her playing them all, not with the same poignancy and success, but with a skill hardly varying from one to another. there is no doubt that she has a natural genius for acting. this genius she has so carefully and so subtly trained that it may strike you at first sight as not being genius at all; because it is so much on the level, because there are no fits and starts in it; because, in short, it has none of the attractiveness of excess. it is by excess that we for the most part distinguish what seems to us genius; and it is often by its excess that genius first really shows itself. but the rarest genius is without excess, and may seem colourless in his perfection, as giorgione seems beside titian. but giorgione will always be the greater. i quoted to an old friend and fervent admirer of miss marlowe the words of bacon which were always on the lips of poe and of baudelaire, about the "strangeness in the proportions" of all beauty. she asked me, in pained surprise, if i saw anything strange in miss marlowe. if i had not, she would have meant nothing for me, as the "faultily faultless" person, the mrs. kendal, means nothing to me. the confusion can easily be made, and there will probably always be people who will prefer mrs. kendal to miss marlowe, as there are those who will think mme. melba a greater operatic singer than mme. calvé. what miss marlowe has is a great innocence, which is not, like duse's, the innocence of wisdom, and a childish and yet wild innocence, such as we might find in a tamed wild beast, in whom there would always be a charm far beyond that of the domestic creature who has grown up on our hearth. this wildness comes to her perhaps from pan, forces of nature that are always somewhere stealthily about the world, hidden in the blood, unaccountable, unconscious; without which we are tame christened things, fit for cloisters. duse is the soul made flesh, réjane the flesh made parisian, sarah bernhardt the flesh and the devil; but julia marlowe is the joy of life, the plenitude of sap in the tree. the personal appeal of mr. sothern and of miss marlowe is very different. in his manner of receiving applause there is something almost resentful, as if, being satisfied to do what he chooses to do, and in his own way, he were indifferent to the opinion of others. it is not the actor's attitude; but what a relief from the general subservience of that attitude! in miss marlowe there is something young, warm, and engaging, a way of giving herself wholly to the pleasure of pleasing, to which the footlights are scarcely a barrier. as if unconsciously, she fills and gladdens you with a sense of the single human being whom she is representing. and there is her strange beauty, in which the mind and the senses have an equal part, and which is full of savour and grace, alive to the finger-tips. yet it is not with these personal qualities that i am here chiefly concerned. what i want to emphasise is the particular kind of lesson which this acting, so essentially english, though it comes to us as if set free by america, should have for all who are at all seriously considering the lamentable condition of our stage in the present day. we have nothing like it in england, nothing on the same level, no such honesty and capacity of art, no such worthy results. are we capable of realising the difference? if not, julia marlowe and edward sothern will have come to england in vain. a theory of the stage life and beauty are the body and soul of great drama. mix the two as you will, so long as both are there, resolved into a single substance. but let there be, in the making, two ingredients, and while one is poetry, and comes bringing beauty, the other is a violent thing which has been scornfully called melodrama, and is the emphasis of action. the greatest plays are melodrama by their skeleton, and poetry by the flesh which clothes that skeleton. the foundation of drama is that part of the action which can be represented in dumb show. only the essential parts of action can be represented without words, and you would set the puppets vainly to work on any material but that which is common to humanity. the permanence of a drama might be tested by the continuance and universality of its appeal when played silently in gestures. i have seen the test applied. companies of marionette players still go about the villages of kent, and among their stock pieces is "arden of feversham," the play which shakespeare is not too great to have written, at some moment when his right hand knew not what his left hand was doing. well, that great little play can hold the eyes of every child and villager, as the puppets enact it; and its power has not gone out of it after three centuries. dumb show apes the primal forces of nature, and is inarticulate, as they are; until relief gives words. when words come, there is no reason why they should not be in verse, for only in verse can we render what is deepest in humanity of the utmost beauty. nothing but beauty should exist on the stage. visible beauty comes with the ballet, an abstract thing; gesture adds pantomime, with which drama begins; and then words bring in the speech by which life tries to tell its secret. because poetry, speaking its natural language of verse, can let out more of that secret than prose, the great drama of the past has been mainly drama in verse. the modern desire to escape from form, and to get at a raw thing which shall seem like what we know of the outside of nature, has led our latest dramatists to use prose in preference to verse, which indeed is more within their limits. it is ibsen who has seemed to do most to justify the use of prose, for he carries his psychology far with it. yet it remains prose, a meaner method, a limiting restraint, and his drama a thing less fundamental than the drama of the poets. only one modern writer has brought something which is almost the equivalent of poetry out of prose speech: tolstoi, in "the powers of darkness." the play is horrible and uncouth, but it is illuminated by a great inner light. there is not a beautiful word in it, but it is filled with beauty. and that is because tolstoi has the vision which may be equally that of the poet and of the prophet. it is often said that the age of poetry is over, and that the great forms of the future must be in prose. that is the "exquisite reason" of those whom the gods have not made poetical. it is like saying that there will be no more music, or that love is out of date. forms change, but not essence; and whitman points the way, not to prose, but to a poetry which shall take in wider regions of the mind. yet, though it is by its poetry that, as lamb pointed out, a play of shakespeare differs from a play of banks or lillo, the poetry is not more essential to its making than the living substance, the melodrama. poets who have written plays for reading have wasted their best opportunities. why wear chains for dancing? the limitations necessary to the drama before it can be fitted to the stage are but hindrances and disabilities to the writer of a book. where can we find more spilt wealth than in the plays of swinburne, where all the magnificent speech builds up no structure, but wavers in orchestral floods, without beginning or ending? it has been said that shakespeare will sacrifice his drama to his poetry, and even "hamlet" has been quoted against him. but let "hamlet" be rightly acted, and whatever has seemed mere lingering meditation will be recognised as a part of that thought which makes or waits on action. if poetry in shakespeare may sometimes seem to delay action, it does but deepen it. the poetry is the life blood, or runs through it. only bad actors and managers think that by stripping the flesh from the skeleton they can show us a more living body. the outlines of "hamlet" are crude, irresistible melodrama, still irresistible to the gallery; and the greatness of the play, though it comes to us by means of the poetry, comes to us legitimately, as a growth out of melodrama. the failure, the comparative failure, of every contemporary dramatist, however far he may go in one direction or another, comes from his neglect of one or another of these two primary and essential requirements. there is, at this time, a more serious dramatic movement in germany than in any other country; with mechanicians, like sudermann, as accomplished as the best of ours, and dramatists who are also poets, like hauptmann. i do not know them well enough to bring them into my argument, but i can see that in germany, whatever the actual result, the endeavour is in the right direction. elsewhere, how often do we find even so much as this, in more than a single writer here and there? consider ibsen, who is the subtlest master of the stage since sophocles. at his best he has a firm hold on structural melodrama, he is a marvellous analyst of life, he is the most ingenious of all the playwrights; but ask him for beauty and he will give you a phrase, "vine-leaves in the hair" or its equivalent; one of the clichés of the minor poet. in the end beauty revenged itself upon him by bringing him to a no-man's land where there were clouds and phantasms that he could no longer direct. maeterlinck began by a marvellous instinct, with plays "for marionettes," and, having discovered a forgotten secret, grew tired of limiting himself within its narrow circle, and came outside his magic. "monna vanna" is an attempt to be broadly human on the part of a man whose gift is of another kind: a visionary of the moods. his later speech, like his later dramatic material, is diluted; he becomes, in the conventional sense, eloquent, which poetry never is. but he has brought back mystery to the stage, which has been banished, or retained in exile, among phantasmagoric faust-lights. the dramatist of the future will have more to learn from maeterlinck than from any other playwright of our time. he has seen his puppets against the permanent darkness, which we had cloaked with light; he has given them supreme silences. in d'annunzio we have an art partly shaped by maeterlinck, in which all is atmosphere, and a home for sensations which never become vital passions. the roses in the sarcophagus are part of the action in "francesca," and in "the dead city" the whole action arises out of the glorious mischief hidden like a deadly fume in the grave of agamemnon. speech and drama are there, clothing but not revealing one another; the speech always a lovely veil, never a human outline. we have in england one man, and one only, who has some public claim to be named with these artists, though his aim is the negation of art. mr. shaw is a mind without a body, a whimsical intelligence without a soul. he is one of those tragic buffoons who play with eternal things, not only for the amusement of the crowd, but because an uneasy devil capers in their own brains. he is a merry preacher, a petulant critic, a great talker. it is partly because he is an irishman that he has transplanted the art of talking to the soil of the stage: sheridan, wilde, shaw, our only modern comedians, all irishmen, all talkers. it is by his astonishing skill of saying everything that comes into his head, with a spirit really intoxicating, that mr. shaw has succeeded in holding the stage with undramatic plays, in which there is neither life nor beauty. life gives up its wisdom only to reverence, and beauty is jealous of neglected altars. but those who amuse the world, no matter by what means, have their place in the world at any given moment. mr. shaw is a clock striking the hour. with mr. shaw we come to the play which is prose, and nothing but prose. the form is familiar among us, though it is cultivated with a more instinctive skill, as is natural, in france. there was a time, not so long ago, when dumas fils was to france what ibsen afterwards became to europe. what remains of him now is hardly more than his first "fond adventure" the supremely playable "dame aux camélias." the other plays are already out of date, since ibsen; the philosophy of "tue-là!" was the special pleading of the moment, and a drama in which special pleading, and not the fundamental "criticism of life," is the dramatic motive can never outlast its technique, which has also died with the coming of ibsen. better technique, perhaps, than that of "la femme de claude," but with less rather than more weight of thought behind it, is to be found in many accomplished playwrights, who are doing all sorts of interesting temporary things, excellently made to entertain the attentive french public with a solid kind of entertainment. here, in england, we have no such folk to command; our cleverest playwrights, apart from mr. shaw, are what we might call practitioners. there is mr. pinero, mr. jones, mr. grundy: what names are better known, or less to be associated with literature? there is anthony hope, who can write, and mr. barrie who has something both human and humourous. there are many more names, if i could remember them; but where is the serious playwright? who is there that can be compared with our poets or our novelists, not only with a swinburne or a meredith, but, in a younger generation, with a bridges or a conrad? the court theatre has given us one or two good realistic plays, the best being mr. granville barker's, besides giving mr. shaw his chance in england, after he had had and taken it in america. but is there, anywhere but in ireland, an attempt to write imaginative literature in the form of drama? the irish literary theatre has already, in mr. yeats and mr. synge, two notable writers, each wholly individual, one a poet in verse, the other a poet in prose. neither has yet reached the public, in any effectual way, or perhaps the limits of his own powers as a dramatist. yet who else is there for us to hope in, if we are to have once more an art of the stage, based on the great principles, and a theatre in which that art can be acted? the whole universe lies open to the poet who is also a dramatist, affording him an incomparable choice of subject. ibsen, the greatest of the playwrights of modern life, narrowed his stage, for ingenious plausible reasons of his own, to the four walls of a house, and, at his best, constrained his people to talk of nothing above their daily occupations. he got the illusion of everyday life, but at a cruel expense. these people, until they began to turn crazy, had no vision beyond their eyesight, and their thoughts never went deep enough to need a better form for expression than they could find in their newspapers. they discussed immortal problems as they would have discussed the entries in their ledger. think for a moment how the peasants speak in that play of tolstoi's which i have called the only modern play in prose which contains poetry. they speak as russians speak, with a certain childishness, in which they are more primitive than our more civilised peasants. but the speech comes from deeper than they are aware, it stumbles into a revelation of the soul. a drunken man in tolstoi has more wisdom in his cups than all ibsen's strange ladies who fumble at their lips for sea-magic. and as tolstoi found in this sordid chaos material for tragedy which is as noble as the greeks' (a like horror at the root of both, a like radiance at both summits), so the poet will find stories, as modern as this if he chooses, from which he can take the same ingredients for his art. the ingredients are unchanging since "prometheus"; no human agony has ever grown old or lost its pity and terror. the great plays of the past were made out of great stories, and the great stories are repeated in our days and can be heard wherever an old man tells us a little of what has come to him in living. verse lends itself to the lifting and adequate treatment of the primary emotions, because it can render them more as they are in the soul, not being tied down to probable words, as prose talk is. the probable words of prose talk can only render a part of what goes on among the obscure imageries of the inner life; for who, in a moment of crisis, responds to circumstances or destiny with an adequate answer? poetry, which is spoken thought, or the speech of something deeper than thought, may let loose some part of that answer which would justify the soul, if it did not lie dumb upon its lips. the sicilian actors i i have been seeing the sicilian actors in london. they came here from paris, where, i read, "la passion paraît décidement," to a dramatic critic, "avoir partout ses inconvenients," especially on the stage. we are supposed to think so here, but for once london has applauded an acting which is more primitively passionate than anything we are accustomed to on our moderate stage. some of it was spoken in italian, some in the sicilian dialect, and not many in the english part of the audience could follow very closely the words as they were spoken. yet so marvellously real were these stage peasants, so clear and poignant their gestures and actions, that words seemed a hardly needless accompaniment to so evident, exciting, and absorbing a form of drama. it was a new intoxication, and people went, i am afraid, as to a wild-beast show. it was really nothing of the kind, though the melodrama was often very crude; sometimes, in a simple way, horrible. but it was a fierce living thing, a life unknown to us in the north; it smouldered like the volcanoes of the south. and so we were seeing a new thing on the stage, rendered by actors who seemed, for the most part, scarcely actors at all, but the real peasants; and, above all, there was a woman of genius, the leader of the company, who was much more real than reality. mimi aguglia has studied duse, for her tones, for some of her attitudes; her art is more nearly the art of réjane. while both of these are great artists, she is an improviser, a creature of wild moods, of animal energies, uncontrolled, spontaneous. she catches you in a fierce caress, like a tiger-cat. she gives you, as in "malia," the whole animal, snarling, striking, suffering, all the pangs of the flesh, the emotions of fear and hate, but for the most part no more. in "la folfaa" she can be piquant, passing from the naughty girl of the first act, with her delicious airs and angers, her tricks, gambols, petulances, to the soured wife of the second, in whom a kind of bad blood comes out, turning her to treacheries of mere spite, until her husband thrusts her brutally out of the house, where, if she will, she may follow her lover. here, where there is no profound passion but mean quarrels among miserable workers in salt-mines, she is a noticeable figure, standing out from the others, and setting her prim, soubrette figure in motion with a genuine art, quite personal to her. but to see her after the santuzza of duse, in verga's "cavalleria rusticana," is to realise the difference between this art of the animal and duse's art of the soul. and if one thinks of réjane's "sapho," the difference is hardly less, though of another kind. i saw duse for the first time in the part of santuzza, and i remember to this day a certain gentle and pathetic gesture of her apparently unconscious hand, turning back the sleeve of her lover's coat over his wrist, while her eyes fasten on his eyes in a great thirst for what is to be found in them. the santuzza of mimi aguglia is a stinging thing that bites when it is stepped on. there is no love in her heart, only love of possession, jealousy, an unreasonable hate; and she is not truly pathetic or tragic in her furious wrestle with her lover on the church steps or in her plot against him which sends an unanticipated knife into his heart. yet, in the mila di codra of d'annunzio's "figlia di jorio" she has moments of absolute greatness. her fear in the cave, before lazaro di roio, is the most ghastly and accurate rendering of that sensation that, i am sure, has been seen on any stage. she flings herself upright against a frame of wood on which the woodcarver has left his tools, and as one new shudder after another sets her body visibly quaking, some of the tools drop on the floor, with an astonishing effect on the nerves. her face contracts into a staring, hopeless grimace, as if about to utter shrieks which cannot get past her lips. she shivers slowly downwards until she sinks on her rigid heels and clasps her knees with both arms. there, in the corner, she waits in twenty several anguishes, while the foul old man tempts her, crawling like a worm, nearer and nearer to her on the ground, with gestures of appeal that she repels time after time, with some shudder aside of her crouched body, hopping as if on all fours closer into the corner. the scene is terrible in its scarcely thinkable distress, but it is not horrible, as some would have it to be. here, with her means, this actress creates; it is no mean copy of reality, but fear brought to a kind of greatness, so completely has the whole being passed into its possession. and there is another scene in which she is absolute in a nobler catastrophe. in her last cry before she is dragged to the stake, "la fiamma e bella! la fiamma e bella!" d'annunzio, i have no doubt, meant no more than the obvious rhetoric suited to a situation of heroism. out of his rhetoric this woman has created the horror and beauty of a supreme irony of anguish. she has given up her life for her lover, he has denied and cursed her in the oblivion of the draught that should have been his death-drink, her hands have been clasped with the wooden fetters taken off from his hands, and her face covered with the dark veil he had worn, and the vile howling crowd draws her backward towards her martyrdom. ornella has saluted her sister in christ; she, the one who knows the truth, silent, helping her to die nobly. and now the woman, having willed beyond the power of mortal flesh to endure an anguish that now flames before her in its supreme reality, strains in the irrationality of utter fear backward into the midst of those clutching hands that are holding her up in the attitude of her death, and, with a shiver in which the soul, succumbing to the body, wrings its last triumph out of an ignominious glory, she cries, shrieking, feeling the flames eternally upon her: "la fiamma e bella! la fiamma e bella!" and thereat all evil seems to have been judged suddenly, and obliterated, as if god had laughed once, and wiped out the world. ii since charles lamb's essay "on the tragedies of shakespeare, considered with reference to their fitness for stage representation," there has been a great deal of argument as to whether the beauty of words, especially in verse, is necessarily lost on the stage, and whether a well-constructed play cannot exist by itself, either in dumb show or with words in a foreign language, which we may not understand. the acting, by the sicilian actors, of "la figlia di jorio," seemed to me to do something towards the solution of part at least of this problem. the play, as one reads it, has perhaps less than usual of the beauty which d'annunzio elaborates in his dramatic speech. it is, on the other hand, closer to nature, carefully copied from the speech of the peasants of the abruzzi, and from what remains of their folk-lore. the story on which it is founded is a striking one, and the action has, even in reading, the effect of a melodrama. now see it on the stage, acted with the speed and fury of these actors. imagine oneself ignorant of the language and of the play. suddenly the words have become unnecessary; the bare outlines stand out, perfectly explicit in gesture and motion; the scene passes before you as if you were watching it in real life; and this primitively passionate acting, working on an action so cunningly contrived for its co-operation, gives us at last what the play, as we read it, had suggested to us, but without complete conviction. the beauty of the speech had become a secondary matter, or, if we did not understand it, the desire to know what was being said: the playwright and his players had eclipsed the poet, the visible action had put out the calculated cadences of the verse. and the play, from the point of view of the stage, had fulfilled every requirement, had achieved its aim. and still the question remains: how much of this success is due to the playwright's skill or to the skill of the actors? how is it that in this play the actors obtain a fine result, act on a higher level, than in their realistic sicilian tragedies? d'annunzio is no doubt a better writer than capuana or verga, and his play is finer as literature than "cavalleria rusticana" or "malia." but is it great poetry or great drama, and has the skilful playwright need of the stage and of actors like these, who come with their own life and ways upon it, in order to bring the men and women of his pages to life? can it be said of him that he has fulfilled the great condition of poetic drama, that, as coleridge said, "dramatic poetry must be poetry hid in thought and passion--not thought or passion disguised in the dress of poetry?" that is a question which i am not here concerned to answer. perhaps i have already answered it. perhaps lamb had answered it when he said, of a performance of shakespeare in which there were two great actors, that "it seemed to embody and realise conceptions which had hitherto assumed no distinct shape," but that, "when the novelty is past, we find to our cost that instead of realising an idea, we have only materialised and brought down a fine vision to the standard of flesh and blood." if that is true of shakespeare, the greatest of dramatic poets, how far is it from the impression which i have described in speaking of d'annunzio. what fine vision was there to bring down? what poetry hid in thought or passion was lost to us in its passage across the stage? and now let us consider the play in which these actors have found their finest opportunity for abandoning themselves to those instincts out of which they have made their art. "malia," a sicilian play of capuana, is an exhibition of the witchcraft of desire, and it is justified against all accusation by that thrill with which something in us responds to it, admitting: this is i, myself, so it has been given to me to sin and to suffer. and so, if we think deeply enough we shall find, in these sinning, suffering, insatiable beings, who present themselves as if naked before us, the image of our own souls, visible for once, and unashamed, in the mirror of these bodies. it is we, who shudder before them, and maybe laugh at the extravagance of their gestures, it is ourselves whom they are showing to us, caught unawares and set in symbolical action. let not the base word realism be used for this spontaneous energy by which we are shown the devastating inner forces, by which nature creates and destroys us. here is one part of life, the source of its existence: and here it is shown us crude as nature, absolute as art. this new, living art of the body, which we see struggling in the clay of rodin, concentrates itself for once in this woman who expresses, without reticence and without offence, all that the poets have ever said of the supreme witchcraft, animal desire, without passion, carnal, its own self-devouring agony. art has for once justified itself by being mere nature. and, here again, this play is no masterpiece in itself, only the occasion for a masterpiece of acting. the whole company, sig. grasso and the others, acted with perfect unanimity, singly and in crowds. what stage-crowd of a hundred drilled and dumpish people, as we see it at our big theatres, has ever given us that sense of a real, surging crowd as the dozen or so supers in that last struggle which ends the play? but the play really existed for aguglia, and was made by her. réjane has done greater things in her own way, in her own way she is a greater artist. but not even réjane has given us the whole animal, in its self-martyrdom, as this woman has given it to us. such knowledge and command of the body, and so frank an abandonment to its instinctive motions, has never been seen on our stage, not even in sada yacco and the japanese. they could outdo sarah in a death-scene, but not aguglia in the scene in which she betrays her secret. done by anyone else, it would have been an imitation of a woman in hysterics, a thing meaningless and disgusting. done by her, it was the visible contest between will and desire, a battle, a shipwreck, in which you watch helplessly from the shore every plank as the sea tears if off and swallows it. "i feel as if i had died," said the friend who was with me in the theatre, speaking out of an uncontrollable sympathy; died with the woman, she meant, or in the woman's place. our critics here have for the most part seen fit, like the french critic whom i quoted at the beginning, to qualify their natural admiration by a hesitating consciousness that "la passion paraît decidement avoir partout ses inconvenients." but the critic who sets himself against a magnetic current can do no more than accept the shock which has cast him gently aside. all art is magnetism. the greatest art is a magnetism through which the soul reaches the soul. there is another, terrible, authentic art through which the body communicates its thrilling secrets. and against all these currents there is no barrier and no appeal. music on writing about music the reason why music is so much more difficult to write about than any other art, is because music is the one absolutely disembodied art, when it is heard, and no more than a proposition of euclid, when it is written. it is wholly useless, to the student no less than to the general reader, to write about music in the style of the programmes for which we pay sixpence at the concerts. "repeated by flute and oboe, with accompaniment for clarionet (in triplets) and strings _pizzicato_, and then worked up by the full orchestra, this melody is eventually allotted to the 'cellos, its accompaniment now taking the form of chromatic passages," and so forth. not less useless is it to write a rhapsody which has nothing to do with the notes, and to present this as an interpretation of what the notes have said in an unknown language. yet what method is there besides these two methods? none, indeed, that can ever be wholly satisfactory; at the best, no more than a compromise. in writing about poetry, while precisely that quality which makes it poetry must always evade expression, there yet remain the whole definite meaning of the words, and the whole easily explicable technique of the verse, which can be made clear to every reader. in painting, you have the subject of the picture, and you have the colour, handling, and the like, which can be expressed hardly less precisely in words. but music has no subject, outside itself; no meaning, outside its meaning as music; and, to understand anything of what is meant by its technique, a certain definite technical knowledge is necessary in the reader. what subterfuges are required, in order to give the vaguest suggestion of what a piece of music is like, and how little has been said, after all, beyond generalisations, which would apply equally to half a dozen different pieces! the composer himself, if you ask him, will tell you that you may be quite correct in what you say, but that he has no opinion in the matter. music has indeed a language, but it is a language in which birds and other angels may talk, but out of which we cannot translate their meaning. emotion itself, how changed becomes even emotion when we transport it into a new world, in which only sound has feeling! but i am speaking as if it had died and been re-born there, whereas it was born in its own region, and is wholly ignorant of ours. technique and the artist technique and the artist: that is a question, of interest to the student of every art, which was brought home to me with unusual emphasis the other afternoon, as i sat in the queen's hall, and listened to ysaye and busoni. are we always quite certain what we mean when we speak of an artist? have we quite realised in our own minds the extent to which technique must go to the making of an artist, and the point at which something else must be superadded? that is a matter which i often doubt, and the old doubt came back to my mind the other afternoon, as i listened to ysaye and busoni, and next day, as i turned over the newspapers. i read, in the first paper i happen to take up, that the violinist and the pianist are "a perfectly matched pair"; the applause, at the concert, was even more enthusiastic for busoni than for ysaye. i hear both spoken of as artists, as great artists; and yet, if words have any meaning, it seems to me that only one of the two is an artist at all, and the other, with all his ability, only an executant. admit, for a moment, that the technique of the two is equal, though it is not quite possible to admit even that, in the strictest sense. so far, we have made only a beginning. without technique, perfect of its kind, no one is worth consideration in any art. the rope-dancer or the acrobat must be perfect in technique before he appears on the stage at all; in his case, a lapse from perfection brings its own penalty, death perhaps; his art begins when his technique is already perfect. artists who deal in materials less fragile than human life should have no less undeviating a sense of responsibility to themselves and to art. but the performance comes afterwards, and it is the performance with which we are concerned. of two acrobats, each equally skilful, one will be individual and an artist, the other will remain consummately skilful and uninteresting; the one having begun where the other leaves off. now busoni can do, on the pianoforte, whatever he can conceive; the question is, what can he conceive? as he sat at the piano playing chopin, i thought of busoni, of the bechstein piano, of what fingers can do, of many other extraneous things, never of chopin. i saw the pianist with the christ-like head, the carefully negligent elegance of his appearance, and i heard wonderful sounds coming out of the bechstein piano; but, try as hard as i liked, i could not feel the contact of soul and instrument, i could not feel that a human being was expressing himself in sound. a task was magnificently accomplished, but a new beauty had not come into the world. then the kreutzer sonata began, and i looked at ysaye, as he stood, an almost shapeless mass of flesh, holding the violin between his fat fingers, and looking vaguely into the air. he put the violin to his shoulder. the face had been like a mass of clay, waiting the sculptor's thumb. as the music came, an invisible touch seemed to pass over it; the heavy mouth and chin remained firm, pressed down on the violin; but the eyelids and the eyebrows began to move, as if the eyes saw the sound, and were drawing it in luxuriously, with a kind of sleepy ecstasy, as one draws in perfume out of a flower. then, in that instant, a beauty which had never been in the world came into the world; a new thing was created, lived, died, having revealed itself to all those who were capable of receiving it. that thing was neither beethoven nor ysaye, it was made out of their meeting; it was music, not abstract, but embodied in sound; and just that miracle could never occur again, though others like it might be repeated for ever. when the sound stopped, the face returned to its blind and deaf waiting; the interval, like all the rest of life probably, not counting in the existence of that particular soul, which came and went with the music. and ysaye seems to me the type of the artist, not because he is faultless in technique, but because he begins to create his art at the point where faultless technique leaves off. with him, every faculty is in harmony; he has not even too much of any good thing. there are times when busoni astonishes one; ysaye never astonishes one, it seems natural that he should do everything that he does, just as he does it. art, as aristotle has said finally, should always have "a continual slight novelty"; it should never astonish, for we are astonished only by some excess or default, never by a thing being what it ought to be. it is a fashion of the moment to prize extravagance and to be timid of perfection. that is why we give the name of artist to those who can startle us most. we have come to value technique for the violence which it gives into the hands of those who possess it, in their assault upon our nerves. we have come to look upon technique as an end in itself, rather than as a means to an end. we have but one word of praise, and we use that one word lavishly. an ysaye and a busoni are the same to us, and it is to our credit if we are even aware that ysaye is the equal of busoni. pachmann and the piano i it seems to me that pachmann is the only pianist who plays the piano as it ought to be played. i admit his limitations, i admit that he can play only certain things, but i contend that he is the greatest living pianist because he can play those things better than any other pianist can play anything. pachmann is the verlaine of pianists, and when i hear him i think of verlaine reading his own verse, in a faint, reluctant voice, which you overheard. other players have mastered the piano, pachmann absorbs its soul, and it is only when he touches it that it really speaks its own voice. the art of the pianist, after all, lies mainly in one thing, touch. it is by the skill, precision, and beauty of his touch that he makes music at all; it is by the quality of his touch that he evokes a more or less miraculous vision of sound for us. touch gives him his only means of expression; it is to him what relief is to the sculptor or what values are to the painter. to "understand," as it is called, a piece of music, is not so much as the beginning of good playing; if you do not understand it with your fingers, what shall your brain profit you? in the interpretation of music all action of the brain which does not translate itself perfectly in touch is useless. you may as well not think at all as not think in terms of your instrument, and the piano responds to one thing only, touch. now pachmann, beyond all other pianists, has this magic. when he plays it, the piano ceases to be a compromise. he makes it as living and penetrating as the violin, as responsive and elusive as the clavichord. chopin wrote for the piano with a more perfect sense of his instrument than any other composer, and pachmann plays chopin with an infallible sense of what chopin meant to express in his mind. he seems to touch the notes with a kind of agony of delight; his face twitches with the actual muscular contraction of the fingers as they suspend themselves in the very act of touch. i am told that pachmann plays chopin in a morbid way. well, chopin was morbid; there are fevers and cold sweats in his music; it is not healthy music, and it is not to be interpreted in a robust way. it must be played, as pachmann plays it, somnambulistically, with a tremulous delicacy of intensity, as if it were a living thing on whose nerves one were operating, and as if every touch might mean life or death. i have heard pianists who played chopin in what they called a healthy way. the notes swung, spun, and clattered, with a heroic repercussion of sound, a hurrying reiteration of fury, signifying nothing. the piano stormed through the applause; the pianist sat imperturbably, hammering. well, i do not think any music should be played like that, not liszt even. liszt connives at the suicide, but with chopin it is a murder. when pachmann plays chopin the music sings itself, as if without the intervention of an executant, of one who stands between the music and our hearing. the music has to intoxicate him before he can play with it; then he becomes its comrade, in a kind of very serious game; himself, in short, that is to say inhuman. his fingers have in them a cold magic, as of soulless elves who have sold their souls for beauty. and this beauty, which is not of the soul, is not of the flesh; it is a sea-change, the life of the foam on the edge of the depths. or it transports him into some mid-region of the air, between hell and heaven, where he hangs listening. he listens at all his senses. the dew, as well as the raindrop, has a sound for him. in pachmann's playing there is a frozen tenderness, with, at moments, the elvish triumph of a gnome who has found a bright crystal or a diamond. pachmann is inhuman, and music, too, is inhuman. to him, and rightly, it is a thing not domesticated, not familiar as a household cat with our hearth. when he plays it, music speaks no language known to us, has nothing of ourselves to tell us, but is shy, alien, and speaks a language which we do not know. it comes to us a divine hallucination, chills us a little with its "airs from heaven" or elsewhere, and breaks down for an instant the too solid walls of the world, showing us the gulf. when d'albert plays chopin's berceuse, beautifully, it is a lullaby for healthy male children growing too big for the cradle. pachmann's is a lullaby for fairy changelings who have never had a soul, but in whose veins music vibrates; and in this intimate alien thing he finds a kind of humour. in the attempt to humanise music, that attempt which almost every executant makes, knowing that he will be judged by his success or failure in it, what is most fatally lost is that sense of mystery which, to music, is atmosphere. in this atmosphere alone music breathes tranquilly. so remote is it from us that it can only be reached through some not quite healthy nervous tension, and pachmann's physical disquietude when he plays is but a sign of what it has cost him to venture outside humanity, into music. yet in music this mystery is a simple thing, its native air; and the art of the musician has less difficulty in its evocation than the art of the poet or the painter. with what an effort do we persuade words or colours back from their vulgar articulateness into at least some recollection of that mystery which is deeper than sight or speech. music can never wholly be detached from mystery, can never wholly become articulate, and it is in our ignorance of its true nature that we would tame it to humanity and teach it to express human emotions, not its own. pachmann gives you pure music, not states of soul or of temperament, not interpretations, but echoes. he gives you the notes in their own atmosphere, where they live for him an individual life, which has nothing to do with emotions or ideas. thus he does not need to translate out of two languages: first, from sound to emotion, temperament, what you will; then from that back again to sound. the notes exist; it is enough that they exist. they mean for him just the sound and nothing else. you see his fingers feeling after it, his face calling to it, his whole body imploring it. sometimes it comes upon him in such a burst of light that he has to cry aloud, in order that he may endure the ecstasy. you see him speaking to the music; he lifts his finger, that you may listen for it not less attentively. but it is always the thing itself that he evokes for you, as it rises flower-like out of silence, and comes to exist in the world. every note lives, with the whole vitality of its existence. to swinburne every word lives, just in the same way; when he says "light," he sees the sunrise; when he says "fire," he is warmed through all his blood. and so pachmann calls up, with this ghostly magic of his, the innermost life of music. i do not think he has ever put an intention into chopin. chopin had no intentions. he was a man, and he suffered; and he was a musician, and he wrote music; and very likely george sand, and majorca, and his disease, and scotland, and the woman who sang to him when he died, are all in the music; but that is not the question. the notes sob and shiver, stab you like a knife, caress you like the fur of a cat; and are beautiful sound, the most beautiful sound that has been called out of the piano. pachmann calls it out for you, disinterestedly, easily, with ecstasy, inevitably; you do not realise that he has had difficulties to conquer, that music is a thing for acrobats and athletes. he smiles to you, that you may realise how beautiful the notes are, when they trickle out of his fingers like singing water; he adores them and his own playing, as you do, and as if he had nothing to do with them but to pour them out of his hands. pachmann is less showy with his fingers than any other pianist; his hands are stealthy acrobats, going quietly about their difficult business. they talk with the piano and the piano answers them. all that violence cannot do with the notes of the instrument, he does. his art begins where violence leaves off; that is why he can give you fortissimo without hurting the nerves of a single string; that is why he can play a run as if every note had its meaning. to the others a run is a flourish, a tassel hung on for display, a thing extra; when pachmann plays a run you realise that it may have its own legitimate sparkle of gay life. with him every note lives, has its own body and its own soul, and that is why it is worth hearing him play even trivial music like mendelssohn's "spring song" or meaningless music like taubert's waltz: he creates a beauty out of sound itself and a beauty which is at the root of music. there are moments when a single chord seems to say in itself everything that music has to say. that is the moment in which everything but sound is annihilated, the moment of ecstasy; and it is of such moments that pachmann is the poet. and so his playing of bach, as in the italian concerto in f, reveals bach as if the dust had suddenly been brushed off his music. all that in the playing of others had seemed hard or dry becomes suddenly luminous, alive, and, above all, a miracle of sound. through a delicacy of shading, like the art of bach himself for purity, poignancy, and clarity, he envelops us with the thrilling atmosphere of the most absolutely musical music in the world. the playing of this concerto is the greatest thing i have ever heard pachmann do, but when he went on to play mozart i heard another only less beautiful world of sound rise softly about me. there was the "glittering peace" undimmed, and there was the nervous spring, the diamond hardness, as well as the glowing light and ardent sweetness. yet another manner of playing, not less appropriate to its subject, brought before me the bubbling flow, the romantic moonlight, of weber; this music that is a little showy, a little luscious, but with a gracious feminine beauty of its own. chopin followed, and when pachmann plays chopin it is as if the soul of chopin had returned to its divine body, the notes of this sinewy and feverish music, in which beauty becomes a torture and energy pierces to the centre and becomes grace, and languor swoons and is reborn a winged energy. the great third scherzo was played with grandeur, and it is in the scherzos, perhaps, that chopin has built his most enduring work. the barcarolle, which i have heard played as if it were niagara and not venice, was given with perfect quietude, and the second mazurka of op. had that boldness of attack, with an almost stealthy intimacy in its secret rhythms, which in pachmann's playing, and in his playing alone, gives you the dance and the reverie together. but i am not sure that the etudes are not, in a very personal sense, what is most essential in chopin, and i am not sure that pachmann is not at his best in the playing of the etudes. other pianists think, perhaps, but pachmann plays. as he plays he is like one hypnotised by the music; he sees it beckoning, smiles to it, lifts his finger on a pause that you may listen to the note which is coming. this apparent hypnotism is really a fixed and continuous act of creation; there is not a note which he does not create for himself, to which he does not give his own vitality, the sensitive and yet controlling vitality of the medium. in playing the bach he had the music before him that he might be wholly free from even the slight strain which comes from the almost unconscious act of remembering. it was for a precisely similar reason that coleridge, in whose verse inspiration and art are more perfectly balanced than in any other english verse, often wrote down his poems first in prose that he might be unhampered by the conscious act of thought while listening for the music. "there is no exquisite beauty," said bacon in a subtle definition, "which has not some strangeness in its proportions." the playing of pachmann escapes the insipidity of that beauty which is without strangeness; it has in it something fantastically inhuman, like fiery ice, and it is for this reason that it remains a thing uncapturable, a thing whose secret he himself could never reveal. it is like the secret of the rhythms of verlaine, and no prosodist will ever tell us why a line like: dans un palais, soie et or, dans ecbatane, can communicate a new shiver to the most languid or the most experienced nerves. like the art of verlaine, the art of pachmann is one wholly of suggestion; his fingers state nothing, they evoke. i said like the art of verlaine, because there is a singular likeness between the two methods. but is not all art a suggestion, an evocation, never a statement? many of the great forces of the present day have set themselves to the task of building up a large, positive art in which everything shall be said with emphasis: the art of zola, the art of mr. kipling, in literature; the art of mr. sargent in painting; the art of richard strauss in music. in all these remarkable men there is some small, essential thing lacking; and it is in men like verlaine, like whistler, like pachmann, that we find the small, essential thing, and nothing else. ii the sounds torture me: i see them in my brain; they spin a flickering web of living threads, like butterflies upon the garden beds, nets of bright sound. i follow them: in vain. i must not brush the least dust from their wings: they die of a touch; but i must capture them, or they will turn to a caressing flame, and lick my soul up with their flutterings. the sounds torture me: i count them with my eyes, i feel them like a thirst between my lips; is it my body or my soul that cries with little coloured mouths of sound, and drips in these bright drops that turn to butterflies dying delicately at my finger tips? iii pachmann has the head of a monk who has had commerce with the devil, and it is whispered that he has sold his soul to the diabolical instrument, which, since buying it, can speak in a human voice. the sounds torture him, as a wizard is tortured by the shapes he has evoked. he makes them dance for his pleasure, and you hear their breath come and go, in the swell and subsiding of those marvellous crescendoes and diminuendoes which set the strings pulsating like a sea. he listens for the sound, listens for the last echo of it after it is gone, and is caught away from us visibly into that unholy company. pachmann is the greatest player of the piano now living. he cannot interpret every kind of music, though his actual power is more varied than he has led the public to suppose. i have heard him play in private a show-piece of liszt, a thunderous thing of immense difficulty, requiring a technique quite different from the technique which alone he cares to reveal to us; he had not played it for twenty years, and he played it with exactly the right crackling splendour that it demanded. on the rare occasions when he plays bach, something that no one of our time has ever perceived or rendered in that composer seems to be evoked, and bach lives again, with something of that forgotten life which only the harpsichord can help us to remember under the fingers of other players. mozart and weber are two of the composers whom he plays with the most natural instinct, for in both he finds and unweaves that dainty web of bright melody which mozart made out of sunlight and weber out of moonlight. there is nothing between him and them, as there is in beethoven, for instance, who hides himself in the depths of a cloud, in the depths of wisdom, in the depths of the heart. and to pachmann all this is as strange as mortal firesides to a fairy. he wanders round it, wondering at the great walls and bars that have been set about the faint, escaping spirit of flame. there is nothing human in him, and as music turns towards humanity it slips from between his hands. what he seeks and finds in music is the inarticulate, ultimate thing in sound: the music, in fact. it has been complained that pachmann's readings are not intellectual, that he does not interpret. it is true that he does not interpret between the brain and music, but he is able to disimprison sound, as no one has ever done with mortal hands, and the piano, when he touches it, becomes a joyous, disembodied thing, a voice and nothing more, but a voice which is music itself. to reduce music to terms of human intelligence or even of human emotion is to lower it from its own region, where it is ariel. there is something in music, which we can apprehend only as sound, that comes to us out of heaven or hell, mocking the human agency that gives it speech, and taking flight beyond it. when pachmann plays a prelude of chopin, all that chopin was conscious of saying in it will, no doubt, be there; it is all there, if godowsky plays it; every note, every shade of expression, every heightening and quickening, everything that the notes actually say. but under pachmann's miraculous hands a miracle takes place; mystery comes about it like an atmosphere, an icy thrill traverses it, the terror and ecstasy of a beauty that is not in the world envelop it; we hear sounds that are awful and exquisite, crying outside time and space. is it through pachmann's nerves, or through ours, that this communion takes place? is it technique, temperament, touch, that reveals to us what we have never dreamed was hidden in sounds? could pachmann himself explain to us his own magic? he would tell us that he had practised the piano with more patience than others, that he had taken more trouble to acquire a certain touch which is really the only way to the secret of his instrument. he could tell you little more; but, if you saw his hands settle on the keys, and fly and poise there, as if they had nothing to do with the perturbed, listening face that smiles away from them, you would know how little he had told you. now let us ask godowsky, whom pachmann himself sets above all other pianists, what he has to tell us about the way in which he plays. when godowsky plays he sits bent and motionless, as if picking out a pattern with his fingers. he seems to keep surreptitious watch upon them, as they run swiftly on their appointed errands. there is no errand they are not nimble enough to carry without a stumble to the journey's end. they obey him as if in fear; they dare not turn aside from the straight path; for their whole aim is to get to the end of the journey, having done their task faultlessly. sometimes, but without relaxing his learned gravity, he plays a difficult game, as in the paganini variations of brahms, which were done with a skill as sure and as soulless as paganini's may have been. sometimes he forgets that the notes are living things, and tosses them about a little cruelly, as if they were a juggler's balls. they drop like stones; you are sorry for them, because they are alive. how chopin suffers, when he plays the preludes! he plays them without a throb; the scholar has driven out the magic; chopin becomes a mathematician. in brahms, in the g minor rhapsody, you hear much more of what brahms meant to do; for brahms has set strange shapes dancing, like the skeletons "in the ghosts' moonshine" in a ballad of beddoes; and these bodiless things take shape in the music, as godowsky plays it unflinchingly, giving it to you exactly as it is, without comment. here his fidelity to every outline of form becomes an interpretation. but chopin is so much more than form that to follow every outline of it may be to leave chopin out of the outline. pachmann, of all the interpreters of chopin, is the most subtle, the one most likely to do for the most part what chopin wanted. the test, i think, is in the third scherzo. that great composition, one of the greatest among chopin's works, for it contains all his qualities in an intense measure, might have been thought less likely to be done perfectly by pachmann than such coleridge in music, such murmurings out of paradise, as the etude in f minor (op. , no. ) or one of those mazurkas in which chopin is more poignantly fantastic in substance, more wild and whimsical in rhythm, than elsewhere in his music; and indeed, as pachmann played them, they were strange and lovely gambols of unchristened elves. but in the scherzo he mastered this great, violent, heroic thing as he had mastered the little freakish things and the trickling and whispering things. he gave meaning to every part of its decoration, yet lost none of the splendour and wave-like motion of the whole tossing and eager sea of sound. pachmann's art, like chopin's, which it perpetuates, is of that peculiarly modern kind which aims at giving the essence of things in their fine shades: "la nuance encor!" is there, it may be asked, any essential thing left out in the process; do we have attenuation in what is certainly a way of sharpening one's steel to a very fine point? the sharpened steel gains in what is most vital in its purpose by this very paring away of its substance; and why should not a form of art strike deeper for the same reason? our only answer to whistler and verlaine is the existence of rodin and wagner. there we have weight as well as sharpness; these giants fly. it was curious to hear, in the vast luminous music of the "rheingold," flowing like water about the earth, bare to its roots, not only an amplitude but a delicacy of fine shades not less realised than in chopin. wagner, it is true, welds the lyric into drama, without losing its lyrical quality. yet there is no perfect lyric which is made less by the greatness of even a perfect drama. chopin was once thought to be a drawing-room composer; pachmann was once thought to be no "serious artist." both have triumphed, not because the taste of any public has improved, but because a few people who knew have whispered the truth to one another, and at last it has leaked out like a secret. paderewski i shall never cease to associate paderewski with the night of the jubilee. i had gone on foot from the temple through those packed, gaudy, noisy, and vulgarised streets, through which no vehicles could pass, to a rare and fantastic house at the other end of london, a famous house hospitable to all the arts; and paderewski sat with closed eyes and played the piano, there in his friend's house, as if he were in his own home. after the music was over, someone said to me, "i feel as if i had been in hell," so profound was the emotion she had experienced from the playing. i would have said heaven rather than hell, for there seemed to be nothing but pure beauty, beauty half asleep and dreaming of itself, in the marvellous playing. a spell, certainly, was over everyone, and then the exorciser became human, and jested deliciously till the early morning, when, as i went home through the still garrulous and peopled streets, i saw the last flutter of flags and streamers between night and dawn. all the world had been rioting for pleasure in the gross way of popular demonstrations; and in the very heart of this up-roar there had been, for a few people, this divine escape. no less magical, soothing, enchanting was the apparition, in queen's hall, ten years later, of this unchanged creature with the tortured burne-jones face, level and bewildering eyes, the web of gold hair still poised like a halo. beauty grew up around him like a sudden, exuberant growth, more vigorous and from a deeper root than before. i realised, more than ever, how the musician had always been the foundation of the virtuoso. i have used the word apparition advisedly. there is something, not only in the aspect of paderewski, which seems to come mysteriously, but full of light, from a great distance. he startles music into a surprised awakening. the art of paderewski recalls to me the art of the most skilled and the most distinguished of equilibrists, himself a pole, paul cinquevalli. people often speak, wrongly, of paderewski's skill as acrobatic. the word conveys some sense of disparagement and, so used, is inaccurate. but there is much in common between two forms of an art in which physical dexterity counts for so much, and that passionate precision to which error must be impossible. it is the same kind of joy that you get from cinquevalli when he juggles with cannon-balls and from paderewski when he brings a continuous thunder out of the piano. other people do the same things, but no else can handle thunder or a cannon-ball delicately. and paderewski, in his absolute mastery of his instrument, seems to do the most difficult things without difficulty, with a scornful ease, an almost accidental quality which, found in perfection, marvellously decorates it. it is difficult to imagine that anyone since liszt has had so complete a mastery of every capacity of the piano, and liszt, though probably even more brilliant, can hardly be imagined with this particular kind of charm. his playing is in the true sense an inspiration; he plays nothing as if he had learned it with toil, but as if it had come to him out of a kind of fiery meditation. even his thunder is not so much a thing specially cultivated for its own sake as a single prominent detail in a vast accomplishment. when he plays, the piano seems to become thrillingly and tempestuously alive, as if brother met brother in some joyous triumph. he collaborates with it, urging it to battle like a war-horse. and the quality of the sonority which he gets out of it is unlike that which is teased or provoked from the instrument by any other player. fierce exuberant delight wakens under his fingers, in which there is a sensitiveness almost impatient, and under his feet, which are as busy as an organist's with the pedals. the music leaps like pouring water, flood after flood of sound, caught together and flung onward by a central energy. the separate notes are never picked out and made into ornaments; all the expression goes to passage after passage, realised acutely in their sequence. where others give you hammering on an anvil, he gives you thunder as if heard through clouds. and he is full of leisure and meditation, brooding thoughtfully over certain exquisite things as if loth to let them pass over and be gone. and he seems to play out of a dream, in which the fingers are secondary to the meaning, but report that meaning with entire felicity. in the playing of the "moonlight" sonata there was no paderewski, there was nothing but beethoven. the finale, of course, was done with the due brilliance, the executant's share in a composition not written for modern players. but what was wonderful, for its reverence, its perfection of fidelity, was the playing of the slow movement and of the little sharp movement which follows, like the crying and hopping of a bird. the ear waited, and was satisfied in every shade of anticipation; nothing was missed, nothing was added; the pianist was as it were a faithful and obedient shadow. as you listened you forgot technique, or that it was anybody in particular who was playing: the sonata was there, with all its moonlight, as every lover of beethoven had known that it existed. before the beethoven there had been a "variation and fugue on an original theme," in which paderewski played his own music, really as if he were improvising it there and then. i am not sure that that feeling is altogether to the credit of the music, which, as i heard it for the first time, seemed almost too perilously effective, in its large contrasts, its liszt-like succession of contradictory moods. sound was evoked that it might swell and subside like waves, break suddenly, and die out in a white rain of stinging foam. pauses, surprises, all were delicately calculated and the weaver of these bewildered dreams seemed to watch over them like a loge of celestial ingenuity. when the actual liszt came, the interminable sonata in b minor, in which the sugar and the fire are so strangely mixed, it was as if paderewski were still playing his own music. if ever there was a show piece for the piano, this was it, and if ever there was a divine showman for it, it was paderewski. you felt at once the personal sympathy of the great pianist for the great pianist. he was no longer reverential, as with beethoven, not doing homage but taking part, sharing almost in a creation, comet-like, of stars in the sky. nothing in the bravura disconcerted or even displeased him, no lack of coherence or obviousness in contrasts disturbed him; what was loud, boisterous, explosive, he tossed about as in a colossal game, he bathed luxuriously in what was luscious in the melodies, giving them almost more than their real worth by the delighted skill with which he set them singing. a more astonishing, a more convincing, a more overwhelming tour de force could hardly be achieved on the piano: could an eruption of vesuvius be more spectacularly magnificent? liszt's music for the piano was written for a pianist who could do anything that has ever been done with the instrument, and the result is not so wholly satisfactory as in the ease of chopin, who, with a smaller technique, knew more of the secret of music. chopin never dazzles, liszt blinds. it is a question if he ever did full justice to his own genius, which was partly that of an innovator, and people are only now beginning to do justice to what was original as well as fine in his work. how many ideas wagner caught from him, in his shameless transfiguring triumphant way! the melody of the flower-maidens, for instance, in "parsifal," is borrowed frankly from a tone-poem of liszt in which it is no more than a thin, rocking melody, without any of the mysterious fascination that wagner put into it. but in writing for the piano liszt certainly remembered that it was he, and not some unknown person, who was to play these hard and showy rhapsodies, in which there are no depths, though there are splendours. that is why liszt is the test rather of the virtuoso than of the interpreter, why, therefore, it was so infinitely more important that paderewski should have played the beethoven sonata as impersonally as he did than that he should have played the liszt sonata with so much personal abandonment. between those limits there seems to be contained the whole art of the pianist, and paderewski has attained both limits. after his concert was over, paderewski gave seven encores, in the midst of an enthusiasm which recurs whenever and wherever he gives a concert. what is the peculiar quality in this artist which acts always with the same intoxicating effect? is it anything quite normal in his fingers, or is it, in the image of a brilliant and fantastic writer on music in america, mr. james huneker, a soul like the soul of belus, "the raphael of the piano," which, "suspended above him, like a coat of many colors," mesmerises the audience, while he sits motionless, not touching the notes? is paderewski after all a belus? is it his many coloured soul that "magnetises our poor vertebras," in verlaine's phrase, and not the mere skill of his fingers? art, it has been said, is contagious, and to compel universal sympathy is to succeed in the last requirements of an art. of what difference is it whether, like keats, he perpetuates his personal magnetism in a stanza, or, like paderewski, sheds it, like a perfume, for that passing moment which is all the eternity ever given to the creator of beautiful sounds? a reflection at a dolmetsch concert the interpreter of ancient music, arnold dolmetsch, is one of those rare magicians who are able to make roses blossom in mid-winter. while music has been modernising itself until the piano becomes an orchestra, and berlioz requires four orchestras to obtain a pianissimo, this strange man of genius has quietly gone back a few centuries and discovered for himself an exquisite lost world, which was disappearing like a fresco peeling off a wall. he has burrowed in libraries and found unknown manuscripts like a savant, he has worked at misunderstood notations and found out a way of reading them like a cryptogrammatist, he has first found out how to restore and then how to make over again harpsichord, and virginals, and clavichord, and all those instruments which had become silent curiosities in museums. it is only beginning to be realised, even by musical people, that the clavecin music of, for instance, bach, loses at least half its charm, almost its identity, when played on the modern grand piano; that the exquisite music of rameau and couperin, the brilliant and beautiful music of scarlatti, is almost inaudible on everything but the harpsichord and the viols; and that there exists, far earlier than these writers, a mass of english and italian music of extreme beauty, which has never been spoiled on the piano because it has never been played on it. to any one who has once touched a spinet, harpsichord, or clavichord, the piano must always remain a somewhat inadequate instrument; lacking in the precision, the penetrating charm, the infinite definite reasons for existence of those instruments of wires and jacks and quills which its metallic rumble has been supposed so entirely to have superseded. as for the clavichord, to have once touched it, feeling the softness with which one's fingers make their own music, like wind among the reeds, is to have lost something of one's relish even for the music of the violin, which is also a windy music, but the music of wind blowing sharply among the trees. it is on such instruments that mr. dolmetsch plays to us; and he plays to us also on the lute, the theorbo, the viola da gamba, the viola d'amore, and i know not how many varieties of those stringed instruments which are most familiar to most of us from the early italian pictures in which whimsical little angels with crossed legs hold them to their chins. mr. dolmetsch is, i suppose, the only living man who can read lute-music and play on the lute, an instrument of extraordinary beauty, which was once as common in england as the guitar still is in spain. and, having made with his own hands the materials of the music which he has recovered from oblivion, he has taught himself and he has taught others to play this music on these instruments and to sing it to their accompaniment. in a music room, which is really the living room of a house, with viols hanging on the walls, a chamber-organ in one corner, a harpsichord in another, a clavichord laid across the arms of a chair, this music seems to carry one out of the world, and shut one in upon a house of dreams, full of intimate and ghostly voices. it is a house of peace, where music is still that refreshment which it was before it took fever, and became accomplice and not minister to the nerves, and brought the clamour of the world into its seclusion. go from a concert at dolmetsch's to a tschaikowsky concert at the queen's hall. tschaikowsky is a debauch, not so much passionate as feverish. the rushing of his violins, like the rushing of an army of large winged birds; the thud, snap, and tingle of his strange orchestra; the riotous image of russian peasants leaping and hopping in their country dances, which his dance measures call up before one; those sweet solid harmonies in which (if i may quote the voluptuous phrase of a woman) one sets one's teeth as into nougat; all this is like a very material kind of pleasure, in which the senses for a moment forget the soul. for a moment only, for is it not the soul, a kind of discontented crying out against pleasure and pain, which comes back distressingly into this after all pathetic music? all modern music is pathetic; discontent (so much idealism as that!) has come into all modern music, that it may be sharpened and disturbed enough to fix our attention. and tschaikowsky speaks straight to the nerves, with that touch of unmanliness which is another characteristic of modern art. there is a vehement and mighty sorrow in the passion music of bach, by the side of which the grief of tschaikowsky is like the whimpering of a child. he is unconscious of reticence, unconscious of self-control. he is unhappy, and he weeps floods of tears, beats his breast, curses the daylight; he sees only the misery of the moment, and he sees the misery of the moment as a thing endless and overwhelming. the child who has broken his toy can realise nothing in the future but a passionate regret for the toy. in tschaikowsky there is none of the quieting of thought. the only healing for our nerves lies in abstract thought, and he can never get far enough from his nerves to look calmly at his own discontent. all those wild, broken rhythms, rushing this way and that, are letting out his secret all the time: "i am unhappy, and i know not why i am unhappy; i want, but i know not what i want." in the most passionate and the most questioning music of wagner there is always air; tschaikowsky is suffocating. it is himself that he pities so much, and not himself because he shares in the general sorrow of the world. to tristan and isolde the whole universe is an exultant and martyred sharer in their love; they know only the absolute. even suffering does not bring nobility to tschaikowsky. to pass from wagner to tschaikowsky, from "parsifal" to the pathetic symphony, is like passing from a church in which priests are offering mass to a hut in which peasants are quarrelling, dancing, and making love. tschaikowsky has both force and sincerity, but it is the force and sincerity of a ferocious child. he takes the orchestra in both hands, tears it to pieces, catches up a fragment of it here, a fragment of it there, masters it like an enemy; he makes it do what he wants. but he uses his fist where wagner touches with the tips of his fingers; he shows ill-breeding after the manners of the supreme gentleman. wagner can use the whole strength of the orchestra, and not make a noise: he never ends on a bang. but tschaikowsky loves noise for its own sake; he likes to pound the drum, and to hear the violins running up and down scales like acrobats. wagner takes his rhythms from the sea, as in "tristan," from fire, as in parts of the "ring," from light, as in "parsifal." but tschaikowsky deforms the rhythms of nature with the caprices of half-civilised impulses. he puts the frog-like dancing of the russian peasant into his tunes; he cries and roars like a child in a rage. he gives himself to you just as he is; he is immensely conscious of himself and of his need to take you into his confidence. in your delight at finding any one so alive, you are inclined to welcome him without reserve, and to forget that a man of genius is not necessarily a great artist, and that, if he is not a great artist, he is not a satisfactory man of genius. i contrast him with wagner because it seems to me that wagner, alone among quite modern musicians, and though indeed he appeals to our nerves more forcibly than any of them, has that breadth and universality by which emotion ceases to be merely personal and becomes elemental. to the musicians of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, music was an art which had to be carefully guarded from the too disturbing presence of emotion; emotion is there always, whenever the music is fine music; but the music is something much more than a means for the expression of emotion. it is a pattern, its beauty lies in its obedience to a law, it is music made for music's sake, with what might be called a more exclusive devotion to art than that of our modern musician. this music aims at the creation of beauty in sound; it conceives of beautiful sound as a thing which cannot exist outside order and measure; it has not yet come to look upon transgression as an essential part of liberty. it does not even desire liberty, but is content with loving obedience. it can express emotion, but it will never express an emotion carried to that excess at which the modern idea of emotion begins. thus, for all its suggestions of pain, grief, melancholy, it will remain, for us at least, happy music, voices of a house of peace. is there, in the future of music, after it has expressed for us all our emotions, and we are tired of our emotions, and weary enough to be content with a little rest, any likelihood of a return to this happy music, into which beauty shall come without the selfishness of desire? the dramatisation of song all art is a compromise, in which the choice of what is to be foregone must be left somewhat to the discretion of nature. when the sculptor foregoes colour, when the painter foregoes relief, when the poet foregoes the music which soars beyond words and the musician that precise meaning which lies in words alone, he follows a kind of necessity in things, and the compromise seems to be ready-made for him. but there will always be those who are discontented with no matter what fixed limits, who dream, like wagner, of a possible, or, like mallarmé, of an impossible, fusion of the arts. these would invent for themselves a compromise which has not yet come into the world, a gain without loss, a re-adjustment in which the scales shall bear so much additional weight without trembling. but nature is not always obedient to this too autocratic command. take the art of the voice. in its essence, the art of the voice is the same in the nightingale and in melba. the same note is produced in the same way; the expression given to that note, the syllable which that note renders, are quite different things. song does not in itself require words in order to realise even the utmost of its capacities. the voice is an instrument like the violin, and no more in need of words for its expression than the violin. perhaps the ideal of singing would be attained when a marvellous voice, which had absorbed into itself all that temperament and training had to give it, sang inarticulate music, like a violin which could play itself. there is nothing which such an instrument could not express, nothing which exists as pure music; and, in this way, we should have the art of the voice, with the least possible compromise. the compromise is already far on its way when words begin to come into the song. here are two arts helping one another; something is gained, but how much is lost? undoubtedly the words lose, and does not the voice lose something also, in its directness of appeal? add acting to voice and words, and you get the ultimate compromise, opera, in which other arts as well have their share and in which wagner would have us see the supreme form of art. again something is lost; we lose more and more, perhaps for a greater gain. tristan sings lying on his back, in order to represent a sick man; the actual notes which he sings are written partly in order to indicate the voice of a sick man. for the sake of what we gain in dramatic and even theatrical expressiveness, we have lost a two-fold means of producing vocal beauty. let us rejoice in the gain, by all means; but not without some consciousness of the loss, not with too ready a belief that the final solution of the problem has been found. an attempt at some solution is, at this moment, being made in paris by a singer who is not content to be carmen or charlotte corday, but who wants to invent a method of her own for singing and acting at the same time, not as a character in an opera, but as a private interpreter between poetry and the world. imagine a woman who suggests at the same time sarah bernhardt and mrs. brown-potter, without being really like either; she is small, exuberantly blonde, her head is surrounded by masses of loosely twisted blonde hair; she has large grey eyes, that can be grave, or mocking, or passionate, or cruel, or watchful; a large nose, an intent, eloquent mouth. she wears a trailing dress that follows the lines of the figure vaguely, supple to every movement. when she sings, she has an old, high-backed chair in which she can sit, or on which she can lean. when i heard her, there was a mirror on the other side of the room, opposite to her; she saw no one else in the room, once she had surrendered herself to the possession of the song, but she was always conscious of that image of herself which came back to her out of the mirror: it was herself watching herself, in a kind of delight at the beauty which she was evoking out of words, notes, and expressive movement. her voice is strong and rich, imperfectly trained, but the voice of a born singer; her acting is even more the acting of a born actress; but it is the temperament of the woman that flames into her voice and gestures, and sets her whole being violently and delicately before you. she makes a drama of each song, and she re-creates that drama over again, in her rendering of the intentions of the words and of the music. it is as much with her eyes and her hands, as with her voice, that she evokes the melody of a picture; it is a picture that sings, and that sings in all its lines. there is something in her aspect, what shall i call it? tenacious; it is a woman who is an artist because she is a woman, who takes in energy at all her senses and gives out energy at all her senses. she sang some tragic songs of schumann, some mysterious songs of maeterlinck, some delicate love-songs of charles van lerberghe. as one looked and listened it was impossible to think more of the words than of the music or of the music than of the words. one took them simultaneously, as one feels at once the softness and the perfume of a flower. i understood why mallarmé had seemed to see in her the realisation of one of his dreams. here was a new art, made up of a new mixing of the arts, in one subtly intoxicating elixir. to mallarmé it was the more exquisite because there was in it none of the broad general appeal of opera, of the gross recognised proportions of things. this dramatisation of song, done by any one less subtly, less completely, and less sincerely an artist, would lead us, i am afraid, into something more disastrous than even the official concert, with its rigid persons in evening dress holding sheets of music in their tremulous hands, and singing the notes set down for them to the best of their vocal ability. madame georgette leblanc is an exceptional artist, and she has made an art after her own likeness, which exists because it is the expression of herself, of a strong nature always in vibration. what she feels as a woman she can render as an artist; she is at once instinctive and deliberate, deliberate because it is her natural instinct, the natural instinct of a woman who is essentially a woman, to be so. i imagine her always singing in front of a mirror, always recognising her own shadow there, and the more absolutely abandoned to what the song is saying through her because of that uninterrupted communion with herself. the meiningen orchestra other orchestras give performances, readings, approximations; the meiningen orchestra gives an interpretation, that is, the thing itself. when this orchestra plays a piece of music every note lives, and not, as with most orchestras, every particularly significant note. brahms is sometimes dull, but he is never dull when these people play him; schubert is sometimes tame, but not when they play him. what they do is precisely to put vitality into even those parts of a composition in which it is scarcely present, or scarcely realisable; and that is a much more difficult thing, and really a more important thing, for the proper appreciation of music, than the heightening of what is already fine, and obviously fine in itself. and this particular quality of interpretation has its value too as criticism. for, while it gives the utmost value to what is implicitly there, there at least in embryo, it cannot create out of nothing; it cannot make insincere work sincere, or fill empty work with meaning which never could have belonged to it. brahms, at his moments of least vitality, comes into a new vigour of life; but strauss, played by these sincere, precise, thoughtful musicians shows, as he never could show otherwise, the distance at which his lively spectre stands from life. when i heard the "don juan," which i had heard twice before, and liked less the second time than the first, i realised finally the whole strain, pretence, and emptiness of the thing. played with this earnest attention to the meaning of every note, it was like a trivial drama when duse acts it; it went to pieces through being taken at its own word. it was as if a threadbare piece of stuff were held up to the full sunlight; you saw every stitch that was wanting. the "don juan" was followed by the entr'acte and ballet music from "rosamunde," and here the same sunlight was no longer criticism, but rather an illumination. i have never heard any music more beautifully played. i could only think of the piano playing of pachmann. the faint, delicate music just came into existence, breathed a little, and was gone. here for once was an orchestra which could literally be overheard. the overture to the "meistersinger" followed, and here, for the first time, i got, quite flawless and uncontradictory, the two impressions which that piece presents to one simultaneously. i heard the unimpeded march forward, and i distinguished at the same time every delicate impediment thronging the way. some renderings give you a sense of solidity and straightforward movement; others of the elaborate and various life which informs this so solid structure. here one got the complete thing, completely rendered. i could not say the same of the rendering of the overture to "tristan." here the notes, all that was so to speak merely musical in the music, were given their just expression; but the something more, the vast heave and throb of the music, was not there. it was "classical" rendering of what is certainly not "classical" music. hear that overture as richter gives it, and you will realise just where the meiningen orchestra is lacking. it has the kind of energy which is required to render beethoven's multitudinous energy, or the energy which can be heavy and cloudy in brahms, or like overpowering light in bach, or, in wagner himself, an energy which works within known limits, as in the overture to the "meistersinger." but that wholly new, and somewhat feverish, overwhelming quality which we find in the music of "tristan" meets with something less than the due response. it is a quality which people used to say was not musical at all, a quality which does not appeal certainly to the musical sense alone: for the rendering of that we must go to richter. otherwise, in that third concert it would he difficult to say whether schumann, brahms, mozart, or beethoven was the better rendered. perhaps one might choose mozart for pure pleasure. it was the "serenade" for wind instruments, and it seemed, played thus perfectly, the most delightful music in the world. the music of mozart is, no doubt, the most beautiful music in the world. when i heard the serenade i thought of coventry patmore's epithet, actually used, i think, about mozart: "glittering peace." schumann, brahms, wagner, and beethoven all seemed for the moment to lose a little of their light under this pure and tranquil and unwavering "glitter." i hope i shall never hear the "serenade" again, for i shall never hear it played as these particular players played it. the meiningen orchestra is famous for its wind, and when, at the first concert, i heard beethoven's rondino for wind instruments, it seemed to me that i was hearing brass for the first time as i had imagined brass ought to sound. here was, not so much a new thing which one had never thought possible, as that precise thing which one's ears had expected, and waited for, and never heard. one quite miraculous thing these wind players certainly did, in common, however, with the whole orchestra. and that was to give an effect of distance, as if the sound came actually from beyond the walls. i noticed it first in the overture to "leonore," the first piece which they played; an unparalleled effect and one of surprising beauty. another matter for which the meiningen orchestra is famous is its interpretation of the works of brahms. at each concert some fine music of brahms was given finely, but it was not until the fourth concert that i realised, on hearing the third symphony, everything of which brahms was capable. it may be that a more profound acquaintance with his music would lead me to add other things to this thing as the finest music which he ever wrote; but the third symphony certainly revealed to me, not altogether a new, but a complete brahms. it had all his intellect and something more; thought had taken fire, and become a kind of passion. mozart in the mirabell-garten they are giving a cycle of mozart operas at munich, at the hof-theater, to follow the wagner operas at the prinz-regenten-theatre; and i stayed, on my way to salzburg, to hear "die zauberflöte." it was perfectly given, with a small, choice orchestra under herr zumpe, and with every part except the tenor's admirably sung and acted. herr julius zarest, from hanover, was particularly good as papageno; the eva of "die meistersinger" made an equally good pamina. and it was staged under herr von possart's direction, as suitably and as successfully, in its different way, as the wagner opera had been. the sombre egyptian scenes of this odd story, with its menagerie and its pantomime transformation, were turned into a thrilling spectacle, and by means of nothing but a little canvas and paint and limelight. it could have cost very little, compared with an english shakespeare revival, let us say; but how infinitely more spectacular, in the good sense, it was! every effect was significant, perfectly in its place, doing just what it had to do, and without thrusting itself forward for separate admiration. german art of to-day is all decorative, and it is at its best when it is applied to the scenery of the stage. its fault, in serious painting, is that it is too theatrical, it is too anxious to be full of too many qualities besides the qualities of good painting. it is too emphatic, it is meant for artificial light. if franz stuck would paint for the stage, instead of using his vigorous brush to paint nature without distinction and nightmares without imagination on easel-canvases, he would do, perhaps rather better, just what these scene-painters do, with so much skill and taste. they have the sense of effective decoration; and german art, at present, is almost wholly limited to that sense. i listened, with the full consent of my eyes, to the lovely music, which played round the story like light transfiguring a masquerade; and now, by a lucky chance, i can brood over it here in salzburg, where mozart was born, where he lived, where the house in which he wrote the opera is to be seen, a little garden-house brought over from vienna and set down where it should always have been, high up among the pinewoods of the capuzinerberg. i find myself wondering how much mozart took to himself, how much went to his making, in this exquisite place, set in a hollow of great hills, from which, if you look down upon it, it has the air of a little toy town out of a noah's ark, set square in a clean, trim, perfectly flat map of meadows, with its flat roofs, packed close together on each side of a long, winding river, which trails across the whole breadth of the plain. from the midst of the town you look up everywhere at heights; rocks covered with pine-trees, beyond them hills hooded with white clouds, great soft walls of darkness, on which the mist is like the bloom of a plum; and, right above you, the castle, on its steep rock swathed in trees, with its grey walls and turrets, like the castle which one has imagined for all the knights of all the romances. all this, no doubt, entered into the soul of mozart, and had its meaning for him; but where i seem actually to see him, where i can fancy him walking most often, and hearing more sounds than elsewhere come to him through his eyes and his senses, in the mirabell-garten, which lies behind the palace built by an archbishop of salzburg in the seventeenth century, and which is laid out in the conventional french fashion, with a harmony that i find in few other gardens. i have never walked in a garden which seemed to keep itself so reticently within its own severe and gracious limits. the trees themselves seem to grow naturally into the pattern of this garden, with its formal alleys, in which the birds fly in and out of the trellised roofs, its square-cut bushes, its low stone balustrades, its tall urns out of which droop trails of pink and green, its round flower-beds, each of a single colour, set at regular intervals on the grass, its tiny fountain dripping faintly into a green and brown pool; the long, sad lines of the archbishop's palace, off which the brown paint is peeling; the whole sad charm, dainty melancholy, formal beauty, and autumnal air of it. it was in the mirabell-garten that i seemed nearest to mozart. the music of mozart, as one hears it in "die zauberflöte," is music without desire, music content with beauty, and to be itself. it has the firm outlines of dürer or of botticelli, with the same constraint within a fixed form, if one compares it with the titian-like freedom and splendour of wagner. in hearing mozart i saw botticelli's "spring"; in hearing wagner i had seen the titian "scourging of christ." mozart has what coventry patmore called "a glittering peace": to patmore that quality distinguished supreme art, and, indeed, the art of mozart is, in its kind, supreme. it has an adorable purity of form, and it has no need to look outside those limits which it has found or fixed for itself. mozart cares little, as a rule, for what he has to express; but he cares infinitely for the way in which he expresses everything, and, through the mere emotional power of the notes themselves, he conveys to us all that he cares to convey: awe, for instance, in those solemn scenes of the priests of isis. he is a magician, who plays with his magic, and can be gay, out of mere pleasant idleness, fooling with papagenus as shakespeare fools in "twelfth-night." "die zauberflöte" is really a very fine kind of pantomime, to which music lends itself in the spirit of the thing, yet without condescending to be grotesque. the duet of papagenus and papagena is absolutely comic, but it is as lovely as a duet of two birds, of less flaming feather. as the lovers ascend through fires and floods, only the piping of the magic flute is heard in the orchestra: imagine wagner threading it into the web of a great orchestral pattern! for mozart it was enough, and for his art, it was enough. he gives you harmony which does not need to mean anything outside itself, in order to be supremely beautiful; and he gives you beauty with a certain exquisite formality, not caring to go beyond the lines which contain that reticent, sufficient charm of the mirabell-garten. notes on wagner at bayreuth i. bayreuth and munich bayreuth is wagner's creation in the world of action, as the music-dramas are his creation in the world of art; and it is a triumph not less decisive, in its transposition of dream into reality. remember that every artist, in every art, has desired his own bayreuth, and that only wagner has attained it. who would not rather remain at home, receiving the world, than go knocking, humbly or arrogantly, at many doors, offering an entertainment, perhaps unwelcome? the artist must always be at cautious enmity with his public, always somewhat at its mercy, even after he has conquered its attention. the crowd never really loves art, it resents art as a departure from its level of mediocrity; and fame comes to an artist only when there is a sufficient number of intelligent individuals in the crowd to force their opinion upon the resisting mass of the others, in the form of a fashion which it is supposed to be unintelligent not to adopt. bayreuth exists because wagner willed that it should exist, and because he succeeded in forcing his ideas upon a larger number of people of power and action than any other artist of our time. wagner always got what he wanted, not always when he wanted it. he had a king on his side, he had liszt on his side, the one musician of all others who could do most for him; he had the necessary enemies, besides the general resistance of the crowd; and at last he got his theatre, not in time to see the full extent of his own triumph in it, but enough, i think, to let him die perfectly satisfied. he had done what he wanted: there was the theatre, and there were his works, and the world had learnt where to come when it was called. and there is now a new bayreuth, where, almost as well as at bayreuth itself, one can see and hear wagner's music as wagner wished it to be seen and heard. the square, plain, grey and green prinz-regenten theatre at munich is an improved copy of the theatre at bayreuth, with exactly the same ampitheatrical arrangement of seats, the same invisible orchestra and vast stage. everything is done as at bayreuth: there are even the three "fanfaren" at the doors, with the same punctual and irrevocable closing of the doors at the beginning of each act. as at bayreuth, the solemnity of the whole thing makes one almost nervous, for the first few minutes of each act; but, after that, how near one is, in this perfectly darkened, perfectly quiet theatre, in which the music surges up out of the "mystic gulf," and the picture exists in all the ecstasy of a picture on the other side of it, beyond reality, how near one is to being alone, in the passive state in which the flesh is able to endure the great burdening and uplifting of vision. there are thus now two theatres in the world in which music and drama can be absorbed, and not merely guessed at. ii. the lesson of parsifal the performance of "parsifal," as i saw it at bayreuth, seemed to me the most really satisfying performance i had ever seen in a theatre; and i have often, since then, tried to realise for myself exactly what it was that one might learn from that incarnation of the ideas, the theoretical ideas, of wagner. the music itself has the abstract quality of coventry patmore's odes. i cannot think of it except in terms of sight. light surges up out of it, as out of unformed depths; light descends from it, as from the sky; it breaks into flashes and sparkles of light, it broadens out into a vast sea of light. it is almost metaphysical music; pure ideas take visible form, humanise themselves in a new kind of ecstasy. the ecstasy has still a certain fever in it; these shafts of light sometimes pierce the soul like a sword; it is not peace, the peace of bach, to whom music can give all he wants; it is the unsatisfied desire of a kind of flesh of the spirit, and music is but a voice. "parsifal" is religious music, but it is the music of a religion which had never before found expression. i have found in a motet of vittoria one of the motives of "parsifal," almost note for note, and there is no doubt that wagner owed much to palestrina and his school. but even the sombre music of vittoria does not plead and implore like wagner's. the outcry comes and goes, not only with the suffering of amfortas, the despair of kundry. this abstract music has human blood in it. what wagner has tried to do is to unite mysticism and the senses, to render mysticism through the senses. mr. watts-dunton has pointed out that that is what rossetti tried to do in painting. that mysterious intensity of expression which we see in the faces of rossetti's latest pictures has something of the same appeal as the insatiable crying-out of a carnal voice, somewhere in the depths of wagner's latest music. in "parsifal," more perhaps than anywhere else in his work, wagner realised the supreme importance of monotony, the effect that could be gained by the incessant repetition of a few ideas. all that music of the closing scene of the first act is made out of two or three phrases, and it is by the finest kind of invention that those two or three phrases are developed, and repeated, and woven together into so splendid a tissue. and, in the phrases themselves, what severity, what bareness almost! it is in their return upon themselves, their weighty reiterance, that their force and significance become revealed; and if, as nietzsche says, they end by hypnotising us, well, all art is a kind of hypnotic process, a cunning absorption of the will of another. "parsifal" presents itself as before all things a picture. the music, soaring up from hidden depths, and seeming to drop from the heights, and be reflected back from shining distances, though it is, more than anything i have ever heard, like one of the great forces of nature, the sea or the wind, itself makes pictures, abstract pictures; but even the music, as one watches the stage, seems to subordinate itself to the visible picture there. and, so perfectly do all the arts flow into one, the picture impresses one chiefly by its rhythm, the harmonies of its convention. the lesson of "parsifal" is the lesson that, in art, rhythm is everything. every moment in the acting of this drama makes a picture, and every movement is slow, deliberate, as if automatic. no actor makes a gesture, which has not been regulated for him; there is none of that unintelligent haphazard known as being "natural"; these people move like music, or with that sense of motion which it is the business of painting to arrest. gesture being a part of a picture, how should it but be settled as definitely, for that pictorial effect which all action on the stage is (more or less unconsciously) striving after, as if it were the time of a song, or the stage direction: "cross stage to right"? also, every gesture is slow; even despair having its artistic limits, its reticence. it is difficult to express the delight with which one sees, for the first time, people really motionless on the stage. after all, action, as it has been said, is only a way of spoiling something. the aim of the modern stage, of all drama, since the drama of the greeks, is to give a vast impression of bustle, of people who, like most people in real life, are in a hurry about things; and our actors, when they are not making irrelevant speeches, are engaged in frantically trying to make us see that they are feeling acute emotion, by i know not what restlessness, contortion, and ineffectual excitement. if it were once realised how infinitely more important are the lines in the picture than these staccato extravagances which do but aim at tearing it out of its frame, breaking violently through it, we should have learnt a little, at least, of what the art of the stage should be, of what wagner has shown us that it can be. distance from the accidents of real life, atmosphere, the space for a new, fairer world to form itself, being of the essence of wagner's representation, it is worth noticing how adroitly he throws back this world of his, farther and farther into the background, by a thousand tricks of lighting, the actual distance of the stage from the proscenium, and by such calculated effects, as that long scene of the graal, with its prolonged movement and ritual, through the whole of which parsifal stands motionless, watching it all. how that solitary figure at the side, merely looking on, though, unknown to himself, he is the centre of the action, also gives one the sense of remoteness, which it was wagner's desire to produce, throwing back the action into a reflected distance, as we watch someone on the stage who is watching it! the beauty of this particular kind of acting and staging is of course the beauty of convention. the scenery, for instance, with what an enchanting leisure it merely walks along before one's eyes, when a change is wanted! convention, here as in all plastic art, is founded on natural truth very closely studied. the rose is first learned, in every wrinkle of its petals, petal by petal, before that reality is elaborately departed from, in order that a new, abstract beauty may be formed out of those outlines, all but those outlines being left out. and "parsifal," which is thus solemnly represented before us, has in it, in its very essence, that hieratic character which it is the effort of supreme art to attain. at times one is reminded of the most beautiful drama in the world, the indian drama "sakuntala": in that litter of leaves, brought in so touchingly for the swan's burial, in the old hermit watering his flowers. there is something of the same universal tenderness, the same religious linking together of all the world, in some vague enough, but very beautiful, pantheism. i think it is beside the question to discuss how far wagner's intentions were technically religious: how far parsifal himself is either christ or buddha, and how far kundry is a new magdalen. wagner's mind was the mind to which all legend is sacred, every symbol of divine things to be held in reverence; but symbol, with him, was after all a means to an end, and could never have been accepted as really an end in itself. i should say that in "parsifal" he is profoundly religious, but not because he intended, or did not intend, to shadow the christian mysteries. his music, his acting, are devout, because the music has a disembodied ecstasy, and the acting a noble rhythm, which can but produce in us something of the solemnity of sensation produced by the service of the mass, and are in themselves a kind of religious ceremonial. iii. the art of wagner in saying, as we may truly say, that wagner made music pictorial, it should be remembered that there is nothing new in the aim, only in the continuity of its success. haydn, in his "creation," evoked landscapes, giving them precision by an almost mechanical imitation of cuckoo and nightingale. trees had rustled and water flowed in the music of every composer. but with wagner it may be said that the landscape of his music moves before our eyes as clearly as the moving scenery with which he does but accentuate it; and it is always there, not a decor, but a world, the natural world in the midst of which his people of the drama live their passionate life, and a world in sympathy with all their passion. and in his audible representation of natural sounds and natural sights he does, consummately, what others have only tried, more or less well, to do. when, in the past at least, the critics objected to the realism of his imitative effects, they forgot that all other composers, at one time or another, had tried to be just as imitative, but had not succeeded so well in their imitations. wagner, in his painting, is the turner of music. he brings us nature, heroically exalted, full of fiery splendour, but nature as if caught in a mirror, not arranged, subdued, composed, for the frame of a picture. he is afraid of no realism, however mean, because he has confidence in nature as it is, apprehended with all the clairvoyance of emotion. between the abyss of the music, out of which the world rises up with all its voices, and the rocks and clouds, in which the scenery carries us onward to the last horizon of the world, gods and men act out the brief human tragedy, as if on a narrow island in the midst of a great sea. a few steps this way or that will plunge them into darkness; the darkness awaits them, however they succeed or fail, whether they live nobly or ignobly, in the interval; but the interval absorbs them, as if it were to be eternity, and we see them rejoicing and suffering with an abandonment to the moment which intensifies the pathos of what we know is futile. love, in wagner, is so ecstatic and so terrible, because it must compass all its anguish and delight into an immortal moment, before which there is only a great darkness, and only a great darkness afterwards. sorrow is so lofty and so consoling because it is no less conscious of its passing hour. and meanwhile action is not everything, as it is for other makers of drama; is but one among many modes of the expression of life. those long narratives, which some find so tedious, so undramatic, are part of wagner's protest against the frequently false emphasis of action. in wagner anticipation and memory are seen to be often equally intense with the instant of realisation. siegfried is living with at least as powerful and significant a life when he lies under the trees listening to the song of the birds as when he is killing the dragon. and it is for this that the "motives," which are after all only the materialising of memory, were created by wagner. these motives, by which the true action of the drama expresses itself, are a symbol of the inner life, of its preponderance over outward event, and, in their guidance of the music, their indication of the real current of interest, have a spiritualising effect upon both music and action, instead of, as was once thought, materialising both. wagner's aim at expressing the soul of things is still further helped by his system of continuous, unresolved melody. the melody which circumscribes itself like giotto's _o_ is almost as tangible a thing as a statue; it has almost contour. but this melody afloat in the air, flying like a bird, without alighting for more than a moment's swaying poise, as the notes flit from strings to voice, and from voice to wood and wind, is more than a mere heightening of speech: it partakes of the nature of thought, but it is more than thought; it is the whole expression of the subconscious life, saying more of himself than any person of the drama has ever found in his own soul. it is here that wagner unites with the greatest dramatists, and distinguishes himself from the contemporary heresy of ibsen, whose only too probable people speak a language exactly on the level of their desks and their shop-counters. except in the "meistersinger," all wagner's personages are heroic, and for the most part those supreme sublimations of humanity, the people of legend, tannhauser, tristan, siegfried, parsifal, have at once all that is in humanity and more than is hi humanity. their place in a national legend permits them, without disturbing our critical sense of the probability of things, a superhuman passion; for they are ideals, this of chivalry, that of love, this of the bravery, that of the purity, of youth. yet wagner employs infinite devices to give them more and more of verisimilitude; modulating song, for instance, into a kind of chant which we can almost take for actual speech. it is thus the more interesting to note the point to which realism conducts him, the limit at which it stops, his conception of a spiritual reality which begins where realism leaves off. and, in his treatment of scenery also, we have to observe the admirable dexterity of his compromises. the supernatural is accepted frankly with almost the childish popular belief in a dragon rolling a loathly bulk painfully, and breathing smoke. but note that the dragon, when it is thrown back into the pit, falls without sound; note that the combats are without the ghastly and foolish modern tricks of blood and disfigurement; note how the crowds pose as in a good picture, with slow gestures, and without intrusive individual pantomime. as i have said in speaking of "parsifal," there is one rhythm throughout; music, action, speech, all obey it. when brünnhilde awakens after her long sleep, the music is an immense thanksgiving for light, and all her being finds expression in a great embracing movement towards the delight of day. siegfried stands silent for i know not what space of time; and it is in silence always, with a wave-like or flame-like music surging about them, crying out of the depths for them, that all the lovers in wagner love at first sight. tristan, when he has drunk the potion; siegmund, when sieglinde gives him to drink; siegfried, when brünnhilde awakens to the world and to him: it is always in the silence of rapture that love is given and returned. and the gesture, subdued into a gravity almost sorrowful (as if love and the thought of death came always together, the thought of the only ending of a mortal eternity), renders the inmost meaning of the music as no italian gesture, which is the vehemence of first thoughts and the excitement of the senses, could ever render it. that slow rhythm, which in wagner is like the rhythm of the world flowing onwards from its first breathing out of chaos, as we hear it in the opening notes of the "ring," seems to broaden outwards like ripples on an infinite sea, throughout the whole work of wagner. and now turn from this elemental music, in which the sense of all human things is expressed with the dignity of the elements themselves, to all other operatic music, in which, however noble the music as music (think of gluck, of mozart, of beethoven!), it is for the most part fettered to a little accidental comedy or tragedy, in which two lovers are jealous, or someone is wrongly imprisoned, or a libertine seduces a few women. here music is like a god speaking the language of savages, and lowering his supreme intellect to the level of their speech. the melodious voice remains, but the divine meaning has gone out of the words. only in wagner does god speak to men in his own language. conclusion a paradox on art is it not part of the pedantry of letters to limit the word art, a little narrowly, to certain manifestations of the artistic spirit, or, at all events, to set up a comparative estimate of the values of the several arts, a little unnecessarily? literature, painting, sculpture, music, these we admit as art, and the persons who work in them as artists; but dancing, for instance, in which the performer is at once creator and interpreter, and those methods of interpretation, such as the playing of musical instruments, or the conducting of an orchestra, or acting, have we scrupulously considered the degree to which these also are art, and their executants, in a strict sense, artists? if we may be allowed to look upon art as something essentially independent of its material, however dependent upon its own material each art may be, in a secondary sense, it will scarcely be logical to contend that the motionless and permanent creation of the sculptor in marble is, as art, more perfect than the same sculptor's modelling in snow, which, motionless one moment, melts the next, or than the dancer's harmonious succession of movements which we have not even time to realise individually before one is succeeded by another, and the whole has vanished from before our eyes. art is the creation of beauty in form, visible or audible, and the artist is the creator of beauty in visible or audible form. but beauty is infinitely various, and as truly beauty in the voice of sarah bernhardt or the silence of duse as in a face painted by leonardo or a poem written by blake. a dance, performed faultlessly and by a dancer of temperament, is as beautiful, in its own way, as a performance on the violin by ysaye or the effect of an orchestra conducted by richter. in each case the beauty is different, but, once we have really attained beauty, there can be no question of superiority. beauty is always equally beautiful; the degrees exist only when we have not yet attained beauty. and thus the old prejudice against the artist to whom interpretation in his own special form of creation is really based upon a misunderstanding. take the art of music. bach writes a composition for the violin: that composition exists, in the abstract, the moment it is written down upon paper, but, even to those trained musicians who are able to read it at sight, it exists in a state at best but half alive; to all the rest of the world it is silent. ysaye plays it on his violin, and the thing begins to breathe, has found a voice perhaps more exquisite than the sound which bach heard in his brain when he wrote down the notes. take the instrument out of ysaye's hands, and put it into the hands of the first violin in the orchestra behind him; every note will be the same, the same general scheme of expression may be followed, but the thing that we shall hear will be another thing, just as much bach, perhaps, but, because ysaye is wanting, not the work of art, the creation, to which we have just listened. that such art should be fragile, evanescent, leaving only a memory which can never be realised again, is as pathetic and as natural as that a beautiful woman should die young. to the actor, the dancer, the same fate is reserved. they work for the instant, and for the memory of the living, with a supremely prodigal magnanimity. old people tell us that they have seen desclée, taglioni; soon no one will be old enough to remember those great artists. then, if their renown becomes a matter of charity, of credulity, if you will, it will be but equal with the renown of all those poets and painters who are only names to us, or whose masterpieces have perished. beauty is infinitely various, always equally beautiful, and can never be repeated. gautier, in a famous poem, has wisely praised the artist who works in durable material: oui, l'oeuvre sort plus gelle d'une forme au travail rebelle, vers, marbre, onyx, émail. no, not more beautiful; only more lasting. tout passe. l'art robuste seul à l'éternité. le buste survit à la cité. well, after all, is there not, to one who regards it curiously, a certain selfishness, even, in this desire to perpetuate oneself or the work of one's hands; as the most austere saints have found selfishness at the root of the soul's too conscious, or too exclusive, longing after eternal life? to have created beauty for an instant is to have achieved an equal result in art with one who has created beauty which will last many thousands of years. art is concerned only with accomplishment, not with duration. the rest is a question partly of vanity, partly of business. an artist to whom posterity means anything very definite, and to whom the admiration of those who will live after him can seem to promise much warmth in the grave, may indeed refuse to waste his time, as it seems to him, over temporary successes. or he may shrink from the continuing ardour of one to whom art has to be made over again with the same energy, the same sureness, every time that he acts on the stage or draws music out of his instrument. one may indeed be listless enough to prefer to have finished one's work, and to be able to point to it, as it stands on its pedestal, or comes to meet all the world, with the democratic freedom of the book. all that is a natural feeling in the artist, but it has nothing to do with art. art has to do only with the creation of beauty, whether it be in words, or sounds, or colour, or outline, or rhythmical movement; and the man who writes music is no more truly an artist than the man who plays that music, the poet who composes rhythms in words no more truly an artist than the dancer who composes rhythms with the body, and the one is no more to be preferred to the other, than the painter is to be preferred to the sculptor, or the musician to the poet, in those forms of art which we have agreed to recognise as of equal value. by the same writer poems (collected edition in two volumes), . an introduction to the study of browning, , . aubrey beardsley, , . the symbolist movement in literature, , . cities, . studies in prose and verse, . a book of twenty songs, . spiritual adventures, . the fool of the world, and other poems, . studies in seven arts, . william blake, . cities of italy, . stage-land. by jerome k. jerome to that highly respectable but unnecessarily retiring individual, of whom we hear so much but see so little, "the earnest student of the drama," this (comparatively) truthful little book is lovingly dedicated. contents. the hero the villain the heroine the comic man the lawyer the adventuress the servant girl the child the comic lovers the peasants the good old man the irishman the detective the sailor stage-land. the hero. his name is george, generally speaking. "call me george!" he says to the heroine. she calls him george (in a very low voice, because she is so young and timid). then he is happy. the stage hero never has any work to do. he is always hanging about and getting into trouble. his chief aim in life is to be accused of crimes he has never committed, and if he can muddle things up with a corpse in some complicated way so as to get himself reasonably mistaken for the murderer, he feels his day has not been wasted. he has a wonderful gift of speech and a flow of language calculated to strike terror to the bravest heart. it is a grand thing to hear him bullyragging the villain. the stage hero is always entitled to "estates," chiefly remarkable for their high state of cultivation and for the eccentric ground plan of the "manor house" upon them. the house is never more than one story high, but it makes up in green stuff over the porch what it lacks in size and convenience. the chief drawback in connection with it, to our eyes, is that all the inhabitants of the neighboring village appear to live in the front garden, but the hero evidently thinks it rather nice of them, as it enables him to make speeches to them from the front doorstep--his favorite recreation. there is generally a public-house immediately opposite. this is handy. these "estates" are a great anxiety to the stage hero. he is not what you would call a business man, as far as we can judge, and his attempts to manage his own property invariably land him in ruin and distraction. his "estates," however, always get taken away from him by the villain before the first act is over, and this saves him all further trouble with regard to them until the end of the play, when he gets saddled with them once more. not but what it must be confessed that there is much excuse for the poor fellow's general bewilderment concerning his affairs and for his legal errors and confusions generally. stage "law" may not be quite the most fearful and wonderful mystery in the whole universe, but it's near it--very near it. we were under the impression at one time that we ourselves knew something--just a little--about statutory and common law, but after paying attention to the legal points of one or two plays we found that we were mere children at it. we thought we would not be beaten, and we determined to get to the bottom of stage law and to understand it; but after some six months' effort our brain (a singularly fine one) began to soften, and we abandoned the study, believing it would come cheaper in the end to offer a suitable reward, of about , pounds or , pounds, say, to any one who would explain it to us. the reward has remained unclaimed to the present day and is still open. one gentleman did come to our assistance a little while ago, but his explanations only made the matter more confusing to our minds than it was before. he was surprised at what he called our density, and said the thing was all clear and simple to him. but we discovered afterward that he was an escaped lunatic. the only points of stage "law" on which we are at all clear are as follows: that if a man dies without leaving a will, then all his property goes to the nearest villain. but if a man dies and leaves a will, then all his property goes to whoever can get possession of that will. that the accidental loss of the three-and-sixpenny copy of a marriage certificate annuls the marriage. that the evidence of one prejudiced witness of shady antecedents is quite sufficient to convict the most stainless and irreproachable gentleman of crimes for the committal of which he could have had no possible motive. but that this evidence may be rebutted years afterward, and the conviction quashed without further trial by the unsupported statement of the comic man. that if a forges b's name to a check, then the law of the land is that b shall be sentenced to ten years' penal servitude. that ten minutes' notice is all that is required to foreclose a mortgage. that all trials of criminal cases take place in the front parlor of the victim's house, the villain acting as counsel, judge, and jury rolled into one, and a couple of policemen being told off to follow his instructions. these are a few of the more salient features of stage "law" so far as we have been able to grasp it up to the present; but as fresh acts and clauses and modifications appear to be introduced for each new play, we have abandoned all hope of ever being able to really comprehend the subject. to return to our hero, the state of the law, as above sketched, naturally confuses him, and the villain, who is the only human being who does seem to understand stage legal questions, is easily able to fleece and ruin him. the simple-minded hero signs mortgages, bills of sale, deeds of gift, and such like things, under the impression that he is playing some sort of a round game; and then when he cannot pay the interest they take his wife and children away from him and turn him adrift into the world. being thrown upon his own resources, he naturally starves. he can make long speeches, he can tell you all his troubles, he can stand in the lime-light and strike attitudes, he can knock the villain down, and he can defy the police, but these requirements are not much in demand in the labor market, and as they are all he can do or cares to do, he finds earning his living a much more difficult affair than he fancied. there is a deal too much hard work about it for him. he soon gives up trying it at all, and prefers to eke out an uncertain existence by sponging upon good-natured old irish women and generous but weak-minded young artisans who have left their native village to follow him and enjoy the advantage of his company and conversation. and so he drags out his life during the middle of the piece, raving at fortune, raging at humanity, and whining about his miseries until the last act. then he gets back those "estates" of his into his possession once again, and can go back to the village and make more moral speeches and be happy. moral speeches are undoubtedly his leading article, and of these, it must be owned, he has an inexhaustible stock. he is as chock-full of noble sentiments as a bladder is of wind. they are weak and watery sentiments of the sixpenny tea-meeting order. we have a dim notion that we have heard them before. the sound of them always conjures up to our mind the vision of a dull long room, full of oppressive silence, broken only by the scratching of steel pens and an occasional whispered "give us a suck, bill. you know i always liked you;" or a louder "please, sir, speak to jimmy boggles. he's a-jogging my elbow." the stage hero, however, evidently regards these meanderings as gems of brilliant thought, fresh from the philosophic mine. the gallery greets them with enthusiastic approval. they are a warm-hearted people, galleryites, and they like to give a hearty welcome to old friends. and then, too, the sentiments are so good and a british gallery is so moral. we doubt if there could be discovered on this earth any body of human beings half so moral--so fond of goodness, even when it is slow and stupid--so hateful of meanness in word or deed--as a modern theatrical gallery. the early christian martyrs were sinful and worldly compared with an adelphi gallery. the stage hero is a very powerful man. you wouldn't think it to look at him, but you wait till the heroine cries "help! oh, george, save me!" or the police attempt to run him in. then two villains, three extra hired ruffians and four detectives are about his fighting-weight. if he knocks down less than three men with one blow, he fears that he must be ill, and wonders "why this strange weakness?" the hero has his own way of making love. he always does it from behind. the girl turns away from him when he begins (she being, as we have said, shy and timid), and he takes hold of her hands and breathes his attachment down her back. the stage hero always wears patent-leather boots, and they are always spotlessly clean. sometimes he is rich and lives in a room with seven doors to it, and at other times he is starving in a garret; but in either event he still wears brand-new patent-leather boots. he might raise at least three-and-sixpence on those boots, and when the baby is crying for food, it occurs to us that it would be better if, instead of praying to heaven, he took off those boots and pawned them; but this does not seem to occur to him. he crosses the african desert in patent-leather boots, does the stage hero. he takes a supply with him when he is wrecked on an uninhabited island. he arrives from long and trying journeys; his clothes are ragged and torn, but his boots are new and shiny. he puts on patent-leather boots to tramp through the australian bush, to fight in egypt, to discover the north pole. sometimes he is a gold-digger, sometimes a dock laborer, sometimes a soldier, sometimes a sailor, but whatever he is he wears patent-leather boots. he goes boating in patent leather boots, he plays cricket in them; he goes fishing and shooting in them. he will go to heaven in patent-leather boots or he will decline the invitation. the stage hero never talks in a simple, straightforward way, like a mere ordinary mortal. "you will write to me when you are away, dear, won't you?" says the heroine. a mere human being would reply: "why, of course i shall, ducky, every day." but the stage hero is a superior creature. he says: "dost see yonder star, sweet?" she looks up and owns that she does see yonder star; and then off he starts and drivels on about that star for full five minutes, and says he will cease to write to her when that pale star has fallen from its place amid the firmament of heaven. the result of a long course of acquaintanceship with stage heroes has been, so far as we are concerned, to create a yearning for a new kind of stage hero. what we would like for a change would be a man who wouldn't cackle and brag quite so much, but who was capable of taking care of himself for a day without getting into trouble. the villain. he wears a clean collar and smokes a cigarette; that is how we know he is a villain. in real life it is often difficult to tell a villain from an honest man, and this gives rise to mistakes; but on the stage, as we have said villains wear clean collars and smoke cigarettes, and thus all fear of blunder is avoided. it is well that the rule does not hold off the stage, or good men might be misjudged. we ourselves, for instance, wear a clean collar--sometimes. it might be very awkward for our family, especially on sundays. he has no power of repartee, has the stage villain. all the good people in the play say rude and insulting things to him, and smack at him, and score off him all through the act, but he can never answer them back--can never think of anything clever to say in return. "ha! ha! wait till monday week," is the most brilliant retort that he can make, and he has to get into a corner by himself to think of even that. the stage villain's career is always very easy and prosperous up to within a minute of the end of each act. then he gets suddenly let in, generally by the comic man. it always happens so. yet the villain is always intensely surprised each time. he never seems to learn anything from experience. a few years ago the villain used to be blessed with a hopeful and philosophical temperament, which enabled him to bear up under these constantly recurring disappointments and reverses. it was "no matter," he would say. crushed for the moment though he might be, his buoyant heart never lost courage. he had a simple, child-like faith in providence. "a time will come," he would remark, and this idea consoled him. of late, however, this trusting hopefulness of his, as expressed in the beautiful lines we have quoted, appears to have forsaken him. we are sorry for this. we always regarded it as one of the finest traits in his character. the stage villain's love for the heroine is sublime in its steadfastness. she is a woman of lugubrious and tearful disposition, added to which she is usually incumbered with a couple of priggish and highly objectionable children, and what possible attraction there is about her we ourselves can never understand; but the stage villain--well, there, he is fairly mashed on her. nothing can alter his affection. she hates him and insults him to an extent that is really unladylike. every time he tries to explain his devotion to her, the hero comes in and knocks him down in the middle of it, or the comic man catches him during one or the other of his harassing love-scenes with her, and goes off and tells the "villagers" or the "guests," and they come round and nag him (we should think that the villain must grow to positively dislike the comic man before the piece is over). notwithstanding all this he still hankers after her and swears she shall be his. he is not a bad-looking fellow, and from what we know of the market, we should say there are plenty of other girls who would jump at him; yet for the sake of settling down with this dismal young female as his wife, he is prepared to go through a laborious and exhaustive course of crime and to be bullied and insulted by every one he meets. his love sustains him under it all. he robs and forges, and cheats, and lies, and murders, and arsons. if there were any other crimes he could commit to win her affection, he would, for her sweet sake, commit them cheerfully. but he doesn't know any others--at all events, he is not well up in any others--and she still does not care for him, and what is he to do? it is very unfortunate for both of them. it is evident to the merest spectator that the lady's life would be much happier if the villain did not love her quite so much; and as for him, his career might be calmer and less criminal but for his deep devotion to her. you see, it is having met her in early life that is the cause of all the trouble. he first saw her when she was a child, and he loved her, "ay, even then." ah, and he would have worked--slaved for her, and have made her rich and happy. he might perhaps even have been a good man. she tries to soothe him. she says she loathed him with an unspeakable horror from the first moment that her eyes met his revolting form. she says she saw a hideous toad once in a nasty pond, and she says that rather would she take that noisome reptile and clasp its slimy bosom to her own than tolerate one instant's touch from his (the villain's) arms. this sweet prattle of hers, however, only charms him all the more. he says he will win her yet. nor does the villain seem much happier in his less serious love episodes. after he has indulged in a little badinage of the above character with his real lady-love, the heroine, he will occasionally try a little light flirtation passage with her maid or lady friend. the maid or friend does not waste time in simile or in metaphor. she calls him a black-hearted scoundrel and clumps him over the head. of recent years it has been attempted to cheer the stage villain's loveless life by making the village clergyman's daughter gone on him. but it is generally about ten years ago when even she loved him, and her love has turned to hate by the time the play opens; so that on the whole his lot can hardly be said to have been much improved in this direction. not but what it must be confessed that her change of feeling is, under the circumstances, only natural. he took her away from her happy, peaceful home when she was very young and brought her up to this wicked overgrown london. he did not marry her. there is no earthly reason why he should not have married her. she must have been a fine girl at that time (and she is a good-looking woman as it is, with dash and go about her), and any other man would have settled down cozily with her and have led a simple, blameless life. but the stage villain is built cussed. he ill-uses this female most shockingly--not for any cause or motive whatever; indeed, his own practical interests should prompt him to treat her well and keep friends with her--but from the natural cussedness to which we have just alluded. when he speaks to her he seizes her by the wrist and breathes what he's got to say into her ear, and it tickles and revolts her. the only thing in which he is good to her is in the matter of dress. he does not stint her in dress. the stage villain is superior to the villain of real life. the villain of real life is actuated by mere sordid and selfish motives. the stage villain does villainy, not for any personal advantage to himself, but merely from the love of the thing as an art. villainy is to him its own reward; he revels in it. "better far be poor and villainous," he says to himself, "than possess all the wealth of the indies with a clear conscience. i will be a villain," he cries. "i will, at great expense and inconvenience to myself, murder the good old man, get the hero accused of the crime, and make love to his wife while he is in prison. it will be a risky and laborious business for me from beginning to end, and can bring me no practical advantage whatever. the girl will call me insulting names when i pay her a visit, and will push me violently in the chest when i get near her; her golden-haired infant will say i am a bad man and may even refuse to kiss me. the comic man will cover me with humorous opprobrium, and the villagers will get a day off and hang about the village pub and hoot me. everybody will see through my villainy, and i shall be nabbed in the end. i always am. but it is no matter, i will be a villain--ha! ha!" on the whole, the stage villain appears to us to be a rather badly used individual. he never has any "estates" or property himself, and his only chance of getting on in the world is to sneak the hero's. he has an affectionate disposition, and never having any wife of his own he is compelled to love other people's; but his affection is ever unrequited, and everything comes wrong for him in the end. our advice to stage villains generally, after careful observation of (stage) life and (stage) human nature, is as follows: never be a stage villain at all if you can help it. the life is too harassing and the remuneration altogether disproportionate to the risks and labor. if you have run away with the clergyman's daughter and she still clings to you, do not throw her down in the center of the stage and call her names. it only irritates her, and she takes a dislike to you and goes and warns the other girl. don't have too many accomplices; and if you have got them, don't keep sneering at them and bullying them. a word from them can hang you, and yet you do all you can to rile them. treat them civilly and let them have their fair share of the swag. beware of the comic man. when you are committing a murder or robbing a safe you never look to see where the comic man is. you are so careless in that way. on the whole, it might be as well if you murdered the comic man early in the play. don't make love to the hero's wife. she doesn't like you; how can you expect her to? besides, it isn't proper. why don't you get a girl of your own? lastly, don't go down to the scenes of your crimes in the last act. you always will do this. we suppose it is some extra cheap excursion down there that attracts you. but take our advice and don't go. that is always where you get nabbed. the police know your habits from experience. they do not trouble to look for you. they go down in the last act to the old hall or the ruined mill where you did the deed and wait for you. in nine cases out of ten you would get off scot-free but for this idiotic custom of yours. do keep away from the place. go abroad or to the sea-side when the last act begins and stop there till it is over. you will be safe then. the heroine. she is always in trouble--and don't she let you know it, too! her life is undeniably a hard one. nothing goes right with her. we all have our troubles, but the stage heroine never has anything else. if she only got one afternoon a week off from trouble or had her sundays free it would be something. but no; misfortune stalks beside her from week's beginning to week's end. after her husband has been found guilty of murder, which is about the least thing that can ever happen to him, and her white-haired father has become a bankrupt and has died of a broken heart, and the home of her childhood has been sold up, then her infant goes and contracts a lingering fever. she weeps a good deal during the course of her troubles, which we suppose is only natural enough, poor woman. but it is depressing from the point of view of the audience, and we almost wish before the evening is out that she had not got quite so much trouble. it is over the child that she does most of her weeping. the child has a damp time of it altogether. we sometimes wonder that it never catches rheumatism. she is very good, is the stage heroine. the comic man expresses a belief that she is a born angel. she reproves him for this with a tearful smile (it wouldn't be her smile if it wasn't tearful). "oh, no," she says (sadly of course); "i have many, many faults." we rather wish that she would show them a little more. her excessive goodness seems somehow to pall upon us. our only consolation while watching her is that there are not many good women off the stage. life is bad enough as it is; if there were many women in real life as good as the stage heroine, it would be unbearable. the stage heroine's only pleasure in life is to go out in a snow-storm without an umbrella and with no bonnet on. she has a bonnet, we know (rather a tasteful little thing); we have seen it hanging up behind the door of her room; but when she comes out for a night stroll during a heavy snow-storm (accompanied by thunder), she is most careful to leave it at home. maybe she fears the snow will spoil it, and she is a careful girl. she always brings her child out with her on these occasions. she seems to think that it will freshen it up. the child does not appreciate the snow as much as she does. he says it's cold. one thing that must irritate the stage heroine very much on these occasions is the way in which the snow seems to lie in wait for her and follow her about. it is quite a fine night before she comes on the scene: the moment she appears it begins to snow. it snows heavily all the while she remains about, and the instant she goes it clears up again and keeps dry for the rest of the evening. the way the snow "goes" for that poor woman is most unfair. it always snows much heavier in the particular spot where she is sitting than it does anywhere else in the whole street. why, we have sometimes seen a heroine sitting in the midst of a blinding snow-storm while the other side of the road was as dry as a bone. and it never seemed to occur to her to cross over. we have even known a more than unusually malignant snow-storm to follow a heroine three times round the stage and then go off (r.) with her. of course you can't get away from a snow-storm like that! a stage snow-storm is the kind of snow-storm that would follow you upstairs and want to come into bed with you. another curious thing about these stage snow-storms is that the moon is always shining brightly through the whole of them. and it shines only on the heroine, and it follows her about just like the snow does. nobody fully understands what a wonderful work of nature the moon is except people acquainted with the stage. astronomy teaches you something about the moon, but you learn a good deal more from a few visits to a theater. you will find from the latter that the moon only shines on heroes and heroines, with perhaps an occasional beam on the comic man: it always goes out when it sees the villain coming. it is surprising, too, how quickly the moon can go out on the stage. at one moment it is riding in full radiance in the midst of a cloudless sky, and the next instant it is gone! just as though it had been turned off at a meter. it makes you quite giddy at first until you get used to it. the stage heroine is inclined to thoughtfulness rather than gayety. in her cheerful moments the stage heroine thinks she sees the spirit of her mother, or the ghost of her father, or she dreams of her dead baby. but this is only in her very merry moods. as a rule, she is too much occupied with weeping to have time for frivolous reflections. she has a great flow of language and a wonderful gift of metaphor and simile--more forcible than elegant--and this might be rather trying in a wife under ordinary circumstances. but as the hero is generally sentenced to ten years' penal servitude on his wedding-morn, he escapes for a period from a danger that might well appall a less fortunate bridegroom. sometimes the stage heroine has a brother, and if so he is sure to be mistaken for her lover. we never came across a brother and sister in real life who ever gave the most suspicious person any grounds for mistaking them for lovers; but the stage brother and sister are so affectionate that the error is excusable. and when the mistake does occur and the husband comes in suddenly and finds them kissing and raves she doesn't turn round and say: "why, you silly cuckoo, it's only my brother." that would be simple and sensible, and would not suit the stage heroine at all. no; she does all in her power to make everybody believe it is true, so that she can suffer in silence. she does so love to suffer. marriage is undoubtedly a failure in the case of the stage heroine. if the stage heroine were well advised she would remain single. her husband means well. he is decidedly affectionate. but he is unfortunate and inexperienced in worldly affairs. things come right for him at the end of the play, it is true; but we would not recommend the heroine to place too much reliance upon the continuance of this happy state of affairs. from what we have seen of her husband and his business capabilities during the five acts preceding, we are inclined to doubt the possibility of his being anything but unfortunate to the end of his career. true, he has at last got his "rights" (which he would never have lost had he had a head instead of a sentimental bladder on his shoulders), the villain is handcuffed, and he and the heroine have settled down comfortably next door to the comic man. but this heavenly existence will never last. the stage hero was built for trouble, and he will be in it again in another month, you bet. they'll get up another mortgage for him on the "estates;" and he won't know, bless you, whether he really did sign it or whether he didn't, and out he will go. and he'll slop his name about to documents without ever looking to see what he's doing, and be let in for lord knows what; and another wife will turn up for him that he had married when a boy and forgotten all about. and the next corpse that comes to the village he'll get mixed up with--sure to--and have it laid to his door, and there'll be all the old business over again. no, our advice to the stage heroine is to get rid of the hero as soon as possible, marry the villain, and go and live abroad somewhere where the comic man won't come fooling around. she will be much happier. the comic man. he follows the hero all over the world. this is rough on the hero. what makes him so gone on the hero is that when they were boys together the hero used to knock him down and kick him. the comic man remembers this with a glow of pride when he is grown up, and it makes him love the hero and determine to devote his life to him. he is a man of humble station--the comic man. the village blacksmith or a peddler. you never see a rich or aristocratic comic man on the stage. you can have your choice on the stage; you can be funny and of lowly origin, or you can be well-to-do and without any sense of humor. peers and policemen are the people most utterly devoid of humor on the stage. the chief duty of the comic man's life is to make love to servant-girls, and they slap his face; but it does not discourage him; he seems to be more smitten by them than ever. the comic man is happy under any fate, and he says funny things at funerals and when the bailiffs are in the house or the hero is waiting to be hanged. this sort of man is rather trying in real life. in real life such a man would probably be slaughtered to death and buried at an early period of his career, but on the stage they put up with him. he is very good, is the comic man. he can't bear villainy. to thwart villainy is his life's ambition, and in this noble object fortune backs him up grandly. bad people come and commit their murders and thefts right under his nose, so that he can denounce them in the last act. they never see him there, standing close beside them, while they are performing these fearful crimes. it is marvelous how short-sighted people on the stage are. we always thought that the young lady in real life was moderately good at not seeing folks she did not want to when they were standing straight in front of her, but her affliction in this direction is as nothing compared with that of her brothers and sisters on the stage. these unfortunate people come into rooms where there are crowds of people about--people that it is most important that they should see, and owing to not seeing whom they get themselves into fearful trouble, and they never notice any of them. they talk to somebody opposite, and they can't see a third person that is standing bang between the two of them. you might fancy they wore blinkers. then, again, their hearing is so terribly weak. it really ought to be seen to. people talk and chatter at the very top of their voices close behind them, and they never hear a word--don't know anybody's there, even. after it has been going on for half an hour, and the people "up stage" have made themselves hoarse with shouting, and somebody has been boisterously murdered and all the furniture upset, then the people "down stage" "think they hear a noise." the comic man always rows with his wife if he is married or with his sweetheart if he is not married. they quarrel all day long. it must be a trying life, you would think, but they appear to like it. how the comic man lives and supports his wife (she looks as if it wanted something to support her, too) and family is always a mystery to us. as we have said, he is not a rich man and he never seems to earn any money. sometimes he keeps a shop, and in the way he manages business it must be an expensive thing to keep, for he never charges anybody for anything, he is so generous. all his customers seem to be people more or less in trouble, and he can't find it in his heart to ask them to pay for their goods under such distressing circumstances. he stuffs their basket full with twice as much as they came to buy, pushes their money back into their hands, and wipes away a tear. why doesn't a comic man come and set up a grocery store in our neighborhood? when the shop does not prove sufficiently profitable (as under the above-explained method sometimes happens to be the case) the comic man's wife seeks to add to the income by taking in lodgers. this is a bad move on her part, for it always ends in the lodgers taking her in. the hero and heroine, who seem to have been waiting for something of the sort, immediately come and take possession of the whole house. of course the comic man could not think of charging for mere board and lodging the man who knocked him down when they were boys together! besides, was not the heroine (now the hero's wife) the sweetest and the blithest girl in all the village of deepdale? (they must have been a gloomy band, the others!) how can any one with a human heart beneath his bosom suggest that people like that should pay for their rest and washing? the comic man is shocked at his wife for even thinking of such a thing, and the end of it is that mr. and mrs. hero live there for the rest of the play rent free; coals, soap, candles, and hair-oil for the child being provided for them on the same terms. the hero raises vague and feeble objections to this arrangement now and again. he says he will not hear of such a thing, that he will stay no longer to be a burden upon these honest folk, but will go forth unto the roadside and there starve. the comic man has awful work with him, but wins at last and persuades the noble fellow to stop on and give the place another trial. when, a morning or so after witnessing one of these beautiful scenes, our own landlady knocks at our door and creates a disturbance over a paltry matter of three or four weeks' rent, and says she'll have her money or out we go that very day, and drifts slowly away down toward the kitchen, abusing us in a rising voice as she descends, then we think of these things and grow sad. it is the example of the people round him that makes the comic man so generous. everybody is generous on the stage. they are giving away their purses all day long; that is the regulation "tip" on the stage--one's purse. the moment you hear a tale of woe, you grab it out of your pocket, slap it in to the woe-er's palm, grip his hand, dash away a tear, and exit; you don't even leave yourself a 'bus fare home. you walk back quickly and get another purse. middle-class people and others on the stage who are short of purses have to content themselves with throwing about rolls of bank-notes and tipping servants with five-pound checks. very stingy people on the stage have been known to be so cussed mean as to give away mere sovereigns. but they are generally only villains or lords that descend to this sort of thing. respectable stage folk never offer anything less than a purse. the recipient is very grateful on receiving the purse (he never looks inside) and thinks that heaven ought to reward the donor. they get a lot of work out of heaven on the stage. heaven does all the odd jobs for them that they don't want to go to the trouble and expense of doing for themselves. heaven's chief duty on the stage is to see to the repayment of all those sums of money that are given or lent to the good people. it is generally requested to do this to the tune of a "thousand-fold"--an exorbitant rate when you come to think of it. heaven is also expected to take care that the villain gets properly cursed, and to fill up its spare time by bringing misfortune upon the local landlord. it has to avenge everybody and to help all the good people whenever they are in trouble. and they keep it going in this direction. and when the hero leaves for prison heaven has to take care of his wife and child till he comes out; and if this isn't a handful for it, we don't know what would be! heaven on the stage is always on the side of the hero and heroine and against the police. occasionally, of late years, the comic man has been a bad man, but you can't hate him for it. what if he does ruin the hero and rob the heroine and help to murder the good old man? he does it all in such a genial, light-hearted spirit that it is not in one's heart to feel angry with him. it is the way in which a thing is done that makes all the difference. besides, he can always round on his pal, the serious villain, at the end, and that makes it all right. the comic man is not a sportsman. if he goes out shooting, we know that when he returns we shall hear that he has shot the dog. if he takes his girl out on the river he upsets her (literally we mean). the comic man never goes out for a day's pleasure without coming home a wreck. if he merely goes to tea with his girl at her mother's, he swallows a muffin and chokes himself. the comic man is not happy in his married life, nor does it seem to us that he goes the right way to be so. he calls his wife "his old dutch clock," "the old geyser," and such like terms of endearment, and addresses her with such remarks as "ah, you old cat," "you ugly old nutmeg grater," "you orangamatang, you!" etc., etc. well, you know that is not the way to make things pleasant about a house. still, with all his faults we like the comic man. he is not always in trouble and he does not make long speeches. let us bless him. the lawyer. he is very old, and very long, and very thin. he has white hair. he dresses in the costume of the last generation but seven. he has bushy eyebrows and is clean shaven. his chin itches considerably, so that he has to be always scratching it. his favorite remark is "ah!" in real life we have heard of young solicitors, of foppish solicitors, of short solicitors; but on the stage they are always very thin and very old. the youngest stage solicitor we ever remember to have seen looked about sixty--the oldest about a hundred and forty-five. by the bye, it is never very safe to judge people's ages on the stage by their personal appearance. we have known old ladies who looked seventy, if they were a day, turn out to be the mothers of boys of fourteen, while the middle-aged husband of the young wife generally gives one the idea of ninety. again, what appears at first sight to be a comfortable-looking and eminently respectable elderly lady is often discovered to be, in reality, a giddy, girlish, and inexperienced young thing, the pride of the village or the darling of the regiment. so, too, an exceptionally stout and short-winded old gentleman, who looks as if he had been living too well and taking too little exercise for the last forty-five years, is not the heavy father, as you might imagine if you judged from mere external evidence, but a wild, reckless boy. you would not think so to look at him, but his only faults are that he is so young and light-headed. there is good in him, however, and he will no doubt be steady enough when he grows up. all the young men of the neighborhood worship him and the girls love him. "here he comes," they say; "dear, dear old jack--jack, the darling boy--the headstrong youth--jack, the leader of our juvenile sports--jack, whose childish innocence wins all hearts. three cheers for dancing, bright-eyed jack!" on the other hand, ladies with the complexion of eighteen are, you learn as the story progresses, quite elderly women, the mothers of middle-aged heroes. the experienced observer of stage-land never jumps to conclusions from what he sees. he waits till he is told things. the stage lawyer never has any office of his own. he transacts all his business at his clients' houses. he will travel hundreds of miles to tell them the most trivial piece of legal information. it never occurs to him how much simpler it would be to write a letter. the item for "traveling expenses" in his bill of costs must be something enormous. there are two moments in the course of his client's career that the stage lawyer particularly enjoys. the first is when the client comes unexpectedly into a fortune; the second when he unexpectedly loses it. in the former case, upon learning the good news the stage lawyer at once leaves his business and hurries off to the other end of the kingdom to bear the glad tidings. he arrives at the humble domicile of the beneficiary in question, sends up his card, and is ushered into the front parlor. he enters mysteriously and sits left--client sits right. an ordinary, common lawyer would come to the point at once, state the matter in a plain, business-like way, and trust that he might have the pleasure of representing, etc., etc.; but such simple methods are not those of the stage lawyer. he looks at the client and says: "you had a father." the client starts. how on earth did this calm, thin, keen-eyed old man in black know that he had a father? he shuffles and stammers, but the quiet, impenetrable lawyer fixes his cold, glassy eye on him, and he is helpless. subterfuge, he feels, is useless, and amazed, bewildered at the knowledge of his most private affairs possessed by his strange visitant, he admits the fact: he had a father. the lawyer smiles with a quiet smile of triumph and scratches his chin. "you had a mother, too, if i am informed correctly," he continues. it is idle attempting to escape this man's supernatural acuteness, and the client owns up to having had a mother also. from this the lawyer goes on to communicate to the client, as a great secret, the whole of his (the client's) history from his cradle upward, and also the history of his nearer relatives, and in less than half an hour from the old man's entrance, or say forty minutes at the outside, the client almost knows what the business is about. on the other occasion, when the client has lost his fortune, the stage lawyer is even still happier. he comes down himself to tell the misfortune (he would not miss the job for worlds), and he takes care to choose the most unpropitious moment possible for breaking the news. on the eldest daughter's birthday, when there is a big party on, is his favorite time. he comes in about midnight and tells them just as they are going down to supper. he has no idea of business hours, has the stage lawyer--to make the thing as unpleasant as possible seems to be his only anxiety. if he cannot work it for a birthday, then he waits till there's a wedding on, and gets up early in the morning on purpose to run down and spoil the show. to enter among a crowd of happy, joyous fellow-creatures and leave them utterly crushed and miserable is the stage lawyer's hobby. the stage lawyer is a very talkative gentleman. he regards the telling of his client's most private affairs to every stranger that he meets as part of his professional duties. a good gossip with a few chance acquaintances about the family secrets of his employers is food and drink for the stage lawyer. they all go about telling their own and their friends' secrets to perfect strangers on the stage. whenever two people have five minutes to spare on the stage they tell each other the story of their lives. "sit down and i will tell you the story of my life" is the stage equivalent for the "come and have a drink" of the outside world. the good stage lawyer has generally nursed the heroine on his knee when a baby (when she was a baby, we mean)--when she was only so high. it seems to have been a part of his professional duties. the good stage lawyer also kisses all the pretty girls in the play and is expected to chuck the housemaid under the chin. it is good to be a good stage lawyer. the good stage lawyer also wipes away a tear when sad things happen; and he turns away to do this and blows his nose, and says he thinks he has a fly in his eye. this touching trait in his character is always held in great esteem by the audience and is much applauded. the good stage lawyer is never by any chance a married man. (few good men are, so we gather from our married lady friends.) he loved in early life the heroine's mother. that "sainted woman" (tear and nose business) died and is now among the angels--the gentleman who did marry her, by the bye, is not quite so sure about this latter point, but the lawyer is fixed on the idea. in stage literature of a frivolous nature the lawyer is a very different individual. in comedy he is young, he possesses chambers, and he is married (there is no doubt about this latter fact); and his wife and his mother-in-law spend most of the day in his office and make the dull old place quite lively for him. he only has one client. she is a nice lady and affable, but her antecedents are doubtful, and she seems to be no better than she ought to be--possibly worse. but anyhow she is the sole business that the poor fellow has--is, in fact, his only source of income, and might, one would think, under such circumstances be accorded a welcome by his family. but his wife and his mother-in-law, on the contrary, take a violent dislike to her, and the lawyer has to put her in the coal-scuttle or lock her up in the safe whenever he hears either of these female relatives of his coming up the stairs. we should not care to be the client of a farcical comedy stage lawyer. legal transactions are trying to the nerves under the most favorable circumstances; conducted by a farcical stage lawyer, the business would be too exciting for us. the adventuress. she sits on a table and smokes a cigarette. a cigarette on the stage is always the badge of infamy. in real life the cigarette is usually the hall-mark of the particularly mild and harmless individual. it is the dissipation of the y.m.c.a.; the innocent joy of the pure-hearted boy long ere the demoralizing influence of our vaunted civilization has dragged him down into the depths of the short clay. but behind the cigarette on the stage lurks ever black-hearted villainy and abandoned womanhood. the adventuress is generally of foreign extraction. they do not make bad women in england--the article is entirely of continental manufacture and has to be imported. she speaks english with a charming little french accent, and she makes up for this by speaking french with a good sound english one. she seems a smart business woman, and she would probably get on very well if it were not for her friends and relations. friends and relations are a trying class of people even in real life, as we all know, but the friends and relations of the stage adventuress are a particularly irritating lot. they never leave her; never does she get a day or an hour off from them. wherever she goes, there the whole tribe goes with her. they all go with her in a body when she calls on her young man, and it is as much as she can do to persuade them to go into the next room even for five minutes, and give her a chance. when she is married they come and live with her. they know her dreadful secret and it keeps them in comfort for years. knowing somebody's secret seems, on the stage, to be one of the most profitable and least exhausting professions going. she is fond of married life, is the adventuress, and she goes in for it pretty extensively. she has husbands all over the globe, most of them in prison, but they escape and turn up in the last act and spoil all the poor girl's plans. that is so like husbands--no consideration, no thought for their poor wives. they are not a prepossessing lot, either, those early husbands of hers. what she could have seen in them to induce her to marry them is indeed a mystery. the adventuress dresses magnificently. where she gets the money from we never could understand, for she and her companions are always more or less complaining of being "stone broke." dressmakers must be a trusting people where she comes from. the adventuress is like the proverbial cat as regards the number of lives she is possessed of. you never know when she is really dead. most people like to die once and have done with it, but the adventuress, after once or twice trying it, seems to get quite to like it, and goes on giving way to it, and then it grows upon her until she can't help herself, and it becomes a sort of craving with her. this habit of hers is, however, a very trying one for her friends and husbands--it makes things so uncertain. something ought to be done to break her of it. her husbands, on hearing that she is dead, go into raptures and rush off and marry other people, and then just as they are starting off on their new honeymoon up she crops again, as fresh as paint. it is really most annoying. for ourselves, were we the husband of a stage adventuress we should never, after what we have seen of the species, feel quite justified in believing her to be dead unless we had killed and buried her ourselves; and even then we should be more easy in our minds if we could arrange to sit on her grave for a week or so afterward. these women are so artful! but it is not only the adventuress who will persist in coming to life again every time she is slaughtered. they all do it on the stage. they are all so unreliable in this respect. it must be most disheartening to the murderers. and then, again, it is something extraordinary, when you come to think of it, what a tremendous amount of killing some of them can stand and still come up smiling in the next act, not a penny the worse for it. they get stabbed, and shot, and thrown over precipices thousands of feet high and, bless you, it does them good--it is like a tonic to them. as for the young man that is coming home to see his girl, you simply can't kill him. achilles was a summer rose compared with him. nature and mankind have not sufficient materials in hand as yet to kill that man. science has but the strength of a puling babe against his invulnerability. you can waste your time on earthquakes and shipwrecks, volcanic eruptions, floods, explosions, railway accidents, and such like sort of things, if you are foolish enough to do so; but it is no good your imagining that anything of the kind can hurt him, because it can't. there will be thousands of people killed, thousands in each instance, but one human being will always escape, and that one human being will be the stage young man who is coming home to see his girl. he is forever being reported as dead, but it always turns out to be another fellow who was like him or who had on his (the young man's) hat. he is bound to be out of it, whoever else may be in. "if i had been at my post that day," he explains to his sobbing mother, "i should have been blown up, but the providence that watches over good men had ordained that i should be laying blind drunk in blogg's saloon at the time the explosion took place, and so the other engineer, who had been doing my work when it was his turn to be off, was killed along with the whole of the crew." "ah, thank heaven, thank heaven for that!" ejaculates the pious old lady, and the comic man is so overcome with devout joy that he has to relieve his overstrained heart by drawing his young woman on one side and grossly insulting her. all attempts to kill this young man ought really to be given up now. the job has been tried over and over again by villains and bad people of all kinds, but no one has ever succeeded. there has been an amount of energy and ingenuity expended in seeking to lay up that one man which, properly utilized, might have finished off ten million ordinary mortals. it is sad to think of so much wasted effort. he, the young man coming home to see his girl, need never take an insurance ticket or even buy a _tit bits_. it would be needless expenditure in his case. on the other hand, and to make matters equal, as it were, there are some stage people so delicate that it is next door to impossible to keep them alive. the inconvenient husband is a most pathetic example of this. medical science is powerless to save that man when the last act comes round; indeed, we doubt whether medical science, in its present state of development, could even tell what is the matter with him or why he dies at all. he looks healthy and robust enough and nobody touches him, yet down he drops, without a word of warning, stone-dead, in the middle of the floor--he always dies in the middle of the floor. some folks like to die in bed, but stage people don't. they like to die on the floor. we all have our different tastes. the adventuress herself is another person who dies with remarkable ease. we suppose in her case it is being so used to it that makes her so quick and clever at it. there is no lingering illness and doctors' bills and upsetting of the whole household arrangements about her method. one walk round the stage and the thing is done. all bad characters die quickly on the stage. good characters take a long time over it, and have a sofa down in the drawing-room to do it on, and have sobbing relatives and good old doctors fooling around them, and can smile and forgive everybody. bad stage characters have to do the whole job, dying speech and all, in about ten seconds, and do it with all their clothes on into the bargain, which must make it most uncomfortable. it is repentance that kills off the bad people in plays. they always repent, and the moment they repent they die. repentance on the stage seems to be one of the most dangerous things a man can be taken with. our advice to stage wicked people would undoubtedly be, "never repent. if you value your life, don't repent. it always means sudden death!" to return to our adventuress. she is by no means a bad woman. there is much good in her. this is more than proved by the fact that she learns to love the hero before she dies; for no one but a really good woman capable of extraordinary patience and gentleness could ever, we are convinced, grow to feel any other sentiment for that irritating ass, than a desire to throw bricks at him. the stage adventuress would be a much better woman, too, if it were not for the heroine. the adventuress makes the most complete arrangements for being noble and self-sacrificing--that is, for going away and never coming back, and is just about to carry them out, when the heroine, who has a perfect genius for being in the wrong place at the right time, comes in and spoils it all. no stage adventuress can be good while the heroine is about. the sight of the heroine rouses every bad feeling in her breast. we can sympathize with her in this respect. the heroine often affects ourselves in precisely the same way. there is a good deal to be said in favor of the adventuress. true, she possesses rather too much sarcasm and repartee to make things quite agreeable round the domestic hearth, and when she has got all her clothes on there is not much room left in the place for anybody else; but taken on the whole she is decidedly attractive. she has grit and go in her. she is alive. she can do something to help herself besides calling for "george." she has not got a stage child--if she ever had one, she has left it on somebody else's doorstep which, presuming there was no water handy to drown it in, seems to be about the most sensible thing she could have done with it. she is not oppressively good. she never wants to be "unhanded" or "let to pass." she is not always being shocked or insulted by people telling her that they love her; she does not seem to mind it if they do. she is not always fainting, and crying, and sobbing, and wailing, and moaning, like the good people in the play are. oh, they do have an unhappy time of it--the good people in plays! then she is the only person in the piece who can sit on the comic man. we sometimes think it would be a fortunate thing--for him--if they allowed her to marry and settle down quietly with the hero. she might make a man of him in time. the servant-girl. there are two types of servant-girl to be met with on the stage. this is an unusual allowance for one profession. there is the lodging-house slavey. she has a good heart and a smutty face and is always dressed according to the latest fashion in scarecrows. her leading occupation is the cleaning of boots. she cleans boots all over the house, at all hours of the day. she comes and sits down on the hero's breakfast-table and cleans them over the poor fellow's food. she comes into the drawing-room cleaning boots. she has her own method of cleaning them, too. she rubs off the mud, puts on the blacking, and polishes up all with the same brush. they take an enormous amount of polishing. she seems to do nothing else all day long but walk about shining one boot, and she breathes on it and rubs it till you wonder there is any leather left, yet it never seems to get any brighter, nor, indeed, can you expect it to, for when you look close you see it is a patent-leather boot that she has been throwing herself away upon all this time. somebody has been having a lark with the poor girl. the lodging-house slavey brushes her hair with the boot brush and blacks the end of her nose with it. we were acquainted with a lodging-house slavey once--a real one, we mean. she was the handmaiden at a house in bloomsbury where we once hung out. she was untidy in her dress, it is true, but she had not quite that castaway and gone-to-sleep-in-a-dust-bin appearance that we, an earnest student of the drama, felt she ought to present, and we questioned her one day on the subject. "how is it, sophronia," we said, "that you distantly resemble a human being instead of giving one the idea of an animated rag-shop? don't you ever polish your nose with the blacking-brush, or rub coal into your head, or wash your face in treacle, or put skewers into your hair, or anything of that sort, like they do on the stage?" she said: "lord love you, what should i want to go and be a bally idiot like that for?" and we have not liked to put the question elsewhere since then. the other type of servant-girl on the stage--the villa servant-girl--is a very different personage. she is a fetching little thing, dresses bewitchingly, and is always clean. her duties are to dust the legs of the chairs in the drawing-room. that is the only work she ever has to do, but it must be confessed she does that thoroughly. she never comes into the room without dusting the legs of these chairs, and she dusts them again before she goes out. if anything ought to be free from dust in a stage house, it should be the legs of the drawing-room chairs. she is going to marry the man-servant, is the stage servant-girl, as soon as they have saved up sufficient out of their wages to buy a hotel. they think they will like to keep a hotel. they don't understand a bit about the business, which we believe is a complicated one, but this does not trouble them in the least. they quarrel a good deal over their love-making, do the stage servant-girl and her young man, and they always come into the drawing-room to do it. they have got the kitchen, and there is the garden (with a fountain and mountains in the background--you can see it through the window), but no! no place in or about the house is good enough for them to quarrel in except the drawing-room. they quarrel there so vigorously that it even interferes with the dusting of the chair-legs. she ought not to be long in saving up sufficient to marry on, for the generosity of people on the stage to the servants there makes one seriously consider the advisability of ignoring the unremunerative professions of ordinary life and starting a new and more promising career as a stage servant. no one ever dreams of tipping the stage servant with less than a sovereign when they ask her if her mistress is at home or give her a letter to post, and there is quite a rush at the end of the piece to stuff five-pound notes into her hand. the good old man gives her ten. the stage servant is very impudent to her mistress, and the master--he falls in love with her and it does upset the house so. sometimes the servant-girl is good and faithful, and then she is irish. all good servant-girls on the stage are irish. all the male visitors are expected to kiss the stage servant-girl when they come into the house, and to dig her in the ribs and to say: "do you know, jane, i think you're an uncommonly nice girl--click." they always say this, and she likes it. many years ago, when we were young, we thought we would see if things were the same off the stage, and the next time we called at a certain friend's house we tried this business on. she wasn't quite so dazzlingly beautiful as they are on the stage, but we passed that. she showed us up into the drawing-room, and then said she would go and tell her mistress we were there. we felt this was the time to begin. we skipped between her and the door. we held our hat in front of us, cocked our head on one side, and said: "don't go! don't go!" the girl seemed alarmed. we began to get a little nervous ourselves, but we had begun it and we meant to go through with it. we said, "do you know, jane" (her name wasn't jane, but that wasn't our fault), "do you know, jane, i think you're an uncommonly nice girl," and we said "click," and dug her in the ribs with our elbow, and then chucked her under the chin. the whole thing seemed to fall flat. there was nobody there to laugh or applaud. we wished we hadn't done it. it seemed stupid when you came to think of it. we began to feel frightened. the business wasn't going as we expected; but we screwed up our courage and went on. we put on the customary expression of comic imbecility and beckoned the girl to us. we have never seen this fail on the stage. but this girl seemed made wrong. she got behind the sofa and screamed "help!" we have never known them to do this on the stage, and it threw us out in our plans. we did not know exactly what to do. we regretted that we had ever begun this job and heartily wished ourselves out of it. but it appeared foolish to pause then, when we were more than half-way through, and we made a rush to get it over. we chivvied the girl round the sofa and caught her near the door and kissed her. she scratched our face, yelled police, murder, and fire, and fled from the room. our friend came in almost immediately. he said: "i say, j., old man, are you drunk?" we told him no, that we were only a student of the drama. his wife then entered in a towering passion. she didn't ask us if we were drunk. she said: "how dare you come here in this state!" we endeavored unsuccessfully to induce her to believe that we were sober, and we explained that our course of conduct was what was always pursued on the stage. she said she didn't care what was done on the stage, it wasn't going to be pursued in her house; and that if her husband's friends couldn't behave as gentlemen they had better stop away. the following morning we received a letter from a firm of solicitors in lincoln's inn with reference, so they put it, to the brutal and unprovoked assault committed by us on the previous afternoon upon the person of their client, miss matilda hemmings. the letter stated that we had punched miss hemmings in the side, struck her under the chin, and afterward, seizing her as she was leaving the room, proceeded to commit a gross assault, into the particulars of which it was needless for them to enter at greater length. it added that if we were prepared to render an ample written apology and to pay pounds compensation, they would advise their client, miss matilda hemmings, to allow the matter to drop; otherwise criminal proceedings would at once be commenced against us. we took the letter to our own solicitors and explained the circumstances to them. they said it seemed to be a very sad case, but advised us to pay the pounds, and we borrowed the money and did so. since then we have lost faith, somehow, in the british drama as a guide to the conduct of life. the child. it is nice and quiet and it talks prettily. we have come across real infants now and then in the course of visits to married friends; they have been brought to us from outlying parts of the house and introduced to us for our edification; and we have found them gritty and sticky. their boots have usually been muddy, and they have wiped them up against our new trousers. and their hair has suggested the idea that they have been standing on their heads in the dust-bin. and they have talked to us--but not prettily, not at all--rather rude we should call it. but the stage child is very different. it is clean and tidy. you can touch it anywhere and nothing comes off. its face glows with soap and water. from the appearance of its hands it is evident that mud-pies and tar are joys unknown to it. as for its hair, there is something uncanny about its smoothness and respectability. even its boot-laces are done up. we have never seen anything like the stage child outside a theater excepting one--that was on the pavement in front of a tailor's shop in tottenham court road. he stood on a bit of round wood, and it was fifteen and nine, his style. we thought in our ignorance prior to this that there could not be anything in the world like the stage child, but you see we were mistaken. the stage child is affectionate to its parents and its nurse and is respectful in its demeanor toward those whom providence has placed in authority over it; and so far it is certainly much to be preferred to the real article. it speaks of its male and female progenitors as "dear, dear papa" and "dear, dear mamma," and it refers to its nurse as "darling nursey." we are connected with a youthful child ourselves--a real one--a nephew. he alludes to his father (when his father is not present) as "the old man," and always calls the nurse "old nut-crackers." why cannot they make real children who say "dear, dear mamma" and "dear, dear papa?" the stage child is much superior to the live infant in every way. the stage child does not go rampaging about a house and screeching and yelling till nobody knows whether they are on their heads or their heels. a stage child does not get up at five o'clock in the morning to practice playing on a penny whistle. a stage child never wants a bicycle and drives you mad about it. a stage child does not ask twenty complicated questions a minute about things that you don't understand, and then wind up by asking why you don't seem to know anything, and why wouldn't anybody teach you anything when you were a little boy. the stage child does not wear a hole in the seat of its knickerbockers and have to have a patch let in. the stage child comes downstairs on its feet. the stage child never brings home six other children to play at horses in the front garden, and then wants to know if they can all come in to tea. the stage child never has the wooping-cough, and the measles, and every other disease that it can lay its hands on, and be laid up with them one after the other and turn the house upside down. the stage child's department in the scheme of life is to harrow up its mother's feelings by ill-timed and uncalled-for questions about its father. it always wants to know, before a roomful of people, where "dear papa" is, and why he has left dear mamma; when, as all the guests know, the poor man is doing his two years' hard or waiting to be hanged. it makes everybody so uncomfortable. it is always harrowing up somebody--the stage child; it really ought not to be left about as it is. when it has done upsetting its mother it fishes out some broken-hearted maid, who has just been cruelly severed forever from her lover, and asks her in a high falsetto voice why she doesn't get married, and prattles to her about love, and domestic bliss, and young men, and any other subject it can think of particularly calculated to lacerate the poor girl's heart until her brain nearly gives way. after that it runs amuck up and down the whole play and makes everybody sit up all round. it asks eminently respectable old maids if they wouldn't like to have a baby; and it wants to know why bald-headed old men have left off wearing hair, and why other old gentlemen have red noses and if they were always that color. in some plays it so happens that the less said about the origin and source of the stage child the better; and in such cases nothing will appear so important to that contrary brat as to know, in the middle of an evening-party, who its father was! everybody loves the stage child. they catch it up in their bosoms every other minute and weep over it. they take it in turns to do this. nobody--on the stage, we mean--ever has enough of the stage child. nobody ever tells the stage child to "shut up" or to "get out of this." nobody ever clumps the stage child over the head. when the real child goes to the theater it must notice these things and wish it were a stage child. the stage child is much admired by the audience. its pathos makes them weep; its tragedy thrills them; its declamation--as for instance when it takes the center of the stage and says it will kill the wicked man, and the police, and everybody who hurts its mar--stirs them like a trumpet note; and its light comedy is generally held to be the most truly humorous thing in the whole range of dramatic art. but there are some people so strangely constituted that they do not appreciate the stage child; they do not comprehend its uses; they do not understand its beauties. we should not be angry with them. we should the rather pity them. we ourselves had a friend once who suffered from this misfortune. he was a married man, and providence had been very gracious, very good to him: he had been blessed with eleven children, and they were all growing up well and strong. the "baby" was eleven weeks old, and then came the twins, who were getting on for fifteen months and were cutting their double teeth nicely. the youngest girl was three; there were five boys aged seven, eight, nine, ten, and twelve respectively--good enough lads, but--well, there, boys will be boys, you know; we were just the same ourselves when we were young. the two eldest were both very pleasant girls, as their mother said; the only pity was that they would quarrel so with each other. we never knew a healthier set of boys and girls. they were so full of energy and dash. our friend was very much out of sorts one evening when we called on him. it was holiday-time and wet weather. he had been at home all day, and so had all the children. he was telling his wife when we entered the room that if the holidays were to last much longer and those twins did not hurry up and get their teeth quickly, he should have to go away and join the county council. he could not stand the racket. his wife said she could not see what he had to complain of. she was sure better-hearted children no man could have. our friend said he didn't care a straw about their hearts. it was their legs and arms and lungs that were driving him crazy. he also said that he would go out with us and get away from it for a bit, or he should go mad. he proposed a theater, and we accordingly made our way toward the strand. our friend, in closing the door behind him, said he could not tell us what a relief it was to get away from those children. he said he loved children very much indeed, but that it was a mistake to have too much of anything, however much you liked it, and that he had come to the conclusion that twenty-two hours a day of them was enough for any one. he said he did not want to see another child or hear another child until he got home. he wanted to forget that there were such things as children in the world. we got up to the strand and dropped into the first theater we came to. the curtain went up, and on the stage was a small child standing in its nightshirt and screaming for its mother. our friend looked, said one word and bolted, and we followed. we went a little further and dropped into another theater. here there were two children on the stage. some grown-up people were standing round them listening, in respectful attitudes, while the children talked. they appeared to be lecturing about something. again we fled, swearing, and made our way to a third theater. they were all children there. it was somebody or other's children's company performing an opera, or pantomime, or something of that sort. our friend said he would not venture into another theater. he said he had heard there were places called music-halls, and he begged us to take him to one of these and not to tell his wife. we inquired of a policeman and found that there really were such places, and we took him into one. the first thing we saw were two little boys doing tricks on a horizontal bar. our friend was about to repeat his customary programme of flying and cursing, but we restrained him. we assured him that he would really see a grown-up person if he waited a bit, so he sat out the boys and also their little sister on a bicycle and waited for the next item. it turned out to be an infant phenomenon who sang and danced in fourteen different costumes, and we once more fled. our friend said he could not go home in the state he was then; he felt sure he should kill the twins if he did. he pondered for awhile, and then he thought he would go and hear some music. he said he thought a little music would soothe and ennoble him--make him feel more like a christian than he did at that precise moment. we were near st. james' hall, so we went in there. the hall was densely crowded, and we had great difficulty in forcing our way to our seats. we reached them at length, and then turned our eyes toward the orchestra. "the marvelous boy pianist--only ten years old!" was giving a recital. then our friend rose and said he thought he would give it up and go home. we asked him if he would like to try any other place of amusement, but he said "no." he said that when you came to think of it, it seemed a waste of money for a man with eleven children of his own to go about to places of entertainment nowadays. the comic lovers. oh, they are funny! the comic lovers' mission in life is to serve as a sort of "relief" to the misery caused the audience by the other characters in the play; and all that is wanted now is something that will be a relief to the comic lovers. they have nothing to do with the play, but they come on immediately after anything very sad has happened and make love. this is why we watch sad scenes on the stage with such patience. we are not eager for them to be got over. maybe they are very uninteresting scenes, as well as sad ones, and they make us yawn; but we have no desire to see them hurried through. the longer they take the better pleased we are: we know that when they are finished the comic lovers will come on. they are always very rude to each other, the comic lovers. everybody is more or less rude and insulting to every body else on the stage; they call it repartee there! we tried the effect of a little stage "repartee" once upon some people in real life, and we wished we hadn't afterward. it was too subtle for them. they summoned us before a magistrate for "using language calculated to cause a breach of the peace." we were fined pounds and costs! they are more lenient to "wit and humor" on the stage, and know how to encourage the art of vituperation. but the comic lovers carry the practice almost to excess. they are more than rude--they are abusive. they insult each other from morning to night. what their married life will be like we shudder to think! in the various slanging matches and bullyragging competitions which form their courtship it is always the maiden that is most successful. against her merry flow of invective and her girlish wealth of offensive personalities the insolence and abuse of her boyish adorer cannot stand for one moment. to give an idea of how the comic lovers woo, we perhaps cannot do better than subjoin the following brief example: _scene: main thoroughfare in populous district of london. time: noon. not a soul to be seen anywhere._ _enter comic loveress r., walking in the middle of the road._ _enter comic lover l., also walking in the middle of the road._ _they neither see the other until they bump against each other in the center._ he. why, jane! who'd a' thought o' meeting you here! she. you evidently didn't--stoopid! he. halloo! got out o' bed the wrong side again? i say, jane, if you go on like that you'll never get a man to marry you. she. so i thought when i engaged myself to you. he. oh! come, jane, don't be hard. she. well, one of us must be hard. you're soft enough. he. yes, i shouldn't want to marry you if i weren't. ha! ha! ha! she. oh, you gibbering idiot! (_said archly._) he. so glad i am. we shall make a capital match (_attempts to kiss her_). she (_slipping away_). yes, and you'll find i'm a match that can strike (_fetches him a violent blow over the side if the head_). he (_holding his jaw--in a literal sense, we mean_). i can't help feeling smitten by her. she. yes, i'm a bit of a spanker, ain't i? he. spanker. i call you a regular stunner. you've nearly made me silly. she (_laughing playfully_). no, nature did that for you, joe, long ago. he. ah, well, you've made me smart enough now, you boss-eyed old cow, you! she. cow! am i? ah, i suppose that's what makes me so fond of a calf, you german sausage on legs! you-- he. go along. your mother brought you up on sour milk. she. yah! they weaned you on thistles, didn't they? and so on, with such like badinage do they hang about in the middle of that road, showering derision and contumely upon each other for full ten minutes, when, with one culminating burst of mutual abuse, they go off together fighting and the street is left once more deserted. it is very curious, by the bye, how deserted all public places become whenever a stage character is about. it would seem as though ordinary citizens sought to avoid them. we have known a couple of stage villains to have waterloo bridge, lancaster place, and a bit of the strand entirely to themselves for nearly a quarter of an hour on a summer's afternoon while they plotted a most diabolical outrage. as for trafalgar square, the hero always chooses that spot when he wants to get away from the busy crowd and commune in solitude with his own bitter thoughts; and the good old lawyer leaves his office and goes there to discuss any very delicate business over which he particularly does not wish to be disturbed. and they all make speeches there to an extent sufficient to have turned the hair of the late lamented sir charles warren white with horror. but it is all right, because there is nobody near to hear them. as far as the eye can reach, not a living thing is to be seen. northumberland avenue, the strand, and st. martin's lane are simply a wilderness. the only sign of life about is a 'bus at the top of whitehall, and it appears to be blocked. how it has managed to get blocked we cannot say. it has the whole road to itself, and is, in fact, itself the only traffic for miles round. yet there it sticks for hours. the police make no attempt to move it on and the passengers seem quite contented. the thames embankment is an even still more lonesome and desolate part. wounded (stage) spirits fly from the haunts of men and, leaving the hard, cold world far, far behind them, go and die in peace on the thames embankment. and other wanderers, finding their skeletons afterward, bury them there and put up rude crosses over the graves to mark the spot. the comic lovers are often very young, and when people on the stage are young they _are_ young. he is supposed to be about sixteen and she is fifteen. but they both talk as if they were not more than seven. in real life "boys" of sixteen know a thing or two, we have generally found. the average "boy" of sixteen nowadays usually smokes cavendish and does a little on the stock exchange or makes a book; and as for love! he has quite got over it by that age. on the stage, however, the new-born babe is not in it for innocence with the boy lover of sixteen. so, too, with the maiden. most girls of fifteen off the stage, so our experience goes, know as much as there is any actual necessity for them to know, mr. gilbert notwithstanding; but when we see a young lady of fifteen on the stage we wonder where her cradle is. the comic lovers do not have the facilities for love-making that the hero and heroine do. the hero and heroine have big rooms to make love in, with a fire and plenty of easy-chairs, so that they can sit about in picturesque attitudes and do it comfortably. or if they want to do it out of doors they have a ruined abbey, with a big stone seat in the center, and moonlight. the comic lovers, on the other hand, have to do it standing up all the time, in busy streets, or in cheerless-looking and curiously narrow rooms in which there is no furniture whatever and no fire. and there is always a tremendous row going on in the house when the comic lovers are making love. somebody always seems to be putting up pictures in the next room, and putting them up boisterously, too, so that the comic lovers have to shout at each other. the peasants. they are so clean. we have seen peasantry off the stage, and it has presented an untidy--occasionally a disreputable and unwashed--appearance; but the stage peasant seems to spend all his wages on soap and hair-oil. they are always round the corner--or rather round the two corners--and they come on in a couple of streams and meet in the center; and when they are in their proper position they smile. there is nothing like the stage peasants' smile in this world--nothing so perfectly inane, so calmly imbecile. they are so happy. they don't look it, but we know they are because they say so. if you don't believe them, they dance three steps to the right and three steps to the left back again. they can't help it. it is because they are so happy. when they are more than usually rollicking they stand in a semicircle, with their hands on each other's shoulders, and sway from side to side, trying to make themselves sick. but this is only when they are simply bursting with joy. stage peasants never have any work to do. sometimes we see them going to work, sometimes coming home from work, but nobody has ever seen them actually at work. they could not afford to work--it would spoil their clothes. they are very sympathetic, are stage peasants. they never seem to have any affairs of their own to think about, but they make up for this by taking a three-hundred-horse-power interest in things in which they have no earthly concern. what particularly rouses them is the heroine's love affairs. they could listen to them all day. they yearn to hear what she said to him and to be told what he replied to her, and they repeat it to each other. in our own love-sick days we often used to go and relate to various people all the touching conversations that took place between our lady-love and ourselves; but our friends never seemed to get excited over it. on the contrary, a casual observer might even have been led to the idea that they were bored by our recital. and they had trains to catch and men to meet before we had got a quarter through the job. ah, how often in those days have we yearned for the sympathy of a stage peasantry, who would have crowded round us, eager not to miss one word of the thrilling narrative, who would have rejoiced with us with an encouraging laugh, and have condoled with us with a grieved "oh," and who would have gone off, when we had had enough of them, singing about it. by the way, this is a very beautiful trait in the character of the stage peasantry, their prompt and unquestioning compliance with the slightest wish of any of the principals. "leave me, friends," says the heroine, beginning to make preparations for weeping, and before she can turn round they are clean gone--one lot to the right, evidently making for the back entrance of the public-house, and the other half to the left, where they visibly hide themselves behind the pump and wait till somebody else wants them. the stage peasantry do not talk much, their strong point being to listen. when they cannot get any more information about the state of the heroine's heart, they like to be told long and complicated stories about wrongs done years ago to people that they never heard of. they seem to be able to grasp and understand these stories with ease. this makes the audience envious of them. when the stage peasantry do talk, however, they soon make up for lost time. they start off all together with a suddenness that nearly knocks you over. they all talk. nobody listens. watch any two of them. they are both talking as hard as they can go. they have been listening quite enough to other people: you can't expect them to listen to each other. but the conversation under such conditions must be very trying. and then they flirt so sweetly! so idyllicly! it has been our privilege to see real peasantry flirt, and it has always struck us as a singularly solid and substantial affair--makes one think, somehow, of a steam-roller flirting with a cow--but on the stage it is so sylph-like. she has short skirts, and her stockings are so much tidier and better fitting than these things are in real peasant life, and she is arch and coy. she turns away from him and laughs--such a silvery laugh. and he is ruddy and curly haired and has on such a beautiful waistcoat! how can she help but love him? and he is so tender and devoted and holds her by the waist; and she slips round and comes up the other side. oh, it is so bewitching! the stage peasantry like to do their love-making as much in public as possible. some people fancy a place all to themselves for this sort of thing--where nobody else is about. we ourselves do. but the stage peasant is more sociably inclined. give him the village green, just outside the public-house, or the square on market-day to do his spooning in. they are very faithful, are stage peasants. no jilting, no fickleness, no breach of promise. if the gentleman in pink walks out with the lady in blue in the first act, pink and blue will be married in the end. he sticks to her all through and she sticks to him. girls in yellow may come and go, girls in green may laugh and dance--the gentleman in pink heeds them not. blue is his color, and he never leaves it. he stands beside it, he sits beside it. he drinks with her, he smiles with her, he laughs with her, he dances with her, he comes on with her, he goes off with her. when the time comes for talking he talks to her and only her, and she talks to him and only him. thus there is no jealousy, no quarreling. but we should prefer an occasional change ourselves. there are no married people in stage villages and no children (consequently, of course--happy village! oh, to discover it and spend a month there!). there are just the same number of men as there are women in all stage villages, and they are all about the same age and each young man loves some young woman. but they never marry. they talk a lot about it, but they never do it. the artful beggars! they see too much what it's like among the principals. the stage peasant is fond of drinking, and when he drinks he likes to let you know he is drinking. none of your quiet half-pint inside the bar for him. he likes to come out in the street and sing about it and do tricks with it, such as turning it topsy-turvy over his head. notwithstanding all this he is moderate, mind you. you can't say he takes too much. one small jug of ale among forty is his usual allowance. he has a keen sense of humor and is easily amused. there is something almost pathetic about the way he goes into convulsions of laughter over such very small jokes. how a man like that would enjoy a real joke! one day he will perhaps hear a real joke. who knows? it will, however, probably kill him. one grows to love the stage peasant after awhile. he is so good, so child-like, so unworldly. he realizes one's ideal of christianity. the good old man. he has lost his wife. but he knows where she is--among the angels! she isn't all gone, because the heroine has her hair. "ah, you've got your mother's hair," says the good old man, feeling the girl's head all over as she kneels beside him. then they all wipe away a tear. the people on the stage think very highly of the good old man, but they don't encourage him much after the first act. he generally dies in the first act. if he does not seem likely to die they murder him. he is a most unfortunate old gentleman. anything he is mixed up in seems bound to go wrong. if he is manager or director of a bank, smash it goes before even one act is over. his particular firm is always on the verge of bankruptcy. we have only to be told that he has put all his savings into a company--no matter how sound and promising an affair it may always have been and may still seem--to know that that company is a "goner." no power on earth can save it after once the good old man has become a shareholder. if we lived in stage-land and were asked to join any financial scheme, our first question would be: "is the good old man in it?" if so, that would decide us. when the good old man is a trustee for any one he can battle against adversity much longer. he is a plucky old fellow, and while that trust money lasts he keeps a brave heart and fights on boldly. it is not until he has spent the last penny of it that he gives way. it then flashes across the old man's mind that his motives for having lived in luxury upon that trust money for years may possibly be misunderstood. the world--the hollow, heartless world--will call it a swindle and regard him generally as a precious old fraud. this idea quite troubles the good old man. but the world really ought not to blame him. no one, we are sure, could be more ready and willing to make amends (when found out); and to put matters right he will cheerfully sacrifice his daughter's happiness and marry her to the villain. the villain, by the way, has never a penny to bless himself with, and cannot even pay his own debts, let alone helping anybody else out of a scrape. but the good old man does not think of this. our own personal theory, based upon a careful comparison of similarities, is that the good old man is in reality the stage hero grown old. there is something about the good old man's chuckle-headed simplicity, about his helpless imbecility, and his irritating damtom foolishness that is strangely suggestive of the hero. he is just the sort of old man that we should imagine the hero would develop into. we may, of course, be wrong; but that is our idea. the irishman. he says "shure" and "bedad" and in moments of exultation "beghorra." that is all the irish he knows. he is very poor, but scrupulously honest. his great ambition is to pay his rent, and he is devoted to his landlord. he is always cheerful and always good. we never knew a bad irishman on the stage. sometimes a stage irishman seems to be a bad man--such as the "agent" or the "informer"--but in these cases it invariably turns out in the end that this man was all along a scotchman, and thus what had been a mystery becomes clear and explicable. the stage irishman is always doing the most wonderful things imaginable. we do not see him do those wonderful things. he does them when nobody is by and tells us all about them afterward: that is how we know of them. we remember on one occasion, when we were young and somewhat inexperienced, planking our money down and going into a theater solely and purposely to see the stage irishman do the things he was depicted as doing on the posters outside. they were really marvelous, the things he did on that poster. in the right-hand upper corner he appeared running across country on all fours, with a red herring sticking out from his coat-tails, while far behind came hounds and horsemen hunting him. but their chance of ever catching him up was clearly hopeless. to the left he was represented as running away over one of the wildest and most rugged bits of landscape we have ever seen with a very big man on his back. six policemen stood scattered about a mile behind him. they had evidently been running after him, but had at last given up the pursuit as useless. in the center of the poster he was having a friendly fight with seventeen ladies and gentlemen. judging from the costumes, the affair appeared to be a wedding. a few of the guests had already been killed and lay dead about the floor. the survivors, however, were enjoying themselves immensely, and of all that gay group he was the gayest. at the moment chosen by the artist, he had just succeeded in cracking the bridegroom's skull. "we must see this," said we to ourselves. "this is good." and we had a bob's worth. but he did not do any of the things that we have mentioned, after all--at least, we mean we did not see him do any of them. it seems he did them "off," and then came on and told his mother all about it afterward. he told it very well, but somehow or other we were disappointed. we had so reckoned on that fight. by the bye, we have noticed, even among the characters of real life, a tendency to perform most of their wonderful feats "off." it has been our privilege since then to gaze upon many posters on which have been delineated strange and moving stage events. we have seen the hero holding the villain up high above his head, and throwing him about that carelessly that we have felt afraid he would break something with him. we have seen a heroine leaping from the roof of a house on one side of the street and being caught by the comic man standing on the roof of a house on the other side of the street and thinking nothing of it. we have seen railway trains rushing into each other at the rate of sixty miles an hour. we have seen houses blown up by dynamite two hundred feet into the air. we have seen the defeat of the spanish armada, the destruction of pompeii, and the return of the british army from egypt in one "set" each. such incidents as earthquakes, wrecks in mid-ocean, revolutions and battles we take no note of, they being commonplace and ordinary. but we do not go inside to see these things now. we have two looks at the poster instead; it is more satisfying. the irishman, to return to our friend, is very fond of whisky--the stage irishman, we mean. whisky is forever in his thoughts--and often in other places belonging to him, besides. the fashion in dress among stage irishmen is rather picturesque than neat. tailors must have a hard time of it in stage ireland. the stage irishman has also an original taste in hats. he always wears a hat without a crown; whether to keep his head cool or with any political significance we cannot say. the detective. ah! he is a cute one, he is. possibly in real life he would not be deemed anything extraordinary, but by contrast with the average of stage men and women, any one who is not a born fool naturally appears somewhat machiavellian. he is the only man in the play who does not swallow all the villain tells him and believe it, and come up with his mouth open for more. he is the only man who can see through the disguise of an overcoat and a new hat. there is something very wonderful about the disguising power of cloaks and hats upon the stage. this comes from the habit people on the stage have of recognizing their friends, not by their faces and voices, but by their cloaks and hats. a married man on the stage knows his wife, because he knows she wears a blue ulster and a red bonnet. the moment she leaves off that blue ulster and red bonnet he is lost and does not know where she is. she puts on a yellow cloak and a green hat, and coming in at another door says she is a lady from the country, and does he want a housekeeper? having lost his beloved wife, and feeling that there is no one now to keep the children quiet, he engages her. she puzzles him a good deal, this new housekeeper. there is something about her that strangely reminds him of his darling nell--maybe her boots and dress, which she has not had time to change. sadly the slow acts pass away until one day, as it is getting near closing-time, she puts on the blue ulster and the red bonnet again and comes in at the old original door. then he recognizes her and asks her where she has been all these cruel years. even the bad people, who as a rule do possess a little sense--indeed, they are the only persons in the play who ever pretend to any--are deceived by singularly thin disguises. the detective comes in to their secret councils, with his hat drawn down over his eyes, and followed by the hero speaking in a squeaky voice; and the villains mistake them for members of the band and tell them all their plans. if the villains can't get themselves found out that way, then they go into a public tea-garden and recount their crimes to one another in a loud tone of voice. they evidently think that it is only fair to give the detective a chance. the detective must not be confounded with the policeman. the stage policeman is always on the side of the villain; the detective backs virtue. the stage detective is, in fact, the earthly agent of a discerning and benevolent providence. he stands by and allows vice to be triumphant and the good people to be persecuted for awhile without interference. then when he considers that we have all had about enough of it (to which conclusion, by the bye, he arrives somewhat late) he comes forward, handcuffs the bad people, sorts out and gives back to the good people all their various estates and wives, promises the chief villain twenty years' penal servitude, and all is joy. the sailor. he does suffer so with his trousers. he has to stop and pull them up about twice every minute. one of these days, if he is not careful, there will be an accident happen to those trousers. if the stage sailor will follow our advice, he will be warned in time and will get a pair of braces. sailors in real life do not have nearly so much trouble with their trousers as sailors on the stage do. why is this? we have seen a good deal of sailors in real life, but on only one occasion, that we can remember, did we ever see a real sailor pull his trousers up. and then he did not do it a bit like they do it on the stage. the stage sailor places his right hand behind him and his left in front, leaps up into the air, kicks out his leg behind in a gay and bird-like way, and the thing is done. the real sailor that we saw began by saying a bad word. then he leaned up against a brick wall and undid his belt, pulled up his "bags" as he stood there (he never attempted to leap up into the air), tucked in his jersey, shook his legs, and walked on. it was a most unpicturesque performance to watch. the thing that the stage sailor most craves in this life is that somebody should shiver his timbers. "shiver my timbers!" is the request he makes to every one he meets. but nobody ever does it. his chief desire with regard to the other people in the play is that they should "belay there, avast!" we do not know how this is done; but the stage sailor is a good and kindly man, and we feel convinced he would not recommend the exercise if it were not conducive to piety and health. the stage sailor is good to his mother and dances the hornpipe beautifully. we have never found a real sailor who could dance a hornpipe, though we have made extensive inquiries throughout the profession. we were introduced to a ship's steward who offered to do us a cellar-flap for a pot of four-half, but that was not what we wanted. the stage sailor is gay and rollicking: the real sailors we have met have been, some of them, the most worthy and single-minded of men, but they have appeared sedate rather than gay, and they haven't rollicked much. the stage sailor seems to have an easy time of it when at sea. the hardest work we have ever seen him do then has been folding up a rope or dusting the sides of the ship. but it is only in his very busy moments that he has to work to this extent; most of his time is occupied in chatting with the captain. by the way, speaking of the sea, few things are more remarkable in their behavior than a stage sea. it must be difficult to navigate in a stage sea, the currents are so confusing. as for the waves, there is no knowing how to steer for them; they are so tricky. at one moment they are all on the larboard, the sea on the other side of the vessel being perfectly calm, and the next instant they have crossed over and are all on the starboard, and before the captain can think how to meet this new dodge, the whole ocean has slid round and got itself into a heap at the back of him. seamanship is useless against such very unprofessional conduct as this, and the vessel is wrecked. a wreck at (stage) sea is a truly awful sight. the thunder and lightning never leave off for an instant; the crew run round and round the mast and scream; the heroine, carrying the stage child in her arms and with her back hair down, rushes about and gets in everybody's way. the comic man alone is calm! the next instant the bulwarks fall down flat on the deck and the mast goes straight up into the sky and disappears, then the water reaches the powder magazine and there is a terrific explosion. this is followed by a sound as of linen sheets being ripped up, and the passengers and crew hurry downstairs into the cabin, evidently with the idea of getting out of the way of the sea, which has climbed up and is now level with the deck. the next moment the vessel separates in the middle and goes off r. and l., so as to make room for a small boat containing the heroine, the child, the comic man, and one sailor. the way small boats are managed at (stage) sea is even more wonderful than the way in which ships are sailed. to begin with, everybody sits sideways along the middle of the boat, all facing the starboard. they do not attempt to row. one man does all the work with one scull. this scull he puts down through the water till it touches the bed of the ocean, and then he shoves. "deep-sea punting" would be the technical term for the method, we presume. in this way do they toil--or rather, to speak correctly, does the one man toil--through the awful night, until with joy they see before them the light-house rocks. the light-house keeper comes out with a lantern. the boat is run in among the breakers and all are saved. and then the band plays. the end. books for young men merriwell series stories of frank and dick merriwell price fifteen cents _fascinating stories of athletics_ a half million enthusiastic followers of the merriwell brothers will attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with the rest of the world. these stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and athletics. they are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be of immense benefit to every boy who reads them. they have the splendid quality of firing a boy's ambition to become a good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous right-thinking man. _all titles always in print_ --frank merriwell's school days by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's chums by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's foes by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's trip west by burt l. standish --frank merriwell down south by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's bravery by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's hunting tour by burt l. standish --frank merriwell in europe by burt l. standish --frank merriwell at yale by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's sports afield by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's races by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's party by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's bicycle tour by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's courage by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's daring by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's alarm by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's athletes by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's skill by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's champions by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's return to yale by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's secret by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's danger by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's loyalty by burt l. standish --frank merriwell in camp by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's vacation by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's cruise by burt l. standish in order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued, during the respective months, in new york city and vicinity. they may not reach the readers, at a distance, promptly, on account of delays in transportation. to be published in january, . --frank merriwell's chase by burt l. standish --frank merriwell in maine by burt l. standish to be published in february, . --frank merriwell's struggle by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's first job by burt l. standish to be published in march, . --frank merriwell's opportunity by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's hard luck by burt l. standish to be published in april, . --frank merriwell's protégé by burt l. standish --frank merriwell on the road by burt l. standish to be published in may, . --frank merriwell's own company by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's fame by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's college chums by burt l. standish to be published in june, . --frank merriwell's problem by burt l. standish --frank merriwell's fortune by burt l. standish frank merriwell's new comedian or, the rise of a star by burt l. standish author of the famous merriwell stories. street & smith corporation, publishers - seventh avenue, new york copyright, by street & smith frank merriwell's new comedian (printed in the united states of america) all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian. frank merriwell's new comedian chapter i. "never say die!" it is not a pleasant experience to wake up on a beautiful morning to the realization that one has failed. there seems a relentless irony in nature herself that the day that dawns on a night when our glittering hopes have become dead, dull ashes of despair and ruin should be bright and warm with the sun's genial rays. so frank merriwell felt this fine morning in puelbo, colorado. the night before, with high hopes, he had produced his new play, "for old eli." he recalled the events of that first production with almost a shudder. "for old eli" had been a failure, a flat, appalling, stupefying failure. from the rise of the curtain everything and everybody had gone wrong; lines were forgotten, ephraim gallup had had stage fright, his own best situations had been marred. how much of this was due to the lying handbills which had been scattered broadcast, asserting that he was not the real frank merriwell, but an impostor, a deadbeat and a thorough scoundrel, frank could not tell. he believed that these efforts to ruin him had little effect, for when, at the close of the performance, he had made a speech from the stage, assuring the audience that he would bring his play back and give a satisfactory performance, his reception had been cordial. but the play had failed. parker folansbee, his backer, had acted queerly, and frank knew that, after the company had reached denver, the relations between him and his backer would cease. "for old eli" had been well-nigh ruinous, and when they got back to denver, merry and his friends would be without funds. then the thought came to him of the prejudice expressed against a poor black cat he had allowed to travel with the company. he could not restrain a smile as he perceived that the superstitious members of the company would feel that the cat had hoodooed them. as if a cat could affect the fortunes of men! the thought of the cat gave a pleasant turn to his reflections, and he cheered up immensely. he had failed? no! he would not acknowledge failure, defeat, disaster. he would not lie down and abandon the struggle, for he was not built of such weak material. where was the fault? was it in the piece, or in the way it had been played? he realized that, although the piece was well constructed, it was not of a high, artistic character, such as must appeal by pure literary merit to the best class of theater patrons. it could not be ranked with the best productions of pinero, jones, howard, thomas, or even clyde fitch. he had not written it with the hope of reaching such a level. his aim had been to make a "popular" piece, such as would appeal to the masses. he fell to thinking over what had happened, and trying to understand the cause of it all. he did not lay the blame entirely on the actors. it was not long before he decided that something about his play had led the spectators to expect more than they had received. what was it they had expected? while he was thinking of this alone in his room at the hotel, bart hodge, his old friend and a member of his company, came in. hodge looked disgruntled, disappointed, disgusted. he sat down on the bed without speaking. "hello, old man," said frank, cheerfully. "what's the matter with your face? it would sour new milk." "and you ought to have a face that would sour honey!" growled bart. "i should if i were in your place." "what's the use? that wouldn't improve things." "if i were in your place, i'd take a gun and go forth and kill a few stiffs." "i always supposed a 'stiff' was dead. didn't know one could be killed over again." "oh, you can joke if you want to, but i don't see how you can feel like joking now. anybody else would swear." "and that would be foolish." "perhaps so; but you know, as well as i do, that your play was murdered and mangled last night." "that's so, b'gosh!" drawled a doleful voice, and ephraim gallup, another of the company, frank's boy friend from vermont, came stalking into the room, looking quite as disgusted and dejected as hodge. "an' i'm one of the murderers!" frank looked ephraim over and burst out laughing. "why," he cried, "your face is so long that you'll be hitting your toes against your chin when you walk, if you're not careful." "whut i need is somebuddy to hit their toes against my pants jest where i set down, an' do it real hard," said ephraim. "i wisht i'd stayed to hum on the farm when i went back there and giv up the idee that i was an actor. i kin dig 'taters an' saw wood a darn sight better'n i kin act!" "you're all right, ephraim," assured merry. "you had to fill that part in a hurry, and you were not sure on your lines. that worried you and broke you up. if you had been sure of your lines, so that you would have felt easy, i don't think there would have been any trouble as far as you were concerned." "i dunno abaout that. i never felt so gosh-darn scat as i did larst night. why, i jest shook all over, an' one spell i didn't think my laigs'd hold me up till i got off ther stage. it was awful!" "you had an attack of stage fright. they say all great actors have it once in their lives." "waal, i never want to feel that air way ag'in! an' i spoilt that scene in the dressin' room of the clubhaouse. oh, jeewhillikins! i'm goin' aout of the show business, frank, an' git a job paoundin' sand. it don't take no brains to do that." "cheer up! you are going to play that same part in this play, and you'll play it well, too." "whut? then be yeou goin' to keep right on with the play?" asked the vermonter, in astonishment. "no," said merry, "i am not going to keep right on with it. i am going to put it into shape to win, and then i'm going out with it again. my motto is, 'never say die.' you heard what i told the audience last night. i promised them that i would play in this town and would make a success. i shall keep that promise." hodge shook his head. "you are smart, frank, but there's a limit. i'm afraid your luck has turned. you are hoodooed." just then a coal-black cat came out from under the bed and walked across the room. "and i suppose you think this is my hoodoo?" smiled merry, as the cat came over and rubbed against his leg. "that's where you are away off. this cat is my mascot, and she shall travel with me till the piece wins. she has stuck to me close enough since she walked onto the stage where we were rehearsing in denver." "the cat is not the hoodoo," said bart, shaking his head. "i know what is." "you do?" "sure." "name it." "i am!" "you?" "yes." frank stared at bart in surprise, and then burst out laughing. "well, how in the world did you happen to get such a foolish notion into your head?" he cried. "it's not foolish," declared bart, stubbornly. "it's straight, i know it, and you can't make me think differently." frank rose and walked over to hodge, putting a hand on his shoulder. "now you are talking silly, old man," he said. "you never were bad luck to me in the past; why should you be now. you're blue. you are down in the mouth and your head is filled with ridiculous fancies. things would have happened just as they have if you had not joined the company." "i don't believe it." "you always were superstitious, but i believe you are worse than ever now. you have been playing poker too much. that's what ails you. the game makes every man superstitious. he may not believe in luck at the beginning, but he will after he has stuck to that game a while. he will see all the odd things that happen with cards, and the conviction that there is such a thing as luck must grow upon him. he will become whimsical and full of notions. that's what's the matter with you, hodge. forget it, forget it!" "i think you are likely to forget some things altogether too early, merriwell. for instance, some of your enemies." "what's the use to remember unpleasant things?" "they remember you. one of them did so to an extent that he helped ruin the first presentation of your play." "how?" "it isn't possible that you have forgotten the lying notices circulated all over this city, stating that you were not the real frank merriwell, accusing you of being a fake and a thief?" something like a shadow settled on merry's strong face. "no, i have not forgotten," he declared, "i remember all that, and i'd like to know just who worked the game." "it was a gol-dinged measly trick!" exploded ephraim. "you thought it would not hurt you, frank," said hodge. "you fancied it would serve to advertise you, if anything. it may have advertised you, but it did you damage at the same time. when the audience saw everything was going wrong, it grew angry and became convinced that it was being defrauded. then you had trouble with that big ruffian who climbed over the footlights with the avowed purpose of breaking up the show." "oh, well," smiled merry, in a peculiar way, "that fellow went right back over the footlights." "yes, you threw him back. that quieted the audience more than anything else, for it showed that you were no slouch, even if you were a fake." "oh, i suppose i'll find out some time just who did that little piece of advertising for me." "perhaps so; perhaps not." tap, tap, tap--a knock on the door. "come!" frank called. the door opened, and billy wynne, the property man, looked in. "letter for you, mr. merriwell," he said. frank took the letter, and wynne disappeared, after being thanked for bringing it. "excuse me," said merry, and he tore open the envelope. a moment later, having glanced over the letter, he whistled. "news?" asked bart. "just a note from the gentleman we were speaking of just now," answered frank. "it's from the party who gave me the free advertising." "waal, i'll be kicked by a blind kaow!" exploded gallup. "an' did he hev ther gall to write to ye?" "yes," said frank. "listen to this." then he read the letter aloud. "mr. frank merriwell. "dear sir: by this time you must be aware that you are not the greatest thing that ever happened. you received it in the neck last night, and i aided in the good work of knocking you out, for i circulated the 'warning' notice which denounced you as an impostor, a deadbeat and a thief. the public swallowed it all, and, in disguise, i was at the theater to witness your downfall. it was even greater than i had dared hope it would be. i understand the managers in other towns have canceled with you, folansbee has declined to back your old show any longer, and you are on the beach. ha! ha! ha! this is revenge indeed. you are knocked out at last, and i did it. you'll never appear again as the marvelous young actor-playwright, and the name of frank merriwell will sink into oblivion. it is well. yours with satisfaction, leslie lawrence." "i knew well enough it was that dirty rascal who did the job!" cried hodge, springing up. "the cur!" "waal, dinged if he hadn't oughter be shot!" burst from gallup. "an' he knows folansbee's gone back on ye." "it's no use, frank," said hodge, disconsolately; "you are done for. the story is out. folansbee has skipped us, and----" "he has not skipped us. he's simply decided to go out of the theatrical business. it was a fad with him, anyhow. as long as everything was going well, he liked it; but i see he is a man who cannot stand hard luck. he is changeable and that makes him a mighty poor man to back a venture. it takes a man with determination and a fixed purpose to win at anything. changing around, jumping from one thing to another, never having any clear ideas is enough to make a failure of any man. folansbee doesn't need to follow the show business for a living. he went into it because it fascinated him. the glamour is all worn off now, and he is ready to get out if it. let him go." "it's all right to say let him go, but what are you going to do without him? you are talking about putting your play out again, but how will you do it?" "i'll find a way." "that is easier said than done. you have been lucky, frank, there is no question about that. you can't be that lucky all the time." "there are more ways than one to catch an angel." "i rather think you'll find that angels are not so thick. once in a while there is a soft thing who is ready to gamble with his money by putting it behind a traveling theatrical company, but those soft things are growing scarcer and scarcer. too many of them have been bitten." "still, i have a feeling that i'll find a way to succeed." "of course you can advertise for a partner to invest in a 'sure thing,' and all that, but those games are too near fraud. rascals have worked those schemes so much that honest men avoid them." "i shall not resort to any trickery or deception. if i catch an 'angel' i shall get one just as i obtained folansbee, by telling him all the risks and chances of failure." "well, you'll not get another that way." "darned if i ain't afraid now!" nodded ephraim. "but mr. folansbee's goin' to take keer of this comp'ny, ain't he? he's goin' to take it back to denver?" "he has agreed to do so." at this moment there was another sharp rap on the door, which, happening to be near, frank opened. cassie lee walked in, followed by roscoe havener, the soubrette and the stage manager of "for old eli," cassie showed excitement. "well, what do you think of him?" she cried. "of whom--havener?" asked merry, "no, folansbee." "what about him?" "he's skipped." "skipped?" "sure thing. run away." "impossible!" "it's a straight fact," declared the little soubrette. "there's no doubt of it," corroborated havener. "waal, may i be tickled to death by grasshoppers!" ejaculated gallup. "this caps the whole business!" burst from hodge. "i can't believe that," said merriwell, slowly. "how do you know, havener?" "his baggage is gone. garland and dunton traced him to the station. they were just in time to see him board an eastbound train as it pulled out. he has deserted us." chapter ii. darkness and dawn. frank could not express his astonishment. "i can't believe it," he repeated. "folansbee would not do such a thing." hodge laughed shortly, harshly. "you have altogether too much confidence in human nature, merry," he said. "i never took much stock in this folansbee. he is just the sort of person i would expect to do such a trick." "the company is hot, merriwell," said havener. "they're ready to eat you." "me?" "yes." "for what?" "for getting them into this scrape." "i don't see how they can blame me." there came a sound of feet outside and a bang on the door, which was flung open before frank could reach it. into the room stalked granville garland, followed by the remainder of the company. plainly all were excited. "well, mr. merriwell," said garland, assuming an accusing manner and striking a stage pose, "we are here." "so i see," nodded frank, calmly. "what's the matter?" "you engaged us to fill parts in your play." "i did." "we hold contracts with you." "i beg your pardon. i think you are mistaken." "what?" "i made no contracts with you; i simply engaged you. you hold contracts with parker folansbee." "folansbee has deserted us, sir," declared garland, accusingly. "we have been tricked, fooled, deceived! we hold contracts. you were concerned with folansbee in putting this company on the road, and you are responsible. we have come to you to find out what you mean to do." "i am very sorry----" began frank. "being sorry for us doesn't help us a bit," cut in garland, rudely. "i believe you knew folansbee was going to skip." frank turned his eyes full on the speaker, and he seemed to look his accuser straight through and through. "mr. garland," he said, "you are rude and insulting. i do not fancy the way you speak to me." "well, what are you going to do about it?" "that's what i'd like to know," put in lloyd fowler. "i want my money. i didn't come out here to be fooled this way." "mr. fowler," spoke frank, "you have not earned any money. instead, you have earned a fine by appearing on the stage last night in a state of intoxication." "who says so?" "i do." "then you li----" fowler did not quite finish the word. frank had him by the neck and pinned him against the wall in a moment. merry's eyes were flashing fire, but his voice was steady, as he said: "take it back, sir! apologize instantly for that!" garland made a move as if he would interfere, but bart hodge was before him in an instant, looking straight into his face, and saying: "hands off! touch him and you get thumped!" "get out!" cried garland. "not a bit of it. if you want a scrap, i shall be pleased to give you what you desire." "here, fellows!" called garland; "get in here all of you and give these two tricksters a lesson! come on!" "wait!" cried havener, stepping to the other side of merriwell. "don't try it, for i shall stand by him!" "me, too, boys!" cried cassie lee, getting into line with her small fists clinched, and a look of determination on her thin face. "don't nobody jump on frank merriwell unless i take a hand in the racket." the rest of the company were astonished. they realized that frank had some friends, but it was not until after he had awakened to realize just what the situation meant that ephraim gallup drew himself together and planted himself with merry's party. "whe-ee!" he squealed. "if there's goin' ter be a ruction, yeou kin bet i'll fight fer merry, though i ain't much of a fighter. i'd ruther run then fight any day, onless i have ter fight, but i reckon i'll hev ter fight in this case, if there is any fightin'." immediately granville garland became very placid in his manner. "we didn't come here to fight," he said, "but we came here to demand our rights." "an' to sass frank," put in the vermonter. "but, b'gosh! yeou are barkin' up ther wrong tree when yeou tackle him! he kin jest natterally chaw yeou up." frank still held fowler against the wall. now he spoke to the fellow in a low, commanding tone: "apologize at once," he said. "come, sir, make haste!" "i didn't mean anything," faltered the frightened actor. "i think i was too hasty. i apologize." "be careful in the future," advised merry, releasing him. then merry turned to the others, saying: "ladies and gentlemen, until havener just brought the news, i did not know that parker folansbee was gone. it was a great surprise for me, as i did not dream he was a person to do such a thing. even now i cannot feel that he has entirely deserted us. he may have left town rather than face us, but i hope he has been man enough to leave money behind that will enable us to return to denver, at least. you must see that we are in the same box together. i am hit as hard as any of you, for i had hoped that folansbee would stand by me so that i would be able to put the play in better shape and take it out again. i have lost him as a backer, and if he has skipped without leaving us anything, i have barely enough money to enable me to get back to denver." "haven't you any way of getting hold of money?" asked harper. "unfortunately, i have not," answered merry. "if i had money in my pocket i would spend the last cent to square this thing with you." "and i know that's on the level!" chirped cassie lee. "well, it's mighty tough!" muttered billy wynne. "that's all i've got to say." "we'll have to get up some kind of a benefit for ourselves," said havener. "that's the only thing left to do." "come up to my room," invited miss stanley, "and we'll try to devise a scheme for raising the dust. come on." they followed her out, leaving ephraim, bart and frank. "whew!" breathed gallup, sitting down on the bed. "hanged if i didn't kinder think there was goin' to be a ruction one spell. i wanted to run, but i warn't goin' to leave frank to be thrashed by a lot of hamfatters, b'gee!" "they were excited when they came in," said merry, apologizing for the ones who had departed. "if it hadn't been for that, they would not have thought of making such a scene." "well, frank," spoke bart, "i hope this will teach you a lesson." "how?" "i hope it will teach you not to put so much confidence in human nature after this. have less confidence and do more business in writing. i haven't a doubt but folansbee would have stuck by you all right if the new play had proved a winner, but he saw a chance to squeal when it turned out bad, and he jumped you." "i had a contract with him about the other piece," said merry; "but you know he did not return from st. louis till just before we were ready to start out, and so i had not been able to arrange matters about this piece." "and that lets him out easy." "yes, he gets out without any trouble, and i don't believe i can do a thing about it." again there came a rap on the door. when it was opened, a bell boy, accompanied by a gray-bearded gentleman, stood outside. "mr. merriwell," said the bell boy, "here is a gentleman to see you." the man entered. "walk right in, sir," invited merry. "what can i do for you?" frank closed the door. the stranger slowly drew off his gloves, critically looking merriwell over. "so you are mr. frank merriwell?" he said. "yes, sir." "i recognize you," nodded the man. "do you remember me?" "no, sir; i can't say that i do, although i believe i have seen your face before." "i think you have, but i did not wear a full beard then." "ah! then it is possible the beard has made the change that prevents me from recognizing you." "quite likely." "will you sit down?" "i have some important business with you," explained the stranger, with a glance toward gallup and hodge. immediately bart started for the door. "see you later, frank," he said. "come on, ephraim." gallup followed hodge from the room. when they were gone, frank again invited the stranger to be seated. "thank you," said the man, as he accepted a chair. "for reasons i wish you would look at me closely and see if you recognize me. i recognize you, although you are older, but i must proceed with the utmost caution in this matter, and i wish you would recognize me and state my name, so that i may feel absolutely certain that i am making no mistake." frank sat down opposite the gentleman, at whom he gazed searchingly. he concentrated his mind in the effort to remember. frank had found that he could do many difficult things by concentration of his mental forces. now he sought to picture in his mind the appearance of this man without a beard. gradually, he felt that he was drawing nearer and nearer the object he sought. finally he made a request: "please speak again, sir." "why do you wish me to, speak again?" said the stranger, smiling. "so that your voice may aid me in remembering. i wish to associate your voice and your face." "very well. what do you wish me to say?" "you have said enough. i have your voice now." "i'm afraid you'll not be able to remember," said the stranger. "it doesn't make any great difference, for i recognize you, and i can make assurance doubly sure by asking you a few questions. first, i wish to ask----" "excuse me," interrupted merry. "you are from carson city, nevada. you are connected with the bank in carson, where i deposited a certain amount of valuable treasure, found by myself and some friends years ago in the utah desert. your name is horace hobson." "correct!" cried the man, with satisfaction. "now, can you produce the receipt given you for that treasure?" "yes, sir," nodded frank, immediately producing a leather pocketbook and opening it. "i have it here." in a moment he had found the paper and handed it to mr. hobson. the gentleman adjusted some gold-rimmed nose-glasses and looked the receipt over. "this is the receipt," he nodded. "you instructed the bank officials to use every effort and spare no expense to find the relatives of prof. millard fillmore and the rightful heirs to the treasure." "i did." "i am here to inform you that the bank has carried out your instructions faithfully." "then you have found prof. fillmore's relatives?" quickly asked merry, his heart sinking a bit. "on the contrary, we have found that he has no relatives living. he seems to have been the last of his family--the end of it----" "then----" "it has been necessary for us to go to considerable expense to settle this point beyond a doubt, but we have done so, in accordance with your directions. of course, we shall not lose anything. we have ascertained the exact value of the treasure, and have deducted for our expense and trouble. at a meeting of the bank directors i was instructed to turn over the remainder to you. i have here papers showing the exact valuation of the treasure as deposited with us. here is a complete account of all our expenses and charges. we have found a balance remaining of forty-three thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars. i was sent to turn this money over to you, as i could identify you beyond doubt, and there could be no mistake. to make it certain in my own mind, i wished you to recognize me. you did so, and i knew i could not be making a mistake. i will take up this receipt here, and in return will give you a check for the amount, if that is satisfactory to you." frank sat like one dazed, staring at horace hobson. was it possible that he was not dreaming? was he in his hour of need to receive this immense sum of money? no wonder he fancied he was dreaming. at last he gave himself a slight shake, and his voice did not falter as he said: "it is perfectly satisfactory to me, sir. i will accept the check." chapter iii. merriwell's generosity. mr. hobson departed, and then frank rang for a bell boy and sent for bart and ephraim. merry's two friends came in a short time. "i have called you up," said merry, "to talk over the arrangements for putting 'for old eli' on the road again without delay. i have decided on that. it will take some little time to manufacture the costly mechanical effect that i propose to introduce into the third act, and we shall have to get some new paper. i believe i can telegraph a description to chicago so a full stand lithograph from stone can be made that will suit me, and i shall telegraph to-day." hodge stared at frank as if he thought merry had lost his senses. "you always were a practical joker," he growled; "but don't you think it's about time to let up? i don't see that this is a joking matter. you should have some sympathy for our feelings, if you don't care for yourself." merry laughed a bit. "my dear fellow," he said, "i assure you i was never more serious. i am not joking. i shall telegraph for the paper immediately." "paper like that costs money, and the lithographers will demand a guarantee before they touch the work." "and i shall give them a guarantee. i shall instruct them to draw on the first national bank of denver, where my money will be deposited." "your money?" gasped hodge. "jeewhillikins!" gurgled gallup. then frank's friends looked at each other, the same thought in the minds of both. had merry gone mad? had his misfortune turned his brain? "i believe i can have the effect i desire to introduce manufactured for me in denver," frank went on. "i shall brace up that third act with it. i shall make a spectacular climax on the order of the mechanical horse races you see on the stage. i shall have some dummy figures and boats made, so that the boat race may be seen on the river in the distance. i have an idea of a mechanical arrangement to represent the crowd that lines the river and the observation train that carries a load of spectators along the railroad that runs beside the river. i think the swaying crowd can be shown, the moving train, the three boats, yale, harvard and cornell, with their rowers working for life. harvard shall be a bit in the lead when the boats first appear, but yale shall press her and take the lead. then i will have the scene shifted instantly, so that the audience will be looking into the yale clubhouse. the rear of the house shall open direct upon the river. there shall be great excitement in the clubhouse, which i will have located at the finish of the course. the boats are coming. outside, along the river, mad crowds are cheering hoarsely, whistles are screeching, yale students are howling the college cry. here they come! now the excitement is intense. hurrah! yale has taken the lead! the boats shoot in view at the back of the stage, yale a length ahead, harvard next, cornell almost at her side, and in this form they cross the line, yale the victor. the star of the piece, myself, who has escaped from his enemies barely in time to enter the boat and help win the race, is brought on by the madly cheering college men, and down comes the curtain on a climax that must set any audience wild." hodge sat down on the bed. "frank," he said, grimly, "you're going crazy! it would cost a thousand dollars to get up that effect." "i don't care if it costs two thousand dollars, i'll have it, and i'll have it in a hurry!" laughed merriwell. "i am out for business now. i am in the ring to win this time." "yes, you are going crazy!" nodded hodge. "where is all the money coming from?" "i've got it!" bart went into the air as if he had received an electric shock. "you--you've what?" he yelled. "got the money," asserted frank. "where?" shouted bart. "right here." "may i be tickled to death by muskeeters!" gasped gallup. "got two thousand dollars?" said hodge. "oh, come off, merriwell! you are carrying this thing too far now!" "just take a look at this piece of paper," invited frank, as he passed over the check he had received from horace hobson. bart took it, he looked at it, he was stricken dumb. gallup looked over bart's shoulder. his jaw dropped, his eyes bulged from his head, and he could not utter a sound. "how do you like the looks of it?" smiled merry. "what--what is it?" faltered bart. "a check. can't you see? a check that is good for forty-three thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight dollars." "good for that? why, it can't be! now, is this more of your joking, merriwell? if it is, i swear i shall feel like having a fight with you right here!" "it's no joke, old man. that piece of paper is good--it is good for every dollar. the money is payable to me. i've got the dust to put my play out in great style." even then bart could not believe it. he groped for the bed and sat down, limply, still staring at the check, which he held in his hand. "what's this for?" he asked. "it's for the fillmore treasure, which i found in the utah desert," exclaimed frank. "it was brought to me by the man who came in here a little while ago." then gallup collapsed. his knees seemed to buckle beneath him, and he dropped down on the bed. "waal, may i be chawed up fer grass by a spavin hoss!" he murmured. hodge sat quite still for some seconds. "merry," he said, at last, beginning to tremble all over, "are you sure this is good? are you sure there is no crooked business behind it?" "of course i am," smiled frank. "how can you be?" asked bart. "i received it from the very man with whom i did the business in carson when i made the deposit. in order that there might be no mistake he came on here and delivered it to me personally." "i think i'm dyin'!" muttered ephraim. "i've received a shock from which i'll never rekiver! forty-three thousan' dollars! oh, say, i know there's a mistake here!" "not a bit of a mistake," assured merriwell, smiling, triumphant. "and all that money is yourn?" "no." "why--why, ther check's made out to yeou." "because the treasure was deposited by me." "and yeou faound it?" "i found it, but i did so while in company with four friends." now hodge showed still further excitement. "those friends were not with you at the moment when you found it," he said. "i've heard your story. you came near losing your life. the mad hermit fought to throw you from the precipice. the way you found the treasure, the dangers you passed through, everything that happened established your rightful claim to it. it belongs to you alone." "i do not look at it in that light," said frank, calmly and positively. "there were five of us in the party. the others were my friends diamond, rattleton, browning, and toots." "a nigger!" exclaimed bart. "do you call him your friend?" "i do!" exclaimed merry. "more than once that black boy did things for me which i have never been able to repay. although a coward at heart so far as danger to himself was concerned, i have known him to risk his life to save me from harm. why shouldn't i call him my friend? his skin may be black, but his heart is white." "oh, all right," muttered hodge. "i haven't anything more to say. i was not one of your party at that time." "no." "i wish i had been." "so yeou could git yeour share of the boodle?" grinned ephraim. "no!" cried hodge, fiercely. "so i could show the rest of them how to act like men! i would refuse to touch one cent of it! i would tell frank merriwell that it belonged to him, and he could not force me to take it. that's all." "mebbe the others'll do that air way," suggested the vermont youth. "not on your life!" sneered bart. "they'll gobble onto their shares with both hands. i know them, i've traveled with them, and i am not stuck on any of them." "i shall compel them to take it," smiled frank. "i am sorry, fellows, that you both were not with me, so i could bring you into the division. i'd find a way to compel hodge to accept his share." "not in a thousand years!" exploded bart. "waal," drawled ephraim, "i ain't saying, but i'd like a sheer of that money well enough, but there's one thing i am sayin'. sence hodge has explained why he wouldn't tech none of it, i be gol-dinged if yeou could force a single cent onter me ef i hed bin with yeou, same as them other fellers was! i say hodge is jest right abaout that business. the money belongs to yeou, frank, an' yeou're the only one that owns a single dollar of it, b'gosh!" "that's right, ephraim," nodded hodge. "and there isn't another chap in the country who would insist on giving away some of his money to others under similar circumstances. some people might call it generosity; i call it thundering foolishness!" "i can't help what you call it," said frank; "i shall do what i believe is right and just, and thus i will have nothing to trouble my conscience." "conscience! conscience! you'll never be rich in the world, for you have too much conscience. do you suppose the wall street magnates could have become millionaires if they had permitted their conscience to worry them over little points?" "i fancy not," acknowledged merry, shaking his head. "i am certain i shall never become wealthy in just the same manner that certain millionaires acquired their wealth. i'd rather remain poor. such an argument does not touch me, hodge." "oh, i suppose not! but it's a shame for you to be such a chump! just think what you could do with forty-three thousand dollars! you could give up this show business, you could go back to yale and finish your course in style. you could be the king-bee of them all. oh, it's a shame!" "haow much'll yeou hev arter yeou divide?" asked ephraim. "the division will give the five of us eight thousand seven hundred and forty-six dollars and eighty cents each," answered frank. "he's figured that up so quick!" muttered hodge. "i snum! eight thaousan' dollars ain't to be sneezed at!" cried the vermonter. "it's a pinch beside forty-three thousand," said bart. "yeou oughter be able to go back to college on that, frank." "he can, if he'll drop the show business," nodded bart. "and confess myself a failure! acknowledge that i failed in this undertaking? would you have me do that?" "oh, you wouldn't confess anything of the sort. what were you working for? to go back to yale, was it not?" "sure." "well, i don't suppose you expected to make so much money that you would be able to return with more than eight thousand dollars in your inside pocket?" "hardly." "then what is crawling over you? if you are fool enough to make this silly division, you can go back with money enough to take you through your course in style." "and have the memory of what happened in this town last night rankle in my heart! hardly! i made a speech from the stage last night, in which i said i would play again in this city, and i promised that the audience should be satisfied. i shall keep that promise." "oh, all right! i suppose you'll be thinking of rewarding the ladies and gentlemen who called here a short time ago and attempted to bulldoze you?" "i shall see that the members of the company, one and all, are treated fairly. i shall pay them two weeks salary, which will be all they can ask." hodge got up, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and stared at frank, with an expression on his face that was little short of disgust. "you beat them all!" he growled. "i'd do just like that--i don't think! not one of those people has a claim on you. i'd let them all go to the deuce! it would be serving them right." "well, i shall do nothing of the sort, my dear fellow." "i presume you will pay lloyd fowler two weeks salary?" "i shall." bart turned toward the door. "where are you going?" "i'm going out somewhere all alone by myself, where i can say some things about you. i am going to express my opinion of you to myself. i don't want to do it here, for there would be a holy fight. i've got to do it in order to let off steam and cool down. i shall explode if i keep it corked up inside of me." he bolted out of the room, slamming the door fiercely behind him. frank and ephraim went up to the room of stella stanley, which was on the next floor. they found all the members of the company packed into that room. "may we come in?" asked merry, pleasantly. "we don't need him," muttered lloyd fowler, who was seated in a corner. "don't get him into the benefit performance. let him take care of himself." "come right in, mr. merriwell," invited stella stanley. "i believe you can sing. we're arranging a program for the benefit, you know. shall we put you down for a song?" "i hardly think so," smiled frank. "ah!" muttered fowler, triumphantly. "he thinks himself too fine to take part in such a performance with the rest of us." "i rather think you've hit it," whispered charlie harper. "and i know you are off your trolley!" hissed cassie lee, who had not missed the words of either of them. "he's on the level." "really!" exclaimed miss stanley, in surprise and disappointment. "do you actually refuse?" "yes." "why?" "because there will be no performance." "won't?" "no." "why not?" "i refuse to permit it," said frank, a queer twinkle in his eyes. then several of the company came up standing, and shouted: "what!" "that beats anything i ever heard of in my life!" said fowler. "for genuine crust, it surely does!" spoke up harper. cassie lee looked surprised, and havener was amazed. "surely you are not in earnest, merriwell?" the stage manager hastened to say. "never more so in my life!" answered frank, easily. "then you're crazy." "oh, i guess not." "well, you are," said garland. "you have gone over the limit. we are not engaged to you in any way. you said so. you explained that we could not hold you responsible. you cannot come here and dictate to us. we shall carry out this performance. if you try to prevent it, you will make a great mistake." "be calm," advised merry. "you are unduly exciting yourself, mr. garland." "well, it's enough to excite anyone!" "meow!" out of the room trotted frank's black cat, which had followed him up the stairs. "put that cat out!" cried agnes kirk. "it has caused all our bad luck!" frank picked the cat up. "i told you the cat was a mascot," he said. "it has proved so!" "i should say so!" sneered fowler. "let him take himself out of here, cat and all!" cried charlie harper. "let him explain what he means by saying we shall not give a benefit performance," urged havener, who really hoped that frank could say something to put himself in a better light with the company. "yes," urged cassie. "what did you mean by that, frank?" "such a performance is quite unnecessary," assured merry. "we've got to do something to raise money to get out of this city." "i will furnish you with the money, each and every one." "you?" shouted several. "yes." "how?" asked havener. "you said a short time ago that you hadn't enough money to amount to anything." "at that time i hadn't. since then i have been able to make a raise." now there was another bustle of excitement. "oh!" cried several, "that's different." "i knew there was something behind it!" exclaimed cassie, with satisfaction. "have you been able to raise enough to take us all back to denver, frank?" "i think so, and i believe i shall have a few dollars left after we arrive there." "how much have you raised?" asked havener. "forty-three thousand dollars," answered frank, as coolly as if he were saying forty-three dollars. for a moment there was silence in the room, then expressions of incredulity and scorn came from all sides. fowler set up a shout of mocking laughter. "well, of all the big bluffs i ever heard this is the biggest!" he sneered. "say, i don't mind a joke," said stella stanley; "but don't you think you are carrying this thing a trifle too far, mr. merriwell?" "i would be if it were a joke," confessed frank, easily; "but, as it happens to be the sober truth, i think no one has a chance to ask. i will not only pay your fare to denver, but each one shall receive two weeks salary, which i think you must acknowledge is the proper way to treat you." "i'll believe it when i get my hands on the dough," said fowler. "forty-three thousand fiddlesticks!" "any person who doubts my word is at liberty to take a look at this certified check," said merry, producing the check and placing it on the little table. then they crushed and crowded about that table, staring at the check. fowler nudged harper, to whom he whispered: "i believe it's straight, so help me! i'd like to kick myself!" "yes, it's straight," acknowledged harper, dolefully. "i am just beginning to realize that we have made fools of ourselves by talking too much." "what can we do?" "take poison!" "we'll have to eat dirt, or he'll throw us down." "it looks that way." thus it came about that fowler was almost the first to offer congratulations. "by jove, mr. merriwell," he cried, "i'm delighted! you are dead in luck, and you deserve it! it was pretty hard for you to be deserted by folansbee, in such a sneaking way. i have said all along that you were a remarkably bright man and merited success." "that's right," put in harper; "he said so to me last night. we were talking over your hard luck. i congratulate you, mr. merriwell. permit me!" "permit me!" both harper and fowler held out their hands. frank looked at the extended hands, but put his own hands in his pockets, laughing softly, somewhat scornfully. "it is wonderful," he said, "how many true friends a man can have when he has money, and how few true friends he really has when he doesn't have a dollar." "oh, my dear mr. merriwell!" protested fowler. "i know i was rather hasty in some of my remarks, but i assure you that you misunderstood me. it was natural that all of us should be a trifle hot under the collar at being used as we were. i assure you i did not mean anything by what i said. if i spoke too hastily, i beg a thousand pardons. again let me congratulate you." again he held out his hand. "you are at liberty to congratulate me," said merry, but still disdaining the proffered hand. "i shall pay you the same as the others. don't be afraid of that. but i shall give you your notice, for i shall not need you any more. with several of the others i shall make contracts to go out with this piece again, as soon as i can make some alterations, get new paper, and start the company." fowler turned green. "oh, of course you can do as you like, sir," he said. "i don't think i care to go out with this piece again. it is probable i should so inform you, even if you wanted me." harper backed away. he did not wish to receive such a calling down as had fallen to the lot of fowler. cassie lee held out her hand, her thin face showing actual pleasure. "you don't know how glad i am, frank!" she said, in a low tone. "never anybody deserved it more than you." "that's right," agreed havener. douglas dunton had not been saying much, but now he stood forth, struck a pose, and observed: "methinks that, along with several of me noble colleagues, i have made a big mistake in making offensive remarks to you, most noble high muck-a-muck. wouldst do me a favor? then apply the toe of thy boot to the seat of me lower garments with great vigor." frank laughed. "the same old dunton!" he said. "forget it, old man. it's all right. there's no harm done." while the members of the company were crowding around merriwell, fowler and harper slipped out of the room and descended the stairs. straight to the bar of the hotel they made their way. leaning against the bar, they took their drinks, and discussed frank's fortune. another man was drinking near them. he pricked up his ears and listened when he heard merriwell's name, and he grew excited as he began to understand what had happened. "excuse me, gentlemen," he said, after a time. "i do not wish to intrude, but i happen to know mr. merriwell. will you have a drink with me?" they accepted. they were just the sort of chaps who drink with anybody who would "set 'em up." "do you mind telling me just what has happened to mr. merriwell?" asked the stranger, who wore a full beard, which seemed to hide many of the features of his face. "has he fallen heir to a fortune?" "rather," answered harper, dryly. "more than forty-three thousand dollars has dropped into his hands this morning." "is it possible?" asked the stranger, showing agitation. "are you sure?" "yes, i am sure. i saw the certified check on a carson city bank. he was broke this morning, but now he has money to burn." the stranger lifted a glass to his lips. his hand trembled somewhat. all at once, with a savage oath, he dashed the glass down on the bar, shivering it to atoms. as he did so, the hairs of his beard caught around the stone of a ring on his little finger, and the beard was torn from his face, showing it was false. the face revealed was black with discomfiture and rage. it was the face of leslie lawrence! frank's old enemy was again discomfited! chapter iv. in the smoker. so frank took the company back to denver. he was able to do so without depositing the check till denver was reached, as horace hobson furnished the funds, holding the check as security. hobson went along at the same time. while on the train frank made arrangements with several members of his company in the revised version of "for old eli," when the play went on the road again. he said nothing to lloyd fowler nor charlie harper. although he did not make arrangements with granville garland, he asked garland if he cared to go out with the company again, informing him that he might have an opening for him. fowler saw merry talking with some of the members, and he surmised what it meant. he began to feel anxious as time passed, and frank did not come to him. he went to harper to talk it over. harper was in the smoker, pulling at a brierwood pipe and looking sour enough. he did not respond when fowler spoke to him. "what's the matter?" asked fowler. "sick?" "yes," growled harper. "what ails you?" "disgusted." "at what?" "somebody." "who?" "myself for one." "somebody else?" "yes." "who?" "you're it." fowler fell back and stared at harper. he had taken a seat opposite his fellow actor. harper returned his stare with something like still greater sourness. "what's the matter with me?" asked fowler, wondering. "you're a confounded idiot!" answered harper, bluntly. "well, i must say i like your plain language!" exclaimed fowler, coloring and looking decidedly touched. "you were in a bad temper when we started for denver, but you seem to be worse now. what's the matter?" "oh, i see now that i've put a foot in the soup. i am broke, and i need money. all i am liable to get is the two weeks salary i shall receive from merriwell. if i'd kept my mouth shut i might have a new engagement with him, like the others." "then some of the others have a new engagement?" "all of them, i reckon, except you and i. we are the fools of the company." "well, what shall we do?" "can't do anything but keep still and swallow our medicine." "perhaps you think that, but i'm going to hit merriwell up." "well, you'll be a bigger fool if you do, after the calling down you received from him to-day." at that moment frank entered the smoker, looking for hodge, who had been unable to procure a good seat in one of the other cars. bart was sitting near harper and fowler. as frank came down the aisle, fowler arose. "i want to speak to you, mr. merriwell," he said. "all right," nodded frank. "go ahead." "i have heard that you are making new engagements with the members of the company." "well?" "you haven't said anything to me." "no." "i suppose it is because i made some foolish talk to you this morning. well, i apologized, didn't i?" "yes." "well, i presume you will give me a chance when you take the play out again?" "no, sir." frank said it quietly, looking fowler full in the face. "so you are going to turn me down because i made that talk? well, i have heard considerable about your generosity, but this does not seem very generous." "ever since joining the company and starting to rehearse, mr. fowler, you have been a source of discord. once or twice you came near flatly refusing to do some piece of business the way i suggested. once you insolently informed me that i was not the stage manager. you completely forgot that i was the author of the piece. i have heard that you told others not to do things as i suggested, but to do them in their own way. several times before we started out i was on the verge of releasing you, which i should have done had there been time to fill your place properly. last night you were intoxicated when the hour arrived for the curtain to go up. you went onto the stage in an intoxicated condition. you did not do certain pieces of business as you had been instructed to do them, but as you thought they should be done, therefore ruining a number of scenes. you were insolent, and would have been fined a good round sum for it had we gone on. in a number of ways you have shown that you are a man i do not want in my company, so i shall let you go, after paying you two weeks salary. i believe i have given the best of reasons for pursuing such a course." then frank stepped past fowler and sat down with hodge. the actor took his seat beside harper, who said: "i hope you are satisfied now!" "satisfied!" muttered fowler. "i'd like to punch his head off!" "very likely," nodded harper; "but you can't do it, you know. he is a holy terror, and you are not in his class." behind them was a man who seemed to be reading a newspaper. he was holding the paper very high, so that his face could not be seen, and he was not reading at all. he was listening with the keenest interest to everything. as frank sat down beside hodge he observed a look of great satisfaction on bart's face. "well, merriwell," said the dark-faced youth, with something like the shadow of a smile, "you have done yourself proud." "let's go forward," suggested merry. "the smoke is pretty thick here, and some of it from those pipes is rank. i want to talk with you." so they got up and left the car. as they went out, fowler glared at merriwell's back, hissing: "oh, i'd like to get even with you!" instantly the man behind lowered his paper, leaned forward, and said: "i see you do not like mr. merriwell much. if you want to get even with him, i may be able to show you how to do it." with startled exclamations, both harper and fowler turned round. the man behind was looking at them over the edge of his paper. "who are you?" demanded fowler. "i think you know me," said the man, lowering his paper. lawrence sat there! in denver frank was accompanied to the bank by mr. hobson. it happened that kent carson, a well-known rancher whom frank had met, was making a deposit at the bank. "hello, young man!" cried the rancher, in surprise. "i thought you were on the road with your show?" "i was," smiled frank, "but met disaster at the very start, and did not get further than puelbo." "well, that's tough!" said carson, sympathetically. "what was the matter?" "a number of things," confessed frank. "the play was not strong enough without sensational features. i have found it necessary to introduce a mechanical effect, besides rewriting a part of the play. i shall start out again with it as soon as i can get it into shape." "then your backer is all right? he's standing by you?" "on the contrary," smiled merry, "he skipped out from puelbo yesterday morning, leaving me and the company in the lurch." "well, that was ornery!" said carson. "what are you going to do without a backer?" "back myself. i have the money now to do so. i am here to make a deposit." then it came about that he told mr. carson of his good fortune, and the rancher congratulated him most heartily. frank presented his check for deposit, asking for a check book. the eyes of the receiving teller bulged when he saw the amount of the check. he looked frank over critically. mr. hobson had introduced frank, and the teller asked him if he could vouch for the identity of the young man. "i can," was the answer. "so can i," spoke up kent carson. "i reckon my word is good here. i'll stand behind this young man." "are you willing to put your name on the back of this check, mr. carson?" asked the teller. "hand it over," directed the rancher. he took the check and endorsed it with his name. "there," he said, "i reckon you know it's good now." "yes," said the teller. "there will be no delay now. mr. merriwell can draw on us at once." frank thanked mr. carson heartily. "that's all right," said the cattleman, in an offhand way. "i allow that a chap who will defend a ragged boy as you did is pretty apt to be all right. how long will it take to get your play in shape again?" "well, i may be three or four days rewriting it. i don't know how long the other work will be." "three or four days. well, say, why can't you come out to my ranch and do the work?" "really, i don't see how i can do that," declared frank. "i must be here to see that the mechanical arrangement is put up right." "now you must come," declared carson. "i won't take no for your answer. you can give instructions for that business. i suppose you have a plan of it?" "not yet, but i shall have before night." "can you get your business here done to-day?" "i may be able to, but i am not sure." "then you're going with me to-morrow." "i can't leave my friends who are----" "bring them right along. it doesn't make a bit of difference if there are twenty of them. i'll find places for them, and they shall have the best the twin star affords. now, if you refuse that offer, you and i are enemies." the man said this laughingly, but he placed frank in an awkward position. he had just done a great favor for merriwell, and frank felt that he could not refuse. "very well, mr. carson," he said, "if you put it in that light, i'll have to accept your hospitality." "that's the talk! won't my boy at yale be surprised when i write him you've been visiting me? ha! ha! ha!" mr. carson was stopping at the metropole, while frank had chosen the american. the rancher urged merry to move right over to the metropole, and the young actor-playwright finally consented. but frank had business for that day. first he telegraphed to the lithographers in chicago a long description of the scene which he wanted made on his new paper. he ordered it rushed, and directed them to draw on his bankers for any reasonable sum. then he started out to find the proper men to construct the mechanical effect he wished. he went straight to the theater first, and he found that the stage manager of the broadway was a genius who could make anything. frank talked with the man twenty minutes, and decided that he had struck the person for whom he was looking. it did not take them long to come to terms. the man had several assistants who could aid him on the work, and he promised to rush things. frank felt well satisfied. returning to his hotel, merry drew a plan of what he desired. as he was skillful at drawing, and very rapid, it did not take him more than two hours to draw the plan and write out an explicit explanation of it. with that he returned to the stage manager. they spent another hour talking it over, and frank left, feeling satisfied that the man perfectly understood his wants and would produce an arrangement as satisfactory as it could be if it were overseen during its construction by frank himself. frank was well satisfied with what he had accomplished. he went back to the american and drew up checks for every member of the old company, paying them all two weeks salary. lloyd fowler took the check without a word of thanks. the others expressed their gratitude. then frank moved over to the metropole, where he found kent carson waiting for him. hodge and gallup came along with frank. "these are the friends i spoke of, mr. carson," explained frank. "where's the rest of them?" asked the rancher, looking about. "these are all." "all?" "yes, sir." "why, by the way you talked, i reckoned you were going to bring your whole company along." he remembered hodge, whom he had seen with frank once before, and he shook hands with both bart and ephraim. "you are lucky to be counted as friends of a young man like mr. merriwell," said the cattleman. "that is, you're lucky if he's anything like what my boy wrote that he was. my boy is a great admirer of him." "it's strange i don't remember your son," said frank. "why, he's a freshman." "yes, but i know a large number of freshmen." "so my boy said. said you knew them because some of them had been trying to do you a bad turn; but he was glad to see you get the best of them, for you were all right. he said the freshmen as a class thought so, too." "your son was very complimentary. if i return to yale, i shall look him up." "then you contemplate returning to college?" "i do." "when?" "next fall, if i do not lose my money backing my play." "oh, you won't lose forty-three thousand dollars." "that is not all mine to lose. only one-fifth of that belongs to me, and i can lose that sum." "then why don't you let the show business alone and go back to college on that?" "because i have determined to make a success with this play, and i will not give up. never yet in my life have i been defeated in an undertaking, and i will not be defeated now." the rancher looked at frank with still greater admiration. "you make me think of some verses i read once," he said. "i've always remembered them, and i think they've had something to do with my success in life. they were written by holmes." the rancher paused, endeavoring to recall the lines. it was plain to frank that he was not a highly educated man, but he was highly intelligent--a man who had won his way in the world by his own efforts and determination. for that reason, he admired determination in others. "i have it!" exclaimed the rancher. "here it is: "'be firm! one constant element in luck is genuine, solid, old teutonic pluck. see yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill, clung to its base and greets the sunrise still. stick to your aim; the mongrel's hold will slip, but only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip; small as he looks, the jaw that never yields drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields.'" chapter v. nature's nobleman. frank found the twin star ranch a pleasant place. the house was large and well furnished, everything being in far better taste than he had expected. merry knew something of ranches and ranch life which, however, he said nothing about. he was supposed to be a very tender tenderfoot. nobody dreamed he had ever handled a lariat, ridden a bucking broncho, or taken part in a round-up. gallup roamed about the ranch, inspecting everything, and he was a source of constant amusement to the "punchers," as the cowboys were called. after one of these tours of inspection, he came back to the room where frank and bart were sitting, filled with amazement. "vermont farms are different from this one," smiled merry. "waal, naow yeou're talkin'! i'd like ter know haow they ever do the milkin' here. i don't b'lieve all ther men they've got kin milk so menny caows. why, i saw a hull drove of more'n five hundred cattle about here on the farm, an' they told me them warn't a pinch of what mr. carson owns. gosh all hemlock! but he must be rich!" "mr. carson seems to be pretty well fixed," said merry. "that's so. he's got a fine place here, only it's too gol-dinged mernoternous." "monotonous? how?" "the graound's too flat. ain't any hills to rest a feller's eyes ag'inst. i tell yeou it does a man good to go aout where he kin see somethin' besides a lot of flatness an' sky. there ain't northin' in the world purtier than the varmount hills. in summer they're all green an' covered with grass an' trees, an' daown in the valleys is the streams an' rivers runnin' along, sometimes swift an' foamin', sometimes slow an' smooth, like glars. an' ther cattle are feedin' on ther hills, an' ther folks are to work on their farms, an' ther farm haouses, all painted white, are somethin' purty ter see. they jest do a man's heart an' soul good. an' then when it is good summer weather in varmount, i be dad-bimmed if there's any better weather nowhere! ther sun jest shines right daown as if it was glad to git a look at sech a purty country, an' ther sky's as blue as elsie bellwood's eyes. ther birds are singin' in ther trees, an' ther bees go hummin' in ther clover fields, an' there's sich a gol-durn good feelin' gits inter a feller that he jest wants ter larf an' shaout all ther time. aout here there ain't no trees fer ther birds ter sing in, an' there don't seem ter be northin' but flat graound an' cattle an' sky." frank had been listening with interest to the words of the country boy. a lover of nature himself, merry realized that gallup's soul had been deeply impressed by the fair features of nature around his country home. "yes, ephraim," he said, "vermont is very picturesque and beautiful. the vermont hills are something once seen never to be forgotten." gallup was warmed up over his subject. "but when it comes to daownright purtiness," he went on, "there ain't northing like varmount in the fall fer that. then ev'ry day yeou kin see ther purtiest sights human eyes ever saw. then is the time them hills is wuth seein'. first the leaves on ther maples, an' beeches, an' oaks they begin ter turn yaller an' red a little bit. then ther frost comes more, an' them leaves turn red an' gold till it seems that ther hull sides of them hills is jest like a purty painted picter. the green of the cedars an' furs jest orfsets the yaller an' gold. where there is rocks on the hills, they seem to turn purple an' blue in the fall, an' they look purty, too--purtier'n they do at any other time. i uster jest go aout an' set right daown an' look at them air hills by the hour, an' i uster say to myself i didn't see haow heaven could be any purtier than the varmount hills in ther fall. "but there was folks," he went on, whut lived right there where all them purty sights was an' never saw um. they warn't blind, neither. i know some folks i spoke to abaout how purty the hills looked told me they hedn't noticed um! naow, what du yeou think of that? i've even hed folks tell me they couldn't see northin' purty abaout um! naow whut do yeou think of that? i ruther guess them folks missed half ther fun of livin'. they was born with somethin' ther matter with um. "it uster do me good ter take my old muzzle-loadin' gun an' go aout in the woods trampin' in the fall. i uster like ter walk where the leaves hed fell jest to hear um rustle. i'd give a dollar this minute ter walk through the fallen leaves in the varmount woods! i didn't go out ter shoot things so much as i did to see things. there was plenty of squirrels, but i never shot but one red squirrel in my life. he come aout on the end of a limb clost to me an' chittered at me in a real jolly way, same's to say, 'hello, young feller! ain't this a fine day? ain't yeou glad yeou're livin'?' an' then i up an' shot him, like a gol-durn pirut!" ephraim stopped and choked a little. bart was looking at him now with a strange expression on his face. frank did not speak, but he was fully in sympathy with the tender-hearted country youth. bart rose to his feet, heaving a deep sigh. "i'm afraid i missed some things when i was a boy," he said. "there were plenty of woods for me, but i never found any pleasure in them. i used to think it fun to shoot squirrels; but now i believe it would have been greater pleasure for me if i had not shot them. i never listened to the music of the woods, for i didn't know there was any music in them. gallup, you have shown me that i was a fool." then, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he walked out of the room. because ephraim was very verdant the cowboys on the twin star fancied that mr. carson's other visitors must be equally as accustomed to western ways. frank was hard at work on his play, and that caused him to stick pretty close to the house. however, he was a person who believed in exercise when he could find it, and so, on the afternoon of the second day, he went out and asked one of the punchers if he could have a pony. the man looked him over without being able to wholly conceal his contempt. "kin you ride?" he asked. "yes," answered frank, quietly. "hawse or kaow?" asked the cowboy. "if you have a good saddle horse, i'd like to have him," said merry. "and be good enough to restrain your sarcasm. i don't like it." the puncher gasped. he was angry. the idea of a tenderfoot speaking to him in such a way! "all right," he muttered. "i'll git ye a critter, but our western hawses ain't like your eastern ladies' hawses." he departed. hodge had overheard all this, and he came up. "you want to look out, merry," he said. "that chap didn't like the way you called him down, and he'll bring you a vicious animal." "i know it," nodded merry, pulling on a pair of heavy gloves. "it is what i expect." bart said no more. he had seen merry ride, and he knew frank was a natural horse breaker. the puncher returned in a short time, leading a little, wiry, evil-eyed broncho. he was followed by several other cowboys, and merry heard one of them say: "better not let him try it, hough. he'll be killed, and carson will fire you." "i'll warn him," returned the one called hough, "an' then i won't be ter blame. he wants ter ride; let him ride--if he kin." frank looked the broncho over. "is this the best saddle horse you have?" he asked. "waal, he's the only one handy now," was the sullen answer. "he's a bit onreliable at times, an' you'd better look out fer him. i wouldn't recommend him for a lady ter ride." "by that i presume you mean he is a bucker?" "waal, he may buck some!" admitted the puncher, surprised that frank should ask such a question. "you haven't anything but a hackamore on him," said merry. "why didn't you put a bit in his mouth? do people usually ride with hackamores out here?" "he kinder objects to a bit," confessed the cowboy, his surprise increasing. "people out here ride with any old thing. mebbe you hadn't better try him." "has he ever been ridden?" "certainly." "you give your word to that?" "yep." "all right. then i'll ride him." frank went into the saddle before the puncher was aware that he contemplated such a thing. he yanked the halter out of the man's hand, who leaped aside, with a cry of surprise and fear, barely escaping being hit by the broncho's heels, for the creature wheeled and kicked, with a shrill scream. frank was entirely undisturbed. he had put on a pair of spurred riding boots which he found in the house, and now the broncho felt the prick of the spurs. then the broncho began to buck. down went his head, and up into the air went his heels; down came his heels, and up went his head. then he came down on all fours, and his entire body shot into the air. he came down stiff-legged, his back humped. again and again he did this, with his nose between his knees, but still the tenderfoot remained in the saddle. "good lord!" cried the wondering cowboys. bart hodge stood at one side, his hands in his pockets, a look of quiet confidence on his face. from an upper window of the ranch a pretty, sad-faced girl looked out, seeing everything. frank had noticed her just before mounting the broncho. he wondered not a little, for up to that moment he had known nothing of such a girl being there. he had not seen her before since coming to the ranch. all at once the broncho began to "pitch a-plunging," jumping forward as he bucked. he stopped short and whirled end-for-end, bringing his nose where his tail was a moment before. he did that as he leaped into the air. then he began to go up and down fore and aft with a decidedly nasty motion. he screamed his rage. he pitched first on one side and then on the other, letting his shoulders alternately jerk up and droop down almost to the ground. "good lord!" cried the cowboys again, for through all this frank merriwell sat firmly in the saddle. "is this yere your tenderfoot what yer told us ye was goin' ter learn a lesson, hough?" they asked. "waal, i'll be blowed!" was all the reply hough made. the broncho pitched "fence-cornered," but even that had no effect on the rider. hough told the truth when he said the animal had been ridden before. realizing at last the fruitlessness of its efforts, it suddenly ceased all attempts to unseat frank. two minutes later merriwell was riding away on the creature's back, and hough, the discomfited cowboy, was the laughing-stock of the twin star ranch. chapter vi. a change of name. at the open upper window of the ranch the sad-faced, pretty girl watched and waited till frank merriwell came riding back over the prairie. "here he comes!" she whispered. "he is handsome--so handsome! he is the first man i have seen who could be compared with lawton." kent carson had heard of frank's departure on wildfire, the bucking broncho. he found it difficult to believe that his guest had really ridden away on the animal, and he was on hand, together with bart and ephraim, when merry came riding back. near one of the corrals a group of cowboys had gathered to watch the remarkable tenderfoot, and make sarcastic remarks to hough, who was with them, looking sulky and disgusted. mr. carson hurried to greet frank. "look here, young man," he cried, "i'd like to know where you ever learned to ride bucking bronchos?" "this is not the first time i have been on a cattle ranch, mr. carson," smiled frank, springing down from wildfire. one of the cowboys came shuffling forward. it was hough. "say, tenderfoot," he said, keeping his eyes on the ground, "i allows that i made some onnecessary remarks ter you a while ago. i kinder hinted as how you might ride a kaow bettern a hawse. i'll take it all back. you may be a tenderfoot, but you knows how ter ride as well as any of us. i said some things what i hadn't oughter said, an' i swallers it all." "that's all right," laughed frank, good-naturedly. "you may have had good reasons for regarding tenderfeet with contempt, but now you will know all tenderfeet are not alike. i don't hold feelings." "thankee," said hough, as he led wildfire away. frank glanced up toward the open window above and again he caught a glimpse of that sad, sweet face. mr. carson shook hands with frank. "now i know you are the kind of chap to succeed in life," he declared. "i can see that you do whatever you undertake to do. i am beginning to understand better and better how it happened that my boy thought so much of you." he took frank by the arm, and together they walked toward the house. again merry glanced upward, but, somewhat to his disappointment, that face had vanished. it was after supper that merry and hodge were sitting alone on the veranda in front of the house, when bart suddenly said, in a low tone: "merriwell, i have a fancy that there is something mysterious about this place." "is that so?" said frank. "what is it?" "i think there is some one in one of those upper rooms who is never seen by the rest of the people about the place." "what makes you think so?" "there is a room up there that i've never seen anyone enter or leave. the door is always closed. twice while passing the door i have heard strange sounds coming from that room." "this grows interesting," admitted frank. "go on." "the first time," said bart, "i heard some one in there weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break." "her heart?" came quickly from merry's lips. "yes." "then it is a female?" "beyond a doubt. the second time i heard sounds in that room to-day after you rode away on the broncho. i heard some one singing in there." "singing?" "yes. it was a love song. the voice was very sad and sweet, and still there seemed something of happiness in it." hodge was silent. "well, you have stumbled on a mystery," nodded frank, slowly. "what do you make of it?" "i don't know what to make of it, unless some friend or relative of carson's is confined in that room." "why confined there?" "you know as well as i do." frank opened his lips to say something about the face he had seen at the window, but at that moment carson himself came out onto the veranda, smoking his pipe. the rancher took a chair near, and they chatted away as twilight and darkness came on. "how are you getting along on your play, mr. merriwell?" asked the man. "very well." answered frank. "you know it is a drama of college life--life at yale?" "no, i didn't know about that." "it is. just now i am puzzled most to find a name for it." "what was the name before?" "'for old eli.'" "u-hum. who was old eli?" "there!" cried merry. "that shows me there is a fault with the name. even though your boy is in yale, you do not know that yale college is affectionately spoken of by yale men as 'old eli.'" "no, never knew it before; though, come to think about it, berlin did write something in some of his letters about old eli. i didn't understand it, though." "and the public in general do not understand the title of my play. they suppose old eli must be a character in the piece, and i do not fancy there is anything catching and drawing about the title. i must have a new title, and i'm stuck to find one that will exactly fit." "i suppose you must have one that has some reference to college?" "oh, yes! that is what i want. one that brings yale in somehow." "all you yale men seem to be stuck on that college. you're true blue." frank leaped to his feet with a cry of delight. "i have it!" he exclaimed. "what?" gasped mr. carson. "the title!" "you have?" "yes; you gave it to me then!" "i did?" "sure thing." "what is it?" "'true blue.' that is a title that fits the play. yale's color is blue, you know. people may not understand just what the title means, but still i believe there is something attractive about it, something that will draw, and the audience will understand it before the play is over. 'true blue' is the name! i have been well paid for coming out here, mr. carson! besides entertaining me royally, you have given me a striking name for my play." "well, i'm sure i'm glad if i've done that," laughed kent carson. "i must put that title down on the manuscript," said frank. "i feel an inspiration. i must go to work at once. i am in the mood now, and i can write." excusing himself, he hurried into the house. soon a light gleamed from the window of the room in which he worked, which was on the ground floor. looking in at that window, hodge saw frank had started a fire in the grate and lighted a lamp. he was seated at a table, writing away swiftly. kent carson got up and stood beside hodge looking into the room. "merriwell is a great worker," said the rancher. "he's a steam engine," declared bart. "i never saw a fellow who could do so much work and so many things. there is no telling how long he will drive away at that play to-night. now that he has the title, he may finish it to-night, and be ready to leave here in the morning." "if that happens, i shall be sorry i gave the title so soon," said the cattleman, sincerely. "i have taken a great liking to that young man." frank worked away a long time, utterly unconscious of the flight of the hours. at last he became aware that the fire in the open grate had made the room uncomfortably warm. he had replenished it several times, as there was something wonderfully cheerful in an open fire. he arose and flung wide the window. the moon, a thin, shining scimitar, was low down in the west. soon it would drop from view beyond the horizon. there was a haze on the plain. slowly out of that haze came two objects that seemed to be approaching. "cattle," said merry, turning back from the window and sitting down at the table again. he resumed work on the play. he did not hear the door open softly, he did not hear a light footstep behind him, he did not hear a rustling sound quite near, and it was not until a deep, tremulous sigh reached his ears that he became aware of another presence in the room. like a flash frank whirled about and found himself face to face with---- the girl he had seen at the window! in astonishment frank gazed at the girl, who was dressed in some dark material, as if she were in mourning. he saw that she was quite as pretty as he had fancied at first, although her face was very pale and sad. the color of her dress and hair made her face seem paler than it really was. only a moment did frank remain thus. then he sprang up, bowing politely, and saying: "i beg your pardon! i did not know there was a lady in the room." she bowed in return. "do not rise," she said. "i saw you to-day from my window, and i could not sleep till i had seen you again. somehow you seemed to remind me of lawton. i thought so, then, but now it does not seem so much that way. still you made me think of him. i have been shut up there so long--so long! i have not talked to anybody, and i wanted to talk to somebody who could tell me something of the world--something of the places far away. i am buried here, where nobody knows anything to talk about but cattle and horses." frank's heart was thrilled with sympathy. "do they keep you shut up in that room?" he asked. "no; i stay there from choice. this is the first time i have been downstairs for weeks. i have refused to leave the room; i refused to see my father. i can't bear to have him look at me with such pity and anger." "your father--he is mr. carson?" "yes." "it is strange he has never spoken to me of you. i was not aware he had a daughter, although he spoke proudly of his son." in an instant frank regretted his words. a look of anguish swept over the face of the girl, and she fell back a step, one thin hand fluttering up to her bosom. "no!" she cried, and her voice was like the sob of the wind beneath the leaves of a deserted house; "he never speaks of me! he says i am dead--dead to the world. he is proud of his son, berlin, my brother; but he is ashamed of his daughter, blanche." frank began to suspect and understand the truth. this girl had met with some great sorrow, a sorrow that had wrecked her life. instantly merry's heart was overflowing with sympathy, but his situation was most embarrassing, and he knew not what to say. the girl seemed to understand this. "don't think me crazy because i have come here to you in this way," she entreated. "don't think me bold! oh, if you could know how i have longed for somebody with whom i could talk! i saw you were a gentleman. i knew my father would not introduce me to you, but i resolved to see you, hoping you would talk to me--hoping you would tell me of the things going on in the world." "i shall be glad to do so," said merry, gently. "but don't you have any papers, any letters, anything to tell you the things you wish to know?" "nothing--nothing! i am dead to the world. you were writing. have i interrupted you?" "no; i am through working on my play to-night." "your play?" she cried, eagerly. "what are you doing with a play? perhaps--perhaps----" she stopped speaking, seeming to make an effort to hold her eagerness in check. "i am writing a play," frank explained. "that is, i am rewriting it now. i wrote it some time ago and put it on the road, but it was a failure. i am going out again soon with a new company." her eagerness seemed to increase. "then you must know many actors," she said. "perhaps you know him?" "know whom?" "lawton--lawton kilgore." frank shook his head. "never heard of him." she showed great disappointment. "i am so sorry," she said. "i hoped you might be able to tell me something about him. if you can tell me nothing, i must tell you. i must talk to somebody. you see how it is. mother is dead. father sent me to school in the east. it was there that i met lawton. he was so handsome! he was the leading man in a company that i saw. then, after the company disbanded for the season, he came back to spend the summer in the town where i was at school. i suppose i was foolish, but fell in love with him. we were together a great deal. we became engaged." frank fancied he knew what was coming. the girl was skipping over the story as lightly as possible, but she was letting him understand it all. "i didn't write father about it," she went on, "for i knew he would not approve of lawton. he wanted me to marry brandon king, who owns the silver forks ranch. i did not love king. i loved lawton kilgore. but the principal of the school found out what was going on, and he wrote father. then lawton disappeared, and i heard nothing from him. they say he deserted me. i do not believe it. i think he was driven away. i waited and waited for him, but i could not study, i could not do anything. he never came back, and, at last, father came and took me away. he brought me here. he was ashamed of me, but he said he would not leave me to starve, for i was his own daughter. his kindness was cruel, for he cut me off from the world. still i believe that some day lawton will come for me and take me away from here. i believe he will come--if they have not killed him!" she whispered the final words. "they? who?" asked frank, startled. "my father and my brother," she answered. "they were furious enough to kill him. they swore they would." she had told merry her story, and she seemed to feel relieved. she asked him many questions about the actors he knew. he said he had the pictures of nearly all who had taken parts in his two plays. she asked to see them, and he brought them out from his large traveling case, showing them to her one by one. she looked at them all with interest. of a sudden, she gave a low, sharp cry. her hand darted out and caught up one of the photographs. "here--here!----" she panted. "you have his picture here! this is lawton kilgore--lawton, my lover!" it was the picture of leslie lawrence! chapter vii. the tragedy at the ranch. "that?" exclaimed frank. "you must be mistaken! that man's name is not kilgore, it is lawrence." he fancied the girl was crazy. he had wondered if her misfortune had affected her brain. "this is the picture of lawton kilgore!" she repeated, in a dull tone. "do you think i would not know him anywhere--under any circumstances? this is the man who promised to marry me! this is the man my father hates as he hates a snake!" "well, that man is worthy of your father's hatred," said merry, "for he is a thoroughbred villain. but i think you must be mistaken, for your father met him in denver. this man had me arrested, and your father followed to the police station, and was instrumental in securing my release. if this man was kilgore, your father would have found his opportunity to kill him." "you do not understand," panted the girl. "father has never seen him to know him--has never even seen his picture. if lawton was known by another name, father would not have recognized him, even though they met in denver." frank began to realize that the girl was talking in a sensible manner, and something told him she spoke the truth. to his other crimes, lawrence had added that of deceiving an innocent girl. "and he is in denver?" panted the rancher's daughter. "he is so near! oh, if he would come to me!" frank was sorry that he had permitted her to see the photographs, but it was too late now for regrets. the girl pressed the picture to her lips. "you must give it to me!" she panted. "i will take it to my room! i wish to be alone with it at once! oh, i thank you!" then she hurried from the room, leaving merry in anything but a pleasant frame of mind. there was a sound outside the window. frank got up and went over to the window. looking out, he saw two horses standing at a little distance from the ranch. a man was holding them, and the faint light of the moon fell on the man's face. "well, i wonder what that means?" speculated frank. "those horses are saddled and bridled. who is going to ride them to-night?" then he remembered the two forms he had seen coming out of the mist that lay on the plain, and he wondered if they had not been two horsemen. something about the appearance of the man at the heads of the horses seemed familiar. he looked closer. "about the size and build of lloyd fowler," he muttered. "looks like fowler, but of course it is not." there was a step on the veranda, and a figure appeared at the open window. into the room stepped a man. frank sprang back, and was face to face with the intruder. "leslie lawrence!" he whispered. "yes," said the man, advancing insolently; "i am leslie lawrence." "what do you want?" "i want an engagement in your new company. i have come here for it. will you give it to me?" frank was astounded by the insolence of the fellow. "i should say not!" he exclaimed. "what do you take me for? no, leslie lawrence, alias lawton kilgore, villain, deceiver of innocent girls, wretch who deserves hanging, i will not give you an engagement, unless it is with an outraged father. go! if you wish to live, leave instantly. if kent carson finds you here, he will know you now, and your life will not be worth a cent!" at this moment the door was flung open, and ephraim gallup came striding into the room, saying as he entered: "darned if i knowed there was a purty young gal in this haouse! thought i'd come daown, frank, an' see if yeou was goin' to stay up all night writin' on that play of---- waal, i be gosh-blamed!" ephraim saw lawrence, and he was astounded. "didn't know yeou hed visitors, frank," he said. "so you refuse me an engagement, do you, merriwell?" snarled lawrence. "all right! you'll wish you hadn't in a minute!" he made a spring for the table and caught up the manuscript lying on it. then he leaped toward the open grate, where the fire was burning. "that's the last of your old play!" he shouted, hurling the manuscript into the flames. both frank and ephraim sprang to save the play, but neither of them was in time to prevent lawrence's revengeful act. "you miserable cur!" panted frank. out shot his fist, striking the fellow under the ear, and knocking him down. at the same time ephraim snatched the manuscript from the fire and beat out the flames which had fastened on it. lawrence sat up, his hand going round to his hip. he wrenched out a revolver and lifted it. frank saw the gleam of the weapon, realized his danger, and dropped an instant before the pistol spoke. the shot rang out, but even as he pressed the trigger, lawrence realized that merriwell had escaped. but beyond frank, directly in line, he saw a pale-faced girl who had suddenly appeared in the open door. he heard her cry "lawton!" and then, through the puff of smoke, he saw her clutch her breast and fall on the threshold, shot down by his own hand! horror and fear enabled him to spring up, plunge out of the open window, reach the horses, leap on one and go thundering away toward the moonlight mists as if satan were at his heels. there was a tumult at the twin star. there was hot mounting to pursue lawrence and his companion. carson had heard the shot. he had rushed down to find his daughter, shot in the side, supported in the arms of frank merriwell. a few words had told carson just what had happened. he swore a fearful oath to follow lawrence to death. the girl heard the oath. she opened her eyes and whispered: "father--don't! he didn't mean--to shoot--me! it was--an--accident!" "i'll have the whelp stiff at my feet before morning!" vowed the revengeful rancher. he gave orders for the preparing of horses. he saw his daughter carried to her room. he lingered till the old black housekeeper was at the bedside to bind up the wound and do her best to save the girl. then carson bounded down the stairs and sent a cowboy flying off on horseback for the nearest doctor, a hundred miles away. "kill the horse under ye, if necessary, prescott!" he had yelled at the cowboy. "get the doctor here as quick as you can!" "all right, sir!" shouted prescott, as he thundered away. "now!" exclaimed kent carson--"now to follow that murderous hound till i run him to earth!" he found men and horses ready and waiting. he found frank merriwell and bart hodge there, both of them determined to take part in the pursuit. "we know him," said merriwell. "he fired that shot at me. we can identify him." frank believed that lawrence had murdered the rancher's daughter, and he, like the others, was eager to run the wretch down. they galloped away in pursuit, the rancher, four cowboys, merriwell and hodge, all armed, all grim-faced, all determined. the sun had risen when they came riding back to the ranch. ephraim gallup met frank. "did ye git ther critter?" he asked, in a whisper. "no," was the answer. "then he got erway?" came in accents of disappointment from the vermonter. "no." "whut? haow's that?" "neither lawrence nor fowler escaped." "then it was fowler with him?" "i believe so." "whut happened to um?" "they attempted to ford big sandy river." "an' got drownded?" "no. where they tried to cross is nothing but a bed of quicksands. horses and men went down into the quicksands. they were swallowed up forever." the doctor came at last. he extracted the bullet from blanche carson's side, and he told her she would get well, as the wound was not dangerous. kent carson heard this with deep relief. he went to the bedside of the girl and knelt down there. "blanche," he whispered, huskily, "can you forgive your old dad for treating you as he has? you are my own girl--my little blanche--no matter what you have done." "father!" she whispered, in return, "i am glad you have come to me at last. but you know you are ashamed of me--you can never forget what i have done." "i can forget now," he declared, thinking of the man under the quicksands of big sandy. "you are my daughter. i am not ashamed of you. you shall never again have cause for saying that of me." "kiss me, papa!" she murmured. sobbing brokenly, he pressed his lips to her cheeks. and when he was gone from the room she took a photograph from beneath her pillow and gazed at it long and lovingly. she knew not that the man had been swallowed beneath the quicksands of the big sandy. * * * * * the tragic occurrences of the night hastened the departure of frank and his friends from twin star ranch, although kent carson urged them to remain. frank had, however, finished his play, which, thanks to the prompt act of ephraim, had been only slightly injured by its fiery experience, and was anxious to put it in rehearsal. so, a day or so later, frank, bart and ephraim were once more in denver. chapter viii. the old actor's champions. along a street of denver walked a man whose appearance was such as to attract attention wherever seen. that he had once been an actor could be told at a glance, and that he had essayed great rôles was also apparent. but, alas! it was also evident that the time when this thespian trod the boards had departed forever, and with that time his glory had vanished. his ancient silk hat, although carefully brushed, was shabby and grotesque in appearance. his prince albert coat, buttoned tight at the waist, and left open at the bosom, was shabby and shining, although it also betokened that, with much effort, he had kept it clean. his trousers bagged at the knees, and there were signs of mannish sewing where two or three rents and breaks had been mended. the legs of the trousers were very small, setting tightly about his thin calves. his shoes were in the worst condition of all. although they had been carefully blackened and industriously polished, it was plain that they could not hold together much longer. the soles were almost completely worn away, and the uppers were breaking and ripping. the "linen" of this frayed gentleman seemed spotlessly white. his black silk necktie was knotted in a broad bow. the man's face was rather striking in appearance. the eyes had once been clear and piercing, the mouth firm and well formed; but there was that about the chin which belied the firmness of the mouth, for this feature showed weakness. the head was broad at the top, with a high, wide brow. the eyes were set so far back beneath the bushy, grayish eyebrows that they seemed like red coals glowing in dark caverns--for red they were and bloodshot. the man's long hair fell upon the collar of his coat. and on his face was set the betraying marks of the vice that had wrought his downfall. the bloodshot eyes alone did not reveal it, but the purplish, unhealthy flush of the entire face and neck plainly indicated that the demon drink had fastened its death clutch upon him and dragged him down from the path that led to the consummation of all his hopes and aspirations. he had been drinking now. his unsteady step told that. he needed the aid of his cane in order to keep on his feet. he slipped, his hat fell off, rolled over and over, dropped into the gutter, and lay there. the unfortunate man looked round for the hat, but it was some time before he found it. when he did, in attempting to pick it up, he fell over in the gutter and rolled upon it, soiling his clothes. at last, with a great effort, he gathered himself up, and rose unsteadily to his feet with his hat and cane. "what, ho!" he muttered, thickly. "it seems the world hath grown strangely unsteady, but, perchance, it may be my feet." some boys who had seen him fall shouted and laughed at him. he looked toward them sadly. "mock! mock! mock!" he cried. "some of you thoughtless brats may fall even lower than i have fallen!" "well, i like that--i don't think!" exclaimed one of the boys. "i don't 'low no jagged stiff to call me a brat!" then he threw a stone at the old actor, striking the man on the cheek and cutting him slightly. the unfortunate placed his crushed and soiled hat on his head, took out a handkerchief, and slowly wiped a little blood from his cheek, all the while swaying a bit, as if the ground beneath his feet were tossing like a ship. "'now let it work,'" he quoted. "'mischief, thou art afoot; take thou what course thou wilt. how now, fellow?'" the thoughtless young ruffians shouted with laughter. "looker the old duffer!" cried one. "ain't that a picture fer yer!" "look!" exclaimed the actor. "behold me with thy eyes! even lower than i have fallen may thou descend; but i have aspired to heights of which thy sordid soul may never dream. out upon you, dog!" with these words he reached the walk and turned down the street. "let's foller him!" cried one of the gang. "we can have heaps of fun with him." "come on! come on!" with a wild whoop, they rushed after the man. they reached him, danced around him, pulled his coat tails, jostled him, crushed his hat over his eyes. "give the old duffer fits!" cried the leader, who was a tough young thug of about eighteen. there were seven boys in the gang, and four or five others came up on the run, eager to have a hand in the "racket." the old actor pushed his hat back from his eyes, folded his arms over his out-thrown breast and gazed with his red, sunken eyes at the leader. as if declaiming on the stage he spoke: "'you have done that you should be sorry for. there is no terror, cassius, in your threats; for i am armed so strong in honesty that they pass me by as the idle wind, which i respect not.'" this caused the boys to shout with laughter. "git onter ther guy!" "what ails him?" "he's locoed." "loaded, you mean." "he's cracked in the nut." "and he needs another crack on the nut," shouted the leader, dancing up, and again knocking the hat over the old man's eyes. once more pushing it back, the aged actor spoke in his deep voice, made somewhat husky by drink: "be patient till the last. romans, countrymen and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent that you may hear; believe me for mine honor; and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe; censure me in your wisdom, and awaken your senses, that you may----" "oh, that's too much!" cried the ruffianly young leader. "we can't stand that kind of guy. what're yer givin' us, anyway?" "he's drunk!" shouted several. "alas and alack!" sighed the old man. "i fear thou speakest the truth. "'boundless intemperance in nature is a tyranny; it hath been the untimely emptying of the happy throne, and the fall of many kings.'" "that's what causes your fall," declared the ruffianly leader, as he tripped the actor, causing him to fall heavily. "what's this?" exclaimed frank merriwell, who, with hodge for a companion, just returned from twin star ranch, at this moment came into view round a corner. "what are those fellows doing to that poor man?" "raising hob with him," said bart, quickly. "the old fellow is drunk and they are abusing him." "well, i think it's time for us to take a hand in that!" "i should say so!" "come on!" frank sprang forward; bart followed. the old actor was just making an effort to get up. the young ruffian who led the gang kicked him over. the sight made frank's blood leap. "you cowardly young cur!" he cried, and he gave the fellow a crack on the ear that sent him spinning. hodge struck out right and left, quickly sending two of the largest fellows to the ground. "permit me to assist you, sir," said frank, stooping to aid the actor to rise. the leader of the gang had recovered. he uttered a mad howl. "at 'em fellers! knock the stuffin's outer them!" he screamed, rushing on frank. merry straightened up instantly. he whirled about and saw the biggest tough coming at him, with the rest of the gang at his back. then frank laughed. "walk right up, you young terriers!" he cried, in a clear, ringing voice. "we'll make it rather interesting for you! give it to them, hodge!" hodge did so. together the two friends met the onslaught of the gang. their hard fists cracked on the heads of the young ruffians, and it was astonishing how these fellows were bowled over. bart was aroused. his intense anger was betrayed by his knotted forehead, his flashing eyes, and his gleaming teeth. he did not speak a word, but he struck swift, strong and sure. if those chaps had expected an easy thing with the two well-dressed youths who had interfered with their sport, they met the disappointment of their lives. it actually seemed that, at one time, every one of the gang had been knocked sprawling, and not one was on his feet to face the fighting champions of the old actor. it was a terrible surprise for the toughs. one after another, they sprang up and took to their heels. "what have we struck?" gasped the leader, looking up at frank. "get up!" invited merry, standing over him--"get up, and i will give you another dose!" "excuse me!" gasped the fellow, as he scrambled away on his hands and knees, sprang up and followed the rest of the young thugs. it was over; the gang had been put to flight, and it had been accomplished in a very few moments. hodge stood there, panting, glaring about, looking surprised and disappointed, as well as angry. "that was too easy!" he exclaimed. "i thought we were in for a fight." "evidently they did not stand for our kind of fighting," smiled frank. "it surprised them so that they threw up the sponge before the fight was fairly begun." "i didn't get half enough of it," muttered bart. during the fight the old actor had risen to his feet. now frank picked up his hat and restored it to him, after brushing some dirt from it. the man received it with a profound bow. placing it on his head, he thrust his right hand into the bosom of his coat, struck a pose, and cried: "'are yet two romans living such as these? the last of all the romans!'" "we saw you were in trouble," said merry, "and we hastened to give you such assistance as we could." "it was a goodly deed, a deed well done. thy arms are strong, thy hearts are bold. methinks i see before me two noble youths, fit to have lived in the days of knighthood." "you are very complimentary," smiled frank, amused at the old man's quaint way. the actor took his hand from his bosom and made a deprecating gesture, saying: "'nay, do not think i flatter; for what advancement may i hope from thee?' i but speak the thoughts my heart bids me speak. i am old, the wreck of a once noble man; yet you did not hesitate to stand by me in my hour of need, even at peril to yourselves. i cannot reward you. i can but offer the thanks of one whose name it may be you have never heard--one whose name to-day, but for himself and his own weakness, might be on the tongues of the people of two continents. gentlemen, accept the thanks of william shakespeare burns." "mr. burns," said frank, "from your words, and your manner, i am led to believe that you are an actor." "nay, nay. once i trod the boards and interpreted the characters of the immortal bard, for whom i was named. that time is past. i am an actor no longer; i am a 'has been.' my day is past, my sun hath set, and night draweth on apace." "i thought i could not be mistaken," said frank. "we, too, are actors, although not shakespearian ones." "is this true?" exclaimed the old tragedian. "and i have been befriended by those who wouldst follow the noble art! brothers, i greet thee! but these are sad, sad days, for the drama hath fallen into a decline. the legitimate is scoffed at, the stage is defiled by the ribald jest, the clownish low-comedy star, the dancing and singing comedian, and vaudeville--ah, me! that we should have fallen into such evil ways. the indecencies now practiced in the name of art and the drama are enough to make the immortal william turn in his grave. oh, for the good old days! but they are gone--forever gone!" "it seems strange to meet an actor like you 'at liberty,' and so far from the rialto," declared merry. "i have been touring the country, giving readings," burns hastened to explain. "ah, it is sad, sad! once i might have packed the largest theater of the metropolis; to-day i am doing well if i bring out a round dozen to listen to my readings at some crossroad schoolhouse in the country. thus have the mighty fallen!" "i presume you are thinking of getting back to new york?" "nay, nay. what my eyes have beheld there and my ears have heard is enough. my heart is sick within me. i was there at the opening of the season. one broadway theater was given over to burlesque of the very lowest order, while another was but little better in character. a leading theater close to broadway was packed every night by well-dressed people who went there to behold a vile french farce, in which the leading lady disrobed upon the stage. ah, me! in truth, the world hath gone wrong! the ways of men are evil, and all their thoughts are vile. it is well that shakespeare cannot rise from his grave to look upon the horrors now perpetrated on the english-speaking stage. if he were to be restored to life and visit one of our theaters, i think his second funeral would take place the following day. he would die of heart failure." frank laughed heartily. "i believe you are right. it would give william a shock, that is certain. but there are good modern plays, you know." the actor shook his head. "i do not know," he declared. "i have not seen them. if there is not something nasty in the play of to-day, then it must of a certainty have its 'effect' in the way of some mechanical contrivance--a horse race, a steamboat explosion, a naval battle, or something of the sort. it seems that a piece cannot survive on its merits as a play, but must, perforce, be bolstered up by some wretched device called an 'effect.'" "truer words were never spoken," admitted frank. "and still there are a few plays written to-day that do not depend on such devices. in order to catch the popular fancy, however, i have found it necessary to introduce 'effects.'" "you speak as one experienced in the construction of plays." "i have had some experience. i am about to start on the road with my own company and my own play." of a sudden frank seemed struck by an idea. "by jove!" he exclaimed. "did you say you were at liberty?" "just at present, yes." "then, if i can get you, you are the very man i want." the old man shook his head. "your play can contain no part i would care to interpret," he said, with apparent regret. "but i think it is possible that you might be induced to play the part. i had a man for it, but i lost him. i was on my way to the orpheum, to see if i could not find another to fill his place." "what sort of a part is it?" asked burns, plainly endeavoring to conceal his eagerness. "it is comedy." "what!" cried the old actor, aghast and horrified. "wouldst offer me such a part? dost think i--i who have played _hamlet_, _brutus_, _lear_ and _othello_--would stoop so low? 'this is the most unkindest cut of all!'" "but there is money in it--good, sure money. i have several thousand dollars to back me, and i am going out with my piece to make or break. i shall keep it on the road several weeks, at any cost." the old actor shook his head. "it cannot be," he sadly said. "i am no comedian. i could not play the part." "if you will but dress as you are, if you will add a little that is fantastic to your natural acting, you can play the part. it is that of a would-be tragedian--a shakespearian actor." "worse and worse!" moaned the old man. "you would have me burlesque myself! out upon you!" "i will pay you thirty-five dollars a week and railroad expenses. how can you do better?" "thirty-fi----" the old actor gasped for breath. he seemed unable for some moments to speak. it was plain that the sum seemed like a small fortune to him. at last his dignity and his old nature reasserted itself. "young man," he said, "dost know what thou hast done? i--i am william shakespeare burns! a paltry thirty-five per week! bah! go to!" "well, i'll make it forty, and i can get a hundred good men for that at this time of the season." the aged thespian bowed his head. slowly he spoke, again quoting: "why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! you would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck to the heart of my mystery." "but the money, you seem to need that. money is a good thing to have." "'methinks there is much reason in his sayings.' it is true. ah! but how can i thus lower myself?" "as you have said, the good old days are past. it is useless to live for them. live for the present--and the future. money is base stuff, but we must have it. come, come; i know you can do the part. we'll get along splendidly." "'good reasons must, of force, give place to better.' as cassius saith, 'men at some time in their lives are masters of their fates;' but i think for me that time is past. but forty dollars--ye gods!" "it is better than reading to a scant dozen listeners at crossroads schoolhouses." "ah, well! you take advantage of my needs. i accept. but i must have a dollar at once, with which to purchase that which will drown the shame my heart doth feel." "you shall have the dollar," assured frank. "come along with us, and we will complete arrangements." so the old actor was borne away, outwardly sad, but inwardly congratulating himself on the greatest streak of luck he had come upon in many moons. chapter ix. welcome letters. frank merriwell was determined to give a performance of his revised play in denver for advertising purposes. he had the utmost confidence in "true blue," as he had rechristened the piece, but the report of his failure in puelbo had spread afar in dramatic circles, being carried broadcast by the eastern dramatic papers, and managers were shy of booking the revised version. some time before, after receiving the fortune from the carson city bank, merry had made a fair and equal division, sending checks for their share to browning, diamond and rattleton. toots' share he had been unable to forward, not knowing the address of the faithful darky, who had been forced to go forth into the world to win his way when frank met with the misfortune that caused him to leave yale. and now came three letters from three yale men. diamond's was brief. "dear old comrade: it is plain you are still a practical joker. your very valuable (?) check on the first national of denver received. i really do not know what to do with so much money! but i am afraid you are making a mistake by using a check on an existing bank. why didn't you draw one on 'the first sand bank of denver'? it would have served your purpose just as well. "can't write much now, as i am making preparations for vacation, which is only a month away. i'm afraid it will be a sorry vacation for me this year; not much like the last one. then we were all together, and what times we did have at fardale and in maine! i'm blue to-night, old friend, and do not feel like writing. i fancy it has made me feel bluer than ever to read in the _dramatic reflector_ of your unfortunate failure in puelbo and the disbanding of your company after your backer deserted you. hard luck, frank--hard luck! all the fellows have been hoping you would make money enough to come back here in the fall, but all that is over now. "what are you doing? can't you find time to write to us and let us know? we are very anxious about you. i will write you again when i am more in the mood. hoping your fortune may turn for the better, i remain, "always your friend, "jack diamond." frank read this aloud to hodge and gallup in his room at the metropole hotel. "waal, by ginger!" exploded ephraim. "what do yeou think of that?" "now you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you, merry," said hodge. "well, i'll be hanged if i don't believe diamond considers it a joke!" laughed frank. "of course he does," nodded bart. "well, he is putting a joke on himself. he'll be somewhat surprised when he discovers that." ephraim began to grin. "that's so, by thutter!" he cried. "here is a letter from rattleton," said merry, picking up another from the mail he had just received. "i wonder how he takes it?" "read it and find aout," advised gallup. "a wise suggestion," bowed frank, with mock gravity, tearing it open. this is what he read: "dear merry: cheese it! what do you take us for--a lot of chumps? we're onto you! eight thousand fiddlesticks! i'm going to have the check framed and hang it in my room. it will be a reminder of you. "say, that was tough about your fizzle in puelbo! it came just when we were hoping, you know. the fellows have been gathering at the fence and talking about you and your return to college since browning came back and told us how you were making a barrel of money with your play. now the report of your disaster is spread broadcast, and we know you cannot come back. it's tough. "diamond is in a blue funk. he hasn't been half the man he was since you went away. hasn't seemed to care much of anything about studying or doing anything else, and, as a result, it is pretty certain he'll be dropped a class. "but diamond is not the only one. you know browning was dropped once. he is too lazy to study, but, in order to keep in your class, he might have pulled through had you been here. now it is known for an almost certain thing that he will not be able to pass exams, and you know what that means. "i'm not going to say anything about myself. it's dull here. none of your friends took any interest in the college theatricals last winter, and the show was on the bum. the whole shooting match made a lot of guys of themselves. "baseball has been dead slow, so far this season. we are down in the mud, with princeton crowing. it takes you, merry, to twist the tiger's tail! what was the matter? everything. all the pitchers could do for us was to toss 'em up and get batted out of the box. the new men were not in it. they had glass arms, and the old reliables had dead wings. it was pitiful! i can't write any more about it. "i'd like to see you, frank! would i? ask me! oh, say! don't you think you can arrange it so you can come east this summer? come and see me. say, come and stay all summer with me at my home! we won't do a thing but have a great time. write to me and give me your promise you will come. don't you refuse me, old man. "yours till death, "rattles. "here's another!" cried frank. "if that doesn't beat! why, they all think those checks fakes!" "as i said before," said hodge, "you see what your reputation as a practical joker is doing for you." "i see," nodded frank. "it is giving me a chance to get a big joke on those fellows. they will drop dead when they learn those checks actually are good." "waal, i should say yes!" nodded ephraim. "jest naow they're kainder thinkin' yeou are an object fer charity." "here's browning's letter." "mr. frank merriwell, millionaire and philanthropist. "dear sir: i seize my pen in my hand, being unable to seize it with my foot, and hasten to acknowledge the receipt of your princely gift. with my usual energy and haste, i dash off these few lines at the rate of ten thousand words a minute, only stopping to rest after each word. after cashing your check with the pawnbroker, i shall use the few dollars remaining to settle in part with my tailor, who has insisted in a most ungentlemanly manner on the payment of his little bill, which has been running but a short time--less than two years, i think. the sordid greed and annoying persistence of this man has much embarrassed me, and i would pay him off entirely, if it were not that i wish to get my personal property out of my 'uncle's' safe-deposit vault, where it has been resting for some time. "it is evident to me that you have money to burn in an open grate. that is great, as griswold would say. and it was so kind of you to remember your old friends. the little hint accompanying each check that thus you divided the spoils of our great trip across the continent was not sufficient to deceive anyone into the belief that this was other than a generous act on your part and a free gift. "there is not much news to write, save that everybody is in the dumps and everything has turned blue. i suppose some of the others will tell you all about things, so that will save me the task, which you know i would intensely enjoy, as i do love to work. it is the joy of my life to labor. i spend as much time as possible each day working on a comfortable couch in my room; but i will confess that i might not work quite so hard if it was not necessary to draw at the pipe in order to smoke up. "when are you coming east? aren't you getting tired of the west? why can't you make a visit to yale before vacation time? you would be received with great _éclat_. excuse my french. i have to fling it around occasionally, when i can't think of any latin or greek. why do you suppose latin and greek were invented? why didn't those old duffers use english, and save us poor devils no end of grinding? "unfortunately, i have just upset the ink, and, having no more, i must quit. "yours energetically, "bruce browning." "well, it's simply marvelous that he stuck to it long enough to write all that!" laughed frank. "and he, like the others, thinks the check a fake." hodge got up and stood looking sullenly out of the window. "what's the matter, bart?" asked merry, detecting that there was something wrong. "nothing," muttered the dark-faced fellow. "oh, come! was there anything in those letters you did not like?" "no. it was something there was not in the letters." "what?" "not one of those fellows even mentioned me!" cried hodge, fiercely whirling about. "i didn't care a rap about diamond and rattleton, but browning would have showed a trace of decency if he had said a word about me. he made a bad blunder and was forced to confess it, but i'll bet he doesn't think a whit more of me now." "oh, you are too sensitive, old man. they did not even write anything in particular for news, and think how many of my friends at college they failed to mention." "oh, well; they knew i was with you, and one of them might have asked for me. i hope you may go back to yale, merry, but wild horses could not drag me back there! i hate them all!" "hate them, hodge?" "yes, hate them!" bart almost shouted. "they are a lot of cads! there is not a whole man among them!" then he strode out of the room, giving the door a bang behind him. of course frank made haste to reply to the letters of his college chums, assuring them that the checks were perfectly good, and adding that, although he had some reputation as a practical joker, he was not quite crazy enough to utter a worthless check on a well-known bank, as that would be a criminal act. frank mentioned hodge, and, without saying so in so many words, gave them to understand that bart felt the slight of not being spoken of in any of the letters from his former acquaintances. one thing frank did not tell them, and that was that he was on the point of starting out again with his play, having renamed it, and rewritten it, and added a sensational feature of the "spectacular" order in the view of a boat race between yale, harvard and cornell. even though he was venturing everything on the success of the piece, merry realized now better than ever before that no man was so infallible that he could always correctly foretell the fate of an untried play. it is a great speculation to put a play on the road at large expense. the oldest managers are sometimes deceived in the value of a dramatic piece of property, and it is not an infrequent thing that they lose thousands of dollars in staging and producing a play in which they have the greatest confidence, but which the theater-going public absolutely refuses to accept. frank had been very confident that his second play would be a winner in its original form, but disaster had befallen it at the very start. he might have kept it on the road as it stood, for, at the very moment when he seemed hopelessly stranded without a dollar in the world, fortune had smiled upon him by placing in his hands the wealth which he had found in the utah desert at the time of his bicycle tour across the continent. but merry had realized that, in the condition in which it then stood, it was more than probable that the play would prove an utter failure should he try to force it upon the public. this caused him to take prompt action. first he brought the company to denver, holding all of them, save the two men who had caused him no small amount of trouble, namely, lloyd fowler and charlie harper. calmly reviewing his play at twin star ranch, frank decided that the comedy element was not strong enough in the piece to make it a popular success on the road; accordingly he introduced two new characters. it would be necessary, in order to produce the effect that he desired, to employ a number of "supers" in each place where the play was given, as he did not believe he would be warranted in the expense of carrying nonspeaking characters with him. on his return to denver frank had hastened at once to look over the "mechanical effect" which had been constructed for him. it was not quite completed, but was coming on well, and, as far as frank could see, had been constructed perfectly according to directions and plans. of course, one man had not done the work alone. he had been assisted by carpenters and scene painters, and the work had been rushed. merry got his company together and began rehearsing the revised play. his paper from chicago came on, and examination showed that it was quite "up to the mark." in fact, havener, the stage manager, was delighted with it, declaring that it was the most attractive stuff he had seen in many years. but for the loss of one of the actors he had engaged to fill one of the comedy parts, merry would have been greatly pleased by the manner in which things moved along. now, however, he believed that in william shakespeare burns he had found a man who could fill the place left vacant. although hodge had been ready enough to defend burns from the young ruffians who were hectoring him on the street, he had little faith in the man as a comedian. hodge could see no comedy in the old actor. to tell the truth, it was seldom that hodge could see comedy in anything, and low comedy, sure to appeal to the masses, he regarded as foolish. for another reason hodge felt uncertain about burns. it was plain that the aged tragedian was inclined to look on the wine "when it was red," and bart feared he would prove troublesome and unreliable on that account. "i am done with the stuff!" hodge had declared over and over. "on that night in the ruffians' den at ace high i swore never to touch it again, for i saw what brutes it makes of men. i have little confidence in any man who will drink it." "oh, be a little more liberal," entreated frank. "you know there are men who drink moderately, and it never seems to harm them." "i know there are such men," admitted bart; "but it is not blood that runs in their veins. it's water." "not all men are so hot-blooded and impulsive as you and jack diamond." "don't speak of diamond! i don't think anything of that fellow. i am talking about this burns. he is a sot, that's plain. drink has dragged him down so far that all the powers in the world cannot lift him up. some night when everything depends on him, he will fail you, for he will be too drunk to play his part. then you will be sorry that you had anything to do with him." "all the powers in this world might not be able to lift him up," admittted frank; "but there are other powers that can do so. i pity the poor, old man. he realizes his condition and what he has missed in life." "but the chances are that the audience will throw things at him when he appears as a comedian." "instead of that, i believe he will convulse them with laughter." "well, you have some queer ideas. we'll see who's right." frank kept track of burns, dealing out but little money to him, and that in small portions, so that the old actor could not buy enough liquor to get intoxicated, if he wished to do so. the first rehearsal was called on the stage of the theater in denver. merry had engaged the theater for that purpose. the entire company assembled. frank addressed them and told them that he was glad to see them again. one and all, they shook hands with him. then burns was called forward and introduced as the new comedian. at this he drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms across his breast, and said: "ay! 'new' is the word for it, for never before, i swear, have i essayed a rôle so degraded or one that hath so troubled me by night and by day. comedy, comedy, what sins are committed in thy name!" granville garland nudged douglas dunton in the ribs, whispering in his ear: "behold your rival!" "methinks he intrudeth on my sacred territory," nodded dunton. "but he has to do it on the stage, and on the stage i am a villain. we shall not quarrel." burns proved to be something of a laughing-stock for the rest of the company. "he's a freak," declared billy wynne, known as "props." "all of that," agreed lester vance. "i don't understand why merriwell should pick up such a creature for us to associate with," sniffed agnes kirk. "but merriwell is forever doing something freakish. just think how he carried around that black tramp cat that came onto the stage to hoodoo us the first time we rehearsed this piece." "and there is the cat now!" exclaimed vance, as the same black cat came walking serenely onto the stage. "yes, here is the cat," said frank, who overheard the exclamation. "she was called a hoodoo before. i have determined that she shall be a mascot, and it is pretty hard to get me to give anything up when i am determined upon it." "well, i haven't a word to say!" declared agnes kirk, but she looked several words with her eyes. the rehearsal began and progressed finely till it was time for burns to enter. the old actor came on, but when he tried to say his lines the words seemed to stick in his throat and choke him. several times he started, but finally he broke down and turned to frank, appealingly, saying, huskily: "i can't! i can't! it is a mockery and an insult to the dead bard of avon! it's no use! i give it up. i need the money, but i cannot insult the memory of william shakespeare by making a burlesque of his immortal works!" then he staggered off the stage. chapter x. at the foot of the bed. late that evening, after the work and rehearsing of the day was over, frank, bart and ephraim gathered in the room of the first-mentioned and discussed matters. "i told you burns was no good," said hodge, triumphantly, "i knew how it would be, but he showed up sooner than i expected. i suppose you will get rid of him in a hurry now?" "i think not," answered merry, quietly. "what?" cried hodge, astounded. "you don't mean to say you will keep him after what has happened?" "i may." "well, frank, i'm beginning to believe the theatrical business has turned your head. you do not seem to possess the good sense you had once." "is that so?" laughed merry. "just so!" snapped hodge. "oh, i don't know! i rather think burns will turn out all right." "after making such a fizzle to-day? well, you're daffy!" "you do not seem to understand the man at all. i can appreciate his feelings." "i can't!" "i thought not. it must be rather hard for him, who has always considered himself a tragedian and a shakespeare scholar, to burlesque the parts he has studied and loved." "bah! that's nonsense! why, the man's a pitiful old drunkard! you give him credit for too fine feelings." "and you do not seem to give him credit for any feelings. even a drunkard may have fine feelings at times." "perhaps so." "perhaps so! i know it. it is drink that degrades and lowers the man. when he is sober, he may be kind, gentle and lovable." "well, i haven't much patience with a man who will keep himself filled with whisky." frank opened his lips to say something, but quickly changed his mind, knowing he must cut hodge deeply. he longed, however, to say that the ones most prone to err and fall in this life are often the harshest judges of others who go astray. "i ruther pity the pore critter," said ephraim; "but i don't b'lieve he'll ever make ennyboddy larf in the world. he looks too much like a funeral." "that is the very thing that should make them laugh, when he has his make-up on. i have seen the burlesque tragedian overdone on the stage, so that he was nauseating; but i believe burns can give the character just the right touch." "well, if you firmly believe that, it's no use to talk to you, for you'll never change your mind till you have to," broke out hodge. "i have seen a sample of that in the way you deal with your enemies. now, there was leslie lawrence----" "let him rest in peace," said frank. "he is gone forever." "an' it's a dinged good riddance!" said gallup. "the only thing i'm sorry fer is that the critter escaped lynchin'!" "yes, he should have been lynched!" flashed bart. "at the twin star ranch now the poor girl he deserted is lying on a bed of pain, shot down by his dastardly hand." "he did not intend the bullet for her," said frank, quickly. "no; but he intended it for you! it was a great case of luck that he didn't finish you. if you had pushed the villain to the wall before that, instead of dealing with him as if he had the least instinct of a gentleman in his worthless body, you would have saved the girl from so much suffering." "she loves him still," said frank. "her last words to me were a message to him, for she does not know he is dead beneath the quicksands of big sandy." "the quicksands saved him from the gallows." "an' they took another ungrateful rascal along with him, b'gee!" said ephraim, with satisfaction. "yes," nodded frank; "i think there is no doubt but lloyd fowler perished with lawrence, for i fancied i recognized fowler in the fellow who accompanied lawrence that fatal night." "and fowler was a drinking man, so i should think he would be a warning to you," said hodge. "i shouldn't think you'd care to take another sot into the company." "you must know that there is as little resemblance between fowler and burns as there is between night and day." "perhaps so, but burns can drink more whisky than fowler ever could." "and he is ashamed of himself for it. i have talked with him about it, and i know." "oh, he made you believe so. he is slick." "he was not trying to deceive me." "so you think. he knows where his money comes from to buy whisky. it's more than even chance that, when you are ready to start on the road, he will give you the slip." "he asked me to release him to-day." "and you refused?" "i did. i urged him to stay with us." hodge got up. "that settles it!" he exclaimed. "now i know theatricals have wrought your downfall! your glory is fast departing." "then let it depart!" laughed frank. "you have been forced to confess yourself mistaken on other occasions; you may on this." "good-night," said hodge, and he went out. ephraim grinned. "some fellows would say it'd be a gol-danged sensible thing fer yeou to git rid of that feller," he said, nodding toward the door. "he's gittin' to be the greatest croaker i ever knew." "hodge is getting worse," admitted frank, gravely. "i think the unfortunate end of his college course has had much to do with it. he broods over that a great deal, and it is making him sour and unpleasant. i can imagine about how he feels." "if he ever larfed he'd be more agreeable. danged if i like a feller that alwus looks so sollum an' ugly. sometimes he looks as ef he could snap a spike off at one bite an' not harf try." "wait," said frank. "if i am successful with this play, i hope to go back to yale in the fall and take hodge with me. i think he is getting an idea into his head that his life career has been ruined at the very start, and that is making him bitter. i'll take him back, run him into athletics, get his mind off such unpleasant thoughts, and make a new man of him." "waal, i hope ye do," said gallup, rising and preparing to go. "there's jest one thing abaout hodge that makes me keer a rap fer him." "what's that?" "it's ther way he sticks to yeou. be gosh! i be'lieve he'd wade through a red-hot furnace to reach yeou an' fight for yeou, if yeou was in danger!" "i haven't a doubt but he'd make the attempt," nodded frank. "an' he kin fight," the vermonter went on. "aout at ace high, when we was up against all them ruffians, he fought like a dozen tigers all rolled inter one. that's ernnther thing that makes me think a little somethin' of him." "yes," agreed merry, "bart is a good fighter. the only trouble with him is that he is too ready to fight. there are times when one should avoid a fight, if possible; but hodge never recognizes any of those times. i never knew him to try to avoid a fight." "waal," drawled ephraim, with a yawn, "i'm goin' to bed. good-night, frank." "good-night." merry closed the door after gallup and carefully locked and bolted it. then he sat down, took a letter from his pocket, and read it through from beginning to end. when he had finished, he pressed the missive to his lips, murmuring: "elsie! elsie! dear little sweetheart!" for some time he sat there, thinking, thinking. his face flushed and paled softened and glowed again; sometimes he looked sad, and sometimes he smiled. had a friend been there, he might have read frank's thoughts by the changing expressions on his face. at last merry put away the letter, after kissing it again, and, having wound up his watch, undressed and prepared for bed. his bed stood in a little alcove of the room, and he drew the curtains back, exposing it. donning pajamas, he soon was in bed. reaching out, he pressed a button, and--snap!--out went the gas, turned off by electricity. frank composed himself to sleep. the dull rumble of the not yet sleeping city came up from the streets and floated in at his open window. the sound turned after a time to a musical note that was like that which comes from an organ, and it lulled him to sleep. for some time merry seemed to sleep as peacefully as a child. gradually the roaring from the streets became less and less. frank breathed softly and regularly. and then, without starting or stirring, he opened his eyes. he lay quite still and listened, but heard no sound at first. for all of this, he was impressed by a feeling that something was there in that room with him! it was a strange, creepy, chilling sensation that ran over frank. he shivered the least bit. rustle-rustle! it was the lightest of sounds, but he was sure he heard it. some object was moving in the room! frank remembered that he had closed and locked the door. not only had he locked it, but he had bolted it, so that it could not be opened from the outside by the aid of a key alone. what was there in that room? how had anything gained admittance? frank attempted to convince himself that it was imagination, but he was a youth with steady nerves, and he knew he was not given to imagining such things without cause. rustle--rustle! there it was again! there was no doubt of it this time! something moved near the foot of the bed! still without stirring, merriwell turned his gaze in that direction. at the foot of the bed a dark shape seemed to tower! impressed by a sense of extreme peril, frank shot his hand out of the bed toward the electric button on the wall. by chance he struck the right button. snap!--up flared the gas. and there at the foot of the bed stood a man in black, his face hidden by a mask. the sudden up-flaring of the gas seemed to startle the unknown intruder and disconcert him for a moment. with a hiss, he started backward. bolt upright sat frank. merry's eyes looked straight into the eyes that peered through the twin holes in the mask. thus they gazed at each other some seconds. there was no weapon in the hands of the masked man, and merriwell guessed that the fellow was a burglar. that was frank's first thought. then came another. why had the man sought the bed? frank's clothes were lying on some chairs outside the alcove, and in order to go through them it had not been necessary to come near the bed. then merry remembered the feeling of danger that had come over him, and something told him this man had entered that room to do him harm. somehow, frank became convinced that the fellow had been creeping up to seize a pillow, fling himself on the bed, press the pillow over the sleeper's face, and commit a fearful crime. even then frank wondered how the man could have gained admittance to the room. up leaped the former yale athlete; backward sprang the masked man. over the foot of the bed merry recklessly flung himself, dodging a hand that shot out at him, and placing himself between the man and the door. as he bounded toward the door, merriwell saw, with a feeling of unutterable amazement, that it was tightly closed and that the bolt was shot in place, just as he had left it. he whirled about, with his back toward the door. "good-evening!" he said. "isn't this rather late for a call? i wasn't expecting you." the man was crouching before him, as if to spring toward him, but frank's cool words seemed to cause further hesitation. a muttering growl came from behind the mask, but no words did the unknown speak. "it is possible you dropped into the wrong room," said merry. "i trust you will be able to explain yourself, for you are in a rather awkward predicament. besides that, you have hidden your face, and that does not speak well for your honest intentions." without doubt, the intruder was astonished by merriwell's wonderful coolness. although startled from slumber in such a nerve-shocking manner, frank now seemed perfectly self-possessed. silence. "you don't seem to be a very sociable sort of caller," said merry, with something like a faint laugh. "won't you take off your mask and sit down a while." the youth asked the question as if he were inviting the stranger to take off his hat and make himself at home. the man's hand slipped into his bosom. frank fancied it sought a weapon. now it happened that merry had no weapon at hand, and he felt that he would be in a very unpleasant position if that other were to "get the drop" on him. frank made a rush at the stranger. the man tried to draw something from his bosom, but it seemed to catch and hang there, and merry was on him. the unknown tried to dodge, and he partly succeeded in avoiding frank's arms. however, he did not get fully away, and, a second later, they grappled. the man, however, had the advantage; for all that frank had rushed upon him, he had risen partly behind merry, after dodging. he clutched frank about the waist and attempted to hurl him to the floor with crushing force. frank merriwell was an expert wrestler, and, although taken thus at a disadvantage, he squirmed about and broke his fall, simply being forced to one knee. "now i have ye!" panted the man, hoarsely. "have you?" came from frank's lips. "oh, i don't know!" there was a sudden upward heaving, and the ex-yale athlete shot up to his feet. but the man was on his back, and a hand came round and fastened on merry's throat with a terrible, crushing grip. frank realized that he was dealing with a desperate wretch, who would not hesitate at anything. and merriwell's life was the stake over which they were struggling! frank got hold of the man's wrist and tore those fingers from his throat, although it seemed that they nearly tore out his windpipe in coming away. on his back the fellow was panting, hoarsely, and merry found it no easy thing to dislodge him. round and round they whirled. frank might have shouted for aid, but he realized that his door was bolted on the inside, and no assistance could reach him without breaking it down. besides that, merry's pride held him in check. there was but one intruder, and he did not feel like shouting and thus seeming to confess himself outmatched and frightened. they were at a corner of the alcove. the partition projected sharply there, and, of a sudden, with all his strength, merry flung himself backward, dashing the man on his back against that projecting corner. there was a grunt, a groan, and a curse. it seemed that, for an instant, the shock had hurt and dazed the man, and, in that instant, merry wrenched himself free. "now this thing will be somehow more even," he whispered, from his crushed and aching throat. he whirled to grapple with the fellow, but again the slippery rascal dodged him, leaping away. frank followed. the man caught up a chair, swung it and struck at merriwell's head with force enough to crush frank's skull. merry could not dodge, but he caught the chair and saved his head, although he was sent reeling backward by the blow. had the fellow followed him swiftly then it is barely possible he might have overcome frank before merry could steady himself. a moment of hesitation, however, was taken advantage of by the youth. the chair was tossed aside, and merry darted after the fellow, who was astounded and dismayed by his persistence. round to the opposite side of the table darted the intruder, and across the table they stared at each other. "well," said frank, in grim confession, "you are making a right good fight of it, and i will say that you are very slippery. i haven't been able to get a hold of you yet, though. you'll come down on the run when i do." the man was standing directly beneath the gas jet which merry had lighted by pressing the electric button. of a sudden he reached up and turned off the gas, plunging the room in darkness. then, as frank sprang toward the jet, something swooped down on him, covering his head and shoulders in a smothering manner! chapter xi. a mystery to solve. frank realized that some of the clothing from the bed had been torn off and flung over his head. he attempted to cast it aside, but it became tangled so he could not accomplish his purpose as readily as he wished, although he was not long in doing so. retreating, he was prepared for an assault, for it seemed that the masked unknown would follow up the advantage he had gained. no assault came. frank paused and listened, and, to his amazement, he could hear no sound in the room. still, he felt that the man must be there, awaiting for an opportunity to carry out the deadly purpose which had brought him into his apartment at that hour. it was not pleasant to stand there in the darkness, half expecting to feel a knife buried between his shoulders at any instant. gradually frank's eyes became accustomed to the semi-gloom of the room. still, he could see nothing that lived and moved. beyond him was the window, standing open as he had left it, the light wind gently moving the draperies. "well," thought merry, "i wonder how long the fellow will keep still. he'll have to make a move sometime." he backed up against the door and stood there, facing the window. placing a hand behind him, he took hold of the knob of the door, which he found was still locked securely. this assured him that the intruder had not escaped in that direction. merry felt certain that the man was close at hand. he knew he could unlock and unbolt the door and leap out quickly. he could slam the door behind him and lock it, thus penning the man in there. then he could descend to the office and inform the clerk that he had captured a burglar. somehow, he did not feel like doing that; that seemed too much as if he were running away. he did not fancy doing anything that seemed in the least cowardly, even though it might be discreet. further than that, however, it was by no means certain that, even though he locked and secured the door behind him after leaping out of the room, he could hold the intruder captive. in some manner the man had entered that room without disturbing the lock or bolt on the door. how had he entered? frank looked toward the open window, but he knew it opened upon the face of the hotel, four stories from the level of the street, and that settled in his mind all doubts about the window, for he instantly decided that it had not been possible for the masked unknown to get into the room that way. had he been in some old colonial house he would have fancied the fellow had gained admittance by means of a panel in the wall and a secret passage; but he was in a modern hotel, and it was beyond the range of probability that there were secret passages or moving wall panels in the structure. these thoughts flitted through his mind swiftly as he stood there, trying to hear some sound that would tell him where the intruder was in the room. all was still. below in the street a cab rattled and rumbled along. the silence was even more nerve-racking than the unexpected appearance of the masked man had been. the mystery of the whole affair was beginning to impress merry, and a mystery always aroused his curiosity to the highest pitch. "take your time, sir," he thought, as he leaned against the door and waited. "i believe i can stand it as long as you can." near at hand the door of another room swiftly opened and closed. the sound of hurried footsteps passed the door of merriwell's room. frank was tempted to fling open his door and call to the man, but he hesitated about that till it was too late. "let him go," he thought. "perhaps he would have been frightened to death had i called him in here." the push button by which he could call assistance from the office was in the alcove. at this time of night it was not likely there would be anything but a tardy answer to his call should he make it. but the electric button which turned on and ignited the gas was also in the alcove. frank longed to reach that button. he longed to light the gas in order to look around for the intruder. of course he could have lighted it with a match; but he realized that such a thing might be just what the unknown hoped for and expected. the man might be waiting for him to strike a match. the minutes fled. "something must be done," merry at last decided. then he resolved to leave the door, move slowly along the wall, reach the button and light the gas--if possible. with the silence of a creeping cat, he inched along. every sense was on the alert. it took him a long time to come to the foot of the bed at the opening of the alcove, but he reached it at last. was the masked man waiting for him in the darkness of the alcove? it seemed certain that he could be nowhere else in the room. frank hesitated, nerving himself for what might come. surely it required courage to enter that alcove. he listened, wondering if he could hear the breathing of the man crouching in the alcove. he heard nothing. then every nerve and muscle seemed to grow taut in merriwell's body, and, with one panther-like spring, he landed on the bed. in the twinkling of an eye he was at the head of the bed, and his fingers found the push button. snap!--the gas came on, with a flare. it showed him standing straight up on the bed, his hands clinched, ready for anything that might follow. nothing followed. frank began to feel puzzled. "why in the name of everything peculiar doesn't he get into gear and do something--if he's going to do anything at all?" thought the youth on the bed. again a bound carried him over the footboard and out into the middle of the room, where he whirled to face the alcove, his eyes flashing round the place. the bed covering which had been flung over his head lay in the middle of the floor, where he had cast it aside. nothing stirred in the room. on a chair near at hand frank could hear his watch ticking in his pocket. then the intruder had not taken the watch, which was valuable. frank glanced toward his clothes. he had carefully placed them in a certain position when he undressed, and there they lay, as if they had not been touched or disturbed in the least. "queer burglar," meditated merry. "should have thought he'd gone through my clothes first thing." but where was the fellow? there seemed but one place for him, and frank stopped to look beneath the bed. there was no one under the bed. the wardrobe door stood slightly ajar. "ah!" thought frank. "at last! he must be in there, for there is no other place in this room where he could hide." without hesitation, frank flung open the door of the wardrobe, saying: "come out, sir!" but the wardrobe was empty, save of such clothing and things as frank had placed there with his own hands. merriwell fell back, beginning to feel very queer. he looked all around the room, walking over to a sofa across a corner and looking behind that. in the middle of the floor he stopped. "this beats anything i ever came against!" he exclaimed. "was it a spook?" then the pain in his throat, where those iron hands had threatened to crush his windpipe, told him that it was no "spook." "and it could not have been a dream," he decided. "i know there was a living man in this room. how did he escape? that is one question. when it is answered, i shall know how he obtained admittance. and why did he come here?" frank examined his clothes to make sure that nothing had been taken. he soon discovered that his watch, money and such valuables as he carried about with him every day, were there, not a thing having been disturbed. that settled one point in frank's mind. the man had not entered that room for the purpose of robbery. if not for robbery, what then? it must have been for the purpose of wreaking some injury on merriwell as he slept. "i was warned by my feelings," frank decided. "i was in deadly peril; there is no doubt of that." frank went to the window and looked out. it seemed a foolish thing to do, for he had looked out and seen that there was not even a fire escape to aid a person in gaining admittance to his room. the fire escape, he had been told, was at the end of the corridor. it was a night without a moon, but the electric lights shone in the street below. something caused merry to turn his head and look to his left. what was that? close against the face of the outer wall something dangled. a sudden eagerness seized him. he leaned far out of the window, doing so at no small risk, and reached along the wall toward the object. with the tip of his fingers he grasped it and drew it toward him. it was a rope! "the mystery is solved!" muttered frank, with satisfaction. "this explains how the fellow entered my room." he shook the rope and looked upward. he could see that it ran over the sill of a window two stories above. "did he come down from there? should have thought he would have selected a window directly over this. and did he climb back up this swaying, loosely dangling rope?" frank wondered not a little. and then, as he was leaning out of his window, the light of the street lamps showed him that a window beyond the dangling rope, on a level with his, was standing open. the sight gave merry a new idea. "i believe i understand how the trick was worked," he muttered. "that must explain how the fellow was able to vanish so swiftly while my head was covered by the bedclothes. with the aid of this rope, he swung out from his window and into mine. he could do it easily and noiselessly. while my head was covered, he plunged out of the window, caught the rope, and swung back. that's it!" frank drew his head in quickly, but he still clung to the end of the rope. this he drew in and lay over the sill. "yes," he decided, "that is the way the fellow escaped. he had the rope right here, so that he could catch it in a moment, and, grasping it, he plunged outward through the window. his momentum carried him right across and into the other window. it was a reckless thing to do, but perfectly practical." then he remembered how he had heard, while standing with his back against his own door, the door of an adjoining room open and close, followed by the sound of swift footsteps passing outside. "that was when he left his room," merry decided. it did not take frank long to resolve to explore that room--to seek for some clew to the identity of the masked intruder. with the aid of the rope, he could swing into the open window; with its aid he could swing back to his own room. he would do it. of course, merry realized what a rash thing he was about to do. of course he understood that he might be rushing to the waiting arms of his late antagonist. still he was not deterred. all his curiosity was aroused, and he was bent on discovering the identity of the man, if such a thing were possible. he grasped the rope and climbed upon the window sill. looking out, he carefully calculated the distance to the next window and the momentum he would require to take him there. having decided this, he prepared to make the swing. and then, just at the very instant that he swung off from the window sill, he heard a hoarse, triumphant laugh above. he looked up. out of the window from which ran the rope, a man was leaning. in his hand was something on which the light from the street lamps glinted. it was a knife! with that knife the wretch, whose face was covered by a mask, gave a slash at the rope, just as merry swung off from the sill. with a twang, the rope parted! it was sixty feet to the street below. frank fell. chapter xii. the name on the register. not far, however, for he released the rope and shot out his arms. he had swung across so that he was opposite the open window when the rope was cut. merriwell knew all his peril at the instant when he swung from the sill of his own window, but it was too late for him to keep himself from being carried out by the rope. in a twinkling, his one thought was to reach the other window quickly, knowing he would be dashed to death on the paving below if he did not. he flung himself toward that window, just as the rope parted. his arms shot in over the sill, and there he dangled. down past his head shot the rope, twisting and writhing in the air, like a snake. he heard it strike on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. an exclamation of rage broke from the lips of the man in the window above, for he realized that frank had not fallen with the rope. he leaned far out, lifted his arm, made a quick motion, and something went gleaming and darting through the air. he had flung the knife at frank. it missed merriwell, shot downward, and struck with a ringing clang on the stones below. "missed!" snarled the man. "well, i'll get you yet!" then merriwell drew himself in at the window, and the peril was past. no wonder he felt weak and limp. no wonder that he was jarred and somewhat bewildered. it was a marvel that he was not lying dead in the street below. frank understood the full extent of the peril through which he had passed, and a prayer welled from his lips. "thank god!" he was grateful in his heart, and he felt that he had been spared through the kindness of an all-wise providence. it was some moments before he could stir. he lay on the floor, panting, and regaining his strength. he heard no sound in the room, for all the noise he had made in coming in, and more than ever he became convinced that the room had been occupied by his desperate enemy who had sought to destroy him that night. there was now no longer a doubt concerning the purpose of the man who had gained admission to frank's room. the fellow had not come there for plunder, but for the purpose of harming merriwell. frank rose and sought the gas jet, which he lighted. then he looked around. somehow, it seemed that the room had been occupied that night, although the bed was undisturbed, showing that no person had slept in it. frank fancied that his enemy had sat by the window, waiting, waiting till he felt sure merry was sound asleep. and frank had been sleeping soundly. he realized that, and he knew something had caused him to awaken, just in time. what was it? was it some good spirit that hovered near to protect him? he looked all round the room, but could find nothing that served as a clew to the identity of the man who had occupied the apartment. but the register would tell to whom the room had been let. having decided to go down and look the register over, frank wondered how he was to get back into his own room, for the door was locked and bolted on the inside. he went to the window and looked out. there was no way for him to reach his window now that the rope had been cut. "and i should not be surprised if i am locked in this room," thought merry. investigation showed, however, that the door was unlocked, and he was able to step out into the corridor. but there he was, shut out from his own room by lock and bolt, and dressed in nothing but a suit of pajamas. the adventure had assumed a ludicrous aspect. frank wondered what he could do. it was certain that they would not break into his room at that hour of the night, for the sound of bursting the bolt would disturb other sleepers. the watchman came down the corridor. he saw frank and came onward with haste, plainly wondering what merry was doing there. "look here," said frank, "i want to know the name of the man who occupies no. , this room next to mine." "what is the matter?" asked the watchman. "this person has disturbed me," said frank, truthfully. "i am not going to raise a kick about it to-night, but i shall report it to the clerk in the morning." "does he snore loudly?" inquired the watchman. "i didn't think you could hear through those partitions." "here," said frank, who had seen the watchman before, "you know me. my name is merriwell. i haven't a cent in these pajamas, but i'll give you two dollars in the morning if you will go down to the office, look on the register, find out who occupies no. , and come back here and tell me." now it happened that frank had given the watchman fifty cents the night before to do something for him, and so the man was persuaded to go down to the office, although it is quite probable that he did not expect to see the promised two dollars in the morning. frank waited. the watchman came back after a time. "well," asked merry, "did you look on the register and find out the name of the man who was given no. ?" "i did," nodded the watchman. "what is his name?" "william shakespeare burns," was the astonishing answer. frank staggered. he told the watchman he had made a mistake, but the man insisted that he had not. that was enough to excite merry more than anything that had happened to date. could it be that burns, the old actor, whom he had befriended, had sought his life? it did not seem possible. if it were true, then, beyond a doubt, the man had been bribed to do the deed by some person who remained in the background. it did not take frank long to tell the watchman what had happened. the man could scarcely believe it. he seemed to regard merriwell as somewhat deranged. "if you do not think i am telling the truth," said merry, "get your keys and try my door. if you are able to open it, i shall be greatly pleased." the watchman did so, but he could not open the door of the room. "now," said merry, "to make yourself doubly sure, go down to the sidewalk in front of the hotel and you will find the rope there." the man went down and found the rope. he came back greatly agitated. "this is a most astonishing occurrence," he said. "never knew anything like it to happen here before." "keep your eyes open for the man who had no. ," said merry. "i am going to take that room and sleep there the rest of the night. in the morning the door of my room must be opened for me." he went into that room, closed the door, locked it and bolted it, closed and fastened the window, and went to bed. of course he did not go to sleep right away, but he forced himself to do so, after a time, and he slept peacefully till morning. in the morning frank found the door of his room had been forced, so he was able to go in immediately on rising. he had been unable to obtain a room with a private bath connected, but there was a bathroom directly across the corridor, and he took his morning "dip," coming out as bright as a new dollar. but the mystery of the midnight intruder weighed heavily on merry. he felt that he would give anything to solve it, and it must be solved in some manner. bart came around before breakfast, and he found merriwell standing in the middle of his room, scowling at the carpet. frank was so unlike his accustomed self that hodge was astounded. "what's happened?" asked bart. "one of the most singular adventures of my life," answered frank, and he proceeded to tell bart everything. "singular!" cried hodge. "i should say so! you are dead in luck to be alive!" "i consider myself so," confessed merry; "but i would give any sum to know who entered my room last night. of course the name on the register was false." "are you certain?" "certain! great scott! you do not fancy for an instant that burns was the man, do you?" "i don't know." "well, i do!" "you mean you think you do." "no; i mean that i know. burns was not the man." "how do you know?" "why, hang it, hodge! why should that unfortunate old fellow wish to harm me, who has been his friend?" "somebody may have hired him to do it." "oh, you're daffy on that point! reason will teach you that. if it had been burns, he would not have registered under his own name. but i absolutely know it was not burns i encountered. besides being ridiculous that a man of his years and habits should venture to enter my room in such a manner, the man whom i encountered was supple, strong, and quick as a flash. burns could not have fought like that; he could not have escaped in such an astonishing manner." "oh, well, perhaps not," admitted hodge, who seemed reluctant to give up. "but i have warned you against burns all along, and----" "oh, drop him now! somebody else is trying to injure the poor fellow. i want to know who did the job last night, and w. s. burns will not be able to tell me anything." bart had no more to say, and they went down to breakfast together. of course the hotel people promised to do everything possible to discover who had made the assault, but frank had little confidence in their ability to accomplish anything. in fact, he believed the time had passed to do anything, for it seemed that his enemy had escaped from the hotel without leaving a trace behind him. frank thought over the list of enemies who had sought to injure him since he entered theatricals, and he was startled. three of his enemies were dead. arthur sargent had been drowned; percy lockwell was lynched, and leslie lawrence met his death in the quicksands of big sandy river. of his living enemies, who might be desperate enough to enter his room and seek to harm him philip scudder stood alone. where was scudder? was he in denver? if so---- "if so, he is the man!" decided frank. merry resolved to be on his guard, for something told him another attempt would be made against him. chapter xiii. the race. all that forenoon he worked in the theater setting up the new mechanical arrangement, which had been completed, and preparing for the rehearsal that afternoon. rehearsal time came, and the members of the company assembled. all but burns. he was missing. "what do you think about it now?" asked bart, grimly. "the same as i thought before," declared frank. "burns was almost broken-hearted at rehearsal yesterday. it is possible he may not come to-day, for you know he wished to be released." "ah," said a sad voice, as the person in question appeared; "it is necessity that brings me. i fain would have remained away, but i need the money, and i must do that which my heart revolts against." "i believed you would come," said frank, greeting the old tragedian. "you will get used to the part after a while. it is better to make people laugh than to make them weep." "but it is too late for me to turn myself into a clown." "where did you stay last night?" asked merry. "at my humble lodgings," was the answer. "a man by your name registered at the hotel where i stop, and had the room next to mine. is it possible there are two william shakespeare burns in the city of denver?" the old man drew himself up, thrusting his hand into the bosom of his coat, with his familiar movement of dignity. "there is but one," he said--"but one real william shakespeare burns in the whole world! i am he!" "but you were not at the hotel last night?" "of a certainty i was not. to that i will pledge mine honor. if another was there under my name, he is an impostor." frank was satisfied, but bart was not; or, if hodge was satisfied, he would not confess it. the rehearsal began. frank had engaged some people to work the mechanical arrangement used in the third act, and they had been drilled and instructed by havener. the first act went off well, the storm at the conclusion being worked up in first-class style. scarcely a word of that act had frank altered, so there was very little trouble over it. the second act was likewise a success, havener finding it necessary to interrupt and give instructions but twice. then came the third act, which merry had almost entirely rewritten. in that act the burlesque tragedian was given an opportunity, and burns showed that he had his lines very well, although he ran over them after the style of the old-time professional who disdains to do much more than repeat the words till the dress rehearsal comes. the third act was divided into three scenes, the second scene being an exterior, showing the river in the distance, lined by a moving, swaying mass of people. along the river raced the three boats representing yale, harvard and cornell. keeping pace with them on the shore was the observation train, black with a mass of spectators. as the boats first came on, harvard had a slight lead, but yale spurted on appearing, and when they passed from view yale was leading slightly. all this was a mechanical arrangement made to represent boats, a train, the river, and the great crowd of spectators. the rowers in the boats were inanimate objects, but they worked with such skill that it was hard to believe they were not living and breathing human beings. even the different strokes of the three crews had been imitated. this arrangement was an invention of merriwell's own. in fact, it was more of an optical illusion than anything else, but it was most remarkable in its results, for, from the front of the house, a perfect representation of the college boat race appeared to be taking place in the distance on the stage. havener was a man who said very little, but he showed excitement and enthusiasm as this scene was being worked out. when the boats had disappeared, the stage grew dark, and there was a quick "shift" to the interior of the yale boathouse. the entire front of the house, toward the river, had been flung wide open. behind the scenes the actors who were not on the stage at the moment and the supers hurrahed much like the cheering of a vast multitude. whistles shrieked, and then the three boats shot into view, with yale still in the lead. the characters on the stage proper, in the boathouse, had made it known that the finish was directly opposite the boathouse, and so, when the boats flew across with yale in advance, it was settled that the blue had won. then frank merriwell, who had escaped from scheming enemies, and rowed in the race for all the attempts to drug him, was brought on by his admirers, and with the yale cheer of victory, the curtain came down. roscoe havener came rushing onto the stage and caught frank merriwell by the hand, crying: "merriwell, you are a genius! i want to say right here that i have doubted the practicability of this invention of yours, but now i confess that it is the greatest thing i ever saw. your sawmill invention in 'john smith' was great, but this lays way over it! you should make your fortune with this, but you must protect it." "i shall apply for a patent on the mechanism," said frank. "i am having a working model made for that purpose." "that's right. you have your chance to make a fortune, and i believe you can make it with this piece." "it is a chance," agreed frank, gravely; "but i shall take it for better or worse. i am going into this thing to make or break. i've got some money, and i'll sink every dollar i'm worth in the attempt to float this piece." frank spoke with quiet determination. hodge stood near and nodded his approval and satisfaction. "it's great, merry," he said, in approval. "it's something new, too. you will not have any trouble over this, the way you did about the sawmill scene." "i hope not." cassie lee, the little soubrette, who was engaged to havener, found an opportunity to get hold of frank's hand. she gave it a warm pressure. "i'm so glad!" she whispered, looking into his eyes. "if ross says it will go, you can bet it will! he knows his business. i've been waiting for him to express himself about it, and, now that he has, i feel better. you are right in it, frank! i think you are a dandy!" "thank you, cassie," smiled frank, looking down at her. and even though he liked cassie, who had always been his friend, he was thinking at that moment of another little girl who was far away, but whom he had once hoped would create the part in "true blue" that had been given to cassie. in the fourth act frank had skillfully handled the "fall" of the play, keeping all in suspense as he worked out the problem, one of the chief arts of successful play constructing. too often a play falls to pieces at once after the grand climax is reached, and the final act is obviously tacked on to lengthen it out. this one fault frank had worked hard to avoid, and he had succeeded with masterly skill, even introducing a new element of suspense into the final act. merry had noticed that, in these modern days, the audience sniffs the "and-lived-happy-forever-after" conclusion of a play from afar, and there was always a rustling to get hats and coats and cloaks some moments before the end of most plays. to avoid this, he determined to end his play suddenly and in an original manner. this he succeeded in doing in a comedy scene, but not until the last speech was delivered was the suspense entirely relieved. havener, who could not write a play to save his life, but who understood thoroughly the construction of a piece, and was a discriminating critic, was nearly as well pleased by the end of the piece as by the mechanical effect in the third act. "if this play does not make a big hit i shall call myself a chump," he declared. "i was afraid of it in its original form, but the changes have added to it the elements it needed to become immensely popular." when the rehearsal was over cassie lee found burns seated on a property stump behind the scenes, his face bowed on his hands, his attitude that of one in deep sorrow. "now, what's the matter with you?" she asked, not unkindly. "are you sick?" the old tragedian raised his sad face and spoke: "'join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, to make my end too sudden; learn good soul, to think our former state a happy dream; from which awaked, the truth of what we are shews to us but this: i am sworn brother, sweet, to grim necessity; and he and i will keep a league till death.'" there was something strangely impressive in the old man's words and manner, and the laugh she tried to force died on cassie's lips. "i s'pose that's shakespeare you are giving me," she said. "i don't go much on shake. he was all right in his day, but his day is past, and he won't go down with people in general now. the public wants something up to date, like this new play of merriwell's, for instance." "ah, yes," sighed burns; "i think you speak the truth. in these degenerate days the vulgar rabble must be fed with what it can understand. the rabble's meager intellects do not fathom the depths of the immortal poet's thoughts, but its eyes can behold a mechanical arrangement that represents a boat race, and i doubt not that the groundlings will whoop themselves hoarse over it." "that's the stuff!" nodded cassie. "that's what we want, for i rather reckon mr. merriwell is out for the dust." "the dust! ah, sordid mortals! all the world, to-day, seems 'out for the dust.'" "well, i rather think that's right. what do you want, anyway? if you have plenty to eat and drink and wear you're in luck." "'what is a man if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.'" "that's all right; but just think of the ones who can't get all they want to eat, and who are driven to work like dogs, day after day, without ever getting enough sleep to rest them." "ah, but few of them have hopes or aspirations. they are worms of the earth." "oh, i don't know! i reckon some of them are as good as anybody, but they're down on their luck. the world has gone against them." "but they have never climbed to the heights, only to slip back to the depths. then is when the world turns dark." the old tragedian bowed his head again, and, feeling that she could say nothing to cheer him up, cassie left him there. frank came in later, and had a talk with burns. the old man acknowledged that he believed the play would be a success, but he bemoaned his fate to be forced to play a part so repulsive to him. merry assured him that he would get over that in time, and succeeded in putting some spirit into the old fellow. chapter xiv. frank's new comedian. the day came for the great dress rehearsal of "true blue," to which the theatrical people of denver, the newspaper men, and a great number of prominent people had been invited. frank had determined on this course at great expense, but he believed he would be repaid for the outlay. his chief object was to secure good newspaper notices and recommendations from the theater managers in the city. it was to be an afternoon performance, so that it would not interfere with any of the regular theatrical attractions to play in town that night. early in the day hodge advised frank to keep a sharp watch on burns. "don't let him have any money, merry. he fancies he will have to go through a terrible ordeal this afternoon, and he wishes to brace up for it. if he gets all he wants to drink, he will be loaded to the muzzle when the time comes to play." frank feared this, and so, when burns appealed to him for money, he refused the old man, telling him he could have some after the performance. then merry set gallup to watch the tragedian. frank was at work in the theater, where various members of the company were practicing specialties, and the stage hands were arranging everything so that there would be no hitch about the performance. within thirty minutes after gallup was set to watch the old actor, he came to frank in a hurry, saying: "if you want to keep mr. burns sober, i advise yeou to come with me an' git him aout of a grog shop daown the street, merry." "what's that?" exclaimed frank. "why, he hasn't the money to buy liquor, even if he has gone into a saloon." "he won't hev to buy it, i guess." "why not?" "well, i saw two men pick him up an' take him inter the gin mill. they axed him would he come in an' have somethin' with them." "did he know them?" "didn't seem ter. he looked kainder s'prised, but he accepted the invite in a hurry." "then it is time that we looked after him," nodded merry, grimly. "show me where he has gone, ephraim." hodge followed them. they left the theater and hurried along the street to a saloon. "he went in here," said ephraim. without a word, frank entered. the moment merry was within the place he saw burns standing near the bar, while a crowd had gathered around him. the old man had placed his hat on the bar, tossed back his long, black hair, which was streaked with gray, struck a pose, and was just beginning to declaim from shakespeare. "go it, old chap!" cried a half-intoxicated man. "we'll put up the red eye for you as long as you will spout." the old man's voice rang out clear and strong. his pronunciation was perfect, and his enunciation clear and distinct. involuntarily merry paused a moment to listen. at that moment it came to frank that burns might, beyond a doubt, have been an actor of no small merit had he eschewed drink and followed his ambition with unswerving purpose. for the first time merry fully appreciated the outraged feelings of the old fellow who was compelled to burlesque the tragedian on the stage. frank strode forward into the crowd, followed by his friends. "burns," he said, quietly, interrupting the old man, "i want you to come with me." the aged actor stopped speaking, all the dignity seemed to melt from him in a moment, and he reached for his hat, murmuring: "i merely came in for one small bracer. i needed it, and the gentlemen were good enough to invite me." "here!" coarsely cried a man. "what's this mean? who's this that's comin' here to spoil our fun?" "throw the feller out!" cried another. growls of anger came from the others gathered about, and they crowded nearer. "look out for trouble!" whispered hodge, in frank's ear. "get out of here," ordered the first speaker, confronting merry. "we're bein' entertained." "i beg your pardon--gentlemen," said merry, smoothly, hesitating slightly before the final word. "there are reasons why i come here to take mr. burns with me. i am sorry to spoil your entertainment, but it is necessary." "is the old fellow bound out to you?" sneeringly, asked one. "do you own him?" "no man owns me!" cried the tragedian, drawing himself up and staring round. "i am my own master." "i'll bet you don't dare take another drink," said the man, quickly thrusting a brimming glass of whisky toward burns. "you're afraid of the young gent." "i'm afraid of nobody," declared burns, eagerly reaching for the glass. "i have drunk all i could get, and i always shall, for all of anybody." "that's the talk!" "down with it!" "take your medicine!" "you're the boy!" the crowd shouted its approval. burns lifted the glass. frank's hand fell gently on his arm. "mr. burns," he said, swiftly, "i ask you as a particular favor not to drink that liquor. i ask you as a gentleman not to do it." merry knew how to appeal to the old man in a manner that would touch the right spot. burns looked straight into frank's eyes an instant, and then he placed the glass on the bar. "if you ask me that way," he said, "ten thousand fiends cannot force me to touch the stuff!" there was a groan from the crowd. "the old duffer caves!" sneered one man. "he hasn't any backbone." "oh, say!" sibilated hodge, in merry's ear; "get him out of here in a hurry! i can't stand much of this! i feel like thumping a few of these ruffians." "steady!" cautioned frank. "we do not want to get into a barroom brawl if we can avoid it." "they're a purty darn tough-lookin' craowd," muttered ephraim. "why wouldn't it be a purty good thing fer ther young chaps all ter take a drink?" suggested somebody. "that's right!" cried the leader. "i'll stand for them all, and the actor shall drink with them." "don't let them git out, gents, till they've taken their bitters." the rough men hemmed them in. "i fear you are in an unfortunate predicament," said burns. "you will have to drink with them." "i never drink," said merry, quietly. "yer can't refuse here," declared the man who had offered to buy the drinks. "it's a mortal insult ter refuse ter drink hyar." "i never took a drink in my life, gentlemen," said merriwell, speaking calmly, and distinctly, "and i shall not begin now. you will have to excuse me." he started to force his way through the crowd. a hand reached out to clutch him, and he wheeled like a flash toward the man, at whom he pointed squarely, crying: "take off that false beard! if you are a man, show your face! you are in disguise! i believe you are a criminal who does not dare show his face!" his ringing words drew the attention of the crowd to the man whom he accused. merry improved the opportunity and hurried his friends and burns toward the door. before the gang was aware of it, they were out of the saloon, and frank breathed his relief. not till they had reached the theater did a thought come to frank that made him regret his hasty departure from the saloon. "heavens!" he exclaimed. "i believe the man who wore the false beard was the same one who entered my room at the hotel by means of the rope!" he dashed back to the saloon, followed by hodge and gallup; but when he reached the place nearly all the crowd had left, the man he sought having departed with the others. frank was disappointed. he learned at the saloon that the accused man had not removed the beard, but had sneaked out in a hurry after frank was gone. returning to the theater, merry was informed that burns was behaving strangely. "he seems to be doped," declared hodge. "i think he has been drugged." burns was in a dressing room, and havener was working to keep the man awake, although the old actor was begging to be allowed to sleep. as soon as frank saw him he dispatched one of the supers for a physician. the doctor came and gave burns a powerful emetic, following that with a dose of medicine that seemed to brace the man up. thus burns was pulled into shape for the afternoon performance, although frank realized that he had very nearly wrecked everything. burns remained in the theater, and lunch was brought him there. "mr. merriwell," he said, "i will surprise you by the manner in which i'll play my part this afternoon. it shall be burlesque of a kind that'll satisfy you." the performance was to begin at two o'clock. some time before that people began to arrive, and they came fast. at two o'clock there were nearly five hundred persons in the auditorium. the company was all made up and waiting behind the scenes. cassie lee started to find frank to ask him how he liked her make-up. in a corner behind the scenes she saw a man stopping near a mass of piled-up scenery. something about the man's appearance and his actions attracted her attention. she saw him pick up a can and pour some of the contents on the scenery. then he crouched down there, taking a match safe from his pocket. in a moment it dawned on cassie that the fellow was up to deviltry. he had saturated the scenery with oil, and he was about to set it on fire! cassie screamed, and frank merriwell, who was near at hand, heard her. he came bounding to the spot, just as the startled man lighted his match. "quick, frank!" cried cassie. "he's setting the scenery afire!" frank saw the fellow and leaped at him. the scenery flared up where the match had touched it. then the fire bug turned to run. merriwell was on him, had him, hurled him down. "no, you don't, you dog!" grated frank. "you shall pay for this dastardly trick!" cassie, with rare presence of mind, caught up a rug, which happened to be near, and beat out the fire before it had gained much headway. a terrible struggle was going on between frank and the man he had captured. the fellow was fighting with all his strength to hurry off and escape. "no, you don't!" came through merriwell's teeth. "i know you! you are the chap who entered my room! you it was who attempted to drug burns so that this performance would be ruined! and now you have made a fatal mistake by attempting to fire the theater. i have you, and i shall hold you. you will be safely lodged behind prison bars for this trick." "curse you!" panted the man. "that does not hurt me," said merry. "now, be quiet." he pinned the fellow to the floor and held him till others came up. then the man's hands were tied. "now, we'll have a look at him," said merry, rolling the captive over on his back and pulling the old hat from his head. then he gave a cry of amazement, staggering back. hodge was there, and he was no less astounded. gallup was speechless with astonishment and incredulity. "the dead alive!" cried frank. the man he had captured was the one he believed beneath the quicksands of big sandy river, leslie lawrence! "i'm not dead yet!" grated lawrence. "fowler went down in the quicksands, but i managed to float away. i hid under the river's bank, and there i stayed, like a hunted wolf, till you gave up looking for me. i swore to settle the score with you, but----" "you tried hard enough. you were the one who entered my room at the hotel." "was i? prove it." "i don't have to. the job you tried to do here is enough. that will put you safely away. somebody call an officer." an officer was called, and lawrence was taken away. the audience in front had heard some of the commotion behind the scenes and had grown rather restless, but they were soon calmed. an orchestra was on hand to play, and everything was carried out as if it had been a regular performance. the first act went off well, and it received mild applause. the second act seemed to take full better, but still, the audience had not been aroused to any great show of enthusiasm. then came the third act. the first surprise was burns. he literally convulsed the audience by the manner in which he burlesqued the shakespearian tragedian. he astonished frank, for merry had not dreamed the old actor could be so intensely funny. even hodge was seen to smile once! when burns came off after doing an exceptionally clever piece of work, which caused the audience to applaud most heartily, frank met him and grasped his hand, saying: "my dear mr. burns, you have made the comedy hit of the piece! your salary shall be fifty dollars a week, instead of forty." but william shakespeare burns burst into tears, sobbing brokenly: "the comedy hit of the piece! and i have broken my own heart!" it was impossible to cheer him up. the boat race followed swiftly, and it wrought the audience up to a high pitch of enthusiasm and excitement. when the curtain came down, there was a perfect shout of applause, such as an enthusiastic western audience alone can give. "frank merriwell! frank merriwell!" was the cry that went up from all parts of the house. frank was obliged to come before the curtain and make a speech, which he did gracefully and modestly. when he was behind the curtain again, havener had him by the hand, saying: "you will get some rousing press notices to-morrow, merriwell! this play will be the hit of your life!" a manager of one of the local theaters came behind the scenes and offered frank three thousand dollars for the piece. when frank declined, the man promptly made it five thousand, but even that sum was not accepted. then came the fourth act, in which burns again appeared as the burlesque tragedian. in this he was to repeat a parody on _hamlet's_ soliloquy, but, apparently, before he was aware of it, he began to give the soliloquy itself. in a moment the man had flung off the air of the clown. he straightened to his full height, his eyes gleamed with a strange fire, his chest heaved, and his voice sounded clear as the ring of steel. he electrified every person who heard him. with all the dramatic fire of a booth, he swung into the soliloquy, and a hush fell over the audience. he held them spellbound, he swayed them at his will, he thrilled them as never had they been thrilled. at that moment william shakespeare burns was the tragedian sublime, and it is probable that he reached such heights as he had never before attained. he finished. it was over, and then, realizing what he had done, he tottered off the stage. then the audience applauded long and loud, trying to call him back again; but behind the scenes he had fallen into frank merriwell's arms, faintly murmuring: "it is finished!" frank bore the man to a dressing room. the play went on to the end without a break, but it was not necessary for burns to enter again. when the curtain fell on the final act, havener came hurrying to merry: "burns wants to see you in the dressing room," he said. "you had better come at once." frank went there. the moment he saw the old actor, who was reclining on some rugs, his face ashen, his eyes looking dim and sunken still deeper into his head, frank said: "somebody go for a doctor at once!" he knelt beside the man, and the old actor murmured: "it is useless to go for a doctor. i heard you tell them, but it is--no use. i told you--my heart--was broken. i spoke the--truth. it broke my heart when i--had to--burlesque----" his words died out in his throat. "he's going!" somebody whispered, for the company was gathered around. there was a brief silence, and then the old man seemed to draw himself up with pride, as they had seen him do in life. "yes, sir," he said, distinctly, "my name is burns--william shakespeare burns--tragedian--at liberty." the old eyes closed, a faint sigh escaped his bloodless lips, and the old actor was "at liberty." chapter xv. a newspaper notice. "yesterday afternoon, through the courtesy of manager frank merriwell, an invited audience of at least five hundred persons witnessed the first performance of mr. merriwell's revised and rewritten play at the orpheum theater, and the verdict of that audience, which represented the highest and most cultured element of denver society, was that the sprightly, sensational, four-act comedy drama was a success in every way. the play, which is now named 'true blue,' was originally christened 'for old eli,' and, after a single performance, mr. merriwell withdrew it for the purpose of rewriting it, correcting certain faults he had discovered, and strengthening one or two weak points. as he wrote the piece, he was able to do this work of reconstruction quickly and thoroughly, and the result is a play of which he, as author, manager and star performer, may well be proud. the following is the cast: dick trueheart frank merriwell barry hattleman douglas dunton spruce downing rufus small crack hyerman bartley hodge reuben grass ephraim gallup manny sizzwell william wynne prof. gash roscoe havener edwin treadwell william shakespeare burns carius dubad granville garland spike dubad lester vance millie blossom miss cassie lee inez dalton miss stella stanley nancy noodle miss agnes kirk "college life is the principal theme of 'true blue,' and mr. merriwell, having studied at yale, is quite capable of catching the air and spirit of old eli, and reproducing it on the stage. this he has done with a deftness and fidelity that makes the play remarkable in its class, or, possibly with greater accuracy, lifts it out of its class, for, up to the production of this piece, all college plays have been feeble attempts to catch the spirit of the life they represent, or have descended into the realm of farce or burlesque. "while the author of 'true blue' has written a play to suit the popular fancy, he has not considered it necessary to write down to the general public, and, for all of the college slang, which of a necessity is used by several of the characters, there is nothing offensive in the entire piece--nothing to shock the sensibilties of the most refined. the comedy in places is a trifle boisterous, but that was to be expected, and it does not descend to mere buffoonery. it is the kind of comedy at which the spectator must laugh, even though he may resolve that he will not, and, when it is all over, he feels better for his laughter, instead of feeling foolish, as he does in many cases after witnessing other 'popular plays.' "the pathos strikes the right chord, and the strongest situations and climaxes are stirring enough to thrill the most sluggish blood. in some respects the story of the play is rather conventional, but it is handled in a manner that makes it seem almost new. through the four acts _dick trueheart_, the hero, is pursued by his enemies, _carius dubad_, and his, worthy son, _spike_, and on various occasions they succeed in making things extremely unpleasant for the popular young athlete. "through two acts the villains pursue the hero, keeping the audience on the _qui vive_. "the climax of the third act was the great sensational feature of the play. in this act _dick_ escapes from his enemies and all sorts of crafty snares, and is barely in time to take his place in the yale boat, which is to race against harvard and cornell. _carius dubad_ has appeared on the scene, and, at the last moment, in order to break _dick's_ spirit, he reveals that _dick's_ guardian has squandered his fortune, so that the hero is penniless and will be forced to leave college. for all of this revelation, _trueheart_ enters the boat and aids in winning the race against harvard and cornell, greatly to the discomfiture of the villainous father and son, who have bet heavily against yale. of course, mr. merriwell made yale win in his play. the mechanism that showed the boat race on the distant river, the moving observation train, the swaying crowds with waving flags, hats, and handkerchiefs, was truly a most wonderful arrangement, and it filled the spectators with admiration and astonishment. a quick 'dark shift' followed, and then the boats actually appeared, with yale the winner, and _trueheart_ was brought onto the stage in the arms of his admiring fellow collegians, while the curtain descended amid a burst of genuine enthusiastic applause such as is seldom heard in any theater. mr. merriwell was called before the curtain, and he made a brief speech, which seemed modest and characteristic of this young actor and playwright, who is certain to follow a brilliant career on the american stage. "in the final act the hero was in straitened circumstances, but all ends well, with the discomfiture of old _dubad_ and his worthy son, and the final settlement of all jealousies between the other characters. "not only as author of the play, but as the star does frank merriwell merit a full meed of credit and praise. although he is young and impulsive, and his acting might not meet the approval of certain critics, there was a breeziness and freshness about him that captivated and carried the audience. it is said that he has never attended a school of acting, and this may readily be believed, for there is nothing affected, nothing stiff, nothing stilted and mechanical about his work on the stage. in his case, at least, it has been greatly to his advantage not to attend a dramatic school. he is a born actor, and he must work out his own methods without being hampered by convention and instruction from those who believe in doing everything by rule. he is a handsome young man, and his stage presence is both striking and effective. worthy of note was it that he enunciated every word distinctly and pronounced it correctly, in great contrast to many other stars, who sometimes mangle speech in a most distressing manner. he has a voice that seems in perfect keeping with his splendid figure, being clear as a mellow bell, full of force, and delightful to hear. "the work of douglas dunton as _barry hattleman_ was good. mr. small, who is a very large man, faithfully portrayed _spruce downing_, the lazy student. _crack hyerman_, the hot-blooded southerner, as represented by bartley hodge, who made the southerner a thorough fire-eater, who would fight for his 'honor' at the drop of the hat. as _reuben grass_, ephraim gallup literally convulsed the audience. without doubt his delineation of the down-east yankee was the best ever seen in denver. "miss cassie lee played the sweet and winsome _millie blossom_, and her singing and dancing met approval. the _inez dalton_ of miss stanley was handled with great skill, and she was jealous, passionate, resentful, and loving in turn, and in a manner that seemed true to life. as _nancy noodle_, an old maid in love with _prof. gash_, miss agnes kirk was acceptable. "and now comes the duty of mentioning a man who was the surprise of the evening. his name was given on the program as william shakespeare burns, and, as he represented a burlesque tragedian, it was supposed that the name was assumed. it has been learned, however, that this is the name by which he was known in real life. mr. burns first appeared in the second act, and as _edwin treadwell_, the frayed, back-number tragedian, he literally caused many of the audience to choke in the effort to repress their uncontrollable laughter. at the close of the third act, a local theatrical man declared that w. s. burns far excelled as a comedian anybody he had ever seen essay a similar part. but the sensation came in the fourth act, when the actor started to parody _hamlet's_ soliloquy, but seemed to forget himself and the parody together, and swung into the original william shakespeare. the laughter died out, the audience sat spellbound, scarcely breathing. the eyes of every person were fixed on the actor, who went through the soliloquy to the end, giving it with all the power of a forrest or a booth. as the actor retired, the audience awoke, realized it had seen and heard a man who was no clown, but a real tragedian, and the applause was long and loud. "william shakespeare burns did not appear again on the stage of that theater; he will not appear again on any stage. he is dead! but few particulars have been learned about him, but it seems that this was his first attempt to play comedy--and his last. he regarded himself as the equal of any interpreter of shakespeare, living or dead, but misfortune and his own weakness had never permitted him to rise to the heights to which he aspired. grim necessity had compelled him to accept mr. merriwell's offer to play in 'true blue' the part of the burlesque tragedian. his heart and soul had rebelled against doing so, and often at rehearsals he had wept with mortification after going through with his part. his body was weakened by privation. he declared last night that his heart was broken. a few minutes after leaving the stage the last time he expired in one of the dressing rooms of the theater. thus ended a life that might have been a grand success but for the failings of weak human nature. "mr. merriwell will go on the road at once with 'true blue.' he has engaged a competent man to fill the place made vacant by the death of mr. burns. his route for some little time is booked, and he leaves denver to-day for puelbo, where he opens to-morrow. the play, the star, and the company merit success, and we hope mr. merriwell will find it convenient to play a regular engagement in this city before long. it is certain, if he does, he will be greeted by packed houses."--_denver herald and advertiser._ * * * * * all the denver papers contained notices of the performance, but the one quoted was the longest and the most elaborate. not one of the notices was unfavorable. they were enough to make the heart of any manager glad, and it was not strange that frank felt well satisfied. but he was inexpressibly saddened by the sudden and tragic death of william burns, for he had recognized the genius in the old actor, who had been dragged down from a highroad to prosperity and fame by the hands of the relentless demon that has destroyed so many men of genius, drink. on account of his bookings, frank could not remain in denver to attend the funeral of the veteran tragedian, but he resolved that burns should be buried with all honors, and he made arrangements for a suitable funeral. of course, the papers announced the funeral, and, the story of burns' remarkable death having become familiar to all, the church was packed to the doors. the man whose wretched life had promised a wretched death and a nameless grave was buried without pomp, but with such honors as might have been given to one well known and highly esteemed. above his grave a modest marble was placed, and chiseled on it was a single line from the "immortal bard," whom he loved and understood and interpreted with the faithfulness and fire of genius: "after life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." and every expense frank merriwell provided for. nothing was neglected; everything was done that good taste and a good heart demanded. chapter xvi. the veiled woman. as may be understood, the members of frank's company were individually and collectively delighted with the apparent success of the play and their efforts. perhaps agnes kirk was the only one who complained. she was not at all pleased by the notices she obtained. frank immediately secured a supply of denver papers and, marking the notices, mailed them to the managers of theaters and the editors of papers along the route "true blue" was to follow. then he had typewritten copies made of extracts from these notices, which he added to his collection of press notices already manufactured for advertising purposes, and sent them on to his advance agent, who had been out on the road several days. frank knew how to work every point to the best advantage, and he did not lose anything. he was tireless in his efforts, and it was wonderful what an immense amount of work he accomplished. no one knows how much he can do till he makes the test. hodge aided him as far as possible, and frank found bart a valuable assistant. hodge was fully as eager as merriwell for the play to be a great success. frank had opened with the piece under its original name in puelbo, and it had met disaster there. he vowed that he would return to that place with the play and make a success of his engagement. he engaged the leading theater in the city for three nights, being obliged to pay in advance for it, as the manager had no confidence in the revised play. frank had been working the papers of the city. one of them was edited by a remarkably genial gentleman by the name of osgood, and this editor had seen in the original play material for a strong piece. he admired merry's pluck in opening the second time in that city, and he literally opened the columns of his paper to frank, who telegraphed down extracts from the denver papers as soon as the notices appeared. the house in puelbo was to be well "papered" the first night, but was to depend entirely on the drawing qualities of the play for the audience on the following two nights. frank was making a great hustle to get away from denver, and he was returning from the theater to his hotel, after seeing the last of the special scenery moved to the railroad station, when a heavily veiled woman stopped directly in his path. as he was walking hastily, he nearly ran against her. "i beg your pardon, madam!" exclaimed frank, lifting his hat. "very awkward of me." "not at all," she said, in a low voice, that was not unpleasant nor unmusical. "you were hurrying, and i stopped directly in your way. i am the one who should beg to be excused." "not at all," he hastened to say. "i assure you that it was entirely on account of my awkwardness." he was about to pass on, but her gloved hand fell on his arm, and she said: "i wish to speak with you, mr. merriwell." "you know me?" exclaimed frank, surprised. "indeed, i do. why should i not? all denver knows you to-day." "am i so famous as that?" smiled merry. "i fear you flatter, madam." "it is not flattery. you must not doubt my sincerity." "very well, i will not; but you must speak hastily, for i have a train to catch in an hour and thirty minutes, and i haven't too much time to attend to all i have to do." "but you must give me a little of your time--you really must," she said, persuasively, putting her hand on his arm again. "if you will come with me--please do!" "where?" "oh, i know a nice, quiet place, where we can talk." somehow frank did not like her words or manner. a feeling that there was something wrong about her came over him. "really, you must excuse me," he said. "i have not the time to go anywhere to talk. if you have anything to say to me, you can say it here." "now, don't be obstinate. you'll not regret it if you come." "but i do not even know who you are. that veil----" "if you come, i may remove the veil," she murmured. frank drew back, so that her hand fell from his arm. "madam," he said, "you have placed me in a very awkward position. i do not like to appear rude to a lady, but----" "of course you do not, and so you will grant my request. it is a small matter." "but not to me, for my time is valuable just now. i am ready to hear anything you have to say, but you must say it here." "would you keep a lady standing on the street?" she exclaimed, with a slight show of resentment. "i cannot say all i have to tell you in a minute." "and i have explained that i cannot spare time to talk over anything for more than a few moments. i think you will have to excuse me. good-day." he lifted his hat and started to pass on, but again she placed herself squarely in front of him, to his great annoyance. "mr. merriwell," she said, "i have seen you on the stage, and i admire you greatly. you will not be rude to one of your admirers, i know. you are far too gallant for that." it was plain she sought to cajole him by flattery, and that was the surest way to repulse him. "is it possible she is one of those foolish women who fall in love with actors?" frank asked himself. somehow she did not seem like that. there was nothing of the giddy, gushing girl about her. he could not see her face, but her figure was that of a matured woman, and he judged that she must be twenty-five years old, at least. it seemed, too, that there was a purpose in her words and movements. but frank resolved on action, for he had found that it was useless to waste words talking to her. he made a quick move to one side and passed her, intending to hasten away. barely had he done so when she flung her arms about his neck and screamed loudly! frank was astounded by this unexpected move of the veiled woman. "she's crazy!" that was the thought that flashed through merry's mind. he realized that he was in an awkward predicament, and he attempted to whirl about. the woman was very strong, and, having taken him by surprise, she nearly threw him down. to save himself, he caught hold of her. "help!" she cried. some men came running up. "madam," said frank, hurriedly, "are you demented? what is the meaning of this?" "you wretch!" she blazed. "oh, you cowardly scoundrel, to assault a lady on the public street in broad daylight!" "surely you are----" "i saw him do it!" declared a little man, with red whiskers. "i saw him assault you, madam." "call an officer!" palpitated the woman. "quick, before he gets away!" "he shall not get away," declared a big man with a crooked eye, glowering at frank. "if he tries it, i'll attend to him!" "looks like a would-be masher," piped a slim man, with a very long neck, ducking and nodding his head in an odd manner. "he should be taught a lesson." one or two others expressed themselves in a similar manner. frank had thought of making a break and hastening away, but now he saw it would not do, for he would have a howling mob at his heels the instant he attempted such a move. he realized it would seem cowardly to run away in such a manner, and would look like a confession of guilt, which caused him to decide to stay and face it out, even though the predicament was most embarrassing. "gentlemen," he said, looking squarely at them, and seeming to pay very little attention to the mysterious woman, even though he was perfectly on his guard, not knowing what move she might make next, "i trust you will give me a chance to explain what has happened." "explain it in the police court," growled the big man with a crooked eye. "that's the proper place for you to make your explanations." "the judge will listen to you," cried the slim man, his head bobbing on his long neck, like the head of a crane that is walking along the edge of a marsh. "don't attempt to escape by means of falsehoods, you rascal!" almost shouted the little man with the red whiskers, bristling up in a savage manner, but dodging back the moment frank turned on him. "gentlemen, i have been insulted by this fellow!" came from behind the baffling veil worn by the woman. "he is a low wretch, who attacked me in a most brutal manner." "we will see that you are protected, madam," assured the little man, his red whiskers seeming to bristle like porcupine quills, as he dodged round frank and placed himself on the opposite side of the veiled unknown. "madam," he repeated, "i will see that you are protected--i will!" "you are very kind," she fluttered; "but where is the officer? the reaction--the shock--the weakness!" "permit me to offer you any assistance possible," gallantly spoke a man in a sack coat and a silk hat, stepping forward and raising the latter piece of wearing apparel, thereby disclosing a shining bald spot on the top of his head, which he covered as quickly as possible, evidently hoping it had escaped the woman's notice. "you are in a city, my dear lady, where insults to the fair sex never go unpunished." he attempted to smile on her in a pleasant manner, but there was a sort of leer in his eyes and around his sensual mouth that betrayed his true character plainly enough. the woman did not accept his arm which was half tendered, but she made a great show of agitation and distress, which affected the various witnesses. "it's a shame!" piped the man with the long neck and the bobbing head. "it's an outrage!" blustered the little man with the bristling whiskers and savage manner. "it's most unfortunate!" murmured the gallant man with the silk hat and sack coat. "it's a bad break for mr. masher!" ejaculated the big man with the crooked eye and glowering look. frank smiled; he could not help it, for he was impressed by the comedy of the affair, despite the unpleasantness of the situation he was in at that moment. "this would be good stuff for a scene in a play," he thought, and he made a mental note of it. then he turned to the woman. "madam," he said, "what have i ever done to you that you should attempt to injure me in this manner?" "don't let him speak to me, the scoundrel!" she entreated, appealing to the men. "but it is no more than fair that you should answer me," persisted merry. "i do not know you; i have not even seen your face. will you not lift your veil and permit me to see your face, so that i may know who has brought me into this unpleasant position?" "he adds to his insults by requesting me to expose my identity on the street after such an affair as this!" she almost sobbed. "he would disgrace me! he would have my name in all the newspapers!" "reprehensible!" purred the gallant man. "terrible!" cackled the man with the bobbing head. "dastardly!" exploded the individual with the red whiskers. "criminal!" grated the giant with the crooked eye. and they all glared at frank--at least all of them but the one with the crooked eye. it is possible that he, also, glared at the supposed offender, but he seemed to be glaring at a white horse on the opposite side of the street. repressing his laughter with difficulty, merry said: "i assure you, gentlemen, i never saw this lady, to my knowledge, before a few minutes ago, when she stopped me on the street, and----" again the woman screamed. "will you listen to his base falsehoods?" she cried, with a show of the greatest indignation and distress. "he is trying to disgrace me still further by asserting that i stopped him on the street--stopped him! as if a lady would do such a thing!" "the idea!" squawked the man with the long neck, his head seeming to bob faster than ever, as if it sought to express by its excited movements the indignant emotions his tongue could not utter. "my dear lady, i would not remain here to be thus insulted," declared the gallant man, bending toward her, and endeavoring to summon a look of concern to his treacherous countenance. "he should be placed in irons!" blurted the fierce-appearing little man, his red whiskers seeming to work and squirm with intense excitement and anger. "he ought to have his head broken!" roared the big man, his crooked eye still seeming to glare at the white horse in a most terrible and awesome manner. others of the assembled crowd murmured to themselves in a most indignant manner, all seeming to regard frank as the offender. frank took out his watch and looked at it. "gracious!" he mentally exclaimed, "time is flying. if this keeps up much longer, i'll not reach puelbo to-day." "now he shows his anxiety and concern," said a voice in the crowd. "he's beginning to be frightened," said another voice. "he's anxious to get away," said a third. "but he can't get away," said a fourth. "this is all very interesting," thought frank; "but it is decidedly unpleasant." "waal, whut in time's sake is goin' on here, i'd like ter know?" cried a voice that was familiar to frank, and a tall, lank, countrified-appearing youth came up to the outskirts of the crowd, stood on his tiptoes, and peered over. it was ephraim gallup, and he saw frank. "waal, darned if it ain't----" merry made a swift movement, clapping a finger to his lips, and gallup, usually rather slow to tumble to anything, understood him at once, relapsing into silence. "let me git in here where i kin see the fun," he said, and he elbowed the people aside as he forced his way through the crowd. it did not take him long to reach the center of the throng, although a number of persons were indignant at his manner of thrusting them aside or stepping on their feet. "whut's up?" he asked. "ef there's anything goin' on, i kainder want to see it." "this young masher has insulted this lady!" explained the man with the bobbing head. "sho!" exclaimed gallup. "yeou don't say so, mister! waal, i am s'prised!" "he has treated her in an outrageous manner!" added the man with the agitated and fiery whiskers. "i do declare!" ejaculated ephraim. "i'd never thought it of him, by thutter!" "the lady requires protection," declared the gallant man with the mismated wearing apparel. "yeou don't tell me!" gasped the vermonter, his surprise seeming to increase. "ain't it awful!" "but the fellow needs a lesson!" rasped the man with the eye that persisted in looking in the wrong direction. "i think i'll hit him once or twice." "my gracious!" fluttered gallup. "hev ye gotter hit him real hard? don't yeou s'pose he might hit back?" "let him try it!" came fiercely from the giant. "be yeou goin' to hit where ye're lookin'?" asked the country youth. "cause ef yeou be, i'd advise that man with the wart on his nose to move." at this the man who owned the wart dodged with a suddenness that provoked a titter of laughter from several witnesses. ephraim was adding to the comedy of the affair, and frank bit his lips to keep from laughing outright, despite his annoyance over being thus detained. the big man with the crooked eye flourished his fists in the air in a most belligerent fashion, and instantly merriwell gazed at him sternly, saying: "be careful, sir! you are imperiling the lives of everyone near you, and you may strain yourself." "that's right, by gum!" nodded gallup, whimsically. "yeou may warp one of them air arms, flingin' it araound so gol-darn permiscuous like." "here comes an officer!" somebody uttered the cry. "it is high time!" exclaimed the little man, trying to soothe his agitated whiskers by pulling at them. "it surely is," croaked the lank individual, his head bobbing with renewed excitement. "madam, the law will give you redress," bowed the gallant man, again taking off his silk hat and again clapping it on suddenly, as if a breath of cool air on his shining pate had warned him of the exposure he was making. "oh, why didn't the officer stay away a minute longer, so i might have thumped him!" regretfully grunted the fighting man with the misdirected eye. the policeman came up and forced his way through the crowd, demanding: "what does this mean? what is happening here?" "a lady is in trouble," the bobbing man hastened to explain. "in serious trouble," chirped the bewhiskered man. "she has been insulted," declared the gallant man. "by a masher," finished the man with the errant eye. "where is the lady?" asked the officer. "there!" all bowed politely toward the masked woman. "where is the masher?" was the next question. "there!" their scornful fingers were leveled straight at frank merriwell. chapter xvii. arrested. "oh, sir!" exclaimed the woman, "i beg you to protect me from his insults!" the officer was a gallant fellow. he touched his hat and bowed with extreme politeness. then he frowned on merry, and that frown was terrible to behold. he gripped frank by the collar, gruffly saying: "you'll have to come with me." merry knew it was useless to attempt to explain under such circumstances. every one of the assembled crowd would be a witness against him. "very well," he said, quietly. "i am quite willing to do so. please do not twist my necktie off." "don't worry about your necktie!" advised the policeman, giving it a still harder twist. "i know how to deal with chaps of your caliber." now of a sudden ephraim gallup began to grow angry. he did not fancy seeing his idol treated in such a manner, and his fists were clenched, while he glared at the officer as if contemplating hitting that worthy. "it's a gol-dern shame!" he grated. "this jest makes my blood bile!" "i don't wonder a bit," piped the long-necked man, misunderstanding the vermonter; "but the officer will take care of him now. he'll get what he deserves." "oh, will he!" exploded gallup. "waal, ef i was yeou, i'd hire myself aout to some dime museum as the human bobber. yeou teeter jest like a certun bird that i won't name." "wh--a--at?" squealed the individual addressed, in great excitement. "this to me! why, i'll----" "i wish ter great goshfrey yeou would!" hissed ephraim, glaring at him. "i'd jest like to hev yeou try it! i'd give yeou a jolt that'd knock yeou clean inter the middle of next week!" "why, who is this fellow that seeks to create a disturbance?" blustered the little man, his fiery whiskers beginning to bristle and squirm again. "he should be sat upon." the country youth turned on him. "i wish yeou'd tackle the job, yeou condemned little red-whiskered runt;" he shot at the blusterer with such suddenness that the little man staggered back and put up his hands, as if he had been struck. "yeou are another meddler! i'd eat yeou, an' i'd never know i'd hed a bite!" "this is very unfortunate, madam," purred the gallant man at the veiled woman's side. "i am extremely sorry that you have had such an unpleasant experience. now, if that creature----" he designated ephraim by the final word, and gallup cut him short right there. "yeou're the cheapest one of the hull lot, old oil-smirk!" he flung at the speaker. "such fellers as yeou are more dangerous to real ladies than all the young mashers goin', fer yeou are a hypocrite who pretends to be virtuous." the man gasped and tried to say something, but seemed stricken speechless. now the cock-eyed man was aroused once more. he seemed on the point of making a swing at somebody or something. he pushed his face up close to ephraim, but still his rebellious eye seemed looking in quite another direction. "if you want any trouble here," he said, hoarsely, "i'll attend to you. i can do that very well." ephraim looked at him, began to smile, broke into a grin, and burst into a shout of laughter. "haw! haw! haw!" he roared. "i couldn't fight with yeou ef i wanted to, fer i'd think yeou didn't mean me all the time, but that yeou really ought to be fightin' with some other feller yeou was lookin' at. yeou're the funniest toad in the hull puddle!" "i'll arrest the whole lot of you!" threatened the policeman. "quit that business! come along to the police station if you want to make any complaints." then he turned to the woman, saying: "madam, i presume you will make a complaint against this fellow," indicating frank. "i certainly shall," she promptly answered; "for it is my duty to teach him a lesson." "will you come to the station?" "yes." "permit me to accompany you," urged the gallant man. "you are very kind," she said; "but i think i can get along. i will follow at a distance." "all right," nodded the officer, once more gripping merriwell's collar savagely. "march, sir!" and then they started toward the station. the bobbing man, the little man, the cock-eyed man, and the gallant man formed behind. then the crowd fell in, and away they went, with the mysterious veiled woman following at a distance. ephraim placed himself at frank's side. "this is a gol-darn outrage!" fumed the vermonter, speaking to merry. "whut be yeou goin' to do abaout it?" "i shall have to do the best i can," answered the unfortunate youth, quietly. "but yeou won't be able to start for puelbo with the rest of the people." "it doesn't look that way now." "that's tough!" "it is decidedly unfortunate, but i hope to get off in time to join the company before the first performance to-morrow night." "haow did it happen?" "i hardly know. the woman stopped me and insisted that i should go somewhere to talk with her. i explained that my time was limited, but that seemed to make no impression on her. when i tried to get away she flung her arms around me and screamed. that brought a crowd together, and then she declared i had assaulted her." the policeman on the other side of frank laughed in ridicule. although he said nothing, it was plain he took no stock in frank's story. "larf!" grated gallup, under his breath. "yeou think yeou know so gol-darned much that----" "hush!" warned frank. "i do not wish you to get into trouble. you must inform the others what has happened to me." "it's purty gol-darn hard to keep still," declared ephraim. "i never see sich a set of natteral born fools in all my life! how many of the craowd saw what happened 'tween yeou an' the woman?" "no one, i think." "an' i'll bet a squash they'll all go up an' swear to any kind of a story she'll tell. who is she?" "i don't know." "that's queer. wut was her little game?" "don't know that." "by gum! it's some kind of a put-up job!" "i have a fancy there is something more than appears on the surface. it is an attempt to make trouble for me." "that's right." "i hope to see the woman's face at the police station." "yeou won't!" "why not?" "she won't show it." "perhaps the judge will request her to lift her veil." "not by a gol-darned sight! men are too big fools over women. they'll take any old thing she'll say abaout yeou, an' lock yeou up fer it. she'll give some kind of name and address, an' they'll let her go at that." "well, unless i can get bail right away i shall be in a bad fix. if kent carson were in town he would pull me out of it, as he did before." the officer pricked up his ears. "ha!" he exclaimed. "then you have been arrested in denver before? this is a second offense! i rather think you'll not get off as easy as you did the first time." "oh, yeou are enough to----" "ephraim!" with that word frank cut gallup short. in a short time they approached the police station. "i have been here before," said merry, quietly. "this is the station to which i was taken when leslie lawrence made his false charge against me." entering, he was taken before the desk of the sergeant, the bobbing man, the little man, the cock-eyed man, and the gallant man following closely, while others also came in. the sergeant looked up. "ah, brandon," he said to the officer, "another one?" "yes, sir," answered the policeman. "what is the charge?" "insulting a lady on the street." "who was the lady?" "she is coming. she will be here directly to make the complaint against him." then the sergeant took a good look at the accused. he started, bent forward, and looked closer. "mr. merriwell!" he exclaimed; "is it you?" "yes, sergeant," bowed frank, with a smile. "it seems to be my luck to cause you trouble once more." "trouble!" ejaculated the man behind the desk. "why, this is very surprising! and you are accused of insulting a lady?" "i am," was the quiet answer. "well! well! well! it hardly seems possible. i fail to understand why you should do such a thing. it was very kind of you to send me tickets for your performance yesterday, and i was fortunate to be able to attend. i was greatly pleased, both with your play and yourself, to say nothing of your supporting company. i see the papers have given you a great send-off, but it is no better than you merit." "thank you, sir," said frank, simply. the policeman began to look disturbed, while the bobbing man, the little man, the gallant man, and the cock-eyed man all stared at frank and the sergeant in surprise. "you seem to recognize the offender, sir," said the officer who had arrested frank. "i recognize the gentleman, brandon," said the sergeant, putting particular emphasis on the word "gentleman." "he said he had been arrested before." "he was, on a trumped-up charge, and he was promptly dismissed by me." the officer looked still more disturbed. "but this is no trumped-up charge," he declared. "i have witnesses." "where are they?" "here." he motioned toward the men, who had followed closely on entering the station, whereupon the little man drew himself up stiffly, as if he imagined he must be six feet tall, at least; the bobbing man bobbed in a reckless manner, as if he had quite lost control of himself; the gallant man lifted his hat and mopped the shiny spot on the top of his head with a silk handkerchief, attempting to appear perfectly at ease; and the cock-eyed man made a desperate attempt to look the sergeant straight in the eye, but came no nearer than the upper corner of the station window, which was several yards away to the left. "and where is the lady who makes the charge?" demanded the man behind the desk. where, indeed! it was time for her to appear, but all looked for her in vain. "she must be here directly," said the sergeant, "if she is coming at all." "oh, she is coming!" hastily answered the officer. "she may be waiting outside, hesitating about coming in," said the sergeant. "you may go out and bring her in, brandon." the policeman hesitated an instant, as if he feared to leave frank. "it is all right," asserted the sergeant. "i will guarantee that mr. merriwell is quite safe." then brandon hurried out. "i believe you are going on the road with your play, mr. merriwell?" said the sergeant, in a most friendly and affable manner. "i am," answered frank, "if i succeed in getting started." "how is that?" "well," smiled merry, "i was due to take a train in one hour and thirty minutes when i was accosted by the unknown woman whom it is said i insulted. i hardly think i shall be able to catch that train now." the sergeant looked at his watch. "how much time have you now?" he asked. frank consulted his timepiece. "just forty-one minutes," he said. "will you kindly tell me what occurred on the street?" invited the sergeant. "but wait--first i wish to know who witnessed this assault." there was some hesitation as the official behind the desk looked the assembled crowd over. "come," he cried, sharply. "who knows anything about this affair?" "i do," asserted the man with the cock-eye, summoning courage to step forward a bit. "and here are others." "which ones?" "him, and him, and him," answered the crooked-eyed man, jabbing a pudgy and none too clean forefinger at the gallant man, the little man, and the bobbing man, although he seemed to look at three entirely different persons from those he named. the gallant man was perspiring, and looked as if he longed to escape. he also seemed anxious over the non-appearance of the veiled lady. the bobbing man took a step backward, but somebody pushed him from behind, and he bobbed himself nearly double. the little man tugged at his fluttering whiskers, looking to the right and left, as if thinking of dodging and attempting to escape in a hurry. "and these are the witnesses?" said the sergeant, his eyes seeming to pierce them through and through. "their testimony against you shall be carefully heard, mr. merriwell, and it will be well for them to be careful about giving it." "if i understand what is proper," said the cock-eyed man, who seemed the only one who dared speak outright, "this is not the court, and you are not the judge." but he subsided before the piercing eyes of the sergeant, so that his final words were scarcely more than a gurgle in his throat. "now, mr. merriwell," said the sergeant, "i will listen to your story. officer at the door, take care that none of the witnesses depart until they are given permission." frank told his story briefly, concisely, and convincingly. barely had he finished when the officer who made the arrest came in, looking crestfallen and disgusted. "where is the lady, brandon?" asked the sergeant. "i can't find her, sir," confessed the policeman. "she is nowhere in the vicinity." "then it seems you have been very careless in permitting her to slip away. now there is no one to make a charge against the prisoner." "the witnesses--perhaps some of them will do so." the sergeant turned sharply on the little man, to whom he fired the question: "did you witness this assault on the unknown lady, sir?" the little man jumped. "no, sus-sus-sir," he stammered; "but i----" "that will do!" came sternly from the man behind the desk. "step aside." the little man did so with alacrity, plainly relieved. then the sergeant came at the gallant man with the same question: "did you witness the assault on the lady, sir?" "i was not present when it took place, but i----" "that will do! step aside." the gallant man closed up and stepped. next the bobbing man was questioned: "did you witness the assault on the lady, sir?" "i arrived just after it was committed, but i can tell you----" "nothing! that will do! step aside." the cock-eyed man folded his arms across his breast and glared fiercely at the window, which seemed to offend him. "you are next." said the sergeant. "what did you see?" "i saw quite enough to convince me that the assault had been committed before i reached the spot, but----" "another 'but.' 'but me no buts.' there seems to be no one present who witnessed the assault, and so no one can prefer a charge against mr. merriwell. mr. merriwell, you have now exactly thirty minutes in which to catch your train. don't stop to say a word, but git up and git. you are at liberty." and frank took the sergeant's advice, followed closely by ephraim. chapter xviii. at the last moment. frank merriwell's company had gathered at the railway station to take the train for puelbo. all but merriwell and gallup were on hand. havener had purchased the tickets. hodge restlessly paced up and down the platform, his face dark and disturbed. there were inquiries for frank. stella stanley came to havener and asked: "where is mr. merriwell?" "i do not know," confessed the stage manager, who had been deputized for the occasion by frank to look out for tickets, and make necessary arrangements. "he hasn't come?" "no; but he'll be here before the train pulls out. you know he has a way of always appearing on time." hodge stopped in his walk, and stared at havener. "i'd like to know when he left the hotel," said bart. "i called for him several times before coming here, but each time i found he was not in his room, and no one knew anything about him. his bill was not settled, either." "but his baggage came down with the others," said havener. "because the hotel people permitted it, as he was vouched for by mr. carson, who seems to be well known to everybody in this city." "you don't suppose anything has happened to detain him, do you?" anxiously asked the actress. "i do hope we shall not make another bad start, same as we did before. agnes kirk says she knows something will happen, for mr. merriwell gave away the cat mascot." "agnes kirk is forever prophesying something dismal," said hodge. "she's a regular croaker. if she didn't have something to croak about, she wouldn't know what to do. she declared the cat a hoodoo in the first place, but now she says we'll have bad luck because frank let it go. she makes me a trifle weary!" hodge was not in a pleasant humor. granville garland and lester vance came up. "it's almost train time," said garland. "where is our energetic young manager?" "he will be along," havener again asserted. "i hope so," said vance. "i sincerely hope this second venture will not prove such a miserable fizzle as the first one. everything depends on frank merriwell." "something depends on you!" flashed hodge, who seemed easily nettled. "frank merriwell's company did all it could to make the first venture a fizzle. now they should do all they can to make this one a success." "hello, thundercloud is lowering!" exclaimed garland. "save your epithets!" exclaimed bart. "my name is hodge." "my dear hodge," said garland, with mock politeness, "you must know it is but natural that we should feel a bit anxious." "i may feel as anxious as any of you, but i do not go round croaking about it." "but our first failure----" "there it is again! i'm tired of hearing about that! you and vance are dead lucky to be in this second company, for you both joined in the attempted assault on merriwell when folansbee skipped, and the company seemed to be stranded in puelbo. if i'd been frank merriwell i'd sent you flying, and you can bet i would not have taken you back." "then it's fortunate for us that you were not frank merriwell," garland sneered. "it is," agreed hodge. "some people do not know when they are treated well." "that will do!" came sharply from havener. "this is no time to quarrel. by jove! it's time for that train, and merriwell's not here." "perhaps he's backed out at the last minute and decided not to take the play out," said vance. "it may be that his courage has failed him." "now that kind of talk makes me sick!" exploded hodge. "if you had any sense you wouldn't make it!" "i like that!" snapped vance, his face flushing. "i'm glad you do!" flung back bart. "didn't think you would. hoped you wouldn't. only a fool would suppose that, after all this trouble and expense, any man with an ounce of brains in his head would back out without giving a single performance of the play." "well, where is merriwell?" again havener declared: "he'll be here." "but here comes the train!" the train was coming. there was activity and bustle at the station. the platform was alive with moving human beings. agnes kirk and cassie lee came out of the ladies' waiting room. the male members of the company got together quickly. "he has not come!" exclaimed agnes kirk, her keen eyes failing to discover frank. "i feared it! i knew it!" hodge half turned away, grumbling something deep in his throat. the actors looked at each other in doubt and dismay. with a rush and a roar the train came in, and drew up at the station. passengers began to get off. a heavily veiled woman in black came out of the ladies' room, and started for the train. as she passed the group of actors some of their conversation seemed to attract her notice. she paused an instant and looked them over, and then she turned toward the steps of a car. "excuse me, madam," said hodge, quickly. "you have dropped your handkerchief." he picked it up and passed it to her. as he did so, he noticed the letters "l. f." on one corner. "thank you," she said, in a low voice. at that moment, for the last time, havener was reiterating: "i believe frank merriwell will be here. all get onto the train. he never gets left." then the woman tossed her head a bit and laughed. it was a scornful laugh, and it attracted the attention of several of the group. she turned quickly, and stepped into the nearest car. "something tells me he will not arrive," declared agnes kirk. "the hoodoo is still on. this company will meet the same fate the other did." "don't talk so much about it," advised havener, rather rudely. "get onto the train--everybody!" hodge was staring after the veiled woman. "wonder what made her laugh like that?" he muttered. "seems to me i've heard that laugh before. it seemed full of scornful triumph. i wonder----" he did not express his second wonder. "come, hodge," said havener, "get aboard. follow the others." "i'll be the last one," said hodge. "i'm waiting for frank. "i'm afraid," confessed havener, beginning to weaken. "afraid of what?" hodge almost hissed. "it begins to look bad," admitted the stage manager. "i'm afraid something has happened to frank. if he doesn't come----" "i don't go," declared bart. "i shall stay and find out what has happened to him. you must go. you must sit on those croakers. your place is with the company; mine is with frank merriwell." "all aboard!" the conductor gave the warning. "what's this?" rattle-te-bang, on the dead jump, a cab was coming along the street. the cabman was putting the whip to his foaming horses. "he's coming," said hodge, with cool triumph, putting his hands into his trousers pockets, and waiting the approach of the cab. something made him feel certain of it. up to the platform dashed the cab, the driver flinging the horses back, and flinging himself to the platform to fling open the door. dong dong! the train was starting. out of the cab leaped frank merriwell, grip in hand. at his heels ephraim gallup came sprawling. bart was satisfied, havener was delighted. both of them sprang on board the train. across the platform dashed frank and the vermont youth, and they also boarded the moving cars. "well," laughed merry, easily, "that was what i call a close call. ten dollars to the cabby did it, and he earned his sawbuck." "i congratulate you!" cried havener. "i confess i had given you up. but what happened to detain you?" "nothing but a little adventure," answered merry, coolly. "i'll tell you about it." they followed him into the car. several members of the company had been looking from the car window, and the arrival of frank had been witnessed. they gave a shout as he entered the car, and all were on their feet. "welcome!" cried douglas dunton, dramatically--"welcome, most noble one! methinks thou couldst not do it better in a play. it was great stuff--flying cab, foaming horses, moving train, and all that. make a note of it." "i believe he did it on purpose," declared agnes kirk, speaking to vance, with whom she had taken a seat. "very likely," admitted lester. "wanted to do something to attract attention." "i think it was mean! he fooled us." but several members of the company shook hands with frank, and congratulated him. "i told you he would not get left," said havener, with triumph. at the rear end of the car was a veiled woman, who seemed to sink down behind those in front of her, as if she sought to avoid detection. somehow, although her face could not be seen, there was in her appearance something that betokened disappointment and chagrin. of course frank was pressed for explanations, but he told them that business had detained him. he did not say what kind of business. at length, however, with hodge, havener and gallup for listeners, all seated on two facing seats, he told the story of his adventure with the veiled woman, and his arrest, which ended in a discharge that barely permitted him to leap into a cab, race to the hotel, get his grip, pay his bill, and dash to the station in time to catch the train. as the story progressed hodge showed signs of increasing excitement. when merry finished, bart exclaimed: "how did the woman look?" "i did not see her face." "how was she dressed? describe her." "don't know as i can." "do the best you can." frank did so, and bart cried: "i've seen her!" "what?" merry was astonished. "i am sure of it," asserted bart. "i have seen that very same woman!" "when?" "to-day." "how long ago?" "a very short time." "where?" "at the station while we were waiting for you to appear." "is it possible. how do you know it was her?" then bart told of the strange woman who had dropped her handkerchief, of the initials he had seen when he picked it up, and of her singularly scornful laugh when she heard havener declare that merriwell never got left. all this interested frank very much. bart concluded by saying: "that woman is on this very train!" "waal, may i be tickled to death by grasshoppers!" ejaculated the youth from vermont. "whut in thunder do yeou s'pose she's up to?" "it may be the same one," said frank. "it would be remarkable if it should prove to be the same one. two women might look so much alike that the description of one would exactly fit the other--especially if both were heavily veiled." bart shook his head. "something tells me it is the same woman," he persisted. "but why should she be on this train?" "who can answer that? why did she try such a trick on the street?" "don't know," admitted merry. "once i thought it might be that she was mashed on me, but it didn't prove that way." "oh, i dunno," drawled gallup, with a queer grin. "yeou turned her daown, an' that made her sore. ef she'd bin mashed on ye, perhaps she'd done jest as she did to git revenge fer bein' turned daown." "no, something tells me this was more than a simple case of mash," said frank. "what do you make of it?" asked havener. "an attempt to bother me." "for what?" "who knows? haven't i had enough troubles?" "i should say so! but i thought your troubles of this sort were over when you got rid of lawrence. you left two of the assistants who saw him try to fire the theater to appear as witnesses against him." "oh, i hardly think lawrence was in this affair in any way or manner. i confess i do not know just what to make of it. heretofore my enemies have been men, but now there seems to be a woman in the case." "if this woman follows you, what will you do?" "i shall endeavor to find out who she is, and bring her to time, so she will drop the game." "see that you do," advised hodge. "and don't be soft with her because she is a woman." "go look through the train and see if you can find the woman you saw," directed frank. "if you find her, come back here and tell me where she is." "i'll do it!" exclaimed bart, getting up at once. "that fellow is faithful to you," said havener, when bart had walked down the aisle; "but he is awfully disagreeable at times. it's nothing but his loyalty that makes me take any stock in him." "his heart is in the right place," asserted merry. "nothing makes him doubt you. why, i believe he wanted to fight the whole company when you failed to appear." "an' he's a fighter, b'gosh! when he gits started," declared gallup. "i've seen him plunk some critters an' he plunked them in great style." hodge was gone some little time, but there was a grim look of triumph when he returned. "find her?" asked merry. "sure," nodded bart. "where?" "last car. she did not get onto this one, but i rather think she moved after you came on board. that makes me all the more certain that it is the woman. she's near the rear end of the car, on the left side, as you go down the aisle." "well," said frank, rising, "i think i'll go take a look at her. is she alone?" "yes." "that's good. and she cannot escape from the train till it stops, if it should happen to be the right woman, which i hope it is." bart wished to accompany frank to point the woman out, but merry objected. "no," he said, "let me go alone." "i can show her to you." "if the woman i am looking for is in the car i'll find her." merry passed slowly through the train, scanning each passenger as he went along. he entered the last car. in a few moments he would know if the mysterious veiled woman really were on that train. if he found her, he would be certain the strange encounter on the street had a meaning that had not appeared on the surface. the train was flying along swiftly, taking curves without seeming to slacken speed in the least. frank's progress through the car was rather slow, as the swaying motion made it difficult for him to get along. but when he had reached the rear of the car he was filled with disappointment. not a sign of a veiled woman had he seen in the car. more than that, there was no woman in black who resembled the woman who had stopped him on the street in denver. could it be hodge had been mistaken? no! something told him bart had made no mistake in the matter of seeing a woman who answered the description given by frank. he had said she was in the last car. she was not there when frank passed through the car. then she had moved. why? was the woman aware that she was being watched? had she moved to escape observation? frank stopped by the door at the rear end of the car. he looked out through the glass in the door. some one was on the platform at one side of the door. frank opened the door and looked out. the person on the platform was a woman in black, and she wore a veil! chapter xix. on the rear platform. a feeling of exultant satisfaction flashed over merriwell, and he quickly stepped out onto the platform, closing the door behind him. the woman turned and looked toward him. the train was racing along, the track seeming to fly away from beneath the last car. it was a strange place for a woman to be, out there on the rear platform, and merry's first thought had been that it must be the woman he sought, for had she not come out there to escape him? she had fancied he would look through the car, fail to find her, and decide that she was not on the train. it must be that she had seen hodge come in, and had realized at once why he had entered the car. when he departed to carry the information to frank, the desperate woman had fled to the rear platform. immediately on stepping out onto the platform, however, frank decided that his reasoning was at fault. it was a veiled woman, and she was in black, but it was not the woman he sought. it was not the woman who had caused his arrest in denver! merry was disappointed. the unknown looked at him, and said nothing. he looked at her and wondered. the veil was thick and baffling. "madam," he said, "this is a dangerous place." she said nothing. "you are liable to become dizzy out here and meet with an accident," he pursued. "if you should fall--well, you know what that would mean. it is remarkable that you should come out here." "the air," she murmured, in a hoarse, husky voice. "the car was stifling, and i needed the air. i felt ill in there." "all the more reason why you should not come out here," declared frank, solicitously. "you could have had a window opened, and that would have given you air." "the window stuck." "it must be some of them would open. if you will return, i'll endeavor to find you a seat by an open window." "very kind of you," she said, in the same peculiar, husky voice. "think i'll stay out here. don't mind me." "then i trust you will permit me to remain, and see that you do not meet with any misfortune?" "no. go! leave me! i had rather remain alone." she seemed like a middle-aged lady. he observed that her clothes fitted her ill, and her hands were large and awkward. she attempted to hide them. all at once, with a suddenness that staggered him, the truth burst on frank. the woman was no woman at all! it was a man in disguise! merry literally gasped for a single instant, but he recovered at once. through his head flashed a thought: "this must be some criminal who is seeking to escape justice!" immediately frank resolved to remain on the platform at any hazard. he would talk to the disguised unknown. "the motion of the train is rather trying to one who is not accustomed to it," he said. "some people feel it quite as much as if they were on a vessel. car sickness and seasickness are practically the same thing." she looked at him through the concealing veil, but did not speak. "i have traveled considerable," he pursued, "but, fortunately, i have been troubled very little with sickness, either on sea or land." "will you be kind enough to leave me!" came from behind the veil, in accents of mingled imploration and anger. "i could not think of such a thing, madam!" he bowed, as gallantly as possible. "it is my duty to remain and see that you come to no harm." "i shall come to no harm. you are altogether too kind! your kindness is offensive!" "i am very sorry you regard it thus, but i know my duty." "if you knew half as much as you think, you would go." "i beg your pardon; it is because i do know as much as i think that i do not go." the unknown was losing patience. "go!" he commanded, and now his voice was masculine enough to betray him, if frank had not dropped to the trick before. "no," smiled merry, really beginning to enjoy it, "not till you go in yourself, madam." the train lurched round a curve, causing the disguised unknown to swing against the iron gate. frank sprang forward, as if to catch and save the person from going over, but his real object was to apparently make a mistake and snatch off the veil. the man seemed to understand all this, for he warded off frank's clutch, crying: "i shall call for aid! i shall seek protection!" "it would not be the first time to-day that a veiled woman has done such a thing," laughed frank, the disguised man stared at him again. merry fairly itched to snatch away the veil. "if you are seeking air, madam," he suggested, "you had better remove your veil. it must be very smothering, for it seems to be quite thick." "you are far too anxious about me!" snapped the disguised man. "i would advise you to mind your own business!" this amused merry still more. the situation was remarkably agreeable to him. "in some instances," he said, politely, "your advice would be worth taking, but an insane person should be carefully watched, and that is why i am minding your business just now." "an insane person?" "exactly." "do you mean that i am insane?" "well, i trust you will excuse me, but from your appearance and your remarkable behavior, it seems to me that you should be closely guarded." that seemed to make the unknown still more angry, but it was plain he found difficulty in commanding words to express himself. "you're a fool!" he finally snapped. "thank you!" smiled frank. "you're an idiot!" "thank you again." "you are the one who is crazy!" "still more thanks." "how have i acted to make you fancy me demented?" "you are out here, and you may be contemplating self-destruction by throwing yourself from this train." "don't worry about that. i am contemplating nothing of the sort." "but there are other evidences of your insanity." "oh, there are?" "yes." as the disguised unknown did not speak, merry went on: "the strongest evidence of your unbalanced state of mind is the ill-chosen attire you are wearing." "what do you mean?" "why are you not dressed in the garments of your sex?" "sir?" "you are not a woman," declared frank, coolly; "but a man in the garments of a woman. your disguise is altogether too thin. it would not deceive anybody who looked you over closely. you are----" frank got no further. with a cry of anger, the disguised unknown sprang at him, grappled with him, panted in his ear: "you are altogether too sharp, frank merriwell! this time you have overshot yourself! this ends you!" then he tried to fling merry from the swiftly moving train. frank instantly realized that it was to be a struggle for life, and he met the assault as quickly and stiffly as he could; but the disguised man seemed, of a truth, to have the strength of an insane person. in his quick move, the fellow had forced frank back against the gate, and over this, he tried to lift and hurl him. "no you don't!" came from merry's lips. "curse you!" panted the fellow. "i will do it!" "yes, you will--i don't think!" in the desperate struggle, both seemed to hang over the gate for a moment. then frank slid back, securing a firm grip, and felt safe. just then, however, the door of the car flew open, and out sprang hodge. bart saw what was happening in a moment, and he leaped to merry's aid. out on a high trestle that spanned a roaring, torrent-like river rumbled the train. bart clutched frank, gave the disguised man a shove, and---- just how it happened, neither of them could tell afterward, but over the gate whirled the man, and down toward the seething torrent he shot! up from that falling figure came a wild cry of horror that was heard above the fumbling roar of the train on the trestle bridge. over and over the figure turned, the skirts fluttering, and then headlong it plunged into the white foam of the torrent, disappearing from view. on the rear platform of the last car two white-faced, horrified young men had watched the terrible fall. they stared down at the swirling river, looking for the unfortunate wretch to reappear. off the bridge flew the train, and no longer were they able to see the river. "he's gone!" came hoarsely from bart. "then you saw--you knew it was a man?" cried frank. "yes, i saw his trousers beneath the skirts as i came out the door." "this is terrible!" muttered frank. "he was trying to throw you over?" "yes; attempted to take me off my guard and hurl me from the train." "then the wretch has met a just fate," declared bart. but now it seemed that the struggle on the platform had been noticed by some one within the car. there were excited faces at the glass in the door, and a trainman came out, demanding: "what is all this? why are you out here? they tell me a woman came out. where is she?" with unusual readiness, bart quickly answered: "she's gone--jumped from the train." "jumped?" "yes. we both tried to save her. just as i reached the door i saw my friend struggling to hold her, but she was determined to fling herself over." "well, this is a fine piece of business!" came angrily from the trainman. "what ailed her?" "she must have been insane," asserted bart. "she attacked my friend here, and then tried to jump off. he could not hold her. i did not get hold of her in time." "what was he doing out here?" "watching her. you will admit it was rather queer for a woman to come out here on the platform and stand. he thought so, and so he came out to watch her." "well, you can both come in off this platform!" growled the trainman, in anything but a civil manner. they did so. the passengers swarmed round them when they entered the car, literally flinging questions at them. "who was the woman?" "what ailed her?" "why did she go out there?" "what did she do?" "tell us about it!" again bart made the explanation, and then there arose a babel. "i noticed her," declared one. "i saw she looked queer." "i noticed her," asserted another. "i saw she acted queer." "i saw her when she went out," put in a third, "and i thought it was a crazy thing to do." "without doubt the woman was insane," declared a pompous fat man. "she must have been instantly killed." "she jumped into the river." "then, she was drowned." "who knows her?" "she was all alone." frank had been thinking swiftly all the while. he regretted that bart had been so hasty in making his explanation, and now he resolved to tell as near the truth as possible without contradicting hodge. "gentlemen and ladies," he said, "i have every reason for believing that the person was a man." then there were cries of astonishment and incredulity. "a man?" "impossible!" "never!" "ridiculous!" but an elderly lady, who wore gold-bowed spectacles, calmly said: "the young gentleman is correct, i am quite sure. the person in question sat directly in front of me, and i discovered there was something wrong. i felt almost certain it was a man before he got up and went out on the platform." then there was excitement in the car. a perfect torrent of questions was poured on frank. merry explained that he had thought it rather remarkable that a woman should be standing all alone on the rear platform, and, after going out and speaking to the person, he became convinced that it was a man in disguise. then he told how the man, on being accused, had attacked him furiously, and finally had seemed to fling himself over the iron gate. it was a great sensation, but no one accused either merry or bart of throwing the unknown over, not a little to frank's relief. at last, they got away and went forward into the car where the company was gathered. havener and gallup had been holding the double seat, and frank and bart sat down there. "well, i fancy you failed to find the lady you were looking for," said havener. "but what's the matter? you look as if something has happened." "something has," said frank, grimly. "gol-darned ef i don't b'lieve it!" exclaimed ephraim. "both yeou an' hodge show it. tell us abaout it." frank did so in a very few words, astonishing both ephraim and the stage manager. "waal," said the vermonter, "the gal who tackled yeou in denver warn't no man." "not much," said frank, "and it is remarkable that hodge should have mistaken a man for such a woman as i described." "didn't," said bart. "but you have acknowledged that you believed this was a man." "yes, but this man was not the veiled woman i saw." "wasn't?" "not much!" "by jove!" exclaimed frank. "the mystery deepens!" "did you mistake this person for the veiled woman i meant?" "sure thing." "and did not find another?" "not a sign of one. i do not believe there is another on the train." "well, this is a mystery!" confessed hodge. "i saw nothing of the one i meant when i went to look for you." "it must be you saw no one but that man in the first place." bart shook his head, flushing somewhat. "do you think i would take that man for a woman with a perfect figure, such as you described? what in the world do you fancy is the matter with my eyes?" "by gum!" drawled gallup. "this air business is gittin' too thick fer me. i don't like so much mystery a bit." "if that man was not the one you meant, hodge," said merry, "then the mysterious woman is still on this train." "that's so," nodded bart. "find her," urged frank. "i want to get my eyes on her more than ever. surely you should be able to find her." "i'll do it!" cried bart, jumping up. away he went. frank remained with havener and gallup, talking over the exciting and thrilling adventure and the mystery of it all till hodge returned. at a glance merry saw that his college friend had not been successful. "well," he said, "did you find her?" "no," confessed bart, looking crestfallen. "i went through the entire train, and i looked every passenger over. the woman i meant is not on this train." "then, it must be that your woman was the man who met his death in the river. there is no other explanation of her disappearance. you must give up now, hodge." but hodge would not give up, although he could offer no explanation, and the mystery remained unsolved. there were numerous stops between denver and puelbo, and it was nightfall before the train brought them to their destination. the sun had dropped behind the distant rockies, and the soft shades of a perfect spring evening were gathering when they drew up at the station in puelbo. lights were beginning to twinkle in windows, and the streets were lighted. "props" had gone to look after the baggage, and the company was gathered on the platform. cabmen were seeking to attract fares. of a sudden, a cry broke from the lips of bart hodge: "there she is!" all were startled by his sudden cry. they saw him start from the others, pointing toward a woman who was speaking to a cabman. that woman had left the train and crossed the platform, and she was dressed in black and heavily veiled. frank saw her--recognized her. "by heavens! it is the woman," he exclaimed. chapter xx. man or woman. into the cab sprang the woman. slam! the door closed behind her. crack!--the whip of the driver fell on the horses, and away went the cab. "stop!" shouted hodge. cabby did not heed the command. frank made a rush for another cab. "follow!" he cried, pointing toward the disappearing vehicle. "i will give you five dollars--ten dollars--if you do not lose sight of that cab!" "in!" shouted the driver. "i'll earn that ten!" in frank plunged, jerking the door to behind him. the cab whirled from the platform with a jerk. away it flew. "it will be worth twenty dollars to get a peep beneath that veil!" muttered frank merriwell. the windows were open. he looked out on one side. he could see nothing of the cab they were pursuing. back he dodged, and out he popped his head on the other side. "there it is!" he felt that he was not mistaken. the fugitive cab was turning a corner at that moment. they were after it closely. frank wondered where the woman could have been hidden on the train so that she had escaped observation. he decided that she must have been in one of the toilet rooms. but what about the veiled man who was disguised as a woman? that man had known frank--had spoken his name. it was a double mystery. the pursuit of the cab continued some distance. at last the cab in advance drew up in front of a hotel, and a man got out! merriwell had leaped to the ground, and cabby was down quite as swiftly, saying: "there, sir, i followed 'em. ten plunks, please." the door of the other cab had been closed, and the man was paying the driver. he wore no overcoat, and carried no baggage. "fooled!" exclaimed frank, in disappointment. "you have followed the wrong cab, driver!" "i followed the one you told me to follow," declared the driver. "no; you made a mistake." "now, don't try that game on me!" growled the man. "it's your way of attempting to get out of paying the tenner you promised." "no; i shall pay you, for you did the best you could. it was not your fault that you made a mistake in the mass of carriages at the depot." "didn't make no mistake," asserted the cabby, sullenly. "well, it's useless to argue over it," said merry, as he gave the man the promised ten dollars. "i am sure you made a mistake." "think i couldn't follow bill dover and his spotted nigh hawse?" exploded the driver. "i couldn't have missed that hawse if i'd tried." frank saw one of the horses attached to the other cab was spotted. he had noticed that peculiarity about one of the horses attached to the cab the mysterious woman had entered. "it's the same horse!" exclaimed merry. "'course it is," nodded the driver. the man had paid his fare and was carelessly sauntering into the hotel. as he disappeared through the door-way, frank sprang to the door of the other cab, flung it wide open, and looked in, more than half expecting to discover the woman still inside. no woman was there! frank caught his breath in astonishment, and stood there, staring into the empty cab. "hi, there! wot cher doin'?" called the man on the box. frank did not answer. he reached into the cab and felt on the floor. he found something, brought it forth, looked at it amazed. it was a woman's dress! but where was the woman? garment after garment frank lifted, discovering that all a woman's outer wearing apparel lay on the floor of that cab. "vanished!" he muttered. "disappeared--gone? what does it mean?" then he thought of the man who had left the cab and entered the hotel, and he almost reeled. "that was the woman!" he had seen one woman change into a man on the train, and here was another and no less startling metamorphosis. "driver," he cried, "didn't you take a person on in woman's clothes at the station and let one off in man's clothes just now?" "none of yer business!" came the coarse reply. "i knows enough not ter answer questions when i'm paid ter keep still." that was quite enough; the driver might as well have answered, for he had satisfied merriwell. frank was astonished by the remarkable change that the woman had made while within the cab, but now he believed he understood why she had not been detected while on the train. she had been able to make a change of disguises in the toilet room, and had passed herself off as a man. hodge had looked for a veiled woman, and he had looked for a veiled woman; it was not strange that both of them had failed to notice a person in masculine attire who must have looked like a woman. up the hotel steps frank leaped. he entered the office, he searched and inquired. at last, he found out that a beardless man had entered by the front door, but had simply passed through and left by a side door. "given me the slip," decided frank. he realized that he had encountered a remarkably clever woman. and the mystery was deeper than ever. frank went to the hotel at which the company was to stop, and found all save wynne had arrived. hodge was on the watch for merry, and eagerly inquired concerning his success in following the woman. frank explained how he had been tricked. "well, it's plain this unknown female is mighty slippery," said bart. "you have not seen the last of her." "i am afraid there are some things about this double mystery which will never be solved," admitted frank. "for instance, the identity of the man who fell into the river." "we'll be dead lucky if we do not have trouble over that affair," said hodge. "how do you mean?" "some fool is liable to swear out a warrant charging us with throwing the unknown overboard." "i thought of that," nodded frank, "and that is why i took occasion on the train to straighten out your story somewhat. it is always best, bart, to stick to the straight truth." hodge flushed and looked resentful, but plainly sought to repress his feelings, as he said: "i am not the only person in the world who believes the truth should not be spoken at all times." "if one cannot speak the truth," said merry, quietly, "he had better remain silent and say nothing at all, particularly in a case like this. there is an old saying that 'the truth can afford to travel slowly, but a lie must be on the jump all the time, or it will get caught.'" "well, i don't think this is any time to moralize," came a bit sharply from bart. "if we were to go into an argument, i rather think i could show logically that a white lie is sometimes more commendable than the truth." "in shielding another, possibly," admitted merry; "but never in shielding the one who tells it. the more a person lies, the more he has to lie, for it becomes necessary to tell one falsehood to cover up another, and, after a while, the unfortunate individual finds himself so ensnared in a network of fabrications that it is impossible for him to clear himself. then disaster comes." "oh, don't preach!" snapped bart. "let's go to your room and talk this matter of the veiled woman over. there is trouble brewing for you, and you must be prepared to meet it. havener has registered for the company, and all you have to do is call for your key." so frank and bart went to the room of the former. puelbo had been well "papered." the work was done thoroughly, and every board, every dead wall, and every available window flaunted the paper of "true blue." the failure of "for old eli" was still fresh in the minds of the people of the city, but neither had they forgotten frank merriwell's plucky promise to bring the play back to that place and perform it successfully there. the newspapers of the place had given him their support, but frank was determined that extracts from the notices in the denver papers should reach the eyes of those who did not read the puelbo papers closely. with this end in view, he had the extracts printed on flyers, as small bills are called, and the flyers were headed in startling type: "five hundred dollars fine!" to this he added: "each and every person who reads the following clippings from denver newspapers will be fined five hundred dollars!" it is needless to say that nearly every one who could read was careful to read the clippings through to the end. this manner of attracting attention was effective, even though it may seem rather boyish in its conception. his printing was done on the very night that he arrived in puelbo, and the flyers were scattered broadcast the following day. he obtained the names of a large number of prominent citizens, to whom he sent complimentary tickets, good for the first night's performance. frank was determined to have a house, even if it was made up principally of deadheads. on the occasion of his former visit to puelbo he had received some free advertising through leslie lawrence, who had circulated printed accusations against him. he scarcely expected anything of the sort on this occasion, and he was rather startled when, on the morning following his arrival, he discovered that a circular had been scattered broadcast, which seemed to be even more malicious than the former attempt upon him. in this circular he was plainly charged with the murder of an unknown woman shortly after leaving denver, and it was said he had been aided in the crime by bartley hodge. frank was calmly reading this bold accusation when hodge came bursting into the room in a manner that reminded merry of his entrance under similar circumstances on the former occasion. seeing the paper in merry's hand, bart hoarsely cried: "so you've got it! then you know about it! well, now, sir, what do you think of that?" "sit down, hodge," said frank, calmly. "you seem all out of breath. you are excited." "excited!" shouted the dark-faced youth. "well, isn't that enough to excite a man of stone!" "do you mean this?" "yes, that! what in the name of creation do you suppose i meant?" "i wasn't certain." "wasn't cert---- oh, say; that's too much! what do you think? what are you made of, anyway?" "now, my dear fellow, you must stop going on like this. you'll bring on heart disease if you keep it up." hodge dropped down on a chair and stared at merry. "well--i'll--be--blowed!" he gasped. "you are nearly blowed now," said frank. "you seem quite out of breath." "is it possible you have read that paper you hold in your hand?" asked bart, with forced calmness. "yes, i have read it." "well, i do not understand you yet! i thought i did, but i'm willing to confess that i don't." then he jumped up, almost shouting: "why, man alive, don't you understand that we are charged with murder--with murder?" "yes," said frank, still unruffled, "it seems so by this." "and you take it like that!" "what is the use to take it differently?" "use? use? sometimes i think you haven't a drop of good, hot blood in your body." "if a person has plenty of good, hot blood, it is a good thing for him to cool it off with good, cool brains. hot blood is all right, but it should be controlled; it should not control the man." "i don't see how you can talk that way, under such circumstances. why, we may be arrested for murder any moment!" "we shall not." "shall not?" "no." "why not?" "because our unknown enemy does not dare come out into the open and make the charge against us." "what makes you think so?" "this." frank held up the accusing paper. "that?" "yes." "why should that make you think so?" "if our enemy had intended to come out and make the charge against us openly, this would not have appeared. it is simply an attempt to hurt us from under cover, or to arouse others against us--against me, in particular." bart could see there was logic in merry's reasoning, but still he was fearful of what might happen. "well, even you must acknowledge that the unknown enemy may succeed in his purpose," said hodge. "there were a number of persons who saw something of the struggle on the train. this may arouse some of them, or one of them, at least, to do something." "it may." "you confess that?" "yes." "didn't think you would." "i don't believe it will. hodge, i have a fancy that, in this case, same as in the other, my enemy will overshoot the mark." "how?" "something tells me that this warning, intended to turn suspicion against me, will serve as an advertisement. of course, it will be a most unpleasant notoriety to have, but it may serve to bring people out to see me." bart looked thoughtful. "i never thought of that," he confessed, hesitatingly. "i had far rather not had the notoriety," admitted frank; "but that can't be helped now. let the people turn out to see 'true blue.' perhaps i'll get a chance at my enemy later." "the veiled woman----" "is in it, i fancy. i believe there was some connection between the veiled woman and the veiled man--the one who plunged from the train into the river." "i have thought of that, but i've been unable to figure out what the connection could be. why was the man veiled and disguised thus?" "so that i would not recognize him." "then, it must be that you would know him if you saw him face to face." "as he knew me. he called me by name as he sprang upon me." "well, he's done for, but i believe the woman will prove the most dangerous. something tells me she was the real mover in this business." "i fancy you are right, hodge. at first, in denver, i thought she had been piqued by the manner in which i replied to her, but since all these strange things have happened, i know it was more than a case of pique." "when you make a woman your enemy, she is far more dangerous than a man, for women are more reckless--less fearful of consequences." "that's right," nodded frank. "women know they will not be punished to the full extent of the law, no matter what they do. juries are easily hypnotized by pretty women. where a woman and a man are connected in committing a crime, and the woman is shown to be the prime mover, a jury will let the woman off as easily as possible. a jury always hesitates about condemning a woman to death, no matter if she has committed a most fiendish murder. in the east, women adventuresses ply their nefarious arts and work upon the sympathies of the juries so that, when called to the bar, they are almost always acquitted. it is remarkable that men should be so soft. it is not gallantry; it is softness. the very man who would cry the loudest if he had been hit by an adventuress is the most eager to acquit the woman in case he happens to be on the jury to pronounce the verdict in her case." "well," said hodge, "you are sound and level in that statement, frank. it's plain you do not think true chivalry consists of acquitting female blackmailers and assassins." "don't let this little attempt to injure us frighten you, hodge," advised frank, rising. "i think it will miscarry entirely. we've got plenty of work for to-day, and to-night i believe i shall be able to tell beyond a doubt whether 'true blue' is a success or a failure. i think the test will come right here in puelbo, where we met disaster before." chapter xxi. gallup meets the mysterious woman. the mechanical arrangements and special scenery had arrived and were moved into the theater. supers had been engaged to attend rehearsal in the afternoon, so that they might know their business when evening came. frank attended to the details of much of the work of making ready, although he had full confidence in havener and hodge, who assisted him. he saw that the mechanical effect representing the boat race was put up and tested, making sure it worked perfectly. he was anxious about this, for any hitch in that scene was certain to ruin the whole play. gallup proved valuable. he worked about the stage, and he was of great assistance to havener, who wished merriwell to appoint him assistant stage manager. of course, everybody was anxious about the result, but the majority of the company had confidence in merriwell and his play. cassie lee, perhaps, was the only one who was never assailed by a doubt concerning the outcome. "i shall do my best to-night--at any cost," she told frank. at that moment he did not pause to consider the real meaning of her words. afterward he knew what she meant. she still carried a tiny needle syringe and a phial that contained a certain dangerous drug that had so nearly wrought her ruin. the various members of the company drifted into the theater by the stage entrance, looked over their dressing rooms and the stage and drifted out again. they had been engaged to act, and they did not propose to work when it was not necessary. gallup whistled as he hustled about the work havener directed him to do. he made his long legs carry him about swiftly, although he sometimes tripped over his own feet. ephraim was arranging a mass of scenery so that every piece would be handy for use that night when the time came to use it. while doing this, he was surprised to see one of the dressing-room doors cautiously open and a person peer out. "gosh!" exclaimed the vermonter, stepping back out of sight. "who's that?" again the person peered out of the dressing room, as if to make sure the coast was clear. "i must be dreamin'!" thought the vermont youth, rubbing his eyes. "i've got 'em jest from hearin' frank and hodge talk so much about her." a moment later he changed his mind. "no, by ginger!" he hissed, as the person slipped out of the dressing room. "it's her!" it was "her," and that means that it was the mysterious veiled woman! recovering instantly from the shock of his surprise, gallup sprang out from behind the scenery and made a rush for the unknown. "hold on!" he cried. "b'gosh! yeou've gotter give a 'count of yerself, an' don't yeou fergit it!" she started, turned on him, dodged. he flung out his hand and clutched at her, catching hold of the chain that encircled her neck and suspended her purse. "i want yeou!" palpitated the yankee youth. "yeou're jest the----" flirt!--the woman made a quick motion toward him. something struck ephraim in his eyes, burning like fire. he was nearly knocked down by the shock, and a yell of pain escaped his lips. "i'm blinded!" he groaned. it was true; he could not see. with something like a scornful laugh, the woman flitted away and disappeared, leaving poor ephraim bellowing with pain and clawing at his eyes, as if he would dig them out of his head. "murder!" he howled. "oh, i'm dyin'! somebody come quick! my eyes hev been put aout! oh, wow-wow! oh, i wisht i'd staid to hum on the farm!" down on the floor he fell, and over and over he rolled in the greatest agony. havener and some of the regular theater hands heard his wild cries and came rushing to the spot. they found him on the floor, kicking and thrashing about. "what's the matter?" demanded the stage manager. gallup did not hear him. "i'm dyin'!" he blubbered. "oh, it's an awful way ter die! my eyes are gone! ow-yow!" "what is the matter?" havener again cried, getting hold of the thrashing youth. "what has happened?" "stop her!" roared ephraim, realizing that some person had come and thinking instantly that the woman must be detained. "don't let her git erway!" "don't let who get away?" "the woman! ow-wow! bring a pail of warter an' let me git my head inter it! i must do somethin' ter put aout the fire! oh, my eyes! my eyes!" "what is the matter with your eyes?" "she threw somethin' inter 'em." "she?" "yes." "who?" "the woman." "what woman?" "the veiled woman--the one that has made all the trouble fer merry! oh, this is jest awful!" "what are you talking about?" demanded havener, impatiently. "there is no veiled woman here! have you lost your senses?" then, realizing that they were doing nothing to prevent her from making her escape, gallup sat up and howled: "she was here! i saw her comin' aout of a dressin' room. oh, dear! yow! i tried to ketch her! oh, my eyes! she flung somethin' inter my face an' put both my eyes out!" "something has been thrown into his eyes!" exclaimed havener. "it's red pepper! he is telling the truth! somebody get some water! somebody run to a drug store and get something for him to use on his eyes!" "darn it all!" shouted gallup. "let me die, ef i've gotter! but don't let that infarnal woman git erway!" "i will try to see to that," said havener, rushing away. he dashed down to the stage door, but he was too late, for the doorkeeper told him the veiled woman had gone out. "why in the world did you let her in?" angrily demanded the irate stage manager. "she said she belonged to the company." "she lied! she has half killed one of the company!" "i heard the shouts," said the doorkeeper, "and i thought somebody was hurt. but it wasn't my fault." "if she tries to come in here again, seize and hold her. i'll give you five dollars if you hold her till i can reach her! she is a female tiger!" then havener rushed back to see what could be done for gallup. groaning and crying, gallup was washing the pepper from his eyes, which were fearfully inflamed and swollen. he could not see havener, but heard his voice, and eagerly asked: "did ye ketch the dratted critter?" "no; she got out before i reached the door." "darn her!" grated ephraim. "i say darn her! never said ennything as bad as that about a female woman before, but i jest can't help it this time! i won't be able to see fer a week!" "oh, yes, you will," assured havener. "but i rather think your eyes will look bad for some time to come." "here is something he had in his hand," said one of the supers. "it's her purse, i reckon; but there ain't no money in it." havener took it. "are you sure there wasn't any money in it when you examined it?" he asked, sharply. the super seemed to feel insulted, and he angrily protested that he would not have touched a cent if there had been five hundred dollars in it. "but i notice you had curiosity enough to examine the contents of it," came dryly from the stage manager. "i'll just keep this. it may prove to be a valuable clew to the woman's identity." everything possible was done for ephraim's eyes, but it was a long time before he was much relieved from the agony he was suffering. then he was taken to the hotel, with a bandage over his eyes, and a doctor came to attend him. the physician said he would do everything possible to get ephraim into shape to play that evening, but he did not give a positive assurance that he would be able to do so. as soon as frank heard of the misfortune which had befallen the vermont youth, he hastened to the hotel and to the room where ephraim was lying on the bed. gallup heard his step and recognized it when he entered. "i'm slappin' glad yeou've come, frank!" he exclaimed. "and i am terribly sorry you have met with such a misfortune, ephraim," declared merry. "so be i, frank--so be i! but i'm goin' ter play my part ter-night ur bu'st my galluses tryin'! i ain't goin' to knock aout the show ef i kin help it." "that was not what i meant. i was sorry because of the pain you must have suffered." "waal, it was ruther tough," the faithful country lad confessed. "by gum! it was jest as ef somebody'd chucked a hull lot of coals right inter my lookers. it jest knocked me silly, same ez if i'd bin hit with a club." "how did it happen? tell me all about it." ephraim told the story of his adventure, finishing with: "i kainder guess that red pepper warn't meant fer me, frank. that was meant fer yeou. that woman was in there ter fix yeou so yeou couldn't play ter-night." "it's quite likely you may be right, ephraim; but she had to give it to you in order to escape. but where is this purse you snatched from her?" "on the stand, there. havener tuck possession of it, but i got him to leave it here, so yeou might see it right away when yeou came." frank found the purse and opened it. from it he drew forth a crumpled and torn telegram. smoothing this out, he saw it was dated at castle rock the previous day. it read as follows: "mrs. hayward grace, puelbo, colo. "all right. close call. fell from train into river. came near drowning, but managed to swim out. will be along on first train to-morrow. keep track of the game. "p. f." frank jumped when he read that. "by jove!" he cried. "whut is it?" ephraim eagerly asked. "i believe i understand this." "do ye?" "sure! this was from the man who fell from the train into the river--the man disguised as a woman, who attacked me on the rear platform!" "looks zif yeou might be right." "i am sure of it! the fellow escaped with his life! it is marvelous!" "i sh'u'd say so!" "he dispatched his accomplice, the woman, to let her know that he was living." "yeou've struck it, frank!" "and she was the one who got out the accusing flyers, charging me with the crime of murder!" "i bet!" "the man is in this city now, and they are working together again." "i dunno'd i see whut they're goin' to make aout of it, but mebbe yeou do." "not yet. they must be enemies i have made." "who's mrs. hayward grace?" "never heard the name before." "waal, he didn't sign his name hayward grace, so it seems he ain't her husband; don't it, frank?" "he signed 'p. f.' now, i wonder what one of my enemies can be fitted to those initials?" "i dunno." "nor do i. but this telegram has given me a feeling of relief, for i am glad to know the man was not drowned." "drownin's too good fer him! he oughter be hung!" "although my conscience was clear in the matter, i am glad to know that i was in no way connected with his death. hodge will not be so pleased, for he will not stop to reason that the chances of a charge of murder being brought against us are about blotted out. ephraim, i am very sorry you were hurt, but i'm extremely glad you snatched this purse and brought me this telegram. i shall take care of it. i shall use it to trace my enemies, if possible." "waal, i'm glad i done somethin', though i'd bin a 'tarnal sight gladder if i hed ketched that woman." frank carefully placed the purse and the telegram in his pocket, where he knew it would be safe. assuring ephraim that everything possible should be done for him, he hastened out. that afternoon the rehearsal took place, with another person reading ephraim's part. it was feared that gallup would not be able to see to play when it came night, but frank hoped that he could, and the vermont youth vowed he'd do it some way. the rehearsal passed off fairly well, although there were some hitches. havener looked satisfied. "i'd rather it would go off this way than to have it go perfectly smooth," he declared. "i've noticed it almost always happens that a good, smooth rehearsal just before a first performance means that the performance will go bad, and vice versa." frank had not been long in the business, but he, also, had observed that it often happened as havener had said. the theater orchestra rehearsed with them, getting all the "cue music" arranged, and having everything in readiness for the specialties. the night came at last, and the company gathered at the theater, wondering what the outcome would be. gallup was on hand, but he still had the bandage over his eyes. he was wearing it up to the last minute, so that he would give them as much rest as possible. "somebody'll hev ter make me up ter-night," he said. "i don't believe i kin see well enough ter do that." havener agreed to look after that. while the various members were putting the finishing touches on their toilet and make-up, word came that people were pouring into the theater in a most satisfactory manner. the orchestra tuned up for the overture. frank went round to see that everybody was prepared. he had fallen into that habit, not feeling like depending on some one else to do it. most of the men were entirely ready. a few were making the last touches. stella stanley and agnes kirk were all ready to go on. "where is cassie?" asked merry. "in the dressing room," said stella. "she told us not to wait for her. said she would be right out." frank went to the dressing room. the door was slightly open, and, through the opening, he saw cassie. she had thrust back the sleeve of her left arm, and he saw a tiny instrument in her right hand. he knew in a twinkling what she was about to do. with a leap, frank went into that room and caught her by the wrist. "cassie!" he cried, guardedly. "you told me you had given it up! you told me you'd never use morphine again!" "frank!" she whispered, looking abashed. "i know i told you so! i meant it, but i must use it just once more--just to-night. i am not feeling at my best. i'm dull and heavy. you know how much depends on me. if i don't do well i shall ruin everything. it won't hurt me to use it just this once. the success of 'true blue' may depend on it!" "if the success of 'true blue' depended on it beyond the shadow of a doubt, i would not let you use it, cassie! great heavens! girl, you are mad! if you fall again into the clutches of that fiend nothing can save you!" "but the play----" "do you think i would win success with my play at the price of your soul! no, cassie lee! if i knew it meant failure i would forbid you to use the stuff in that syringe. here, give it to me!" he took it from her and put it into his pocket. "now," he said, "it is out of your reach. you must play without it. there goes the overture. the curtain will go up in a few minutes. all i ask of you is to do your best, cassie, let it mean success or failure." chapter xxii. the end of the rope. the theater was packed. under no circumstances had frank anticipated such an audience on the opening night. he felt sure that the advertising given him through the effort of his enemies to injure him had done much to bring people out. another thing had brought them there. curiosity led many of them to the theater. they remembered merriwell's first appearance in puelbo and its outcome, and they had not forgotten how, in a speech from the stage, he had vowed that he would bring the play back there and give a successful performance. he had rewritten the piece, and it had been played in denver to an invited audience, every member of which went away highly pleased. the denver papers had pronounced in favor of it. puelbo people admired pluck and determination. they could not help feeling admiration for the dogged persistency of frank merriwell. and they really hoped he would make good his promise to give a successful performance. frank's first entrance was carefully worked up to in the play, and he was astounded when he came laughing and singing onto the stage, to be greeted by a perfect whirlwind of applause. nor did the applause cease till he had recognized it by bowing. then, as everything quieted down and the play was about to move on again, there came a terrible cry that rang through the house: "fire!" frank understood in a twinkling that it was a false alarm, given for the purpose of producing a stampede and raising the performance. after that cry for a moment everybody sat as if turned to stone. it was the calm before the panic. then frank's voice rang out clear as a bell: "there is no fire! keep your seats!" some had sprung up, but his clear voice reached every part of the house, and it checked the movement. "fire! fire!" shrill and piercing was the cry, in the voice of a woman. "arrest that woman!" cried frank. "she is trying to ruin this performance! she is the one who circulated a lying and malicious circular charging me with the crime of murder. it was a part of a plot to ruin me!" frank confessed afterward that he did not understand why the audience remained without stampeding after that second alarm. it must have been that there was a magic something in his voice and manner that convinced them and held them. at any rate, there was no rush for the doors. all at once there was a commotion in the first balcony, from which the cries had come. two policemen had seized a man and a woman, and the arrested pair were taken from the theater. quiet was restored, and frank made a few soothing remarks to the audience, after which the play proceeded. and now he had the sympathy of every person in the great audience. when an actor has once fairly won the sympathy of his audience, he is almost sure of success. the first act went off beautifully. the storm and shipwreck at the close of the act took with the spectators. there was hearty applause when the curtain fell. frank had arranged that things should be rushed in making ready for the second act. he wanted no long waits between acts, for long waits weary the patience of the best audiences. the second act seemed to go even better than the first, if such a thing were possible. the singing of the "yale quartet" proved a great hit, and they were obliged to respond to encore after encore. cassie's dancing and singing were well appreciated, and frank, who was watching her, decided that she could not have done better under any circumstances. he did not know how hard she was working for success. he did not know that she had actually prayed that she might do better than she had ever done before in all her life. the discomfiture of _spike dubad_ at the close of the second act was relished by all. at last the curtain rose on the third act, round which the whole plot of the play revolved. now, the interest of the audience was keyed up to the right pitch, and the anxiety of the actors was intense. the first scene went off all right, and then came the change to the scene where the boat race was shown on the river. everything worked perfectly, and there was a tumult in that theater when the stage suddenly grew dark, just as the yale boat was seen to forge into the lead. and then, in a few moments, the distant sounds of cheering and the screaming of steam whistles seemed to burst out close at hand, filling the theater with an uproar of sound. then up flashed the lights, and the open boathouse was shown, with the river beyond. the boats flashed in at the finish, the yale cheer drowned everything else, and frank merriwell was brought onto the stage in the arms of his college friends. the curtain came down, but the audience was standing and cheering like mad, as if it had just witnessed the success of its favorite in a real college race. the curtain went up for the tableau again and again, but that audience would not be satisfied till frank merriwell came out and said something. frank came at last, and such an ovation as he received it brought a happy mist to his eyes. "there he is!" somebody cried. "he said he would come back here with his play and do the trick!" "well, he has done it!" cried another. "and he is the real frank merriwell, who has shown us the kind of never-say-die pluck that has made yale famous the world over. three cheers for frank merriwell!" they were given. then all frank could say was a few choking words: "my friends, i thank you from the bottom of my heart! you cannot know how much was depending on the success or failure of this play. perhaps all my future career depended on it. i vowed i would win----" "and you have!" shouted a voice. "it seems so. again, i thank you. i am too happy to say more. words are idle now." he retired. * * * * * frank merriwell had won with his play; "true blue" was a success. in his happiness he forgot his enemies, he forgot that two persons had been arrested in the balcony. it was not till the next morning when he was invited by a detective to come to the jail to see the prisoners that he thought of them. the detective accompanied him. "i have been on this fellow's track for a long time," he explained. "spotted him in the theater last night, but was not going to arrest him till the show was over. the woman with him created the disturbance, and two policemen took them both in. i don't want her for anything, but i shall take the man back to chicago, to answer to the charge of forgery. i shall hold him here for requisition papers." the jail was reached, and first frank took a look at the woman. he felt that she would prove to be the mysterious woman of the veil, and he was right. she looked up at him, and laughed. "good-morning, mr. merriwell," she said. "pres and i have made things rather warm for you, you must confess. i reckon we made a mistake last night. we'd both been looking on the wine when it was red, or we'd not attempted to stampede the audience." "why, it is the woman who claimed to be havener's wife!" cried frank. "here is the man," said the detective. frank turned to another cell. he was face to face with philip scudder, his old-time enemy, who had reached the end of his rope at last! but, in the hour of victory, frank gave little heed to those who had made his path to this present success a hard and stormy one. he was successful! as a playwright and as an actor he had won the palm of victory, the future seemed to promise all the rewards his energy and enterprise deserved. he had started out from college with the determination to win wealth and fame. he had left the scenes of his early triumphs and first misfortunes, with the firm purpose to return honored and enriched by his own labors. now he was on the eve of accomplishing that purpose. and as he looked into the future, the lines of will power and determination that had always marked his handsome countenance grew firmer, as he murmured: "i will myself be 'true blue!' come what may, let my paths for the next few months be as untoward as they ever have been, difficulties shall but act as a spur to me in my purpose. for i shall be, soon, i hope, once more a son of 'old eli.'" the end. no. of the merriwell series, entitled "frank merriwell's prosperity," by burt l. standish, shows our hero as a successful playwright, and on a fair way to fame and fortune. buffalo bill king of the plains william cody, colonel u.s.a., is little known under his real name, but when you call him by the title conferred upon him by the hard-headed, harder-fisted western pioneers, why, the whole world knows him--buffalo bill! stories of his adventures would be most difficult to write for one who had not shared his camp-fire days; but colonel prentiss ingraham, who wrote the stories in buffalo bill's border stories, was his boon companion, sharing all of his marvelous adventures--even to being wounded with him. therefore, while apparently they are fiction, actually, these stories are based upon fact and written by a clever pen. if you like good western adventure, look up the buffalo bill border stories at your news dealer's. there are many different ones--you are bound to find them interesting and surprisingly good at the price. street & smith corporation seventh avenue--new york city nick carter captured the heart of the world twenty years ago, when nick carter first appeared upon the literary stage as a fiction character, he was looked upon as a curiosity--more to be smiled at than taken seriously. now, however, he is the favorite of countless millions of readers in every walk of life. stories of his adventures have been translated into nearly every foreign tongue; he appears on the screen in a series of most fascinating pictures produced by broadwell productions, inc. in short, nick carter's great triumph lies in the fact that he has captured the heart of the world. have you ever met him? if not, buy any of the following three books and prepare to be cheered up: new magnet library. "wildfire" "the secret of the marble mantel" "a spinner of death" street & smith corporation seventh avenue--new york city shadows of the stage by william winter _"the best in this kind are but shadows"_ shakespeare new york macmillan and company and london copyright, , by macmillan & co. set up and electrotyped may, . large paper edition printed may. ordinary edition reprinted june, august, november, ; january, june, october, november, . norwood press: j.s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith. boston, mass., u.s.a. to henry irving in memory and in honour of all that he has done to dignify and adorn the stage and to ennoble society this book is gratefully inscribed _"cui laurus æternos honores delmatico peperit triumpho"_ preface. _the papers contained in this volume, chosen out of hundreds that the author has written on dramatic subjects, are assembled with the hope that they may be accepted, in their present form, as a part of the permanent record of our theatrical times. for at least thirty years it has been a considerable part of the constant occupation of the author to observe and to record the life of the contemporary stage. since he has written intermittently in various periodicals, and since the summer of he has written continuously in the new york tribune, upon actors and their art; and in that way he has accumulated a great mass of historical commentary upon the drama. in preparing this book he has been permitted to draw from his contributions to the tribune, and also from his writings in harper's magazine and weekly, in the london theatre, and in augustin daly's portfolio of players. the choice of these papers has been determined partly by consideration of space and partly with the design of supplementing the author's earlier dramatic books, namely: edwin booth in twelve dramatic characters; the jeffersons; henry irving; the stage life of mary anderson; brief chronicles, containing eighty-six dramatic biographies; in memory of mccullough; the life of john gilbert; the life and works of john brougham; the press and the stage; the actor and other speeches; and a daughter of comedy, being the life of ada rehan. the impulse of all those writings, and of the present volume, is commemorative. let us save what we can._ _"sed omnes una manet nox, et calcanda semel via leti."_ w.w. april , . contents. chap. page i. the good old times ii. irving in faust iii. adelaide neilson iv. edwin booth v. mary anderson vi. olivia vii. on jefferson's autobiography viii. on jefferson's acting ix. jefferson and florence x. on the death of florence xi. shylock and portia xii. john mccullough xiii. charlotte cushman xiv. lawrence barrett xv. irving in ravenswood xvi. merry wives and falstaff xvii. ada rehan xviii. tennyson's foresters xix. ellen terry: merchant of venice xx. richard mansfield xxi. genevieve ward xxii. edward s. willard xxiii. salvini xxiv. irving as eugene aram xxv. charles fisher xxvi. mrs. gilbert xxvii. james lewis xxviii. a leaf from my journal _"--it so fell out that certain players we o'er-raught on the way: of these we told him; and there did seem in him a kind of joy to hear of it."_ hamlet. _"of all the cants which are canted in this canting world--though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst--the cant of criticism is the most tormenting. i would go fifty miles on foot, for i have not a horse worth riding on, to kiss the hand of that man who will give up the reins of his imagination into his author's hands,--be pleased he knows not why and cares not wherefore."_ tristram shandy. shadows of the stage. i. the good old times. it is recorded of john lowin, an actor contemporary with shakespeare and associated with several of shakespeare's greater characters (his range was so wide, indeed, that it included falstaff, henry the eighth, and hamlet), that, having survived the halcyon days of "eliza and our james" and lingered into the drab and russet period of the puritans, when all the theatres in the british islands were suppressed, he became poor and presently kept a tavern, at brentford, called the three pigeons. lowin was born in and he died in --his grave being in london, in the churchyard of st. martin-in-the-fields--so that, obviously, he was one of the veterans of the stage. he was in his seventy-eighth year when he passed away--wherefore in his last days he must have been "a mine of memories." he could talk of the stirring times of leicester, drake, essex, and raleigh. he could remember, as an event of his boyhood, the execution of queen mary stuart, and possibly he could describe, as an eye-witness, the splendid funeral procession of sir philip sidney. he could recall the death of queen elizabeth; the advent of scottish james; the ruffling, brilliant, dissolute, audacious duke of buckingham; the impeachment and disgrace of francis bacon; the production of the great plays of shakespeare and ben jonson; the meetings of the wits and poets at the apollo and the mermaid. he might have personally known robert herrick--that loveliest of the wild song-birds of that golden age. he might have been present at the burial of edmund spenser, in westminster abbey--when the poet brothers of the author of _the faerie queene_ cast into his grave their manuscript elegies and the pens with which those laments had been written. he had acted hamlet,--perhaps in the author's presence. he had seen the burning of the old globe theatre. he had been, in the early days of charles the first, the chief and distinguished falstaff of the time. he had lived under the rule of three successive princes; had deplored the sanguinary fate of the martyr-king (for the actors were almost always royalists); had seen the rise of the parliament and the downfall of the theatre; and now, under the protectorate of oliver cromwell, he had become the keeper of an humble wayside inn. it is easy to fancy the old actor sitting in his chair of state, the monarch of his tap-room, with a flagon of beer, and a church-warden pipe of tobacco, and holding forth, to a select circle of cronies, upon the vanished glories of the elizabethan stage--upon the days when there were persons in existence really worthy to be called actors. he could talk of richard burbage, the first romeo; of armin, famous in shakespeare's clowns and fools; of heminge and condell, who edited the first folio of shakespeare, which possibly he himself purchased, fresh from the press; of joseph taylor, whom it is said shakespeare personally instructed how to play hamlet, and the recollection of whose performance enabled sir william davenant to impart to betterton the example and tradition established by the author--a model that has lasted to the present day; of kempe, the original dogberry, and of the exuberant, merry richard tarleton, after whom that comic genius had fashioned his artistic method; of alleyne, who kept the bear-garden, and who founded the college and home at dulwich--where they still flourish; of gabriel spencer, and his duel with ben jonson, wherein he lost his life at the hands of that burly antagonist; of marlowe "of the mighty line," and his awful and lamentable death--stabbed at deptford by a drunken drawer in a tavern brawl. very rich and fine, there can be no doubt, were that veteran actor's remembrances of "the good old times," and most explicit and downright, it may surely be believed, was his opinion, freely communicated to the gossips of the three pigeons, that--in the felicitous satirical phrase of joseph jefferson--all the good actors are dead. it was ever thus. each successive epoch of theatrical history presents the same picturesque image of storied regret--memory incarnated in the veteran, ruefully vaunting the vanished glories of the past. there has always been a time when the stage was finer than it is now. cibber and macklin, surviving in the best days of garrick, peg woffington, and kitty clive, were always praising the better days of wilks, betterton, and elizabeth barry. aged play-goers of the period of edmund kean and john philip kemble were firmly persuaded that the drama had been buried, never to rise again, with the dust of garrick and henderson, beneath the pavement of westminster abbey. less than fifty years ago an american historian of the stage (james rees, ) described it as a wreck, overwhelmed with "gloom and eternal night," above which the genius of the drama was mournfully presiding, in the likeness of an owl. the new york veteran of to-day, although his sad gaze may not penetrate backward quite to the effulgent splendours of the old park, will sigh for burton's and the olympic, and the luminous period of mrs. richardson, mary taylor, and tom hamblin. the philadelphia veteran gazes back to the golden era of the old chestnut street theatre, the epoch of tie-wigs and shoe-buckles, the illustrious times of wood and warren, when fennell, cooke, cooper, wallack, and j.b. booth were shining names in tragedy, and jefferson and william twaits were great comedians, and the beautiful anne brunton was the queen of the stage. the boston veteran speaks proudly of the old federal and the old tremont, of mary duff, julia pelby, charles eaton, and clara fisher, and is even beginning to gild with reminiscent splendour the first days of the boston theatre, when thomas barry was manager and julia bennett barrow and mrs. john wood contended for the public favour. in a word, the age that has seen rachel, seebach, ristori, charlotte cushman, and adelaide neilson, the age that sees ellen terry, mary anderson, edwin booth, joseph jefferson, henry irving, salvini, coquelin, lawrence barrett, john gilbert, john s. clarke, ada rehan, james lewis, clara morris, and richard mansfield, is a comparatively sterile period--"too long shut in strait and few, thinly dieted on dew"--which ought to have felt the spell of cooper and mary buff, and known what acting was when cooke's long forefinger pointed the way, and dunlap bore the banner, and pretty mrs. marshall bewitched the father of his country, and dowton raised the laugh, and lovely mrs. barrett melted the heart, and the roses were "bright by the calm bendemeer." the present writer, who began theatre-going in earnest over thirty years ago, finds himself full often musing over a dramatic time that still seems brighter than this--when he could exult in the fairy splendour and comic humour of _aladdin_ and weep over the sorrows of _the drunkard_, when he was thrilled and frightened by j.b. booth in _the apostate_, and could find an ecstasy of pleasure in the loves of alonzo and cora and the sublime self-sacrifice of rolla. thoughts of such actors as henry wallack, george jordan, john brougham, john e. owens, mary carr, mrs. barrow, and charlotte thompson, together in the same theatre, are thoughts of brilliant people and of more than commonly happy displays of talent and beauty. the figures that used to be seen on wallack's stage, at the house he established upon the wreck of john brougham's lyceum, often rise in memory, crowned with a peculiar light. lester wallack, in his peerless elegance; laura keene, in her spiritual beauty; the quaint, eccentric walcot; the richly humorous blake, so noble in his dignity, so firm and fine and easy in his method, so copious in his natural humour; mary gannon, sweet, playful, bewitching, irresistible; mrs. vernon, as full of character as the tulip is of colour or the hyacinth of grace, and as delicate and refined as an exquisite bit of old china--those actors made a group, the like of which it would be hard to find now. shall we ever see again such an othello as edwin forrest, or such a lord duberly and cap'n cuttle as burton, or such a dazzle as john brougham, or such an affable hawk as charles mathews? certainly there was a superiority of manner, a tinge of intellectual character, a tone of grace and romance about the old actors, such as is not common in the present; and, making all needful allowance for the illusive glamour that memory casts over the distant and the dim, it yet remains true that the veterans of our day have a certain measure of right upon their side of the question. in the earlier periods of our theatrical history the strength of the stage was concentrated in a few theatres. the old park, for example, was called simply the theatre, and when the new york playgoer spoke of going to the play he meant that he was going there. one theatre, or perhaps two, might flourish, in a considerable town, during a part of the year, but the field was limited, and therefore the actors were brought together in two or three groups. the star system, at least till the time of cooper, seems to have been innocuous. garrick's prodigious success in london, more than a hundred years ago, had enabled him to engross the control of the stage in that centre, where he was but little opposed, and practically to exile many players of the first ability, whose lustre he dimmed or whose services he did not require; and those players dispersed themselves to distant places--to york, dublin, edinburgh, etc.--or crossed the sea to america. with that beginning the way was opened for the growth of superb stock-companies, in the early days of the american theatre. the english, next to the italians, were the first among modern peoples to create a dramatic literature and to establish the acted drama, and they have always led in this field--antedating, historically, and surpassing in essential things the french stage which nowadays it is fashionable to extol. english influence, at all times stern and exacting, stamped the character of our early theatre. the tone of society, alike in the mother country, in the colonies, and in the first years of our republic, was, as to these matters, formal and severe. success upon the stage was exceedingly difficult to obtain, and it could not be obtained without substantial merit. the youths who sought it were often persons of liberal education. in philadelphia, new york, and boston the stock-companies were composed of select and thoroughly trained actors, many of whom were well-grounded classical scholars. furthermore, the epoch was one of far greater leisure and repose than are possible now--- when the civilised world is at the summit of sixty years of scientific development such as it had not experienced in all its recorded centuries of previous progress. naturally enough the dramatic art of our ancestors was marked by scholar-like and thorough elaboration, mellow richness of colour, absolute simplicity of character, and great solidity of merit. such actors as wignell, hodgkinson, jefferson, francis, and blissett offered no work that was not perfect of its kind. the tradition had been established and accepted, and it was transmitted and preserved. everything was concentrated, and the public grew to be entirely familiar with it. men, accordingly, who obtained their ideas of acting at a time when they were under influences surviving from those ancient days are confused, bewildered, and distressed by much that is offered in the theatres now. i have listened to the talk of an aged american acquaintance (thurlow weed), who had seen and known edmund kean, and who said that all modern tragedians were insignificant in comparison with him. i have listened to the talk of an aged english acquaintance (fladgate), who had seen and known john philip kemble, and who said that his equal has never since been revealed. the present day knows what the old school was,[ ] when it sees william warren, joseph jefferson, charles fisher, mrs. john drew, john gilbert, j.h. stoddart, mrs. g.h. gilbert, william davidge, and lester wallack--the results and the remains of it. the old touch survives in them and is under their control, and no one, seeing their ripe and finished art, can feel surprise that the veteran moralist should be wedded to his idols of the past, and should often be heard sadly to declare that all the good actors--except these--are dead. he forgets that scores of theatres now exist where once there were but two or three; that the population of the united states has been increased by about fifty millions within ninety years; that the field has been enormously broadened; that the character of, the audience has become one of illimitable diversity; that the prodigious growth of the star-system, together with all sorts of experimental catch-penny theatrical management, is one of the inevitable necessities of the changed condition of civilisation; that the feverish tone of this great struggling and seething mass of humanity is necessarily reflected in the state of the theatre; and that the forces of the stage have become very widely diffused. such a moralist would necessarily be shocked by the changes that have come upon our theatre within even the last twenty-five years--by the advent of "the sensation drama," invented and named by dion boucicault; by the resuscitation of the spectacle play, with its lavish tinsel and calcium glare and its multitudinous nymphs; by the opera bouffe, with its frequent licentious ribaldry; by the music-hall comedian, with his vulgar realism; and by the idiotic burlesque; with its futile babble and its big-limbed, half-naked girls. nevertheless there are just as good actors now living as have ever lived, and there is just as fine a sense of dramatic art in the community as ever existed in any of "the palmy days"; only, what was formerly concentrated is now scattered. the stage is keeping step with the progress of human thought in every direction, and it will continue to advance. evil influences impressed upon it there certainly are, in liberal abundance--not the least of these being that of the speculative shop-keeper, whose nature it is to seize any means of turning a penny, and who deals in dramatic art precisely as he would deal in groceries: but when we speak of "our stage" we do not mean an aggregation of shows or of the schemes of showmen. the stage is an institution that has grown out of a necessity in human nature. it was as inevitable that man should evolve the theatre as it was that he should evolve the church, the judiciary tribunal, the parliament, or any other essential component of the state. almost all human beings possess the dramatic perception; a few possess the dramatic faculty. these few are born for the stage, and each and every generation contributes its number to the service of this art. the problem is one of selection and embarkation. of the true actor it may be said, as ben jonson says of the true poet, that he is made as well as born. the finest natural faculties have never yet been known to avail without training and culture. but this is a problem which, in a great measure, takes care of itself and in time works out and submits its own solution. the anomaly, every day presented, of the young person who, knowing nothing, feeling nothing, and having nothing to communicate except the desire of communication, nevertheless rushes upon the stage, is felt to be absurd. where the faculty as well as the instinct exists, however, impulse soon recognises the curb of common sense, and the aspirant finds his level. in this way the dramatic profession is recruited. in this way the several types of dramatic artist--each type being distinct and each being expressive of a sequence from mental and spiritual ancestry--are maintained. it is not too much to say that a natural law operates silently and surely behind each seemingly capricious chance, in this field of the conduct of life. a thoroughly adequate dramatic stock-company may almost be said to be a thing of natural accretion. it is made up, like every other group, of the old, the middle-aged, and the young; but, unlike every other group, it must contain the capacity to present, in a concrete image, each elemental type of human nature, and to reproduce, with the delicate exaggeration essential to dramatic art, every species of person; in order that all human life--whether of the street, the dwelling, the court, the camp, man in his common joys and sorrows, his vices, crimes, miseries, his loftiest aspirations and most ideal state--may be so copied that the picture will express all its beauty and sweetness, all its happiness and mirth, all its dignity, and all its moral admonition and significance, for the benefit of the world. such a dramatic stock-company, for example (and this is but one of the commendable products of the modern stage), has grown up and crystallised into a form of refined power and symmetry, for the purpose to which it is devoted, under the management of augustin daly. that purpose is the acting of comedy. mr. daly began management in , and he has remained in it, almost continually, from that time to this. many players, first and last, have served under his direction. his company has known vicissitudes. but the organisation has not lost its comprehensive form, its competent force, and its attractive quality of essential grace. no thoughtful observer of its career can have failed to perceive how prompt the manager has been to profit by every lesson of experience; what keen perception he has shown as to the essential constituents of a theatrical troop; with what fine judgment he has used the forces at his disposal; with what intrepid resolution and expeditious energy he has animated their spirit and guided their art; and how naturally those players have glided into their several stations and assimilated in one artistic family. how well balanced, how finely equipped, how distinctively able that company is, and what resources of poetry, thought, taste, character, humour, and general capacity it contains, may not, perhaps, be fully appreciated in the passing hour. "_non, si male nunc, et olim sic erit._" fifty years from now, when perchance some veteran, still bright and cheery "in the chimney-nook of age," shall sit in his armchair and prose about the past, with what complacent exultation will he speak of the beautiful ada rehan, so bewitching as peggy in _the country girl_, so radiant, vehement, and stormily passionate as katherine; of manly john drew, with his nonchalant ease, incisive tone, and crisp and graceful method; of noble charles fisher, and sprightly and sparkling james lewis, and genial, piquant, quaint mrs. gilbert! i mark the gentle triumph in that aged reminiscent voice, and can respect an old man's kindly and natural sympathy with the glories and delights of his vanished youth. but i think it is not necessary to wait till you are old before you begin to praise anything, and then to praise only the dead. let us recognise what is good in our own time, and honour and admire it with grateful hearts. * * * * * note.--at the garrick club, london, june , , it was my fortune to meet mr. fladgate, "father of the garrick," who was then aged . the veteran displayed astonishing resources of memory and talked most instructively about the actors of the kemble period. he declared john philip kemble to have been the greatest of actors, and said that his best impersonations were penruddock, zanga, and coriolanus. mrs. siddons, he said, was incomparable, and the elder mathews a great genius,--the precursor of dickens. for edmund kean he had no enthusiasm. kean, he said, was at his best in sir edward mortimer, and after that in shylock. miss o'neill he remembered as the perfect juliet: a beautiful, blue-eyed woman, who could easily weep, and who retained her beauty to the last, dying at , as lady wrixon becher. [footnote : this paper was written in , and now, in , mr. jefferson, mr. stoddart, mrs. drew, and mrs. gilbert are the only survivors of that noble group.] ii. henry irving and ellen terry in faust. it is not surprising that the votaries of goethe's colossal poem--a work which, although somewhat deformed and degraded with the pettiness of provincialism, is yet a grand and immortal creation of genius--should find themselves dissatisfied with theatrical expositions of it. although dramatic in form the poem is not continuously, directly, and compactly dramatic in movement. it cannot be converted into a play without being radically changed in structure and in the form of its diction. more disastrous still, in the eyes of those votaries, it cannot be and it never has been converted into a play without a considerable sacrifice of its contents, its comprehensive scope, its poetry, and its ethical significance. in the poem it is the man who predominates; it is not the fiend. mephistopheles, indeed, might, for the purpose of philosophical apprehension, be viewed as an embodied projection of the mind of faust; for the power of the one is dependent absolutely upon the weakness and surrender of the other. the object of the poem was the portrayal of universal humanity in a typical form at its highest point of development and in its representative spiritual experience. faust, an aged scholar, the epitome of human faculties and virtues, grand, venerable, beneficent, blameless, is passing miserably into the evening of life. he has done no outward and visible wrong, and yet he is wretched. the utter emptiness of his life--its lack of fulfilment, its lack of sensation--wearies, annoys, disgusts, and torments him. he is divided between an apathy, which heavily weighs him down into the dust, and a passionate, spiritual longing, intense, unsatisfied, insatiable, which almost drives him to frenzy. once, at sunset, standing on a hillside, and looking down upon a peaceful valley, he utters, in a poetic strain of exquisite tenderness and beauty, the final wish of his forlorn and weary soul. it is no longer now the god-like aspiration and imperious desire of his prime, but it is the sufficient alternative. all he asks now is that he may see the world always as in that sunset vision, in the perfection of happy rest; that he may be permitted, soaring on the wings of the spirit, to follow the sun in its setting ("the day before me and the night behind"), and thus to circle forever round and round this globe, the ecstatic spectator of happiness and peace. he has had enough and more than enough of study, of struggle, of unfulfilled aspiration. lonely dignity, arid renown, satiety, sorrow, knowledge without hope, and age without comfort,--these are his present portion; and a little way onward, waiting for him, is death. too old to play with passion, too young not to feel desire, he has endured a long struggle between the two souls in his breast--one longing for heaven and the other for the world; but he is beaten at last, and in the abject surrender of despair he determines to die by his own act. a childlike feeling, responsive in his heart to the divine prompting of sacred music, saves him from self-murder; but in a subsequent bitter revulsion he utters a curse upon everything in the state of man, and most of all upon that celestial attribute of patience whereby man is able to endure and to advance in the eternal process of evolution from darkness into light. and now it is, when the soul of the human being, utterly baffled by the mystery of creation, crushed by its own hopeless sorrow, and enraged by the everlasting command to renounce and refrain, has become one delirium of revolt against god and destiny, that the spirit of perpetual denial, incarnated in mephistopheles, steps forth to proffer guidance and help. it is as if his rejection and defiance had suddenly become embodied, to aid him in his ruin. more in recklessness than in trust, with no fear, almost with scorn and contempt, he yet agrees to accept this assistance. if happiness be really possible, if the true way, after all, should lie in the life of the senses, and not in knowledge and reason; if, under the ministrations of this fiend, one hour of life, even one moment of it, shall ever (which is an idle and futile supposition) be so sweet that his heart shall desire it to linger, then, indeed, he will surrender himself eternally to this at present preposterous mephistopheles, whom his mood, his magic, and the revulsion of his moral nature have evoked:-- "then let the death-bell chime the token! then art thou from thy service free! the clock may stop, the hand be broken, and time be finished unto me." such an hour, it is destined, shall arrive, after many long and miserable years, when, aware of the beneficence of living for others and in the imagined prospect of leading, guiding, and guarding a free people upon a free land, faust shall be willing to say to the moment: "stay, thou art so fair"; and mephistopheles shall harshly cry out: "the clock stands still"; and the graybeard shall sink in the dust; and the holy angels shall fly away with his soul, leaving the fiend baffled and morose, to gibe at himself over the failure of all his infernal arts. but, meanwhile, it remains true of the man that no pleasure satisfies him and no happiness contents, and "death is desired, and life a thing unblest." the man who puts out his eyes must become blind. the sin of faust is a spiritual sin, and the meaning of all his subsequent terrible experience is that spiritual sin must be--and will be--expiated. no human soul can ever be lost. in every human soul the contest between good and evil must continue until the good has conquered and the evil is defeated and eradicated. then, when the man's spirit is adjusted to its environment in the spiritual world, it will be at peace--and not till then. and if this conflict is not waged and completed now and here, it must be and it will be fought out and finished hereafter and somewhere else. it is the greatest of all delusions to suppose that you can escape from yourself. judgment and retribution proceed within the soul and not from sources outside of it. that is the philosophic drift of the poet's thought expressed and implied in his poem. it was man, in his mortal ordeal--the motive, cause, and necessity of which remain a mystery--whom he desired and aimed to portray; it was not merely the triumph of a mocking devil, temporarily victorious through ministration to animal lust and intellectual revolt, over the weakness of the carnal creature and the embittered bewilderment of the baffled mind. mr. irving may well say, as he is reported to have said, that he will consider himself to have accomplished a good work if his production of faust should have the effect of invigorating popular interest in goethe's immortal poem and bringing closer home to the mind of his public a true sense of its sublime and far-reaching signification. the full metaphysical drift of thought and meaning in goethe's poem, however, can be but faintly indicated in a play. it is more distinctly indicated in mr. wills's play, which is used by mr. irving, than in any other play upon this subject that has been presented. this result, an approximate fidelity to the original, is due in part to the preservation of the witch scenes, in part to mr. irving's subtle and significant impersonation of mephistopheles, and in part to a weird investiture of spiritual mystery with which he has artfully environed the whole production. the substance of the piece is the love story of faust and margaret, yet beyond this is a background of infinity, and over and around this is a poetic atmosphere charged with suggestiveness of supernatural agency in the fate of man. if the gaze of the observer be concentrated upon the mere structure of the piece, the love story is what he will find; and that is all he will find. faust makes his compact with the fiend. he is rejuvenated and he begins a new life. in "the witch's kitchen" his passions are intensified, and then they are ignited, so that he may be made the slave of desire and afterward if possible imbruted by sensuality. he is artfully brought into contact with margaret, whom he instantly loves, who presently loves him, whom he wins, and upon whom, since she becomes a mother out of wedlock, his inordinate and reckless love imposes the burden of pious contrition and worldly shame. then, through the puissant wickedness and treachery of mephistopheles, he is made to predominate over her vengeful brother, valentine, whom he kills in a street fray. thus his desire to experience in his own person the most exquisite bliss that humanity can enjoy and equally the most exquisite torture that it can suffer, becomes fulfilled. he is now the agonised victim of love and of remorse. orestes pursued by the furies was long ago selected as the typical image of supreme anguish and immitigable suffering; but orestes is less a lamentable figure than faust--fortified though he is, and because he is, with the awful but malign, treacherous, and now impotent sovereignty of hell. to deaden his sensibility, destroy his conscience, and harden him in evil the fiend leads him into a mad revel of boundless profligacy and bestial riot--denoted by the beautiful and terrible scene upon the brocken--and poor margaret is abandoned to her shame, her wandering, her despair, her frenzy, her crime, and her punishment. this desertion, though, is procured by a stratagem of the fiend and does not proceed from the design of her lover. the expedient of mephistopheles, to lull his prey by dissipations, is a failure. faust finds them "tasteless," and he must return to margaret. he finds her in prison, crazed and dying, and he strives in vain to set her free. there is a climax, whereat, while her soul is borne upward by angels he--whose destiny must yet be fulfilled--is summoned by the terrible voice of satan. this is the substance of what is shown; but if the gaze of the observer pierces beyond this, if he is able to comprehend that terrific but woeful image of the fallen angel, if he perceives what is by no means obscurely intimated, that margaret, redeemed and beatified, cannot be happy unless her lover also is saved, and that the soul of faust can only be lost through the impossible contingency of being converted into the likeness of the fiend, he will understand that a spectacle has been set before him more august, momentous, and sublime than any episode of tragical human love could ever be. henry irving, in his embodiment of mephistopheles, fulfilled the conception of the poet in one essential respect and transcended it in another. his performance, superb in ideal and perfect in execution, was a great work--and precisely here was the greatness of it. mephistopheles as delineated by goethe is magnificently intellectual and sardonic, but nowhere does he convey even a faint suggestion of the god-head of glory from which he has lapsed. his own frank and clear avowal of himself leaves no room for doubt as to the limitation intended to be established for him by the poet. i am, he declares, the spirit that perpetually denies. i am a part of that part which once was all--a part of that darkness out of which came the light. i repudiate all things--because everything that has been made is unworthy to exist and ought to be destroyed, and therefore it is better that nothing should ever have been made. god dwells in splendour, alone and eternal, but his spirits he thrusts into darkness, and man, a poor creature fashioned to poke his nose into filth, he sportively dowers with day and night. my province is evil; my existence is mockery; my pleasure and my purpose are destruction. in a word, this fiend, towering to the loftiest summit of cold intellect, is the embodiment of cruelty, malice, and scorn, pervaded and interfused with grim humour. that ideal mr. irving made actual. the omniscient craft and deadly malignity of his impersonation, swathed in a most specious humour at some moments (as, for example, in margaret's bedroom, in the garden scene with martha, and in the duel scene with valentine) made the blood creep and curdle with horror, even while they impressed the sense of intellectual power and stirred the springs of laughter. but if you rightly saw his face, in the fantastic, symbolical scene of the witch's kitchen; in that lurid moment of sunset over the quaint gables and haunted spires of nuremburg, when the sinister presence of the arch-fiend deepened the red glare of the setting sun and seemed to bathe this world in the ominous splendour of hell; and, above all, if you perceived the soul that shone through his eyes in that supremely awful moment of his predominance over the hellish revel upon the brocken, when all the hideous malignities of nature and all those baleful "spirits which tend on mortal consequence" are loosed into the aerial abyss, and only this imperial horror can curb and subdue them, you knew that this mephistopheles was a sufferer not less than a mocker; that his colossal malignity was the delirium of an angelic spirit thwarted, baffled, shattered, yet defiant; never to be vanquished; never through all eternity to be at peace with itself. the infinite sadness of that face, the pathos, beyond words, of that isolated and lonely figure--those are the qualities that irradiated all its diversified attributes of mind, humour, duplicity, sarcasm, force, horror, and infernal beauty, and invested it with the authentic quality of greatness. there is no warrant for this treatment of the part to be derived from goethe's poem. there is every warrant for it in the apprehension of this tremendous subject by the imagination of a great actor. you cannot mount above the earth, you cannot transcend the ordinary line of the commonplace, as a mere sardonic image of self-satisfied, chuckling obliquity. mr. irving embodied mephistopheles not as a man but as a spirit, with all that the word implies, and in doing that he not only heeded the fine instinct of the true actor but the splendid teaching of the highest poetry--the ray of supernal light that flashes from the old hebrew bible; the blaze that streams from the _paradise lost_; the awful glory through which, in the pages of byron, the typical figure of agonised but unconquerable revolt towers over a realm of ruin:-- "on his brow the thunder-scars are graven; from his eye glares forth the immortality of hell." ellen terry, in her assumption of margaret, once more displayed that profound, comprehensive, and particular knowledge of human love--that knowledge of it through the soul and not simply the mind--which is the source of her exceptional and irresistible power. this margaret was a woman who essentially loves, who exists only for love, who has the courage of her love, who gives all for love--not knowing that it is a sacrifice--and whose love, at last, triumphant over death, is not only her own salvation but that also of her lover. the point of strict conformity to the conception of the poet, in physique and in spiritual state, may be waived. goethe's margaret is a handsome, hardy girl, of humble rank, who sometimes uses bad grammar and who reveals no essential mind. she is just a delicious woman, and there is nothing about her either metaphysical or mysterious. the wise fiend, who knows that with such a man as faust the love of such a woman must outweigh all the world, wisely tempts him with her, and infernally lures him to the accomplishment of her ruin. but it will be observed that, aside from the infraction of the law of man, the loves of faust and margaret are not only innocent but sacred. this sanctity mephistopheles can neither pollute nor control, and through this he loses his victims. ellen terry's margaret was a delicious woman, and not metaphysical nor mysterious; but it was margaret imbued with the temperament of ellen terry,--who, if ever an exceptional creature lived, is exceptional in every particular. in her embodiment she transfigured the character: she maintained it in an ideal world, and she was the living epitome of all that is fascinating in essential womanhood--glorified by genius. it did not seem like acting but like the revelation of a hallowed personal experience upon which no chill worldly gaze should venture to intrude. in that suggestive book in which lady pollock records her recollections of macready it is said that once, after his retirement, on reading a london newspaper account of the production of a shakespearean play, he remarked that "evidently the accessories swallow up the poetry and the action": and he proceeded, in a reminiscent and regretful mood, to speak as follows: "in my endeavour to give to shakespeare all his attributes, to enrich his poetry with scenes worthy of its interpretation, to give to his tragedies their due magnificence and to his comedies their entire brilliancy, i have set an example which is accompanied with great peril, for the public is willing to have the magnificence without the tragedy, and the poet is swallowed up in display." mr. irving is the legitimate successor to macready and he has encountered that same peril. there are persons--many of them--who think that it is a sign of weakness to praise cordially and to utter admiration with a free heart. they are mistaken, but no doubt they are sincere. shakespeare, the wisest of monitors, is never so eloquent and splendid as when he makes one of his people express praise of another. look at those speeches in _coriolanus_. such niggardly persons, in their detraction of henry irving, are prompt to declare that he is a capital stage manager but not a great actor. this has an impartial air and a sapient sound, but it is gross folly and injustice. henry irving is one of the greatest actors that have ever lived, and he has shown it over and over again. his acting is all the more effective because associated with unmatched ability to insist and insure that every play shall be perfectly well set, in every particular, and that every part in it shall be competently acted. but his genius and his ability are no more discredited than those of macready were by his attention to technical detail and his insistence upon total excellence of result. it should be observed, however, that he has carried stage garniture to an extreme limit. his investiture of _faust_ was so magnificent that possibly it may have tended in the minds of many spectators, to obscure and overwhelm the fine intellectual force, the beautiful delicacy, and the consummate art with which he embodied mephistopheles. it ought not to have produced that effect--because, in fact, the spectacle presented was, actually and truly, that of a supernatural being, predominant by force of inherent strength and charm over the broad expanse of the populous and teeming world; but it might have produced it: and, for the practical good of the art of acting, progress in that direction has gone far enough. the supreme beauty of the production was the poetic atmosphere of it--the irradiation of that strange sensation of being haunted which sometimes will come upon you, even at noon-day, in lonely places, on vacant hillside, beneath the dark boughs of great trees, in the presence of the grim and silent rocks, and by the solitary margin of the sea. the feeling was that of goethe's own weird and suggestive scene of the open field, the black horses, and the raven-stone; or that of the shuddering lines of coleridge:-- "as one that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and, having once turned round, walks on and turns no more his head, because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread." iii. adelaide neilson as imogen and juliet. shakespeare's drama of _cymbeline_ seems not at any time in the history of the stage to have been a favourite with theatrical audiences. in new york it has had but five revivals in more than a hundred years, and those occurred at long intervals and were of brief continuance. the names of thomas barry, mrs. shaw-hamblin (eliza marian trewar), and julia bennett barrow are best remembered in association with it on the american stage. it had slept for more than a generation when, in the autumn of , adelaide neilson revived it at philadelphia; but since then it has been reproduced by several of her imitators. she first offered it on the new york stage in may , and it was then seen that her impersonation of imogen was one of the best of her works. if it be the justification of the stage as an institution of public benefit and social advancement, that it elevates humanity by presenting noble ideals of human nature and making them exemplars and guides, that justification was practically accomplished by that beautiful performance. the poetry of _cymbeline_ is eloquent and lovely. the imagination of its appreciative reader, gliding lightly over its more sinister incidents, finds its story romantic, its accessories--both of the court and the wilderness--picturesque, its historic atmosphere novel and exciting, and the spirit of it tender and noble. such a reader, likewise, fashions its characters into an ideal form which cannot be despoiled by comparison with a visible standard of reality. it is not, however, an entirely pleasant play to witness. the acting version, indeed, is considerably condensed from the original, by the excision of various scenes explanatory of the conduct of the story, and by the omission of the cumbersome vision of leonatus; and the gain of brevity thereby made helps to commend the work to a more gracious acceptance than it would be likely to obtain if acted exactly according to shakespeare. its movement also is imbued with additional alacrity by a rearrangement of its divisions. it is customarily presented in six acts. yet, notwithstanding the cutting and editing to which it has been subjected, _cymbeline_ remains somewhat inharmonious alike with the needs of the stage and the apprehension of the public. for this there are several causes. one perhaps is its mixed character, its vague, elusive purpose, and its unreality of effect. from the nature of his story--a tale of stern facts and airy inventions, respecting britain and rome, two thousand years ago--the poet seems to have been compelled to make a picture of human life too literal to be viewed wholly as an ideal, and too romantic to be viewed wholly as literal. in the unequivocally great plays of shakespeare the action moves like the mighty flow of some resistless river. in this one it advances with the diffusive and straggling movement of a summer cloud. the drift and meaning of the piece, accordingly, do not stand boldly out. that astute thinker, ulrici, for instance, after much brooding upon it, ties his mental legs in a hard knot and says that shakespeare intended, in this piece, to illustrate that man is not the master of his own destiny. there must be liberal scope for conjecture when a philosopher can make such a landing as that. the persons in _cymbeline_, moreover--aside from the exceptional character of imogen--do not come home to a spectator's realisation, whether of sympathy or repugnance. it is like the flower that thrives best under glass but shivers and wilts in the open air. its poetry seems marred by the rude touch of the actual. its delicious mountain scenes lose their woodland fragrance. its motive, bluntly disclosed in the wager scene, seems coarse, unnatural, and offensive. its plot, really simple, moves heavily and perplexes attention. it is a piece that lacks pervasive concentration and enthralling point. it might be defined as _othello_ with a difference--the difference being in favour of _othello_. jealousy is the pivot of both: but in _othello_ jealousy is treated with profound and searching truth, with terrible intensity of feeling, and with irresistible momentum of action. a spectator will honour and pity othello, and hate and execrate iago--with some infusion, perhaps of impatience toward the one and of admiration for the other--but he is likely to view both leonatus and iachimo with considerable indifference; he will casually recognise the infrequent cymbeline as an ill-tempered, sonorous old donkey; he will give a passing smile of scornful disgust to cloten--that vague hybrid of roderigo and oswald; and of the proceedings of the queen and the fortunes of the royal family--whether as affected by the chemical experiments of doctor cornelius or the bellicose attitude of augustus cæsar, in reaching for his british tribute--he will be practically unconscious. this result comes of commingling stern fact and pastoral fancy in such a way that an auditor of the composition is dubious whether to fix his senses steadfastly on the one or yield up his spirit to poetic reverie on the other. coleridge--whose intuitions as to such matters were usually as good as recorded truth--thought that shakespeare wrote _cymbeline_ in his youthful period. he certainly does not manifest in it the cogent and glittering dramatic force that is felt in _othello_ and _macbeth_. the probability is that he wrought upon the old legend of holinshed in a mood of intellectual caprice, inclining towards sensuous and fanciful dalliance with a remote and somewhat intangible subject. those persons who explain the immense fecundity of his creative genius by alleging that he must steadily have kept in view the needs of the contemporary theatre seem to forget that he went much further in his plays than there was any need for him to go, in the satisfaction of such a purpose, and that those plays are, in general, too great for any stage that has existed. shakespeare, it is certain, could not have been an exception to the law that every author must be conscious of a feeling, apart from intellectual purpose, that carries him onward in his art. the feeling that shines through _cymbeline_ is a loving delight in the character of imogen. the nature of that feeling and the quality of that character, had they been obscure, would have been made clear by adelaide neilson's embodiment. the personality that she presented was typical and unusual. it embodied virtue, neither hardened by austerity nor vapid with excess of goodness, and it embodied seductive womanhood, without one touch of wantonness or guile. it presented a woman innately good and radiantly lovely, who amid severest trials spontaneously and unconsciously acted with the ingenuous grace of childhood, the grandest generosity, the most constant spirit. the essence of imogen's nature is fidelity. faithful to love, even till death, she is yet more faithful to honour. her scorn of falsehood is overwhelming; but she resents no injury, harbours no resentment, feels no spite, murmurs at no misfortune. from every blow of evil she recovers with a gentle patience that is infinitely pathetic. passionate and acutely sensitive, she yet seems never to think of antagonising her affliction or to falter in her unconscious fortitude. she has no reproach--but only a grieved submission--for the husband who has wronged her by his suspicions and has doomed her to death. she thinks only of him, not of herself, when she beholds him, as she supposes, dead at her side; but even then she will submit and endure--she will but "weep and sigh" and say twice o'er "a century of prayers." she is only sorry for the woman who was her deadly enemy and who hated her for her goodness--so often the incitement of mortal hatred. she loses without a pang the heirship to a kingdom. an ideal thus poised in goodness and radiant in beauty might well have sustained--as undoubtedly it did sustain--the inspiration of shakespeare. adelaide neilson, with her uncommon graces of person, found it easy to make the chamber scene and the cave scenes pictorial and charming. her ingenuous trepidation and her pretty wiles, as fidele, in the cave, were finely harmonious with the character and arose from it like odour from a flower. the innocence, the glee, the feminine desire to please, the pensive grace, the fear, the weakness, and the artless simplicity made up a state of gracious fascination. it was, however, in the revolt against iachimo's perfidy, in the fall before pisanio's fatal disclosure, and in the frenzy over the supposed death of leonatus that the actress put forth electrical power and showed how strong emotion, acting through the imagination, can transfigure the being and give to love or sorrow a monumental semblance and an everlasting voice. the power was harmonious with the individuality and did not mar its grace. there was a perfect preservation of sustained identity, and this was expressed with such a sweet elocution and such an airy freedom of movement and naturalness of gesture that the observer almost forgot to notice the method of the mechanism and quite forgot that he was looking upon a fiction and a shadow. that her personation of imogen, though more exalted in its nature than any of her works, excepting isabella, would rival in public acceptance her juliet, viola, or rosalind, was not to be expected: it was too much a passive condition--delicate and elusive--and too little an active effort. she woke into life the sleeping spirit of a rather repellant drama, and was "alone the arabian bird." shakespeare's juliet, the beautiful, ill-fated heroine of his consummate poem of love and sorrow, was the most effective, if not the highest of adelaide neilson's tragic assumptions. it carried to every eye and to every heart the convincing and thrilling sense equally of her beauty and her power. the exuberant womanhood, the celestial affection, the steadfast nobility, and the lovely, childlike innocence of imogen--shown through the constrained medium of a diffusive romance--were not to all minds appreciable on the instant. the gentle sadness of viola, playing around her gleeful animation and absorbing it as the cup of the white lily swallows the sunshine, might well be, for the more blunt senses of the average auditor, dim, fitful, evanescent, and ineffective. ideal heroism and dream-like fragrance--the colours of murillo or the poems of heine--are truly known but to exceptional natures or in exceptional moods. the reckless, passionate idolatry of juliet, on the contrary,--with its attendant sacrifice, its climax of disaster, and its sequel of anguish and death,--stands forth as clearly as the white line of the lightning on a black midnight sky, and no observer can possibly miss its meaning. all that juliet is, all that she acts and all that she suffers, is elemental. it springs directly from the heart and it moves straight onward like a shaft of light. othello, the perfection of simplicity, is not simpler than juliet. in him are embodied passion and jealousy, swayed by an awful instinct of rude justice. in her is embodied unmixed and immitigable passion, without law, limit, reason, patience, or restraint. she is love personified and therefore a fatality to herself. presented in that way--and in that way she was presented by adelaide neilson--her nature and her experience come home to the feelings as well as the imagination, and all that we know, as well as all that we dream, of beauty and of anguish are centred in one image. in this we may see all the terrors of the moving hand of fate. in this we may almost hear a warning voice out of heaven, saying that nowhere except in duty shall the human heart find refuge and peace--or, if not peace, submission. the question whether shakespeare's juliet be correctly interpreted is not one of public importance. it might be ever so correctly interpreted without producing the right effect. there have been many juliets. there has, in our time, been no juliet so completely fascinating and irresistible as that of adelaide neilson. through the medium of that shakespearean character the actress poured forth that strange, thrilling, indescribable power which more than anything else in the world vindicates by its existence the spiritual grandeur and destiny of the human soul. neither the accuracy of her ideals nor the fineness of her execution would have accomplished the result that attended her labours and crowned her fame. there was an influence back of these--a spark of the divine fire--a consecration of the individual life--as eloquent to inform as it was potent to move. adelaide neilson was one of those strange, exceptional natures that, often building better than they know, not only interpret "the poet's dream" but give to it an added emphasis and a higher symbolism. each element of her personality was rich and rare. the eyes--now glittering with a mischievous glee that seemed never to have seen a cloud or felt a sorrow, now steady, frank, and sweet, with innocence and trust,--could, in one moment, flash with the wild fire of defiance or the glittering light of imperious command, or, equally in one moment, could soften with mournful thought and sad remembrance, or darken with the far-off look of one who hears the waving wings of angels and talks with the spirits of the dead. the face, just sufficiently unsymmetrical to be brimful of character, whether piquant or pensive; the carriage of body,--easy yet quaint in its artless grace, like that of a pretty child in the unconscious fascination of infancy; the restless, unceasing play of mood, and the instantaneous and perfect response of expression and gesture,--all these were the denotements of genius; and, above all these, and not to be mistaken in its irradiation of the interior spirit of that extraordinary creature, was a voice of perfect music--rich, sonorous, flexible, vibrant, copious in volume, yet delicate as a silver thread--a voice "like the whisper of the woods in prime of even, when the stars are few." it did not surprise that such a woman should truly act juliet. much though there be in a personality that is assumed, there is much more in the personality that assumes it. golden fire in a porcelain vase would not be more luminous than was the soul of that actress as it shone through her ideal of juliet. the performance did not stop short at the interpretation of a poetic fancy. it was amply and completely that--but it was more than that, being also a living experience. the subtlety of it was only equalled by its intensity, and neither was surpassed except by its reality. the moment she came upon the scene all eyes followed her, and every imaginative mind was vaguely conscious of something strange and sad--a feeling of perilous suspense--a dark presentiment of impending sorrow. in that was felt at once the presence of a nature to which the experience of juliet would be possible; and thus the conquest of human sympathy was effected at the outset--by a condition, and without the exercise of a single effort. fate no less than art participated in the result. though it was the music of shakespeare that flowed from the harp, it was the hand of living genius that smote the strings; it was the soul of a great woman that bore its vital testimony to the power of the universal passion. never was poet truer to the highest truth of spiritual life than shakespeare is when he invests with ineffable mournfulness--shadowy as twilight, vague as the remembrance of a dream--those creatures of his fancy who are preordained to suffering and a miserable death. never was there sounded a truer note of poetry than that which thrills in othello's, "if it were now to die," or sobs in juliet's "too early seen unknown, and known too late." it was the exquisite felicity of adelaide neilson's acting of juliet that she glided into harmony with that tragical undertone, and, with seemingly a perfect unconsciousness of it--whether prattling to the old nurse, or moving, sweetly grave and softly demure, through the stately figures of the minuet--was already marked off from among the living, already overshadowed by a terrible fate, already alone in the bleak loneliness of the broken heart. striking the keynote thus, the rest followed in easy sequence. the ecstasy of the wooing scene, the agony of the final parting from romeo, the forlorn tremor and passionate frenzy of the terrible night before the burial, the fearful awakening, the desperation, the paroxysm, the death-blow that then is mercy and kindness,--all these were in unison with the spirit at first denoted, and through these was naturally accomplished its prefigured doom. if clearly to possess a high purpose, to follow it directly, to accomplish it thoroughly, to adorn it with every grace, to conceal every vestige of its art, and to cast over the art that glamour of poetry which ennobles while it charms, and while it dazzles also endears,--if this is greatness in acting, then was adelaide neilson's juliet a great embodiment. it never will be forgotten. its soft romance of tone, its splendour of passion, its sustained energy, its beauty of speech, and its poetic fragrance are such as fancy must always cherish and memory cannot lose. placing this embodiment beside imogen and viola, it was easy to understand the secret of her extraordinary success. she satisfied for all kinds of persons the sense of the ideal. to youthful fancy she was the radiant vision of love and pleasure; to grave manhood, the image of all that chivalry should honour and strength protect; to woman, the type of noble goodness and constant affection; to the scholar, a relief from thought and care; to the moralist, a spring of tender pity--that loveliness, however exquisite, must fade and vanish. childhood, mindful of her kindness and her frolic, scattered flowers at her feet; and age, that knows the thorny pathways of the world, whispered its silent prayer and laid its trembling hands in blessing on her head. she sleeps beneath a white marble cross in brompton cemetery, and all her triumphs and glories have dwindled to a handful of dust. * * * * * note on cymbeline.--genest records productions of shakespeare's _cymbeline_, in london, as follows: haymarket, november , ; covent garden, april , ; drury lane, november , ; covent garden, december , ; drury lane, december , ; haymarket, august , ; covent garden, october , ; drury lane, november , , and january and march , ; covent garden, may , , january , , june , , may , , and june , ; and drury lane, february , ; imogen was represented, successively, by mrs. pritchard, miss bride, mrs. yates, mrs. barry, mrs. bulkley, miss younge, mrs. jordan, mrs. siddons, mrs. pope, miss smith, mrs. h. johnston miss stephens, miss foote, and miss phillips. later representatives of it were sally booth, helen faucit, and laura addison. iv. edwin booth. there was a great shower of meteors on the night of november , , and on that night, near baltimore, maryland, was born the most famous tragic actor of america in this generation, edwin booth. no other american actor of this century has had a rise so rapid or a career so early and continuously brilliant as that of edwin booth. his father, the renowned junius brutus booth, had hallowed the family name with distinction and romantic interest. if ever there was a genius upon the stage the elder booth was a genius. his wonderful eyes, his tremendous vitality, his electrical action, his power to thrill the feelings and easily and inevitably to awaken pity and terror,--all these made him a unique being and obtained for him a reputation with old-time audiences distinct from that of all other men. he was followed as a marvel, and even now the mention of his name stirs, among those who remember him, an enthusiasm such as no other theatrical memory can evoke. his sudden death (alone, aboard a mississippi river steamboat, november , ) was pathetic, and the public thought concerning him thenceforward commingled tenderness with passionate admiration. when his son edwin began to rise as an actor the people everywhere rejoiced and gave him an eager welcome. with such a prestige he had no difficulty in making himself heard, and when it was found that he possessed the same strange power with which his father had conquered and fascinated the dramatic world the popular exultation was unbounded. edwin booth went on the stage in and accompanied his father to california in , and between and he gained his first brilliant success. the early part of his california life was marked by hardship and all of it by vicissitude, but his authentic genius speedily flamed out, and long before he returned to the atlantic seaboard the news of his fine exploits had cleared the way for his conquest of all hearts. he came back in - , and from that time onward his fame continually increased. he early identified himself with two of the most fascinating characters in the drama--the sublime and pathetic hamlet and the majestic, romantic, picturesque, tender, and grimly humorous richelieu. he first acted hamlet in ; he adopted richelieu in ; and such was his success with the latter character that for many years afterward he made it a rule (acting on the sagacious advice of the veteran new orleans manager, james h. caldwell), always to introduce himself in that part before any new community. the popular sentiment toward him early took a romantic turn and the growth of that sentiment has been accelerated and strengthened by every important occurrence of his private life. in july he was married to a lovely and interesting woman, miss mary devlin, of troy, and in february she died. in he lost the winter garden theatre, which was burnt down on the night of march , that year, after a performance of john howard payne's _brutus_. he had accomplished beautiful revivals of _hamlet_, _othello_, _the merchant of venice_, and other plays at the winter garden, and had obtained for that theatre an honourable eminence; but when in he built and opened booth's theatre in new york, he proceeded to eclipse all his previous efforts and triumphs. the productions of _romeo and juliet_, _othello_, _richelieu_, _hamlet_, _a winter's tale_, and _julius cæsar_ were marked by ample scholarship and magnificence. when the enterprise failed and the theatre passed out of edwin booth's hands ( ) the play-going public endured a calamity. but the failure of the actor's noble endeavour to establish a great theatre in the first city of america, like every other conspicuous event in his career, served but to deepen the public interest in his welfare. he has more than retrieved his losses since then, and has made more than one triumphal march throughout the length and breadth of the republic, besides acting in london and other cities of great britain, and gaining extraordinary success upon the stage of germany. to think of edwin booth is immediately to be reminded of those leading events in his career, while to review them, even in a cursory glance, is to perceive that, notwithstanding calamities and sorrows, notwithstanding a bitter experience of personal bereavement and of the persecution of envy and malice, edwin booth has ever been a favourite of fortune. the bust of booth as brutus and that of john gilbert as sir peter, standing side by side in the players' club, stir many memories and prompt many reflections. gilbert was a young man of twenty-three, and had been six years on the stage, before edwin booth was born; and when, at the age of sixteen, booth made his first appearance (september , , at the boston museum, as tressil to his father's richard), gilbert had become a famous actor. the younger man, however, speedily rose to the higher level of the best dramatic ability as well as the best theatrical culture of his time; and it is significant of the splendid triumph of tragic genius, and of the advantage it possesses over that of comedy in its immediate effect upon mankind, that when the fine and exceptional combination was made (may , , at the metropolitan opera house, new york), for a performance of _hamlet_ for the benefit of lester wallack, edwin booth acted hamlet, with john gilbert for polonius, and joseph jefferson for the first grave-digger. booth has had his artistic growth in a peculiar period in the history of dramatic art in america. just before his time the tragic sceptre was in the hands of edwin forrest, who never succeeded in winning the intellectual part of the public, but was constantly compelled to dominate a multitude that never heard any sound short of thunder and never felt anything till it was hit with a club. the bulk of forrest's great fortune was gained by him with _metamora_, which is rant and fustian. he himself despised it and deeply despised and energetically cursed the public that forced him to act in it. forrest's best powers, indeed, were never really appreciated by the average mind of his fervent admirers. he lived in a rough period and he had to use a hard method to subdue and please it. edwin booth was fortunate in coming later, when the culture of the people had somewhat increased, and when the old sledge-hammer style was going out, so that he gained almost without an effort the refined and fastidious classes. as long ago as , with all his natural grace, refinement, romantic charm, and fine bearing, his impetuosity was such that even the dullest sensibilities were aroused and thrilled and astonished by him,--and so it happened that he also gained the multitude. to think of these things is to realise the steady advance of the stage in the esteem of the best people, and to feel grateful that we do not live in "the palmy days"--those raw times that john brougham used to call the days of light houses and heavy gas bills. mrs. asia booth clarke, wife of the distinguished and excellent comedian john s. clarke, wrote a life of her father, junius brutus booth, in which she has recounted interesting passages in his career, and chronicled significant and amusing anecdotes of his peculiarities. he was on the stage from to , in which latter year he died, aged fifty-six. in his youth he served for a while in the british navy, showed some talent for painting, learned the printer's trade, wrote a little, and dabbled in sculpture--all before he turned actor. the powerful hostility of edmund kean and his adherents drove him from the london stage, though not till after he had gained honours there, and he came to america in , and bought a farm near baltimore, where he settled, and where his son edwin (the seventh of ten children) was born. that farm remained in the family till , when for the first time it changed hands. there is a certain old cherry-tree growing upon it--remarkable among cherry-trees for being large, tall, straight, clean, and handsome--amid the boughs of which the youthful edwin might often have been found in his juvenile days. it is a coincidence that edwin l. davenport and john mccullough, also honoured names in american stage history, were born on the same day in the same month with edwin booth, though in different years. from an early age edwin booth was associated with his father in all the wanderings and strange and often sad adventures of that wayward man of genius, and no doubt the many sorrowful experiences of his youth deepened the gloom of his inherited temperament. those who know him well are aware that he has great tenderness of heart and abundant playful humour; that his mind is one of extraordinary liveliness, and that he sympathises keenly and cordially with the joys and sorrows of others; and yet that he seems saturated with sadness, isolated from companionship, lonely and alone. it is this temperament, combined with a sombre and melancholy aspect of countenance, that has helped to make him so admirable in the character of hamlet. of his fitness for that part his father was the first to speak, when on a night many years ago, in sacramento, they had dressed for pierre and jaffier, in _venice preserved_. edwin, as jaffier, had put on a close-fitting robe of black velvet. "you look like hamlet," the father said. the time was destined to come when edwin booth would be accepted all over america as the greatest hamlet of the day. in the season of - , at the winter garden theatre, new york, he acted that part for a hundred nights in succession, accomplishing a feat then unprecedented in theatrical annals. since then henry irving, in london, has acted hamlet two hundred consecutive times in one season; but this latter achievement, in the present day and in the capital city of the world, was less difficult than edwin booth's exploit, performed in turbulent new york in the closing months of the terrible civil war. the elder booth was a short, spare, muscular man, with a splendid chest, a symmetrical greek head, a pale countenance, a voice of wonderful compass and thrilling power, dark hair, and blue eyes. his son's resemblance to him is chiefly obvious in the shape of the head and face, the arch and curve of the heavy eyebrows, the radiant and constantly shifting light of expression that animates the countenance, the natural grace of carriage, and the celerity of movement. booth's eyes are dark brown, and seem to turn black in moments of excitement, and they are capable of conveying, with electrical effect, the most diverse meanings--the solemnity of lofty thought, the tenderness of affection, the piteousness of forlorn sorrow, the awful sense of spiritual surroundings, the woful weariness of despair, the mocking glee of wicked sarcasm, the vindictive menace of sinister purpose, and the lightning glare of baleful wrath. in range of facial expressiveness his countenance is thus fully equal to that of his father. the present writer saw the elder booth but once, and then in a comparatively inferior part--pescara, in shiel's ferocious tragedy of _the apostate_. he was a terrible presence. he was the incarnation of smooth, specious, malignant, hellish rapacity. his exultant malice seemed to buoy him above the ground. he floated rather than walked. his glance was deadly. his clear, high, cutting, measured tone was the exasperating note of hideous cruelty. he was acting a fiend then, and making the monster not only possible but actual. he certainly gave a greater impression of overwhelming power than is given by edwin booth, and seemed a more formidable and tremendous man. but his face was not more brilliant than that of his renowned son; and in fact it was, if anything, somewhat less splendid in power of the eye. there is a book about him, called _the tragedian_, written by thomas r. gould, who also made a noble bust of him in marble; and those who never saw him can obtain a good idea of what sort of an actor he was by reading that book. it conveys the image of a greater actor, but not a more brilliant one, than edwin booth. only one man of our time has equalled edwin booth in this singular splendour of countenance--the great new england orator rufus choate. had choate been an actor upon the stage--as he was before a jury--with those terrible eyes of his, and that passionate arab face, he must have towered fully to the height of the tradition of george frederick cooke. the lurid flashes of passion and the vehement outbursts in the acting of edwin booth are no doubt the points that most persons who have seen him will most clearly remember. through these a spectator naturally discerns the essential nature of an actor. the image of george frederick cooke, pointing with his long, lean forefinger and uttering sir giles's imprecation upon marrall, never fades out of theatrical history. garrick's awful frenzy in the storm scene of king lear, kean's colossal agony in the farewell speech of othello, macready's heartrending yell in _werner_, junius booth's terrific utterance of richard's "what do they i' the north?" forrest's hyena snarl when, as jack cade, he met lord say in the thicket, or his volumed cry of tempestuous fury when, as lucius brutus, he turned upon tarquin under the black midnight sky--those are things never to be forgotten. edwin booth has provided many such great moments in acting, and the traditions of the stage will not let them die. to these no doubt we must look for illuminative manifestations of hereditary genius. garrick, henderson, cooke, edmund kean, junius booth, and edwin booth are names that make a natural sequence in one intellectual family. could we but see them together, we should undoubtedly find them, in many particulars, kindred. henderson flourished in the school of nature that garrick had created--to the discomfiture of quin and all the classics. cooke had seen henderson act, and was thought to resemble him. edmund kean worshipped the memory of cooke and repeated many of the elder tragedian's ways. so far, indeed, did he carry his homage that when he was in new york in he caused cooke's remains to be taken from the vault beneath st. paul's church and buried in the church-yard, where a monument, set up by kean and restored by his son charles, by sothern, and by edwin booth, still marks their place of sepulture. that was the occasion when, as dr. francis records, in his book on old new york, kean took the index finger of cooke's right hand, and he, the doctor, took his skull, as relics. "i have got cooke's style in acting," kean once said, "but the public will never know it, i am so much smaller." it was not the imitation of a copyist; it was the spontaneous devotion and direction of a kindred soul. the elder booth saw kean act, and although injured by a rivalry that kean did not hesitate to make malicious, admired him with honest fervour. "i will yield othello to him," he said, "but neither richard nor sir giles." forrest thought edmund kean the greatest actor of the age, and copied him, especially in othello. pathos, with all that it implies, seems to have been kean's special excellence. terror was the elder booth's. edwin booth may be less than either, but he unites attributes of both. in the earlier part of his career edwin booth was accustomed to act sir giles overreach, sir edward mortimer, pescara, and a number of other parts of the terrific order, that he has since discarded. he was fine in every one of them. the first sound of his voice when, as sir edward mortimer, he was heard speaking off the scene, was eloquent of deep suffering, concentrated will, and a strange, sombre, formidable character. the sweet, exquisite, icy, infernal joy with which, as pescara, he told his rival that there should be "music" was almost comical in its effect of terror: it drove the listener across the line of tragical tension and made him hysterical with the grimness of a deadly humour. his swift defiance to lord lovell, as sir giles, and indeed the whole mighty and terrible action with which he carried that scene--from "what, are you pale?" down to the grisly and horrid viper pretence and reptile spasm of death--were simply tremendous. this was in the days when his acting yet retained the exuberance of a youthful spirit, before "the philosophic mind" had checked the headlong currents of the blood or curbed imagination in its lawless flight. and those parts not only admitted of bold colour and extravagant action but demanded them. even his hamlet was touched with that elemental fire. not alone in the great junctures of the tragedy--the encounters with the ghost, the parting with ophelia, the climax of the play-scene, the slaughter of poor old polonius in delirious mistake for the king, and the avouchment to laertes in the graveyard--was he brilliant and impetuous; but in almost everything that quality of temperament showed itself, and here, of course, it was in excess. he no longer hurls the pipe into the flies when saying "though you may fret me, you can not play upon me"; but he used to do so then, and the rest of the performance was kindred with that part of it. he needed, in that period of his development, the more terrible passions to express. pathos and spirituality and the mountain air of great thought were yet to be. his hamlet was only dazzling--the glorious possibility of what it has since become. but his sir giles was a consummate work of genius--as good then as it ever afterward became, and better than any other that has been seen since, not excepting that of e.l. davenport. and in all kindred characters he showed himself a man of genius. his success was great. the admiration that he inspired partook of zeal that almost amounted to craziness. when he walked in the streets of boston in his shining face, his compact figure, and his elastic step drew every eye, and people would pause and turn in groups to look at him. the actor is born but the artist must be made, and the actor who is not an artist only half fulfils his powers. edwin booth had not been long upon the stage before he showed himself to be an actor. during his first season he played cassio in _othello_, wilford in _the iron chest_, and titus in _the fall of tarquin_, and he played them all auspiciously well. but his father, not less wise than kind, knew that the youth must be left to himself to acquire experience, if he was ever to become an artist, and so left him in california, "to rough it," and there, and in the sandwich islands and australia, he had four years of the most severe training that hardship, discipline, labour, sorrow, and stern reality can furnish. when he came east again, in the autumn of , he was no longer a novice but an educated, artistic tragedian, still crude in some things, though on the right road, and in the fresh, exultant vigour, if not yet the full maturity, of extraordinary powers. he appeared first at baltimore, and after that made a tour of the south, and during the ensuing four years he was seen in many cities all over the country. in the summer of he went to england, and acted in london, liverpool, and manchester, but he was back again in new york in , and from september , to march , he managed what was known as the winter garden theatre, and incidentally devoted himself to the accomplishment of some of the stateliest revivals of standard plays that have ever been made in america. on february , he opened booth's theatre and that he managed for five years. in he made a tour of the south, which, so great was the enthusiasm his presence aroused, was nothing less than a triumphal progress. in san francisco, where he filled an engagement of eight weeks, the receipts exceeded $ , , a result at that time unprecedented on the dramatic stage. the circumstances of the stage and of the lives of actors have greatly changed since the generation went out to which such men as junius booth and augustus a. addams belonged. no tragedian would now be so mad as to put himself in pawn for drink, as cooke is said to have done, nor be found scraping the ham from the sandwiches provided for his luncheon, as junius booth was, before going on to play shylock. our theatre has no longer a richardson to light up a pan of red fire, as that old showman once did, to signalise the fall of the screen in _the school for scandal_. the eccentrics and the taste for them have passed away. it seems really once to have been thought that the actor who did not often make a maniac of himself with drink could not be possessed of the divine fire. that demonstration of genius is not expected now, nor does the present age exact from its favourite players the performance of all sorts and varieties of parts. forrest was the first of the prominent actors to break away from the old usage in this latter particular. during the most prosperous years of his life, from to , he acted only about a dozen parts, and most of them were old. the only new parts that he studied were claude melnotte, richelieu, jack cade, and mordaunt, the latter in the play of _the patrician's daughter_, and he "recovered" marc antony, which he particularly liked. edwin booth, who had inherited from his father the insanity of intemperance, conquered that utterly, many years ago, and nobly and grandly trod it beneath his feet; and as he matured in his career, through acting every kind of part, from a dandy negro up to hamlet, he at last made choice of the characters that afford scope for his powers and his aspirations, and so settled upon a definite, restricted repertory. his characters were hamlet, macbeth, lear, othello, iago, richard the second, richard the third, shylock, cardinal wolsey, benedick, petruchio, richelieu, lucius brutus, bertuccio, ruy blas, and don cæsar de bazan. these he acted in customary usage, and to these he occasionally added marcus brutus, antony, cassius, claude melnotte, and the stranger. the range thus indicated is extraordinary; but more extraordinary still was the evenness of the actor's average excellence throughout the breadth of that range. booth's tragedy is better than his elegant comedy. there are other actors who equal or surpass him in benedick or don cæsar. the comedy in which he excels is that of silvery speciousness and bitter sarcasm, as in portions of iago and richard the third and the simulated madness of lucius brutus, and the comedy of grim drollery, as in portions of richelieu--his expression of those veins being wonderfully perfect. but no other actor who has trod the american stage in our day has equalled him in certain attributes of tragedy that are essentially poetic. he is not at his best, indeed, in all the tragic parts that he acts; and, like his father, he is an uneven actor in the parts to which he is best suited. no person can be said to know edwin booth's acting who has not seen him play the same part several times. his artistic treatment will generally be found adequate, but his mood or spirit will continually vary. he cannot at will command it, and when it is absent his performance seems cold. this characteristic is, perhaps, inseparable from the poetic temperament. each ideal that he presents is poetic; and the suitable and adequate presentation of it, therefore, needs poetic warmth and glamour. booth never goes behind his poet's text to find a prose image in the pages of historic fact. the spectator who takes the trouble to look into his art will find it, indeed, invariably accurate as to historic basis, and will find that all essential points and questions of scholarship have been considered by the actor. but this is not the secret of its power upon the soul. that power resides in its charm, and that charm consists in its poetry. standing on the lonely ramparts of elsinore, and with awe-stricken, preoccupied, involuntary glances questioning the star-lit midnight air, while he talks with his attendant friends, edwin booth's hamlet is the simple, absolute realisation of shakespeare's haunted prince, and raises no question, and leaves no room for inquiry, whether the danes in the middle ages wore velvet robes or had long flaxen hair. it is dark, mysterious, melancholy, beautiful--a vision of dignity and of grace, made sublime by suffering, made weird and awful by "thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls." sorrow never looked more wofully and ineffably lovely than his sorrow looks in the parting scene with ophelia, and frenzy never spoke with a wilder glee of horrid joy and fearful exultation than is heard in his tempestuous cry of delirium, "nay, i know not: is it the king?" an actor who is fine only at points is not, of course, a perfect actor. the remark of coleridge about the acting of edmund kean, that it was like "reading shakespeare by flashes of lightning," has misled many persons as to kean's art. macready bears a similar testimony. but the weight of evidence will satisfy the reader that kean was, in fact, a careful student and that he never neglected any detail of his art. this is certainly true of edwin booth. in the level plains that lie between the mountain-peaks of expression he walks with as sure a footstep and as firm a tread as on the summit of the loftiest crag or the verge of the steepest abyss. in - , in association with the present writer, he prepared for the press an edition of fifteen of the plays in which he acts, and these were published for the use of actors. there is not a line in either of those plays that he has not studiously and thoroughly considered; not a vexed point that he has not scanned; not a questionable reading that he has not, for his own purposes in acting, satisfactorily settled. his shakespearean scholarship is extensive and sound, and it is no less minute than ample. his stage business has been arranged, as stage business ought to be, with scientific precision. if, as king richard the third, he is seen to be abstractedly toying with a ring upon one of his fingers, or unsheathing and sheathing his dagger, those apparently capricious actions would be found to be done because they were illustrative parts of that monarch's personality, warranted by the text and context. many years ago an accidental impulse led him, as hamlet, to hold out his sword, hilt foremost, toward the receding spectre, as a protective cross--the symbol of that religion to which hamlet so frequently recurs. the expedient was found to justify itself and he made it a custom. in the graveyard scene of this tragedy he directs that one of the skulls thrown up by the first clown shall have a tattered and mouldy fool's-cap adhering to it, so that it may attract attention, and be singled out from the others, as "yorick's skull, the king's jester." these are little things; but it is of a thousand little things that a dramatic performance is composed, and without this care for detail--which must be precise, logical, profound, vigilant, unerring, and at the same time always unobtrusive and seemingly involuntary--there can be neither cohesion, nor symmetry, nor an illusory image consistently maintained; and all great effects would become tricks of mechanism and detached exploits of theatrical force. the absence of this thoroughness in such acting as that of edwin booth would instantly be felt; its presence is seldom adequately appreciated. we feel the perfect charm of the illusion in the great fourth act of _richelieu_--one of the most thrilling situations, as booth fills it, that ever were created upon the stage; but we should not feel this had not the foreground of character, incident, and experience been prepared with consummate thoroughness. the character of richelieu is one that the elder booth could never act. he tried it once, upon urgent solicitation, but he had not proceeded far before he caught joseph around the waist, and with that astonished friar in his arms proceeded to dash into a waltz, over which the curtain was dropped. he had no sympathy with the moonlight mistiness and lace-like complexity of that weird and many-fibred nature. it lacked for him the reality of the imagination, the trumpet blare and tempest rush of active passion. but edwin booth, coming after forrest, who was its original in america, has made richelieu so entirely his own that no actor living can stand a comparison with him in the character. macready was the first representative of the part, as everybody knows, and his performance of it was deemed magnificent; but when edwin booth acted it in london in , old john ryder, the friend and advocate of macready, who had participated with him in all his plays, said to the american tragedian, with a broken voice and with tears in his eyes, "you have thrown down my idol." two at least of those great moments in acting that everybody remembers were furnished by booth in this character--the defiance of the masked assailant, at rouel, and the threat of excommunication delivered upon barradas. no spectator possessed of imagination and sensibility ever saw, without utter forgetfulness of the stage, the imperial entrance of that richelieu into the gardens of the louvre and into the sullen presence of hostile majesty. the same spell of genius is felt in kindred moments of his greater impersonations. his iago, standing in the dark street, with sword in hand, above the prostrate bodies of cassio and roderigo, and as the sudden impulse to murder them strikes his brain, breathing out in a blood-curdling whisper, "how silent is this town!" his bertuccio, begging at the door of the banquet-hall, and breaking down in hysterics of affected glee and maddening agony; his lear, at that supreme moment of intolerable torture when he parts away from goneril and regan, with his wild scream of revenges that shall be the terrors of the earth; his richard the third, with the gigantic effrontery of his "call him again," and with his whole matchless and wonderful utterance of the awful remorse speech with which the king awakens from his last earthly sleep--those, among many others, rank with the best dramatic images that ever were chronicled, and may well be cited to illustrate booth's invincible and splendid adequacy at the great moments of his art. edwin booth has been tried by some of the most terrible afflictions that ever tested the fortitude of a human soul. over his youth, plainly visible, impended the lowering cloud of insanity. while he was yet a boy, and when literally struggling for life in the semi-barbarous wilds of old california, he lost his beloved father, under circumstances of singular misery. in early manhood he laid in her grave the woman of his first love--the wife who had died in absence from him, herself scarcely past the threshold of youth, lovely as an angel and to all that knew her precious beyond expression. a little later his heart was well-nigh broken and his life was well-nigh blasted by the crime of a lunatic brother that for a moment seemed to darken the hope of the world. recovering from that blow, he threw all his resources and powers into the establishment of the grandest theatre in the metropolis of america, and he saw his fortune of more than a million dollars, together with the toil of some of the best years of his life, frittered away. under all trials he has borne bravely up, and kept the even, steadfast tenor of his course; strong, patient, gentle, neither elated by public homage nor imbittered by private grief. such a use of high powers in the dramatic art, and the development and maintenance of such a character behind them, entitle him to the affection of his countrymen, proud equally of his goodness and his renown. v. mary anderson: hermione: perdita. on november , an audience was assembled in one of the theatres of louisville, kentucky, to see "the first appearance upon any stage" of "a young lady of louisville," who was announced to play shakespeare's juliet. that young lady was in fact a girl, in her sixteenth year, who had never received any practical stage training, whose education had been comprised in five years of ordinary schooling, whose observation of life had never extended beyond the narrow limits of a provincial city, who was undeveloped, unheralded, unknown, and poor, and whose only qualifications for the task she had set herself to accomplish were the impulse of genius and the force of commanding character. she dashed at the work with all the vigour of abounding and enthusiastic youth, and with all the audacity of complete inexperience. a rougher performance of juliet probably was never seen, but through all the disproportion and turbulence of that effort the authentic charm of a beautiful nature was distinctly revealed. the sweetness, the sincerity, the force, the exceptional superiority and singular charm of that nature could not be mistaken. the uncommon stature and sumptuous physical beauty of the girl were obvious. above all, her magnificent voice--copious, melodious, penetrating, loud and clear, yet soft and gentle--delighted every ear and touched every heart. the impersonation of juliet was not highly esteemed by judicious hearers; but some persons who saw that performance felt and said that a new actress had risen and that a great career had begun. those prophetic voices were right. that "young lady of louisville" was mary anderson. it is seldom in stage history that the biographer comes upon such a character as that of mary anderson, or is privileged to muse over the story of such a career as she has had. in many cases the narrative of the life of an actress is a narrative of talents perverted, of opportunity misused, of failure, misfortune, and suffering. for one story like that of mrs. siddons there are many like that of mrs. robinson. for one name like that of charlotte cushman or that of helen faucit there are many like that of lucille western or that of matilda heron--daughters of sorrow and victims of trouble. the mind lingers, accordingly, impressed and pleased with a sense of sweet personal worth as well as of genius and beauty upon the record of a representative american actress, as noble as she was brilliant, and as lovely in her domestic life as she was beautiful, fortunate, and renowned in her public pursuits. the exposition of her nature, as apprehended through her acting, constitutes the principal part of her biography. mary anderson, a native of california, was born at sacramento, july , . her father, charles joseph anderson, who died in , aged twenty-nine, and was buried in magnolia cemetery, mobile, alabama, was an officer in the service of the southern confederacy at the time of his death, and he is said to have been a handsome and dashing young man. her mother, marie antoinette leugers, was a native of philadelphia. her earlier years were passed in louisville, whither she was taken in , and she was there taught in a roman catholic school and reared in the roman catholic faith under the guidance of a franciscan priest, anthony miller, her mother's uncle. she left school before she was fourteen years old and she went upon the stage before she was sixteen. she had while a child seen various theatrical performances, notably those given by edwin booth, and her mind had been strongly drawn toward the stage under the influence of those sights. the dramatic characters that she first studied were male characters--those of hamlet, wolsey, richelieu, and richard iii.--and to those she added schiller's joan of arc. she studied those parts privately, and she knew them all and knew them well. professor noble butler, of louisville, gave her instruction in english literature and elocution, and in , at cincinnati, charlotte cushman said a few encouraging words to her, and told her to persevere in following the stage, and to "begin at the top." george vandenhoff gave her a few lessons before she came out, and then followed her début as juliet, leading to her first regular engagement, which began at barney macaulay's theatre, louisville, january , . from that time onward for thirteen years she was an actress,--never in a stock company but always as a star,--and her name became famous in great britain as well as america. she had eight seasons of steadily increasing prosperity on the american stage before she went abroad to act, and she became a favourite all over the united states. she filled three seasons at the lyceum theatre, london (from september , , to april , ; from november , , to april , ; and from september , , to march , ), and her success there surpassed, in profit, that of any american actor who had appeared in england. she revived _romeo and juliet_ with much splendour at the london lyceum on november , , and she restored _a winter's tale_ to the stage, bringing forward that comedy on september , , and carrying it through the season. she made several prosperous tours of the english provincial theatres, and established herself as a favourite actress in fastidious edinburgh, critical manchester, and impulsive but exacting dublin. the repertory with which she gained fame and fortune included juliet, hermione, perdita, rosalind, lady macbeth, julia, bianca, evadne, parthenia, pauline, the countess, galatea, clarice, ion, meg merrilies, berthe, and the duchess de torrenueva. she incidentally acted a few other parts, desdemona being one of them. her distinctive achievements were in shakespearean drama. she adopted into her repertory two plays by tennyson, _the cup_ and _the falcon_, but never produced them. this record signifies the resources of mind, the personal charm, the exalted spirit, and the patient, wisely directed and strenuous zeal that sustained her achievements and justified her success. aspirants in the field of art are continually coming to the surface. in poetry, painting, sculpture, music, and in acting--which involves and utilises those other arts--the line of beginners is endless. constantly, as the seasons roll by, these essayists emerge, and as constantly, after a little time, they disappear. the process is sequent upon an obvious law of spiritual life,--that all minds which are conscious of the art impulse must at least make an effort toward expression, but that no mind can succeed in the effort unless, in addition to the art impulse, it possesses also the art faculty. for expression is the predominant necessity of human nature. out of this proceed forms and influences of beauty. these react upon mankind, pleasing an instinct for the beautiful, and developing the faculty of taste. other and finer forms and influences of beauty ensue, civilisation is advanced, and thus finally the way is opened toward that condition of immortal spiritual happiness which this process of experience prefigures and prophesies. but the art faculty is of rare occurrence. at long intervals there is a break in the usual experience of stage failure, and some person hitherto unknown not only takes the field but keeps it. when garrick came out, as the duke of gloster, in the autumn of , in london, he had never been heard of, but within a brief time he was famous. "he at once decided the public taste," said macklin; and pope summed up the victory in the well-known sentence, "that young man never had an equal, and will never have a rival." tennyson's line furnishes the apt and comprehensive comment--"the many fail, the one succeeds." mary anderson in her day furnished the most conspicuous and striking example, aside from that of adelaide neilson, to which it is possible to refer of this exceptional experience. and yet, even after years of trial and test, it is doubtful whether the excellence of that remarkable actress was entirely comprehended in her own country. the provincial custom of waiting for foreign authorities to discover our royal minds is one from which many inhabitants of america have not yet escaped. as an actress, indeed, mary anderson was, probably, more popular than any player on the american stage excepting edwin booth or joseph jefferson; but there is a difference between popularity and just and comprehensive intellectual recognition. many actors get the one; few get the other. much of the contemporary criticism that is lavished upon actors in this exigent period--so bountifully supplied with critical observations, so poorly furnished with creative art--touches only upon the surface. acting is measured with a tape and the chief demand seems to be for form. this is right, and indeed is imperative, whenever it is certain that the actor at his best is one who never can rise above the high-water mark of correct mechanism. there are cases that need a deeper method of inquiry and a more searching glance. a wise critic, when this emergency comes, is something more than an expert who gives an opinion upon a professional exploit. the special piece of work may contain technical flaws, and yet there may be within it a soul worth all the "icily regular and splendidly null" achievements that ever were possible to proficient mediocrity. that soul is visible only to the observer who can look through the art into the interior spirit of the artist, and thus can estimate a piece of acting according to its inspirational drift and the enthralling and ennobling personality out of which it springs. the acting of mary anderson, from the first moment of her career, was of the kind that needs that deep insight and broad judgment,--aiming to recognise and rightly estimate its worth. yet few performers of the day were so liberally favoured with the monitions of dullness and the ponderous patronage of self-complacent folly. conventional judgment as to mary anderson's acting expressed itself in one statement--"she is cold." there could not be a greater error. that quality in mary anderson's acting--a reflex from her spiritual nature--which produced upon the conventional mind the effect of coldness was in fact distinction, the attribute of being exceptional. the judgment that she was cold was a resentful judgment, and was given in a spirit of detraction. it proceeded from an order of mind that can never be content with the existence of anything above its own level. "he hath," said iago, speaking of cassio, "a daily beauty in his life that makes me ugly." those detractors did not understand themselves as well as the wily italian understood himself, and they did not state their attitude with such precision; in fact, they did not state it at all, for it was unconscious with them and involuntary. they saw a being unlike themselves, they vaguely apprehended the presence of a superior nature, and that they resented. the favourite popular notion is that all men are born free and equal; which is false. free and equal they all are, undoubtedly, in the eye of the law. but every man is born subject to heredity and circumstance, and whoever will investigate his life will perceive that he never has been able to stray beyond the compelling and constraining force of his character--which is his fate. all men, moreover, are unequal. to one human being is given genius; to another, beauty; to another, strength; to another, exceptional judgment; to another, exceptional memory; to another, grace and charm; to still another, physical ugliness and spiritual obliquity, moral taint, and every sort of disabling weakness. to the majority of persons nature imparts mediocrity, and it is from mediocrity that the derogatory denial emanates as to the superior men and women of our race. a woman of the average kind is not difficult to comprehend. there is nothing distinctive about her. she is fond of admiration; rather readily censorious of other women; charitable toward male rakes; and partial to fine attire. the poet wordsworth's formula, "praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles," comprises all that is essential for her existence, and that bard has himself precisely described her, in a grandfatherly and excruciating couplet, as "a creature not too bright and good for human nature's daily food." women of that sort are not called "cold." the standard is ordinary and it is understood. but when a woman appears in art whose life is not ruled by the love of admiration, whose nature is devoid of vanity, who looks with indifference upon adulation, whose head is not turned by renown, whose composure is not disturbed by flattery, whose simplicity is not marred by wealth, who does not go into theatrical hysterics and offer that condition of artificial delirium as the mood of genius in acting, who above all makes it apparent in her personality and her achievements that the soul can be sufficient to itself and can exist without taking on a burden of the fever or dulness of other lives, there is a flutter of vague discontent among the mystified and bothered rank and file, and we are apprised that she is "cold." that is what happened in the case of mary anderson. what are the faculties and attributes essential to great success in acting? a sumptuous and supple figure that can realise the ideals of statuary; a mobile countenance that can strongly and unerringly express the feelings of the heart and the workings of the mind; eyes that can awe with the majesty or startle with the terror or thrill with the tenderness of their soul-subduing gaze; a voice, deep, clear, resonant, flexible, that can range over the wide compass of emotion and carry its meaning in varying music to every ear and every heart; intellect to shape the purposes and control the means of mimetic art; deep knowledge of human nature; delicate intuitions; the skill to listen as well as the art to speak; imagination to grasp the ideal of a character in all its conditions of experience; the instinct of the sculptor to give it form, of the painter to give it colour, and of the poet to give it movement; and, back of all, the temperament of genius--the genialised nervous system--to impart to the whole artistic structure the thrill of spiritual vitality. mary anderson's acting revealed those faculties and attributes, and those observers who realised the poetic spirit, the moral majesty, and the isolation of mind that she continually suggested felt that she was an extraordinary woman. such moments in her acting as that of galatea's mute supplication at the last of earthly life, that of juliet's desolation after the final midnight parting with the last human creature whom she may ever behold, and that of hermione's despair when she covers her face and falls as if stricken dead, were the eloquent denotements of power, and in those and such as those--with which her art abounded--was the fulfilment of every hope that her acting inspired and the vindication of every encomium that it received. early in her professional career, when considering her acting, the present essayist quoted as applicable to her those lovely lines by wordsworth:-- "the stars of midnight shall be dear to her, and she shall lean her ear in many a secret place where rivulets dance their wayward round, and beauty born of murmuring sound shall pass into her face." in the direction of development thus indicated she steadily advanced. her affiliations were with grandeur, purity, and loveliness. an inherent and passionate tendency toward classic stateliness increased in her more and more. characters of the statuesque order attracted her imagination--ion, galatea, hermione--but she did not leave them soulless. in the interpretation of passion and the presentation of its results she revealed the striking truth that her perceptions could discern those consequences that are recorded in the soul and in comparison with which the dramatic entanglements of visible life are puny and evanescent. though living in the rapid stream of the social world she dwelt aloof from it. she thought deeply, and in mental direction she took the pathway of intellectual power. it is not surprising that the true worth of such a nature was not accurately apprehended. minds that are self-poised, stately, irresponsive to human weakness, unconventional and self-liberated from allegiance to the commonplace are not fully and instantly discernible, and may well perplex the smiling glance of frivolity; but they are permanent forces in the education of the human race. mary anderson retired from the stage, under the pressure of extreme fatigue, in the beginning of and entered upon a matrimonial life on june , . it is believed that her retirement is permanent. the historical interest attaching to her dramatic career justifies the preservation of this commemorative essay. there is so much beauty in the comedy of _a winter's tale_--so much thought, character, humour, philosophy, sweetly serene feeling and loveliness of poetic language--that the public ought to feel obliged to any one who successfully restores it to the stage, from which it usually is banished. the piece was written in the maturity of shakespeare's marvellous powers, and indeed some of the shakespearean scholars believe it to be the last work that fell from his hand. human life, as depicted in _a winter's tale_, shows itself like what it always seems to be in the eyes of patient, tolerant, magnanimous experience--the eyes "that have kept watch o'er man's mortality"--for it is a scene of inexplicable contrasts and vicissitudes, seemingly the chaos of caprice and chance, yet always, in fact, beneficently overruled and guided to good ends. human beings are shown in it as full of weakness; often as the puppets of laws that they do not understand and of universal propensities and impulses into which they never pause to inquire; almost always as objects of benignant pity. the woful tangle of human existence is here viewed with half-cheerful, half-sad tolerance, yet with the hope and belief that all will come right at last. the mood of the comedy is pensive but radically sweet. the poet is like the forest in emerson's subtle vision of the inherent exultation of nature:-- "sober, on a fund of joy, the woods at heart are glad." mary anderson doubled the characters of hermione and perdita. this had not been conspicuously done until it was done by her, and her innovation, in that respect, was met with grave disapproval. the moment the subject is examined, however, objection to that method of procedure is dispelled. hermione, as a dramatic person, disappears in the middle of the third act of shakespeare's comedy and comes no more until the end of the piece, when she emerges as a statue. her character has been entirely expressed and her part in the action of the drama has been substantially fulfilled before she disappears. there is no intermediate passion to be wrought to a climax, nor is there any intermediate mood, dramatically speaking, to be sustained. the dramatic environment, the dramatic necessities, are vastly unlike, for example, those of lady macbeth--one of the hardest of all parts to play well, because exhibited intermittently, at long intervals, yet steadily constrained by the necessity of cumulative excitement. the representative of lady macbeth must be identified with that character, whether on the stage or off, from the beginning of it to the end. hermione, on the contrary, is at rest from the moment when she faints upon receiving information of the death of her boy. a lapse of sixteen years is assumed, and then, standing forth as a statue, she personifies majestic virtue and victorious fortitude. when she descends from the pedestal she silently embraces leontes, speaks a few pious, maternal and tranquil lines (there are precisely seven of them in the original, but mary anderson added two, from "all's well"), and embraces perdita, whom she has not seen since the girl's earliest infancy. this is their only meeting, and little is sacrificed by the use of a substitute for the daughter in that scene. perdita's brief apostrophe to the statue has to be cut, but it is not missed in the representation. the resemblance between mother and daughter heightens the effect of illusion, in its impress equally upon fancy and vision; and a more thorough elucidation is given than could be provided in any other way of the spirit of the comedy. it was a judicious and felicitous choice that the actress made when she selected those two characters, and the fact that her impersonation of them carried a practically disused shakespearean comedy through a season of one hundred and fifty nights at the lyceum theatre in london furnishes an indorsement alike of her wisdom and her ability. she played in a stage version of the piece, in five acts, containing thirteen scenes, arranged by herself. while mary anderson was acting those two parts in london the sum of critical opinion seemed to be that her performance of perdita was better than her performance of hermione; but beneath that judgment there was, apparently, the impression that hermione is a character fraught with superlatively great passions, powers, and qualities, such as are only to be apprehended by gigantic sagacity and conveyed by herculean talents and skill. those vast attributes were not specified, but there was a mysterious intimation of their existence--as of something vague, formidable, and mostly elusive. but in truth hermione, although a stronger part than perdita, is neither complex, dubious, nor inaccessible; and mary anderson, although more fascinating in perdita, could and did rise, in hermione, to a noble height of tragic power--an excellence not possible for her, nor for anybody, in the more juvenile and slender character. hermione has usually been represented as an elderly woman and by such an actress as is technically called "heavy." she ought to be represented as about thirty years of age at the beginning of the piece, and forty-six at the end of it. leontes is not more than thirty-four at the opening, and he would be fifty at the close. he speaks, in his first scene, of his boyhood as only twenty-three years gone, when his dagger was worn "muzzled, lest it should bite its master"--at which time he may have been ten years old; certainly not more, probably less. his words, toward the end of act third, "so sure as this beard's gray," refer to the beard of antigonus, not to his own. he is a young man when the play begins, and polixenes is about the same age, and hermione is a young woman. antigonus and paulina are middle-aged persons in the earlier scenes and paulina is an elderly woman in the statue scene--almost an old woman, though not too old to be given in marriage to old camillo, the ever-faithful friend. in mary anderson's presentation of _a winter's tale_ those details received thoughtful consideration and correct treatment. in hermione is seen a type of the celestial nature in woman--infinite love, infinite charity, infinite patience. such a nature is rare; but it is possible, it exists, and shakespeare, who depicted everything, did not omit to portray that. to comprehend hermione the observer must separate her, absolutely and finally, from association with the passions. mrs. jameson acutely and justly describes her character as exhibiting "dignity without pride, love without passion, and tenderness without weakness." that is exactly true. hermione was not easily won, and the best thing known about leontes is that at last she came to love him and that her love for him survived his cruel and wicked treatment, chastened him, reinstated him, and ultimately blessed him. hermione suffers the utmost affliction that a good woman can suffer. her boy dies, heart-broken, at the news of his mother's alleged disgrace. her infant daughter is torn from her breast and cast forth to perish. her husband becomes her enemy and persecutor. her chastity is assailed and vilified. she is subjected to the bitter indignity of a public trial. it is no wonder that at last her brain reels and she falls as if stricken dead. the apparent anomaly is her survival for sixteen years, in lonely seclusion, and her emergence, after that, as anything but a forlorn shadow of her former self. the poet shelley has recorded the truth that all great emotions either kill themselves or kill those who feel them. it is here, however, that the exceptional temperament of hermione supplies an explanatory and needed qualification. her emotions are never of a passionate kind. her mind predominates. her life is in the affections and therefore it is one of thought. she sees clearly the facts of her experience and condition, and she knows exactly how those facts look in the eyes of others. she is one of those persons who possess a keen and just prescience of events, who can look far into the future and discern those resultant consequences of the present which, under the operation of inexorable moral law, must inevitably ensue. self-poised in the right and free from the disturbing force of impulse and desire, she can await the justice of time, she can live, and she can live in the tranquil patience of resignation. true majesty of the person is dependent on repose of the soul, and there can be no repose of the soul without moral rectitude and a far-reaching, comprehensive, wise vision of events. mary anderson embodied hermione in accordance with that ideal. by the expression of her face and the tones of her voice, in a single speech, the actress placed beyond question her grasp of the character:-- "good my lords, i am not prone to weeping, as our sex commonly are--the want of which vain dew perchance shall dry your pities--but i have that honourable grief lodged here, which burns worse than tears drown." the conspicuous, predominant, convincing artistic beauty in mary anderson's impersonation of hermione was her realisation of the part, in figure, face, presence, demeanour, and temperament. she did not afflict her auditor with the painful sense of a person struggling upward toward an unattainable identity. she made you conscious of the presence of a queen. this, obviously, is the main thing--that the individuality shall be imperial, not merely wearing royal attire but being invested with the royal authenticity of divine endowment and consecration. much emphasis has been placed by shakespeare upon that attribute of innate grandeur. leontes, at the opening of the trial scene, describes his accused wife as "the daughter of a king," and in the same scene her father is mentioned as the emperor of russia. the gentleman who, in act fifth, recounts to autolycus the meeting between leontes and his daughter perdita especially notes "the majesty of the creature, in resemblance of the mother." hermione herself, in the course of her vindication--expressed in one of the most noble and pathetic strains of poetical eloquence in our language--names herself "a great king's daughter," therein recalling those august and piteous words of shakespeare's katharine:-- "we are a queen, or long have thought so, certain the daughter of a king." poor old antigonus, in his final soliloquy, recounting the vision of hermione that had come upon him in the night, declares her to be a woman royal and grand not by descent only but by nature:-- "i never saw a vessel of like sorrow, so filled and so becoming. in pure white robes, like very sanctity, she did approach." that image mary anderson embodied, and therefore the ideal of shakespeare was made a living thing--that glorious ideal, in shaping which the great poet "from all that are took something good, to make a perfect woman." toward polixenes, in the first scene, her manner was wholly gracious, delicately playful, innocently kind, and purely frail. her quiet archness at the question, "will you go yet?" struck exactly the right key of hermione's mood. with the baby prince mamillius her frolic and banter, affectionate, free, and gay, were in a happy vein of feeling and humour. her simple dignity, restraining both resentment and grief, in face of the injurious reproaches of leontes, was entirely noble and right, and the pathetic words, "i never wished to see you sorry, now i trust i shall," could not have been spoken with more depth and intensity of grieved affection than were felt in her composed yet tremulous voice. the entrance, at the trial scene, was made with the stateliness natural to a queenly woman, and yet with a touch of pathos--the cold patience of despair. the delivery of hermione's defensive speeches was profoundly earnest and touching. the simple cry of the mother's breaking heart, and the action of veiling her face and falling like one dead, upon the announcement of the prince's death, were perfect denotements of the collapse of a grief-stricken woman. the skill with which the actress, in the monument scene--which is all repose and no movement--contrived nevertheless to invest hermione with steady vitality of action, and to imbue the crisis with a feverish air of suspense, was in a high degree significant of the personality of genius. for such a performance of hermione shakespeare himself has provided the sufficient summary and encomium:-- "women will love her, that she is a woman more worth than any man; men that she is the rarest of all women." it is one thing to say that mary anderson was better in perdita than in hermione, and another thing to say that the performance of perdita was preferred. everybody preferred it--even those who knew that it was not the better of the two; for everybody loves the sunshine more than the shade. hermione means grief and endurance. perdita means beautiful youth and happy love. it does not take long for an observer to choose between them. suffering is not companionable. by her impersonation of hermione the actress revealed her knowledge of the stern truth of life, its trials, its calamities, and the possible heroism of character under its sorrowful discipline. into that identity she passed by the force of her imagination. the embodiment was majestic, tender, pitiable, transcendent, but its colour was the sombre colour of pensive melancholy and sad experience. that performance was the higher and more significant of the two. but the higher form of art is not always the most alluring--never the most alluring when youthful beauty smiles and rosy pleasure beckons another way. all hearts respond to happiness. by her presentment of perdita the actress became the glittering image and incarnation of glorious youthful womanhood and fascinating joy. no exercise of the imagination was needful to her in that. there was an instantaneous correspondence between the part and the player. the embodiment was as natural as a sunbeam. shakespeare has left no doubt about his meaning in perdita. the speeches of all around her continually depict her fresh and piquant loveliness, her innate superiority, her superlative charm; while her behaviour and language as constantly show forth her nobility of soul. one of the subtlest side lights thrown upon the character is in the description of the manner in which perdita heard the story of her mother's death--when "attentiveness wounded" her "till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did bleed tears." and of the fibre of her nature there is perhaps no finer indication than may be felt in her comment on old camillo's worldly view of prosperity as a vital essential to the permanence of love:-- "i think affliction may subdue the cheek, but not take in the mind." in the thirty-seven plays of shakespeare there is no strain of the poetry of sentiment and grace essentially sweeter than that which he has put into the mouth of perdita; and poetry could not be more sweetly spoken than it was by mary anderson in that delicious scene of the distribution of the flowers. the actress evinced comprehension of the character in every fibre of its being, and she embodied it with the affluent vitality of splendid health and buoyant temperament--presenting a creature radiant with goodness and happiness, exquisite in natural refinement, piquant with archness, soft, innocent, and tender in confiding artlessness, and, while gleeful and triumphant in beautiful youth, gently touched with an intuitive pitying sense of the thorny aspects of this troubled world. the giving of the flowers completely bewitched her auditors. the startled yet proud endurance of the king's anger was in an equal degree captivating. seldom has the stage displayed that rarest of all combinations, the passionate heart of a woman with the lovely simplicity of a child. nothing could be more beautiful than she was to the eyes that followed her lithe figure through the merry mazes of her rustic dance--an achievement sharply in contrast with her usually statuesque manner. it "makes old hearts fresh" to see a spectacle of grace and joy, and that spectacle they saw then and will not forget. the value of those impersonations of hermione and perdita, viewing them as embodied interpretations of poetry was great, but they possessed a greater value and a higher significance as denotements of the guiding light, the cheering strength, the elevating loveliness of a noble human soul. they embodied the conception of the poet, but at the same time they illumined an actual incarnation of the divine spirit. they were like windows to a sacred temple, and through them you could look into the soul of a true woman--always a realm where thoughts are gliding angels, and feelings are the faces of seraphs, and sounds are the music of the harps of heaven. vi. henry irving and ellen terry in olivia. it has sometimes been thought that the acting of henry irving is seen at its best in those impersonations of his that derive their vitality from the grim, ghastly, and morbid attributes of human nature. that he is a unique actor, and distinctively a great actor, in hamlet, mathias, eugene aram, louis xi., lesurque, and dubosc, few judges will deny. his performances of those parts have shown him to be a man of weird imagination, and they have shown that his characteristics, mental and spiritual, are sombre. accordingly, when it was announced that he would play dr. primrose--goldsmith's simple, virtuous, homely, undramatic village-preacher, the _vicar of wakefield_,--a doubt was felt as to his suitability for the part and as to the success of his endeavour. he played dr. primrose, and he gained in that character some of the brightest laurels of his professional career. the doubt proved unwarranted. more than one competent observer of that remarkable performance has granted it an equal rank with the best of henry irving's achievements; and now, more clearly than before, it is perceived that the current of his inspiration flows as freely from the silver spring of goodness as from the dark and troubled fountain of human misery. on the first night of _olivia_, at the lyceum theatre (it was may , , when the present writer happened to be in london), henry irving's performance of dr. primrose was fettered by a curb of constraint. the actor's nerves had been strained to a high pitch of excitement and he was obviously anxious. his spirit, accordingly, was not fully liberated into the character. he advanced with cautious care and he executed each detail of his design with precise accuracy. to various auditors, for that reason, the work seemed a little methodistical; and drab is a colour at which the voice of the scoffer is apt to scoff. but the impersonation of dr. primrose soon became equally a triumph of expression and of ideal; not only flowing out of goodness, but flowing smoothly and producing the effect of nature. it was not absolutely and identically the vicar that goldsmith has drawn, for its personality was unmarked by either rusticity or strong humour; but it was a kindred and higher type of the simple truth, the pastoral sweetness, the benignity, and the human tenderness of that delightful original. to invest goodness with charm, to make virtue piquant, and to turn common events of domestic life to exquisite pathos and noble exaltation was the actor's purpose. it was accomplished; and dr. primrose, thitherto an idyllic figure, existent only in the chambers of fancy, is henceforth as much a denizen of the stage as luke fielding or jesse rural; a man not merely to be read of, as one reads of uncle toby and parson adams, but to be known, remembered, and loved. wills's drama of _olivia_, based upon an episode in goldsmith's story, is one of extreme simplicity. it may be described as a series of pictures displaying the consequences of action rather than action itself. it contains an abundance of incident, but the incident is mostly devoid of inherent dramatic force and therefore is such as must derive its chief effect from the manner in which it is treated by the actors who represent the piece. nevertheless, the piece was found to be, during its first three acts, an expressive, coherent, interesting play. it tells its story clearly and entirely, not by narrative but by the display of characters in their relations to each other. its language, flavoured here and there with the phraseology of the novel, is consistently appropriate. the fourth and last act is feeble. nobody can sympathise with "the late remorse of love" in a nature so trivial as that of thornhill, and the incident of the reconciliation between olivia and her husband, therefore, goes for nothing. it is the beautiful relation between the father and his daughter that animates the play. it is paternal love that thrills its structure with light, warmth, colour, sincerity, moral force, and human significance. opinion may differ as to the degree of skill with which wills selected and employed the materials of goldsmith's story; but nobody can justly deny that he wrought for the stage a practical dramatic exposition of the beauty and sanctity of the holiest relation that is possible in human life; and to have done that is to have done a noble thing. many persons appear to think that criticism falls short of its duty unless it wounds and hurts. goldsmith himself observed that fact. it was in the story of _the vicar of wakefield_ that he made his playful suggestion that a critic should always take care to say that the picture would have been better if the painter had taken more pains. wills probably heard more than enough for his spiritual welfare about the faults of his piece; yet there is really nothing weak in the play except the conclusion. it is not easy to suggest, however, in what way the fourth act could be strengthened, unless it were by a recasting and renovation of the character of squire thornhill. but the victory was gained, in spite of a feeble climax. many persons also appear to think that it is a sort of sacrilege to lay hands upon the sacred ark of a classic creation. dion boucicault, perceiving this when he made a play about _clarissa harlowe_, felt moved to deprecate anticipated public resentment of the liberties that he had taken with richardson's novel. yet it is difficult to see why the abundant details of that excellent though protracted narrative should not be curtailed, in order to circumscribe its substance within the limits of a practical drama. jefferson was blamed for condensing and slightly changing the comedy of _the rivals_. yet the author, who probably knew something about his work, deemed it a wretchedly defective piece, and expressed the liveliest regret for having written it. wills did not reproduce goldsmith's vicar upon the stage: in some particulars he widely diverged from it--and his work, accordingly, may be censured. yet _the vicar of wakefield_ is far from being a faultless production, such as a divinity should be supposed to hedge. critical students are aware of this. it is not worth while to traverse the old ground. the reader who will take the trouble--and pleasure--to refer to that excellent chapter on goldsmith in dr. craik's _history of english literature_ will find the structural defects of the novel specifically enumerated. if the dramatist has ignored many details he has at least extracted from the narrative the salient points of a consistent, harmonious story. the spectator can enjoy the play, whether he has read the original or not. at the end of its first act he knows the vicar and his family, their home, their way of life, their neighbours, the two suitors for the two girls, the motives of each and every character, and the relations of each to all; and he sees, what is always touching in the spectacle of actual human life, the contrasted states of circumstance and experience surrounding and enmeshing all. after this preparation the story is developed with few and rapid strokes. two of the pictures were poems. at the end of act first the vicar, who has been apprised of the loss of his property, imparts this sad news to his family. the time is the gloaming. the chimes are sounding in the church-tower. it is the hour of evening prayer. the gray-haired pastor calls his loved ones around him, in his garden, and simply and reverently tells them of their misfortune, which is to be accepted submissively, as heaven's will. the deep religious feeling of that scene, the grouping, the use of sunset lights and shadows, the melody of the chimes, the stricken look in the faces of the women and children, the sweet gravity of the vicar--instinct with the nobleness of a sorrow not yet become corrosive and lachrymose, as is the tendency of settled grief--and, over all, the sense of blighted happiness and an uncertain future, made up a dramatic as well as a pictorial effect of impressive poetic significance. in act second--which is pictorial almost without intermission--there was a companion picture, when the vicar reads, at his fireside, a letter announcing the restitution of his estate; while his wife and children and mr. burchell are assembled around the spinet singing an old song. the repose with which henry irving made that scene tremulous, almost painful, in its suspense, was observed as one of the happiest strokes of his art. the face and demeanour of dr. primrose, changing from the composure of resignation to a startled surprise, and then to almost an hysterical gladness, presented a study not less instructive than affecting of the resources of acting. only two contemporary actors have presented anything kindred with mr. irving's acting in that situation and throughout the scene that is sequent on the discovery of olivia's flight--jefferson in america and got in france. evil is restless and irresistibly prone to action. goodness is usually negative and inert. dr. primrose is a type of goodness. in order to invest him with piquancy and dramatic vigour henry irving gave him passion, and therewithal various attributes of charming eccentricity. the clergyman thus presented is the fruition of a long life of virtue. he has the complete repose of innocence, the sweet candour of absolute purity, the mild demeanour of spontaneous, habitual benevolence, the supreme grace of unconscious simplicity. but he is human and passionate; he shows--in his surroundings, in his quick sympathy with natural beauty, and in his indicated rather than directly stated ideals of conduct--that he has lived an imaginative and not a prosaic life; he is vaguely and pathetically superstitious; and while essentially grand in his religious magnanimity he is both fascinating and morally formidable as a man. those denotements point at henry irving's ideal. for his method it is less easy to find the right description. his mechanical reiteration of the words that are said to him by sophia, in the moment when the fond father knows that his idolised olivia has fled with her lover; his collapse, when the harmless pistols are taken from his nerveless hands; his despairing cry, "if she had but died!"; his abortive effort to rebuke his darling child in the hour of her abandonment and misery, and the sudden tempest of passionate affection with which the great tender heart sweeps away that inadequate and paltry though eminently appropriate morality, and takes its idol to itself as only true love can do--those were instances of high dramatic achievement for which epithets are inadequate, but which the memory of the heart will always treasure. it was said by the poet aaron hill, in allusion to barton booth, that the blind might have seen him in his voice and the deaf might have heard him in his visage. such a statement made concerning an actor now would be deemed extravagant. but, turning from the vicar to his cherished daughter, that felicitous image comes naturally into the mind. to think of ellen terry as olivia will always be to recall one especial and remarkable moment of beauty and tenderness. it is not her distribution of the farewell gifts, on the eve of olivia's flight--full although that was of the emotion of a good heart torn and tortured by the conflict between love and duty--and it is not the desperate resentment with which olivia beats back her treacherous betrayer, when, at the climax of his baseness, he adds insult to heartless perfidy. those, indeed, were made great situations by the profound sincerity and the rich, woman-like passion of the actress. but there was one instant, in the second act of the play, when the woman's heart has at length yielded to her lover's will, and he himself, momentarily dismayed by his own conquest, strives to turn back, that ellen terry made pathetic beyond description. the words she spoke are simply these, "but i said i would come!" what language could do justice to the voice, to the manner, to the sweet, confiding, absolute abandonment of the whole nature to the human love by which it had been conquered? the whole of that performance was astonishing, was thrilling, with knowledge of the passion of love. that especial moment was the supreme beauty of it. at such times human nature is irradiated with a divine fire, and art fulfils its purpose. vii. on jefferson's autobiography. joseph jefferson has led a life of noble endeavour and has had a career of ample prosperity, culminating in honourable renown and abundant happiness. he was born in philadelphia, february , . he went on the stage when he was four years old and he has been on the stage ever since. his achievements as an actor have been recognised and accepted with admiration in various parts of the world; in australia and new zealand and in england, scotland, and ireland, as well as in the united states. among english-speaking actors he is the foremost living representative of the art of eccentric comedy. he has not, of late years, played a wide range of parts, but, restricting himself to a few characters, and those of a representative kind, the manner in which he has acted them is a perfect manner--and it is this that has gained for him his distinctive eminence. jefferson, however, is not simply and exclusively an actor. his mind is many sided. he has painted landscape pictures of a high order of merit,--pictures in which elusive moods and subtle sentiments of nature are grasped with imaginative insight and denoted and interpreted with a free, delicate, and luminous touch. he has also addressed the public as an author. he has written an easy, colloquial account of his own life, and that breezy, off-hand, expeditious work,--after passing it as a serial through their century magazine,--the century company has published in a beautiful volume. it is a work that, for the sake of the writer, will be welcomed everywhere, and, for its own sake as well as his, will everywhere be preserved. beginning a theatrical career nearly sixty years ago ( ), roving up and down the earth ever since, and seldom continuing in one place, jefferson has had uncommon opportunities of noting the development of the united states and of observing, in both hemispheres, the changeful aspect of one of the most eventful periods in the history of the world. actors, as a class, know nothing but the stage and see nothing but the pursuit in which they are occupied. whoever has lived much among them knows that fact, from personal observation. whoever has read the various and numerous memoirs that have from time to time been published by elderly members of that profession must have been amused to perceive that, while they conventionally agree that "all the world's a stage," they are enthusiastically convinced that the stage is all the world. jefferson's book, although it contains much about the theatre, shows him to be an exception in this respect, even as he is in many others. he has seen many countries and many kinds of men and things, and he has long looked upon life with the thoughtful gaze of a philosopher as well as the wise smile of a humourist. he can, if he likes, talk of something besides the shop. his account of his life "lacks form a little," and his indifference to "accurate statistics"--which he declares to be "somewhat tedious"--is now and then felt to be an embarrassment. one would like to know, for instance, while reading about the primitive theatrical times, when actors sailed the western rivers in flatboats, and shot beasts and birds on the bank, precisely the extent and limits of that period. nor is this the only queer aspect of the dramatic past that might be illumined. the total environment of a man's life is almost equally important with the life itself--being, indeed, the scenery amid which the action passes--and a good method for the writing of a biography is that which sharply defines the successive periods of childhood, youth, manhood, and age, and, while depicting the development of the individual from point to point, depicts also the entire field through which he moves, and the mutations, affecting his life, that occur in the historic and social fabric around him. jefferson, while he has painted vigorously and often happily, on a large canvas, has left many spaces empty and others but thinly filled. the reader who accompanies him may, nevertheless, with a little care, piece out the story so as to perceive it as a sequent, distinct, harmonious, and rounded narrative. meanwhile the companionship of this heedless historian is delightful--for whether as actor, painter, or writer, jefferson steadily exerts the charm of a genial personality. you are as one walking along a country road, on a golden autumn day, with a kind, merry companion, who knows all about the trees that fringe your track and the birds that flit through their branches, and who beguiles the way with many a humorous tale and many a pleasant remembrance, now impressing your mind by the sagacity of his reflections, now touching your heart by some sudden trait of sentiment or pathos, and always pleasing and satisfying you with the consciousness of a sweet, human, broad, charitable, piquant nature. although an autobiographer jefferson is not egotistical, and although a moralist he is not a bore. there is a tinge of the horatian mood in him--for his reader often becomes aware of that composed, sagacious, half-droll, quizzical mind that indicates, with grave gentleness, the folly of ambition, the vanity of riches, the value of the present hour, the idleness of borrowing trouble, the blessing of the golden medium in fortune, the absurdity of flatterers, and the comfort of keeping a steadfast spirit amid the inevitable vicissitudes of this mortal state. jefferson has memories of a boyhood that was passed in washington, baltimore, and new york. he went to chicago in , when that place was scarcely more than a village--making the journey from new york to buffalo in a canal-boat, and sailing thence, aboard a steamer, through the lakes of erie, huron, and michigan. he travelled with his parents, and they gave dramatic performances, in which he assisted, in western towns. it was a time of poverty and hardship, but those ills were borne cheerfully--the brighter side of a hard life being kept steadily in view, and every comic incident of it being seen and appreciated. his father was a gentleman of the mark tapley temperament, who came out strong amid adverse circumstances, and the early disappearance from the book of that delightful person (who died in , of yellow fever, at mobile), is a positive sorrow. his mother, a refined and gentle lady, of steadfast character and of uncommon musical and dramatic talents and accomplishments, survived till , and her ashes rest in ronaldson's cemetery, in philadelphia. jefferson might have said much more about his parents, and especially about his famous grandfather, without risk of becoming tedious--for they were remarkably interesting people; but he was writing his own life and not theirs, and he has explained that he likes not to dwell much upon domestic matters. the story of his long ancestry of actors, which reaches back to the days of garrick (for there have been five generations of the jeffersons upon the stage), he has not mentioned; and the story of his own young days is hurried rapidly to a conclusion. he was brought on the stage, when a child, at the theatre in washington, d.c., by the negro comedian thomas d. rice, who emptied him out of a bag; and thereupon, being dressed as "a nigger dancer," in imitation of rice, he performed the antics of jim crow. he adverts to his first appearance in new york and remembers his stage combat with master titus; and he thinks that master titus must remember it also,--since one of that boy's big toes was nearly cut off in the fray. that combat occurred at the franklin theatre, september , --a useful fact that the autobiographer cares not to mention. he speedily becomes a young man, as the reader follows him through the first three chapters of his narrative,--of which there are seventeen,--and he is found to be acting, as a stock player, in support of james w. wallack, junius brutus booth, w.c. macready, and mr. and mrs. j.w. wallack, jr. upon the powers and peculiarities of those actors, and upon the traits of many others who, like them, are dead and gone (for there is scarcely a word in the book about any of his living contemporaries), he comments freely and instructively. he was "barn-storming" in texas when the mexican war began, and he followed in the track of the american army, and acted in the old spanish theatre in matamoras, in the spring of ; and, subsequently, finding that this did no good, he opened a stall there for the sale of coffee and other refreshments, in the corner of a gambling hell. he calls to mind the way of domestic life and the every-day aspect of houses, gardens, people, and manners in matamoras, and those he describes with especial skill--deftly introducing the portraiture of a dusky, black-eyed, volatile mexican girl, to whom he lost, temporarily, the light heart of youth, and whom he thinks that he might have married had he not deemed it prudent to journey northward toward a cooler clime. in new orleans, at about that time, he first saw the then young comedian john e. owens: and he records the fact that his ambition to excel as an actor was awakened by the spectacle of that rival's success. owens has had his career since then,--and a brilliant one it was,--and now he sleeps in peace. after that experience jefferson repaired to philadelphia, and during the next ten years, from to , he wrought in that city and in new york, baltimore, richmond, and other places, sometimes as a stock actor, sometimes as a star, and sometimes as a manager. he encountered various difficulties. he took a few serious steps and many comic ones. he was brought into contact with some individuals that were eminent and with some that were ludicrous. he crossed the allegheny mountains in mid-winter, from wheeling to cumberland, in a cold stage-coach, and almost perished. he was a member of burton's company at the arch street theatre, philadelphia, and was one of the chorus in that great actor's revival of _antigone_--which there is little doubt that the chorus extinguished. he was the low comedian in joseph foster's amphitheatre, where he sang _captain kidd_ to fill up the "carpenter scenes," and where he sported amid the turbulent rhetorical billows of _timour the tartar_ and _the terror of the road_. he acted in new york at the franklin theatre and also at the chatham. he managed theatres in macon and savannah, where he brought out the blithe sir william don; and one of the sprightliest episodes of his memoir is the chapter in which he describes that tall, elegant, nonchalant adventurer. don was a scotchman, born in , who made his first appearance in america in november at the broadway theatre, new york, and afterward drifted aimlessly through the provincial theatres. don was married in to miss emily sanders, and he died at tasmania, march , , and was buried at hobartstown. jefferson saw the dawn of promise in the career of julia dean,--when that beautiful girl was acting with him, in the stock--and afterwards he saw the noonday splendour of her prosperity; and he might have recalled, but that sad touches are excluded from his biography, her mournful decline. in he was stage manager of the baltimore museum, for henry c. jarrett, and in he was manager of the richmond theatre, for john t. ford. among the players whom he met, and who deeply influenced him, were james e. murdoch, henry placide, edwin forrest, edwin adams, and agnes robertson. but the actor who most affected the youth of joseph jefferson, whose influence sank deepest into his heart and has remained longest in his memory and upon his style, was his half-brother, charles burke: and certainly, as a serio-comic actor, it may be doubted whether charles burke ever was surpassed. that comedian was born march , , in philadelphia, and he died in new york, november , . jefferson's mother, cornelia frances thomás, born in new york, october , , the daughter of french parents, was married in her girlhood to the irish comedian thomas burke, who died in ; and she contracted her second marriage, with jefferson's father, in . jefferson writes at his best in the description of scenery, in the analysis of character, and in the statement of artistic principles. his portraiture of murdoch, as a comedian, is particularly clear and fine. his account of julia dean's hit, as lady priory, is excellent and will often be cited. his portrayal of the reciprocal action of burton and charles burke, when they were associated in the same piece, conveys a valuable lesson. his anecdotes of edwin forrest present that grim figure as yet again the involuntary cause of mirth. it often was so. jefferson, however, draws a veil of gentle charity over those misused powers, that perverse will, that wasted life. the most striking dramatic portraiture in the book is that bestowed on charles burke, william warren, george holland, tom glessing, and edwin adams. those were men who lived in jefferson's affections, and when he wrote about them he wrote from the heart. the sketch of glessing, whom everybody loved that ever knew him, is in a touching strain of tender remembrance. jefferson visited england and france in , but not to act. at that time he saw the famous english comedians compton, buckstone, robson, and wright, and that extraordinary actor, fine alike in tragedy and comedy, the versatile samuel phelps. in he was associated with laura keene at her theatre in new york; and from that date onward his career has been upon a high and sunlit path, visible to the world. his first part at laura keene's theatre was dr. pangloss. then came _our american cousin_, in which he gained a memorable success as asa trenchard, and in which edward a. sothern laid the basis of that fantastic structure of whim and grotesque humour that afterward became famous as lord dundreary. sothern, laura keene, and william rufus blake, of course, gained much of jefferson's attention at that time, and he has not omitted to describe them. his account of blake, however, does not impart an adequate idea of the excellence of that comedian. in he went to the winter garden theatre, and was associated with the late dion boucicault. his characters then were newman hoggs, caleb plummer, and salem scudder--in _nicholas nickleby_, _the cricket on the hearth_, and _the octoroon_. mr. boucicault told him not to make caleb plummer a solemn character at the beginning--a deliverance that jefferson seems to have cherished as one of colossal wisdom. he made a brilliant hit in salem scudder, and it was then that he determined finally to assume the position of a star. "art has always been my sweetheart," exclaims jefferson, "and i have loved her for herself alone." no observer can doubt that who has followed his career. it was in that he reverted to the subject of rip van winkle, as the right theme for his dramatic purpose. he had seen charles burke as rip, and he knew the several versions of washington irving's story that had been made for the theatre by burke, hackett, and yates. the first rip van winkle upon the stage, of whom there is any record in theatrical annals, was thomas flynn ( - ). that comedian, the friend of the elder booth, acted the part for the first time on may , , at albany. charles b. parsons, who afterward acted in many theatres as rip, and ultimately became a preacher, was, on that night, the performer of derrick. jefferson's predecessors as rip van winkle were remarkably clever men--flynn, parsons, burke, chapman, hackett, yates, and william isherwood. but it remained for jefferson to do with that character what no one else had ever thought of doing--to lift it above the level of the tipsy rustic and make it the poetical type of the drifting and dreaming vagrant--half-haunted, half-inspired, a child of the trees and the clouds. jefferson records that he was lying on the hay in a barn in paradise valley, pennsylvania, in the summer of , taking advantage of a rainy day to read washington irving's _life and letters_, when that plan came to him. it proved an inspiration of happiness to thousands of people all over the world. the comedian made a play for himself, on the basis of charles burke's play, but with one vital improvement--he arranged the text and business of the supernatural scene so that rip only should speak, while the ghosts should remain silent. that stroke of genius accomplished his object. the man capable of that exploit in dramatic art could not fail to win the world, because he would at once fascinate its imagination while touching its heart. in jefferson went to california and thence to australia, and in the latter country he remained four years. he has written a fine description of the entrance to the harbour at sydney. his accounts of "the skeleton dance," as he saw it performed by the black natives of that land; of his meeting with the haunted hermit in the woods; of the convict audience at tasmania, for whom he acted in _the ticket-of-leave man_; and of the entertainment furnished in a chinese theatre, are compositions that would impart to any book the interest of adventure and the zest of novelty. such pictures as those have a broad background; they are not circumscribed within the proscenium frame. the man is seen in those passages as well as the actor; and he plays his part well, amid picturesque surroundings of evil and peril, of tragedy and of pathos. in australia jefferson met charles kean and his wife (ellen tree), of whom his sketches are boldly drawn and his memories are pleasant. mr. and mrs. kean afterward made their farewell visit to the united states, beginning, when they reached new york (from san francisco, in april ), with _henry viii._, and closing with _the jealous wife_. in jefferson went from australia to south america and passed some time in lima, where he saw much tropical luxury and many beautiful ladies--an inspiriting spectacle, fittingly described by him in some of the most felicitous of his fervent words. in june he reached london, and presently he came forth, at the adelphi, as rip van winkle,--having caused the piece to be rewritten by mr. boucicault, who introduced the colloquy of the children, paraphrased for it the recognition scene between king lear and cordelia, and kept gretchen alive to be married to derrick. mr. boucicault, however, had no faith in the piece or the actor's plan, and down to the last moment prophesied failure. jefferson's success was unequivocal. friends surrounded him and in the gentle and genial record that he has made of those auspicious days some of the brightest names of modern english literature sparkle on his page. benjamin webster, paul bedford, john billington, john brougham, and marie wilton were among the actors who were glad to be his associates. robertson, the dramatist, was his constant companion--one of the most intellectual and one of the wittiest of men. planché, aged yet hearty and genial (and no man had more in his nature of the sweet spirit of the comrade), speedily sought him. charles reade and anthony trollope became his cronies; and poor artemas ward arrived and joined the party just as jefferson was leaving it--as bright a spirit, as kind a heart, and as fine and quaint a humourist as ever cheered this age--from which he vanished too soon for the happiness of his friends and for the fruition of his fame. "i was much impressed," says the comedian, "with ward's genial manner; he was not in good health, and i advised him to be careful lest the kindness of london should kill him." that advice was not heeded, and the kindness of london speedily ended ward's days. jefferson came home in and passed ten years in america--years of fame and fortune, whereof the record is smooth prosperity. its most important personal incident was his second marriage, on december , , at chicago, to miss sarah warren. in july he made a voyage to europe, with his wife and william warren, the comedian, and remained there till autumn. from november , to april , and from easter until midsummer he was again acting in london, where he redoubled his former success. in october he returned home, and since then he has remained in america. the chronicle that he has written glides lightly over these latter years, only now and then touching on their golden summits. the manifest wish of the writer has been to people his pages as much as possible with the men and women of his artistic circle and knowledge who would be likely to interest the reader. robert browning, charles kingsley, and george augustus sala come into the picture, and there is a pleasing story of browning and longfellow walking arm in arm in london streets till driven into a cab by a summer shower, when longfellow insisted on passing his umbrella through the hole in the roof, for the protection of the cab-driver. jefferson lived for one summer in an old mansion at morningside, edinburgh, and he dwells with natural delight on his recollections of that majestic city. he had many a talk, at odd times, with the glittering farceur charles mathews, about dramatic art, and some of this is recorded in piquant anecdotes. "by many," says the amiable annalist, "he was thought to be cold and selfish; i do not think he was so." there is a kind word for charles fechter, whose imitations of frederick lemaitre, in _belphegor, the mountebank_, live in jefferson's remembrance as wonderfully graphic. there are glimpses of james wallack, walter montgomery, peter richings, e.a. sothern, laura keene, james g. burnett, john gilbert, tyrone power, lester wallack, john mccullough, john t. raymond, mr. and mrs. barney williams, john drew (the elder), f.s. chanfrau, charlotte cushman, mrs. drake, and many others; and the record incorporates two letters, not before published, from john howard payne, the author of _home, sweet home_--a melody that is the natural accompaniment of jefferson's life. there is a pretty picture of that ancient supper-room at no. bulfinch place, boston--miss fisher's kitchen--as it appeared when william warren sat behind the mound of lobsters, at the head of the table, while the polished pewters reflected the cheerful light, and wit and raillery enlivened the happy throng, and many a face was wreathed with smiles that now is dark and still forever. in one chapter jefferson sets forth his views upon the art of acting; and seldom within so brief a compass will so many sensible reflections be found so simply and tersely expressed. the book closes with words of gratitude for many blessings, and with an emblematic picture of a spirit resigned to whatever vicissitudes of fortune may yet be decreed. jefferson's memoir is a simple message to simple minds. it will find its way to thousands of readers to whom a paper by addison or an essay by hume would have no meaning. it will point for them the moral of a good life. it will impress them with the spectacle of a noble actor, profoundly and passionately true to the high art by which he lives, bearing eloquent testimony to its beauty and its worth, and to the fine powers and sterling virtues of the good men and women with whom he has been associated in its pursuit. it will display to them--and to all others who may chance to read it--a type of that absolute humility of spirit which yet is perfectly compatible with a just pride of intellect. it will help to preserve interesting traits of famous actors of an earlier time, together with bright stories that illumine the dry chronicle of our theatrical history. and, in its simple record of the motives by which he has been impelled, and the artistic purposes that he has sought to accomplish, it will remain an eloquent, vital, indestructible memorial to the art and the character of a great comedian, when the present reality of his exquisite acting shall have changed to a dim tradition and a fading memory of the past. viii. on jefferson's acting. fifty years from now the historian of the american stage, if he should be asked to name the actor of this period who was most beloved by the people of this generation, will answer that it was joseph jefferson. other actors of our time are famous, and they possess in various degrees the affection of the public. jefferson is not only renowned but universally beloved. to state the cause of this effect is at once to explain his acting and to do it the honour to which it is entitled. that cause can be stated in a single sentence. jefferson is at once a poetic and a human actor, and he is thus able to charm all minds and to win all hearts. his success, therefore, is especially important not to himself alone but to the people. public taste is twofold. it has a surface liking, and it has a deep, instinctive, natural preference. the former is alert, capricious, incessant, and continually passes from fancy to fancy. it scarcely knows what it wants, except that it wants excitement and change. those persons in the dramatic world who make a point to address it are experimental speculators, whose one and only object is personal gain, and who are willing and ready to furnish any sort of entertainment that they think will please a passing caprice, and thereby will turn a penny for themselves. to judge the public entirely by this surface liking is to find the public what tennyson once called it--a many-headed beast. with that animal every paltry and noxious thing can be made, for a time, to flourish; and that fact leads observers who do not carefully look beneath the surface to conclude that the public is always wrong. but the deep preference of the public comes into the question, and observers who are able to see and to consider that fact presently perceive that the artist, whether actor or otherwise, who gives to the public, not what it says it wants but what it ought to have, is in the long run the victor. the deep preference is for the good thing, the real thing, the right. it is not intelligent. it does not go with thinking and reasoning. it does not pretend to have grounds of belief. it simply responds. but upon the stage the actor who is able to reach it is omnipotent. jefferson conspicuously is an actor who appeals to the deep, instinctive, natural preference of humanity, and who reaches it, arouses it, and satisfies it. throughout the whole of his mature career he has addressed the nobler soul of humanity and given to the people what they ought to have; and the actor who is really able to do that naturally conquers everything. it is not a matter of artifice and simulation; it is a matter of being genuine and not a sham. still further, jefferson has aroused and touched and satisfied the feelings of the people, not by attempting to interpret literature but by being an actor. an actor is a man who acts. he may be an uneducated man, deficient in learning and in mental discipline, and yet a fine actor. the people care not at all for literature. they do not read it, and they know nothing about it until it is brought home to their hearts by some great interpreter of it. what they do know is action. they can see and they can feel, and the actor who makes them see and feel can do anything with them that he pleases. it is his privilege and his responsibility. jefferson is one of those artists (and they are few) who depend for their effects not upon what authors have written but upon impersonation. he takes liberties with the text. it would not perhaps be saying too much to say that he does not primarily heed the text at all. he is an actor; and speaking with reference to him and to others like him it would perhaps be well if those persons who write criticisms upon the stage would come to a definite conclusion upon this point and finally understand that an actor must produce his effects on the instant by something that he does and is, and not by rhetoric and elocution, and therefore that he should not be expected to repeat every word of every part, or to be a translator of somebody else, but that he must be himself. if we want the full, literal text of shakespeare we can stop at home and read it. what we want of the actor is that he should give himself; and the true actor does give himself. the play is the medium. a man who acts romeo must embody, impersonate, express, convey, and make evident what he knows and feels about love. he need not trouble himself about shakespeare. that great poet will survive; while if romeo, being ever so correct, bores the house, romeo will be damned. jefferson is an actor who invariably produces effect, and he produces it by impersonation, and by impersonation that is poetic and human. jefferson's performance of acres conspicuously exemplifies the principles that have been stated here. he has not hesitated to alter the comedy of _the rivals_, and in his alteration of it he has improved it. acres has been made a better part for an actor, and a more significant and sympathetic part for an audience. you could not care particularly for acres if he were played exactly as he is written. you might laugh at him, and probably would, but he would not touch your feelings. jefferson embodies him in such a way that he often makes you feel like laughing and crying at the same moment, and you end with loving the character, and storing it in your memory with such cherished comrades of the fancy as mark tapley and uncle toby. there is but little human nature in acres as sheridan has drawn him, and what there is of human nature is coarse; but as embodied by jefferson, while he never ceases to be comically absurd, he becomes fine and sweet, and wins sympathy and inspires affection, and every spectator is glad to have seen him and to remember him. it is not possible to take that sort of liberty with every author. you can do it but seldom with shakespeare; never in any but his juvenile plays. but there are authors who can be improved by that process, and sheridan--in _the rivals_, not in _the school for scandal_--is one of them. and anyway, since it ought to be felt, known, understood, and practically admitted that an actor is something more than a telegraph wire, that his personal faculty and testimony enter into the matter of embodiment and expression, jefferson's rare excellence and great success as acres should teach a valuable lesson, correcting that pernicious habit of the critical mind which measures an actor by the printed text of a play-book and by the hide-bound traditions of custom on the stage. jefferson has had a royal plenitude of success as an actor, chiefly with the part of rip van winkle, but also with the characters of caleb plummer, bob brierly, dr. pangloss, dr. ollapod, mr. golightly, and hugh de brass. the reason of that success cannot be found in conventional adherence to stage customs and critical standards. jefferson has gained his great power over the people--of which his great fame is the shadow--- by giving himself in his art--his own rich and splendid nature and the crystallised conclusions of his experience. as an artist, when it comes to execution, he leaves nothing to chance. the most seemingly artless of his proceedings is absolutely defined in advance, and never is what heedless observers call impulsive and spontaneous. but his temperament is free, fluent, opulent, and infinitely tender; and when the whole man is aroused, this flows into the moulds of literary and dramatic art and glorifies them. when you are looking at jefferson as acres in the duel scene in _the rivals_, you laugh at him, but almost you laugh through your tears. when you see jefferson as rip van winkle confronting the ghosts on the lonely mountain-top at midnight, you see a display of imaginative personality quite as high as that of hamlet in tremulous sensibility to supernatural influence, although wholly apart from hamlet in altitude of intellect and in anguish of experience. the poetry of the impersonation, though, is entirely consonant with hamlet, and that is the secret of jefferson's exceptional hold upon the heart and the imagination of his time. the public taste does not ask jefferson to trifle with his art. its deep, spontaneous, natural preference feels that he is a true actor, and so yields to his power, and enjoys his charm, and is all the time improved and made fitter to enjoy it. he has reached as great a height as it is possible to reach in his profession. he could if he chose play greater parts than he has ever attempted; he could not give a better exemplification than he gives, in his chose and customary achievement, of all that is distinctive, beautiful, and beneficent in the art of the actor. ix. jefferson and florence in old comedy. a revival of _the heir at law_ was accomplished in the new york season of , with joseph jefferson in the character of dr. pangloss and william james florence in that of zekiel homespun. that play dates back to , a period in which a sedulous deference to conventionality prevailed in the british theatre, as to the treatment of domestic subjects; and, although the younger colman wrote in a more flexible style than was possessed by any other dramatist of the time, excepting sheridan, he was influenced to this extent by contemporary usage, that often when he became serious he also became artificial and stilted. the sentimental part of _the heir at law_ is trite in plan and hard in expression. furthermore that portion of it which, in the character of dr. pangloss, satirises the indigent, mercenary, disreputable private tutors who constituted a distinct and pernicious class of social humbugs in colman's day, has lost its direct point for the present age, through the disappearance of the peculiar type of imposture against which its irony was directed. dr. pangloss, nevertheless, remains abstractly a humorous personage; and when he is embodied by an actor like jefferson, who can elucidate his buoyant animal spirits, his gay audacity, his inveterate good-nature, his nimble craft, his jocular sportiveness, his shrewd knowledge of character and of society, and his scholar-like quaintness, he becomes a delightful presence; for his mendacity disappears in the sunshine of his humour; his faults seem venial; and we entertain him much as we do the infinitely greater and more disreputable character of falstaff,--knowing him to be a vagabond, but finding him a charming companion, for all that. this is one great relief to the hollow and metallic sentimentality of the piece. persons like henry moreland, caroline dormer, and mr. steadfast would be tiresome in actual life; they belong, with julia and falkland and peregrine and glenroy, to the noble army of the bores, and they are insipid on the stage; but the association of the sprightly and jocose pangloss with those drab-tinted and preachy people irradiates even their constitutional platitude with a sparkle of mirth. they shine, in spite of themselves. colman's humour is infectious and penetrating. in that quality he was original and affluent. as we look along the line of the british dramatists for the last hundred years we shall find no parallel to his felicity in the use of comic inversion and equivoke, till we come to gilbert. though he was tedious while he deferred to that theatrical sentimentality which was the fashion of his day (and against which goldsmith, in _she stoops to conquer_, was the first to strike), he could sometimes escape from it; and when he did escape he was brilliant. in _the heir at law_ he has not only illumined it by the contrast of dr. pangloss but by the unctuous humour and irresistible comic force of the character of daniel dowlas, lord duberly. situations in a play, in order to be invested with the enduring quality of humour, must result from such conduct as is the natural and spontaneous expression of comic character. the idea of the comic parvenue is ancient. it did not originate with colman. his application of it, however, was novel and his treatment of it--taking fast hold of the elemental springs of mirth--is as fresh to-day as it was a hundred years ago. french minds, indeed, and such as subscribe to french notions, would object that the means employed to elicit character and awaken mirth are not scientifically and photographically correct, and that they are violent. circumstances, they would say, do not so fall out that a tallow-chandler is made a lord. the christopher sly expedient, they would add, is a forced expedient. perhaps it is. but english art sees with the eyes of the imagination and in dramatic matters it likes to use colour and emphasis. daniel dowlas, as lord duberly, is all the droller for being a retired tallow-chandler, ignorant, greasy, conventional, blunt, a sturdy, honest, ridiculous person, who thinks he has observed how lords act and who intends to put his gained knowledge into practical use. we shall never again see him acted as he was acted by burton, or by that fine actor william rufus blake, or even by john gilbert--who was of rather too choleric a temperament and too fine a texture for such an oily and stupidly complacent personage. but whenever and however he is acted he will be recognised as an elemental type of absurd human nature made ludicrous by comic circumstances; and he will give rich and deep amusement. it is to be observed, in the analysis of this comedy, that according to colman's intention the essential persons in it are all, at heart, human. the pervasive spirit of the piece is kindly. old dowlas, restricted to his proper place in life, is a worthy man. dick dowlas, intoxicated by vanity and prosperity, has no harm in him, and he turns out well at last. even dr. pangloss--although of the species of rogue that subsists by artfully playing upon the weakness of human vanity--is genial and amiable; he is a laughing philosopher; he gives good counsel; he hurts nobody; he is but a mild type of sinner--and the satirical censure that is bestowed upon him is neither merciless nor bitter. pangloss, in milk alley, spinning his brains for a subsistence, might be expected to prove unscrupulous; but the moraliser can imagine pangloss, if he were only made secure by permanent good fortune, leading a life of blameless indolence and piquant eccentricity. from that point of view jefferson formed his ideal of the character; and, indeed, his treatment of the whole piece denoted an active practical sympathy with that gentle view of the subject. he placed before his audience a truthful picture of old english manners; telling them, in rapid and cheery action, colman's quaint story--in which there is no malice and no bitterness, but in which simple virtue proves superior to temptation, and integrity is strong amid vicissitudes--and leaving in their minds, at the last, an amused conviction that indeed "nature hath framed strange fellows in her time." his own performance was full of nervous vitality and mental sparkle, and of a humour deliciously quaint and droll. dr. panglass, as embodied by jefferson, is a man who always sees the comical aspect of things and can make you see it with him, and all the while can be completely self-possessed and grave without ever once becoming slow or heavy. there was an air of candour, of ingenuous simplicity, of demure propriety, about the embodiment, that made it inexpressibly funny. there was no effort and no distortion. the structure of the impersonation tingled with life, and the expression of it--in demeanour, movement, facial play, intonation and business--was clear and crisp, with that absolute precision and beautiful finish for which the acting of jefferson has always been distinguished. he is probably the only american comedian now left, excepting john s. clarke, who knows all the traditional embellishments that have gone to the making of this part upon the stage--embellishments fitly typified by the bank-note business with zekiel homespun; a device, however, that perhaps suggests a greater degree of moral obliquity in dr. pangloss than was intended by the author. it was exceedingly comical, though, and it served its purpose. jefferson has had the character of pangloss in his repertory for almost forty years. he first acted it in new york as long ago as , at laura keene's theatre, when that beautiful woman played cicely and when duberly was represented by the lamented james g. burnett. it takes the playgoer a long way back, to be thinking about this old piece and the casts that it has had upon the american stage. _the heir at law_ was a great favourite in boston thirty years ago and more, when william warren was in his prime and could play dr. pangloss with the best of them, and when julia bennett barrow was living and acting, who could play cicely in a way that no later actress has excelled. john e. owens as pangloss will never be forgotten. it was a favourite part with john brougham. and the grotesque fun of john s. clarke in that droll character has been recognised on both sides of the atlantic. in jefferson's impersonation of dr. pangloss the predominant beauty was spontaneous and perfectly graceful identification with the part. the felicity of the apt quotations seemed to be accidental. the manner was buoyant, but the alacrity of the mind was more nimble than the celerity of the body, and those wise and witty comments that pangloss makes upon life, character, and manners flowed naturally from a brain that was in the vigour and repose of intense animation. the actor was completely merged in the character, which nevertheless his judgment dominated and his will directed. no other representative of pangloss has quite equalled jefferson in the element of authoritative and convincing sincerity. his demure sapience was of the most intense order and it arose out of great mental excitement. no other actor of the part has equalled him in softness and winning charm of humour. his embodiment of dr. pangloss has left in the memory of his time an image of eccentric character not less lovable than ludicrous. with zekiel homespun, an actor who is true to the author's plan will produce the impression of an affectionate heart, virtuous principles, and absolute honesty of purpose, combined with rustic simplicity. florence easily reached that result. his preservation of a dialect was admirably exact. the soul of the part is fraternal love, and when zekiel finds that his trusted friend has repulsed him and would wrong his sister, there is a fine flash of noble anger in the pride and scorn with which he confronts this falsehood and dishonour. florence in days when he used to act the irish emigrant proved himself the consummate master of simple pathos. he struck that familiar note again in the lovely manner of zekiel toward his sister cicely, and his denotement of the struggle between affection and resentment in the heart of the brother when wounded by the depravity of his friend was not less beautiful in the grace of art than impressive in simple dignity and touching in passionate fervour. in point of natural feeling zekiel homespun is a stronger part than dr. pangloss, although not nearly so complex nor so difficult to act. the sentiments by which it is animated awaken instant sympathy and the principles that impel command universal respect. no actor who has attempted zekiel homespun in this generation on the american stage has approached the performance that was given by florence, in conviction, in artless sweetness, in truth of passion, and in the heartfelt expression of the heart. purists customarily insist that the old comedies are sacred; that no one of their celestial commas or holy hyphens can be omitted without sin; and that the alteration of a sentence in them is sacrilege. the truth stands, however, without regard to hysterics: and it is a truth that the old comedies owe their vitality mostly to the actors who now and then resuscitate them. no play of the past is ever acted with scrupulous fidelity to the original text. the public that saw the _heir-at-law_ and the _rivals_, when jefferson and florence acted in them, saw condensed versions, animated by a living soul of to-day, and therefore it was impressed. the one thing indispensable on the stage is the art of the actor. x. on the death of florence. the melancholy tidings of the death of florence came suddenly (he died in philadelphia, after a brief illness, november , ), and struck the hearts of his friends not simply with affliction but with dismay. florence was a man of such vigorous and affluent health that the idea of illness and death was never associated with him. whoever else might go, he at least would remain, and for many cheerful years he would please our fancy and brighten our lives. his spirit was so buoyant and brilliant that it seemed not possible it could ever be dimmed. yet now, in a moment, his light was quenched and there was darkness on his mirth. we shall hear his pleasant voice no more and see no more the sunshine of a face that was never seen without joy and can never be remembered without sorrow. the loss to the public was great. few actors within the last forty years have stood upon a level with florence in versatility and charm. his gentleness, his simplicity, his modesty, his affectionate fidelity, his ready sympathy, his inexhaustibly patience, his fine talents--all those attributes united with his spontaneous drollery to enshrine him in tender affection. william james florence, whose family name was conlin, was born in albany, july , . when a youth he joined the murdoch dramatic association, and he early gave evidence of extraordinary dramatic talent. on december , he made his first appearance on the regular stage, at the marshall theatre in richmond, virginia, where he impersonated tobias, in _the stranger_. after that he met with the usual vicissitudes of a young player. he was a member of various stock companies--notably that of w.c. forbes, of the providence museum, and that of the once-popular john nickinson, of toronto and quebec--the famous havresack of his period. later he joined the company at niblo's theatre, new york, under the management of chippendale and john sefton, appearing there on may , . he also acted at the broadway, under marshall's management, and in he was a member of the company at brougham's lyceum. on january , he married malvina pray, sister of the wife of barney williams; and in that way those two irish comedians came to be domestically associated. at that time florence wrote several plays, upon irish and yankee subjects, then very popular, and he began to figure as a star--his wife standing beside him. they appeared at purdy's national theatre, june , , and then, and for a long time afterward, they had much popularity and success. florence had composed many songs of a sprightly character (one of them, called _bobbing around_, had a sale of more than , copies), and those songs were sung by his wife, to the delight of the public. the irish drama served his purpose for many years, but he varied that form of art by occasional resort to burlesque and by incursions into the realm of melodrama. one of his best performances was that of o'bryan, in john brougham's play of _temptation, or the irish emigrant_, with which he often graced the stage of the winter garden. in that he touched the extremes of gentle humour and melting pathos. he was delightfully humorous, also, in handy andy, and in all that long line of irish characters that came to our stage with tyrone power and the elder john drew. he had exceptional talent for burlesque, and that was often manifested in his early days. _fra diavolo_, _beppo_, _lallah rookh_, _the lady of the lions_, and _the colleen bawn_, were among the burlesques that he produced, and with those he was the pioneer. engagements were filled by mr. and mrs. florence, at the outset of their starring tour, in many cities of the republic, and everywhere they met with kindness and honour. among the plays written by florence were _the irish princess_, _o'neil the great_, _the sicilian bride_, _woman's wrongs_, _eva_, and _the drunkard's doom_. on april , mr. and mrs. florence sailed for england, and presently they appeared at drury lane theatre, where they at once stepped into favour. the performance of the _yankee gal_ by mrs. florence aroused positive enthusiasm--for it was new, and mrs. florence was the first american comic actress that had appeared upon the english stage. more than two hundred representations of it were given at that time. florence used to relate that his fortunes were greatly benefited by his success in london, and he habitually spoke with earnest gratitude of the kindness that he received there. from that time onward he enjoyed almost incessant prosperity. a tour of the english provincial cities followed his london season. he acted at manchester, liverpool, edinburgh, glasgow, belfast, and dublin, and both his wife and himself became favourites--so that their songs were sung and whistled in the streets, wherever they went. returning to the united states mr. and mrs. florence renewed their triumphs, all over the land. in florence played some of burton's characters in wallack's theatre--among them being toodle and cuttle. at a later period he made it a custom to lease wallack's theatre during the summer, and there he produced many burlesques. in , at the winter garden, he offered _the ticket-of-leave man_ and acted bob brierly, which was one of the best exploits of his life. in wallack's old theatre being then called the broadway and managed by barney williams, he brought to that house the comedy of _caste_ and presented it with a distribution of the parts that has not been equalled. the actors were mrs. chanfrau, mrs. gilbert, mrs. florence, william davidge, owen marlowe, edward lamb, and florence--who played george d'alroy. in he presented _no thoroughfare_ and enacted obenreizer,--a performance that established his rank among the leading actors of the time. in he made a remarkable hit as the hon. bardwell slote in the play of _the mighty dollar_, by benjamin e. woolff. that was the last important new play that he produced. during the last fifteen years of his life he offered selections from his accepted repertory. for a time he was associated with jefferson--to whom he brought a strength that was deeply valued and appreciated, equally by that famous actor and by the public--acting sir lucius o'trigger in _the rivals_ and zekiel homespun in _the heir-at-law_. the power of florence was that of impersonation. he was imaginative and sympathetic; his style was flexible; and he had an unerring instinct of effect. the secret of his success lay in his profound feeling, guided by perfect taste and perfect self-control. he was an actor of humanity, and he diffused an irresistible charm of truth and gentleness. his place was his own and it can never be filled. * * * * * an epitaph. _here rest the ashes of_ william james florence, _comedian_. _his copious and varied dramatic powers, together with the abundant graces of his person, combined with ample professional equipment and a temperament of peculiar sensibility and charm, made him one of the best and most successful actors of his time, alike in comedy and in serious drama. he ranged easily from handy andy to bob brierly, and from cuttle to obenreizer. in authorship, alike of plays, stories, music, and song, he was inventive, versatile, facile, and graceful. in art admirable; in life gentle; he was widely known, and he was known only to be loved._ he was born in albany, n.y., july , . he died in philadelphia penn., november , . * * * * * by virtue cherished, by affection mourned, by honour hallowed and by fame adorned, here florence sleeps, and o'er his sacred rest each word is tender and each thought is blest. long, for his loss, shall pensive mem'ry show, through humour's mask, the visage of her woe, day breathe a darkness that no sun dispels, and night be full of whispers and farewells; while patient kindness, shadow-like and dim, droops in its loneliness, bereft of him, feels its sad doom and sure decadence nigh,-- for how should kindness live, when he could die! the eager heart, that felt for every grief, the bounteous hand, that loved to give relief, the honest smile, that blessed where'er it lit, the dew of pathos and the sheen of wit, the sweet, blue eyes, the voice of melting tone, that made all hearts as gentle as his own, the actor's charm, supreme in royal thrall, that ranged through every field and shone in all-- for these must sorrow make perpetual moan, bereaved, benighted, hopeless, and alone? ah, no; for nature does no act amiss, and heaven were lonely but for souls like this. xi. henry irving and ellen terry in the merchant of venice. in his beautiful production of _the merchant of venice_ henry irving restored the fifth act, the jailer scene, and the casket scenes in full, and the piece was acted with strict fidelity to shakespeare. with ellen terry for portia that achievement became feasible. with an ordinary actress in that character the comedy might be tedious--notwithstanding its bold and fine contrasts of character, its fertility of piquant incident, and its lovely poetry. radiant with her fine spirit and beautiful presence, and animated and controlled in every fibre by his subtle and authoritative intellect, judiciously cast and correctly dressed and mounted, henry irving's revival of _the merchant of venice_ captured the public fancy; and in every quarter it was sincerely felt and freely proclaimed that here, at last, was the perfection of stage display. that success has never faded. the performance was round, symmetrical, and thorough--every detail being kept subordinate to intelligent general effect, and no effort being made toward overweening individual display. shakespeare's conception of shylock has long been in controversy. burbage, who acted the part in shakespeare's presence, wore a red wig and was frightful in form and aspect. the red wig gives a hint of low comedy, and it may be that the great actor made use of low comedy expedients to cloak shylock's inveterate malignity and sinister purpose. dogget, who played the part in lord lansdowne's alteration of shakespeare's piece, turned shylock into farce. macklin, when he restored the original play to the stage--at drury lane, february , --- wore a red hat, a peaked beard, and a loose black gown, playing shylock as a serious, almost a tragic part, and laying great emphasis upon a display of revengeful passion and hateful malignity. so terrible was he, indeed, that persons who saw him on the stage in that character not infrequently drew the inference and kept the belief that he was personally a monster. his look was iron-visaged; the cast of his manners was relentless and savage. quin said that his face contained not lines but cordage. in portraying the contrasted passions of joy for antonio's losses and grief for jessica's elopement he poured forth all his fire. when he whetted his knife, in the trial scene, he was silent, grisly, ominous, and fatal. no human touch, no hint of race-majesty or of religious fanaticism, tempered the implacable wickedness of that hateful ideal. pope, who saw that shylock, hailed it as "the jew that shakespeare drew"--and pope, among other things, was one of the editors of shakespeare. cooke, who had seen macklin's shylock, and also those of henderson, king, kemble, and yates, adopted, maintained, and transmitted the legend of macklin. edmund kean, who worshipped cooke, was unquestionably his imitator in shylock; but it seems to have been edmund kean who, for the first time, gave prominence to the hebraic majesty and fanatical self-consecration of that hateful but colossal character. jerrold said that kean's shylock was like a chapter of genesis. macready--whose utterance of "nearest his heart" was the blood-curdling keynote of his whole infernal ideal--declared the part to be "composed of harshness," and he saw no humanity in the lament for the loss of leah's ring, but only a lacerated sense of the value of that jewel. brooke, a great shylock, concurred with kean's ideal and made the jew orientally royal, the avenger of his race, having "an oath in heaven," and standing on the law of "an eye for an eye." edwin forrest, the elder wallack, e.l. davenport, edwin booth, bogumil davison, and charles kean steadily kept shylock upon the stage,--some walking in the religious track and some leaving it. but the weight of opinion and the spirit and drift of the text would justify a presentment of the jew as the incarnation not alone of avarice and hate, but of the stern, terrible mosaic law of justice. that is the high view of the part, and in studying shakespeare it is safe to prefer the high view. there must be imagination, or pathos, or weirdness, or some form of humour, or a personal charm in the character that awakens the soul of henry irving and calls forth his best and finest powers. there is little of that quality in shylock. but henry irving took the high view of him. this jew "feeds fat the ancient grudge" against antonio--until the law of portia, more subtle than equitable, interferes to thwart him; but also he avenges the wrongs that his "sacred nation" has suffered. his ideal was right, his grasp of it firm, his execution of it flexible with skill and affluent with intellectual power. if memory carries away a shuddering thought of his baleful gaze upon the doomed antonio and of his horrid cry of the summons "come, prepare!" it also retains the image of a father convulsed with grief--momentarily, but sincerely--and of a man who at least can remember that he once loved. it was a most austere shylock, inveterate of purpose, vindictive, malignant, cruel, ruthless; and yet it was human. no creature was ever more logical and consistent in his own justification. by purity, sincerity, decorum, fanaticism, the ideal was aptly suggestive of such men as robert catesby, guy fawkes, and john felton--persons who, with prayer on their lips, were nevertheless capable of hideous cruelty. the street scene demands utterance, not repression. the jew raves there, and no violence would seem excessive. macklin, kean, cooke, and the elder booth, each must have been terrific at that point. henry irving's method was that of the intense passion that can hardly speak--the passion that kean is said to have used so grandly in giving the curse of junius brutus upon tarquin. but, there was just as much of shylock's nature in henry irving's performance as in any performance that is recorded. the lack was overwhelming physical power--not mentality and not art. at "no tears but of my shedding" henry irving's shylock took a strong clutch upon the emotions and created an effect that will never be forgotten. ellen terry's portia long ago became a precious memory. the part makes no appeal to the tragic depths of her nature, but it awakens her fine sensibility, stimulates the nimble play of her intellect, and cordially promotes that royal exultation in the affluence of physical vitality and of spiritual freedom that so often seems to lift her above the common earth. there have been moments when it seemed not amiss to apply shakespeare's own beautiful simile to the image of queen-like refinement, soft womanhood, and spiritualised intellect that this wonderful actress presented--"as if an angel dropped down from the clouds." her portia was stately, yet fascinating; a woman to inspire awe and yet to captivate every heart. nearer to shakespeare's meaning than that no actress can ever go. the large, rich, superb manner never invalidated the gentle blandishments of her sex. the repressed ardour, the glowing suspense, the beautiful modesty and candour with which she awaited the decision of the casket scene, showed her to be indeed all woman, and worthy of a true man's love. here was no paltering of a puny nature with great feelings and a great experience. and never in our day has the poetry of shakespeare fallen from human lips in a strain of such melody--with such teeming freedom of felicitous delivery and such dulcet purity of diction. xii. john mccullough in several characters. there is no greater gratification to the intellect than the sense of power and completeness in itself or the perception of power and completeness in others. those attributes were in john mccullough's acting and were at the heart of its charm. his repertory consisted of thirty characters, but probably the most imposing and affecting of his embodiments was virginius. the massive grandeur of adequacy in that performance was a great excellence. the rugged, weather-beaten plainness of it was full of authority and did not in the least detract from its poetic purity and ideal grace. the simplicity of it was like the lovely innocence that shines through the ingenuous eyes of childhood, while its majesty was like the sheen of white marble in the sunlight. it was a very high, serious, noble work; yet,--although, to his immeasurable credit, the actor never tried to apply a "natural" treatment to artificial conditions or to speak blank verse in a colloquial manner,--it was made sweetly human by a delicate play of humour in the earlier scenes, and by a deep glow of paternal tenderness that suffused every part of it and created an almost painful sense of sincerity. common life was not made commonplace life by mccullough, nor blank verse depressed to the level of prose. the intention to be real--the intention to love, suffer, feel, act, defend, and avenge, as a man of actual life would do--was obvious enough, through its harmonious fulfilment; yet the realism was shorn of all triteness, all animal excess, all of those ordinary attributes which are right in nature, and wrong because obstructive in the art that is nature's interpretation. just as the true landscape is the harmonious blending of selected natural effects, so the true dramatic embodiment is the crystallization of selected attributes in any given type of human nature, shown in selected phases of natural condition. mccullough did not present virginius brushing his hair or paying virginia's school-bills; yet he suggested him, clearly and beautifully, in the sweet domestic repose and paternal benignity of his usual life--making thus a background of loveliness, on which to throw, in lines of living light, the terrible image of his agonising sacrifice. and when the inevitable moment came for his dread act of righteous slaughter it was the moral grandeur, the heart-breaking paternal agony, and the overwhelming pathos of the deed that his art diffused--not the "gashed stab," the blood, the physical convulsion, the revolting animal shock. neither was there druling, or dirt, or physical immodesty, or any other attribute of that class of the natural concomitants of insanity, in the subsequent delirium. a perfect and holy love is, in one aspect of it, a sadder thing to see than the profoundest grief. misery, at its worst, is at least final: and for that there is the relief of death. but love, in its sacred exaltation,--the love of the parent for the child,--is so fair a mark for affliction that one can hardly view it without a shudder of apprehensive dread. that sort of love was personified in mccullough's embodiment of virginius, and that same nameless thrill of fear was imparted by its presence,--even before the tragedian, with an exquisite intuition of art, made virginius convey his vague presentiment, not admitted but quickly thrust aside, of some unknown doom of peril and agony. there was, in fact, more heart in that single piece of acting than in any hundred of the most pathetic performances of the "natural" school; and all the time it was maintained at the lofty level of classic grace. it would be impossible to overstate the excellence of all that mccullough did and said, in the forum scene--the noble severity of the poise, the grace of the outlines, the terrible intensity of the mood, the heartrending play of the emotions, the overwhelming delirium of the climax. throughout the subsequent most difficult portraiture of shattered reason the actor never, for an instant, lost his steadfast grasp upon sympathy and inspiration. every heart knew the presence of a nature that could feel all that virginius felt and suffer and act all that virginius suffered and acted; and, beyond this, in his wonderful investiture of the mad scenes with the alternate vacancy and lamentable and forlorn anguish of a special kind of insanity, every judge of the dramatic art recognised the governing touch of a splendid intellect, imperial over all its resources and instruments of art. virginius as embodied by mccullough was a man of noble and refined nature; lovely in life; cruelly driven into madness; victorious over dishonour, by a deed of terrible heroism; triumphant over crime, even in forlorn and pitiable dethronement and ruin; and, finally, released by the celestial mercy of death. and this was shown by a poetic method so absolute that virginius, while made an actual man to every human heart, was kept a hero to the universal imagination, whether of scholar or peasant, and a white ideal of manly purity and grace to that great faculty of taste which is the umpire and arbiter of the human mind. the sustained poetic exaltation of that embodiment, its unity as a grand and sympathetic personage, and its exquisite simplicity were the qualities that gave it vitality in popular interest, and through those it will have permanence in theatrical history. there were many subtle beauties in it. the illimitable tenderness, back of the sweet dignity, in the betrothal of virginia to icilius; the dim, transitory, evanescent touch of presentiment, in the forecasting of the festival joys that are to succeed the war; the self-abnegation and simple homeliness of grief for the dead dentatus; the alternate shock of freezing terror and cry of joy, in the camp scene--closing with that potent repression and thrilling outburst, "prudence, but no patience!"--a situation and words that call at once for splendid manliness of self-command and an ominous and savage vehemence; the glad, saving, comforting cry to virginia, "is she here?"--that cry which never failed to precipitate a gush of joyous tears; the rapt preoccupation and the exquisite music of voice with which he said, "i never saw thee look so like thy mother, in all my life"; the majesty of his demeanour in the forum; the look that saw the knife; the mute parting glance at servia; the accents of broken reason, but unbroken and everlasting love, that called upon the name of the poor murdered virginia; and then the last low wail of the dying father, conscious and happy in the great boon of death--those, as mccullough gave them, were points of impressive beauty, invested with the ever-varying light and shadow of a delicate artistic treatment, and all the while animated with passionate sincerity. the perfect finish of the performance, indeed, was little less than marvellous, when viewed with reference to the ever-increasing volume of power and the evident reality of afflicting emotion with which the part was carried. if acting ever could do good the acting of mccullough did. if ever dramatic art concerns the public welfare it is when such an ideal of manliness and heroism is presented in such an image of nobility. in lear and in othello,--as in virginius,--the predominant quality of mccullough's acting was a profound and beautiful sincerity. his splendidly self-poised nature--a solid rock of truth, which enabled him, through years of patient toil, to hold a steadfast course over all the obstacles that oppose and amid all the chatter that assails a man who is trying to accomplish anything grand and noble in art--bore him bravely up in those great characters, and made him, in each of them, a stately type of the nobility of the human soul. as the moor, his performance was well-nigh perfect. there was something a little fantastic, indeed, in the facial style that he used; and that blemish was enhanced by the display of a wild beast's head on the back of one of othello's robes. the tendency of that sort of ornamentation--however consonant it may be deemed with the barbaric element in the moor--is to suggest him as heedful of appearances, and thus to distract regard from his experience to his accessories. but the spirit was true. simplicity, urged almost to the extreme of barrenness, would not be out of place in othello, and mccullough, in his treatment of the part, testified to his practical appreciation of that truth. his ideal of othello combined manly tenderness, spontaneous magnanimity, and trusting devotion, yet withal a volcanic ground-swell of passion, that early and clearly displayed itself as capable of delirium and ungovernable tempest. his method had the calm movement of a summer cloud, in every act and word by which this was shown. for intensity and for immediate, adequate, large, and overwhelming response of action to emotion, that performance has not been surpassed. there were points in it, though, at which the massive serenity of the actor's temperament now and then deadened the glow of feeling and depressed him to undue calmness; he sometimes recovered too suddenly and fully from a tempest of emotion--as at the agonising appeal to iago, "give me a living reason she's disloyal"; and he was not enough delirious in the speech about the sybil and the handkerchief. on the other hand, once yielded to the spell of desecrated feeling, his mood and his expression of it were immeasurably pathetic and noble. those two great ebullitions of despair, "o, now forever," and "had it pleased heaven," could not be spoken in a manner more absolutely heart-broken or more beautifully simple than the manner that was used by him. in his obvious though silent suffering at the disgrace and dismissal of cassio; in the dazed, forlorn agony that blended with his more active passion throughout the scene of iago's wicked conquest of his credulity; in his occasional quick relapses into blind and sweet fidelity to the old belief in desdemona; in his unquenchable tenderness for her, through the delirium and the sacrifice; and in the tone of soft, romantic affection--always spiritualised, never sensual--that his deep and loving sincerity diffused throughout the work, was shown the grand unity of the embodiment; a unity based on the simple passion of love. to hear that actor say the one supreme line to iago, "i am bound to thee forever," was to know that he understood and felt the meaning of the character, to its minutest fibre and its profoundest depth. there were touches of fresh and aptly illustrative "business" in the encounter of othello and iago, in the great scene of the third act. the gasping struggles of iago heightened the effect of the moor's fury, and the quickly suppressed impulse and yell of rage with which he finally bounded away made an admirable effect of nature. in the last scene mccullough rounded his performance with a solemn act of sacrifice. there was nothing animal, nothing barbaric, nothing insane, in the slaughter of desdemona. it was done in an ecstasy of justice, and the atmosphere that surrounded the deed was that of awe and not of horror. for the character of king lear mccullough possessed the imposing stature, the natural majesty, the great reach of voice, and the human tenderness that are its basis and equipment. no actor of lear can ever satisfy a sympathetic lover of the part unless he possesses a greatly affectionate heart, a fiery spirit, and,--albeit the intellect must be shown in ruins,--a regal mind. within that grand and lamentable image of shattered royalty the man must be noble and lovable. nothing that is puny or artificial can ever wear the investiture of that colossal sorrow. mccullough embodied lear as, from the first, stricken in mind--already the unconscious victim of incipient decay and dissolution; not mad but ready to become so. there is a subtle apprehensiveness all about the presence of the king, in all the earlier scenes. he diffuses disquietude and vaguely presages disaster, and the observer looks on him with solicitude and pain. he is not yet decrepit but he will soon break; and the spectator loves him and is sorry for him and would avert the destiny of woe that is darkly foreshadowed in his condition. mccullough gave the invectives--as they ought to be given--with the impetuous rush and wild fury of the avalanche; and yet they were felt to come out of agony as well as out of passion. the pathos of those tremendous passages is in their chaotic disproportion; in their lawlessness and lack of government; in the evident helplessness of the poor old man who hurls them forth from a breaking heart and a distracted mind. he loves, and he loathes himself for loving: every fibre of his nature is in horrified revolt against such lack of reverence, gratitude, and affection toward such a monarch and such a father as he knows himself to have been. the feeling that mccullough poured through those moments of splendid yet pitiable frenzy was overwhelming in its intense glow and in its towering and incessant volume. there was remarkable subtlety, also, in the manner in which that feeling was tempered. in lear's meeting with goneril after the curse you saw at once the broken condition of an aged, infirm, and mentally disordered man, who had already forgotten his own terrible words. "we'll no more meet, no more see one another" is a line to which mccullough gave its full eloquence of abject mournfulness and forlorn desolation. other denotements of subtlety were seen in his sad preoccupation with memories of the lost cordelia, while talking with the fool. "i did her wrong" was never more tenderly spoken than by him. they are only four little words; but they carry the crushing weight of eternal and hopeless remorse. it was in this region of delicate, imaginative touch that mccullough's dramatic art was especially puissant. he was the first actor of lear to discriminate between the agony of a man while going mad and the careless, volatile, fantastic condition--afflicting to witness, but no longer agonising to the lunatic himself--of a man who has actually lapsed into madness. edwin forrest--whose lear is much extolled, often by persons who, evidently, never saw it--much as he did with the part, never even faintly suggested such a discrimination as that. to one altitude of lear's condition it is probably impossible for dramatic art to rise--the mood of divine philosophy, warmed with human tenderness, in which the dazed but semi-conscious vicegerent of heaven moralises over human life. there is a grandeur in that conception so vast that nothing short of the rarest inspiration of genius can rise to it. the deficiences of mccullough's lear were found in the analysis of that part of the performance. he had the heart of lear, the royalty, the breadth; but not all of either the exalted intellect, the sorrow-laden experience, or the imagination--so gorgeous in its disorder, so infinitely pathetic in its misery. his performance of lear signally exemplified, through every phase of passion, that temperance which should give it smoothness. the treatment of the curse scene, in particular, was extraordinarily beautiful for the low, sweet, and tender melody of the voice, broken only now and then--and rightly broken--with the harsh accents of wrath. gentleness never accomplished more, as to taste and pathos, than in mccullough's utterance of "i gave you all," and "i'll go with you." the rallying of the broken spirit after that, and the terrific outburst, "i'll not weep," had an appalling effect. the recognition of cordelia was simply tender, and the death scene lovely in pathos and solemn and affecting in tragic climax. throughout _othello_ and _king lear_ mccullough's powers were seen to be curbed and guided, not by a cold and formal design but by a grave and sweet gentleness of mind, always a part of his nature, but more and more developed by the stress of experience, by the reactionary subduing influence of noble success, and by the definite consciousness of power. he found no difficulty in portraying the misery of othello and of lear, because this is a form of misery that flows out of laceration of the heart, and not from the more subtle wounds that are inflicted upon the spirit through the imagination. there was no brooding over the awful mysteries of the universe, nor any of that corroding, haunted gloom that comes of an over-spiritualised state of suffering, longing, questioning, doubting humanity. above all things else othello and lear are human; and the human heart, above all things else, was the domain of that actor. the character of coriolanus, though high and noble, is quite as likely to inspire resentment as to awaken sympathy. it contains many elements and all of them are good; but chiefly it typifies the pride of intellect. this, in itself a natural feeling and a virtuous quality, practically becomes a vice when it is not tempered with charity for ignorance, weakness, and the lower orders of mind. in the character of coriolanus it is not so tempered, and therefore it vitiates his greatness and leads to his destruction. much, of course, can be urged in his defence. he is a man of spotless honour, unswerving integrity, dauntless courage, simple mind, straightforward conduct, and magnanimous disposition. he is always ready to brave the perils of battle for the service of his country. he constantly does great deeds--and would continue constantly to do them--for their own sake and in a spirit of total indifference alike to praises and rewards. he exists in the consciousness of being great and has no life in the opinions of other persons. he dwells in "the cedar's top" and "dallies with the wind and scorns the sun." he knows and he despises with active and immitigable contempt the shallowness and fickleness of the multitude. he is of an icy purity, physical as well as mental, and his nerves tingle with disgust of the personal uncleanliness of the mob. "bid them wash their faces," he says--when urged to ask the suffrages of the people--"and keep their teeth clean." "he rewards his deeds with doing them," says his fellow-soldier cominius, "and looks upon things precious as the common muck of the world." his aristocracy does not sit in a corner, deedless and meritless, brooding over a transmitted name and sucking the orange of empty self-conceit: it is the aristocracy of achievement and of nature--the solid superiority of having done the brightest and best deeds that could be done in his time and of being the greatest man of his generation. it is as if a washington, having made and saved a nation, were to spurn it from him with his foot, in lofty and by no means groundless contempt for the ignorance, pettiness, meanness, and filth of mankind. the story of coriolanus, as it occurs in plutarch, is thought to be fabulous, but it is very far from being fabulous as it stands transfigured in the stately, eloquent tragedy of shakespeare. the character and the experience are indubitably representative. it was some modified form of the condition thus shown that resulted in the treason and subsequent ruin of benedict arnold. pride of intellect largely dominated the career of aaron burr. more than one great thinker has split on that rock, and gone to pieces in the surges of popular resentment. "no man," said dr. chapin, in his discourse over the coffin of horace greeley, "can lift himself above himself." he who repudiates the humanity of which he is a part will inevitably come to sorrow and ruin. it is perfectly true that no intellectual person should in the least depend upon the opinions of others--which, in the nature of things, exist in all stages of immaturity, mutability, and error--but should aim to do the greatest deeds and should find reward in doing them: yet always the right mood toward humanity is gentleness and not scorn. "thou, my father," said matthew arnold, in his tribute to one of the best men of the century, "wouldst not be saved alone." to enlighten the ignorant, to raise the weak, to pity the frail, to disregard the meanness, ingratitude, misapprehension, dulness, and petty malice of the lower orders of humanity--that is the wisdom of the wise; and that is accordant with the moral law of the universe, from the operation of which no man escapes. to study, in shakespeare, the story of coriolanus is to observe the violation of that law and the consequent retribution. "battles, and the breath of stormy war and violent death" fill up the first part of the tragedy as it stands in shakespeare, and that portion is also much diversified with abrupt changes of scene; so that it has been found expedient to alter the piece, with a view to its more practical adaptation to the stage. while however it is not acted in strict accordance with shakespeare its essential parts are retained and represented. many new lines, though, occur toward the close. mccullough used the version that was used by forrest, who followed in the footsteps of cooper, the elder vandenhoff, and james r. anderson. there is, perhaps, an excess of foreground--a superfluity of fights and processions--by way of preparing for the ordeal through which the character of coriolanus is to be displayed. yet when hecuba at last is reached the interest of the situation makes itself felt with force. the massive presence and stalwart declamation of edwin forrest made him superb in this character; but the embodiment of coriolanus by mccullough, while equal to its predecessor in physical majesty, was superior to it in intellectual haughtiness and in refinement. an actor's treatment of the character must, unavoidably, follow the large, broad style of the historical painter. there is scant opportunity afforded in any of the scenes allotted to coriolanus for fine touches and delicate shading. during much of the action the spectator is aware only of an imperial figure that moves with a mountainous grace through the fleeting rabble of roman plebeians and volscians, dreadful in war, loftily calm in peace, irradiating the conscious superiority of power, dignity, worth, and honourable renown. mccullough filled that aspect of the part as if he had been born for it. his movements had the splendid repose not merely of great strength but of intellectual poise and native mental supremacy. the "i must be found" air of othello was again displayed, in ripe perfection, through the roman toga. his declamation was as fluent and as massively graceful as his demeanour. if this actor had not the sonorous, clarion voice of john kemble, he yet certainly suggested the tradition of the stately port and dominating step of that great master of the dramatic art. he looked coriolanus, to the life. more of poetic freedom might have been wished, in the decorative treatment of the person--a touch of wildness in the hair, a tinge of imaginative exaltation in the countenance, an air of mischance in the gashes of combat. still the embodiment was correct in its superficial conventionality; and it certainly possessed affecting grandeur. whenever there was opportunity for fine treatment, moreover, the actor seized and filled it, with the easy grace of unerring intuition and spontaneity. the delicacy of vocalism, the movement, the tone of sentiment, and the manliness of condition--the royal fibre of a great mind--in the act of withdrawal from the senate, was right and beautiful. it is difficult not to over-emphasise the physical symbols of mental condition, in the street scene with "the voices"; but there again the actor denoted a fine spiritual instinct. to a situation like that of the banishment he proved easily equal: indeed, he gave that magnificent outburst of scorn with tremendous power: but it was in the pathetic scene with volumnia and virgilia that he reached the summit of the shakespearean conception. the deep heart as well as the imperial intellect of coriolanus must then speak. it is, for the distracted son, a moment of agonised and pathetic conflict: for mccullough it was a moment of perfect adequacy and consummate success. the stormy utterance of revolted pride and furious disgust, in the denial of volumnia's request--the tempestuous outburst, "i will not do it"--made as wild, fiery, and fine a moment in tragic acting as could be imagined; but the climax was attained in the pathetic cry-- "the gods look down, and this unnatural scene they laugh at." xiii. charlotte cushman. making, one summer day, a pilgrimage to the grave of charlotte cushman, i was guided to the place of her rest by one of the labourers employed about the cemetery, who incidentally pronounced upon the deceased a comprehensive and remarkable eulogium. "she was," he said, "considerable of a woman, for a play-actress." well--she was. the place of her sepulture is on the east slope of the principal hill in mount auburn. hard by, upon the summit of the hill, stands the gray tower that overlooks the surrounding region and constantly symbolises, to eyes both far and near, the perpetual peace of which it is at once guardian and image. all around the spot tall trees give shade and music, as the sun streams on their branches and the wind murmurs in their leaves. at a little distance, visible across green meadows and the river charles,--full and calm between its verdant banks,--rise the "dreaming spires" of cambridge. further away, crowned with her golden dome, towers old boston, the storied city that charlotte cushman loved. upon the spot where her ashes now rest the great actress stood, and, looking toward the city of her home and heart, chose that to be the place of her grave; and there she sleeps, in peace, after many a conflict with her stormy nature and after many sorrows and pains. what terrific ideals of the imagination she made to be realities of life! what burning eloquence of poesy she made to blaze! what moments of pathos she lived! what moods of holy self-abnegation and of exalted power she brought to many a sympathetic soul! standing by her grave, on which the myrtle grows dense and dark, and over which the small birds swirl and twitter in the breezy silence, remembrance of the busy scenes of brilliant life wherein she used to move--the pictured stage, the crowded theatre, the wild plaudits of a delighted multitude--came strongly on the mind, and asked, in perplexity and sadness, what was the good of it all. to her but little. fame and wealth were her cold rewards, after much privation and labour; but she found neither love nor happiness, and the fullest years of her life were blighted with the shadow of fatal disease and impending death. to the world, however, her career was of great and enduring benefit. she was a noble interpreter of the noble minds of the past, and thus she helped to educate the men and women of her time--to ennoble them in mood, to strengthen them in duty, to lift them up in hope of immortality. she did not live in vain. it is not likely that the american people will ever suffer her name to drift quite out of their remembrance: it is a name that never can be erased from the rolls of honourable renown. charlotte cushman was born on july , , and she died on february , . boston was the place of her birth and of her death. she lived till her sixtieth year and she was for forty years an actress. her youth was one of poverty and the early years of her professional career were full of labour, trouble, heart-ache, and conflict. the name of cushman signifies "cross-bearer," and certainly charlotte cushman did indeed bear the cross, long before and long after, she wore the crown. at first she was a vocalist, but, having broken her voice by misusing it, she was compelled to quit the lyric and adopt the dramatic stage, and when nineteen years old she came out, at new orleans, as lady macbeth. after that she removed to new york and for the next seven years she battled with adverse fortune in the theatres of that city and of albany and philadelphia. from to she was under engagement at the old park as walking lady and for general utility business. "i became aware," she wrote, "that one could never sail a ship by entering at the cabin windows; he must serve and learn his trade before the mast. this was the way that i would henceforth learn mine." her first remarkable hits were made in emilia, meg merrilies, and nancy--the latter in _oliver twist_. but it was not till she met with macready that the day of her deliverance from drudgery really dawned. they acted together in new york in and , and in boston in , and in the autumn of the latter year miss cushman went to england, where, after much effort, she obtained an opening in london, at the princess's, and in made her memorable success as bianca. "since the first appearance of edmund kean, in ," said a london journal of that time, "never has there been such a _début_ on the stage of an english theatre." her engagement lasted eighty-four nights (it was an engagement to act with edwin forrest), and she recorded its result in a letter to her mother, saying: "all my successes put together since i have been upon the stage would not come near my success in london, and i only wanted some one of you here to enjoy it with me, to make it complete." she acted bianca, emilia, lady macbeth, mrs. haller, and rosalind. a prosperous provincial tour followed, and then, in december, , she came out at the haymarket, as romeo, her sister susan appearing as juliet. her stay abroad lasted till the end of the summer of , and to that period belongs her great achievement as queen katharine. from the fall of till the spring of miss cushman was in america, and she was everywhere received with acclamation, gathering with ease both laurels and riches. when she first reappeared, october , , at the old broadway theatre, new york--as mrs. haller--she introduced charles w. couldock to our stage, on which he has ever since maintained his rank as a powerful and versatile actor. he acted the stranger and subsequently was seen in the other leading characters opposite to her own. miss cushman's repertory then included lady macbeth, queen katharine, meg merrilies, beatrice, rosalind, bianca, julia, mariana, katharine, the countess, pauline, juliana, lady gay spanker, and mrs. simpson. her principal male characters then, or later, were romeo, wolsey, hamlet, and claude melnotte. in she announced her intention of retiring from the stage, and from that time till the end of her days she wavered between retirement and professional occupation. the explanation of this is readily divined, in her condition. there never was a time, during all those years, when she was not haunted by dread of the disease that ultimately destroyed her life. from to she lived in england, and in the course of that period she acted many times, in different cities. in december , when dining with the duke of devonshire, at brighton, she read _henry viii._ to the duke and his guests, and in that way began her experience as a reader. in the autumn of she acted at burton's theatre, new york, and was seen as cardinal wolsey, and in the early summer of she gave a series of "farewell" performances at niblo's garden--after which she again crossed the atlantic and established her residence in rome. in june the great actress came home again and passed a year in america. _oliver twist_ was given at the winter garden in the spring of , when miss cushman acted nancy, and j.w. wallack, jr., j.b. studley, william davidge, and owen marlowe were in the company. in , having come from rome for that purpose, miss cushman acted in four cities, for the benefit of the united states sanitary commission, and earned for it $ . the seven ensuing years were passed by her in europe, but in october she returned home for the last time, and the brief remainder of her life was devoted to public readings, occasional dramatic performances, and the society of friends. she built a villa at newport, which still bears her name. she gave final farewell performances, in the season of - , in new york, philadelphia, and boston. her final public appearance was made on june , , at easton, pennsylvania, where she gave a reading. her death occurred at the parker house, in boston, february , , and she was buried from king's chapel. there is a mournful pleasure in recalling the details of miss cushman's life and meditating upon her energetic, resolute, patient, creative nature. she was faithful, throughout her career, to high principles of art and a high standard of duty. nature gave her great powers but fettered her also with great impediments. she conquered by the spell of a strange, weird genius and by hard, persistent labour. in this latter particular she is an example to every member of the dramatic profession, present or future. in what she was as a woman she could not be imitated--for her colossal individuality dwelt apart, in its loneliness, as well of suffering that no one could share as of an imaginative life that no one could fathom. without the stage she would still have been a great woman, although perhaps she might have lacked an entirely suitable vehicle for the display of her powers. with the stage she gave a body to the soul of some of shakespeare's greatest conceptions, and she gave soul and body both to many works of inferior origin. there is no likelihood that we shall ever see again such a creation as her meg merrilies. her genius could embody the sublime, the beautiful, the terrible, and with all this the humorous; and it was saturated with goodness. if the love of beauty was intensified by the influence of her art, virtue was also strengthened by the force of her example and the inherent dignity of her nature. xiv. on the death of lawrence barrett. [obiit march , .] the death of lawrence barrett was the disappearance of one of the noblest figures of the modern stage. during the whole of his career, in a public life of thirty-five years, he was steadily and continuously impelled by a pure and fine ambition and the objects that he sought to accomplish were always the worthiest and the best. his devotion to the dramatic art was a passionate devotion, and in an equal degree he was devoted to a high ideal of personal conduct. doctrines of expediency never influenced him and indeed were never considered by him. he had early fixed his eyes on the dramatic sceptre. he knew that it never could be gained except by the greatest and brightest of artistic achievements, and to them accordingly he consecrated his life. whenever and wherever he appeared the community was impressed with a sense of intellectual character, moral worth, and individual dignity. many other dramatic efforts might be trivial. those of lawrence barrett were always felt to be important. most of the plays with which his name is identified are among the greatest plays in our language, and the spirit in which he treated them was that of exalted scholarship, austere reverence, and perfect refinement. he was profoundly true to all that is noble and beautiful, and because he was true the world of art everywhere recognised him as the image of fidelity and gave to him the high tribute of its unwavering homage. his coming was always a signal to arouse the mind. his mental vitality, which was very great, impressed even unsympathetic beholders with a sense of fiery thought struggling in its fetters of mortality and almost shattering and consuming the frail temple of its human life. his stately head, silvered with graying hair, his dark eyes deeply sunken and glowing with intense light, his thin visage pallid with study and pain, his form of grace and his voice of sonorous eloquence and solemn music (in compass, variety, and sweetness one of the few great voices of the current dramatic generation), his tremendous earnestness, his superb bearing, and his invariable authority and distinction--all those attributes united to announce a ruler and leader in the realm of the intellect. the exceeding tumult of his spirit enhanced the effect of this mordant personality. the same sleepless energy that inspired loyola and lanfranc burned in the bosom of this modern actor; and it was entirely in keeping with the drift of his character and the tenor of his life that the last subject that occupied his thoughts should have been the story of becket, the great prelate--whom he intended to represent, and to whom in mental qualities he was nearly allied. in losing lawrence barrett the american stage lost the one man who served it with an apostle's zeal because he loved it with an apostle's love. the essential attributes that lawrence barrett did not possess were enchantment for the public and adequate and philosophic patience for himself. he gained, indeed, a great amount of public favour, and,--with reference to an indisputable lack of universal sympathy and enthusiasm,--he was learning to regard that as a natural consequence of his character which formerly he had resented as the injustice of the world. men and women of austere mind do not fascinate their fellow-creatures. they impress by their strangeness. they awe by their majesty. they predominate by their power. but they do not involuntarily entice. lawrence barrett,--although full of kindness and gentleness, and, to those who knew him well, one of the most affectionate and lovable of men,--was essentially a man of austere intellect; and his experience was according to his nature. to some persons the world gives everything, without being asked to give at all. to others it gives only what it must, and that with a kind of icy reluctance that often makes the gift a bitter one. lawrence barrett, who rose from an obscure and humble position,--without fortune, without friends, without favouring circumstances, without education, without help save that of his talents and his will,--was for a long time met with indifference, or frigid obstruction, or impatient disparagement. he gained nothing without battle. he had to make his way by his strength. his progress involved continual effort and his course was attended with continual controversy and strife. when at last it had to be conceded that he was a great actor, the concession was, in many quarters, grudgingly made. even then detraction steadily followed him, and its voice--though impotent and immeasurably trivial--has not yet died away. there came a time when his worth was widely recognised, and from that moment onward he had much prosperity, and his nature expanded and grew calmer, sweeter, and brighter under its influence. but the habit of warfare had got into his acting, and more or less it remained there to the last. the assertive quality, indeed, had long since begun to die away. the volume of needless emphasis was growing less and less. few performances on the contemporary stage are commensurate with his embodiments of harebell and gringoire, in softness, simplicity, poetic charm, and the gentle tranquillity that is the repose of a self-centred soul. but his deep and burning desire to be understood, his anxiety lest his effects should not be appreciated, his inveterate purpose of conquest,--that overwhelming solicitude of ambition often led him to insist upon his points, to over-elaborate and enforce them, and in that way his art to some extent defeated itself by the excess of its eager zeal. the spirit of beauty that the human race pursues is the spirit that is typified in emerson's poem of _forerunners_--the elusive spirit that all men feel and no man understands. this truth, undiscerned by him at first, had become the conviction of his riper years; and if his life had been prolonged the autumn of his professional career would have been gentle, serene, and full of tranquil loveliness. the achievement of lawrence barrett as an actor was great, but his influence upon the stage was greater than his achievement. among the shakespearian parts that he played were hamlet, macbeth, king lear, othello, iago, shylock, leontes, cassius, wolsey, richard iii., romeo, and benedick. outside of shakespeare (to mention only a few of his impersonations) he acted richelieu, evelyn, aranza, garrick, claude melnotte, rienzi, dan'l druce, lanciotto, hernani, king arthur, and ganelon. the parts in which he was superlatively fine,--and in some respects incomparable,--are cassius, harebell, yorick, gringoire, king arthur, ganelon, and james v., king of the commons. in his time he had played hundreds of parts, ranging over the whole field of the drama, but as the years passed and the liberty of choice came more and more within his reach, he concentrated his powers upon a few works and upon a specific line of expression. the aspect of human nature and human experience that especially aroused his sympathy was the loneliness of beneficent intellectual grandeur, isolated by its supremacy and pathetic in its isolation. he loved the character of richelieu, and if he had acted becket, as he purposed to do, in tennyson's tragedy, he would have presented another and a different type of that same ideal--lonely, austere, passionate age, defiant of profane authority and protective of innocent weakness against wicked and cruel strength. his embodiment of cassius, with all its intensity of repressed spleen and caustic malevolence, was softly touched and sweetly ennobled with the majesty of venerable loneliness,--the bleak light of pathetic sequestration from human ties, without the forfeiture of human love,--that is the natural adjunct of intellectual greatness. he loved also the character of harebell, because in that he could express his devotion to the beautiful, the honest impulses of his affectionate heart, and his ideal of a friendship that is too pure and simple even to dream that such a thing as guile can exist anywhere in the world. toward the expression, under dramatic conditions, of natures such as those, the development of his acting was steadily directed; and, even if he fell short, in any degree, of accomplishing all that he purposed, it is certain that his spirit and his conduct dignified the theatrical profession, strengthened the stage in the esteem of good men, and cheered the heart and fired the energy of every sincere artist that came within the reach of his example. for his own best personal success he required a part in which, after long repression, the torrent of passion can break loose in a tumult of frenzy and a wild strain of eloquent words. the terrible exultation of cassius, after the fall of cæsar, the ecstasy of lanciotto when he first believes himself to be loved by francesca, the delirium of yorick when he can no longer restrain the doubts that madden his jealous and wounded soul, the rapture of king james over the vindication of his friend seyton, whom his suspicions have wronged--those were among his distinctively great moments, and his image as he was in such moments is worthy to live among the storied traditions and the bright memories of the stage. censure seems to be easy to most people, and few men are rated at their full value while they are yet alive. just as mountains seem more sublime in the vague and hazy distance, so a noble mind looms grandly through the dusk of death. so it will be with him. lawrence barrett was a man of high principle and perfect integrity. he never spoke a false word nor knowingly harmed a human being, in all his life. although sometimes he seemed to be harsh and imperious, he was at heart kind and humble. strife with the world, and in past times uncertainty as to his position, caused in him the assumption of a stern and frigid manner, but beneath that haughty reserve there was a great longing for human affection and a sincere humility of spirit. he never nurtured hostility. he had no memory for injuries; but a kindness he never forgot. his good deeds were as numerous as his days--for no day rolled over his head without its act of benevolence in one direction or another. he was as impulsive as a child. he had much of the woman in his nature, and therefore his views were impetuous, strong, and often strongly stated; but his sense of humour kept pace with his sensibility and so maintained the equilibrium of his mind. in temperament he was sad, pensive, introspective, almost gloomy; but he opposed to that tendency an incessant mental activity and the force of a tremendous will. in his lighter moods he was not only appreciative of mirth but was the cause of it. his humour was elemental and whatever aspect of life he saw in a comic light he could set in that light before the eyes of others. he had been a studious reader for many years and his mind was stored with ample, exact, and diversified information. he had a scholar's knowledge of roman history and his familiar acquaintance with the character and career of the first napoleon was extraordinary. in acting he was largely influenced by his studies of edmund kean and by his association with charlotte cushman. for a few years after his art was especially affected by that of edwin booth; but the style to which he finally gravitated was his own. he was not so much an impersonator as he was an interpreter of character, and the elocutionary part of acting was made more conspicuous and important by him than by any other tragedian since the days of forrest and brooke. it was a beautiful life prematurely ended. it was a brave, strong spirit suddenly called out of the world. to the dramatic profession the loss is irreparable. in the condition of the contemporary theatre there are not many hopeful signs. no doubt there will be bright days in the future, as there have been in the past. they go and they return. the stage declines and the stage advances. at present its estate is low. few men like lawrence barrett remain for it to lose. its main hope is in the abiding influence of such examples as he has left. the old theatrical period is fast passing away. the new age rushes on the scene, with youthful vigour and impetuous tumult. but to some of us,--who perhaps have not long to stay, and to whom, whatever be their fortune, this tumult is unsympathetic and insignificant,--the way grows darker and lonelier as we lay our garlands of eternal farewell upon the coffin of lawrence barrett. xv. henry irving and ellen terry in ravenswood. merivale's play of _ravenswood_, written in four acts, was acted in six. the first act consists of a single scene--an exterior, showing the environment of the chapel which is the burial place of the house of ravenswood. a rockbound coast is visible, at some distance, together with the ruinous tower of wolf's crag--which is ravenswood's sole remaining possession. this act presents the interrupted funeral of alan ravenswood, the father of edgar,--introducing ten of the seventeen characters that are implicated in the piece, and skilfully laying the basis of the action by exhibiting the essential personalities of the story in strong contrast, and denoting their relations to each other. each character is clearly and boldly drawn and with a light touch. the second act consists of three scenes--an antique library in the ancient manor-house of ravenswood, a room in a roadside ale-house, and a room in the dilapidated tower of wolf's crag. this act rapidly develops the well-known story, depicting the climax of antagonism between the lord keeper ashton and edgar of ravenswood and their subsequent reconciliation. the third act passes in a lovely, romantic, rural scene, which is called "the mermaiden's well,"--a fairy-like place in the grounds of ravenswood,--and in this scene edgar and lucy ashton, who have become lovers, are plighted by themselves and parted by lucy's mother, lady ashton. the fourth and last act shows a room at ravenswood, wherein is portrayed the betrothal of lucy to bucklaw, culminating in edgar's sudden irruption; and finally, it shows the desolate seaside place of the quicksand in which, after he has slain bucklaw, edgar of ravenswood is engulfed. the house that scott, when he wrote the novel, had in his mind as that of sir william ashton is the house of winston, which still is standing, not many miles from edinburgh. the tower of wolf's crag was probably suggested to him by fast castle, the ruin of which still lures the traveller's eye, upon the iron-ribbed and gloomy coast of the north sea, a few miles southeast of dunbar--a place, however, that scott never visited, and never saw except from the ocean. there is a beach upon that coast, just above cockburnspath, that might well have suggested to him the quicksand and the final catastrophe. i saw it when the morning sun was shining upon it and upon the placid waters just rippling on its verge; and even in the glad glow of a summer day it was grim with silent menace and mysterious with an air of sinister secrecy. in the preparation of this piece for the stage all the sources and associations of the subject were considered; and the pictorial setting, framed upon the right artistic principle--that imagination should transfigure truth and thus produce the essential result of poetic effect--was elaborate and magnificent. and the play is the best one that ever has been made upon this subject. the basis of fact upon which sir walter scott built his novel of the _bride of lammermoor_ is given in the introduction that he wrote for it in . janet dalrymple, daughter of the first lord stair and of his wife margaret ross, had privately plighted herself to lord rutherford. those lovers had broken a piece of gold together, and had bound themselves by vows the most solemn and fervent that passion could prompt. but lord rutherford was objectionable to miss dalrymple's parents, who liked not either his family or his politics. lady stair, furthermore, had selected a husband for her daughter, in the person of david dunbar, of baldoon; and lady stair was a woman of formidable character, set upon having her own way and accustomed to prevail. as soon as she heard of janet's private engagement to lord rutherford she declared the vow to be undutiful and unlawful and she commanded that it should be broken. lord rutherford, a man of energy and of spirit, thereupon insisted that he would take his dismissal only from the lips of miss dalrymple herself, and he demanded and obtained an interview with her. lady stair was present, and such was her ascendency over her daughter's mind that the young lady remained motionless and mute, permitting her betrothal to lord rutherford to be broken, and, upon her mother's command, giving back to him the piece of gold that was the token of her promise. lord rutherford was deeply moved, so that he uttered curses upon lady stair, and at the last reproached janet in these words: "for you, madam, you will be a world's wonder." after this sad end of his hopes the unfortunate gentleman went abroad and died in exile. janet dalrymple and david dunbar meanwhile were married--the lady "being absolutely passive in everything her mother commanded or advised." as soon, however, as the wedded pair had retired from the bridal feast hideous shrieks were heard to resound through the house, proceeding from the nuptial chamber. the door was thereupon burst open and persons entering saw the bridegroom stretched upon the floor, wounded and bleeding, while the bride, dishevelled and stained with blood, was grinning in a paroxysm of insanity. all she said was, "take up your bonny bridegroom." about two weeks later she died. the year of those events was . the wedding took place on august . janet died on september . dunbar recovered, but he would never tell what occurred in that chamber of horror, nor indeed would he permit any allusion to the subject. he did not long survive the tragic event,--having been fatally injured, by a fall from his horse, when riding between leith and holyrood. he died on march , . the death of lord rutherford is assigned to the year . such is the melancholy story as it may be gathered from scott's preface. in writing his novel that great master of the art of fiction,--never yet displaced from his throne or deprived of his sceptre,--adopted fictitious names, invented fresh circumstances, amplified and elevated the characters, judiciously veiled the localities, and advanced the period of those tragical incidents to about the beginning of the eighteenth century. the delicate taste with which he used his materials has only been surpassed, in that beautiful composition, by the affluent genius with which he vitalised every part of his narrative. in no other of his many books has he shown a deeper knowledge than is revealed in that one of the terrible passion of love and of the dark and sinuous ways of political and personal craft. when _the bride of lammermoor_ was first published no mention was made in it of the true story upon which remotely it had been based; but by the time scott came to write the preface of other writers had been less reticent, and some account of the dalrymple tragedy had got into print, so that no reason existed for further silence on that subject. sir robert h.d. elphinstone, writing in , gave the tradition as follows: "when, after the noise and violent screaming in the bridal chamber comparative stillness succeeded and the door was forced, the window was found open, and it was supposed by many that the lover, lord rutherford, had, by the connivance of some of the servants, found means, during the bustle of the marriage feast, to secrete himself within the apartment, and that soon after the entry of the married pair, or at least as soon as the parents and others retreated and the door was made fast, he had come out from his concealment, attacked and desperately wounded the bridegroom, and then made his escape, by the window, through the garden. as the unfortunate bride never spoke after having uttered the words mentioned by sir walter, no light could be thrown on the matter by them. but it was thought that dunbar's obstinate silence on the subject favoured the supposition of the chastisement having been inflicted by his rival. it is but fair to give the unhappy victim (who was, by all accounts, a most gentle and feminine creature) the benefit of an explanation on a doubtful point." merivale, in dealing with this story, gave a conspicuous illustration of the essential dramatic faculty. the first act is the adroit expansion of a few paragraphs, in the second chapter of the novel, which are descriptive of the bleak, misty november morning when alan ravenswood was borne to the grave; but by the introduction of the lord keeper and of the village crones into that funeral scene he opened the whole subject, indicated all the essential antecedents of the story, and placed his characters in a posture of lively action. that the tone is sombre must be conceded, and people who think that the chief end of man is to grin might condemn the piece for that reason; but _ravenswood_ is a tragedy and not a farce, and persons who wish that their feelings may not be affected should avoid tragedies. in the second act ravenswood seeks ashton at ravenswood manor, intending to kill him in a duel, but his hand is stayed when he catches sight of lucy ashton's portrait. the incident of edgar's rescue of lucy is used in this scene. in a later scene sir william ashton and his daughter take refuge in wolf's crag, and the bewitchment of ravenswood is accomplished. the quarrel between edgar and bucklaw is then given, as a basis for the ensuing rivalry and deadly conflict between them. in the third act there is a beautiful love-scene between edgar and lucy, the dialogue being especially felicitous in tenderness and grace and fraught with that reverential quality, that condition of commingled ecstasy and nobleness, which is always characteristic of the experience of this passion in pure natures. lady ashton's interruption of their happiness and the subsequent parting have a vigorous dramatic effect. the character of lucy has been much strengthened, so that it differs from that of the original precisely as desdemona differs from ophelia; and the change is an improvement. the fourth act opens with "a song of choristers heard outside." the letters of lucy and edgar have been intercepted. the lady has been told that her lover is false. the suit of bucklaw has been urged. the authority of the stern mother has prevailed over her daughter's will. it is the old story. "the absent are always wrong"--and ravenswood is absent. lucy ashton yields to her fate. the marriage contract between lucy and bucklaw has just been signed when ravenswood bursts into the group. from that point the action is animated equally with celerity and passion. the misery of ravenswood utters itself in a swift stream of burning words. the grief of lucy ends tragically in a broken heart and sudden death. the fight between bucklaw and ravenswood clashes for a moment but is abruptly finished on the moonlit sands, and edgar is seen to leap down from a rock and rush away toward the manor, where, as his dying foe has told him, the faithful and innocent lucy lies dead. he disappears and comes no more; but his old servant takes up from the beach a single black plume--the feather of a raven--which the tide has washed ashore, and which is the last relic and emblem of the vanished master of ravenswood. the tragedy is kindred, as to its spirit, with _romeo and juliet_, and like that representative poem of love and death it is intensely passionate, sombre, and lamentable. the first and second acts of it pass in almost unrelieved shadow. it begins with a funeral; it incorporates the ingredients of misery, madness, and death; it culminates in a fatal duel; and it ends in a picture of mortal desolation, qualified only by a mute suggestion of spiritual happiness conveyed by the pictorial emblem of the promise of immortality. it is a poetical tragedy, conceived in the spirit and written in the manner of the old masters of the poetic art. the treatment of scott's novel is marked by scrupulous fidelity, not indeed to every detail of that noble book, but to its essential quality and tone. the structure of the play reproduces in action substantially the structure of the original story. the scene in which edgar and lucy avow their love and pledge themselves to each other is written with exquisite grace and profound tenderness. the picture presented upon the stage when the lovers are parted was one of astonishing animation. the scene of the interrupted wedding and of lucy ashton's agony, distraction, and death was one of intense power and dramatic effect. the duel of ravenswood and bucklaw upon the desolate, moon-lit sands was invested with the excitement of suspense and with weird horror. and the final exposition of dramatic contrast,--when upon the wide, bleak beach, with the waste of vacant sea beyond and the eastern heaven lit with the first splendour of sunrise, the old man stooped to take up the raven's feather, the last relic of ravenswood--was so entirely beautiful that the best of words can but poorly indicate its loveliness. for an audience able to look seriously at a serious subject, and not impatient of the foreground of gloom in which, necessarily, the story is enveloped at its beginning, this was a perfect work. the student of drama must go back many years to find a parallel to it, in interest of subject, in balance, in symmetry, and in sympathetic interpretation of character. there is a quality of hamlet in the character of ravenswood. he is by nature a man of a sad mind, and under the pressure of afflicting circumstances his sadness has become embittered. he takes life thoughtfully and with passionate earnestness. he is a noble person, finely sensitive and absolutely sincere, full of kindness at heart, but touched with gloom; and his aspect and demeanour are those of pride, trouble, self-conflict--of an individuality isolated and constrained by dark thoughts and painful experience. that is the mood in which henry irving conceived and portrayed him. you saw a picturesque figure, dark, strange, romantic--the gravity engendered by thought and sorrow not yet marring the bronzed face and the elastic movement of youth--and this personality, in itself fascinating, was made all the more pictorial by an investiture of romance, alike in the scenery and the incidents through which it moved. around such a figure funereal banners well might wave, and under dark and lowering skies the chill wind of the sea might moan through monastic ruins and crumbling battlements. edgar of ravenswood, standing by his lonely hearth, beneath the groined arches of his seaside tower, revealed by the flickering firelight, looked the ideal of romantic manhood; the incarnation of poetic fancy and of predestinate disaster. above the story of _ravenswood_ there is steadily and continuously impending, and ever growing darker and coming nearer, the vague menace of terrible calamity. this element of mystery and dread was wrought into the structural fibre of henry irving's performance of the part, and consistently coloured it. the face of edgar was made to wear that haunted look which,--as in the countenance of charles the first, in vandyke's portraits,--may be supposed, and often has been supposed, to foreshadow a violent and dreadful death. his sudden tremor, when at the first kiss of lucy ashton the thunder is heard to break above his ruined home, was a fine denotement of that subtle quality; and even through the happiness of the betrothal scene there was a hint of this black presentiment--just as sometimes on a day of perfect sunshine there is a chill in the wind that tells of approaching storm. all this is warranted by the prophetic rhymes which are several times spoken, beginning--"when the last lord of ravenswood to ravenswood shall ride." a crone, ailsie gourlay by name, embodied with grim and grisly vigour by alice marriott,--whose ample voice and exact elocution, together with her formidable stature and her faculty of identification with the character that she assumes and with the spirit of the story, made her of great value to this play--hovered around ravenswood, and aided to keep this presage of evil doom fitfully present in the consciousness of its victim. henry irving gave to the part its perfectly distinct individuality, and in that respect made as fine a showing as he has ever made of his authority as an actor. there was never the least doubt as to what ravenswood is and what he means. the peculiar elocution of henry irving, when he is under the influence of great excitement, is not effective upon all persons; but those who like it consider it far more touching than a more level, more sonorous, and more accurate delivery. he wrought a great effect in the scene of the marriage-contract. indeed, so powerful, sincere, and true was the acting upon all sides, at this point, that not until the curtain began to descend was it remembered that we were looking upon a fiction and not upon a fact. this points to the peculiar power that henry irving and ellen terry conspicuously possess--of creating and maintaining a perfect illusion. during the earlier scenes the character of lucy ashton is chiefly marked by the qualities of sweetness and of glee. no one acquainted with the acting of ellen terry would need to be told how well and with what charming grace those qualities were expressed by her. in the scene of the wooing, at the mermaiden's well, lucy ashton was not a cold woman trying to make herself loved,--which is what most actresses habitually proffer upon the stage,--but a loving woman, radiant with the consciousness of the love that she feels and has inspired. nothing could be imagined more delicate, more delicious, more enchanting than the high-bred distinction and soft womanlike tone of that performance. the character, at the climax of this scene, is made to manifest decision, firmness, and force; and the superb manner in which she set the maternal authority at naught and stood by her lover might seem to denote a nature that no tyranny could subdue. subdued, however, she is, and forced to believe ill of her absent lover, and so the fatal marriage contract is signed and the crash follows. when ellen terry came on for that scene the glee had all vanished; the face was as white as the garments that enswathed her; and you saw a creature whom the hand of death had visibly touched. the stage has not at any time heard from any lips but her own such tones of pathos as those in which she said the simple words:-- "may god forgive you, then, and pity me-- if god can pity more than mothers do." it is not a long scene, and happily not,--for the strain upon the emotion of the actress was intense. the momentary wild merriment, the agony of the breaking heart, the sudden delirium and collapse, were not for an instant exaggerated. all was nature--or rather the simplicity, fidelity, and grace of art that make the effect of nature. beautiful scenery, painted by craven, framed the piece with appropriate magnificence. the several seaside pictures were admirably representative of the grandeur, the gaunt loneliness, and the glorious colour for which scotland is so much loved. the public gain in that production was a revival of interest in one of the most famous novels in the language; the possession of a scenical pageant that filled the eye with beauty and strongly moved the imagination; a play that is successful in the domain of romantic poetry; a touching exemplification of the great art of acting; and once again the presentment of that vast subject,--the relation of heart to heart, under the dominion of love, in human society,--that more absorbs the attention, affects the character, and controls the destiny of the human race than anything else that is beneath the sun. xvi. the merry wives and falstaff. shakespeare wrote _the merry wives of windsor_ in , and during the christmas holidays of that year it was presented upon the stage, before queen elizabeth and her court, at windsor castle. in it was published in london in quarto form, and in a reprint of that quarto was published there. the version that appears in the two quartos is considered by shakespeare scholars to be spurious. the authentic text, no doubt, is that of the comedy as it stands in the first folio ( ). shakespeare had written _henry iv._--both parts of it--and also _henry v._, when this comedy was acted, and therefore he had completed his portrait of falstaff, whose life is displayed in the former piece and whose death is described in the latter. _henry iv._ was first printed in (we know not when it was first acted), and it passed through five quarto editions prior to the publication of it in the folio of . in the epilogue to the second part of that play a promise is made that the story shall be continued, "with sir john in it," but it is gravely doubted whether that epilogue was written by shakespeare. the continuation of the story occurs in _henry v._, in which falstaff does not figure, although he is mentioned in it. various efforts have been made to show a continuity between the several plays in which falstaff is implicated, but the attempt always fails. the histories contain the real falstaff. the falstaff of the comedy is another and less important man. if there really were a sequence of story and of time in the portraiture of this character plays would stand in the following order: , _henry iv., part first_; , _the merry wives of windsor_; , _henry iv., part second_; , _henry v._ as no such sequence exists, or apparently was intended, the comedy should be viewed by itself. its texture is radically different from that of the histories. one of the best shakespeare editors, charles knight, ventures the conjecture that _the merry wives of windsor_ was written first. shakespeare invented the chief part of the plot, taking, however, a few things from tarlton's _newes out of purgatorie_, which in turn was founded on a story called the _lovers of pisa_. it is possible also that he may have derived suggestions from a german play by duke henry julius of brunswick--a contemporary, who died in --to which _the merry wives of windsor_ bears some resemblance, and of which he may have received an account from english actors who had visited germany, as the actors of his time occasionally did. tradition declares that he wrote this comedy at the command of queen elizabeth, who had expressed a wish to see falstaff in love. this was first stated by john dennis, in the preface to an alteration of _the merry wives of windsor_ which was made by him, under the name of _the comical gallant, or the amours of sir john falstaff_, and was successfully acted at drury lane theatre. that piece, which is paltry and superfluous, appeared in . no authority was given by dennis for his statement about queen elizabeth and shakespeare's play. the tradition rests exclusively on his word. rowe, pope, theobald, and other shakespeare editors, have transmitted it to the present day, but it rests on nothing but supposition and it is dubious. those scholars who accept the story of dennis, and believe that shakespeare wrote the piece "to order" and within a few days, usually fortify their belief by the allegation that the comedy falls short of shakespeare's poetical standard, being written mostly in prose; that it degrades his great creation of falstaff; that it is, for him, a trivial production; and that it must have been written in haste and without spontaneous impulse. if judgment were to be given on the quarto version of _the merry wives_, that reasoning would commend itself as at least plausible; but it is foolish as applied to the version in the folio, where the piece is found to be remarkable for nimbleness of invention, strength and variety of natural character, affluent prodigality of animal spirits, delicious quaintness, exhilarating merriment, a lovely pastoral tone, and many touches of the transcendent poetry of shakespeare. dennis probably repeated a piece of idle gossip that he had heard, the same sort of chatter that in the present day constantly follows the doings of theatrical people,--and is not accurate more than once in a thousand times. _the merry wives of windsor_ is a brilliant and delightful comedy, quite worthy of its great author (though not in his most exalted mood), who probably wrote it because his mind was naturally impelled to write it, and no doubt laboured over it exactly as he did over his other writings: for we know, upon the testimony of ben jonson, who personally knew him and was acquainted with his custom as a writer, that he was not content with the first draught of anything, but wrote it a second time, and a third time, before he became satisfied with it. dr. johnson, who had studied shakespeare as carefully as any man ever studied him, speaking of _the merry wives of windsor_, says that "its general power--that power by which all works of genius should finally be tried--is such that perhaps it never yet had reader or spectator who did not think it too soon at an end." a comedy that deserves such praise as this--which assuredly is not misplaced--need not be dismissed as a pot-boiler. knight's conjecture that _the merry wives_ was written before the histories were written is a plausible conjecture, and perhaps worthy of some consideration. it is not easy to believe that shakespeare, after he had created falstaff and thoroughly drawn him, was capable of lessening the character and making it almost despicable with paltriness--as certainly it becomes in _the merry wives_. that is not the natural way of an artistic mind. but it is easier to credit the idea that the falstaff of _the merry wives_ was the first study of the character, although not first shown, which subsequently expanded into the magnificent humorous creation of the histories. falstaff in the comedy is a fat man with absurd amorous propensities, who is befooled, victimised, and made a laughing-stock by a couple of frolicsome women, who are so much amused by his preposterous folly that they scarcely bestow the serious consideration of contempt and scorn upon his sensuality and insolence. no creature was ever set in a more ludicrous light or made more contemptible,--in a kindly, good-humoured way. the hysterical note of offended virtue is never sounded, nor is anywhere seen the averted face of shocked propriety. the two wives are bent on a frolic, and they will merrily punish this presumptuous sensualist--this silly, conceited, gross fellow, "old, cold, withered, and of intolerable entrails." if we knew no more of falstaff than the comedy tells us of him we should by no means treasure him as we do now; but it is through the histories that we learn to know and appreciate him, and it is of the man portrayed there that we always unconsciously think when, in his humiliating discomfiture, we hear him declare that "wit may be made a jack-a-lent when 'tis upon ill employment." for the falstaff of the histories is a man of intellect, wisdom, and humour, thoroughly experienced in the ways of the world, fascinating in his drollery, human, companionable, infinitely amusing, and capable of turning all life to the favour of enjoyment and laughter--a man who is passionate in the sentiment of comradeship, and who, with all his faults (and perhaps because of some of them, for faultless persons are too good for this world), inspires affection. "would i were with him," cries the wretched bardolph, "wheresome'er he is, either in heaven or in hell." it is not bardolph only whose heart has a warm corner for the memory of the poor old jovial sinner, wounded to death by the falling off of friendship--the implacable hardness of new-born virtue in the regenerated royal mind. a comprehensive view of falstaff--a view that includes the afflicting circumstances of his humiliation and of his forlorn and pathetic death not less than the roistering frolics and jocund mendacity of his life and character--is essential to a right appreciation of the meaning of him. shakespeare is never a prosy moralist, but he constantly teaches you, if you have eyes to see and ears to hear, that the moral law of the universe, working continually for goodness and not for evil, operates in an inexorable manner. yet it is not of any moral consideration that the spectator of falstaff upon the stage ever pauses to think. it is the humour of the fat knight that is perceived, and that alone. the thoughtful friends of falstaff, however, see more in him than this, and especially they like not to think of him in a deplorable predicament. the falstaff of _the merry wives_ is a man to laugh at; but he is not a man to inspire the comrade feeling, and still less is he a man to impress the intellect with the sense of a stalwart character and of illimitable jocund humour. falstaff's friends--whose hearts are full of kindness for the old reprobate--have sat with him "in my dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire," and "have heard the chimes at midnight" in his society, and they know what a jovial companion he is--how abundant in knowledge of the world; how radiant with animal spirits; how completely inexhaustible in cheerfulness; how copious in comic invective; how incessantly nimble and ludicrous in wit and in waggery; how strange a compound of mind and sensuality, shrewdness and folly, fidelity and roguery, brazen mendacity, and comic selfishness! they do not like to think of him as merely a fat old fool, bamboozled by a pair of sprightly, not over-delicate women, far inferior to him in mental calibre, and made a laughing-stock for fenton and sweet anne page, and the lads and lassies of windsor, and the chattering welsh parson. "have i lived," cried falstaff, in the moment of his discomfiture, "to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of english?" he is a hard case, an inveterate sinner, as worthless as any man well could be, in the eyes of decorum and respectability; but those who know him well grow to be fond of him, even if they feel that they ought to be ashamed of it, and they do not quite forgive the poet for making him contemptible. you can find many other figures that will make you laugh, but you can find no other figure that makes you laugh with such good reason. it seems incredible that shakespeare, with his all-embracing mind and his perfect instinct of art, should deliberately have chosen to lessen his own masterpiece of humour. for shakespeare rejoiced in falstaff, even while he respected and recorded the inexorable justice of the moral law that decrees and eventually accomplishes his destruction. there is no one of his characters whose history he has traced with such minute elaboration. the conception is singularly ample. you may see falstaff, as shallow saw him, when he was a boy and page to thomas mowbray, duke of norfolk; you may see him all along the current of his mature years; his highway robberies on gadshill; his bragging narrative to prince henry; his frolicsome, paternal, self-defensive lecture to the prince; his serio-comic association with the ragamuffin recruits at coventry; his adroit escape from the sword of hotspur; his mendacious self-glorification over the body of harry percy; his mishaps as a suitor to mrs. ford and mrs. page; his wonderfully humorous interviews with the chief-justice and with prince john of lancaster; his junketings with justice shallow in gloucestershire, and his rebuff and consternation at his first and last meeting with king henry v.; and finally you may see him, as mrs. quickly saw him, on his death-bed, when "'a cried out god! god! god! three or four times," and when "his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled o' green fields." a good and faithful study of _king henry iv._, and especially of the second part of that play, is essential for a right appreciation of falstaff. those scenes with the chief-justice are unmatched in literature. the knight stands royally forth in them, clothed with his entire panoply of agile intellect, robust humour, and boundless comic effrontery. but the arrogant and expeditious falstaff of _the merry wives_--so richly freighted with rubicund sensuality, so abundant in comic loquacity, and so ludicrous in his sorry plights--is a much less complex person, and therefore he stands more level than the real falstaff does with the average comprehension of mankind. the american stage, accordingly, by which more than by the printed book he has become known to our people, has usually given its preference to the falstaff of the comedy. _the merry wives_ was first acted in new york on october , at the john street theatre, with harper as falstaff. on april , it was produced at the old park, and the falstaff then was john e. harwood. the same stage offered it again on january , , with hilson as falstaff. a little later, about , james h. hackett took up the character of falstaff, and from that time onward performances of _the merry wives_ occurred more frequently in different cities of america. nor was the historical play neglected. on august , a remarkably fine production of the comedy was accomplished at the astor place operahouse, new york, with hackett as falstaff, who never in his time was equalled in that character, and has not been equalled since. another falstaff, however, and a remarkably good one, appeared at burton's theatre on august , , in the person of charles bass. on march , _the merry wives_ was again given at burton's theatre, and burton himself played falstaff, with characteristic humour; but burton never acted the part as it stands in _henry iv._ hackett, who used both the history (part i.) and the comedy, continued to act falstaff almost to the end of his life and hackett did not die till . a distinguished representative of falstaff in the early days of the american theatre--the days of the renowned chestnut in philadelphia--was william warren ( - ), who came from england in . in recent years the part has been acted by benedict de bar and by john jack. the latest falstaff in america was that embodied by charles fisher, who first assumed the character on november , , at daly's theatre, and whose performance was picturesque and humorous. on the english stage the historical play of _henry iv._ was exceedingly popular in shakespeare's time. the first falstaff, according to malone, whom everybody has followed as to this point, was john heminge ( - ). after him came john lowin ( - ), who is thought to have acted the part in the presence of charles i. his successor seems to have been lacy, who died in . next came cartwright, and in or the great betterton ( - ) assumed the fat knight, acting him in both parts of the history and in the comedy. genest records twenty-two revivals of the first part of _henry iv._ upon the london stage, at five different theatres, between and ; fifteen revivals of the second part between and ; and sixteen revivals of _the merry wives of windsor_ between and . many english actors have played falstaff since betterton's time, an incomplete though sufficiently ample list of them comprising estcourt, ; f. bullock, ; j. evans and j. hall, ; mills, ; quin, "dignity and declamation," ; berry, ; love (whose true name was james dance), ; shuter, ; john henderson, one of the greatest actors that ever lived, ; mrs. webb (once only), ; ryder, ; palmer, ; king, ; fawcett, ; stephen kemble, who was so fat that he could play it without stuffing or bladder, ; blissett, ; george frederick cooke, ; bartley, ; charles kemble, ; dowton, ; elliston, ; and samuel phelps, . the latest representative of falstaff in england was h. beerbohm-tree, who, although a man of slender figure, contrived to simulate corpulence, and who manifested in his acting a fine instinct as to the meaning of the character and considerable resources of art in its expression, although the predominant individuality and the copious luxuriance of falstaff's rosy and juicy humour were not within his reach. upon the american stage the part is practically disused; and this is a pity, seeing that a source of great enjoyment and one of the most suggestive and fruitful topics that exist in association with the study of human nature are thus in a great degree sequestered from the public mind. still it is better to have no falstaff on the stage than to have it encumbered with a bad one; and certainly for the peculiar and exacting play of _henry iv._ there are now no actors left: at least they are not visible in america. xvii. ada rehan. in browsing over the fragrant evergreen pages of cibber's delightful book about the stage, and especially in reflecting upon the beautiful and brilliant women who, drawn by his magic pencil, dwell there, perpetual, in life, colour, and charm, the reflective reader may perhaps be prompted to remember that the royal line of stage beauties is not extinct, and that stage heroines exist in the present day who are quite as well worthy of commemoration as any that graced the period of charles the second or of good queen anne. our age, indeed, has no cibber to describe their loveliness and celebrate their achievements; but surely if he were living at this hour that courtly, characteristic, and sensuous writer--who saw so clearly and could portray so well the peculiarities of the feminine nature--would not deem the period of ellen terry and marie wilton, of ada rehan and sarah bernhardt and genevieve ward, of clara morris and jane hading, unworthy of his pen. as often as fancy ranges over those bright names and others that are kindred with them--a glittering sisterhood of charms and talents--the regret must arise that no literary artist with just the gallant spirit, the chivalry, the sensuous appreciation, the fine insight, and the pictorial touch of old cibber is extant to perpetuate their glory. the hand that sketched elizabeth barry so as to make her live forever in a few brief lines, the hand that drew the fascinating and memorable portrait of susanna mountfort ("down goes her dainty diving body to the ground, as if she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions")--what might it not have done to preserve for the knowledge of future generations the queens of the theatre who are crowned and regnant to-day! cibber could have caught and reflected the elusive charm of such an actress as ada rehan. no touch less adroit and felicitous than his can accomplish more than the suggestion of her peculiar allurement, her originality, and her fascinating because sympathetic and piquant mental and physical characteristics. ada rehan, born at limerick, ireland, on april , , was brought to america when five years old, and at that time she lived and went to school in brooklyn. no one of her progenitors was ever upon the stage, nor does it appear that she was predisposed to that vocation by early reading or training. her elder sisters had adopted that pursuit, and perhaps she was impelled toward it by the force of example and domestic association, readily affecting her innate latent faculty for the dramatic art. her first appearance on the stage was made at newark, new jersey, in , in a play entitled _across the continent_, in which she acted a small part, named clara, for one night only, to fill the place of a performer who had been suddenly disabled by illness. her readiness and her positive talent were clearly revealed in that effort, and it was thereupon determined in a family council that she should proceed; so she was soon regularly embarked upon the life of an actress. her first appearance on the new york stage was made a little later, in , at wood's museum (it became daly's theatre in ), when she played a small part in a piece called _thorough-bred_. during the seasons of - - she was associated with the arch street theatre, philadelphia,--that being her first regular professional engagement. (john drew, with whom, professionally, ada rehan has been long associated, made his first appearance in the same season, at the same house.) she then went to macaulay's theatre, louisville, where she acted for one season. from louisville she went to albany, as a member of john w. albaugh's company, and with that manager she remained two seasons, acting sometimes in albany and sometimes in baltimore. after that she was for a few months with fanny davenport. the earlier part of her career involved professional endeavours in company with the wandering stars, and she acted in a variety of plays with edwin booth, adelaide neilson, john mccullough, mrs. bowers, lawrence barrett, john brougham, edwin adams, mrs. lander, and john t. raymond. from the first she was devotedly fond of shakespeare, and all the shakespearian characters allotted to her were studied and acted by her with eager interest and sympathy. while thus employed in the provincial stock she enacted ophelia, cordelia, desdemona, celia, olivia, and lady anne, and in each of those parts she was conspicuously good. the attention of augustin daly was first attracted to her in december , when she was acting at albaugh's theatre in albany, the play being _katharine and petruchio_ (garrick's version of the _taming of the shrew_), and ada rehan appearing as bianca; and subsequently daly again observed her as an actress of auspicious distinction and marked promise at the grand opera house, new york, in april . fanny davenport was then acting in that theatre in daly's strong american play of _pique_--one of the few dramas of american origin that aptly reflect the character of american domestic life--and ada rehan appeared in the part of mary standish. she was immediately engaged under daly's management, and in may she came forth at the olympic theatre, new york, as big clemence in that author's version of _l'assommoir_. on september , , daly's theatre (which had been suspended for about two years) was opened upon its present site, the southwest corner of thirtieth street and broadway, and ada rehan made her first appearance there, enacting the part of nelly beers in a play called _love's young dream_. the opening bill on that occasion comprised that piece, together with a comedy by olive logan, entitled _newport_. on september a revival of _divorce_, one of daly's most fortunate plays, was effected, and ada rehan impersonated miss lu ten eyck--a part originally acted ( ) by fanny davenport. from that time to this ( ) ada rehan has remained the leading lady at daly's theatre; and there she has become one of the most admired figures upon the contemporary stage. in five professional visits to europe, acting in london, paris, edinburgh, dublin, berlin, and other cities, she pleased judicious audiences and augmented her renown. daly took his company of comedians to london for the first time in , where they fulfilled an engagement of six weeks at toole's theatre, beginning july . the second visit to london was made two seasons later, when they acted for nine weeks at the strand theatre, beginning may , . at that time they also played in the english provinces, and they visited germany--acting at hamburg and at berlin, where they were much liked and commended. they likewise made a trip to paris. their third season abroad began at the lyceum theatre, london, may , , and it included another expedition to the french capital, which was well rewarded. ada rehan at that time impersonated shakespeare's shrew. it was in that season also that she appeared at stratford-upon-avon, where daly gave a performance (august , ) in the shakespeare memorial theatre, for the benefit of that institution. the fourth season of daly's comedians in london began on june , , at the lyceum theatre, and lasted ten weeks; and this was signalised by ada rehan's impersonation of rosalind. the fifth london season extended from september to november , . this is an outline of her professional story; but how little of the real life of an actor can be imparted in a record of the surface facts of a public career! most expressive, as a comment upon the inadequacy of biographical details, is the exclamation of dumas, about aimée desclée: "une femme comme celle-là n'a pas de biographie! elle nous a émus, et elle en est morte. voilà toute son historie!" ada rehan, while she has often and deeply moved the audience of her riper time, is happily very far from having died of it. there is deep feeling beneath the luminous and sparkling surface of her art; but it is chiefly with mirth that she has touched the public heart and affected the public experience. equally of her, however, as of her pathetic sister artist of the french stage, it may be said that such a woman has no history. in a civilisation and at a period wherein persons are customarily accepted for what they pretend to be, instead of being seen and understood for what they are, she has been content to take an unpretentious course, to be original and simple, and thus to allow her faculties to ripen and her character to develop in their natural manner. she has not assumed the position of a star, and perhaps the american community, although favourable and friendly toward her, may have been somewhat slow to understand her unique personality and her superlative worth. the moment a thoughtful observer's attention is called to the fact, however, he perceives how large a place ada rehan fills in the public mind, how conspicuous a figure she is upon the contemporary stage, and how difficult it is to explain and classify her whether as an artist or a woman. that blending of complexity with transparency always imparts to individual life a tinge of piquant interest, because it is one denotement of the temperament of genius. the poets of the world pour themselves through all subjects by the use of their own words. in what manner they are affected by the forces of nature--its influences of gentleness and peace or its vast pageants of beauty and terror--those words denote; and also those words indicate the action, upon their responsive spirits, of the passions that agitate the human heart. the actors, on the other hand, assuming to be the interpreters of the poets, must pour themselves through all subjects by the use of their own personality. they are to be estimated accordingly by whatever the competent observer is able to perceive of the nature and the faculties they reveal under the stress of emotion, whether tragic or comic. perhaps it is not possible--mind being limited in its function--for any person to form a full, true, and definite summary of another human creature. to view a dramatic performance with a consciousness of the necessity of forming a judicial opinion of it is often to see one's own thought about it rather than the thing itself. yet, when all allowance is made for difficulty of theme and for infirmity of judgment, the observer of ada rehan may surely conclude that she has a rich, tender, and sparkling nature, in which the dream-like quality of sentiment and the discursive faculty of imagination, intimately blended with deep, broad, and accurate perceptions of the actual, and with a fund of keen and sagacious sense, are reinforced with strong individuality and with affluent and extraordinary vital force. ada rehan has followed no traditions. she went to the stage not because of vanity but because of spontaneous impulse; and for the expression of every part that she has played she has gone to nature and not to precept and precedent. the stamp of her personality is upon everything that she has done; yet the thinker who looks back upon her numerous and various impersonations is astonished at their diversity. the romance, the misery, and the fortitude of kate verity, the impetuous passion of katharine, the brilliant raillery of hippolyta, the enchanting womanhood of rosalind--how clear-cut, how distinct, how absolutely dramatic was each one of those personifications! and yet how completely characteristic each one was of this individual actress! our works of art may be subject to the application of our knowledge and skill, but we ourselves are under the dominance of laws which operate out of the inaccessible and indefinable depths of the spirit. alongside of most players of this period ada rehan is a prodigy of original force. her influence, accordingly, has been felt more than it has been understood, and, being elusive and strange, has prompted wide differences of opinion. the sense that she diffuses of a simple, unselfish, patient nature, and of impulsive tenderness of heart, however, cannot have been missed by anybody with eyes to see. and she crowns all by speaking the english language with a beauty that has seldom been equalled. xviii. tennyson's comedy of the foresters. "besides, the king's name is a tower of strength." thousands of people all over the world honour, and ought to honour, every word that falls from the pen of alfred tennyson. he is a very great man. no poet since the best time of byron has written the english language so well--that is to say, with such affluent splendour of imagination; such passionate vigour; such nobility of thought; such tenderness of pathos; such pervasive grace, and so much of that distinctive variety, flexibility, and copious and felicitous amplitude which are the characteristics of an original style. no poet of the last fifty years has done so much to stimulate endurance in the human soul and to clarify spiritual vision in the human mind. it does not signify that now, at more than fourscore, his hand sometimes trembles a little on the harp-strings, and his touch falters, and his music dies away. it is still the same harp and the same hand. this fanciful, kindly, visionary, drifting, and altogether romantic comedy of _robin hood_ is not to be tried by the standard that is author reared when he wrote _ulysses_ and _tithonus_ and _the passing of arthur_--that imperial, unapproachable standard that no other poet has satisfied. "cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day." but though the passion be subdued and the splendour faded, the deep current of feeling flows on and the strong and tender voice can still touch the heart and charm the ear. that tide of emotion and that tone of melody blend in this play and make it beautiful. the passion is no longer that of _enone_ and _lucretius_ and _guinevere_ and _locksley hall_ and _maud_ and _the vision of sin_. the thought is no longer that of _in memoriam_, with its solemn majesty and infinite pathos. the music is no longer that of _the may queen_ and the _talking oak_ and _idle tears_. but why should these be expected? he who struck those notes strikes now another; and as we listen our wonder grows, and cannot help but grow, that a bard of fourscore and upward should write in such absolute sympathy with youth, love, hope, happiness, and all that is free and wandering and martial and active in the vicissitudes of adventure, the exploits of chivalry, and the vagabondish spirit of gypsy frolic. the fact that he does write in that mood points to the one illuminative truth now essential to be remembered. the voice to which we are privileged to listen, perhaps for the last time, is the voice of a great poet--by which is meant a poet who is able, not through the medium of intellect but through the medium of emotion, to make the total experience of mankind his own experience, and to express it not only in the form of art but with the fire of nature. the element of power, in all the expressions of such a mind, will fluctuate; but every one of its expressions will be sincere and in a greater or less degree will be vital with a universal and permanent significance. that virtue is in alfred tennyson's comedy of _robin hood_, and that virtue will insure for it an abiding endurance in affectionate public esteem. the realm into which this play allures its auditor is the realm of _ivanhoe_--the far-off, romantic region of sherwood forest, in the ancient days of stout king richard the first. the poet has gone to the old legends of robin hood and to the ballads that have been made upon them, and out of those materials--using them freely, according to his fancy--he has chosen his scene and his characters and has made his story. it is not the england of the mine and the workshop that he represents, and neither is it the england of the trim villa and the formal landscape; it is the england of the feudal times--of gray castle towers, and armoured knights, and fat priests, and wandering minstrels, and crusades and tournaments; england in rush-strewn bowers and under green boughs; the england in which wamba jested and blondel sung. to enter into that realm is to leave the barren world of prose; to feel again the cool, sweet winds of summer upon the brow of youth; to catch, in fitful glimpses, the shimmer of the lincoln green in the sunlit, golden glades of the forest, and to hear the merry note of the huntsman commingled, far away, with "horns of elfland faintly blowing." the appeal is made to the primitive, elemental, poetical instinct of mankind; and no detail of realism is obtruded, no question of probability considered, no agony of the sin-tortured spirit subjected to analysis, no controversy promoted and no moral lesson enforced. for once the public is favoured with a serious poetical play, which aims simply to diffuse happiness by arousing sympathy with pleasurable scenes and picturesque persons, with virtue that is piquant and humour that is refined, with the cheerful fortitude that takes adversity with a smile, and with that final fortunate triumph of good over evil which is neither ensanguined with gore nor saddened with tears, nor made acrid with bitterness. the play is pastoral comedy, written partly in blank verse and partly in prose, and cast almost wholly out of doors--in the open air and under the greenwood tree--and, in order to stamp its character beyond doubt or question, one scene of it is frankly devoted to a convocation of fairies around titania, their queen. the impulse that underlies this piece is the old, incessant, undying aspiration, that men and women of the best order feel, for some avenue of escape, some relief, some refuge, from the sickening tyranny of convention and the commonplace, and from the overwhelming mystery with which all human life is haunted and oppressed. a man who walks about in a forest is not necessarily free. he may be as great a slave as anybody. but the exalted imagination dwells upon his way of life as emancipated, breezy, natural, and right. that way, to the tired thinker, lie peace and joy. there, if anywhere--as he fancies--he might escape from all the wrongs of the world, all the problems of society, all the dull business of recording, and analysing, and ticketing mankind, all the clash of selfish systems that people call history, and all the babble that they call literature. in that retreat he would feel the rain upon his face, and smell the grass and the flowers, and hear the sighing and whispering of the wind in the green boughs; and there would be no need to trouble himself any more, whether about the past or the future. every great intellect of the world has felt that wild longing, and has recorded it--the impulse to revert to the vast heart of nature, that knows no doubt, and harbours no fear, and keeps no regret, and feels no sorrow, and troubles itself not at all. matthew arnold dreamily and perhaps austerely expressed it in _the scholar gypsy_. byron more humanly uttered it in four well-remembered lines, of _childe harold_: "oh, that the desert were my dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for my minister, that i might all forget the human race, and, hating nothing, love but only her." _robin hood_, as technical drama, is frail. its movement, indeed, is not more indolent than that of its lovely prototypes in shakespeare, _as you like it_ and _a midsummer night's dream_. with all the pastorals time ambles. but, on the other hand, tennyson's piece is not a match for either of those shakespearean works, in massiveness of dramatic signification or in the element of opportunity for the art of acting. character, poetry, philosophy, humour, and suggestion it contains; but it contains no single scene in which its persons can amply put forth their full histrionic powers with essentially positive dramatic effect. its charm resides more in being than in doing, and therefore it is more a poem than a play, and perhaps more a picture than a poem. it is not one of those works that arouse, agitate, and impel. it aims only to create and sustain a pleased condition; and that aim it has accomplished. no spectator will be deeply moved by it, but no spectator will look at it without delight. while, however, _robin hood_ as a drama is frail, it is not destitute of the dramatic element. it depicts a central character in action, and it tells a representative love story--a story in which the oppressive persecutor of impoverished age is foiled and discomfited, in which faithful affection survives the test of trial, and in which days of danger end at last in days of blissful peace. traces of the influence of shakespeare--exerted by his pastoral comedies and by the _merry wives of windsor_--are obvious in it. there is no imitation; there is only kinship. the sources that scott explored for some of the material used in _ivanhoe_ also announce themselves. many stories could be derived from the old robin hood ballads. the poet has only chosen and rearranged such of their incidents as would suit his purpose--using those old ballads with perfect freedom, but also using them with faultless taste. robin hood was born at locksley, in the county of nottingham, about , when henry the second was king. his true name was robert fitzooth--a name that popular mispronunciation converted into robin hood--and he was of noble lineage. old records declare him to have been the earl of huntingdon. he was extravagant and adventurous, and for reasons that are unknown he preferred to live in the woods. his haunts were chiefly sherwood forest, in nottinghamshire, and barnsdale, in yorkshire. among his associates were william scadlock, commonly called scarlet; much, a miller's son; friar tuck, a vagabond monk; and little john, whose name was nailor. robin hood and his band were kind to the poor; but they robbed the rich and they were specially hard on the clergy. there is a tradition that a woman named maid marian went with robin into the forest, but nothing is known about her. robin lived till the age of eighty-seven, and he might have lived longer but that a treacherous relative, the prioress of kirkley--to whose care he had entrusted himself in order that he might be bled--allowed him to bleed to death. at the time indicated in tennyson's comedy--the year , which was the year of king richard's return from captivity in germany--he was thirty-four years old. it is the year of _ivanhoe_, and in the play as in the novel, the evil agent is the usurper prince john. fifteen characters take part in this comedy. act first is called "the bond and the outlawry." the action begins in a garden before sir richard lea's castle--or rather the dialogue begins there, by which the basis of the action is revealed. maid marian is marian lea, the daughter of sir richard. walter lea, the son of sir richard, has been captured by the moors, and in order to pay the boy's ransom sir richard has borrowed a large sum of money from the abbot of york. that debt must presently be paid; but sir richard does not see his way clear to its payment, and if he does not pay it he must forfeit his land. the sheriff of nottingham, a wealthy suitor for the hand of marian, is willing to pay that debt, in case the girl will favour his suit. but marian loves the earl of huntingdon and is by him beloved; and all would go well with those lovers, and with sir richard, but that the earl of huntingdon is poor. poor though he be, however, he makes a feast, to celebrate his birthday, and to that festival sir richard and his daughter are bidden. act first displays the joyous proceedings of that good meeting and the posture of those characters toward each other. the sheriff of nottingham intrudes himself upon the scene, accompanied by prince john, who is disguised as a friar. the prince has cast a covetous eye upon marian, and, although he outwardly favours the wish of the sheriff, he is secretly determined to seize her for himself. the revellers at huntingdon's feast, unaware of the prince's presence, execrate his name, and at length he retires, in a silent fury. robin gives to marian a remarkable ring that he has inherited from his mother. later a herald enters and reads a proclamation from prince john, declaring the earl of huntingdon to be a felon, and commanding his banishment. robin cannot forcibly oppose that mandate, and he therefore determines to cast in his lot with scarlet and friar tuck and other "minions of the moon," and thenceforward to live a free and merry life under the green boughs of sherwood forest. a year is supposed to pass. act second, called "the flight of marian," begins with a song of the foresters, in the deep wood--"there is no land like england." that is a scene of much gentle beauty, enhanced by robin hood's delivery of some of the finest poetry in the play, and also by the delicious music of sir arthur sullivan. robin descants upon freedom, and upon the advantage of dwelling beneath the sky rather than beneath a groined roof that shuts out all the meaning of heaven. there is a colloquy between little john, who is one of robin's men, and kate, who is marian's maid. those two are lovers who quarrel and make it up again, as lovers will. kate has come to the forest, bringing word of the flight of her mistress. prince john has tried to seize marian, and that brave girl has repulsed and struck him; and she and her father have fled--intending to make for france, in which land the old knight expects to find a friend who will pay his debt and save his estate. while robin is considering these things he perceives the approach of prince john and the sheriff of nottingham, and, thereupon, he takes refuge in the hut of an old witch and disguises himself in some of her garments. prince john and the sheriff, who are in pursuit of sir richard and marian, find robin in this disguise, and for a time they are deceived by him; but soon they penetrate his masquerade and assail him--whereupon some of his people come to his assistance, and he is reinforced by sir richard lea. prince john and his party are beaten and driven away. sir richard is exhausted, and robin commits him to the care of the foresters. marian, arrayed as a boy, and pretending to be her brother walter, has been present at this combat, as a spectator, and a sparkling scene of equivoke, mischief, and sentiment ensues between marian and robin. that scene tennyson wrote and inserted for ada rehan, to whose vivacious temperament it is fitted, and whose action in it expressed with equal felicity the teasing temper of the coquette and the propitious fondness of the lover. robin discovers marian's identity by means of the ring that he gave her, and, after due explanation, it is agreed that she and her father will remain under his protection. act third is called "the crowning of marian," and is devoted to pictures, colloquies, and incidents, now serious and now comical, showing the life of the foresters and the humorous yet discriminative justice of their gypsy chief. sir richard lea is ill and he cannot be moved. the outlaws crown marian, with an oaken chaplet, and declare her to be their queen. robin hood vindicates his vocation, and in a noble speech on freedom--deriving his similes from the giant oak tree, as tennyson has ever loved to do--declares himself the friend of the poor and the servant of the king; the absent richard of the lion heart, for whose return all good men are eager. various beggars, friars, and other travellers are halted on the road, in practical illustration of robin's doctrine; comic incidents from the old ballads are reproduced; and so the episode ends merrily of these frolics in the wood. at that point a delicious fairy pageant is introduced, presenting queen titania and her elves and illustrating at once the grievance of the fairies against the men whose heavy feet have crushed their toads and bats and flowers and mystic rings, and marian's dream of love. sir arthur sullivan's music is here again used, and again it is felt to be characteristic, melodious, and uncommonly sweet and tender. act fourth begins in a forest bower at sunrise. marian and robin meet there and talk of sir richard and of his bond to the abbot of york--soon to fall due and seemingly to remain unpaid. robin has summoned the abbot and his justiciary to come into the forest and to bring the bond. king richard, unrecognised, now arrives, and in submission to certain laws of the woodland he engages in an encounter of buffets, and prevails over all his adversaries. at the approach of the abbot, however, fearing premature recognition, the monarch will flit away; but his gypsy friends compel him to accept a bugle, upon which he is to blow a blast when in danger. the abbot and his followers arrive, and robin hood offers the money to redeem sir richard's bond; but, upon a legal quibble, the abbot declines to receive it--preferring to seize the forfeited land. prince john and the sheriff of nottingham appear, and robin and his foresters form an ambuscade. sir richard lea has been brought in, upon his litter, and marian stays beside him. prince john attempts to seize her, but this time he is frustrated by the sudden advent of king richard--from whose presence he slinks away. the myrmidons of john, however, attack the king, who would oppose them single-handed; but friar tuck snatches the king's bugle and blows a blast of summons--whereupon the foresters swarm into the field and possess it. john's faction is dispersed, marian is saved, the absent walter lea reappears, sir richard is assured of his estate, the abbot and the sheriff are punished, and robin hood and maid marian may wed--for now the good king richard has come again to his own. the lyrics in the piece possess the charm of fluent and unaffected sweetness, and of original, inventive, and felicitous fancy, and some of them are tenderly freighted with that indescribable but deeply affecting undertone of pathetic sentiment which is a characteristic attribute of tennyson's poetry. the characters in the comedy were creatures of flesh and blood to the author, and they come out boldly, therefore, on the stage. marian lea is a woman of the rosalind order--handsome, noble, magnanimous, unconventional, passionate in nature, but sufficient unto herself, humorous, playful, and radiant with animal spirits. ada rehan embodied her according to that ideal. the chief exaction of the part is simplicity--which yet must not be allowed to degenerate into tameness. the sweet affection of a daughter for her father, the coyness yet the allurement of a girl for her lover, the refinement of high birth, the blithe bearing and free demeanour of a child of the woods, and the predominant dignity of purity and honour--those are the salient attributes of the part. ada rehan struck the true note at the outset--the note of buoyant health, rosy frolic, and sprightly adventure--and she sustained it evenly and firmly to the last. every eye was pleased with the frank, careless, cheerful beauty of her presence, and every ear was soothed and charmed with her fluent and expressive delivery of the verse. in this, as in all of the important representations that ada rehan has given, the delightful woman-quality was conspicuously present. she can readily impersonate a boy. no actress since adelaide neilson has done that so well. but the crowning excellence of her art was its expression of essential womanhood. her acting was never trivial and it never obtruded the tedious element of dry intellect. it refreshed--and the spectator was happier for having seen her. many pleasant thoughts were scattered in many minds by her performance of maid marian, and no one who saw it will ever part with the remembrance of it. xix. ellen terry: the merchant of venice. it was perhaps an auspicious portent, it certainly is an interesting fact, that the first play that was ever acted in america at a regular theatre and by a regular theatrical company was shakespeare's comedy of _the merchant of venice_. such at least is the record made by william dunlap, the first historian of the american theatre, who names williamsburg, virginia, as the place and september , as the date of that production. it ought to be noted, however (so difficult is it to settle upon any fact in this uncertain world), that the learned antiquarian judge c.p. daly, fortified likewise by the scrupulously accurate ireland, dissents from dunlap's statement and declares that cibber's alteration of shakespeare's _richard the third_ was acted by a regular company in a large room in nassau street, new york, at an earlier date, namely, on march , . all the same, it appears to have been shakespeare's mind that started the dramatic movement in america. the american stage has undergone great changes since that time, but both _the merchant of venice_ and _richard the third_ are still acted, and in the _merchant_, if not in _richard_, the public interest is still vital. in new york, under edwin booth's management, at the winter garden theatre, january , , and subsequently at booth's theatre, and in london, under henry irving's management, at the lyceum theatre, november , , sumptuous productions of the _merchant_ have brilliantly marked the dramatic chronicle of our times. discussion of the great character of shylock steadily proceeds and seems never to weary either the disputants or the audience. the sentiment, the fancy, and the ingenuity of artists are often expended not only upon the austere, picturesque, and terrible figure of the vindictive jew, but upon the chief related characters in the comedy--upon bassanio and portia, gratiano and nerissa, lorenzo and jessica, the princely and pensive antonio, the august duke and his stately senators, and the shrewd and humorous gobbo. more than one painting has depicted the ardent lorenzo and his fugitive infidel as they might have looked on that delicious summer night at belmont when they saw "how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold," and when the blissful lover, radiant with happiness and exalted by the sublime, illimitable, unfathomable spectacle of the star-strewn firmament, murmured, in such heaven-like cadence, of the authentic music of heaven. it is not to be denied that lovely words are spoken to jessica, and that almost equally lovely words are spoken by her. essayists upon the _merchant_ have generally accepted her without a protest--so much do youth and beauty in a woman count in the scale when weighed against duty and integrity. there is no indication that shylock was ever unjust or unkind to jessica. whatever he may have been to others he seems always to have been good to her; and she was the child of that lost leah of his youthful devotion whom he passionately loved and whom he mourned to the last. yet jessica not only abandoned her father and his religion, but robbed him of money and jewels (including the betrothal ring, the turquoise, that her mother had given to him), when she fled with the young christian who had won her heart. it was a basely cruel act; but probably some of the vilest and cruelest actions that are done in this world are done by persons who are infatuated by the passion of love. mrs. jameson, who in her beautiful essay on portia extenuates the conduct of jessica, would have us believe that shylock valued his daughter far beneath his wealth, and therefore deserved to be deserted and plundered by her; and she is so illogical as to derive his sentiments on this subject from his delirious outcries of lamentation after he learned of her predatory and ignominious flight. the argument is not a good one. fine phrases do not make wrong deeds right. it were wiser to take jessica for the handsome and voluptuous girl that certainly she is, and to leave her rectitude out of the question. shakespeare in his drawing of her was true to nature, as he always is; but the student who wants to know where shakespeare's heart was placed when he drew women must look upon creatures very different from jessica. the women that shakespeare seems peculiarly to have loved are imogen, cordelia, isabella, rosalind, and portia--rosalind, perhaps, most of all; for although portia is finer than rosalind, it is extremely probable that shakespeare resembled his fellow-men sufficiently to have felt the preference that tom moore long afterward expressed: "be an angel, my love, in the morning, but, oh! be a woman to-night." when ellen terry embodied portia--in henry irving's magnificent revival of _the merchant of venice_--the essential womanhood of that character was for the first time in the modern theatre adequately interpreted and conveyed. upon many play-going observers indeed the wonderful wealth of beauty that is in the part--its winsome grace, its incessant sparkle, its alluring because piquant as well as luscious sweetness, its impetuous ardour, its enchantment of physical equally with emotional condition, its august morality, its perfect candour, and its noble passion--came like a surprise. did the great actress find those attributes in the part (they asked themselves), or did she infuse them into it? previous representatives of portia had placed the emphasis chiefly, if not exclusively, upon morals and mind. the stage portia of the past has usually been a didactic lady, self-contained, formal, conventional, and oratorical. ellen terry came, and portia was figured exactly as she lives in the pages of shakespeare--an imperial and yet an enchanting woman, dazzling in her beauty, royal in her dignity, as ardent in temperament as she is fine in brain and various and splendid in personal peculiarities and feminine charm. after seeing that matchless impersonation it seemed strange that portia should ever have been represented in any other light, and it was furthermore felt that the inferior, mechanical, utilitarian semblance of her could not again be endured. ellen terry's achievement was a complete vindication of the high view that shakespearean study has almost always taken of that character, and it finally discredited the old stage notion that portia is a type of decorum and declamation. aside from hazlitt, who thought that portia is affected and pedantic, and who did not like her because he did not happen to appreciate her, the best analytical thinkers about shakespeare's works have taken the high view of that character. shakespeare himself certainly took it; for aside from her own charming behaviour and delightful words it is to be observed that everybody in the play who speaks of her at all speaks her praise. it is only upon the stage that she has been made artificial, prim, and preachy. that misrepresentation of her has, perhaps, been caused, in part, by the practice long prevalent in our theatre of cutting and compressing the play so as to make shylock the chief figure in it. in that way portia is shorn of much of her splendour and her meaning. the old theatrical records dwell almost exclusively upon shylock, and say little if anything about portia. in shakespeare's time, no doubt, _the merchant of venice_ was acted as it is written, the female persons in it being played by boys, or by men who could "speak small." alexander cooke ( - ) played the light heroines of shakespeare while the poet was alive. all students of the subject are aware that burbage was the first shylock, and that when he played the part he wore a red wig, a red beard, and a long false nose. no record exists as to the first portia. the men who were acting female characters upon the london stage when that institution was revived immediately after the restoration were kynaston, james nokes, angel, william betterton, mosely, and floid. kynaston, it is said, could act a woman so well that when at length women themselves began to appear as actors it was for some time doubted whether any one of them could equal him. the account of his life, however, does not mention portia as one of his characters. indeed the play of _the merchant of venice_, after it languished out of sight in that decadence of the stage which ensued upon the growth of the puritan movement in england, did not again come into use until it was revived in lord landsdowne's alteration of it produced at the theatre in lincoln's inn fields in , and even then it was grossly perverted. forty years later, however, on st. valentine's day , at drury lane, when macklin regenerated the character of shylock, the original piece was restored to the theatre. women in the meantime had come upon the stage. the garrulous and delightful pepys, who had seen kynaston play a female part, records in his marvellous diary that he first saw women as actors on january , . those were members of killigrew's company, which preceded that of davenant by several months, if not by a year; and therefore the common statement in theatrical books that the first woman that ever appeared on the english stage was mrs. sanderson, of davenant's company, at lincoln's inn fields, is erroneous: and indeed the name of the first english actress is as much unknown as the name of the first portia. when macklin restored shakespeare's _merchant of venice_ to the stage it is not likely that the character of portia was dwarfed, for its representative then was kitty clive, and that actress was a person of strong will. with clive the long list begins of the portias of the stage. she was thirty years old when she played the part with macklin, and it is probable that she played it with dignity and certain that she played it with sparkling animation and piquant grace. the german ulrici, whose descriptive epithets for portia are "roguish and intellectual," would doubtless have found his ideal of the part fulfilled in clive. the nerissa that night was mrs. pritchard, then also thirty years old, but not so famous as she afterward became. the greatest actress on the british stage in the eighteenth century undoubtedly was margaret woffington ( - ). sarah siddons, to whom the sceptre passed, was only five years old when woffington died. both those brilliant names are associated with portia. augustin daly's _life of woffington_--the best life of her that has been written, and one of the most sumptuous books that have been made--contains this reference to her performance of that part: "all her critics agree that her declamation was accurate and her gesture grace and nature combined; but in tragic or even dramatic speeches her voice probably had its limits, and in such scenes, being overtaxed, told against her. as portia she appeared to great advantage; but when lorenzo says, 'this is the voice, or i am much deceived, of portia,' and portia replies, 'he knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo, by the bad voice,' the audience laughed outright, and woffington, conscious of her deficiency, with great good-humour joined with them in their merriment." the incident is mentioned in the _table talk_ ( ) of richard ryan, to which book daly refers. mrs. siddons made her first appearance on the london stage as portia december , , and conspicuously failed in the part on that occasion, but she became distinguished in it afterward; yet it is probable that mrs. siddons expressed its nobility more than its tenderness, and much more than its buoyant and glittering glee, which was so entirely and beautifully given by ellen terry. after peg woffington and before mrs. siddons the most conspicuous portia was mrs. dancer, whom hugh kelley, in his satirical composition of _thespis_, calls a "moon-eyed idiot,"--from which barbarous bludgeon phrase the reader derives a hint as to her aspect. some of the tones of mrs. dancer's voice were so tender that no one could resist them. spranger barry could not, for he married her, and after his death she became mrs. crawford. miss maria macklin, daughter of the first true shylock of the stage, acted portia, april , , with her father. she is recorded as an accomplished woman but destitute of genius--in which predicament she probably was not lonesome. on june , portia was acted at the haymarket by miss barsanti, afterward mrs. lister, an actress who, since she excelled in such parts as were customarily taken by fanny abington (the distinct opposite of portia-like characters), must have been unsuited for it. the names of miss younge, miss farren, miss e. kemble, miss ryder, mrs. pope, miss de camp, and miss murray are in the record of the stage portias that comes down to . probably the best of all those portias was mrs. pope. the beautiful mrs. glover played portia in at the haymarket theatre. mrs. ogilvie played it, with macready as shylock (his first appearance in that part), on may , . those figures passed and left no shadow. two english actresses of great fame are especially associated with portia--ellen tree, afterward mrs. charles kean, and helen faucit, now lady martin; and no doubt their assumptions of the part should be marked as exceptions from the hard, didactic, declamatory, perfunctory method that has customarily characterised the portia of the stage. lady martin's written analysis of portia is noble in thought and subtle and tender in penetration and sympathy. charlotte cushman read the text superbly, but she was much too formidable ever to venture on assuming the character. portia is a woman who deeply loves and deeply rejoices and exults in her love, and she is never ashamed of her passion or of her exultation in it; and she says the finest things about love that are said by any of shakespeare's women; the finest because, while supremely passionate, the feeling in them is perfectly sane. it is as a lover that ellen terry embodied her, and while she made her a perfect woman, in all the attributes that fascinate, she failed not, in the wonderful trial scene, to invest her with that fine light of celestial anger--that momentary thrill of moral austerity--which properly appertains to the character at the climax of a solemn and almost tragical situation. on the american stage there have been many notable representatives of the chief characters in _the merchant of venice_. in new york, when the comedy was done at the old john street theatre in , hallam was shylock and mrs. morris portia. twenty years afterward, at the same house, shylock was played by john henry, and portia by mrs. henry, while the brilliant hodgkinson appeared as gratiano. cooper, whose life has been so well written by that ripe theatrical scholar joseph n. ireland, in one of the books of the dunlap society, assumed shylock in at the theatre just then opened in greenwich street. the famous miss brunton (then mrs. merry), was the portia, and the cast included moreton as bassanio, warren as antonio, bernard as gratiano, and blissett as tubal. how far away and how completely lost and forgotten those once distinguished and admired persons are! yet cooper in his day was idolised: he had a fame as high, if not as widely spread, as that of henry irving or edwin booth at present. william creswick--lately dead at an advanced age in london--was seen upon the new york stage as shylock in ; macready in ; charles kean in . with the latter, ellen tree played portia. charles w. couldock enacted shylock on september , , at the castle garden theatre, in a performance given to commemorate the alleged centenary of the introduction of the drama into america. the elder wallack, the elder booth, edwin forrest, g.v. brooke, george vandenhoff, wyzeman marshall, and e.l. davenport are among the old local representatives of the jew. madam ponisi used to play portia, and so did mrs. hoey. in december , when _the merchant of venice_ was finely revived at wallack's theatre, with the elder wallack as shylock, the cast included lester wallack as bassanio, john brougham as gratiano, a. w. young--a quaintly comic actor, too soon cut off--as launcelot gobbo, mary gannon--the fascinating, the irresistible--as nerissa, and handsome mrs. sloan as jessica. the eminent german actor davison played shylock, in new york, in his own language; and many german actors, no one of them comparable with him, have been seen in it since. lawrence barrett often played it, and with remarkable force and feeling. the triumphs won in it by edwin booth are within the remembrance of many playgoers of this generation. when he last acted the jew helena modjeska was associated with him as portia. booth customarily ended the piece with the trial scene, omitting the last act; and indeed that was long the stage custom; but with the true portia of ellen terry and a good cast in general the last act went blithely and with superb effect. the comedy was not written for shylock alone. he is a tremendous identity, but he is not the chief subject. the central theme is portia and her love. that theme takes up a large part of the play,--which is like a broad summer landscape strewn with many-coloured flowers that flash and glitter in the sun, while slowly a muttering thunder-storm gathers and lowers, and presently sweeps overhead, casting one black shadow as it passes, and leaving the fragrant and glistening plain all the brighter and sweeter for the contrast with its defeated menace and vanishing gloom. xx. richard mansfield as richard the third. the ideal of richard that was expressed by this actor did not materially differ from that which has been manifested by great tragic actors from garrick to booth. he embodied a demoniac scoffer who, nevertheless, is a human being. the infernal wickedness of richard was shown to be impelled by tremendous intellect but slowly enervated and ultimately thwarted and ruined by the cumulative operation of remorse--corroding at the heart and finally blasting the man with desolation and frenzy. that, undoubtedly, was shakespeare's design. but richard mansfield's expression of that ideal differed from the expression to which the stage has generally been accustomed, and in this respect his impersonation was distinctive and original. the old custom of playing richard was to take the exaggerated statements of the opening soliloquy in a literal sense, to provide him with a big hump, a lame leg, and a fell of straight black hair, and to make him walk in, scowling, with his lower lip protruded, and declare with snarling vehemence and guttural vociferation his amiable purpose of specious duplicity and miscellaneous slaughter. the opening speech, which is in shakespeare's juvenile manner--an orotund, verbose manner, which perhaps he had caught from marlowe, and which he outgrew and abandoned--was thus utilised for displaying the character in a massed aspect, as that of a loathsome hypocrite and sanguinary villain; and, that being done, he was made to advance through about two-thirds of the tragedy, airily yet ferociously slaying everybody who came in his way, until at some convenient point, definable at the option of the actor, he was suddenly smitten with a sufficient remorse to account for his trepidation before and during the tent-scene; and thereafter he was launched into combat like a meteoric butcher, all frenzy and all gore, and killed, amid general acclamation, when he had fenced himself out of breath. that treatment of the character was, doubtless, in part a necessary consequence of shakespeare's perfunctory adoption of the tudor doctrine that richard was a blood-boltered monster; but in a larger degree it was the result of cibber's vulgar distortion of the original piece. the actual character of the king,--who seems to have been one of the ablest and wisest monarchs that ever reigned in england--has never recovered, and it never will recover, from the odium that was heaped upon it by the tudor historians and accepted and ratified by the great genius of shakespeare. the stage character of the king has been almost as effectually damned by the ingenious theatrical claptrap with which cibber misrepresented and vulgarised shakespeare's conception, assisted by the efforts of a long line of blood-and-thunder tragedians, only too well pleased to depict a gory, blathering, mugging miscreant, such as their limited intelligence enabled them to comprehend. the stage richard, however, may possibly be redeemed. in cibber he is everything that queen margaret calls him, and worse than a brute. in shakespeare, although a miscreant, he is a man. the return to shakespeare, accordingly, is a step in the right direction. that step was taken some time ago, although not maintained, first by macready, then by samuel phelps, then by edwin booth, and then by henry irving. their good example was followed by richard mansfield. he used a version of the tragedy, made by himself,--a piece indicative of thoughtful study of the subject as well as a keen intuitive grasp of it. he did not stop short at being a commentator. aiming to impersonate a character he treated shakespeare's prolix play in such a manner as to make it a practicable living picture of a past age. the version was in five acts, preserving the text of the original, much condensed, and introducing a few lines from cibber. it began with a bright processional scene before the tower of london, in which elizabeth, queen of edward iv., was conspicuous, and against that background of "glorious summer" it placed the dangerous figure of the duke of gloster. it comprised the murder of henry vi., the wooing of lady anne,--not in a london street, but in a rural place, on the road to chertsey; the lamentation for king edward iv.; the episode of the boy princes; the condemnation of hastings,--a scene that brilliantly denotes the mingled artifice and savagery of shakespeare's gloster; the buckingham plot; the priest and mayor scene; the temptation of tyrrel; the fall of buckingham; the march to battle; the episode of the spectres; and the fatal catastrophe on bosworth field. enough of the story was thus related to satisfy the shakespeare scholar. the notable peculiarity was the assumption that there are considerable lapses of time at intervals during the continuance of the story. the effort to reconcile poetry with history produced little if any appreciable practical result upon the stage,--seeing that an audience would not think of lapses of time unless those lapses were mentioned in the play-bill. an incessant continuity of action, a ceaseless rush and whirl of events, is the essential life of the play. no auditor can feel that richard has waited twelve years before making any movement or striking any blow, after his aspiration that heaven will take king edward and leave the world for him "to bustle in." that word "bustle" is a favourite word with richard. and furthermore there is no development of his character in shakespeare's play: there is simply the presentation of it, complete and rounded at the outset, and remaining invariably and inflexibly the same to the close. mansfield, however, deduced this effect from his consideration of the flight of time: a contrast between richard at nineteen and richard at thirty-three, a contrast strongly expressive of the reactionary influence that an experience of evil deeds has produced upon a man who at first was only a man of evil thoughts and evil will. this imported into the performance a diversity of delineation without, however, affecting the formidable weight of the figure of richard, or its brilliancy, or its final significance. the embodiment was splendid with it, and would be just as splendid without it. the presence of heart and conscience in that demoniac human creature is denoted by shakespeare and must be shown by the actor. precisely at what point his heaven-defying will should begin to waver is not defined. mansfield chose to indicate the operation of remorse and terror in richard's soul as early as the throne scene and before yet the king has heard that the royal boys have been murdered. the effect of his action, equally with the method of it, was magnificent. you presently saw him possessed of the throne for which he had so terribly toiled and sinned, and alone upon it, bathed in blood-red light, the pitiable personification of gorgeous but haunted evil, marked off from among mankind and henceforth desolate. throughout that fine scene mansfield's portrayal of the fearful struggle between wicked will and human weakness was in a noble vein of imagination, profound in its sincerity, affecting in its pathos, and pictorial in its treatment. in the earlier scenes his mood and his demeanour had been suffused with a cool, gay, mockery of elegant cynicism. he killed king henry with a smile, in a scene of gloomy mystery that might have come from the pencil of gustave dore. he looked upon the mourning lady anne with cheerful irony and he wooed her with all the fervour that passion and pathos can engender in the behaviour of a hypocrite. his dissimulation with the princes and with the mayor and the nobles was to the last degree specious. one of his finest points was the temptation of buckingham to murder the princes. there, and indeed at all points, was observed the absence of even the faintest reminiscence of the ranting, mouthing, flannel-jawed king of clubs who has so generally strutted and bellowed as shakespeare's gloster. all was bold and telling in the manner, and yet the manner was reticent with nature and fine with well-bred continence. with the throne scene began the spiritual conflict. at least it then began to be disclosed; and from that moment onward the state of richard was seen to be that of orestes pursued by the furies. but mansfield was right, and was consistent, in making the monarch faithful in his devotion to evil. richard's presentiments, pangs, and tremors are intermittent. in the great, empty, darkening throne-room, with its shadowy nooks and dim corners, shapeless and nameless spectres may momentarily come upon him and shake his strong spirit with the sinister menace of hell. along the dark plains, on the fateful night before the battle, the sad ghosts may drift and wander, moaning and wailing in the ghastly gloom; and in that hour of haunted desolation the doomed king may feel that, after all, he is but mortal man, and that his pre-ordered destruction is close at hand and not to be averted; but richard never deceives himself; never palters with the goodness that he has scorned. he dies as he has lived, defiant and terrible. mansfield's treatment of the ghost scenes at bosworth was novel, original, and poetic, and his death scene was not only a display of personal prowess but a reproduction of historical fact. with a detail like this the truth of history becomes useful, but in general the actor cannot safely go back of the shakespearean scheme. to present richard as he probably was would be to present a man of some virtue as well as great ability. mansfield's acting revealed an amiable desire to infuse as much goodness as possible into the shakespearean conception, but he obtained his chief success by acting the part substantially according to shakespeare and by setting and dressing the play with exceptional if not altogether exact fidelity to the time, the places, and the persons that are implicated in the story. shakespeare's richard is a type of colossal will and of restless, inordinate, terrific activity. the objects of his desire and his effort are those objects which are incident to supreme power; but his chief object is that assertion of himself which is irresistibly incited and steadfastly compelled by the overwhelming, seething, acrid energy of his feverish soul, burning and raging in his fiery body. he can no more help projecting himself upon the affairs of the world than the malignant cobra can help darting upon its prey. he is a vital, elemental force, grisly, hectic, terrible, impelled by volcanic heat and electrified and made lurid and deadly by the infernal purpose of restless wickedness. no actor can impersonate richard in an adequate manner who does not possess transcendent force of will, combined with ambitious, incessant, and restless mental activity. mansfield in those respects is qualified for the character, and out of his professional resources he was able to supply the other elements that are requisite to its constitution and fulfilment. he presented as richard a sardonic, scoffing demon, who nevertheless, somewhere in his complex nature, retains an element of humanity. he embodied a character that is tragic in its ultimate effect, but his method was that of the comedian. his portrayal of richard, except at those moments when it is veiled with craft and dissimulation, or at those other and grander moments, infrequent but awful and agonising, when it is convulsed with terror or with the anguish of remorse, stood forth boldly in the sunshine, a crystallised and deadly sarcasm, equally trenchant upon itself and all the world, equally scornful of things human and things divine. that deadly assumption of keen and mordant mockery, that cool, glittering, malignant lightness of manner, was consistently sustained throughout the performance, while the texture of it was made continuously entertaining by diversity of colour and inflection, sequent on changing moods; so that richard was shown as a creature of the possible world of mankind and not as a fiction of the stage. the part was acted by him: it was not declaimed. he made, indeed, a skilful use of his uncommon voice--keeping its tones light, sweet, and superficial during the earlier scenes (while yet, in accordance with his theory of development, gloster is the personification of evil purpose only beginning to ripen into evil deed), and then permitting them to become deeper and more significant and thrilling as the man grows old in crime and haggard and convulsed in self-conflict and misery. but it was less with vocal excellence that the auditor was impressed than with the actor's identification with the part and his revelation of the soul of it. when first presented gloster was a mocking devil. the murder of king henry was done with malice, but the malice was enwrapped with glee. in the wooing of lady anne there was both heart and passion, but the mood was that of lightsome duplicity. it is not until years of scheming and of evil acts, engendering, promoting, and sustaining a condition of mental horror and torture, have ravaged his person and set their seal upon him, in sunken cheek and hollow eye, in shattered nerves and deep and thrilling voice, surcharged at once with inveterate purpose and with incessant agony, that this light manner vanishes, and the demeanour and action of the wicked monarch becomes ruthless, direct, and terrible. whether, upon the basis of a play so discursive, so episodical, so irresolutely defined as shakespeare's _richard the third_, that theory of the development of its central character is logically tenable is a dubious question. in shakespeare the character is presented full-grown at the start, and then, through a confused tangle of historical events, is launched into action. nevertheless in his practical application of it mansfield made his theory effective by a novel, powerful, interesting performance. you could not help perceiving in mansfield's embodiment that gloster was passing through phases of experience--that the man changed, as men do change in life, the integral character remaining the same in its original fibre, but the condition varying, in accordance with the reaction of conduct upon temperament and conscience. mansfield deeply moved his audience in the repulse of buckingham, in the moody menace of the absent stanley, in the denunciation of hastings, and in the awakening from the dream on the night before the battle. playgoers have seldom seen a dramatic climax so thrilling as his hysterical recognition of catesby, after the moment of doubt whether this be not also a phantom of his terrific dream. it was not so much by startling theatrical effects, however, as by subtle denotements, now of the tempest and now of the brooding horror in the king's heart, that the actor gained his victory. the embodiment lacked incessant fiery expedition--the explosive, meteoric quality that astounds and dazzles. chief among the beauties was imagination. the attitude of the monarch toward his throne--the infernal triumph, and yet the remorseful agony and withering fear--in the moment of ghastly loneliness when he knows that the innocent princes have been murdered and that his imperial pathway is clear, made up one of the finest spectacles of dramatic illumination that the stage has afforded. you saw the murderer's hideous exultation, and then, in an instant, as the single ray of red light from the setting sun streamed through the gothic window and fell upon his evil head, you saw him shrink in abject fear, cowering in the shadow of his throne; and the dusky room was seemingly peopled with gliding spectres. that treatment was theatrical, but in no derogatory sense theatrical--for it comports with the great speech on conscience; not the fustian of cibber, about mutton and short-lived pleasure, but the speech that shakespeare has put into richard's mouth; the speech that inspired mansfield's impersonation--the brilliant embodiment of an intellectual man, predisposed to evil, who yields to that inherent impulse, and thereafter, although intermittently convulsed with remorse, fights with tremendous energy against the goodness that he scorns and defies, till at last he dashes himself to pieces against the adamant of eternal law. xxi. genevieve ward: forget me not. in the season of - genevieve ward made a remarkably brilliant hit with her embodiment of stephanie de mohrivart, in the play of _forget me not_, by herman merivale, and since then she has acted that part literally all round the world. it was an extraordinary performance--potent with intellectual character, beautiful with refinement, nervous and steel-like with indomitable purpose and icy glitter, intense with passion, painfully true to an afflicting ideal of reality, and at last splendidly tragic: and it was a shining example of ductile and various art. such a work ought surely to be recorded as one of the great achievements of the stage. genevieve ward showed herself to possess in copious abundance peculiar qualities of power and beauty upon which mainly the part of stephanie is reared. the points of assimilation between the actress and the part were seen to consist in an imperial force of character, intellectual brilliancy, audacity of mind, iron will, perfect elegance of manners, a profound self-knowledge, and unerring intuitions as to the relation of motive and conduct in that vast network of circumstance which is the social fabric. stephanie possesses all those attributes; and all those attributes genevieve ward supplied, with the luxuriant adequacy and grace of nature. but stephanie superadds to those attributes a bitter, mocking cynicism, thinly veiled by artificial suavity and logically irradiant from natural hardness of heart, coupled with an insensibility that has been engendered by cruel experience of human selfishness. this, together with a certain mystical touch of the animal freedom, whether in joy or wrath, that goes with a being having neither soul nor conscience, the actress had to supply--and did supply--by her art. as interpreted by genevieve ward the character was reared, not upon a basis of unchastity but upon a basis of intellectual perversion. stephanie has followed--at first with self-contempt, afterward with sullen indifference, finally with the bold and brilliant hardihood of reckless defiance--a life of crime. she is audacious, unscrupulous, cruel; a consummate tactician; almost sexless, yet a siren in knowledge and capacity to use the arts of her sex; capable of any wickedness to accomplish an end, yet trivial enough to have no higher end in view than the reinvestiture of herself with social recognition; cold as snow; implacable as the grave; remorseless; wicked; but, beneath all this depravity, capable of self-pity, capable of momentary regret, capable of a little human tenderness, aware of the glory of the innocence she has lost, and thus not altogether beyond the pale of compassion. and she is, in externals,--in everything visible and audible,--the ideal of grace and melody. in the presence of an admirable work of art the observer wishes that it were entirely worthy of being performed and that it were entirely clear and sound as to its applicability--in a moral sense, or even in an intellectual sense--to human life. art does not go far when it stops short at the revelation of the felicitous powers of the artist; and it is not altogether right when it tends to beguile sympathy with an unworthy object and perplex a spectator's perceptions as to good and evil. genevieve ward's performance of stephanie, brilliant though it was, did not redeem the character from its bleak exile from human sympathy. the actress managed, by a scheme of treatment exclusively her own, to make stephanie, for two or three moments, piteous and forlorn; and her expression of that evanescent anguish--occurring in the appeal to sir horace welby, her friendly foe, in the strong scene of the second act--was wonderfully subtle. that appeal, as genevieve ward made it, began in artifice, became profoundly sincere, and then was stunned and startled into a recoil of resentment by a harsh rebuff, whereupon it subsided through hysterical levity into frigid and brittle sarcasm and gay defiance. for a while, accordingly, the feelings of the observer were deeply moved. yet this did not make the character of stephanie less detestable. the blight remains upon it--and always must remain--that it repels the interest of the heart. the added blight likewise rests upon it (though this is of less consequence to a spectator), that it is burdened with moral sophistry. vicious conduct in a woman, according to stephanie's logic, is not more culpable or disastrous than vicious conduct in a man: the woman, equally with the man, should have a social license to sow the juvenile wild oats and effect the middle-aged reformation; and it is only because there are gay young men who indulge in profligacy that women sometimes become adventurers and moral monsters. all this is launched forth in speeches of singular terseness, eloquence, and vigour; but all this is specious and mischievous perversion of the truth--however admirably in character from stephanie's lips. every observer who has looked carefully upon the world is aware that the consequences of wrongdoing by a woman are vastly more pernicious than those of wrongdoing by a man; that society could not exist in decency, if to its already inconvenient coterie of reformed rakes it were to add a legion of reformed wantons; and that it is innate wickedness and evil propensity that makes such women as stephanie, and not the mere existence of the wild young men who are willing to become their comrades--and who generally end by being their dupes and victims. it is natural, however, that this adventurer--who has kept a gambling-hell and ruined many a man, soul and body, and who now wishes to reinstate herself in a virtuous social position--should thus strive to palliate her past proceedings. self-justification is one of the first laws of life. even iago, who never deceives himself, yet announces one adequate motive for his fearful crimes. even bulwer's margrave--that prodigy of evil, that cardinal type of infernal, joyous, animal depravity--can yet paint himself in the light of harmless loveliness and innocent gayety. _forget me not_ tells a thin story, but its story has been made to yield excellent dramatic pictures, splendid moments of intellectual combat, and affecting contrasts of character. the dialogue, particularly in the second act, is as strong and as brilliant as polished steel. in that combat of words genevieve ward's acting was delicious with trenchant skill and fascinating variety. the easy, good-natured, bantering air with which the strife began, the liquid purity of the tones, the delicate glow of the arch satire, the icy glitter of the thought and purpose beneath the words, the transition into pathos and back again into gay indifference and deadly hostility, the sudden and terrible mood of menace, when at length the crisis had passed and the evil genius had won its temporary victory--all those were in perfect taste and consummate harmony. seeing that brilliant, supple, relentless, formidable figure, and hearing that incisive, bell-like voice, the spectator was repelled and attracted at the same instant, and thoroughly bewildered with the sense of a power and beauty as hateful as they were puissant. not since ristori acted lucretia borgia has the stage exhibited such an image of imperial will, made radiant with beauty and electric with flashes of passion. the leopard and the serpent are fatal, terrible, and loathsome; yet they scarcely have a peer among nature's supreme symbols of power and grace. into the last scene of _forget me not_,--when at length stephanie is crushed by physical fear, through beholding, unseen by him, the man who would kill her as a malignant and dangerous reptile,--genevieve ward introduced such illustrative "business," not provided by the piece, as greatly enhanced the final effect. the backward rush from the door, on seeing the corsican avenger on the staircase, and therewithal the incidental, involuntary cry of terror, was the invention of the actress: and from that moment to the final exit she was the incarnation of abject fear. the situation is one of the strongest that dramatic ingenuity has invented: the actress invested it with a colouring of pathetic and awful truth. xxii. edward s. willard in the middleman and judah. e.s. willard accomplished his first appearance upon the american stage (at palmer's theatre, november , ), in the powerful play of _the middleman_, by henry arthur jones. a representative audience welcomed the modest and gentle stranger and the greeting that hailed him was that of earnest respect. willard had long been known and esteemed in new york by the dramatic profession and by those persons who habitually observe the changeful aspects of the contemporary stage on both sides of the ocean; but to the american public his name had been comparatively strange. the sentiment of kindness with which he was received deepened into admiration as the night wore on, and before the last curtain fell upon his performance of cyrus blenkarn he had gained an unequivocal and auspicious victory. in no case has the first appearance of a new actor been accompanied with a more brilliant exemplification of simple worth; and in no case has its conquest of the public enthusiasm been more decisive. not the least impressive feature of the night was the steadily increasing surprise of the audience as the performance proceeded. it was the actor's way to build slowly, and at the opening of the piece the poor inventor's blind ignorance of the calamity that is impending is chiefly trusted to create essential sympathy. through those moments of approaching sorrow the sweet unconsciousness of the loving father was expressed by willard with touching truth. in this he astonished even as much as he pleased his auditors; for they were not expecting it. one of the most exquisite enjoyments provided by the stage is the advent of a new actor who is not only new but good. it is the pleasure of discovery. it is the pleasure of contact with a rich mind hitherto unexplored. the personal appearance, the power of the eye, the variety of the facial expression, the tones of the voice, the carriage of the person, the salient attributes of the individual character, the altitude of the intellectual development, the quality of the spirit, the extent and the nature of those artistic faculties and resources that constitute the professional equipment,--all those things become the subject first of interested inquiry and next of pleased recognition. willard is neither of the stately, the weird, the mysterious, nor the ferocious order of actor. there is nothing in him of either werner, manfred, or sir giles overreach. he belongs not to either the tradition of john kemble or of edmund kean. his personality, nevertheless, is of a distinctive and interesting kind. he has the self-poise and the exalted calm of immense reserve power and of tender and tremulous sensibility perfectly controlled. his acting is conspicuously marked by two of the loveliest attributes of art--simplicity and sincerity. he conceals neither the face nor the heart. his figure is fine and his demeanour is that of vigorous mental authority informed by moral purity and by the self-respect of a manly spirit. goodness, although a quality seldom taken into the critical estimate, nevertheless has its part in spiritual constitution and in consequent effect. it was, for instance, an element of artistic potentiality in the late john mccullough. it operated spontaneously; and just so it does in the acting of willard, who, first of all, gives the satisfying impression of being genuine. a direct and thorough method of expression naturally accompanies that order of mind and that quality of temperament. every movement that willard makes upon the stage is clear, free, open, firm, and of an obvious significance. every tone of his rich and resonant voice is distinctly intended and is distinctly heard. there are no "flaws and starts." he has formed a precise ideal. he knows exactly how to embody and to utter it, and he makes the manifestation of it sharp, defined, positive, and cogent. his meaning cannot be missed. he has an unerring sense of proportion and symmetry. the character that he represents is shown, indeed, all at once, as a unique identity; but it is not all at once developed, the manifestation of it being made gradually to proceed under the stress of experience and of emotion. he rises with the occasion. his feelings are deep, and he is possessed of extraordinary power for the utterance of them--not simply vocal power, although that, in his case, is exceptional, but the rare faculty of becoming convulsed, inspired, transfigured, by passion, and of being swept along by it, and of sweeping along his hearers. his manner covers, without concealing, great intensity. this is such a combination of traits as must have existed--if the old records are read aright--in that fine and famous actor, john henderson, and which certainly existed in the late benjamin webster. it has, however, always been rare upon the stage, and, like all rare jewels, it is precious. the actor who, from an habitual mood of sweet gravity and patient gentleness, can rise to the height of delirious passion, and there sustain himself at a poise of tempestuous concentration which is the fulfilment of nature, and never once seem either ludicrous or extravagant, is an actor of splendid power and extraordinary self-discipline. such an actor is willard. the blue eyes, the slightly olive complexion, the compact person, the picturesque appearance, the melodious voice, the flexibility of natural action, and the gradual and easy ascent from the calm level of domestic peace to the stormy summit of passionate ecstasy recall personal peculiarities and artistic methods long passed away. the best days of edwin l. davenport and the younger james wallack are brought to mind by them. in the drama of _the middleman_ willard had to impersonate an inventor, of the absorbed, enthusiastic, self-regardless, fanatical kind. cyrus blenkarn is a potter. his genius and his toil have enriched two persons named chandler, father and son, who own and conduct a porcelain factory in an english town of the present day. blenkarn has two daughters, and one of them is taken from him by the younger chandler. the circumstances of that deprivation point at disgrace, and the inventor conceives himself to have suffered an odious ignominy and irreparable wrong. young chandler has departed and so has mary blenkarn, and they are eventually to return as husband and wife; but cyrus blenkarn has been aroused from his reveries over the crucible and furnace,--wherein he is striving to discover a lost secret in the potter's art that will make him both rich and famous,--and he utters a prayer for vengeance upon these chandlers, and he parts from them. a time of destitution and of pitiful struggle with dire necessity, sleepless grief, and the maddening impulse of vengeance now comes upon him, so that he is wasted almost to death. he will not, however, abandon his quest for the secret of his art. he may die of hunger and wretchedness; he will not yield. at the last moment of his trial and his misery--alone--at night--in the alternate lurid blaze and murky gloom of his firing-house--success is conquered: the secret is found. this climax, to which the preliminaries gradually and artfully lead, affords a great opportunity to an actor; and willard greatly filled it. the old inventor has been bowed down almost to despair. grief and destitution, the sight of his remaining daughter's poverty, and the conflict of many feelings have made him a wreck. but his will remains firm. it is not, however, until his last hope has been abandoned that his success suddenly comes--and the result of this is a delirium. that situation, one of the best in modern drama, has been treated by the author in such a manner as to sustain for a long time the feeling of suspense and to put an enormous strain upon the emotion and the resources of an actor. willard's presentment of the gaunt, attenuated figure of cyrus blenkarn--hollow-eyed, half-frantic, hysterical with grief and joy--was the complete incarnation of a dramatic frensy; and this, being sympathetic, and moving to goodness and not to evil, captured the heart. it was a magnificent exhibition, not alone of the physical force that sometimes is so essential in acting but of that fervour of the soul without which acting is a mockery. the skill with which willard reserved his power, so that the impersonation might gradually increase in strength, was one of the best merits of his art. blenkarn's prayer might readily be converted into the climax of the piece, and it might readily be spoken in such a way that no effect would be left for the culmination in the furnace-room. those errors were avoided, and during three out of the four acts the movement of the piece was fluent, continuous, and cumulative. in this respect both the drama and the performance were instructive. henry arthur jones has diversified his serious scenes with passages of sportive humour and he has freighted the piece with conventional didacticism as to the well-worn question of capital and labour. the humour is good: the political economy need not detain attention. the value of the play does not reside in its teaching but in its dramatic presentation of strong character, individual experience, and significant story. the effect produced by _the middleman_ is that of moral elevation. its auditor is touched and ennobled by a spectacle of stern trial, pitiable suffering, and stoical endurance. in the purpose that presides over human destiny--if one may accept the testimony equally of history and of fiction--it appears to be necessary first to create strong characters and then to break them; and the manner in which they are broken usually involves the elements alike of dramatic effect and of pathos. that singular fact in mortal experience may have been noticed by this author. his drama is a forcible exposition of it. _the middleman_ was set upon palmer's stage in such a way as to strengthen the dramatic illusion by the fidelity of scenery. the firing-house, with its furnaces in operation, was a copy of what may be seen at worcester. the picture of english life was excellent. when willard played the part of judah llewellyn for the first time in america (december , ), he gained from a sympathetic and judicious audience a verdict of emphatic admiration. judah llewellyn is a good part in one of the most striking plays of the period--a play that tells an interesting and significant story by expressive, felicitous, and incessant action; affects the feelings by situations that are vital with dramatic power; inspires useful thought upon a theme of psychological importance; cheers the mind with a fresh breeze of satirical humour; and delights the instinct of taste by its crisp and pungent style. alike by his choice of a comparatively original subject and his deft method in the treatment of it henry arthur jones has shown a fine dramatic instinct; and equally in the evolution of character and the expression of experience and emotion he has wrought with feeling and vigour. most of the plays that are written, in any given period, pass away with the period to which they appertain. _judah_ is one of the exceptions; for its brilliantly treated theme is one of perennial interest, and there seems reason to believe, of a work so vital, that long after the present generation has vanished it still will keep its place in the theatre, and sometimes be acted, not as a quaint relic but as a living lesson. that theme is the psychic force in human organism. the author does not obtrude it; does not play the pedant with it; does not lecture upon it; and above all does not bore with it. he only uses it; and he has been so true to his province as a dramatist and not an advocate that he never once assumes to decide upon any question of doctrine that may be involved in the assertion of it. his heroine is a young woman who thinks herself to be possessed of a certain inherent restorative power of curing the sick. this power is of psychic origin and it operates through the medium of personal influence. this girl, vashti dethick, has exerted her power with some success. other persons, having felt its good effect, have admitted its existence. the father of vashti, an enterprising scamp, has thereupon compelled the girl to trade upon her peculiar faculty; little by little to assume miraculous powers; and finally to pretend that her celestial talent is refreshed and strengthened by abstinence from food, and that her cures are wrought only after she has fasted for many days. he has thus converted her into an impostor; yet, as her heart is pure and her moral principle naturally sound, she is ill at ease in this false position, and her mental distress has suddenly become aggravated, almost to the pitch of desperation, by the arrival of love. she has lost her heart to a young clergyman, judah llewellyn, the purity of whose spirit and the beauty of whose life are a bitter and burning rebuke to her enforced deceitfulness of conduct. here is a woman innocently guilty, suddenly aroused by love, made sensitive and noble (as that passion commonly makes those persons who really feel it), and projected into a condition of aggrieved excitement. in this posture of romantic and pathetic circumstances the crisis of two lives is suddenly precipitated in action. judah llewellyn also is possessed of spiritual sensibility and psychic force. in boyhood a shepherd, he has dwelt among the mountains of his native wales, and his imagination has heard the voices that are in rocks and trees, in the silence of lonely places, in the desolation of the bleak hills, and in the cold light of distant stars. he is now a preacher, infatuated with his mission, inspired in his eloquence, invincible in his tremendous sincerity. he sees vashti and he loves her. it is the first thrill of mortal passion that ever has mingled with his devotion to his master's work. the attraction between these creatures is human; and yet it is more of heaven than of earth. it is a tie of spiritual kindred that binds them. they are beings of a different order from the common order--and, as happens in such cases, they will be tried by exceptional troubles and passed through a fire of mortal anguish. for what reason experience should take the direction of misery with fine natures in human life no philosopher has yet been able to ascertain; but that it does take that direction all competent observation proves. to vashti and judah the time speedily comes when their love is acknowledged, upon both sides--the preacher speaking plainly; the girl, conscious of turpitude, shrinking from a spoken avowal which yet her whole personality proclaims. yielding to her father's malign will she has consented to make one more manifestation of curative power, to go through once more,--and for the last time,--the mockery of a pretended fast. the scene is lord asgarby's house; the patient is lord asgarby's daughter--an only child, cursed with constitutional debility, the foredoomed victim of premature decline. this frail creature has heard of vashti and believes in her, and desires and obtains her society. to professor dethick this is, in every sense, a golden opportunity, and he insists that the starvation test shall be thoroughly made. lord asgarby, willing to do anything for his idolised daughter, assents to the plan, and his scientific friend, cynical professor jopp, agrees, with the assistance of his erudite daughter, to supervise the experiment. vashti will fast for several days, and the heir of asgarby will then be healed by her purified and exalted influence. the principal scene of the play shows the exterior of an ancient, unused tower of asgarby house, in which vashti is detained during the fast. the girl is supposed to be starving. her scampish father will endeavour to relieve her. miss jopp is vigilant to prevent fraud. the patient is confident. judah, wishful to be near to the object of his adoration, has climbed the outer wall and is watching, beneath the window, unseen, in the warder's seat. the time is summer, the hour midnight, and the irrevocable vow of love has been spoken. at that supreme instant, and under conditions so natural that the picture seems one of actual life, the sin of vashti is revealed and the man who had adored her as an angel knows her for a cheat. with a difference of circumstances that situation--in the fibre of it--is not new. many a lover, male and female, has learned that every idol has its flaw. but the situation is new in its dramatic structure. for judah the discovery is a terrible one, and the resultant agony is convulsive and lamentable. he takes, however, the only course he could be expected to take: he must vindicate the integrity of the woman whom he loves, and he commits the crime of perjury in order to shield her reputation from disgrace. what will a man do for the woman whom he loves? the attributes of individual character are always to be considered as forces likely to modify passion and to affect conduct. but in general the answer to that question may be given in three words--anything and everything! the history of nations, as of individuals, is never rightly read until it is read in the light of knowledge of the influence that has been exerted over them by women. cleopatra, in ancient egypt, changed the history of rome by the ruin of marc antony. another heroine recently toppled ireland down the fire-escape into the back-yard. so goes the world. in judah, however, the crime that is done for love is pursued to its consequence of ever-accumulative suffering, until at length, when it has been expiated by remorse and repentance, it is rectified by confession and obliterated by pardon. no play ever taught a lesson of truth with more cogent dramatic force. the cynical, humorous scenes are delightful. willard's representation of cyrus blenkarn stamped him as one of the best actors of the age. his representation of judah llewellyn deepened that impression and reinforced it with a conviction of marked versatility. in his utterance of passion willard showed that he has advanced far beyond the romeo stage. the love that he expressed was that of a man--intellectual, spiritual, noble, a moral being and one essentially true. man's love, when it is real, adores its object; hallows it; invests it with celestial attributes; and beholds it as a part of heaven. that quality of reverence was distinctly conveyed by the actor, and therefore to observers who conceive passion to be delirious abandonment (of which any animal is capable), his ardour may have seemed dry and cold. it was nevertheless true. he made the tempestuous torrent of judah's avowal the more overwhelming by his preliminary self-repression and his thoughtful gentleness of reserve; for thus the hunger of desire was beautiful with devotion and tenderness; and while the actor's feelings seemed borne away upon a whirling tide of irresistible impulse his exquisite art kept a perfect control of face, voice, person, demeanour, and delivery, and not once permitted a lapse into extravagance. the character thus embodied will long be remembered as an image of dignity, sweetness, moral enthusiasm, passionate fervour, and intellectual power; but, also, viewed as an effort in the art of acting, it will be remembered as a type of consummate grace in the embodiment of a beautiful ideal clearly conceived. the effect of spiritual suffering, as conveyed in the pallid countenance and ravaged figure, in the last act, was that of noble pathos. the delivery of all the speeches of the broken, humiliated, haunted minister was deeply touching, not alone in music of voice but in denotement of knowledge of human nature and human suffering and endurance. the actor who can play such a part in such a manner is not an experimental artist. rather let him be called--in the expressive words of one of his country's poets-- "sacred historian of the heart and moral nature's lord." xxiii. salvini as king saul and king lear. salvini was grander and finer in king saul than in any other embodiment that he presented. he seized the idea wholly, and he executed it with affluent power. he brought to the part every attribute necessary to its grandeur of form and its afflicting sympathy of spirit. his towering physique presented, with impressive accuracy, the hebrew monarch, chosen of god, who was "lifted a head and shoulders above the people." his tremulous sensibility, his knowledge of suffering, his skill in depicting it, his great resources of voice, his vigour and fineness of action, his exceptional commingling of largeness and gentleness--all these attributes combined in that performance, to give magnificent reality to one of the most sublime conceptions in literature. by his personation of saul salvini added a new and an immortal figure to the stage pantheon of kings and heroes. alfieri's tragedy of _saul_ was written in - , when the haughty, impetuous, and passionate poet was thirty-four years old, and at the suggestion of the countess of albany, whom he loved. he had suffered a bereavement at the time, and he was in deep grief. the countess tried to console him by reading the bible, and when they came upon the narrative of saul the idea of the tragedy was struck out between them. the work was written with vigorous impulse and the author has left, in his autobiography, the remark that none of his tragedies cost him so little labour. _saul_ is in five acts and it contains lines--of that italian _versi sciolti_ which inadequately corresponds to the blank verse of the english language. the scene is laid in the camp of saul's army. six persons are introduced, namely, saul, jonathan, david, michel, abner, and achimelech. the time supposed to be occupied by the action--or rather, by the suffering--of the piece is a single day, the last in the king's life. act first is devoted to explanation, conveyed in warnings to david, by jonathan, his friend, and michel, his wife. act second presents the distracted monarch, who knows that god has forsaken him and that death is at hand. in a speech of terrible intensity he relates to abner the story of the apparition of samuel and the doom that the ghost has spoken. his children humour and soothe the broken old man, and finally succeed in softening his mind toward david--whom he at once loves, dreads, and hates, as the appointed instrument of his destruction and the successor to his crown. act third shows david playing upon the harp before saul, and chanting saul's deeds in the service and defence of israel--so that he calms the agonised delirium of the haunted king and wins his blessing; but at last a boastful word makes discord in the music's charm, and saul is suddenly roused into a ghastly fury. acts fourth and fifth deal with the wild caprices and maddening agonies of the frenzied father; the ever-varying phenomena of his mental disease; the onslaught of the philistines; the killing of his sons; the frequent recurrence, before his mind's eye, of the shade of the dead prophet; and finally his suicidal death. it is, in form, a classical tragedy, massive, grand, and majestically simple; and it blazes from end to end with the fire of a sublime imagination. ardent lovers of italian literature are fond of ranking _saul_ with _lear_. the claim is natural but it is not valid. in _lear_--not to speak of its profound revelations of universal human nature and its vast philosophy of human life--there is a tremendous scope of action, through which mental condition and experience are dramatically revealed; and there is the deepest deep of pathos, because the highest height of afflicted goodness. in _saul_ there is simply--upon a limited canvas, without adjuncts, without the suggestion of resources, without the relief of even mournful humour, and with a narrative rather than a dramatic background--the portraiture of a condition; and, because the man displayed is neither so noble nor so human, the pathos surcharging the work is neither so harrowing nor so tender. yet the two works are akin in majesty of ideal, in the terrible topic of mental disease that shatters a king, and in the atmosphere of desolation that trails after them like a funeral pall; and it is not a wonder that alfieri's saul should be deemed the greatest tragedy ever originated in the italian language. it attains a superb height, for it keeps an equal pace with the severe simplicity of the bible narrative on which it is founded. it depicts the condition of an imaginative mind, a stately and robust character, an arrogant, fiery spirit, a kind heart, and a royal and regally poised nature, that have first been undermined by sin and the consciousness of sin, and then crazed by contact with the spirit world and by a nameless dread of the impending anger of an offended god. it would be difficult to conceive of a more distracting and piteous state. awe and terror surround that august sufferer, and make him both holy and dreadful. in his person and his condition, as those are visible to the imaginative mind, he combined elements that irresistibly impress and thrill. he is of vast physical stature, that time has not bent, and of great beauty of face, that griefs have ravaged but not destroyed. he is a valiant and sanguinary warrior, and danger seems to radiate from his presence. he is a magnanimous king and a loving father, and he softens by generosity and wins by gentleness. he is a maniac, haunted by spectres and scourged with a whip of scorpions, and his red-eyed fury makes all space a hell and shatters silence with the shrieks of the damned. he is a human soul, burdened with the frightful consciousness of divine wrath and poised in torment on the precipice that overhangs the dark, storm-beaten ocean of eternity. his human weakness is frighted by ghastly visions and indefinite horrors, against which his vain struggle only makes his forlorn feebleness more piteous and drear. the gleams of calm that fall upon his tortured heart only light up an abyss of misery--a vault of darkness peopled by demons. he is already cut off from among the living, by the doom of inevitable fate, and while we pity him we fear him. his coming seems attended with monstrous shapes; he diffuses dissonance; his voice is a cry of anguish or a wail of desolation; his existence is a tempest; there can be no relief for him save death, and the death that ends him comes like the blessing of tears to the scorched eyelids of consuming misery. that is the saul of the bible and of alfieri's tragedy; and that is the saul whom salvini embodied. it was a colossal monument of human suffering that the actor presented, and no one could look upon it without being awed and chastened. salvini's embodiment of king lear was a remarkable manifestation of physical resources and of professional skill. the lofty stature, the ample and resonant voice, the copious animal excitement, the fluent elocution and the vigorous, picturesque, and often melodramatic movements, gestures, and poses of salvini united to animate and embellish a personality such as would naturally absorb attention and diffuse excitement. every artist, however, moves within certain specific and positive limitations--spiritual, mental, and physical. no actor has proved equal to every kind of character. salvini, when he acted hamlet, was unspiritual--giving no effect to the haunted tone of that part or to its weird surroundings; and when he acted macbeth he was unimaginative, obscure, common, and therefore inadequate. the only shakespearean character that he excelled in is othello, and even in that his ideal displayed neither the magnanimity nor the tenderness that are in shakespeare's conception. the chief attributes of the moor that he interpreted were physical; the loftiest heights that he reached were terror and distracted grief; but he worked with a pictorial method and a magnetic vigour that enthralled the feelings even when they did not command the judgment. his performance of king lear gave new evidence of his limitations. during the first two acts he made the king a merely restless, choleric, disagreeable old man, deficient in dignity, destitute of grandeur, and especially destitute of inherent personal fascination--of the suggestiveness of ever having been a great man. lear is a ruin--but he has been a titan; the delight of all hearts no less than the monarch of all minds. the actor who does not invest him with that inherent, overwhelming personal fascination does not attain to his altitude. the cruel afflictions that occur in the tragedy do not of themselves signify: the pity is only that they should occur to him. that is the spring of all the pathos. in salvini's lear there were beautiful moments and magnificent bits of action. "i gave you all" and "i'm cold myself" were exquisite points. he missed altogether, however, the more subtle significance of the reminiscent reference to cordelia--as in "no more of that, i have noted it well"--and he gave, at the beginning, no intimation of impending madness. in fact he introduced no element of lunacy till he reached the lines about "red-hot spits" in edgar's first mad scene. much of salvini's mechanism in lear was crude. he put the king behind a table, in the first scene--which had the effect of preparation for a lecture; and it pleased him to speak the storm speech away back at the upper entrance, with his body almost wholly concealed behind painted crags. with all its moments of power and of tenderness the embodiment was neither royal, lovable, nor great. it might be a good italian lear: it was not the lear of shakespeare. salvini was particularly out of the character in the curse scene and in the frantic parting from the two daughters, because there the quality of the man, behind the action, seemed especially common. the action, though, was theatrical and had its due effect. xxiv. henry irving as eugene aram. henry irving's impersonation of eugene aram--given in a vein that is distinctly unique--was one of strange and melancholy grace and also of weird poetical and pathetic power. more than fifty years ago, just after bulwer's novel on the subject of eugene aram was published, that character first came upon the stage, and its first introduction to the american theatre occurred at the bowery, where it was represented by john r. scott. aram languished, however, as a dramatic person, and soon disappeared. he did not thrive in england, neither, till, in , henry irving, who had achieved great success in _the bells_, prompted w.g. wills to effect his resuscitation in a new play, and acted him in a new manner. the part then found an actor who could play it,--investing psychological subtlety with tender human feeling and romantic grace, and making an imaginary experience of suffering vital and heartrending in its awful reality. the performance ranks with the best that henry irving has given--with _mathias_, _lesurques_, _dubosc_, _louis xi._, and _hamlet_; those studies of the night-side of human nature in which his imagination and intellect and his sombre feeling have been revealed and best exemplified. eugene aram was born at ramsgill, in nidderdale, yorkshire, in . his father, peter aram, was a man of good family but becoming reduced in circumstances he took service as a gardener on the estate of sir edward blackett, of newby hall. in peter aram and his family were living at bondgate, near ripon, and there eugene went to school and learned to read the new testament. at a considerably later period he was instructed, during one month, by the rev. mr. alcock, of burndall. this was the extent of the tuition that he ever received from others. for the rest he was self-taught. he had a natural passion for knowledge and he displayed wonderful industry in its acquisition. when sixteen years old he knew something of latin, greek, and hebrew, and later he made himself acquainted with chaldaic and arabic. his occupation, up to this time, was that of assistant to his father, the gardener; but about he was employed in london as a clerk to a merchant, mr. christopher blackett, a relative to his father's patron, sir edward. he did not remain there long. a serious illness prostrated him, and on recovering he returned to nidderdale, with which romantic region his fate was to be forever associated. he now became a tutor, and not long after he was employed as such at a manor-house, near ramsgill, called gowthwaite hall, a residence built early in the seventeenth century by sir john yorke, and long inhabited by his descendants. while living there he met and courted anna spance, the daughter of a farmer, at the lonely village of lofthouse, and in he married her. the middlesmoor registry contains the record of this marriage, and of the baptism and death of their first child. in eugene aram removed to knaresborough, where he kept a school. he had, all this while, sedulously pursued his studies, and he now was a scholar of extraordinary acquirements, not only in the languages but in botany, heraldry, and many other branches of learning. his life seemed fair and his future bright: but a change was at hand. he had not resided long at knaresborough before he became acquainted with three persons most unlike himself in every way. these men were henry terry, richard houseman, and daniel clarke. houseman was a flax-dresser. clarke was a travelling jeweller. all of them were intemperate; and it is supposed that the beginning of eugene aram's downfall was the appetite for drink. the confederacy that he formed with these men is not easily explicable, and probably it never has been rightly explained. the accepted statement is that it was a confederacy for fraud and theft. clarke was reported to be the heir presumptive to a large fortune. he purchased goods, was punctual in his payments, and established his credit. he was supposed to be making purchases for a merchant in london. he dealt largely in gold and silver plate and in watches, and soon he made a liberal use of his credit to accumulate valuable objects. in he disappeared, and he never was seen or heard of again. his frauds became known, and the houses of aram and houseman, suspected as his associates, were searched, but nothing was found to implicate either of them. soon after this event aram left knaresborough--deserting his wife--and proceeded to london, where for two years he had employment as a teacher of latin. he was subsequently an usher at the boarding school of the rev. anthony hinton, at hayes, in middlesex, and there it was observed that he displayed an extraordinary and scrupulous tenderness and solicitude as to the life and safety of even worms and insects--which he would remove from the garden walks and put into places of security. at a later period he found employment as a transcriber of acts of parliament, for registration in chancery. still later he became an usher at the free school of lynn, in norfolk, where, among other labours, he undertook to make a comparative lexicon, and with this purpose collated over words in english, latin, greek, hebrew, and celtic. he had ample opportunity to leave england but he never did so. at length, in , a labourer who was digging for limestone, at a place known as st. robert's cave, thistle hill, near knaresborough, came upon a human skeleton, bent double and buried in the earth. suspicion was aroused. these bones, it was surmised, might be those of daniel clarke. his mysterious disappearance and his associates were remembered. the authorities sent forth and arrested terry, houseman, and eugene aram, and those persons were brought to their trial at york. a bold front would have saved them, for the evidence against them was weak. aram stood firm, but houseman quailed, and presently he turned "state's evidence" and denounced aram as the murderer of clarke. the accused scholar spoke in his own defence, and with astonishing skill, but he failed to defeat the direct and decisive evidence of his accomplice. houseman declared that on the day of the murder clarke, aram, and himself were in company, and were occupied in disposing of the property which they had obtained; that aram proposed to walk in the fields, and that they proceeded, thereupon, at nightfall, to the vicinity of st. robert's cave. clarke and aram, he said, went over the hedge and advanced toward the cave, and aram struck clarke several times upon the breast and head, and so killed him. it was a dark night, and in the middle of winter, but the moon was shining through drifting clouds, and houseman said he could see the movement of aram's hand but not the weapon that it held. he was about twelve yards from the spot of the murder. he testified that the body of clarke was buried in the cave. the presiding justice charged against the prisoner and eugene aram was convicted and condemned. he subsequently, it is said, confessed the crime, alleging to the clergyman by whom he was attended that his wife had been led into an intrigue by clarke, and that this was the cause of the murder. here, doubtless, is the indication of the true nature of this tragedy. aram, prior to his execution, was confined in york castle, where he wrote a poem of considerable length and some merit, and also several shorter pieces of verse. on the morning of his execution it was found that he had opened a vein in his arm, with the intent to bleed to death, but the wound was staunched, and he was taken to knaresborough and there hanged, and afterward his body was hung in chains in knaresborough forest. his death occurred on august , , in the fifty-fifth year of his age. on the night before his execution he wrote a rhythmical apostrophe to death:-- "come, pleasing rest! eternal slumber fall! seal mine, that once must seal the eyes of all! calm and composed my soul her journey takes; no guilt that troubles and no heart that aches." such is the story of eugene aram--a story that has furnished the basis of various fictions, notably of bulwer's famous novel, and which inspired one of the best of the beautiful poems of thomas hood. wills gathered hints from it, here and there, in the making of his play; but he boldly departed from its more hideous and repulsive incidents and from the theory of the main character that might perhaps be justified by its drift. in the construction of the piece henry irving made many material suggestions. the treatment of the character of aram was devised by him, and the management of the close of the second act denotes his felicity of invention. the play opens in the rose-garden of a rural rectory in the sweet, green valley of the shining nidd. the time is twilight; the season summer; and here, in a haven of peace and love, the repentant murderer has found a refuge. many years have passed since the commission of his crime, and all those years he has lived a good life, devoted to study, instruction, and works of benevolence. he has been a teacher of the young, a helper of the poor, and he has gained respect, affection, and honourable repute. he is safe in the security of silence and in the calm self-poise of his adamantine will. his awful secret sleeps in his bosom and is at rest forever. he has suffered much and he still suffers; yet, lulled into a false security by the uneventful lapse of years and by that drifting, desolate, apathetic recklessness which is sequent on the subsiding storm of passionate sorrow, he has allowed himself to accept a woman's love and to love her in return, and half to believe that his long misery has expiated his sin and that even for him there may be a little happiness yet possible on earth. eugene aram, the village school-master, and ruth meadows, the vicar's daughter, are betrothed lovers; and now, on the eve of their wedding morning, they stand together among the roses, while the sun is going down and the sweet summer wind plays softly in the leaves, and from the little gray church close by a solemn strain of music--the vesper hymn--floats out upon the stillness of the darkening day. the woman is all happiness, confidence, and hope; the man, seared and blighted by conscious sin and subdued by long years of patient submission to the sense of his own unworthiness, is all gentleness, solicitude, reverence, and sorrow. at this supreme moment, when now it seems that everything is surely well, the one man in the world who knows eugene aram's secret has become, by seeming chance, a guest in the vicarage; and even while ruth places her hand upon her lover's heart and softly whispers, "if guilt were there, it still should be my pillow," the shadow of the gathering night that darkens around them is deepened by the blacker shadow of impending doom. the first act of the play is simply a picture. it involves no action. it only introduces the several persons who are implicated in the experience to be displayed, denotes their relationship to one another, and reveals a condition of feeling and circumstance which is alike romantic, pathetic, and perilous, and which is soon to be shattered by the disclosure of a fatal secret. the act is a preparation for a catastrophe. in the second act the opposed characters clash: the movement begins, and the catastrophe is precipitated. the story opens at nightfall, proceeds the same evening, and ends at the dawn of the ensuing day. the scene of act second is a room in the vicarage. aram and parson meadows are playing chess, and ruth is hovering about them and roguishly impeding their play. the purpose accomplished here is the exhibition of domestic comfort and content, and this is further emphasised by ruth's recital of a written tribute that aram's pupils have sent to him, on the eve of his marriage. wounded by this praise the conscience-stricken wretch breaks off abruptly from his pastime and rushes from the room--an act of desperate grief which is attributed to his modesty. the parson soon follows, and ruth is left alone. houseman, their casual guest, having accepted the vicar's hospitable offer of a shelter for the night, has now a talk with ruth, and he is startled to hear the name of eugene aram, and thus to know that he has found the man whose fatal secret he possesses, and upon whose assumed dread of exposure his cupidity now purposes to feed. in a coarsely jocular way this brutish creature provokes the indignant resentment of ruth, by insinuations as to her betrothed lover's past life; and when, a little later, ruth and aram again meet, she wooingly begs him to tell her of any secret trouble that may be weighing upon his mind. at this moment houseman comes upon them, and utters aram's name. from that point to the end of the act there is a sustained and sinewy exposition, strong in spirit and thrilling in suspense,--of keen intellect and resolute will standing at bay and making their last battle for life, against the overwhelming odds of heaven's appointed doom. aram defies houseman and is denounced by him; but the ready adroitness and iron composure of the suffering wretch still give him supremacy over his foe--till, suddenly, the discovery is announced of the bones of daniel clarke in st. robert's cave, and the vicar commands aram and houseman to join him in their inspection. here the murderer suffers a collapse. there has been a greater strain than even he can bear; and, left alone upon the scene, he stands petrified with horror, seeming, in an ecstasy of nameless fear, to look upon the spectre of his victim. henry irving's management of the apparition effect was such as is possible only to a man of genius, and such as words may record but never can describe. the third act passes in the churchyard. aram has fled from the sight of the skeleton, and has fallen among the graves. it is almost morning. the ghastly place is silent and dark. the spirit of the murderer is broken, and his enfeebled body, long since undermined by the grief of remorse and now chilled by the night dews, is in the throes of death. the incidents of the closing scene are simple, but they are heart-breaking in their pathos and awful in their desolation. the fugitive houseman finds aram here, and spurns him as a whimpering lunatic. then, in this midnight hour and this appalling place, alone in the presence of god, the murderer lifts his hands toward heaven, confesses his crime, and falls at the foot of the cross. here ruth finds him, and to her, with dying lips, he tells the story of the murder and of all that he has since endured. and just as his voice falters into silence and his heart ceases to beat, the diamond light of morning gleams in the eastern sky and the glad music of an anthem floats softly from the neighbouring church. upon that beautifully significant picture the final curtain fell. wills's literary framework for the display of character and experience is scarcely to be considered a perfect play. it begins by assuming on the part of its auditor a knowledge of the mystery upon which it is based. such a knowledge the auditor ought certainly to have, but in presence of an exact drama he derives it from what he sees and not from remembrance of what he has read. the piece is, perhaps, somewhat irrational in making aram a resident, under his own name, of the actual neighbourhood of his crime. it lowers the assumed nobility of his character, furthermore, by making this remorseful and constantly apprehensive murderer willing to yoke a sweet, innocent, and idolised woman to misery and shame by making her his wife. and it mars its most pathetic scene--the awful scene of the midnight confession in the churchyard--by making eugene aram declare, to the woman of his love, the one human being who comforts and sustains him on the brink of eternity, that he has loved another woman for whose sake he did the murder. since the whole story was to be treated in a fanciful manner, a still wider license in the play of fancy would, perhaps, have had a more entirely gracious and satisfying effect. the language is partly blank verse and partly prose; and, while its tissue is rightly and skilfully diversified by judicious allowance for the effect of each character upon the garment of individual diction, and while its strain, here and there, rises to eloquence of feeling and beauty of imagery, there is a certain lack of firmness in its verbal fibre. the confession speech that has to be spoken by aram comprises upward of ninety lines--and that is a severe and perilous strain upon an actor's power of holding the public interest. the beauties of the play, however, are many and strong. its crowning excellence is that it gives dramatic permanence to a strangely interesting character. the knowledge of human nature that henry irving revealed in this part and the manner in which he revealed it were nothing less than wonderful. the moment he walked upon the scene you saw the blighted figure of a man who has endured, and is enduring, spiritual torment. the whole personality was suffused with a mournful strangeness. the man was isolated and alone. it was a purely ideal view of the character that the actor denoted; for he made eugene aram a noble, tender, gentle person, whom ungovernable passion, under circumstances of overwhelming provocation, had once impelled to an act of half-justifiable homicide, and who had for years been slowly dying with remorse. he touched no chord of terror, but only the chord of pity. like his portrayal of mathias, the picture showed the reactionary effect of hidden sin in the human soul; but the personality of the sufferer was entirely different. each of those men has had experience of crime and of resultant misery, but no two embodiments could possibly be more dissimilar, alike in spiritual quality and in circumstances. mathias is dominated by paternal love and characterised by a half-defiant, ever-vigilant, and often self-approbative pride of intellect, in being able to guard and keep a terrible and dangerous secret. eugene aram is dominated by a saint-like tenderness toward a sweet woman who loves him, and characterised by a profound, fitful melancholy, now humble and submissive, now actively apprehensive and almost frenzied. only once does he stand at bay and front his destiny with a defiance of desperate will; and even then it is for the woman's sake rather than for his own. henry irving's acting made clear and beautiful that condition of temperament. a noble and affectionate nature, shipwrecked, going to pieces, doomed, but making one last tremendous though futile effort to avert the final and inevitable ruin--this ideal was made actual in his performance. the intellectual or spiritual value of such a presentment must depend upon the auditor's capacity to absorb from a tragedy its lessons of insight into the relations of the human soul to the moral government of the world. many spectators would find it merely morbid and gloomy; others would find it superlatively illuminative and eloquent. its artistic value the actor himself made evident to every comprehension. there is a moment of the performance when the originally massive and passionate character of eugene aram is suddenly asserted above his meekness, contrition, and sorrow; when, at the sound of his enemy's voice, he first becomes petrified with the sense of peril, and then calmly gathers all his powers to meet and conquer the danger. the splendid concentration, the perfect poise, the sustained intensity, the copious and amazing variety and force of emotion, and the positive, unerring, and brilliant art with which henry irving met that emergency and displayed that frightful and piteous aspect of assailed humanity, desperate and fighting for life, made up such an image of genius as seldom is seen and never will be forgotten. rapid transition has ever been one of the commonest and most effective expedients used in histrionic art. this, on the contrary, was an example of sustained, prolonged, cumulative, artistic expression of the most harrowing and awful emotions with which the human soul can be convulsed; and it was a wonder of consummate acting. the same thoroughness of identification and the same astonishing adequacy of feeling pervaded the scene in the churchyard. at first, in the dusky starlight, only a shapeless figure, covered with a black cloak, was seen among the gravestones, crouched upon a tomb; but the man that rose, as if out of the grave, pallid, emaciated, ghastly, the spectre of himself, was the authentic image of majestic despair, not less sublime than pitiable, and fraught with a power that happiness could never attain. not in our time upon the stage has such a lesson been taught, with such overwhelming pathos, of the utter helplessness of even the strongest human will, when once the soul has been vitiated by sin and the eternal law of right defied by mortal passion. in the supplication to his astonished accomplice the actor seemed like one transfigured, and there the haunted effect was extremely awful. xxv. charles fisher. in old times charles fisher often figured in the old comedies, and he was one of the last of the thin and rapidly lessening group of actors capable of presenting those pieces--wherein, although the substance be human nature, the manner is that of elaborate and diversified artifice. when he played lieutenant worthington, in _the poor gentleman_, he was a gentleman indeed--refined, delicate, sensitive, simply courageous, sustained by native integrity, and impressive with a dignity of manner that reflected the essential nobility of his mind; so that when he mistook sir robert bramble for a bailiff, and roused that benevolent baronet's astonishment and rage, he brought forth all the comic humour of a delightful situation with the greatest ease and nature. he played littleton coke, sir harcourt courtly, old laroque--in which he gave a wonderful picture of the working of remorse in the frail and failing brain of age--and nicholas rue, in _secrets worth knowing_, a sinister and thrilling embodiment of avarice and dotage. he played dr. bland, the elegant medical cynic of _nos intimes_; de la tour, the formidable, jealous husband of henriette, in _le patte de mouche_; horace, in _the country squire_; goldfinch, in which he was airy, sagacious, dashing, and superb, in _the road to ruin_; and captain cozzens, the nonchalant rascal of _the knights of the round table_, which he embodied in a style of easy magnificence, gay, gallant, courageous, alert, imperturbable, and immensely comic. he was the original matthew leigh in lester wallack's romantic play of _rosedale_ ( ). he acted joseph surface in the days when lester wallack used to play charles, and he always held his own in that superior part. he was equally fine in sir peter and sir oliver. when the good old play of _the wife's secret_ was revived in new york, in , he gave a dignified and impetuous performance of sir walter amyott. i remember him in those parts, with equal wonder at his comprehensive variety of talent and admiration for his always adequate skill. i saw him as the volatile ferment, in _the school of reform_, and nothing could be more comic than his unwitting abuse of general tarragon, in that blustering officer's presence, or his equally ludicrous scene of cross purposes with bob tyke. he was a perfect type, as don manuel velasco, in _the compact_, of the gallant, stately spanish aristocrat. he excelled competition when, in a company that included george holland, w. holston, a.w. young, mark smith, frederick c.p. robinson, and john gilbert, he enacted the convict in _never too late to mend_. he was equally at home whether as the king in _don cæsar de bazan_ or as tom stylus the literary hack, in _society_. he passed easily from the correct and sentimental sir thomas clifford, of _the hunchback_, to the frivolous mr. willowear, of _to marry or not to marry_. no one could better express than he did, when playing wellborn, both pride of birth and pride of character. one of his most characteristic works was hyssop, in _the rent day_. his scope and the rich resources of his experience are denoted in those citations. it is no common artist who can create and sustain a perfect illusion, and please an audience equally well, whether in such a part as gilbert featherstone, the villain, in _lost in london_, or old baptista, in _the taming of the shrew_. the playgoer who never saw charles fisher as triplet can scarcely claim that he ever saw the part at all. the quaint figure, the well-saved but threadbare dress, the forlorn air of poverty and suffering commingled with a certain jauntiness and pluck, the profound feeling, the unconscious sweetness and humour, the spirit of mind, gentility, and refinement struggling through the confirmed wretchedness of the almost heart-broken hack--who that ever laughed and wept at sight of him in the garret scene, sitting down, "all joy and hilarity," to write his comedy, can ever forget those details of a true and touching embodiment? his fine skill in playing the violin was touchingly displayed in that part, and gave it an additional tone of reality. i once saw him acting mercutio, and very admirable he was in the guise of that noble, brave, frolicsome, impetuous young gentleman. the intense vitality, the glancing glee, the intrepid spirit--all were preserved; and the brilliant text was spoken with faultless fluency. it is difficult to realise that the same actor who set before us that perfect image of comic perplexity, the bland and benevolent dean, in _dandy dick_, could ever have been the bantering companion of romeo and truculent adversary of fiery tybalt. yet this contrast but faintly indicates the versatile character of his mind. fisher was upon the american stage for thirty-eight years, from august , , when he came forth at burton's theatre as ferment. later he went to wallack's, and in he joined daly's company, in which he remained till . it may be conjectured that in some respects he resembled that fine comedian thomas dogget, to whom sir godfrey kneller, the painter, said, "i can only copy nature from the originals before me, while you vary them at pleasure and yet preserve the likeness." like dogget he played, in a vein of rich, hearty, jocose humour, and with great breadth of effect and excellent colour, the sailor ben, in _love for love_. the resemblance was in mental characteristics, not physique--for dogget was a slight and sprightly man, whereas fisher could represent majesty as well as frolic. after he went to daly's theatre he manifested a surprising range of faculty. he first appeared there on october , , as mr. dornton, in _the road to ruin_, and on november , following, he acted falstaff for the first time. he presented there the other shakespearean parts of leonatus, armado, and malvolio--the last of these being a model of fidelity to the poet, and now a classic in reputation. he also assumed adam and jaques. he presented the living image of shakespeare himself, in _yorick_, and his large, broad, stately style gave weight to don manuel, in _she would and she wouldn't_; to that apt type of the refined british aristocrat, sir geoffrey champneys, in _our boys_; and to many a noble father or benevolent uncle of the adapted french society drama. just as dogget was supreme in such parts as fondlewife, so was fisher superb in the uxorious husband whom the demure child-wife bamboozles, in the comedies of molière. no man has ever better depicted than he did a sweet nature shocked by calamity and bowed down with grief, or, as in joe chirrup, in _elfie_, manliness chastened by affliction and ennobled by true love: yet his impersonation of fagin was only second to that of j.w. wallack, jr.; his moody, in _the country girl_, was almost tragic in its grim and grizzled wretchedness and snarling wrath; and i have seen him assume to perfection the gaunt figure and crazy mood of noah learoyd, in _the long strike_, and make that personality a terrible embodiment of menace. from the time he first acted the comic major vavasour, in _henry dunbar_, no actor of equal quaintness has trod our stage. he died on june , , and was buried at woodlawn. xxvi. mrs. g.h. gilbert. students of the english stage find in books on that subject abundant information about the tragedy queens of the early drama, and much likewise, though naturally somewhat less (because comedy is more difficult to discuss than tragedy), about the comedy queens. mrs. cibber still discomfits the melting mrs. porter by a tenderness even greater than the best of belvideras could dispense. mrs. bracegirdle and mrs. oldfield still stand confronted on the historic page, and still their battle continues year after year. all readers know the sleepy voice and horrid sigh of mrs. pritchard in lady macbeth's awful scene of haunted somnambulism; the unexampled and unexcelled grandeur of mrs. yates in medea; the infinite pathos of mrs. dancer (she that became in succession mrs. spranger barry and mrs. crawford) and her memorable scream, as lady randolph, at "was he alive?"; the comparative discomfiture of both those ladies by mrs. siddons, with her wonderful, wailing cry, as isabella, "o, my biron, my biron," her overwhelming lady macbeth and her imperial queen katharine. the brilliant story of peg woffington and the sad fate of mrs. robinson, the triumphant career of mrs. abington and the melancholy collapse of mrs. jordan--all those things, and many more, are duly set down in the chronicles. but the books are comparatively silent about the old women of the stage--an artistic line no less delightful than useful, of which mrs. g.h. gilbert is a sterling and brilliant representative. mrs. jefferson, the great-grandmother of the comedian joseph jefferson, who died of laughter, on the stage ( - ), might fitly be mentioned as the dramatic ancestor of such actresses as mrs. gilbert. she was a woman of great loveliness of character and of great talent for the portrayal of "old women," and likewise of certain "old men" in comedy. "she had," says tate wilkinson, "one of the best dispositions that ever harboured in a human breast"; and he adds that "she was one of the most elegant women ever beheld." mrs. gilbert has always suggested that image of grace, goodness, and piquant ability. mrs. vernon was the best in this line until mrs. gilbert came; and the period which has seen mrs. judah, mrs. vincent, mrs. germon, mary carr, mrs. chippendale, mrs. stirling, mrs. billington, mrs. drew, mrs. phillips, and madam ponisi, has seen no superior to mrs. gilbert in her special walk. she was in youth a beautiful dancer, and all her motions have spontaneous ease and grace. she can assume the fine lady, without for an instant suggesting the parvenu. she is equally good, whether as the formal and severe matron of starched domestic life, or the genial dame of the pantry. she could play temperance in _the country squire_, and equally she could play mrs. jellaby. all varieties of the eccentricity of elderly women, whether serious or comic, are easily within her grasp. betsy trotwood, embodied by her, becomes a living reality; while on the other hand she suffused with a sinister horror her stealthy, gliding, uncanny personation of the dumb, half-insane hester dethridge. that was the first great success that mrs. gilbert gained, under augustin daly's management. she has been associated with daly's company since his opening night as a manager, august , , when, at the fifth avenue theatre, then in twenty-fourth street, she took part in robertson's comedy of _play_. the first time i ever saw her she was acting the marquise de st. maur, in _caste_, on the night of its first production in america, august , , at the broadway theatre, the house near the southwest corner of broadway and broome street, that had been wallack's but now was managed by barney williams. the assumption of that character, perfect in every particular, was instinct with pure aristocracy; but while brilliant with serious ability it gave not the least hint of those rich resources of humour that since have diffused so much innocent pleasure. most of her successes have been gained as the formidable lady who typifies in comedy the domestic proprieties and the nemesis of respectability. it was her refined and severely correct demeanour that gave soul and wings to the wild fun of _a night off_. from miss garth to mrs. laburnum is a far stretch of imitative talent for the interpretation of the woman nature that everybody, from shakespeare down, has found it so difficult to treat. this actress has never failed to impress the spectator by her clear-cut, brilliant identification with every type of character that she has assumed; and, back of this, she has denoted a kind heart and a sweet and gentle yet never insipid temperament--the condition of goodness, sympathy, graciousness, and cheer that is the flower of a fine nature and a good life. scenes in which mrs. gilbert and charles fisher or james lewis have participated, as old married people, on daly's stage, will long be remembered for their intrinsic beauty--suggestive of the touching lines: "and when with envy time, transported, shall think to rob us of our joys, you'll in your girls again be courted, and i'll go wooing with my boys." xxvii. james lewis. a prominent representative type of character is "the humorous man," and that is shakespeare's phrase to describe him. wit is a faculty; humour an attribute. joseph addison, laurence sterne, washington irving--whatever else they might have been they were humourists. sir roger de coverley, tristram shandy, uncle toby, diedrich knickerbocker, ichabod crane--these and other creations of their genius stand forth upon their pages to exemplify that aspect of their minds. but the humourist of the pen may, personally, be no humourist at all. addison's character was austere. irving, though sometimes gently playful, was essentially grave and decorous. comical quality in the humorous man whom nature destines for the stage must be personal. his coming brings with it a sense of comfort. his presence warms the heart and cheers the mind. the sound of his voice, "speaking oft," before he emerges upon the scene, will set the theatre in a roar. this was notably true of burton and of william warren. the glance, motion, carriage, manner, and the pause and stillness of such a man, instil merriment. cibber says that robert nokes had a palpable simplicity of nature which was often as unaccountably diverting in his common speech as on the stage, john e. owens, describing the conduct of a big bee in an empty molasses barrel, once threw a circle of his hearers, of whom i was one, almost into convulsions of laughter. artemas ward made people laugh the moment they beheld him, by his wooden composure and indescribable sapience of demeanour. the lamented daniel e. setchell, a comedian who would have been as famous as he was funny had he but lived longer, presented a delightful example of spontaneous humour. it is ludicrous to recall the simple gravity, not demure but perfectly solemn, with which, on the deck of a hudson river steamboat, as we were passing west point, he indicated to me the kosciuszko monument, saying briefly, "that's the place where freedom shrieked." it was the quality of his temperament that made his playfulness delicious. setchell was the mental descendant of burton, as burton was of reeve and as reeve was of liston. actors illustrate a kind of heredity. each species is distinct and discernible. lester wallack maintained the lineage of charles kemble, william lewis, elliston, and mountfort--a line in which john drew has gained auspicious distinction. john gilbert's artistic ancestry could be traced back through farren and munden to king and quin, and perhaps still further, to lowin and kempe. the comedian intrinsically comical, while in his characteristic quality eccentric and dry, has been exemplified by fawcett, blisset, finn, and barnes, and is conspicuously presented by james lewis. no one ever saw him without laughter--and it is kindly laughter, with a warm heart behind it. the moment he comes upon the stage an eager gladness diffuses itself throughout the house. his refined quaintness and unconscious drollery capture all hearts. his whimsical individuality never varies; yet every character of the many that he has portrayed stands clearly forth among its companions, a distinct, unique embodiment. the graceful urbanity, the elaborate yet natural manner, the brisk vitality, the humorous sapience of sir patrick lundy--how completely and admirably he expressed them! how distinct that fine old figure is in the remembrance of all who saw it! but he has never played a part that he did not make equally distinct. a painter might fill a gallery with odd, characteristic creations by merely copying his compositions of "make-up." the amiable professor in _a night off_, the senile gunnion in _the squire_, lissardo in _the wonder_, grumio in _the shrew_--those and many more he has made his own; while in the actor's province of making comic characters really comical to others there is no artist who better fulfils the sagacious, comprehensive injunction of munden (imparted to a youthful actor who spoke of being "natural" in order to amuse), "nature be d----d! make the people laugh!" that, aside from all subtleties, is not a bad test of the comic faculty, and that test has been met and borne by the acting of james lewis. xxviii. a leaf from my journal. [november , .] thirty years hereafter many who are now active and honoured in dramatic life will be at rest--their work concluded, their achievements a fading tradition. but they will not be wholly forgotten. the same talisman of memory that has preserved to our time the names and the deeds of the actors of old will preserve to future times the names and the deeds that are distinguished now in the mimic world of the stage. legend, speaking in the voice of the veteran devotee of the drama, will say, for example, that of all the actors of this period there was no light comedian comparable with lester wallack; that he could thoroughly identify himself with character,--though it did not always please him to do so; that his acting was so imaginative and so earnest as to make reality of the most gossamer fiction; and that his vivacity--the essential element and the crown of comedy-acting--was like the dew on the opening rose. and therewithal the veteran may quaff his glass to the memory of another member of the wallack family, and speak of james wallack as cassius, and fagin, and the man-in-the-iron-mask, and the king of the commons, and may say, with truth, that a more winning embodiment of bluff manliness and humour was never known to our stage than the versatile actor who made himself foremost in those characters. it will be impossible to remember him without recalling his intimate professional associate, edwin l. davenport. he was the only brutus of his time, our old friend will say, and in his prime the best macbeth on the american stage; and he could play almost any part in the drama, from the loftiest tragedy to mere trash; and he was an admirable artist in all that he did. there will be plenty of evidence to fortify that statement; and if the veteran shall also say that wallack's company contained, at the same time, the best "old men" in the profession, no dissentient voice, surely, will challenge the names of george holland, john gilbert, james h. stoddart, and mark smith. cibber could play lord foppington at seventy-three; but george holland played tony lumpkin at seventy-seven. a young part,--but the old man was as joyous as a boy and filled it with a boisterous, mischievous humour at once delightful and indescribable. you saw him to the best advantage, though, in mr. sulky, humphrey dobbin, and kindred parts, wherein the fineness of his temperament was veiled under a crabbed exterior and some scope was allowed for his superb skill in painting character. so the discourse will run; and, when it touches upon john gilbert, what else than this will be its burden?--that he was perfection as the old fop; that his lord ogleby had no peer; that he was the oddest conceivable compound of dry humour, quaint manners, frolicsome love of mischief, honest, hearty mirth, manly dignity, and tender pathos. to mark smith it will render a kindred tribute. squire broadlands, old rapid, sir oliver surface--they cannot be forgotten. extraordinary truthfulness to nature, extraordinary precision of method, large humanity, strong intellect, and refined and delicate humour that always charmed and never offended--those were the qualities that enrolled him among the best actors of his time. and it will not be strange if old mortality passes then into the warmest mood of eulogium, as he strives to recall the admirable, the incomparable "old woman" mrs. vernon. she was a worthy mate of those worthies, he will exclaim. she could be the sweet and loving mother, gentle and affectionate; the stately lady, representative of rank and proud of it and true to it; and the most eccentric of ludicrous old fools. she was the ideal mrs. malaprop, and she surpassed all competitors in the character of mrs. hardcastle. mary gannon was her stage-companion and her foil, he will add--the merriest, most mischievous, most bewitching player of her time, in her peculiar line of art. as hester, in _to marry or not to marry_, and as sophia, in _the road to ruin_, she was the incarnation of girlish grace and delicious ingenuousness, and also of crisp, well-flavoured mirth. no taint of tameness marred her acting in those kindred characters, and no air of effort made it artificial. nor was fanny morant less remarkable for the glitter of comedy and for an almost matchless precision of method. so will our friend of the future prose on, in a vein that will be tedious enough to matter-of-fact people; but not tedious to gentle spirits who love the stage, and sympathise with its votaries, and keep alive its traditions--knowing that this mimic world is as real and earnest as the strife that roars and surges around it; that there as everywhere else humanity plays out its drama, whereof the moral is always the same--that whether on the stage or in the mart, on the monarch's throne or in the peasant's cot, "we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep." the end. the works of william winter. shakespeare's england. mo, cloth, cents. gray days and gold. mo, cloth, cents. shadows of the stage. mo, cloth, cents. shadows of the stage. second series. mo, cloth, cents. old shrines and ivy. mo, cloth, cents. also a small limited large paper edition. vols. uniform. $ . . wanderers: a collection of poems. new edition. with a portrait. mo, cloth, cents. "the supreme need of this age in america is a practical conviction that progress does not consist in material prosperity, but in spiritual advancement. utility has long been exclusively worshipped. the welfare of the future lies in the worship of beauty. to that worship these pages are devoted, with all that implies of sympathy with the higher instincts, and faith in the divine destiny of the human race."--_from the preface to gray days and gold_. macmillan & co., fifth avenue, new york wanderers; being a collection of the poems of william winter. new edition, revised and enlarged. with a portrait of the author. mo, cloth, cents. also a limited large paper edition, printed on english hand-made paper. price $ . . "but it has seemed to the author of these poems--which of course are offered as absolutely impersonal--that they are the expression of various representative moods of human feeling and various representative aspects of human experience, and that therefore they may possibly possess the inherent right to exist."--_from the preface_. "the verse of mr. winter is dedicated mainly to love and wine, to flowers and birds and dreams, to the hackneyed and never-to-be-exhausted repertory of the old singers. his instincts are strongly conservative; his confessed aim is to belong to 'that old school of english lyrical poetry, of which gentleness is the soul, and simplicity the garment.'"--_saturday review_. "the poems have a singular charm in their graceful spontaneity."--_scots observer_. "free from cant and rant--clear cut as a cameo, pellucid as a mountain brook. it may be derided as trite, _borné_, unimpassioned; but in its own modest sphere it is, to our thinking, extraordinarily successful, and satisfies us far more than the pretentious mouthing which receives the seal of over-hasty approbation."--_athenæum_. macmillan & co., fifth avenue, new york. shadows of the stage. mo, cloth, cents. "the fame of the actor more than that of any other artist is an evanescent one--a 'bubble reputation'--indeed, and necessarily so from the conditions under which his genius is exercised. while the impression it makes is often more vivid and inspiring for the moment than that of the poet and the painter, it vanishes almost with the occasion which gave it birth, and lives only as a tradition in the memory of those to whom it had immediately appealed. 'shadows they are, and shadows they pursue.' "the writer, therefore, who, gifted with insight and a poetic enthusiasm which enables him to discern on the one hand the beauties in a dramatic work not perceived by the many, and on the other the qualities in the actor which have made him a true interpreter of the poet's thought, at the same time possessing the faculty of revealing to us felicitously the one, and the other is certainly entitled to our grateful recognition. "such a writer is mr. william winter, easily the first,--for we know of none other living in this country, or in the england he loves so much, in whose nature the critic's vision is united with that of the poet so harmoniously.... "over and above all this, there is in these writings the same charm of style, poetic glamour and flavor of personality which distinguish whatever comes to us from mr. winter's pen, and which make them unique in our literature."--_home journal_, new york macmillan & co., fifth avenue, new york. old shrines and ivy. mo, cloth, cents. contents. _shrines of history._ i. storied southampton. ii. pageantry and relics. iii. the shakespeare church. iv. a stratford chronicle. v. from london to dover. vi. beauties of france. vii. ely and its cathedral. viii. from edinburgh to inverness. ix. the field of culloden. x. stormbound iona. _shrines of literature._ xi. the forest of arden: as you like it. xii. fairy land: a midsummer night's dream. xiii. will o' the wisp: love's labour lost. xiv. shakespeare's shrew. xv. a mad world: anthony and cleopatra. xvi. sheridan, and the school for scandal. xvii. farquhar, and the inconstant. xviii. longfellow. xix. a thought on cooper's novels. xx. a man of letters: john r.g. hassard. "whatever william winter writes is marked by felicity of diction and by refinement of style, as well as by the evidence of culture and wide reading. 'old shrines and ivy' is an excellent example of the charm of his work."--_boston courier_. macmillan & co., fifth avenue, new york. shakespeare's england. mo, cloth, cents. "... it was the author's wish, in dwelling thus upon the rural loveliness, and the literary and historical associations of that delightful realm, to afford sympathetic guidance and useful suggestion to other american travellers who, like himself, might be attracted to roam among the shrines of the mother-land. temperament is the explanation of style; and he has written thus of england because she has filled his mind with beauty and his heart with mingled joy and sadness; and surely some memory of her venerable ruins, her ancient shrines, her rustic glens, her gleaming rivers, and her flower-spangled meadows will mingle with the last thoughts that glimmer through his brain when the shadows of the eternal night are falling and the ramble of life is done."--_from the preface_. "he offers something more than guidance to the american traveller. he is a convincing and eloquent interpreter of the august memories and venerable sanctities of the old country."--_saturday review_. "the book is delightful reading."--_scribner's monthly_. "enthusiastic and yet keenly critical notes and comments on english life and scenery."--_scotsman_. macmillan & co., fifth avenue, new york. gray days and gold. mo, cloth, cents. contents. classic shrines. haunted glens and houses. old york. the haunts of moore. beautiful bath. the lakes and fells of wordsworth. shakespeare relics at worcester. byron and hucknall torkard. historic nooks and corners. shakespeare's town. up and down the avon. rambles in arden. the stratford fountain. bosworth field. the home of dr. johnson. from london to edinburgh. into the highlands. highland beauties. the heart of scotland. sir walter scott. elegiac memorials. scottish pictures. imperial ruins. the land of marmion. at vesper time. this book, which is intended as a companion to _shakespeare's england_, relates to the gray days of an american wanderer in the british isles, and to the gold of thought and fancy that can be found there. macmillan & co., fifth avenue, new york. gray days and gold. mo, cloth, cents. press notices. "mr. winter's graceful and meditative style in his english sketches has recommended his earlier volume upon (shakespeare's) england to many readers, who will not need urging to make the acquaintance of this companion book, in which the traveller guides us through the quiet and romantic scenery of the mother-country with a mingled affection and sentiment of which we have had no example since irving's day."--_the nation_. "as friendly and good-humoured a book on english scenes as any american has written since washington irving."--_daily news_, _london_. "much that is bright and best in our literature is brought once more to our dulled memories. indeed, we know of but few volumes containing so much of observation, kindly comment, philosophy, and artistic weight as this unpretentious little book."--_chicago herald_. "they who have never visited the scenes which mr. winter so charmingly describes will be eager to do so in order to realize his fine descriptions of them, and they who have already visited them will be incited by his eloquent recital of their attractions to repeat their former pleasant experiences."--_public ledger_, _philadelphia_. macmillan & co., fifth avenue, new york. the novel: what it is. by f. marion crawford, author of "children of the king," "a roman singer," "saracinesca," etc. with photogravure portrait of the author. _ mo. cloth. cents._ the choice of books, and other literary pieces. by frederic harrison, author of "oliver cromwell," etc. _ mo. cloth. cents._ "mr. harrison is an able and conscientious critic, a good logician, and a clever man; his faults are superficial, and his book will not fail to be valuable."--_n.y. times_. mr. john morley, in his speech on the study of literature at the mansion house, th february, , said: "those who are curious as to what they should read in the region of pure literature will do well to peruse my friend frederic harrison's volume called _the choice of books_. you will find there as much wise thought, eloquently and brilliantly put, as in any volume of its size." "mr. harrison furnishes a valuable contribution to the subject. it is full of suggestiveness and shrewd analytical criticism. it contains the fruits of wide reading and rich research."--_london times_. macmillan & co., publishers, new york. none a society clown reminiscences by george grossmith dedicated to one who besides being my wife has also been my truest friend and my best adviser. contents. i. explanatory ii. early recollections iii. at bow street police court iv. from amateur to professional v. in the provinces vi. gilbert and sullivan vii. a society clown viii. a very snobbish chapter a society clown. chapter i. explanatory. "you've no idea what a poor opinion i have of myself, and how little i deserve it."--_ruddigore_. it was one dark, dank, dreary, dismal night in february, (i believe that is the way to commence a book, no matter what the subject be), when the present writer might have been seen standing, with other gentlemen, in a sombre dining-room brilliantly illuminated with one ceiling-lamp buried in a deep red shade. we were standing round the dining-room table, each with a dinner-napkin in the left hand; while the right hand was occupied in moving back chairs, to permit of the departure of the ladies for the drawing-room. i could not help thinking that, as they filed off, the ladies looked like queens; while we (especially with the aid of the serviettes) looked like waiters. the gentlemen drew their chairs round the host, and wine was languidly passed round. a tall gentleman, with a heavy beard, to whom i had not been introduced, approached me, and sat by my side. he passed me the spirit-lamp, for which i thanked him while lighting my cigarette. he then commenced a conversation in earnest. "did you see that mr. ---- is writing his reminiscences?" "yes." "don't you think it rather a pity that he should do so?" "why a pity?" i asked in reply to his question. "well, i always think the moment a man begins to write his reminiscences he is bound, more or less, to make an ass of himself." "in what way?" i asked. "in the first place, he is hampered by having to be so egotistical. he must talk about himself, which is never a nice thing to do. he cannot very well tell stories in his own favour; and if he tells them against himself, he affects humility: if he talks about his distinguished acquaintances, he becomes a snob; in short, i can only repeat my former observation, that he is bound to make an ass of himself." for a moment or two i did not know what to say, for my conscience smote me. at last i said: "i am very pleased to hear your candid, and certainly unbiassed, opinion; for i have just accepted an offer from mr. arrowsmith to do a shilling book of my own reminiscences for the bristol library series." my friend did not know what to say for a moment. his conscience evidently smote him. at last he remarked: "i fear i have said one of those things that are best left unsaid." "i'm glad you said it," i replied. "you have rather opened my eyes. it will be necessary for me to explain that i cannot very well back out of my agreement with mr. arrowsmith, although, candidly speaking, i have no desire to do so; and i shall certainly have to apologise to the reading public for making an ass of myself." i have thought over the above conversation many a time since, and have concluded that i could not do better than commence this little book with it. i have taken my own professional career, and used it as a peg whereon to hang my stories. i have chosen the title because i think it will look well on the bookstalls. it is by no means intended as a sneer at my calling. to clown properly is a very difficult art, and i am never so happy as when i am making people laugh. i am unfeignedly proud of my profession, on and off the stage. i have clowned amongst all sorts of people, and in all sorts of places. on the stage i play the fool of others' creation, and at the piano i play the simple fool of my own. the late john parry, whom i took as my model, was marvellous at amusing. his satire was worthy of dickens or thackeray. though possessed of a small voice, few people could sing better, and certainly few could play the piano better than he. his was an "excellent fooling" that many have envied, many imitated, and none surpassed. my first desire in producing the following sketches of my life is to benefit others, by making an hour pass pleasantly in the library or in a railway carriage. my second desire, which goes without saying, is to benefit my publisher and myself. like all clowns, i have had my serious side of life--i have experienced many small troubles and some sorrows; but i shall not dwell on them, but merely reproduce some short notes--(having been a reporter, i may say _shorthand notes_)--of incidents which have amused me, and which i hope will equally entertain my readers. the majority i have had permission to publish, and the others i do not expect will be recognised. it would grieve me very much if i thought i had offended anyone. society has been exceedingly kind to its clown, and the clown is deeply grateful. my only ambition is, that someone in the dim future may speak half as kindly of me as hamlet, prince of denmark, spoke of the society clown of his period. chapter ii. early recollections. "a many years ago, when i was young and charming." _h.m.s. pinafore_. as i was born in december, , i was not five years old when i was taken to a house at the corner of wellington street, strand, to see the funeral procession of the duke of wellington. and i remember it as distinctly as if it had been yesterday. the crowd, the soldiers, and the magnificent funeral car, are still strongly engraven on my memory. that was the most important of my earlier recollections. the next recollection of great importance was my having fallen desperately in love with a miss field, at a day-school near bloomsbury, to which i was taken at five years of age, and which was kept by a miss adams. it was an academy for young (extremely young) ladies and gentlemen. it was only natural that i should desire to make my _fiancee_ a suitable gift as a token of our engagement; so i presented her with a set of large gold shirt-studs, which i annexed from my father's dressing-table. the mother of my adored one, without having the courtesy to consult her daughter or myself, took the gift from the former, and returned it to the father of the latter. my parent explained to me the etiquette with regard to acts of alienation in a sweet, simple, and comprehensive manner worthy of dr. watts, and extracted from me a promise that in future i would discard that humour which had prompted me to generously dispose of other people's property. that promise i have faithfully kept. as a reward for my future good intentions, he handed me a sovereign, with injunctions not to spend it. i must confess i could not see his object. a few days afterwards i began to be suspicious of his sovereign. there was some writing on one side, which i was not yet intelligent enough to decipher; but on the other, instead of the pretty head of our most gracious majesty, there was an impression of a hat. i was much worried and concerned about that hat. i perfectly remember going to my parents and saying, "i would rather have a sovereign without a hat on." i also remember with what continued roars of laughter my request was met. i have the sovereign to this day. it is a brass disc, the exact size of a sovereign, advertising the gibus opera hat. about i was sent to a preparatory school kept by the misses hay, at massingham house, haverstock hill. i was a boarder, and it was there i first began to play the fool. i invented several shadow pantomimes, and acted in them. as no dialogue was required, i can say nothing of my literary ability. on one occasion, when my mother visited me, she asked how i was getting on with my lessons. miss eliza hay (from whom i had a letter last may) said, "he gets on very well with his music, but i am afraid he will one day be a clown." i mention this because, about fifteen years afterwards, my father met her, and informed her that i had made my appearance at the polytechnic institution as a professional entertainer, and she replied, "ah! i always said he would be a clown." this is not repeated with any unkind intention, for the remarks were made by miss hay in a pure spirit of chaff. she was very kind to me, gave me lessons in elocution, and taught me pieces of poetry to recite. she used to write poetry herself. her sister, miss isabelle, taught me the piano; and, of course, i learned the "priere d'une vierge" and "les cloches de monastere," and the "duet in d" by diabelli, to say nothing of czerny's exercises, all of which i used to play tolerably well at the age of nine and ten. miss isabelle also sang very nicely; and as i was very fond of music, i became a favourite pupil, and was taken by her to local concerts, where she sang for charities. of course, i fell over head and ears in love with her. the school was kept by three sisters, and the elder was a handsome lady with grey hair. she was an immense favourite with the boys. i have never forgotten her kindness in occasionally permitting me to fire off a brass cannon with real gunpowder in the kitchen. that was the sort of extension of license that a boy appreciated. in i witnessed, from the lower part of primrose hill, the fireworks in celebration of peace with russia. the final sight was wonderful, and greatly impressed me. at a given period, thousands of rockets were fired from the hill and all the parks. i was sometimes taken to the theatre, and have a faint recollection of wright at the adelphi, and a more distinct one of t. p. cooke in _black-eyed susan_. i was afterwards introduced to him at margate, and surprised to find he looked so old--which he certainly did not on the stage. it was in this year, i think, that i was taken to see the ruins of covent garden theatre. it was the day after the fire, and smoke was still ascending in columns. i described this with characteristic exaggeration, and became a temporary hero at the school of the misses hay. in my father took the little house now known as haverstock hill. it was then known as powis place, and was called manor lodge. my school was only a few doors off, and so i became a day scholar. i remained at this preparatory school until i was nearly twelve, and i can safely say i was very happy in those days. i do not mean to infer that i am not happy now. fortunately, i am of an extremely happy disposition, and i so thoroughly enjoy the bright side of life that its shadows sink into insignificance. amongst my school-fellows at the misses hay's was dr. arthur w. orwin, of the throat and ear hospital, gray's inn road. in there was a pugilistic fever in england. tom sayers fought j. c. heenan, the benicia boy. the fever was very virulent. it attacked peers, commons, bishops, actors, soldiers, sailors, tinkers and tailors. it attacked the times, and all the daily, evening, weekly, monthly, quarterly, and yearly periodicals. is it to be wondered at, that it attacked also the school of the misses hay? tom sayers, with his big dog, had been pointed out to me; so had heenan and tom king. i was surreptitiously, and most certainly without the knowledge of my parents, taken by one of the servants at home to the house of mr. ben caunt, who shook hands with me and showed me the room where boxing matches took place. i was then taken across the road, and this boy of twelve years and a few months was presented to nat langham. i was accordingly seized with the fever very badly. on the inside of my leather belt i sketched little panels of my imagined victories, and issued a challenge to fight anyone for the championship of the school--the victor to hold the leather belt. as i had shaken hands with ben caunt and langham, the boys were rather afraid of me. orwin, however, accepted the challenge, threw his castor into the ring, and we fought for twenty minutes or half an hour: it seemed years to me. in the end i was undoubtedly defeated. one generally hears that corruption is the aim and end of all fights. i knew nothing of such practices then, and so cannot explain what induced me to offer orwin twopence to admit that i was the conqueror, or what persuaded him to accept the sum and condition. after leaving the preparatory school, i was sent to the north london collegiate school, then under the headmastership of dr. williams. i wore a "mortar-board," and walked to and from the school with e. h. dickens, who was a nephew of charles dickens, and who, living close to my home, became (and still is) a great friend of mine. the chief delight of the little home on haverstock hill was the garden at the back. it was much prettier than the modern suburban garden. there used to be nine apple trees and two pear trees. as time wore on, a couple of the trees wore out. my mother used to send the apples away to friends in basketsful. my brother weedon and i generally partook of this fruit when it had grown to the size of a chestnut, and was particularly hard and green. we much preferred it to the mature apple. in this respect i think we resembled most boys. when the bicycle came in vogue, a few years after, we three boys procured one each. (i include my father as one of the boys. it was his own desire, as well as his nature, to be one of us, and i often think many fathers would find it to their advantage if they followed his example). i possessed, what was considered then, a very high bicycle, the front wheel being inches high. i got one for my brother, cheap, at an auction-room near covent garden. being considered the champion rider of the three, i was sent to bid for the steed, and ride it home in style. i succeeded in the former, but not in the latter. before an admiring crowd of covent garden loungers, loafers, porters, fruiterers, flower-girls and policemen, i leapt on to the saddle, and immediately broke the back of the spring, which had evidently been carefully made of cast-iron. my intention was that the bicycle should carry me home, but we reversed the order of things. the steed used by my father stood about two and a half feet from the ground, and had iron wheels. he himself was only a little over five feet, and was much--very much--inclined to _embonpoint_. in the winter, the garden-path at manor lodge was a fine field for practice. i forget how many laps went to the mile; all i remember is, that three miles about did for weedon and myself, and half a mile did for the guv'nor--that is, if he had not done for himself before then. i never recollect anything so funny as seeing him trundling round the garden. it somewhat resembled a diminutive edition of the modern road engine. we heard him in the house distinctly--loud as he approached the house, the noise becoming less as he reached the bottom of the garden. sometimes the noise would suddenly cease. ha! we in the house knew instinctively what had happened, and rushed to the windows to look out. yes; there he was, in the thick of the gooseberry bushes. not on the bicycle--oh dear, no! under it, most decidedly under it. sometimes on these occasions we would push up the windows, and, in conjunction with our dear mother, greet him with a loud guffaw. sometimes we would preserve a strict silence and listen. we heard him wheel the vehicle back, place it against the lattice-work of the verandah, open the door, and, as usual, call for me. "george--george!" "here i am. what is it?" "oh, i say, george, have you got a piece of sticking-plaister?" he always appealed to me for this article, knowing that i was in possession of a few quires of court plaister; for it was at this period i had commenced to shave. in summer my mother would not permit the bicycles in the garden because of the flowers, in which she took pride. in the earlier days at manor lodge the garden was a mass of roses. as the demon builders began to surround the locality, so the roses began to die, and blight began to kill the apple-trees. still, the garden always looked pretty, especially in the summer and autumn. then we three boys went in for amateur photography. the fad was started by me, and i was the principal operator. a "dark room" was erected against the wall near the house, and the front was manufactured out of the folding doors which had formerly separated the dining-room from the drawing-room. an amateur photographer was a scarcity in those days. the clean and easy dry-plate process was not then in use. we first had to clean the plain glass plate, which, in my case, was never successfully accomplished; then to coat it with collodion, which, if it did not run off the plate up the sleeve, generally "set" in diagonal streaks. then it had to be placed in the wet silver bath, an extremely sensitive concoction, which got out of order without the slightest provocation. after its exposure in the camera (by-the-by, i generally forgot to pull up the shutter, or, if i remembered that, discovered when i went to uncover the lens that its cap was already off), this plate was subjected to a development which was original in its vagaries. if the figures on the plate were indistinct, it was more than could be said of the spots and patches which appeared vividly on the fingers and clothes. still, i was devoted to the occupation while in my teens, and would photograph all day long, anybody or anything. the family sat or stood to me a dozen times a day. the dogs used to sneak into the house and hide in the coal cellar the moment they saw me bring out the camera. the tradesmen and servants were all taken. all my father's friends, and they were numerous and good-natured, were seized and carried into the garden to be taken on glass; for i generally took "positives," which were finished off then and there and put into little brass frames, like the sixpenny and shilling portraits (eighteenpence if a bit of jewellery is painted in with gold) one sees displayed in the euston road and elsewhere. i have taken toole scores of times, h. j. byron, j. billington, andrew halliday, and many more: in fact, the last-named wrote an article in _all the year round_ called "precocious boys," in which he described my brother and myself photographing him in a back-garden. i hope the reader will not think i am boasting, but i solemnly declare that i do not believe any photographer, professional or amateur, ever succeeded in turning out so many deplorable failures as i did. i attach rather an interesting programme of a juvenile--followed by a grown-up--party at manor lodge: ------ haverstock hill, april st, . _with master george and walter grossmith's compliments._ programme o'clock.--general gathering of the company (limited). the first arrival will please to make itself as comfortable as possible. . .--music and conversation. the latter may be varied by an occasional allusion to the day of the month--a practical joke being the "touch of nature" that makes everybody _touchy_. o'clock.--quadrille and polka. after which, mrs. martha brown (from the egyptian hall) will describe her "trip to brighton and back." o'clock.--quadrille and waltz. a few young gents in their teens, inspired by the tercent-_e_-nary (see hepworth dixon or any other dixon-ary), will recite a passage from--and a very long way from--hamlet. . .--quadrille. polka. spanish dance. o'clock.--the juvenile spread. children under not admitted. . .--the author of "underground london" will demon-strate his well-known connection with the arch-enemy. (beware of your pockets.) .--dancing, comic singing, etc. to .--arrival of the professionals from the royal adelphi, olympic, st. james's, and princess's theatres, retained at an enormous cost for this night only--or rather morning. banquet of the elders in the culinary caverns of the regions below. resumption of the fun. paul's return a _great_ go. curious analysis of the brothers webb, to ascertain which is which. mr. toole will oblige, etc. any attempt to define the order or duration of the proceedings from this point being obviously absurd, it will suffice to state that the sun rises at . . ------ the twenty minutes' burlesque on hamlet was written expressly for us by my father. it was received so well that we afterwards did it at the residences of mr. toole and john hollingshead to "grown-up" parties, of which we were very proud. i played hamlet, my brother played ophelia and the gravedigger, and the remainder of the characters were assumed by schoolfellows at the north london collegiate school, who were, singularly enough, distantly connected with the stage. they were pierre leclercq, the brother of carlotta leclercq; claude addison, brother of the misses fanny and carlotta addison; b. terry, brother of ellen terry, who, with her sister kate (mrs. arthur lewis), visited manor lodge several times. the part of the queen was played by t. bolton, who afterwards went on the stage and became a prominent member of mr. wilson barrett's provincial companies. many actors and literary men and women came in late at this party. i knew very little of society (with a big s) in those days, but had the honour, under the parental roof, of meeting and making friends, while a young man, of such people as henry irving, toole, j. clarke (little clarke, as he was called), h. j. byron, john oxenford, kate and ellen terry, madame celeste, miss woolgar, andrew halliday, artemus ward, chas. wyndham, the brothers brough, luke fildes, r.a., joseph hatton, dillon croker, j. prowse, fred barnard, mrs. eiloart, eliza winstanley, emma stanley (the entertainer), w. s. woodin, arthur sketchley, tom hood the younger, t. w. robertson, miss furtardo, paul bedford. for eight or nine months in the year we did not see much of the master of the house, for he was away lecturing; but we always welcomed his return home, generally on saturdays. in the summer he had more leisure; he was brimful of humour, and there were few people so good at repartee. when he was "put out," there was no mistaking it. he would then speak without thinking; but he never _wrote_ without thinking. what a deal of trouble would be saved in this world if people would only delay answering an annoying letter for twenty-four hours! some of my father's replies were very amusing, i remember. i happened to come across a copy of one recently. i must first explain that my mother was passionately fond of animals, and had a strong tendency to overfeed them. in the next garden to ours a dog was chained close to the adjoining wall, and i have no doubt whatever that every remnant of food was dropped over for his special delight. the next-door neighbour wrote a sharp remonstrance, and complained that his dog was getting too fat in consequence of its being overfed. my father wrote the following characteristic reply: " powis place, "december th, . "dear sir,--i am very sorry my people have annoyed you by giving food to your dog. "mrs. grossmith happens to be very fond of dogs. i think she prefers them to human beings, and she has a notion that it is very cruel to keep one chained up eternally; and possibly this want of exercise may have more to do with its getting fat than the occasional extra feeding to which you refer, and which comes of weak womanly sympathy with misfortune--just as our booby philanthropists, after contributing nearly half a million for the relief of the sick and wounded, received nothing but kicks and growls from the ruffianly savages in return. "seriously, however, you have a perfect right to complain, and i have given orders which i hope will be obeyed. i am very seldom in london myself, and cannot boast of having much control over my household when i am; but i think i may rely on your wishes being implicitly regarded. "i almost wonder that it has not occurred to you to put the dog on the other side of the garden, out of their reach; but i trust there will be no occasion for this now. "yours faithfully, "geo. grossmith.--esq." the next-door neighbour was amused with this letter, having taken it in its proper spirit, and became a visitor to the house. "all's well that ends well." in accordance with its usual custom, time rolled on. i began to exhibit a taste for painting, and my brother weedon for acting. these professions we subsequently reversed. weedon (his full name is walter weedon grossmith) left the north london collegiate school to go to school nearer home; viz., mr. simpson's, in belsize park. eventually i left the n.l.c.s. to go to bow street, with the ultimate intention of entering for the bar; and weedon, after leaving school, went to the west london school of art in portland street, also to the slade school at the london university, and eventually he passed the requisite examination that admitted him to the royal academy schools. i have endeavoured to make this little sketch of my old home as brief as possible, and will conclude this chapter with an incident that ultimately happened to be of considerable importance to me: at a certain juvenile party, while still in jackets and turned-down collars, i met and became enamoured of a little maiden in a short frock and sash. she flattered me by approving of my comic songs; and i was immensely struck with her power of conversation, which was unusual for one so young. i ascertained that her name was emmeline rosa noyce, and that she was the only daughter of doctor noyce, whose practice was in the neighbourhood. we danced every dance together; but the fates decreed that we should not meet again for another three or four years. we _did_ meet--in a crowd, and again danced _nearly_ every dance together; for, strange to say, she understood my step. all this was simply a beginning to a very happy end: and i can say with truth that the wisest step i ever took in the whole course of my life was when, on the th may, , i made my juvenile sweetheart my wife--with her consent, of course,--and, thank god, i have never had reason to regret it for a single second. chapter iii. at bow street police court. "take down our sentence as we speak it."--_iolanthe_. for a period of twenty years i had the distinguished honour of being decidedly "well known to the police." when i between seventeen and eighteen years of age, and still at the north london collegiate school, i received instructions from my father, who was just starting for liverpool, that as mr. courtenay was ill i must go and "do" bow street. mr. john kelly courtenay used to do all the reporting at bow street police court during my father's absence on his lecturing tours. i had learned shorthand (the lewisian system, i believe it was called) some two or three years previously. off i marched to bow street with the greatest _sang-froid_ to report a case, at which in after years i should certainly have shied. it was a most important bank fraud, and meant enormous complications in figures. mr. burnaby, the chief clerk, was kind enough to let me correct my figures from the depositions which had been taken by him; sir thomas henry repeated to me the gist of his remarks on remanding the case, and the result was i turned out a report on manifold for all the evening and morning papers, and the usual special report for _the times_--in this instance over a column long--with which my father was delighted. i received a most encouraging letter from him after a few days' interval. the interval was merely to give time for the arrival of any complaint from the papers. editors are not in the habit of sending letters of congratulation, only of complaint. no complaint arrived, however, and my only disappointment was the complete absence of important and interesting cases. at last another opportunity arrived which enabled me to distinguish myself. i wish it had not. a poor woman was charged with purloining a shirt which was hanging outside a cheap hosier's in clare market somewhere. it was a windy day, and the end of the shirt was apparently flapping round the corner of the shop; so the prisoner, unable to resist temptation, filched it after the manner of a clown in a pantomime. inspired by the punning humour of tom hood, i parodied one of his poems for the heading of my police report. the heading was "the tale of a shirt." this had a most undesired effect. the serious papers wrote to complain of the flippancy of the title; the refined papers of its vulgarity; while the vulgar papers inserted the title, which they emphasised by printing the word "tale" in italic. this caused sarcastic paragraphs to appear in other papers directed against my father, who, of course, was the responsible reporter, and who, consequently, wrote me a second letter anent my talents for reporting which differed widely from the first. fortunately for all parties, mr. courtenay got well and returned to his post, and in it was decided i should thoroughly learn the business from him, so as to have some remunerative occupation while studying, and eventually following, the profession of the bar. circumstances, however, ultimately prevented me from doing either. there are several, if not many, barrister-reporters in london; i know my friend mr. e. t. besley was one, and so were mr. finlayson and mr. corrie grant, and i could mention three or four others. my parent, with an eye to business, pointed out the absolute advantage that would arise from my being able to support myself by the press during the years i should, in all probability, be waiting for the arrival of a brief. his suggestion was adopted, and for the next three years i stuck entirely to the work, assisting mr. courtenay, who, in his turn, often assisted me in revising little occasional articles or verses which i wrote for humorous periodicals, &c., some of which were inserted to my great delight. he used to write prologues for amateur performances in which i took part, and at which he was always present. he was very kind to me, and i became very much attached to him, feeling great grief when he died in october, . the whole of the work then fell upon my shoulders during the absence of grossmith, senior; and very hard work it was sometimes. when there was no work to do,--that is, nothing of consequence to report,--then the life of a reporter resembled that of a superior loafer--at least, that was my feeling. a reporter is not considered a sufficiently important person to be allotted a room for his own use. sir thomas henry promised that the gentlemen of the press should have a room to themselves in the new court, but he was unable to carry his promise out, as he died soon afterwards. therefore, when nothing was going on, the reporter became a kind of micawber hanging about waiting for something to turn up. i used to sit in court and write the opening chapters of three-volume novels which were never published, or extra verses to comic songs which were never sung. when tired of this i used to loiter about the passages, or sit in the usher's room in company with solicitors, solicitors' clerks, witnesses with and without babies, detectives, defendants, and equally interesting people. sometimes i meandered into the gaoler's room and gazed at the police and the prisoners. sometimes i would go out to lunch and take three or four hours over it, and on returning find a most important murder case had been disposed of in my absence. on one occasion i returned and found mr. john brown giving evidence in a charge against a lad for an attempt upon the life of our most gracious majesty. however, i have managed to write a case just as well when i have not been present as when i have. the court was a miserable one for sound, but the clerk was close to the witnesses and could hear them; so that his notes, which with courtesy i was permitted to copy, were, at all events, most reliable. it must not be inferred from my absence that i was not interested in the work. on the contrary, there was so much variety in the important cases that one could not be otherwise than interested: but one never knew when they were coming on. but people of all classes would come day after day, and sit out (especially on a monday morning) dozens of simple charges of drunk and disorderly, or of fighting and disturbing. this i could not quite understand. the days on which mr. flowers sat were certainly the most amusing, and consequently selected by the visitors. mr. irving, mr. toole, and the late george belmore have often in bygone days sat by my side watching the more important cases. sometimes the monotony of the proceedings would be varied by my seeing one of my own acquaintances in the dock. then an awkward question of etiquette arose. the dock joined the reporters' box. now ought i to have shaken hands with him? as a matter of fact i never did, but i do not see why i should not have done so. however, i thought it best to follow the footsteps of the magistrates--they did not shake hands with their friends when charged. i have heard of an instance of a metropolitan police magistrate who, upon recognising an old friend in dock, ordered him immediately to be accommodated with a seat on the bench and declined to hear the charge of embezzlement that was to have been preferred against him. soon he was no more a magistrate, and subsequently was "no more" in the term's other sense. the most disagreeable case of recognising a friend in the dock that i ever experienced was some years after, when i was combining the professions of journalist and entertainer. i accepted an engagement at margate to give a couple of sketches nightly at the hall-by-the-sea, which was then under the management of the late e. p. hingston, who had been formerly the manager of artemus ward's lecture at the egyptian hall in . [by-the-by, the only other humorist who took part in the concert was j. hatton, the composer and author of "to anthea," who used to take his seat at the piano and sing his song, "old simon the cellarer" and "the merry little fat grey man," his resemblance to the latter being somewhat pronounced. he used to reside at margate, and was an immense favourite.] one evening i was introduced to a young gentleman of good manners and appearance, who begged i would sup with him. i did. we afterwards became rather intimate and i lunched with him. like most small stars, i was surrounded by a lot of satellites. they were all eventually introduced to my new acquaintance, who seemed to have plenty of time and money to spare, and who was the essence of hospitality. as my engagement was terminating he gave us all a parting banquet at one of the principal hotels. some old friend of mine had advised me particularly not to go. what reason he gave i do not remember, but i fancy it was that the young fellow had not paid some bill. however, i did not go, but heard there was much to eat, more to drink, and any amount of conviviality. it was one of those parties where everybody talked, nobody listened, nobody cared, and every man's health was proposed by somebody else: the health of the host, i believe, was proposed about half a dozen times. i returned to bow street, and a few days after this poor fellow, who turned out to be a clerk in a warehouse in southampton street, strand, at about s. a week, was placed in the dock on a charge of robbing his employer. he was committed for trial and ultimately convicted; but in consequence of his previous good character and the kindness of his employer in not wishing to press the charge, the sentence was one of months when it might have been years. i spent part of the spare time, in my earlier days at bow street, in editing a paper called _ourselves at home_. it was published by a printer for me, and consisted of eight pages, a little larger than the bristol library series, with very little matter--much spacing out and very big type. the cost was ten shillings a week, for which we had fifty or a hundred copies. two of my friends contributed each two shillings and sixpence a week towards the expense, with the privilege of inserting articles. the contribution of their specie was more valuable than that of their brains; but as their contributions were not so bad as mine, no complaint was made. the periodical terminated after thirteen numbers, because our friends could not be induced to read it, nor buy it. it died a natural death on march th, . at this time the chief magistrate was sir thomas henry, the other two being the kind and genial mr. flowers, who died only a few years ago, and mr. james vaughan, who still sits in the new court. the old court was adjacent to the floral hall, covent garden. having sat in that court so many years, it seemed odd to me to pay it a visit under such different circumstances. last summer ( ) i was advised to go to mr. stinchcombe, the theatrical costumier, on some little matter. i entered the front door of the old familiar police court. instead of the idle, motley crowd one was accustomed to see blocking up the passages, there were rows of shelves with carefully-packed costumes. in the court, the dock, attorneys' table, barristers' bench, my old reporters' box, every partition in fact, had been swept away to make room for shelves of costumes, armour, and tons of theatrical paraphernalia. out of curiosity i asked to see the cells and was politely shown them. there they were as of yore--the iron doors, with the little window or grating; but the doors were not locked, barred, and bolted--they were wide open, and the prison cells were occupied with sock and buskin. sir thomas henry was the main instrument in getting erected the spacious new court opposite, in which he was never destined to sit. it was his ambition. frequently had he said on the bench that the old court was a disgrace. i could not help thinking what sir thomas's opinion of the old court would have been if he had seen it as i had just now. i could not help thinking the faithful old court had followed my example, and gone in for the stage. now it is razed to the ground, and there is not a brick left of the old place which, in my time, saw the preliminary examinations of the flowery land pirates; muller for the murder of mr. briggs; barrett and others for blowing up clerkenwell prison; burke and casey; dr. hessell, who was acquitted on the charge known as the great coram street murder, and on whose behalf mr. douglas straight (now mr. justice straight, of allahabad) made the best speech he ever made in his life, i venture to think; the female impersonation case; and the charge against the police detectives druscovich, palmer, meiklejohn, clarke, and mr. froggatt, the solicitor, of assisting kurr, benson and others in committing the de goncourt turf frauds. with the exception of the pirates and muller, _the times_' reports were done chiefly by me. the record of which i am most proud was in a speech of mr. besley's in one of the above cases. he spoke for about seven hours, with one short interval, and as it proceeded i reported it in long hand, in the third person of course. to have done so _verbatim_ would have been an impossibility. to have reported this speech with a pencil and paper would have been a tolerably easy matter, but i wrote it on manifold, producing twelve copies--that is, there were twelve oiled tissue sheets and six blank tissues between, altogether a thickness of eighteen papers to press through with the stylus. to those uninitiated in the method of manifold writing, i can only explain that the system is the same as that adopted by cashiers in the stores and shops, who place a piece of black paper in a book, a little bill on the top, and by writing on the latter the impression is conveyed through the black to the book. two copies are therefore procured. imagine, therefore, the amount of pressure required for twelve copies, and the state of your fingers and hands after doing this with the utmost rapidity for seven hours with only about half an hour's cessation! i may as well give a slight sketch of the characters of the three magistrates. sir thomas henry was the very model of a police-court beak. he was tall and slim, and had natural dignity--a very different thing from the assumption of it. he was a good lawyer and a perfect courtier--not a mere police courtier. he liked approval, and whene'er he made a palpable hit in a passage of arms with an important counsel (specially retained), he would glance round the court to see if it had been appreciated. after an effective summing up, the auditors in the body of the court would sometimes break out with loud applause. sir thomas henry would sternly observe that if such unseemly manifestations were again displayed, he should order the court to be cleared. for all that, sir thomas liked that applause and was much gratified by it. mr. frederick flowers was a totally different type of man altogether. he was short, and had iron-grey hair and whiskers. he was exceedingly kind--much too kind for a magistrate, and possessed a dangerous talent for being humorous in court. he hated to punish people and had a tendency to let everybody off--and did, if he could do so legally. i remember once a woman, an old offender, being sentenced by one of the other magistrates to a month's imprisonment. on being removed from the dock by the gaoler she shouted, "look here, the next time i am charged here i'll take jolly good care it's before old flowers." a little boy of about eight years of age was charged with snowballing an old gentleman. mr. flowers read the boy a kindly lecture, and told him never to snowball people in the streets again. as he had been detained in the gaoler's room for four hours and had been crying his eyes out, mr. flowers added that the child was evidently very sorry for what he had done, and would, therefore, be discharged. the mother who was advised to keep a better watch over her boy in future, came forward with profusions of thanks, and carried off the little prisoner in triumph. the prosecutor, who had watched the proceedings with amazement, here stepped into the box, and, addressing mr. flowers, said: "why, your worship, you've let him off." _mr. flowers:_ of course i have. _prosecutor:_ what for? _mr. flowers:_ you wouldn't have me punish a child like that, would you? _prosecutor:_ of course i would--what have i had him brought in here for? _mr. flowers:_ i think he has been sufficiently punished. _prosecutor:_ but look here--he has cut my cheek. _mr. flowers:_ well, he did not do that on purpose. _prosecutor:_ he snowballed me on purpose. _mr. flowers:_ yes, but he didn't mean to cut your face. _prosecutor:_ well, he has done it, at all events. _mr. flowers:_ and he is very sorry, and so am i sorry; but i dare say when you were a boy you were in the habit of snowballing old gentlemen. at all events, i know i used to snowball people, and i am not going to fine any boy for doing what i used to do myself. one morning a poor woman stepped into the box and expressed a wish to prosecute some man who had passed a bad sixpence upon her. mr. flowers took the counterfeit coin and after examining it said, "well, i dare say the man didn't know it was a bad one: it is a remarkably good imitation of a genuine one. i'll tell you what i will do--i will give you a good sixpence in exchange; that will put an end to all legal proceedings." mr. flowers gave the woman a sixpenny-piece, and requested that the bad one should be broken up. when the court was afterwards cleared, the good-natured magistrate, addressing me, said, "i hope, mr. grossmith, you won't think it necessary to report that case. if you do, i shall be having three or four hundred people coming to me to-morrow with bad sixpences to exchange." a man was charged with violently assaulting his friend. a policeman saw the assault committed, and gave his evidence to that effect. the complainant, however, did not appear for the purpose of pressing the charge. when the constable had given his evidence, the defendant shouted out, "i didn't commit the assault. i never hit him." _mr. flowers_ (thinking this was the usual imputation on the evidence of the police): then, if you didn't do it, who did i should like to know? _defendant:_ i didn't do it. 'twas the beer that did it. _mr. flowers:_ oh, then we had better send the beer to prison. _constable:_ please, your worship, the complainant ain't here. he didn't wish to press the case. _mr. flowers:_ oh, very well. _(to the defendant)_ there being no prosecutor, you and your friend the beer are discharged; but i should advise you not to become too closely associated with each other in the future. in a series of articles which i contributed to _punch_, at the beginning of the year , entitled "very trying," i gave a skit of this magistrate. it was in the fourth article, and was headed "the good-humoured magistrate." he was extremely popular, and nobody, from his colleagues and counsel down to the prisoners themselves, was ever heard to say a harsh word against him. mr. james vaughan (who still sits at bow street) was a solemn and severe type of magistrate. absolutely just, and yet everyone seemed afraid of him. the just are always to be most feared. mr. vaughan makes a good magistrate, but he would have been a better judge. he has a power of "summing up" which is almost thrown away in a police court. he would give a decision (sometimes very elaborate) in every case that came before him. he was quite the reverse of a well-known magistrate of great marlborough street, whose object was to get everything over as quickly as possible. i was once present at the last-named court when there were a number of summonses against cabmen for delaying and obstruction. it was the custom to take all these summonses on one day. the mode of procedure adopted by this magistrate was as follows: _magistrate:_ all those who plead guilty, step forward. (here about fifteen cabbies pushed to the front of the court.) _magistrate:_ fined two shillings--don't do it again. (_exeunt_ fifteen cabbies.) another magistrate, who used to sit at worship street, delivered his decisions in a species of shorthand. suppose smith and brown were charged together with assaulting the police. at the conclusion of all the evidence the magistrate would say: "smith, five or five; brown, ten or fourteen;" which, being interpreted, meant that smith was to be fined five shillings, or in default of payment to be imprisoned for five days, and brown to be fined ten shillings, or in default, fourteen days. now, mr. vaughan would certainly have read each man a serious warning, which (as mr. vaughan is a highly educated man) the prisoners may or may not have understood. when i first went to the court, i could not always understand his remarks, especially when some intricate technicalities were involved in them. in this predicament, i invariably went to his worship and asked if he would give me the principal points of his observations, a request on my part which was always met by mr. vaughan with much courtesy. mr. vaughan was also a subject of my raillery in the _punch_ articles, from which i will give a short extract. a little boy of seven years of age is charged with begging, his excuse being he did not know he was doing any wrong. the magistrate delivers his decision in the following manner: "prisoner, you have been brought before me on the sworn testimony of a metropolitan constable, charged with begging within the precincts of the monument erected _in memoriam_ to nelson. it is, as you must be aware, a charge under the vagrant act, and i am bound to admit it appears to me there is a _prima facie_ case against you. you have made no attempt to rebut the evidence of the officer, and i can only, as an _ultimatum_, give credence to his evidence, which admits of little doubt in my mind. the defence (if a defence it can be designated at all) that you have elected to set up is, to my mind, unworthy of the invention you have thought necessary to bestow upon it. you may not have perused the sections of the act of parliament bearing upon this particular charge, but every child must be aware, from maternal or paternal information, that the act of begging in any form is _contra leges_. your defence is, therefore, totally unworthy of consideration. now i warn you, if _in future_ you will persist in pursuing this nefarious method of existence, i shall have to sentence you to a term of incarceration without the option of a pecuniary penalty. pray do not treat this caution with indifference. upon this occasion, however, your liberty will be afforded you. "_the prisoner_ (in tears): oh! how long have i got? oh! what have i got? "_gaoler_ (interpreting the learned magistrate): what have you got? why, you've got let off, and don't do it again. (_sotto voce_ to the boy) hook it! "and the little boy left the court, under the impression that the magistrate had sentenced him to several years' penal servitude, but that the gaoler had kindly overlooked the offence and liberated him." of course, this sketch is caricatured in the same way that the portraits in _vanity fair_, are by "ape" (mr. carlo pelligrini) and "spy" (mr. leslie ward). sir james taylor ingham succeeded to the post of chief magistrate at bow street on the death of sir thomas henry, and was (and still is) a kind and considerate gentleman. it was the custom of some magistrates to wear their hats in court, but i never saw this at bow street. at other courts i have seen magistrates wear their hats; and one in particular i have seen walk about the bench with his hat on and his hands in his pockets, and never even remove it when a respectably-dressed woman was making an application to, or giving evidence before, him. if it were compulsory to keep the head covered, as when the judge assumes the black cap, one could understand it. but it is not compulsory, and there is no excuse for it, any more than there is for the young masher swaggering up a public dining-room where ladies are seated around dining, without having the common decency to remove his hat. in , when i appeared at the opera comique, i retired from the work; but resumed it again in , when my father died, having for my right-hand man mr. cleverley, whom my father had engaged to assist him. i retired eventually in favour of mr. cleverley, who is now _the times_ reporter; and if i possibly can help it, i will never give him a chance of "showing me up." chapter iv. from amateur to professional. "i once was a dab at penny readings."--_ruddygore_. "what first put it into your head to give entertainments?" is a question i have been asked hundreds of times, and my reply has always been, "i'm sure i do not know." nor do i know to this day. i used to play the piano very well at the age of twelve. what was considered "very well" for a boy twenty-eight years ago, no doubt would be considered execrable in these days of hoffmanns and hegners. i remember, when i played, ladies used to say, "how odd it seems to see a boy playing." it was thought effeminate to play the piano. besides playing from music, i also played a good deal by ear, which was considered demoralising, and still _is_ by those who know nothing about it. playing correctly by ear is a gift that should be encouraged. i was delighted one afternoon recently, when calling upon mrs. kendal, the well-known actress, to see her little boy, of about ten or eleven, sit down at the grand piano and play off by ear, perfectly correctly, "le revenant de la revue" and one of my own songs. it is a gift delightful to the one fortunately endowed with it; and it does not follow that one should not also play correctly from music. for my own pleasure (i do not know whether it was for other people's), i used to sing the comic songs, "johnny sands," "the cork leg," and "the lost child," to my own pianoforte accompaniment. i was never taught the tunes or words of these songs, but picked them up as children do, and reproduced them at the piano in a fashion of my own. one delightful consequence of this was, that the number of my invitations to juvenile parties was considerably increased. i added to my stock of songs of course, and so found i was kept up to a late hour--at grown-up parties, too. though not too young to learn and sing these songs, i was not old enough to always understand their purport. there was a song, about this time, which was all the rage in london. the tune was heard on every organ and band, in every ballroom and theatre. i bought a penny song-book with the words, which i learned off by heart, and, as usual, picked out my accompaniment on the piano. one evening i launched it before the grown-up people who always turn up at the latter end of a juvenile party, and some of whom generally requested that i should be kept and made to sing to them. my friend frank burnand, in his incomparable _happy thoughts_, tells how he was singing a comic song before an unsympathetic audience, and suddenly remembering a verse was not quite proper, backed out of it. in my own case, i had no notion that the verse was _risque_. i did not even understand it; so out it came with the full force of my penny-whistle voice. i never heard so much laughter in a room before. there was a general request for the song to be encored; but this was just a little too much for the feelings of my fond and hitherto proud mother, who made a dash at me, and shut me and the piano up at the same moment. there is a period when the voice breaks, but i do not think i ever had a voice to break; at all events, i never remember the time when i ceased singing comic songs. when half-way through my teens i began to write snatches of songs and illustrations, and received much help and encouragement from my father. he used to take me to the old gallery of illustration, to hear the inimitable john parry; and this infused not only a new life, but a totally different style, into my work. still in my teens, i used to be asked to the grown-up parties of mr. toole, mr. charles millward, mr. henry neville, and mr. john hollingshead, the last-named of whom, only the other day, reminded me that i never could be persuaded to sing before supper, excusing myself on the ground that the songs always went so much better _after_ supper. so they did, and so they still do. at mr. hollingshead's i first met mr. henry s. leigh, then a contributor to _fun_, and the author of "carols of cockayne," "gillott and goosequill," &c. he was himself a great admirer of john parry; and when i became intimate with him, in after years, used to show me how parry sang "wanted, a governess," "the old bachelor," "the dejeuner a la fourchette," &c., all of which i have myself sung at times, after a fashion. at hollingshead's (in colebrook row), leigh sang "the twins," which became an enormously successful song, and he gave me a copy of it. subsequently, i sang most of leigh's songs _en amateur_; and after my appearance as a professional entertainer, he specially wrote "the seven ages of song" and "the parrot and the cat" for me. as a boy, i used, at certain evening parties, to accompany toole in "a norrible tale" and "bob simmons," and considered it a high honour. i used to sing some of the songs of henry j. byron, a constant visitor to my father's house, and received much encouragement from him; also from john oxenford, the dramatic critic of _the times_; andrew halliday; t.w. robertson, the dramatic author, and scores of others. it will be seen, therefore, that though i commenced on my own account, i was destined to be brought up in an atmosphere of literature and art. but neither my father nor myself was the first representative of the family on the public platform. judge talfourd, the author of _ion_, had heard my father recite over and over again, and strongly advised him to take up lecturing and reading as a profession. he followed the popular judge's advice, and gave his first lecture, entitled "wit and humour," on the day of my birth, at reading, his native town. in a speech on the occasion of my coming of age he made use of these felicitous words: "i went down to reading to make my first appearance in _public_ at _my_ native place, and, on my return, found my eldest son had made _his_ first appearance in _private_ at his native place." that was forty years ago; but i propose presenting my readers with a copy of a programme, having reference to an uncle, dated twenty-five years before that. the programme is quaintly illustrated with tiny blocks of very primitive engravings, illustrating the characters personated: by permission of the worshipful the bailiffs. new theatre, bridgnorth. for two evenings only. on tuesday, the th, and saturday, the th july, . mr. grossmith, sen., takes this opportunity of laying before the public the following high encomium passed on his son, kindly pointed out to him by a clergyman of dudley. the numerous and repeated paragraphs which have appeared in all the london and provincial papers cannot have escaped the eye of anyone; but this work will, no doubt, escape the eye of some. _abstracted from the_ "new monthly magazine," no. , july st, (page ). "the little irish boy, master burke, betokens a dramatic instinct which can scarcely be mistaken. we saw in the country the other day a child, seven years old, named grossmith, who displayed even a deeper vein of natural humour; actually revelling in the jests he uttered and acted; singing droll songs with the truth of a musician and the vivacity of a comedian; and speaking passages of tragedy with an earnestness and grace as though the dagger and bowl had been his playthings, and poetry his proper language." characters in the introduction which master grossmith imitates. (here come in nine small illustrations of figures.) characters in _pecks of troubles_ which master grossmith personates. (here appear seven larger illustrations.) the celebrated infant roscius, master grossmith, from reading, berks (only seven years and a quarter old), intends giving two evenings' amusements, when he feels confident he will meet with that support he has never failed to experience in all the towns he has visited. the infant roscius will commence his performance with his adventures in the reading coach, when he will imitate the following characters, namely: a frenchman--a fat lady--an affected lady--a tipsy politican--a stage manager--two candidates for the stage--and his own success. master grossmith will then go through the humorous and laughable comedy of pecks of troubles; or, the distress of a french barber. ( ) miss deborah grundy (an old maid in love) master grossmith! ( ) spindleshanks (a dandy fortune-hunter) master grossmith!! ( ) monsieur frizeur (in a peck of troubles about cutting old grundy's face-- with a song) ... master grossmith!!! ( ) old grundy (in search of the frenchman, to give him a receipt in full for his carelessness) master grossmith!!!! ( ) betty, the housemaid (in love with corporal rattle--with a song, "yes, aye, for a soldier's wife i'll go") ... ... ... master grossmith!!!!! ( ) corporal rattle (as hot as gunpowder; in love with betty) master grossmith!!!!!! ( ) timothy clodhopper (a servant-of-all-work to old grundy, bewailing his unfortunate love for betty, who has run off with corporal rattle--with the laughable song of "the washing tub," which finishes the piece ... ... ... master grossmith!!!!!!! after which, "betsy baker," with other comic songs. part ii. will consist of scenes from the _merchant of venice_, _douglas_, _pizarro_, _macbeth_, _richard iii._, _rolla_, and _hamlet_. the infant roscius will, on the first night, go through the tent scene of _richard iii._ the scenes will be changed each night, and he will conclude his performance with a piece (composed in two parts expressly for him) on the musical glasses. the whole of the scenery, wardrobe, and preparations, which are very extensive, with the grand diorama, feet in length, will pass through the proscenium during the intervals of master grossmith's performance; consisting of views of italy, &c. boxes, s.; pit, s.; gallery, s. doors to be opened at half-past seven, and the performance to commence at eight o'clock. children under twelve and schools, half price to boxes and pit only. tickets and plans for boxes to be had of mr. gitton, post office; and at the theatre, where master g., and preparations, may be seen from ten to one o'clock on the days of performance. (then appear four more blocks of the boy in private dress, and three shaksperian characters.) ------ the above juvenile was mr. william grossmith, who, i am pleased to say, is still alive and well. he was the eldest of the male portion of the grossmith family, and the only one remaining. he does not remember the entertainment with much pride or pleasure, and i do not wonder at it; for the work must have been a terrible strain upon the mind of a child. i am in possession of several programmes similar to the above: and only the other day some kind stranger sent me a newspaper, dated wednesday, june th, , and called _the bury and norwich post_, or _suffolk and norfolk telegraph, essex, cambridge, and ely intelligencer_. one may well exclaim, "what's in a name?" on glancing through its columns, i find the following: lines addressed to master grossmith. sure ne'er did nature so profusely give, or such a roscius till this time e'er live! deem it not flatt'ry, those who have _not_ seen this little wonder! for full well, i ween, had you but view'd, like me, enchanted quite you'd own his genius, and in praise unite. ye who _have_ seen the hero, ye can tell, tho' in his praise my numbers fain would swell, alas! how feebly does my muse essay his talents or his merits to portray. scarce ten years old; superior strength of mind speaks in his "speaking eyes" his sense refin'd: his manners graceful, unassuming too; such sweet simplicity we never knew: so noble, free, and dignified his mien, a real hamlet seems to grace the scene. when he with mimic art his skill applies, and shakspeare's heroes to assume he tries, so well the child can personate the man, that twenty years appear in one short span; aye, not three minutes does the change require, to make the maiden young or old, or 'squire. but shakspeare most his talents bring to sight: there may experienc'd actors, with affright, think they ne'er more again must tread the stage, while grossmith is the roscius of the age. he weighs each word, and "_suits the action well;_" his rising its meaning oft will tell ere yet 'tis utter'd: his expressive face conveys the sense with ever-varying grace. in short, no authors difficult appear to his superior sense and gifted ear; his growing talents so conspicuous shine, he gives a charm to shakspeare's ev'ry line. farewell, sweet child! may virtue guide thy way, may bliss without alloy be thine each day, and may'st thou e'er enjoy that peace of mind which dwells with virtue and with sense refin'd. _dowham market, june st_, . m. m. c. and now _revenons a nos moutons_. at the close of i blossomed into a penny reader, and i can safely aver that no penny reader ever had such an exalted opinion of his own talents as i had of mine. penny readings were fast becoming the rage, and were springing up everywhere; and my first public appearance at them was in a schoolroom, in close proximity to holy trinity church, hawley road, turning out of the chalk farm road. this was the church i had been in the habit of attending, and in the choir of which i had sometimes sung. there was at penny readings no programme in those days. the chairman (always the vicar or the curate) used to call upon those in the audience whom he considered capable. he flattered me with this distinction; so i took my seat at the piano, and sang a song with a refrain, in which the noisy portion of the audience commenced to join. this was not quite approved of; so for a time i contented myself with recitals from dickens, hood, &c., which i cribbed from my father's _repertoire_. i soon returned to the comic songs again, but selected those of a milder form, like "he, she, and the postman," a story without a chorus, and some out of howard paul's entertainment. it was once suggested that we should give the short burlesque on _hamlet_ to which i have already referred. we arrived with several bags of costumes, which alarmed the vicar, and the performance did not take place. the audience, to our intense satisfaction, expressed its disappointment in an unmistakable manner; so much so, that the chairman announced that it should be played on a future occasion. meanwhile, he stipulated with me that there should be no costumes. i could not consent to this, and, after a long discussion, we met each other half-way. i was to be permitted to wear a cloak for hamlet--or, rather, an old black shawl thrown over my shoulders. horatio and the king were tabooed costumes. the ghost (t. bolton) was permitted to adorn himself with a clean tablecloth. my brother, who was only ten years of age, was to double the parts of ophelia and gravedigger. in the former, being so young, it was considered no harm for him to wear a muslin body and skirt; while, as the gravedigger, he was allowed to take off his coat, and appear, for this occasion only, in his shirt-sleeves. somehow or other, leclercq, the original representative of the queen, could not appear, and i arranged with one of my schoolfellows from the north london collegiate school to play the part. he had never acted before, and in all probability has never acted since. as he was about seventeen years of age, and looked a veritable young man, with a perceptible moustache, the vicar would not on any account allow him to assume ladies' attire. we eventually decided he should be allowed to throw a plaid shawl round his shoulders. the eventful evening approached, and, as the intended performance had been whispered about, the rooms were crammed. all went well until the entrance of the queen, late on in the piece which only played twenty minutes altogether. ta the horror of the vicar, and to my own surprise, he had, behind the screen, slipped on a servant's cotton frock, and put on what is vulgarly known as a carotty wig. the vicar, who was, as usual, seated on the platform--a very small one, by-the-by,--rose and said in an undertone to me: "i forbade this." i replied that it was against my knowledge. the performance went on, however; for the young man who played the queen such a stick that he was quite inoffensive, and uttered his words one after the other in the legitimate schoolboy fashion. but quiet people are always the most dangerous, and so it transpired with my young friend. we approached the finale, which, by the way, appears to me to be worth quoting. the characters are all lying on the stage, supposed to be dead. hamlet (_sitting up_)-- what? everybody dead? why, that won't do; for who's to speak the tag? i must-- horatio (_rising_)-- not you. you've had your share of talking; so now stow it. i'll speak the tag-- king (_jumping up_)-- not if i know it. *they've kept me back until the very last. now _i_'ll speak the tag. friends-- queen (_getting up_)-- _not_ so fast. your notion. king defunct, is most absurd; the lady always utters the _last word!_ ghost (_entering_)-- except when there's a goblin in the way. ophelia (_entering_)-- then i, a female goblin, hold the sway. hamlet-- let's have a chorus then--tune up--here goes: sing to a tune that everybody knows. * the king does not enter until the play scene, at the end. then followed a verse, to the catching air of "the great sensation." this we stood still and sung; but here it was that the representative of the queen suddenly became overpowered with excitement, and could not restrain his feelings. what had hitherto been "reserved force" now became force without the slightest reserve. irrespective of his costume, he danced violently and kicked wildly in the air. the audience indiscriminatingly laughed and applauded with delight! the vicar got up and held up his hands to the audience, to obtain silence, but without effect. he motioned to us to go off, and we all left the platform, with the exception of the queen, who, positively mad with excitement, seized the reverend gentleman by the arms and swung him round two or three times. that was my last appearance at those particular penny readings. i do not in the least despise penny readings. they are a very good school for beginners at all events. at a party given at manor lodge, about , john oxenford, andrew halliday, and several others were all chatting to me about my songs, and advised me to get my father to write a short sketch, _a la_ john parry, to enable me to better introduce these sketches. the next year he did so. the sketch was entitled "human oddities," and lasted about forty minutes. i supplied the music: and the "gay photographer," since published, was one of the songs introduced; the words by g. g. _pere_, and the music by g. g. _fils_. dr. croft, who then had great interest in the polytechnic, and was, i fancy, one of the directors, introduced me to professor pepper, and i started on a trial trip on nov. th, ; and observe, o ye superstitious ones, that i began on a friday. the following month i gave "the yellow dwarf," which i wrote myself, and which, i must admit, was exceedingly puerile. it was accompanied by dissolving views, and this christmas entertainment was produced to oblige prof. pepper; but i did not relish being stuck at a piano in the corner and in complete darkness. if i am _not_ seen, i am no good at all. i do not infer i am much good when i am seen. the only thing that went really well in "the yellow dwarf" was my setting of some words which appeared in _punch_. the refrain, i remember, was: faithful to poll, tol de rol lol; wherever he went he was faithful to poll. it transpired that the words were written by f. c. burnand, who has since become one of my most esteemed and valued friends, and who subsequently re-wrote them, and they were immortalised by mrs. john wood, under the title of "his heart was true to poll." "the yellow dwarf" i continued for about a month, when, to my intense delight, "human oddities" was again put on, and ran about six months. in the autumn i produced "the silver wedding," and introduced the song--words by my father--"i am so volatile." since then i have always written and composed my own sketches, which vary in length from about twenty to forty minutes, and, with very few exceptions, the words of the incidental songs. i do not sit down deliberately to write these. ideas come to me in all sorts of places, and at most inconvenient times. i wrote "he was a careful man" while travelling to deal, and composed the music on the backs of envelopes on my return home. "the muddle puddle porter" suggested itself to me while waiting for nearly an hour at bishopstoke, and hearing an aged porter calling out the same string of stations. i wondered--supposing he obtained another "calling," such as a waiter who had to shout down a tube a string of dishes--whether he would not sometimes become confused by the recollection of his former situation, and mix up the names of the stations with the names of the joints. i am indebted very much to my old friend, lionel brough, for contributing so materially to the success of the song by his excellent singing of it. i always write the words of the song first of course, and then the music. i composed over half a dozen tunes for "the duke of seven dials" before i hit upon one to suit my fancy. i was a fortnight composing "the lost key," and only a couple of hours writing and composing "the happy fatherland." with regard to the "patter" portion of the sketch, that is the last part i write, and i alter it from time to time during its delivery--cutting out portions that do _not_ "go," and extemporising observations and retaining them if they _do_ "go." lots of people come to me and say, "i hope you won't take me off?" and i have replied that i should never dream of doing such a personal thing: but i do, all the same; and i have never known an instance where they have fitted the cap. if a very marked observation is made by a lady, i put it down to a gentleman, and _vice versa_, though i often think the precaution quite unnecessary; in proof of which i relate the following incident. as i was taking my seat at the piano, a lady, who evidently passed the entire season in attending about half a dozen afternoon parties daily, approached me and said: "i hope you are not going to be very long, mr. grossmith." this was said so innocently, and the remark so amused me, that i introduced it in the course of the sketch: the temptation was too great not to refer to it. the people roared with laughter, as they always do at anything personal to oneself. personality always goes down better than pure wit. at the conclusion of the sketch i said to the lady: "i hope i was not too long?" she replied, "oh dear, no; but did any lady really ask you that question?" i said, "yes; you did, if you remember." "did i?" she replied. "most certainly." "yes," she continued, "but not with that comic expression." "of course not." to return to the polytechnic. i was regarded as the mild clown of the establishment, although i am bound to say that i thought some of the scientific and serious lectures far more humorous, unintentionally, than my work. on one occasion a lecturer was holding some explosive material in his hand, and said that its power was so great that, under certain conditions, it would blow up the whole of the polytechnic institution and the people in it. this announcement, delivered with much fervour, was rendered more alarming by the fact that the material was accidentally brought into contact with the spirit-lamp which stood on the table. the result was an insignificant "fizz," like a damp match. during a discourse on the franco-german war, the lecturer, explaining one of the views on the screen in which the french were defeated, gave vent to his own feelings in somewhat the following strain: "behold the cowards hewing down the poor french! that is not war--that is murder--miserable and uncalled-for murder!" this strong sentiment called forth a hiss or two from some portions of the audience who happened to sympathise with the germans. the lecturer held up his hands and said: "silence, my friends. please remember that this is only a simple, unbiassed lecture, with pictorial illustrations of certain events which happened during this sad war. do not let us show any personal feeling one way or the other." there is little doubt that many of the lectures at the old polytechnic were simply vehicles for introducing advertisements, just in the same way that, in the pantomime harlequinade, all the clown has to do is to bring on a box, which, on a touch from the wand of the harlequin, is turned into a magnified piece of popular soap, or a bottle of scent, with the name and address of the patentees printed in good-sized letters. the following specimen is only a slight exaggeration of what i mean: "ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasant duty this evening to give you a lecture on the beautiful city of bombay; and, with the assistance of the magnificent dissolving views which i have at my command, the little trip which i propose to take in your company will prove almost as good as the reality to those who have _not_ been fortunate enough to visit bombay, and will recall most pleasant recollections to those who have. we will start by the ten o'clock express to leeds. i am aware that this is somewhat out of the way, but it is worth while deviating a few hundreds of miles in order to travel by the new first-class carriages now running on the north south east western line. this is, doubtless, the best line in the kingdom. i have no interest in the line whatever, although i quite appreciate the honour which the directors have conferred upon me by presenting me with a free pass. to return to the subject of bombay. as one cannot leave this tight little island without crossing the dreadful channel, i recommend those of my audience who are not good sailors to procure a tin of 'bankem's anti-seasick biscuits;' they are an infallible remedy, and can be procured at brown's in cheapside, jones's at charing cross, and robinson's in piccadilly. my sole reason in mentioning this, is the comfort of the british public. well, eventually we reach bombay, and there is a deal to see. you should get one of "jidson's double binocular, concave, magnifying, four-jointed field glasses.' the next four views are of 'messrs. jidson's warehouses in the city.' the pavements being hot in bombay, i should recommend your taking a pair of 'shoeling's leather-sandalled, woollen-lined bluchers.' there is no boot manufacturer's to equal these bluchers for walking abroad. if you enquire at the door, at the conclusion of the lecture, they will give you messrs. shoeling's card and circular of full particulars. i have often wondered why, in an enterprising city like bombay, they have never laid down 'johnson's tar macadamised wood pavements.' the next view is an instantaneous photograph of messrs. johnson's _employes_ laying down the pavement in scent street, bermondsey. this pavement is more successful than any other ever tried in the vast metropolis. their agent is james wilkins, a stone buildings. on arriving at bombay, i should suggest your going to the 'golden hawk,' english hotel; proprietor, mr. mulgan jackson, a most civil landlord. the prices are moderate; and you can have an early bath, if you wish, although i should advise your taking with you a 'scalden's folding indiarubber douche bath.' they take up little room, and only weigh a couple of hundredweight. do not take candles with you, for they melt in bombay immediately. take a 'flamer's duplex paraffin fusel lamp,' a sample of which i produce for your inspection. as you may not be able to get the right oil in bombay, you will be compelled to take a few gallons with you; and, while i think of it, if you want to write home, get from mr. williams, bridge street, marylebone square, a ninepenny 'multum in parvo,' which contains a writing tablet, bottle of 'undryupable ink,' a quire of note-paper (four different tints), envelopes to match, four steel pens, two quill ditto and wiper, wafers, ink-eraser, stick of sealing-wax, and an almanack. ladies and gentlemen, the next view, a photograph of 'wheeler's double-tyred tricycle,' will conclude the first of my series of six lectures on bombay. i thank you for your kind attention. the diving-bell will now descend in the great hall, and, on your way there, please don't forget to look at the stall containing specimens of 'messrs. glasse's folding perambulators,' as they may useful if you desire to take your children with you to bombay." alas! the lecturer in town and country seems to have had his day. when i was a boy, there were hundreds of lecturers on thousands of subjects. during the winter months there were lecturers everywhere. elderly people went to be instructed; young men and women to "eye" each other; while boys went invariably to be "turned out." dissolving views were the most patronised of the serious lectures, and i do not think i ever went to one at which some unfortunate person was not ejected. the darkness tempts unruly people to interrupt. it is with much pain and regret that i confess to having been myself politely requested to leave the polytechnic (before i was engaged there) for unseemly conduct. on one occasion the lecturer was stating, amidst breathless silence, "this particular bark is infested with ten thousand millions of parasites." i simply said, in a high falsetto, "oh, indeed!" the lights were turned up, and i was turned out! professor pepper always took most kindly to me, and it was his only disappointment, i believe, that i could not introduce the immortal ghost-effect in my humorous _scenas_. in the spring of i produced "the puddleton penny readings," and in the autumn "theatricals at thespis lodge." that was my last engagement there; for dr. croft came into power, and wrote most of the humorous entertainments himself. these were designed entirely for the magic lantern, and had, therefore, to be given in the dark. i naturally could not see my way to undertake them, and reluctantly refused his kind offer to stay on. one little story, and i bid farewell to the old polytechnic. professor pepper was a perfect adept at satisfying an audience; if by chance the experiments went wrong; and sometimes they _did_ go wrong, and no mistake, in the good old days, at the polytechnic. i shall never forget the first-night failure of an entertainment called "the arabian mystery," and the manner in which professor pepper, by good temper and chaff, prevented a crowded audience from being very disagreeable. "the arabian mystery" may be explained as follows: one girl was blindfolded and placed on the platform, with her back to the audience. a large screen was then placed so as to conceal her from the public. another girl walked down the centre aisle with a pack of cards, and then waited the professor's orders. professor pepper then produced a white board, about four feet long by two and a half wide, on which appeared in black some hieroglyphics that i have no hesitation whatever in denouncing as sham. after dwelling on the mysteries of this supposed arabian fable, or whatever it was, professor pepper threw it on to the stage in front of the screen. (i may mention that the entertainment took place in the small theatre which some years afterwards was burned down.) the audience tittered considerably when the board of hieroglyphics was pitched upon the stage; and pepper, with great solemnity, called to the poor girl, who was standing amongst the audience in a great state of nervousness, and instructed her to request some lady or gentleman to "select a card." someone chose a card, and handed it back to the girl, who walked at once to a particular spot in the aisle, and, by means of a series of pressures of the foot (which were perceptible to everyone in front of the house), tried to convey the name of the card by electricity to the girl behind the screen. there was a long pause, and no reply; during which professor pepper said to the girl in front: "no wonder she does not tell you the name of the card, for you have not asked her to do so." there were a few ironical cheers then, which only succeeded in making the poor more nervous than ever. professor pepper again addressed her, saying: "you had better give her another card, and let us try again. the audience must remember that this is the first night of 'the arabian mystery,' and some little allowance should be made." this observation brought forth the usual applause; which shows that a british audience is always game for fair play. another card was offered, taken, and returned to the girl, who, as before, walked back to the same spot, and once more tried with her foot to convey the message to the platform, at the same time asking, in a tremulous voice, "what card do i hold up?" the card happened to be the ace of diamonds. after a pause, the girl behind the screen, in a shrill voice, shouted, "seven of clubs!" the audience, being perfectly good-tempered, simply roared with laughter at the fiasco. professor pepper placed his hands up, to suggest that they should be silent, but for a considerable period he was unsuccessful in procuring order. when he could be heard, he said: "ladies and gentlemen, i dare say you are of opinion that the lady behind the screen has made a mistake." (loud laughter.) "as it happens, she is perfectly correct! this is an arabian mystery, and i ought to have explained to you that in arabia the ace of diamonds _is_ the seven of clubs." this preposterous joke was greeted with applause and laughter. professor pepper (continuing) said: "that is right. i am glad to see that such good feeling exists between us. now, we'll try again, please. offer another card." whether the next few attempts were successful i cannot remember. i was not so interested, i am sorry to say, in the successful attempts as in the failures. but i am quite certain with regard to the result of the last card offered. it was (we will say) the three of clubs. the girl behind the screen shouted, "queen of hearts." this was a little too much; and though half the audience still took failure in good part, the other half showed unmistakable signs of impatience. professor pepper, with perfect good humour, said: "ladies and gentlemen, i must ask for your consideration again. you seem to forget that this is an arabian mystery. now, if the lady behind the screen told you correctly the name of the card, there would be no mystery about the matter, for the trick is a very simple one. anybody can do it. but the 'mystery' is, how is it she is _not_ telling the cards correctly? _that's_ the arabian mystery, and no mistake." owing to the cheery manner of the popular lecturer, and a promise that it should be "all right" the next night, the audience departed to the large theatre, to hear mr. george buckland, who was a great favourite at the polytechnic institution. chapter v. in the provinces. "a wandering minstrel i."--_the mikado_. i concluded my first long engagement at the polytechnic in the summer of , and mr. and mrs. howard paul engaged me to join them for several weeks on a seaside tour. this was to me a delightful way of combining business with pleasure, and i particularly remember a delightful week at scarborough. i returned to the polytechnic in the autumn, and produced "the silver wedding," a short easy version of which i have published. it was in this sketch i introduced "i am so volatile," which was the first comic song i published. applications were continually made to me from provincial institutions; but i could only accept those at a short distance from town, as my daily work at bow street had to be done as well. it was hard work; but i am used to hard work, and enjoy it. all prospects of entering for the bar disappeared, and it was my father's own suggestion that we should try an entertainment together. he was an enormous favourite in the country as a humorous reciter; and he thought my piano and songs would prove more attractive if given with him, as it might otherwise have been thought that i was starting a rival entertainment--a thought which neither of us desired to encourage. we accordingly worked out a trial programme, and in may, , we gave our joint recitals at the masonic hall, birmingham. the papers of may th spoke most highly of the entertainment; and the result was, my father decided that in the autumn we should start together with a tour of the provincial institutions. as i previously stated, i had only visited institutions which i could conveniently reach after my daily work at bow street; but as i was married on may th, two days after the above trial trip, it became necessary for me to materially increase my income. i was fortunate in having the permanent assistance at bow street of mr. h. r. hollingshead, son of mr. john hollingshead, the popular manager and author; so there was no longer a bar to a continued tour. first of all, there was my honeymoon to be spent. to take a trip abroad was quite beyond my means, and no noble duke in those days came forward to place his country demesne at our disposal; so, amidst a shower of rice, my wife and departed for leamington. why leamington? well, i will tell you. i had received a very good offer from my friend, mr. wm. southern, of that town, who though it would be a good thing for me to give a single-handed recital at the end of the fortnight i intended staying, and he would see that the interesting circumstance of my passing my honeymoon was carefully paragraphed in the papers. the result was a crowded room, and the cost of my pleasure trip materially reduced. we visited other places, and wound up our happy month at the charming residence of one of my wife's relatives at aigburth, near liverpool. here was another stroke of business on my part; for i joined forces with mrs. howard paul in a combined entertainment for a week, at the concert hall, bold street, liverpool. in the autumn, however, the tour with my father commenced. we started in devonshire and cornwall, the result being that i was away from home a fortnight. we usually got home on saturdays, that being no day for the institutions. i did not at all like leaving the girl i loved behind me, and i always disliked (and suppose i always shall) travelling. i append a programme of one of the recitals given in conjunction with my father during the season - : birkbeck literary and scientific institution, southampton buildings, chancery lane. programme of the literary and musical entertainment to be given by messrs. george grossmith, on wednesday evening, june th, commencing at half-past eight o'clock. part i. mr. george grossmith. gems from charles dickens (in memoriam). little tony weller and his grandfather. birth of the junior partner in the firm of "dombey and son" part ii. mr. george grossmith, jun. a new descriptive melody, entitled-- "seven ages of song!" and (by request) selections from his humorous and mimetical sketch, entitled-- "the puddleton penny readings." part iii. mr. george grossmith. the humour of mark twain. autobiographical reminiscences. our first visitor. journalism down in tennessee. &c., &c. part iv. mr. george grossmith, jun. new musical scena, "in the stalls!" annual invitation--up to london--lord mayor's show in a fog--stalls at the pantomime--science at the polytechnic--high-class music (never performed out of london)--"our daily work is over." admission, d. pit, s. reserved seats, s. members free. i also attach one of my single-handed programmes: alexandra club and institute, truro road, wood green. r. d. m. littler, esq., q.c., president. entertainments for members & friends. the next of the above entertainments will take place on wednesday, december , . literary and musical entertainment by mr. geo. grossmith, jun (of the royal polytechnic, london concerts, &c.) programme. original colloquial and pianoforte sketch, entitled-- "our choral society." musical movement in moreton-super-mire--great excitement, local and vocal--moreton acquires a choir--formation of the society--the pleasure of singing (and the pain of listening)--the patroness, lady alum gargle--her harmonic triumphs, past and present--the society gets up a public bawl for the benefit of a private charity--a polite conductor--mr. g. sharp composes a new cantata, "the penitent pilgrim"--the pilgrim undergoes a trying rehearsal--the concert!-- marvellous effect of an indistinct "reapers' chorus"--breathless effect of the long runs--the secular music--pianoforte solo by miss spikes--manufacture of italian songs--grand finale, "lightly tripping o'er the hills," by mr. and mrs. hoggsedd. readings. the "coroner's inquest," by thomas hood, and an original, humorous narrative (after arthur sketchley), entitled "mrs. brown on the shaksperian drama." old song ... ... "my dejeuner a la fourchette" ... ... john parry to conclude with a new musical and whimsical fancy, entitled, "jottings from the jetty." to commence at eight o'clock precisely. tickets (non-members), d. reserved seats, s. d. may be obtained at the post office, wood green; barker's library, commercial road; and at the club room, truro road. members free, who may also obtain one lady's ticket for sixpence on application to the manager at the club only. f. wood, g. demant, hon. secs. these years of tearing about all over the united kingdom were more or less amusing--"generally _less_," as h. j. byron observed. the visits with my father were the most varied. with mrs. howard paul or miss marryat, costumes were introduced, and the entertainment appealed to a broader section of the public. when with my father, the entertainment was patronised by the more serious section of the public. he would be giving recitals from _pickwick_ and _david copperfield_, with my comic songs and sketches alternating, on a small platform with four or five clergymen seated thereon, they being perhaps the committee. i always got on very well with the clergy; in fact, i have always regarded myself as a species of religious comic singer. after the recitals the committee would follow us into the ante-room; four would engage my attention, while the fifth--generally a young curate--would surreptitiously slip the fee into my father's hand. i remember him once upsetting the solemnity of this "settling-up" proceeding by exclaiming loudly, "i am not ashamed of being paid. you need not hand me the fee as if it were an election bribe." my father had frequently suggested that the moment i arrived in a town i should look through the local papers, for the purpose of introducing some special topics that would come home to that particular place in the course of my sketches, which easily admitted of _ad libitum_ observations. i always intended doing it, knowing how well local topics are received; but, somehow or other, i kept forgetting to carry out my intention. one night, however, a splendid opportunity presented itself. it was some place in the midland counties, and an alderman, whom we will call juggins, had got into terrible hot water through proposing to have removed from the middle of the main thoroughfare an old stone pump. the local papers devoted columns to the controversy. half the townspeople held that the pump was sacred to them--it was a monument, an ancient landmark, it was everything useful and ornamental. the other half disagreed. the only opinion in which the townspeople were unanimous was that, whether right or wrong, alderman juggins had nothing to do with it, and that he was simply advertising himself. the evening arrived, and the hall was full. my father occupied the first half-hour, commencing at eight, with a selection from _adam bede_. i arrived at half-past eight, and in five minutes stepped on the platform, and commenced with my old sketch, "the silver wedding." the sketch concludes with a description of the supper, and the toasts proposed in honour of mr. and mrs. alphonzo de brown's silver wedding, &c., &c., with the responses. in the imitation of an old friend of the family, i spoke as nearly as i can recollect, as follows: "we all congratulate our dear host and hostess on having arrived at this important epoch in their lives, and the occasion has created even more sensation than that created by alderman juggins's pump." i waited for the tremendous roar of laughter and applause that would surely follow this remark. to my intense surprise, there was not the ghost of a laugh. it could only be accounted for in one way--i had evidently dropped my voice, and the "gag" had consequently missed its mark. i would try again. i proceeded with the supposed old gentleman's speech, and concluded thus: "we will drink the toast upstanding all, with three times three; we will drink it in bumpers--we will drink it with wine, good wine, such as only our host can give--wine that has not been diluted by the product of alderman juggins's pump." this time i shouted the last sentence, so that there should be no mistake about their hearing it. to my horror, not a smile. something was wrong! perhaps the observation was out of place in the old gentleman's speech. i would not be beaten; so i determined to give it another chance in the comic man's speech. i rattled off the following nonsense in the character of the humorous gentleman: "well, in returning thanks for the ladies, i may say i am very fond of them"--(laughter)--"and i think i may also say that they are very fond of me." (roars of laughter.) "my only regret is, that i am not in a position to marry all the dear ladies who are round this festive board to-night." (continued hearty laughter, an elderly lady and a curate in the front now nearly going into hysterics. some people, fortunately, are easily pleased.) "bless the ladies! if i thought i had ever done a single act to incur their displeasure, i would immediately go out of the house and drown myself in alderman juggins's pump!" the effect was electrical. the enthusiastic audience immediately became depressed, and someone at the back of the hall shouted, "ha' done with that pump, lad--we've had enough of it!" my heart sank into my boots, and i could scarcely sing the song, "i am so volatile," which usually concluded the sketch. i retired to the ante-room, and instantly attacked my father. i said, "well, i have taken your advice, and introduced a topic, with the result that it was a dead failure. i shall take good care never to repeat the experiment." my father said, "topic? what topic?" "why," i responded, "i made several allusions to the juggins's pump discussion, with the result that i made a complete ass of myself." my father burst out laughing, and said, "i don't wonder at it. didn't you hear me do it? why, i worked it up all through the first part." "but," i argued, "how could you do that? you were reciting _adam bede_." "i know i was," he answered. "i kept bringing alderman juggins's pump in mrs. poyser's remarks, and it went _enormously_." i do not know what the feelings of the audience were, but i leave the reader to imagine mine. country audiences are certainly most enthusiastic and delightful to entertain. of course there are exceptions, and the following is an amusing one: we were at some little hall in the country, and when my father concluded the first portion of the entertainment he said to the chairman, who followed him into the ante-room: "the audience seem most enthusiastic." the chairman replied: "do you think so, mr. grossmith? why, i thought they were exceptionally apathetic." my father replied: "well, i thought they were, if anything, _too_ enthusiastic; for they were knocking their umbrellas and sticks, without cessation, on the ground all the time." chairman replied, languidly: "oh, that wasn't applause. you see, our post-office is at other end of the room, and they are simply stamping the letters for the up mail." the usual fee at the institutions was five guineas. there were a few that could afford more; but against this there was a good fifty per cent. of institutions that begged of the lecturers to knock off a guinea or two. some were not quite so exacting, and begged that only the "shillings" might be deducted. my father used to relate an amusing adventure he had experienced concerning the reduction of fees. at some out-of-the-way spot in scotland he was met on the railway platform by a deputation of old gentlemen, who conducted him to his hotel. at twenty minutes to eight o'clock this scotch deputation came to hotel and conducted him to the lecture-hall. after the lecture, the same elderly deputation conducted him back to the hotel. the next morning, having ascertained the hour at which he meditated departing, the deputation turned up again, and conducted him back to station. on the platform the elder man of the deputation, addressing my father, said: "you'll be sorry to hear that we find, on making up the accounts, we are exactly £ s. d. out of pocket by your lecture. we thought you would not like to leave the town with that upon your mind; and so we give you the opportunity of returning the deficit, and enabling you, with a clear conscience, to say we have not lost by your visit." my father, in telling this story, used to add: "i told the deputation it was most kind of them to afford me the opportunity, and i certainly would carefully consider the matter. i kept my word; for, although that occurred ten years ago, i have been carefully considering it ever since." when my father and i appeared together, a double fee was demanded; but this was sometimes alleviated on the "reduction-on-taking-a-quantity" principle. some institutions could not engage us; and assuming always that these could stand the entertainment, but not the fee, we used to part for a night or two and go our divers ways, and join forces again at the next town where both were engaged. the lecture season used to last about seven months. we had to pay our own railway fares and hotel bills, of course; but as we travelled third, and lived very moderately, the expenses were not great. then my father, being so popular socially, was nearly always entertained, and, for his sake, the hospitality was frequently extended to me; and i take this opportunity to express my gratitude to the many strangers in the country who have offered me a home, made me very comfortable, and saved me an hotel bill. after the lectures we often were taken home to supper, and some of the audience or friends of the host asked to meet us, and my father used to keep the whole table in a roar. it was, of course, on account of his popularity that on arriving in a town there was a little rush to secure us as guests. sometimes there was a rush in the opposite direction; but hospitality generally held the sway. the secretaries used to write: "dear sir,--mr. blank, our mayor, desires honour of entertaining you. personally i am sorry, for i had hoped to have entertained you myself. "yours, &c., &c." precedence was always given to the mayor, and very jolly fellows the provincial mayors are. in one town i was always "roofed" by the mayor--the same mayor. as far as i can say, he always had been elected mayor, and always would be. it appears that there sometimes is a great difficulty in persuading anybody to be the mayor. certainly there is no eagerness displayed in some towns to secure that official position. the librarian of a town, who was selling tickets for my entertainment, said: "our mayor, mr. z----, who entertains you here, mr. grossmith, has made himself so popular by his liberality that we shall elect him again next year. the last mayor never spent a single penny of the allowance made him." "how much does a mayor get here?" i asked. "ten pounds," said the librarian, "and mr. z---- has spent nearly the whole of it on banquets, &c." i have frequently been asked, in reference to the long runs at the savoy theatre, if i have not derived some interest from the change of audiences. it appears to me that the audiences at the savoy are always the same, except in numbers. the house may not be so full, and the enthusiasm may vary; but in all other respects they are the same. when i give my entertainments at the savoy, the same points tell, and the laughter and applause come in exactly the same places. in the country i never quite knew what would take. i am speaking of the general patter. things that missed fire in london went enormously in the country; but i am bound to say that, taken altogether, i have been much flattered by the gracious way in which my sketches have been received in all places and by all kinds of people. i have experienced extraordinary changes in the style of audience. i gave the same selection in the drawing-room of the duchess of st. albans, before t.r.h. the prince and princess of wales and about two dozen other distinguished ladies and gentlemen, in march, , that i gave, a few days after, at falkirk, to about , enthusiastic scotch people, the greater part of whom had paid the admission charge of one penny. the selection included my sketches of amateur theatricals, a christmas pantomime, the penny readings, &c. i have not often been interrupted in public rooms. in private, i have by people talking. but whenever i am interrupted, i make a point of remonstrating. i do not adopt this course for the mere sake of what is vulgarly called "side," or "swagger," but because my nerve absolutely fails me if i become distracted. the moment i become nervous, i am, so to speak, wrecked. i feel a little diffident in telling the following story, inasmuch as it shows myself to advantage. i was giving an entertainment at greenwich with mrs. howard paul. i was singing a song called "awfully lively," in character, accompanied by miss blanche navarre, the singer, who remembers the incident well, when i was much put out by a "funny man" in the back seats, which were very high up, i being on a platform low down, as if in a well. he commenced with a comic laugh in the wrong place. the audience tittered audibly. a little later on he interrupted with a comic cough. the audience laughed outright, and so they did again with increased vigour when he subsequently indulged in a comic sneeze. i determined to no notice of it, thinking he would get tired. not a bit of it. he next treated me to a comic remark which completely put me off, and i broke down in the middle of my song. quietly addressing the audience, i said: "ladies and gentlemen,--there are two comic gentlemen here to-night, and you cannot very well hear both at the same time. it would be extremely selfish on my part were i to entirely monopolise the platform to the exclusion of the other comic gentleman; therefore, with your kind permission, i will retire for a short time, and give him the opportunity of coming down here and giving his entertainment. when he has finished, i will resume." i then retired from the platform, but listened at the door to hear what was going on. i heard cries of "go down!" "sing a song!" amid laughter and applause. but being funny in an audience and being funny on a platform are two distinct things; and the difference was evidently appreciated by the other comic gentleman, who absolutely declined to accept the invitation to "go down" or to "sing a song." i then heard my own name called repeatedly, so i returned to the platform and met with a good reception. when silence reigned, and as i perceived good humour prevailed, i said: "the other comic gentleman having exhausted his stock of humour, i will proceed with mine." this was received with cheers, and subsequently all was peace. i was obliged to resign a proposed prolonged engagement with mrs. howard paul; for her tours would take her away from london months at a time, while the entertainment with my father always brought me home on saturday night, and sometimes would allow of my being weeks in london at a time: so from till i visited the institutions with him when possible, and by myself when not. sometimes i used to make my single-handed engagements fit in capitally--sometimes i did not. to fill up five consecutive days in yorkshire, including the institutions at leeds and bradford, who always paid the full fee, with a request that i should visit them again the following season, was most satisfactory. but such a happy state of things could not always be arranged. the usual course was this: the first good offers that came in were "booked" immediately, no matter what part of the united kingdom they came from. the next applications had to be fitted in. sometimes i managed to fit in, say, monday, wednesday, and thursday in cornwall and devonshire. tuesday would be vacant, and rather than lose the day i would arrange, at a reduced fee, to give an entertainment at some very small institution. as a matter of advertisement that is a very bad thing to do. the larger institutions hear of it, and naturally expect you to do the same for them. occasionally, through mismanagement or ill-luck, the engagements were arranged in a dreadfully inconvenient manner. twice in one season i had to entertain in edinburgh one night and london the next. one of these nights i shall not easily forget. i was singing at the private residence of a then popular bailie, in edinburgh. i hurried from the house to catch the night mail to london. the snow was terrible, and i got into a third-class carriage, tipping the guard to try and keep the compartment for myself, as i wanted to change my evening clothes for a warmer suit. the guard said, "all right, sir," took the tip, locked the door, then immediately unlocked it again and ushered in a drunken ruffian of the lowest type. there were no cushions to the seats of the third class carriages in those days, so i took out my two air-cushions--one to sit upon and the other to put at the back of my head. i began to blow them out, and as they expanded, the ridiculous operation evidently tickled the fancy of my distinguished fellow-passenger, who began to grin and chuckle in an idiotic fashion thinking that after all he was a good-tempered fellow, i asked him if he had any objection to my changing my things. he leered at me and asked, "what for?" i said i had on a thin evening suit, that it was a bitterly cold night, and that i wanted to attire myself in something warmer. "you shan't do it if i can help it!" he said sulkily, and at the same time he shifted along the seat till he was exactly opposite to me. as there was no chance of the train stopping till we got to carlisle, my feelings may be imagined. "change your clothes, indeed," he kept muttering; "not while i'm here." i felt much vexed, and yet saw he was a very ugly customer to cross in temper. he began to fill his pipe, and i seized the opportunity to observe: "i don't object to your smoking, although this is not a smoking carriage." he replied, "i'm not going to ask you whether you object or not." "very well, have your own way," i remarked. "i mean to," he grunted, and for the next quarter of an hour puffed away in silence. he was evidently thinking. so was i. i was thinking that if i had been the same size and weight as my delightful companion, we might have come to better terms. presently he said, "what do you want to change your clothes for?" "i told you," i replied, "i feel cold, and want to put on something warm." "well, i'm not going to let you," he said. "i know! you said that before," i remarked. "and i'll say it again. do you hear?" he shouted. "i'll say it again. i'm not going to let you. there! how do i know who you are? it's only thieves and murderers who go about changing their clothes. i don't say you are one: still, how am i to know you are _not_ one--eh? tell me that." i ventured no observation whatever, but let him go on. he evidently was working himself up into a species of fever, and feeling oppressed let down the window, and in came a hurricane of wind and snow. now when a man of this description is drunk and inclined to be violent, there is only one method of procuring temporary peace. no matter how drunk he is, hand him a brandy-flask. i therefore took down my bag and opened it. whether the man thought i was looking for a revolver or not i cannot say, but he watched my proceedings with suspicion and carefully drew from his pocket a large clasp-knife, which he opened and placed on the seat beside him. this opened my eyes considerably to the kind of customer i had to deal with. i found the flask, and poured into the metal cup about a large wine-glassful of neat brandy. addressing him, i said: "you're a disagreeable fellow. you want to quarrel with me, but i tell you plainly i am not going to quarrel with you. so drink this." the beast (one could scarcely call him a man) took the cup and drained the brandy. in the meanwhile i pulled up the window, a proceeding to which my friend said he had not the "slightest objection." suddenly there was a loud _whirrrr_, and i was jerked forward on my seat by the sudden application of the brake to the train. we slackened pace and eventually pulled up at some little dark station, the signal evidently being against us. before i could get to the door on the left side, the man had crossed and let down the window. i shouted to the fellow, "here! get out quickly; i'll stand you another drink." he got out on to the platform and staggered off the length of the carriage, presuming i was following. the guard rushed up and called to the man to get back, as "the train was not stopping at that station." this was scarcely the truth, but i knew what he meant. i stood on the step and stopped the guard, saying: "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, after taking a 'tip' from me, to put a drunken brute like that into the carriage." the man on the platform began shouting after me, "come on, mate!" the guard locked my door and proceeded to get the man into another carriage. the man would not go. i heard the guard say, "if you don't get in here, you'll be left behind." the man pushed the guard away and made for my carriage again. the guard followed and a short tussle ensued, the man striving to open the locked door of my carriage, with a few choice expressions that eclipsed even the worst that i had been accustomed to hear in bow street police court. the end of it all was, that the guard lost his temper and the man lost the train. another unfortunate arrangement of dates was, london one night, monmouth the next night, and somewhere in the north the third, involving my return to london first before proceeding there. the journey to monmouth was the coldest i ever recollect. i did not arrive until close upon eight o'clock. the entertainment was given in conjunction with my father, who happened to be lecturing in that district. he instructed me, on arrival, to go to the hotel. when i got there i was instantly served with a chop, fresh from the grill, and a small bottle of guinness. my father, ever thoughtful for my comfort, had arranged for my favourite meal, and left a little note, in shorthand, for me to this effect: "my dear old boy, take your time. i will go on till i see you are in the hall.--your ever affectionate guv." he had to open the proceedings, as usual when we gave the joint recitals, and he meant by the above note that he would go on reciting until he knew i was prepared to give one of my musical sketches. i finished my simple dinner and walked over to the hall. by-the-by it was not a hall, but the sessions-house, the audience being seated in the body of the court and the entertainers appearing on the bench. the court was like an ice-safe, and my fingers were so cold i could not properly play the piano, and had to apologise for my extra defective execution. i have frequently made my appearance at the sessions under the above circumstances. at cardiff i have always appeared in the court-house, and a splendid audience i always had. if i remember rightly, the chief seats were in the prisoners' dock, which, of course, commanded the best view of the entertainers' bench. i knew there was always a rush for the dock--i mean on the nights when my father and i were there; not when the proper judge was there, of course. it seems strange that people should pay for the privilege of being accommodated with a seat in the dock. i ought to mention that the granting of the court-house for the purpose of entertainments was unusual. it was a favour extended towards well-known lecturers only. it would be quite impossible, in a small book like this, to describe all the extraordinary incidents which i have encountered while fulfilling my engagements (before i went on the stage, of course) at the various country institutions. by institutions i refer to the societies which were formed all over the united kingdom chiefly for the benefit of the better-class working men and women, and the popularity of which is on the wane, owing to the prevalence of free libraries, penny readings, and amateur concerts. some of these institutions, which provide reading and writing rooms, debating classes, educational classes, and a room or rooms for concerts and lectures, etc., can boast a really magnificent building--for an institution. i have most pleasant recollections of the leeds mechanics' institution, the bradford, the edinburgh, plymouth, &c.; for they possessed splendid halls for acoustics, a good platform, a capital grand piano (most welcome to me), always a crowded audience (most welcome to everybody), and they refrained from commencing the proceedings--at all events when i gave my humorous recitals--with prayer. oh yes, gentle reader, my comic recitals have frequently been commenced with prayer--nearly always at the young men's christian literary institutions. sometimes, in addition, there would be a short sermon. i have a distinct recollection of an amiable curate, at the conclusion of one of my country engagements, rising to propose a vote of thanks to me. he was most flattering and kind in his observations, and being a little unorthodox (for a country village), impressed upon the audience that there was "no sin in a genuine hearty laugh." he meant well, no doubt; but as the audience had not laughed in the least throughout my recital, i thought the curate's remark rather superfluous. some fifteen or sixteen years ago i was engaged to give a short entertainment, for a still shorter fee, at some schoolrooms connected with a church in camden town. the rooms were in a small back street adjacent to the high street. the festivities consisted of a spread of tea and what mr. w. s. gilbert calls "the rollicking bun and the gay sally lunn," interspersed with conversation, songs by amateurs, homely advice by the vicar, and a few comic songs--i beg pardon, i should say "humorous ditties"--by myself. the rooms were crowded with the poorer parishioners, who ought, each sunday, to have attended the church, but did not as a matter of fact. most of the husbands could not come to the entertainment, for reasons best known to themselves, but their wives and babies did. i never sang to so many women and babies before or since. i like an audience consisting of ladies: they do not make such a visible sign of enjoyment as do the sterner sex, but they have a much keener appreciation of satire, music, and humour. but ladies without babies and with babies are totally different people. the moment a baby makes its presence known to an audience it is all up with the entertainer; competition is useless, and he may as well retire from the platform. on this occasion there were fifty babies and general chaos. the mothers became anxious and the audience demoralised. at last it was my turn to sing. i was about to step on to platform, when the vicar said to me, "mr. grossmith--one moment, please. i am most desirous that these poor folk should enjoy themselves, and i do not wish to inflict upon them anything approaching a sermon. at the same time i want most particularly to impress upon them the necessity of their attending church occasionally. now i thought you might drop them a little reminder about the non-observance of the sabbath, which is, unfortunately, characteristic of them." "do you seriously want me to do that?" i asked. "certainly," he replied. "it would appear less like a sermon, and they might take it better from you than from me." "you had better do it yourself," i said; "for i have no doubt if i did it they would put it down as part of the comic entertainment, and it would be received with roars of laughter." "ah! that would never do," said the vicar. "very well, mr. grossmith, i will act upon your suggestion and do it myself." the vicar proceeded with a rather lengthy serious speech, the peroration of which was much like the following: "in conclusion, my friends, no excuse can be accepted for your not coming occasionally to church. i hear too often from you that you cannot leave your babies. mrs. brown says she cannot leave hers, and mrs. jones tells me cannot leave hers, and so it goes on. but you can befriend each other. mrs. brown can mind her own babies as well as mrs. jones's for one sunday, and mrs. jones can do the same for mrs. brown the following sunday. you would then be able to come once a fortnight at all events. it is a duty that devolves upon you, and a duty you must, at all hazards, perform. remember this, my friends--you _must_ try and come to church. mr. grossmith will now sing '_i am so volatile_.'" one night there was a break-down on the rail-line, and my father and myself never arrived in the town until twenty past eight, although we should have commenced at eight punctually. we dressed in the cab, which flew along like a fire-engine. suddenly we espied a building lighted up, and a large crowd coming out. my father pushed his head out of the window and shouted frantically to the crowd, "go back! go back! it's all right. grossmith is here. we have arrived. go back!" unfortunately it was not our audience, but a congregation leaving a methodist chapel. in miss florence marryat, the novelist and daughter of the celebrated capt. marryat, talked over a joint entertainment. it was quite apparent that the literary institutions were "not what they were." their fees, like their engagements, were rapidly decreasing. miss marryat and i thought out a programme, and determined to appeal more generally to the public. i append one of the programmes: programme of "entre nous." prologue...spoken by florence marryat, and interrupted by geo. grossmith, jun. humorous musical scena... "on the sands" ... _grossmith_. geo. grossmith, jun. costume recital... "joan of arc in prison" ... _james albery_. florence marryat. (with the scena by lindsay sloper.) humorous musical scena... "a cold collation" ... _grossmith_. geo. grossmith, jun. costume recital... "the grandmother" ... ... _tennyson_. florence marryat. historical medley... "richard coeur-de-leon" ... _e. draper_. interval of three minutes. to conclude with a satirical musical sketch, entitled "cups and saucers." (written and composed expressly by geo. grossmith, jun.) mrs. emily nankeen worcester (a china maniac) ... florence marryat. general deelah (another) ... ... ... geo. grossmith, jun. the above is the last joint entertainment i ever gave, except with my father, and i only fulfilled one or two more with him. "cups and saucers" was afterwards played before _h.m.s. pinafore_, at the opera comique, for about nights. it is still played a great deal by amateurs all over the country, both with and without my permission. this entertainment with miss marryat was more of an artistic success than a financial one. sometimes we did very well, and sometimes we did not. in scotland we always had crowded rooms; but at the antient concert rooms, dublin, we played a whole month, the majority of the time to half-full rooms. i enjoyed the month in dublin, for all that. the people were most hospitable; and so florence marryat, her companion (miss glover), mr. george dolby, and myself managed to enjoy ourselves. henry irving was in dublin at the time, and, as i had the privilege of being an old friend of his, i naturally came in for all his parties; and irving is a prince of hosts. florence marryat, in her excellent book _tom tiddler's ground_, has regaled her readers with several stories about me; so i am going to have my revenge. she is a great believer in spiritualism, and on one occasion, in dublin, she persuaded me to sit at a table with her. the table began to tilt, rap, creak, and move; and it is not in my province to attempt to explain the marvellous phenomena. my explanation would be too simple to be scientific. the conditions, however, are, that if the table tilts three times in answer to a question, it means "yes," and if only once "no." florence marryat informed me--and i have no reason to doubt her word--that a gentleman, with a name something like "sticks," was endeavouring to communicate with her through the table. it appears that poor "sticks" had left this world through an excess of stimulants. two questions were asked by miss marryat, and replied to by "sticks." at last mr. "sticks" condescended, with three tilts, to imply that he would answer my questions. miss marryat begged that i would not be irreverent; and i argued that if i were, i presumed "sticks" would treat me with contempt. i said to the table: "mr. sticks, i wish to ask you a few questions?" [by-the-by, i believe he was a "colonel sticks." it is of little consequence now in this story; but it was at the time, for spirits, like human beings, are most particular about being addressed by their proper titles.] in reply to my question, "sticks" oscillated the table violently, which, i was informed, meant agitation on his part. florence marryat told me the poor chap was in purgatory. i said: "sticks, i believe you died of drink?" three decisive tilts of the table. "now, mr. sticks," i asked, "is it possible to take too much drink in purgatory?" the table was seized with convulsions, and wriggled and oscillated to a corner of the room. when it was quiet, i said: "mr. sticks, do not think i mean to be disrespectful; but are you drunk now?" then came three solemn but distinct tilts. florence marryat considered i was most discourteous to poor "sticks," and has never since sat with me at a table, except for lunch or dinner. a sudden illness of miss marryat was, on one occasion, the cause of an unrehearsed, but withal very successful, entertainment. miss marryat and i were announced to appear at the town hall, cardiff, in our entertainment, "entre nous." i copy the following from a cardiff paper of february st, : "mr. geo. grossmith, jun., at the town-hall, cardiff.--between you and me, gentle reader, or, as the advertisements have had it so prominently of late, _entre nous_, there was no 'entre nous' at the assembly rooms, cardiff, last night. at the last moment it was announced that miss florence marryat was incapacitated by a serious illness from taking her part in the promised performance. a capital audience had been drawn to the town hall, a large number of whom were, doubtless, attracted by the expectation of seeing this talented authoress and most gifted _artiste_. it is, however, only due to them to say that they bore their disappointment kindly, and, with only one exception, the whole of the audience--although the promoters of the entertainment offered to return their money at the doors--remained to witness the single-handed entertainment provided by mr. george grossmith, jun. and it was well for them they did so, for they enjoyed a treat which must have made even miss marryat's absence almost appear in the light of a blessing. at the last moment, whilst the audience were grimly reading the announcement of that lady's sudden illness, at the time when consternation was reigning in the bosom of those enterprising _entrepreneurs_, messrs. thompson and shackell, and whilst mr. george grossmith, jun., was shivering in his shoes with timidity at the thought of the cool reception which, in his bereaved condition, he was likely to obtain, a sudden and a happy thought flashed across the mind of one of his friends. 'why not get courtenay clarke* to give you a lift, my boy?' suggested one of the bystanders. 'i scarcely dare ask him,' replied the desponding entertainer. 'oh, but he was one of your father's warmest friends,' rejoined the speaker; 'and his good nature is only equalled by his marvellous comic power. anyhow, you can try it, for i see that he and colonel page have just entered the room.' and so the attempt upon mr. clarke's good nature was made; and, fortunately, it was successful. there was a mysterious whispering between mr. shackell and the intended victim. then the pair retired to the ante-room, and their arguments were addressed to mr. clarke's kindly feeling of friendship, which resulted in the appearance on the platform, very shortly afterwards, of the clever young entertainer, escorted by mr. clarke, who took the chair. in a speech of inimitable humour, he explained and apologised for the absence of miss marryat, and introduced, with words of encouragement, the younger grossmith. of this gentleman's performance it is scarcely necessary to speak in detail. it is the very essence of refined musical comedy." * mr. courtenay c. clarke was a resident at cardiff, who generally entertained my father and myself on our professional visits. he became a great friend of mine, and he was a most talented amateur reciter and raconteur. i last saw him about two years ago, when he and colonel c. page, of cardiff (also an intimate friend of mine), supped with me at the garrick. here follow twenty-eight lines of such a flattering description that my modesty (forgive me, gentle reader) will not permit of my reproducing them. the notice continues thus: "gratified, however, as everybody was with mr. grossmith's performance, the real 'fun of the fair' commenced when mr. courtenay clarke essayed his wonderful reminiscences of mr. grossmith the elder. with marvellous fidelity, mr. clarke has caught the very trick of voice and manner which constitute the chiefest charm of that mellow humorist. one could almost imagine one was in mr. grossmith's company whilst listening to mr. clarke's side-splitting imitations. the delicate little side-hits, and exposition of social and personal foibles, added life to the sketch; so that the audience were constrained to laugh at george grossmith himself, as well as at the delightful comic "bits" which constitute his well-known entertainment. . . . altogether, we can honestly say that a better or more acceptable entertainment than was given at the town hall last night has seldom been witnessed in cardiff." perhaps the most amusing incident that ever occurred to florence marryat and myself was at the time we were giving a saturday night's entertainment at a large hall to a popular audience at glasgow. a brusque and brawny scotchman was the caretaker, or hall-porter. i sought him out and informed him that there was neither towel nor soap in either of dressing-rooms. he firmly told me that i must find my own towel and soap, as it did not answer his purpose to do so. i asked what he meant. he said that the entertainers generally stole the soap and towels afterwards. there was no attempt to wrap up the accusation. he called a spade a spade, without doubt. i was very indignant, and said: "do you dare to insinuate that a lady like florence marryat, a well-known novelist, would steal your penn'orth of soap and fourpenny towel?" he replied: "i don't know anything about miss marryat, and i don't care. all i know is, you entertainers always do walk off with my soap and towels, and i'll ha' no more of it." chapter vi. gilbert and sullivan. "then i can hum a fugue, of which i've heard the music's _din afore_, and whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense, _pinafore_." _the pirates of penzance_. i played in comparatively few amateur theatrical performances--half a dozen, at the outside. i played john chodd, jun., in _society_, at the old gallery of illustration, in ; and, singularly enough, one of my critics was mr. w. s. gilbert, who, under the heading of "the theatrical lounger," in _the illustrated times_, said: "mr. grossmith has comic powers of no mean order; and his idea of john chodd, carefully modelled on mr. clarke, had, nevertheless, an amusing originality of its own." the after-piece was a burlesque on _no thoroughfare_, written by my father, in which i danced and sang more than i acted. this performance was repeated once. i then essayed the part of paul pry, in poole's comedy of that name, at the gallery of illustration, in , and played in the afternoon a burlesque of which i was part author. these performances went off very well, and we were very much complimented (as all amateurs are), and declared our attempts to have eclipsed our neighbours (as all amateurs do). but such a thought as going on the stage never entered my head for a moment; i refused several offers, including a good one from mr. e. p. hingston to appear in the comic opera _la branche cassee_, at the opera comique, the very theatre at which i was destined to make my _debut_. after entertaining all over the country for seven years, i made a rather important discovery; viz., that my income was as rapidly _de_creasing each year as my family and household expenses were _in_creasing. i disliked being away so long from london; for there is nothing so valuable to any public singer or actor as the constant appearance of his name in the entertainments or theatrical columns of the metropolitan daily papers. i had begun my autumn and winter tour with my father for - , when, in the november of , i received the following letter: "beefsteak club, "king william street, w.c. "tuesday night. "dear mr. grossmith,--are you inclined to go on the stage for a time? there is a part in the new piece i am doing with gilbert which i think you would play admirably. i can't find a good man for it. let me have a line, or come to albert mansions to-morrow after , or thursday before . . "yours sincerely, "arthur sullivan." the great compliment which i considered the letter conveyed filled me with more delight than i ever could express. i think i read the letter over twenty times. i was not thinking of the offer of the engagement, for i was immediately under the impression that i should decline it. my father never had a good opinion of my amateur acting, and i valued his judgment so highly that his opinion was in a great measure shared by me. arthur sullivan had only heard me sing once, after a dinner party, and it was evident, from his letter, i had created some sound impression; hence my extreme delight at his offer. i remember, after the said party, sir arthur (he was then mr.) kindly asked me back to his rooms, with a few other friends, including alfred cellier, the composer, and arthur cecil, to whom i was (and still am) much indebted for the most valuable hints he had from time to time given me respecting the style of sketch and song suitable for "smart" drawing-room work, and who had taken great interest in me. at sullivan's, that evening, we all sang, played, and chatted till an early hour in the morning; and i, as a comparatively "new" man, was especially "drawn out." following arthur sullivan's letter, with its complimentary offer, came a long one from arthur cecil (who, it appears, had suggested my name to sullivan), pointing out the _pros_ and _cons_, with an additional "summing up" of both, worthy of a judge--and a good judge, too. cecil told me afterwards that sullivan both writing letters at the beefsteak, when the former said, "i can't find a fellow for this opera." arthur cecil said, "i wonder if grossmith----" before the sentence was completed, arthur sullivan said, "the very man!" i was then communicated with. i am much indebted to these two arthurs. i reverence the name of arthur; and if ever i am blessed with another son---- but there! as they say in novels, "i am digressing." then came a week of awful anxiety. should i cancel the provincial engagements which i had already made, and which were, of course, a certainty, in favour of a new venture, which was not? my father said, "not." he did not think i had voice enough. arthur sullivan, however, thought i had. i went to consult him, and he struck the d (fourth line in treble clef, if you please), and said, "sing it out as loud as you can." i did. sullivan looked up, with a most humorous expression on his face--even his eye-glass seemed to smile--and he simply said, "beautiful!" sullivan then sang, "my name is john wellington wells," and said, "you can do that?" i replied, "yes; i think i can do that." "very well," said sir arthur, "if you can do that, you can do the rest." then off i went to w. s. gilbert, at bolton gardens, to see what the part itself was like. mr. gilbert was very kind, and seemed pleased that i meditated accepting the engagement. [a few months beforehand i had played the judge, in _trial by jury_, at the hall in archer street, bayswater, and the rehearsals were conducted by mr. gilbert, who himself coached me for the first time.] gilbert read me the opening speech of j. w. wells, with reference to the sale, "penny curses," &c., with which, of course, i was much amused, and said he had not completed the second act yet; but the part of wells had developed into greater prominence than was at first anticipated. i saw that the part would suit me excellently, but i said to mr. gilbert, "for the part of a magician i should have thought you required a fine man with a fine voice." i can still see gilbert's humorous expression as he replied, "no; that is just what we don't want." i then went to mr. r. d'oyly carte, who had hit upon the idea of comic opera, by english author and composer, and interpreted by english artists, and who formed the comedy opera company limited, for the purpose of starting the venture at the opera comique. i asked carte if he could give me a day or two to think of it. the request was granted, apparently to oblige me; but i imagined, from his look, that d'oyly carte also required a day or two to think of it. i afterwards learned that the directors of comedy opera company, to a man, were adverse to my engagement. one of them sent the following telegram to carte: "whatever you do, don't engage grossmith." i myself personally was being tossed on the terrible billows of indecision. i had a certain amount of confidence in myself, but thought that if the piece failed--and the opera comique had been an unlucky theatre--i should practically be thrown out on my beam ends, having cancelled all my provincial engagements; and they were not many. i thought, however, that the advertisement of being associated with w. s. gilbert and arthur sullivan would be invaluable; and, in spite of the entreaties of all my friends, i decided to write and accept the engagement. i informed my father of my decision, and he did not hesitate to express his disappointment, not to say disapproval. to my great joy and relief, i received the following letter from mrs. howard paul, whose opinion on all professional matters i esteemed most highly, and who had always given me so much encouragement: _private_.] " the avenue, "bedford park, "turnham green. "my dear brother george,--may i claim the privilege of an old friend, and be impertinent enough to make a suggestion and give my opinion?--which is as follows: first, that, under any circumstances, and at some sacrifice, you do not fail to accept the part of the 'magician' in gilbert and sullivan's new play. it is a splendid part--better than you think, i fancy--and the 'patter song' is great in its way. make your time suit them, or theirs suit you, if possible. i have sacrificed a week's business engagements. this is only a hint to you. i think, if you will arrange, it will be a new and _magnificent introduction_ for you, and be of very great service afterwards. i'm sure the part will suit you exactly. don't think me impertinent in writing this; but i want to see your name in the cast. if i have any influence with you, now's the time to prove it. . . . i suppose you know mr. barrington and self play in the aforesaid piece. write me per return, with love to you all, believe me, "yours affectionately, "isabella howard paul." this was a great comfort to me--in fact, to all of us. i wrote mrs. howard paul that i had decided to take the engagement; and on the th november, , she, barrington and myself, and a few others, celebrated the event in the back garden at bedford park with a display of fireworks. messrs. gilbert, sullivan, and carte backed up the engagement with me, and the directors, though in the majority, were, happily for me, defeated. then came the business part of the matter with d'oyly carte, which was amusing. as i had sacrificed my country engagements, i wished carte to guarantee me a month's salary. that request he acceded to, but not to the amount of salary i required. he was instructed "only to go to a certain amount," which happened to be three guineas a week less than i asked for. the discussion, such it was, was quite pleasant, as, in fact, all my future negotiations with him were destined to be. i have been associated with mr. d'oyly carte for over ten years now, and am pleased to say i have never had anything approaching a disagreeable word with him. i said to carte: "look at the risk i am running. if i fail, i don't believe the young men's christian associations will ever engage me again, because i have appeared on the stage, and my reputation as comic singer to religious communities will be lost for ever." carte said, "well, i dare say i can make that all right." then a sudden idea occurred to him. "come and have some oysters." i did!! i shall ever regret it! a lunch off oysters and most excellent steinberg cabinet infused a liberality into my nature for which i shall never forgive myself. carte again broached the subject--_after lunch_--of the salary; and in the end, with a cheerful smile, i waived the extra three guineas a week. i calculate that, irrespective of all accumulative interest, that lunch cost me, up till now, about £ , . one dark night in that very november i fulfilled my last provincial institution engagement (at dudley), and went back to stay the night, or what was left of it, at the guest hospital, with dr. orwin, my old schoolfellow, with whom i had the pugilistic encounter at the preparatory school on haverstock hill. he called me up at five o'clock the next morning, which was, if possible, darker than the night before, and packed me off to london to attend my first rehearsal, which was held in the refreshment saloon (without refreshments) at the opera comique. the course adopted with reference to the gilbert and sullivan rehearsals is as follows: the music is always taken first. the principal singers and the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus are seated in a semi-circle on the stage. a cottage piano is in the middle, and we are rehearsed as an ordinary choir would be. sir arthur sullivan usually first composes the difficult choruses, especially the finale to the first act--an elaborate score. the quartettes and trios arrive next, and the duets and songs last. i have sometimes only received the tunes of my songs the week before production. the song in the second act of _princess ida_ was re-written, and i only got the music two nights before the performance. the difficulty then was, not in learning the new tune, but in _un_learning the old one. the greatest interest is evinced by us all as the new vocal numbers arrive. sir arthur sullivan will arrive hurriedly, with a batch of mss. under his arm, and announce the fact that there is something new. he takes his at the piano and plays over the new number. the vocal parts are written in, but no accompaniment. mr. francois cellier listens and watches; and how he can remember for future rehearsal, as he does, the elaborate accompaniments and symphonies, with the correct harmonies, &c., from simply hearing sir arthur play the pieces over a few times, is to me astonishing. mr. gilbert will attend all these musical rehearsals: he takes mental notes of the style of composition, time, rhythm, everything, and goes home and invents his groups and business. for every piece he has small stages constructed--exact models of the savoy theatre--with set scenes. the characters are represented by little bricks of various colours, to distinguish chorus from principals, and ladies from gentlemen. many a time he has shown me some future intended grouping, entrance, or general effect; and i must say it has been most interesting. no expense is spared to get the requisite accuracy; and i believe the little model of a ship, for the recent revival of _h.m.s. pinafore_, cost £ . it is well known that mr. gilbert is an extremely strict man, and on all matters of stage business his word is law. all the arrangements of colours and the original groupings, with which the frequenters of the savoy are so well acquainted, are by him. sir arthur sullivan is also very exact with reference to the rendering of the music; and it is perfectly understood between author and composer that no business should be introduced by the former into the chorus so as to interfere with a proper performance of the music. for example, in the original rehearsals of _the mikado_, mr. gilbert arranged a group of the chorus to "bow down" to his majesty as he entered, with their backs to the audience. sir arthur sullivan came down, and, the moment he saw this, said that the voices could not be well heard from the front, as the faces of the singers were turned towards the back of the stage. mr. gilbert immediately altered the business; and as his powers of invention are apparently unlimited, the present effective grouping in a semi-circle on the right-hand side and back of the stage was substituted. i have said that sir arthur sullivan is strict with the music. every member of the chorus has to sing the exact note set down for him or her; and often, in the midst of the rehearsal of a full chorus _double-forte_ we have been pulled up because a careless gentleman has sung a semi-quaver instead of a demi-semi-quaver, or one of the cousins, sisters, or aunts has failed to dot a crotchet. one of the most prominent and popular members of our company was remarkably quick in picking up the music by ear--a method of learning music by no means advisable. one day he was singing a solo allotted to him which he had learned in the way mentioned, and he occasionally sang (let us say) two even crotchets instead of one dotted and a quaver, and he made one or two slight deviations from the melody. sullivan listened, with a most amused expression, and, at the conclusion, said: "bravo! that is really a very good tune of yours--capital! and now, if you have no objection, i will trouble you to sing mine." the music is generally given to us before the piece is read by mr. gilbert; so we are often in complete darkness as to the meaning of the words we are singing. in the opera of _princess ida_ we were rehearsing the whole of the concerted music of the first act. my song, "i can't think why," sung by king gama, was not composed, and the whole of my share in the rehearsals was the following three bars and a half of recitative: "_king gama_ (recitative): must we till then in prison cell be thrust? "_hildebrand_: you must. "_king gama_: this seems unnecessarily severe." at one of the rehearsals, after singing this trifling bit of recitative, i addressed the composer and said: "could you tell me, sir arthur, what the words, 'this seems unnecessarily severe,' have reference to?" sir arthur sullivan replied: "because you are to be detained in prison, of course." i replied: "thank you. i thought they had reference to my having been detained here three hours a day for the past fortnight to sing them." the result was, that sir arthur liberated me from the remainder of the first act rehearsals; and as i had not to put in an appearance in the second act, and had only one unwritten song in the third, i had, for a wonder, a pretty easy time of it. the musical rehearsals are child's play in comparison with the stage rehearsals. mr. gilbert is a perfect autocrat, insisting that his words should be delivered, even to an inflection of the voice, as he dictates. he will stand on the stage beside the actor or actress, and repeat the words with appropriate action over and over again, until they are delivered as he desires them to be. in some instances, of course, he allows a little license, but very little. he has great patience at times; and, indeed, he needs it, for occasionally one or other of the company, through inaccurate ear or other cause, will not catch the proper action or inflection. from the beginning it has been the custom, if possible, to allot some small part to a member of the chorus. the girls have nearly always benefited by the chance, and some have risen to the foremost ranks. the men are not so fortunate, i regret to say. they do not seem to be so quick. gilbert has nearly been driven frantic (and so have the onlookers for the matter of that) because a sentence has been repeated with a false accent. the following sketch, founded on fact, is an example of what i mean: suppose mr. snooks has been promoted from the chorus, and allotted a very small part, on account of his suitable voice, slimness, stoutness, gigantic proportions, or the reverse. he has one line--let us say, _the king is in the counting-house_. the first thing mr. snooks does when his cue arrives is to make the most of his opportunity by entering with a comic slow walk, which he has evidently been studying for past few days in front of a looking-glass. the walk is the conventional one indulged in by the big mask in a pantomime. _mr. gilbert:_ please don't enter like that, mr. snooks. we don't want any "comic man" business here. _mr. snooks:_ i beg your pardon, sir; i thought you meant the part to be funny. _mr. gilbert:_ yes, so i do; but i don't want you to _tell_ the audience you're the funny man. they'll find it out, if you are, quickly enough. go on, please. mr. snooks enters again with a rapid and sharp catch-the-six-thirteen-liverpool-street-local-train kind of walk. _mr. gilbert:_ no, no, no, mr. snooks. this is not a "walking gentleman's" part. as it is only a short one, there is no necessity to hurry through it like that. enter like this. mr. gilbert proceeds to exemplify what he requires, and after a trial or two mr. snooks gets it nearly right. _mr. gilbert_ (encouragingly): that'll do capitally. go on, please. _mr. snooks:_ the king is in the counting-_house_. _mr. gilbert:_ no, no, mr. snooks; he is nothing of the sort. he is in the _counting_-house. _mr. snooks:_ the king is in the counting-_house_. _mr. gilbert_ (very politely): i am afraid i have not made myself understood. it is not counting-_house_, but _counting_-house. do you understand me? _mr. snooks:_ yes, sir. _mr. gilbert:_ very well; try again, please. _mr. snooks:_ the king is in the counting-_house_. _mr. gilbert_ (still politely): mr. snooks, don't you appreciate the difference between the accent on "counting" and the accent on "house"? i want the accent on "counting"--_counting_-house. surely you have never heard it pronounced in any other way? try again, and _please_ pay attention. _mr. snooks_ (getting rather nervous): the king is in the counting-house! mr. gilbert twitches his right whisker, and takes a few paces up and down the front of the stage. eventually he comes to a standstill, and calmly addresses mr. snooks: "it is my desire to assist you as far as i possibly can, but i _must_ have that sentence spoken properly. i would willingly cut it out altogether; but as it is essential to the story, that course is impossible. if you cannot speak it with the right accent, i shall be reluctantly compelled to give the words to someone else who _can_. go back, please, and _think_ before you speak." _mr. snooks_ (endeavouring to think he is "thinking"): the king (pause) is (pause) in the . . . (very long pause) _counting_ . . . (with a violent effort) house!!! _mr. gilbert_ (bottling up his fury): we won't bother about your scene now, mr. snooks. get on with the next. grossmith! grossmith!! (to seymour, the stage manager): where's mr. grossmith? _mr. grossmith_ (a very small man, with a still smaller voice): here i am. _mr. gilbert:_ oh! there you are. i'm sorry to have kept you waiting. we'll go on with your scene. do you want to try your song? _mr. grossmith:_ not unless you want to hear it! _mr. gilbert:_ no; i don't want to hear it. (roars of laughter from the company.) do you? _mr. grossmith:_ no! good humour prevails, and the rehearsal proceeds. at its termination mr. gilbert approaches mr. snooks, who is absolutely wretched in the corner. _mr. gilbert_ (privately to mr. snooks): don't worry yourself about that. go home, and think it over. it will be all right to-morrow. on the morrow, perhaps, it is _not_ all right; but mr. gilbert will pass it over, and by dint of perseverance (which is, of course, appreciated), and the chaffing he gets from his fellow-choristers at the theatre, and the bullying from his wife at home, mr. snooks, in the course of a week, gets it actually right; but the word is always pronounced to the end with a certain amount of doubt. the performer frequently gets the credit which is due to mr. gilbert, and to him absolutely. as a rule, the little midshipmite in _h.m.s. pinafore_ is supposed to be a perfect genius. there have been scores of midshipmites in town and "on tour," but they are all geniuses. some, of course, are naturally clever, and i should be grieved to disparage any child; but if admiration, cheers, and applause on the stage are at all times dangerous to the mind of man, what must be the effect on children! a little boy, with a pretty voice, who played in the performance of the _pirates of penzance_ by children, came to me some time back in despair. his vanity had been touched by the approbation of the public, and his eyes fascinated by the glare of the footlights and limelights. they were all he thought of. his voice had gone, or, to be more accurate, had cracked. he was too old to act as a child, and too young to act as a man; and he "pooh-poohed" any idea of an ordinary situation. all the credit of his success his friends attributed to his own talent, and not to his stage manager. it is such a case as this, and this only, that induces me to say that i have seen mr. gilbert instruct a little boy in the part of the midshipmite for an hour or so at a time, simply how to walk across the stage. the boy has been absolutely stupid even for his age; but has been selected because he happened to be smaller than the others who had come up for competition. through constant drilling the child developed into a mechanical toy, and received the approbation of the generous public, as if he merited it instead of his tutor, when he had no more done so than the little canary who walks the tight-rope on a barrow, fires a gun, or drives a tandem drawn by a couple of sparrows. one of these little lads, besides his wages, received extra presents of shillings and half-crowns that in the course of a week amounted, most likely, to the limited salary given to the chorus man who had devoted the greater part of his life to his vocation, and who had a wife and large family to support out of it. _apropos_ of the chorus, they are picked from hundreds who first sing before mr. d'oyly carte on approval. they generally have some daily occupation or situation. some of them sing and act so well in the groups that they have been retained from the very commencement of the operas. when _iolanthe_ was produced, gilbert decided that the peers should all have the upper lip shaven, and wear "mutton-chop" whiskers, and a little tuft under the lower lip. they were also to wear wigs bald at the top of the head. the effect was ultimately most successful; but there was a semblance of a "strike" beforehand, owing to the objection of some of the gentlemen to shave off the moustache. these were called, for the purpose of giving their reasons for objecting to comply with the order. some of the excuses were most amusing. one said he was a town traveller; and if he took off his moustache, he would look so young that shopowners would not listen to him. another said he was a "spirit leveller," and it was most unusual (i am not sure he did not say unprecedented) for a "spirit leveller" _not_ to have a moustache. the excuse for another gentlemen-was, that he was paying his addresses to a young lady who was not much impressed with his personal appearance; and if he took off his moustache, his hopes would be completely blighted. in the end, however, they all consented to obliterate the ornament, with the exception of one, who absolutely declined. in his case the moustache stayed on, but he did not. i never remember, before the gilbert and sullivan operas, to have seen an entire chorus shaved. the peers looked wonderfully characteristic when they first appeared over the bridge, and their entrance brought down the house. again, what could be more effective than the shaven faces in _the mikado?_ the most amusing incident with regard to shaving was during the run of _ruddygore_. a rather good-looking young fellow, a new comer, was requested to shave (the others being already shaven) a fortnight before the production of the piece, in order that his photograph in costume might be taken by messrs. barraud. the portraits that hung in the picture gallery of sir ruthven murgatroyd were painted from the photographs previously taken of all the chorus gentlemen. this new recruit, whom we will call mr. x., was a concert singer, who, like many others, finding that "concert singing is not what it was," accepted the offer made to him to join the ranks of the savoyards as a chorister, and make sure of a certain income. mr. d'oyly carte met him one day, and said: "have you been to barraud's, mr. x.?" "no, sir; i go to-morrow morning. i have shaved." "so i observe," said carte. two days after, carte saw him with his moustache on again; but, taking no particular notice, said: "let me see, have you been to barraud's?" mr. x. said: "yes, sir; i went yesterday." d'oyly carte thought it seemed rather odd, for he made sure he had seen mr. x. two days previously without the moustache. now he had a full-grown one, with the regular platform singer's waxed ends. d'oyly carte, being a busy man, walked away, and was soon thinking of other matters. the first dress rehearsal took place, and mr. x. had no moustache. mr. carte met him again next day in the street, and, lo and behold! there was the moustache on again. actors are frequently in the habit of "soaping" down their moustaches; but such a one as mr. x. supported could not be soaped down. carte was so puzzled that he said to mr. x.: "i thought you had shaved your moustache?" mr. x. replied: "so i have, sir; but when i sing at concerts, or 'do' bond street, i stick on one for a little while. nobody would notice it was not my own, and i look so much better with a moustache." "do you make yourself up, mr. grossmith?" as this question is so frequently asked of me, i will satisfy the curious by saying that i always do. no one has ever touched my face but myself. i select my own colours, powders, rouges, and try several effects of complexions, before finally deciding on one. i have a little dressing-room to myself--the only one who has at the savoy. being short-sighted, i make up with a hand-glass in my left hand. my dressing-table is very high, and i have several bright electric lights thrown on my face. i do not think the painted lines on the face should ever be seen, even from the stalls. i think no make-up should be detected from the front, and i have no hesitation in saying that the ghastly white faces, pink cheeks, and scarlet lips indulged in, even by the ladies of our theatre, are simply hideous. mr. barrington has often come into my room just as i am going on the stage, and chaffingly said, "why don't you make up?" i regard this rather as a compliment than otherwise. i want to look like a first lord, a fleshly poet, major-general, or japanese, not to _show_ how i look like one. the walls of my dressing-room are covered with prints, engravings, and sketches, of no particular value, but of interest to myself and many who visit me. a capital pen-and-ink sketch, from memory, by mr. heather bigg, of corney grain and myself playing a duet on the piano, amuses those who see it. a slight sketch by frank holl, r.a. (a great and esteemed friend of mine), of myself, fishing in the daytime and doing the lord chancellor's dance at night, is, of course, interesting. there is also a water-colour sketch of myself in the costume of king gama, _minus_ the heavy cloak and wig, and the tunic preserved by a lawn-tennis jacket. i used to sit in this comfortable way during a long wait of one hour and forty minutes; and my appearance so tickled the fancy of viscount hardinge that he painted his impression of it, and sent it to me. there is also an admirable sketch, by alfred bryan, of john parry; a signed photograph of mrs. howard paul; full-page drawings in the _graphic_, &c., from my brother's pictures exhibited in the royal academy; some old playbills, in which my uncle figures prominently; clever sketches of singers, by harper pennington; and, what is more useful than any of the above, a comfortable couch, on which i can throw myself after having been encored two or three times in some extravagant dance. the rules behind the scenes at the savoy are very strict. no visitors, thank goodness, are allowed to be hanging about the stage or standing at the wings. there are separate staircases for the ladies and gentlemen. we are all a very happy family; jealous feeling and spirit are conspicuous by their absence; and the "understudies" experience no difficulty in getting every help and support, if required, from the principals whose parts are to be played in case of absence or illness. there are no mashers waiting at the stage-door. presents and love-letters are few and far between; in fact, during the ten years i have been on the stage i have only received one. i confess i am a little hurt by the notion; but, perhaps it is just as well. the letter referred to was not well worded, and the spelling certainly might have been better. the lady, i am sure, was quite sincere in her expressed adoration of me, and i appreciated her candid confession that she had no prejudice against my "calling"; but the _postscript_ was certainly disappointing. it ran thus: "p.s.--next sunday is my sunday out." before engaging anybody at the theatre, mr. d'oyly carte hears them sing, or "tries their voice." it is a standing joke between him and myself that i never kept the appointments made by him to "hear my voice." at one of our pleasant annual theatre suppers, at which both gentlemen of the orchestra and chorus are present, in returning thanks for having my health proposed, i said i attributed the pleasure of being associated with them to the fact that, in the first instance, i would _not_ let mr. carte have the opportunity of testing my vocal powers; for, if i had done so, i should never have effected my present engagement. during d'oyly carte's visits to america, mr. michael gunn, the lessee of the dublin theatre, and a great friend of both carte and myself, used to act as our manager. on one occasion mr. gunn had to try the voices of some candidates for the chorus. one gentleman, who called himself signor concertini, or some such name, sang all right; but he spoke with an affected broken-english accent, which i have found quite common amongst english foreign singers. mr. r. barker, a kind but rather brusque stage-manager, addressing signor concertini, said: "look here, my boy, that accent won't do for sailors or pirates. just give us a little less mediterranean and a little more whitechapel." mr. gunn turned to the man and said: "what nationality are you? you don't sound italian." signor concertini suddenly dropped his accent, and, addressing mr. gunn in a broad irish brogue, said: "sure, mr. gunn, i'm from the same country as yourself." if any of the members of the chorus are absent through illness, they are supposed to bring a doctor's certificate the next day; but their word is usually taken. one of the chorus gentlemen, a tenor, who had not distinguished himself by any great ability, but deemed his presence of infinite importance, sent a telegram to the stage manager: "suffering from hoarseness; cannot appear to-night." i ascertained that he had informed several of his colleagues, confidentially, that he was the future sims reeves. i must confess, with the exception of the above telegram, i had detected no resemblance to the great tenor. during the revival of _h.m.s. pinafore_ at the savoy, i received a dreadful snub from one of the "marines." the marines were what is theatrically known as "extra-gentlemen." they are not engaged to sing, and therefore do not hold such a good position as the chorus. if they have voices and can sing, they look forward naturally to promotion. one of them asked me if i would hear him sing the "ruler of the queen's navee." i made an appointment with him to sing at my house. after he finished the song, i said: "i presume you desire me to recommend you to mr. carte for the chorus?" "oh no, sir," he replied. "mr. carte has heard me, and says i'm not good enough for the chorus; so i thought you could recommend me to him to play _your_ parts on tour." singers, prima donnas especially, are, i believe, renowned for little airs and graces; but these have little weight with gilbert and sullivan. conventionality is not recognised by them. one of the many josephines, during the first run of _pinafore_, objected to standing anywhere but in the centre of the stage, assuring mr. gilbert that she had played in italian opera, and was accustomed to occupy that position and no other. gilbert said, most persuasively: "oh! but this is _not_ italian opera; this is only a low burlesque of the worst possible kind." gilbert says this sort of thing in such a quiet and serious way that one scarcely knows whether he is joking or not. during the revival of _the mikado_, he was directing the dress-rehearsal from the middle the stalls, as is his wont, and suddenly called out: "there is a gentleman in the left group not holding his fan correctly." the stage manager, with his prompt-book and tall hat, immediately appeared on the stage at the left side, and, calling to mr. gilbert, said: "one gentleman is absent through illness, sir." "ah!" said gilbert, perfectly seriously, "that is not the gentleman i am referring to." yet another instance. the second act of _the pirates of penzance_ represents the interior of a ruined abbey by moonlight. near the end of the play general stanley's daughters run on to the stage in _peignoir_ and with lighted candles. this is the cue for turning up the footlights and boarders. _mr. gilbert_ (from the stalls): mr. seymour--mr. seymour! _seymour_ (the stage manager, appearing at the wings): yes, sir. _mr. gilbert:_ don't let them turn the lights on the back cloth! _seymour:_ we have turned up all the lights, sir. _mr. gilbert:_ then don't do so. as much light in the front as you like. candles on the stage have a wonderful effect, i know. they would light up the abbey, no doubt; but even stage candles wouldn't light up the heavens beyond. a great objection was taken, both by the press and a large section of the public, to the title of _ruddygore_, and the opera itself was not favourably criticised. about a week after its production, gilbert turned up at the savoy and said: "i propose altering the title of the piece, and calling it _kensington gore; or, not so good as the mikado_." gilbert very properly objects to any business being interpolated without his sanction, especially if its sole object is merely to raise a laugh, and thereby stop the action of the piece. in _the mikado_, miss jessie bond and i were kneeling side by side, with our heads on the floor, and she used to give me a push, and i accordingly rolled completely over. gilbert asked me if i would mind omitting that action on my part. i replied: "certainly, if you wish it; but i get an enormous laugh by it." "so you would if you sat on a pork-pie," replied he. it is a very easy thing to get a laugh on the stage, and a very difficult thing to sacrifice it. it has amused me intensely when some of the gentlemen who play my parts on the country tour inform me of certain laughs which they get when _they_ play. some of them have even kindly advised me of "new business" which they have inserted. i quite agree with mr. gilbert in reference to the "pork-pie" method of obtaining laughter; and i have often stated that my ambition is, to play in a farce in which there is a bandbox placed carefully on an arm-chair, and that the curtain should finally fall _without_ my having sat on the box in question. i have no intention of dwelling on the incidents attending the production of each of the gilbert and sullivan operas, but mine has been rather an odd career. i have been on the stage over ten years, and have only played regularly nine parts, including the judge in _trial by jury_. at a great benefit _matinee_, i have sometimes taken some small part, but that i count as nothing: but of the above i have, in one or two of the pieces, played the same part night after night, and two performances on saturday, for a year and a half; while sir joseph porter, in _h.m.s. pinafore_, i played incessantly for nearly two years. i have been asked if long runs affect the nerves. i do not think they affect the nerves so much as they affect the performance. constant repetition begets mechanism, and that is a dreadful enemy to contend against. i try hard to fight against it personally, and i believe i succeed. there is one thing i always do--i always play my best to a bad house; for i think it a monstrous thing that an actor should slur through his work because the stalls are empty, and thereby punish those who _have_ come for the fault of those who have _not_. mrs. howard paul impressed so strongly upon me the importance and the justness of playing one's best to a poor house, that i not only have never forgotten her injunction, but have endeavoured to abide by it. to act without recognition, by applause, laughter, or tears, from an audience is galling to an actor; but, fortunately, i have had a good training in this respect in the private-house engagements, and have got used to it. in town, my audiences have sometimes displayed a want of enthusiasm, which has been easily understood by everybody but myself; and in my earlier days in the country i used to console myself with the fact that if my entertainments did not _go_, the audience did, which was a comfort and a relief. i wonder if my friend frank thornton will be offended if i repeat an oft-told story about him? i had the pleasure of knowing him in my early entertaining days, and he himself was remarkably clever in short sketches in character. when i was first engaged at the opera comique to appear in _the sorcerer_, f. thornton was "specially retained" to understudy me. i believe he was very nearly engaged himself to play the part. fortunately for me, he was not. during the first week he used to come to me each night, and ask how i was. on my replying that i was "all right--never better," it appeared to me that he departed with a disappointed look. his kind enquiries were repeated, as i thought with extra anxiety; but still i kept well, and showed no signs of fatigue. then he began to insist that i was not looking well; and i replied that, looks or no looks, i felt perfectly well. finally he came to me with a pill, which he was certain would do for me. i was also certain that it would "_do_ for me," and declined to take it; i played nearly two hundred consecutive nights of _the sorcerer_, and nearly _seven hundred_ of _h.m.s. pinafore_, without missing a single performance. about the third week of the subsequent piece, _the pirates of penzance_, i was called away from the theatre through a domestic affliction; and frank thornton, at literally a moment's notice, had to don the major-general's uniform and play my part. it goes without saying that his was an excellent performance, as those who saw his excessively funny impersonation of the cramped old aesthete in _patience_ will easily understand. the domestic affliction referred to was the sudden death of my father on april th, . at the beginning of this book i stated that i should not deal with the shadows of my life. nor shall i, beyond stating that the shock to me was so terrible that i often wonder now whether i have quite recovered it. my poor darling mother never did, and she followed him in a year and ten months after. there was scarcely a paper in great britain and ireland that did not refer to him in the most affectionate terms. if his loss was felt so much by people who knew him only slightly, what must it have been to his two sons, who idolised the very ground he walked upon? his last lecture was on "dickens and his works" (dickens was his favourite subject), and was delivered at wrexham on april nd, two days before his decease; and the kind clergyman who entertained him on the occasion wrote one of the first and sweetest letters of sympathy that i received. i should like to say that my father was more than astonished at the result of my appearances in _the sorcerer_, _pinafore_, and _pirates_, and was extremely proud of my stage appearances. he was easily pleased, no doubt; but it was a great source of comfort to me to know he _was_ pleased. soon after the first production of _the sorcerer_ in , i had occasion to go one morning to maidenhead by train. i occupied a carriage with a lady and three gentlemen, all of one party. the conversation, which i could not help hearing--and unfortunately listeners never hear good of themselves--turned on gilbert and sullivan's new and original form of opera. suddenly, one of the three gentlemen began to criticise my performance in no complimentary terms. the lady, to my joy, differed with my critic, and it appeared for a moment as if all would end happily. not a bit of it. the two other gentlemen joined in, and began to find fault with my personal appearance as well as my voice (or want of it). the lady still gallantly defended me, but in doing so she only added fuel to the fire; and judging from the tone and manner in which the two last-named gentlemen contradicted her, i could only come to the conclusion that they were her brothers. i suppose i ought to have stopped them; but for the life of me i could not think of a method of doing so. the train, however, began to pull up at slough; so i determined to change carriages. i took out my card-case, and wrote in pencil on one of my cards, "thanks awfully," and placed it on the seat beside the two gentlemen previously to making my exit from the compartment. my only regret is, i am not in a position to describe what followed. this incident reminds me of another, an occasion on which i indirectly denied myself. in , when _h.m.s. pinafore_ was first produced at the opera comique, i always used to give a musical sketch at the piano at the saturday afternoon performances after the opera. i had some appointment at kensington, and went to the temple station at the conclusion of the performance and got into a first-class carriage of the underground railway. opposite to me sat a middle-aged gentleman with a good-looking lad. the gentleman stared at me hard, and i saw at once that he had recognised me--an easy matter, considering my sketches were, and still are, always given _in propria persona_. he whispered to the boy, and the boy's eyes also became riveted on me. i felt like one of madame tussaud's waxworks; although, from the manner in which the gentleman and the boy sat and stared, they really resembled the effigies more than i did. at last the gentleman moved. he took from his pocket the book of the libretto of _pinafore_ and peered into it, taking good care to hold the outside cover with title towards me, so that i might see what he was reading. of course, i took not the slightest notice of his actions; but i had great difficulty in restraining a smile as the boy began to whistle the air of "the ruler of the queen's navee." the gentleman was not to be defeated: he handed me the book, and the following conversation took place between the gentleman and the clown: _gent.:_ i beg your pardon; i fancy you must be well acquainted with that play? _clown_ (turning over leaves of book casually): oh! yes. i know it very well. _gent.:_ well, if _you_ do not know it well, i should like to know who does? _clown_ (handing back book): i do not quite follow you? _gent.:_ i should have thought you knew it backwards. _clown:_ that i certainly do not. _gent.:_ you've heard it often enough? _clown:_ one cannot help that. it is on all the street bands. _gent.:_ and seen it too? _clown:_ no; i am going to see it next wednesday. [there was to be a morning performance of one of mr. d'oyly carte's country companies.] _gent.:_ well, that's very odd. you'll excuse me, you are exactly like george grossmith. _clown:_ i knew you were going to say that. do you know nearly everybody takes me for mr. grossmith? _gent.:_ i am very sorry. i meant no offence. _clown:_ pray don't mention it. i regard it as a great compliment. _gent.:_ oh, i 'm very glad! _railway porter_ (in distance): sloane square! sloane square!! _gent.:_ we get out here. good afternoon. _clown:_ good afternoon. (_exeunt_ gentleman and juvenile by the carriage-door, prompt side. clown, in spite of the printed warning in front of him, proceeded to place his feet on the opposite cushions.) a friend of mine, who is (or at all events was) a member of the scottish club, mistook mr. w. s. penley, the popular actor, for me once on the platform of waterloo station. my enthusiastic friend slapped the "rev. mr. spalding" on the back and said: "hulloa, grossmith! how are you? come and sup after the play next saturday at dover street?" penley replied, in the clerical tone characteristic of him: "i beg your pardon, i'm not grossmith; but i shall be very pleased to have supper with you." another railway recognition story. i was coming up with a party of friends from ascot, and we were journeying by one of those delightful trains on the s. w. railway which not only stop at every station, but between each station as well. we stayed at one place a particularly long time; and as a serious-looking station-master faced the window of the carriage in which we were, one of the ladies begged of me to "chaff" him about the slowness of the train. chaffing is a vulgar habit; but, unfortunately, it is a habit to which i am occasionally addicted. we all have our amusements; and it is not my fault that i do not possess the brave spirit which induces a man to hunt across country and torture a beautiful creature like a deer until, through sheer fright, it takes a leap through the window of a railway station. i prefer to torture one of my own fellow-creatures; for he often stands a fair chance of getting the best of it. the deer never does! i saw that the serious and stolid station-master was a good subject for chaff; but, as a matter of fact, the whim was not on me. but in deference to the general wish of my friendly travellers, i addressed the station-master as follows: "i say, station-master, you ought to be ashamed of this line." the serious official replied: "so i am." this scored the first laugh against me. some of the ladies encouraged me, and said, "go on, go on;" "get a rise out of him," &c. i tried again, and this time observed weakly: "why don't you get something better to do?" my victim, never changing his serious aspect, replied: "you mean, why don't _you_ get me something better to do." this was a real knock-down blow. i came up staggering and a little dazed. my victim, seeing his chance, led the attack: "anything more to say?" i feebly answered: "no. have you?" he said: "no--except that you act a good deal better here than you do at the savoy." the next day i thought of fifty good things i might have said. alas! how easily things go wrong! in taking leave of my readers on the subject of my theatrical career, i feel i ought, in justice to myself, to state that all my first appearances are completely marred by uncontrollable nervousness. i am more than nervous--i am absolutely ill. the first night of _the mikado_ i shall never forget the longest day i live. it must have appeared to all that i was doing my best to spoil the piece. but what with my own want of physical strength, prostration through the numerous and very long rehearsals, my anxiety to satisfy the author, the rows of critics (oh, please do not be hard on me!), rendered _blase_ by the modern custom of half a dozen ridiculous and senseless _matinees_ a week, i lose my voice, the little of it there is, my confidence and, what, i maintain, is the most valuable of all to me, my own individuality. in fact, i plead guilty to what mr. richard barker declared me to be on these occasions, "a lamentable spectacle." in concluding this chapter, let me offer my hearty thanks to sir arthur sullivan for having thought of me, to d'oyly carte for having engaged me, to w. s. gilbert for having advised me, and last, but not least, to the generous public for having tolerated me. chapter vii. a society clown. funny fellows, comic men and clowns of private life, they'd none of them be missed--they'd none of them be missed." _the mikado._ one dull day during the end of the year , the police court having adjourned, i went into a ham and beef shop at the corner of bow street to get a sandwich. i generally did this when i had not sufficient time to get a proper lunch, so presume i must have been occupied in the very arduous duties of taking notes of an important case, and jotting down suggestions for a new song or sketch at the same moment--at all times a difficult task, involving a deal of confusion. while purchasing my modest meal a little dog entered the shop. its very tall and slim owner (for he was very slim in those days) whistled to the dog to come out. i presume the dog had reasons for staying in the shop, so the owner had no other option than to walk in and carry the animal out bodily. the owner and i greeted each other: "how do you do, mr. grain?" "how do you do, mr. grossmith?" we did not know each other so well in those days as we do now, and were naturally a little formal in our method of address. i enquired, as a matter of course, how his new song was going at the gallery of illustration? he enquired how mine was going at the polytechnic? he then told me that he was preparing sketches, for the purpose of giving professionally at private houses during the forthcoming season. i had no idea that this sort of thing was done (i must have been very ignorant, i fear), and in reply to my questions he enlightened me on many points which were of the utmost interest, and subsequent importance to me. i remember asking him if the work was agreeable, and if the people were nice. his answer, i recollect, was very characteristic of him. "very," he said; "and, what is more important, it pays well." he also told me that john parry used to sing professionally at private houses. this decided me; for i knew that what was good enough for john parry and corney grain, was more than good enough for me. "well," i said, "i think i shall try it, mr. grain." "i certainly should if i were you," he replied. we said the usual "good-bye at the door;" he departed with his dog into covent garden, and i departed with my sandwich into bow street. it so happened that i was going, a few evenings afterwards, to a large musical party near harley street, and i decided, if i sang, to try the whole of "the silver wedding," the sketch i was then giving at the polytechnic, instead of the plain comic song which i had generally "obliged with." the hostess, when the time came for me to volunteer, expressed herself much delighted at my proposed innovation. the grand piano was turned as i wanted it, and a little table (supposed to represent the supper table), with wine decanter and glass, was placed to my right. all these preparations, instead of causing the proceedings to flag as one would naturally suppose, only increased the excitement--such as there was, or could be at a private party. i was more than pleased at the result--i was astonished. for instance, i felt sure the imitation after-supper speeches would lose their entire effect from the want of a platform and footlights. the sketch lasted quite half an hour, which i feared would have been thought too long. to my surprise, i was asked if i would mind giving another. however, i let well alone and did not give any more that evening, but took the hint i received from corney grain, and began to prepare some sketches specially. at my next parties i tried "the puddleton penny readings," and "theatricals at thespis lodge," with the same result. i then went to mr. george dolby, who had been charles dickens's agent and manager in america, and who had at that time offices in bond street, and told him i intended trying the private work. he said it was a capital idea, and he would, in all probability, be able to get me several engagements during the following june and july, which was the busy time for private concerts, &c. in the meanwhile a clergyman, from windsor, communicated with me through one of the musical libraries in bond street, and secured my services for an evening party at his house; and it is with great satisfaction that i record the circumstance that i was recommended by corney grain, who was first applied to, but unable, for some reason, to accept for himself. after my recent conversation with him on the subject, i thought it most kind of him to perform an action which i should never have dreamed of asking him to do. the next two seasons i was occupied in forming and increasing a connection. george dolby sent me several engagements in london, when he found the first one i fulfilled for him passed off without complaint! then, in time, came the best sign of all that i was progressing; viz., the people began to write to me personally. at first i found it terribly uphill work. if the people do not know the singer they wont listen, on the paradoxical principle that they sometimes wont listen if they _do_ know him. some are wonderfully well-known and have a facility for clearing the room almost as remarkable as have some reciters. the "chandelier-shaker" is invariably a "room-clearer." if in my earlier days (or even now for the matter of fact) people displayed no anxiety to hear me, i felt thankful if they did quit the room. such conduct is preferable to that of the more fashionable people who stop in and talk. it is a very easy thing for the ordinary drawing-room amateur comic singer to make a success. he has only to watch his opportunity. he will wait, perhaps, till his audience and himself have had supper, and all are in the mood to be amused. but let him go professionally to a dull after-dinner party, where no one knows him, and he finds eight or nine elderly ladies yawning and wondering _when_ the gentlemen will come up and join them. let him try that audience. if he can amuse them, he will not only be satisfied at receiving his cheque, but will be conscious of the fact that he has thoroughly earned it. i feel a special delight in persevering in waking up an audience like that. i resort to all sorts of measures by which i can do so. once i was singing at a private house in the country to an odd assortment of people. i was informed that the party followed a wedding which had taken place in the morning. if it had followed a funeral, it would have accounted for the general depression and gloom which prevailed. i played the piano and the fool for three-quarters of an hour, and anything more dismal than the result it would be impossible to imagine. a temptation seized me suddenly, and i said: "ladies and gentlemen,--i am going to reveal to you a secret. pray don't let it go any further. this is supposed to be a comic entertainment. i don't expect you to laugh at it in the least; but if, during the next sketch, you would only once oblige me with a society smile, it would give me a great deal of encouragement." the audience for a moment were dumbfounded. they first began to titter, then to laugh, and actually to roar, and for a time i could not proceed with the sketch. they were transformed into a capital and enthusiastic audience; and the hostess told me that both her guests and herself were most grateful to me. i am frequently asked if i like giving my entertainments in private houses, and i answer most emphatically that i do. i never feel so much in my element as when i have a nice piano on a dais, and a seated audience of educated and well-dressed people, in a handsome drawing-room. it is a pleasure to me to sing to them; and although i occupy an hour and a half--sometimes more--over the three musical sketches which i usually give, i feel quite sorry when i have finished. i have never received unkindness from anyone--quite the reverse. so much hospitality and good-will have been extended towards me by people who are utter strangers, and whose associations with me have been purely of a business character, that i often have wondered what i have done to deserve it all. there are the usual "four to seven" afternoon parties. i have a little dread of what is known as the "smart" evening parties in london. the large suites of rooms will be comparatively empty at eleven o'clock; but in a quarter of an hour the guests will stream in in hundreds. then they block up all the rooms and staircases, while thirty or forty will crowd round the grand piano and exclude the rest from any chance of seeing or hearing the unfortunate singer. in half or three-quarters of an hour the rooms will be empty again. but i must say a "smart" party is at all times an interesting sight: the beautiful dresses, the array of diamonds, the stars and garters, especially if a royal function is taking place the same evening, so that people are "going on" or "have come on from." yet with all this grandeur it does seem such an anomaly, among so much greatness, so much wealth, to hear such a babel of idiotic conversation even from the mouths of the most able representatives of the houses of lords and commons. the greater the people, the smaller the talk. music on such an occasion is quite out of place, and i never can understand why the hostess arranges to have any. a grand reception, i take it, is a reception, and not a concert. it is impossible to combine the two. i do not blame the people on these occasions for talking: they cannot even get into the room where the music is. sometimes, by adopting the fashionable process of spitefully digging your way through people, you may get near the piano, and even a glimpse of the singer. yes, there he is--a well-known drawing-room tenor, perhaps, who has received fifty guineas to sing a couple of songs. you see him simply indulging, apparently, in a dumb-show performance. the windows are open behind him, and there is a perfect din of the "clinking" of the harness of hundreds of horses in the road outside, intermingled with lusty shouts from the linkmen, with trombone voices, far and near: "lady peckham rye's carriage next;" "col. waterloo rhodes's carriage stops the way;" "mrs. bompleton's servant," "coming out," "coming in," "baron bosch's carriage--no servant." fortunately i cannot arrive at such parties until about a quarter to twelve at night (having, of course, my usual engagement at the savoy to fulfil), and by that time the rooms have cleared a little, either through departure of guests for another party or for supper below. the chairs are suddenly produced in a semi-circle round the piano, and i am turned on to wind up the evening, having previously wound up myself. and i do wind up myself sometimes, even to the extent of getting the livelier and more juvenile members of the aristocracy, as the end of my entertainment approaches, to join, without invitation, in the chorus of "the duke of seven dials," "see me dance the polka," or "the happy fatherland," according to the jingling nature of the song. it was at a reception of this sort at a ducal mansion that i overheard a rather rude enquiry respecting myself. i arrived after my performance at the theatre, and i was leaving the drawing-room with her grace in order to arrange for a slight alteration of the position of the piano, which had been placed so that only back of my head could be seen, and i am willing to confess that i have not much expression there. the duke, who is tolerably well-known for his brusque and autocratic manner, addressing her grace in my presence, said, "has that fellow arrived yet?" the duchess looked terribly confused, and glanced at the duke and myself alternately, but i did not answer. as the duke repeated the question with the amount of severity that a husband is always privileged to use towards his wife, i replied politely, "yes, your grace, that fellow has arrived." with that i walked away and directed the servants to move the piano, and out of revenge i determined to exert my utmost to make my entertainment go well. although his grace was rude to his wife, of course he did not intend to be rude to me; for immediately the first sketch was over he came and told me how pleased he was with it. although i have never been treated with any rudeness, still i have been often amused by the peculiarities of people. a gentleman wrote to me for the purpose of engaging me, and, rightly or wrongly, asked me if my sketches were quite _comme il faut_, as he had several young daughters. i was so immensely tickled by this, that, also rightly or wrongly, i replied that my entertainments _were_ as they should be; for i was recently married, and hoped myself to have several young daughters. he wrote thanking me for this assurance, and i was to consider myself accordingly engaged. i never like arriving early at these afternoon engagements; and if i arrive late, my hostess gets naturally anxious. it depresses me to have to stand in a drawing-room which has been cleared of every stick of furniture for the occasion, and to watch the arrival of the solemn-looking ladies and their daughters, who generally attend such gatherings early. the young men never turn up till about five or half-past. in order to avoid this, i write to my hostess to tell her of the time i shall arrive, which i fix at about half or three quarters of an hour after the hour for which her invitations have been issued. the consequence is that when i arrive the room is full; people have warmed themselves into a general conversation, and i walk straight to the piano and commence my first half-hour without more ado. sometimes--very rarely--a lady will politely request me to arrive a little before the time: of course i comply with this request, and make the best of it, but during the latter part of june and the first few weeks in july it is no joke. i have arrived punctually at a "four to seven" party, and have not commenced my first sketch till a quarter to six; the day having been fine and the guests all driving in the park. during those months people do not arrive until five, and then they appear to have one eye on me and the other on the tea. the audience is composed almost entirely of ladies--but i like them. some years ago i was most particularly requested by one anxious and evidently very nervous lady to arrive punctually on a certain afternoon. i arrived, and was received most cordially by the hostess, who, to my delight, had the room arranged with chairs so that the people could sit down; but on my arrival only one chair was occupied, and that was by a boy in an eton jacket, who was seated himself at the extreme end of the room. i waited a full three-quarters of an hour before a single person arrived. in the meanwhile the lady handed me a little pink envelope enclosing what sir digby grant, in _the two roses_, designates "a little cheque." i placed it hastily in my pocket, and was much amused by the lady approaching me shortly afterwards and saying, "have you got it quite safe?" i enquired what? she replied, "the little envelope." i said, "oh yes, thank you." "oh, that is all right," she said. "it seemed to me you placed it rather carelessly in your pocket." "oh, it was not carelessness," i assured her; "only bashfulness." at a quarter to five two ladies arrived, and at five the hostess, addressing me, said: "would you mind commencing now? some of the audience have been here nearly an hour." this, i presume, had reference to the eton boy at the back of the room, who came before time. "with pleasure," i remarked. i opened the grand piano and commenced the first item. i had not been at it more than ten minutes when the two ladies got up, and, shaking hands with the hostess, said they were so sorry they could not stay any longer, but they had to meet some friends at another party before half-past five. i therefore continued the next twenty minutes of the sketch to the solitary boy, whose totally immovable face gave me no idea as to whether he was enjoying the entertainment or not. the room soon began to fill with extraordinary rapidity. at the conclusion of the entertainment the hostess again, in a whisper, asked if i still had the envelope quite safe. i pulled it half-way out of my breast coat-pocket, and said, with a smile and a nod, "it's all right, you see." she laughed and replied: "oh, yes; i see it's all right." at the foot of the stairs i encountered the eton boy with the serious face. he had stayed till the very last. i said: "well, weren't you bored with all the rot i've been talking?" he replied: "no; it was awfully jolly. i wish there had been more of it." there was no affectation about the boy, and his simple answer gave me much satisfaction. if i had not spoken, he would have said nothing. how very different from the lady who has been talking on the staircase at the top of her voice, who has never once listened or even glanced towards the piano, but who, on seeing you pass by, greets you with: "what a wonderful man you are! how _can_ you think of all these things? you are quite too delightful!" i have frequently been amused at the amount of diffidence displayed by people when handing me the honorarium. sometimes the hostess will thank me profusely, and, in shaking hands, squeeze the little envelope into my palm. some ladies will say loudly, "good-bye, and thank you so much." then softly, "i will write you to-morrow." some ladies will whisper mysteriously, "you will hear from my husband to-morrow." this at first sounds rather awful; but the husband's communication is pleasant and most welcome. the _pall mall gazette_ published a most amusing sketch of an elderly gentleman paying me in specie in the middle of the room, and dropping the sovereigns all over the floor. a very wealthy gentleman drove up to my father's house, about fifteen years ago, in a carriage and pair and with gorgeous livery, for the purpose of securing my services. i was out of town at the time; so my father mentioned my fee, which was not very exorbitant in those days. the gentleman was not inclined to give more than half; so my discriminating parent "closed" with him. i do not mean in the pugilistic sense of the word, but that he accepted the terms on my behalf. i fulfilled the engagement; and when i saw the lovely mansion, with its magnificent drawing-room, i wondered a little at my host having suggested a reduction in the fee. i do not wonder now: i have experienced still more wonderful things since then. the gentleman himself was very kind, as far as i remember. i was only a beginner, and in all probability he did not even know my name perfectly. he paid me on the first landing, and a shilling slipped through his fingers and rolled down the staircase. i was about to roll down after it, when he stopped me, saying: "please don't trouble; here's another." as i went out of the door i beheld my host and about four liveried servants hunting for the lost coin. as far as my own feelings are concerned, i experience no particular delicacy as to the manner in which i am paid. i prefer the cheque to be sent on a day or two after; and i least like the medical-man custom of slipping the fee into the hand as you depart. you cannot, under such circumstances, shake hands naturally or with comfort; and there is always the chance of a sovereign falling on the oilcloth, to say nothing of the risk of banging your heads together as you both politely dive after it. why should i be bashful, when i see members of the aristocracy selling goods over a counter, and taking the money and giving change in exactly the same manner as the ordinary tradesman? a young gentleman once called upon me. he explained that he was acting as a sort of ambassador for a friend of his, mrs. ----, of mayfair, who wished me to dine at her house. i replied that i had not the honour of the lady's acquaintance, and, though appreciating her kind invitation, did not exactly see how i could very well avail myself of it. he said that prince somebody-orother and la comtesse de soandso would be dining there, and mrs. ---- would be so pleased if i would join the party, and sing a little song after dinner. "oh," i said, "if mrs. ---- wishes to engage me professionally, that is another matter, and, if i am at liberty, i will come with much pleasure." "oh," said the ambassador, "i fancy mrs. ---- is under the impression that if she includes you in her dinner-party, it is an understood thing that you sing afterwards." "i am afraid i do not understand that," i said. "it would not pay me to do so. i only consume about ten shillings' worth of food and wine, and my terms are more than that." sometimes, at private houses, i am retained to take part in a concert, and not give the entire entertainment myself; and it is astonishing to what expense a hostess will sometimes go to entertain and amuse her guests. i used to be engaged every year by a lady who lived in quite a small house, in a street turning out of lowndes square. beyond a choice collection of old china, there was no outward display of wealth. her guests at her afternoon parties i should not imagine exceeded forty in number, and these were always made to sit down. she declared she would not have her entertainments spoiled by a crowd, and she was perfectly right. one afternoon when i was singing there she had a well-known soprano, tenor and pianist, a lady and gentleman who gave recitals in costume, and senor sarasate, the violinist. on another occasion she engaged several well-known singers, also madame norman neruda (who, i remember, played exquisitely on that occasion), while the comic element was supplied by miss fanny leslie and myself. on neither of the above afternoons could the entertainment have cost the hostess much less than £ . sometimes i am engaged with only one singer, who, the host will explain, will be able to effectually fill up my intervals of rest. clifford harrison (the most talented and most popular of drawing-room reciters) and i, have been engaged together--a combination which has been most agreeable to me. i have also been engaged on two or three occasions with corney grain, which was a case (as he humorously put it) of "one down, the other come on." once i received a letter saying, "besides yourself, i have secured an _ocarina_." i do not know if i have spelt it properly, but, for the life of me, i could not tell what an ocarina was. i found it was an oval-shaped instrument, of jet black, which emitted sounds the notes of a flute with a very bad cold. the performer looked, while playing it, as if he were eating a large potato. perhaps the most interesting professional engagement i have ever fulfilled in private was at the residence of mr. john aird, m.p., hyde park terrace, on the th june, . it was jubilee year, and the amiable and generous host was evidently determined to treat his guests to a novel entertainment. he wanted something that had not been done before, and instructed his friend, rutland barrington, to look out for an original entertainment. a suggestion came eventually from mr. fred leslie, the clever actor, that the screen scene from _the school for scandal_ should be performed in a dumb show. barrington and leslie discussed the matter, and it was arranged that there should be no costumes, and that the silent actions of the performers should be described by a lecturer. mr. aird was delighted with the idea, and determined that the piece should be well cast. i feel sure the reader will be interested to know who took part in the performance; so i append the cast: sir peter teazle ... ... ... mr. arthur cecil. joseph surface ... ... ... mr. fred. leslie. charles surface ... ... ... mr. corney grain. servant ... ... ... ... mr. durward lely. lady teazle ... ... ... mr. george grossmith. lecturer ... ... ... ... mr. rutland barrington. at the piano ... mr. munroe coward. the skit had been carefully rehearsed several times, and mr. aird ("our manager," as we called him) attended all the rehearsals in the most business-like manner, and gave some valuable suggestions. the performance, which lasted about twenty-five minutes, went with a roar of laughter from beginning to end. i thought it stood a chance of being successful, but had no idea it would succeed so well as it did. barrington's introduction and description were very funny. he commenced by explaining that a dramatic license had at the last moment been refused us, and we were not, therefore, permitted to speak any dialogue; but he would stand at the side and explain the plot and performance as they proceeded. he also added that another disappointment had been experienced by the non-arrival of the costumes, and apologised for the screen being a glass one, but it was the only one he could get. although our actions were at times extravagant, still we played with great seriousness. there was no ridiculous "mugging," which always spoils a burlesque performance. there was no conventional comic walk, strut, or pantaloon gait. we discarded the usual knowing grin which always seems to say, "i'm the funny man; prepare to laugh." an audience never requires to be told in this fashion that a man is funny; they are quite capable of discovering the fact for themselves. a carroty wig and a red nose can no more make a comedian than a coat can make a man. it was the extreme seriousness of the opening scene between leslie and cecil, as joseph and sir peter, that set the audience off at the very beginning. fred. leslie was simply immense. his natural look of extreme horror when sir peter indicated he suspected charles surface simply convulsed the people. arthur cecil was excessively funny in his relation of his quarrels with her ladyship. he was as melancholy as all the sir peters ever played put together; and the following was the climax: _the lecturer_ (barrington): sir peter will now express that in their last quarrel, lady teazle almost hinted that she should not break her heart if he was dead. arthur cecil did a little dumb-show action, then quietly rose from his chair and lay at full length on the stage, on his back. when the servant entered, and charles surface was announced, barrington said: "joseph surface says, ''sdeath, blockhead! i'm not within.'" [suitable action by leslie.] _lecturer:_ joseph surface says he is "out for the day." observe, ladies and gentlemen, how joseph describes being out for the day. here leslie put on his opera-hat, seized an imaginary partner, and began waltzing round, _a la_ rosherville gardens. charles surface was eventually introduced. _lecturer:_ charles surface now enters. please observe, ladies and gentlemen, that charles surface is "fast." the entrance of corney grain, with his hat very much on one side, and his thumbs stuck in his waistcoat, as emblems of fastness, may be imagined better than described. in fact, it is quite impossible to describe the performance. all i can say is, that it had to be repeated; and, whether it was artistic or not, mr. luke fildes, r.a., and mr. marcus stone, r.a., attended both performances. it may be asked how we managed to conclude the performance. after the screen was thrown down--for which, of course, there was no necessity; for through the glass could distinctly be seen her ladyship, with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of wine--the lecturer said: "all having been satisfactorily explained--" at this abrupt announcement, without any action to justify it, there was continued laughter. "according to the present fashion which prevails in revivals of old comedies, a minuet _a la mode_ will be danced." munroe coward arranged "oh, the jubilee!" a seasonable and popular comic song, _a la_ minuet, in a most skilful manner; and to this we danced and made our bows, with the exception of myself, who, arrayed in an antimacassar, indulged in my very best _courtesy_. our host and hostess, whose reputation for kindness and hospitality cannot be surpassed, placed everything in our way to help us, and were so interested themselves that i know i can say, on the part of the players, that our labour was one of love. our audience showed pretty plainly that they enjoyed the performance, and i know we did. i have given entertainments at the houses of all sorts and conditions of men, and all sorts of places. once i sang at a large christening party. i should think sixty or seventy people sat down to lunch. the health of the baby was, of course, proposed, and the baby was produced and handed round to all the guests to kiss. it stood this trying ordeal with perfect good humour; but the darling little boy was obliged to draw the line somewhere, and so he drew it at me. he set up a series of howls which alarmed the whole party--especially the nurse, who darted at me a look of unmistakable indignation. if i had surreptitiously pinched the little treasure, the look of the nurse could not have been more terrible. she departed with the baby, and soothed it with the following pleasant remark about myself: "was 'im frightened by an ugly man den?" i am very fond of children, and i flatter myself that children are fond of me, as a rule. but there are exceptions, of course; and i will relate another of them. a great friend of mine, whose country house is not a thousand miles away from twyford, has a bonny little boy, who, at the age of about a year and a half, took a sudden dislike to my _pince nez_, and began to squall the moment i entered the room. from a humorous spirit of mischief, the fond mother in future held me up as a bogey to the boy. if he was fractious, the following threat was held out to him: "if you are not good, _i will call mr. grossmith;_" or, "if you do not eat your food, i shall send you into the room where _mr. grossmith is_." this always had the desired effect. i believe i have been useful in a variety of ways, but this is the only time i have been required as a bogey to frighten children. as a sequel to the story, i may say the boy is a little older now, and we are very good friends; in fact, the last time i saw him he, of his own accord, selected me as his companion to spend an entire afternoon in the garden collecting snails. an amusing series of incidents was the result of an engagement which i fulfilled at the residence of a gentleman in kent. on going to the opera comique one evening, i found a gentleman waiting for me at the stage-door. he introduced himself as the head clerk of mr. a----, a distinguished manufacturer, who was desirous of obtaining my services for an evening party, to be given in honour of the coming of age of young mr. a----, at the family mansion in kent. i invited the head clerk to my dressing-room; for, as we were about to close the theatre for a short time, i knew there was a possibility of my being able to accept the engagement. the clerk at once commenced the conversation by saying that he did a little acting himself--"only as an amateur, of course." i had no reason to doubt his statement, seeing that he had shaved his moustache off and grown his hair to an inordinate length behind. "now," said he, coming to the business point of the transaction, "mr. a---- wants to know how much you charge, first." i enlightened him on that matter. "well, i dare say that'll be all right. mr. a---- means to spare no expense. but the great thing is--what sort of entertainment do you give?" i explained that i took my seat at the piano, and chatted, played, and sang, after the manner of john parry. "is there no change of costumes? don't you require any scenery or footlights?" "no," i replied. "i'm simply like one of the guests, except that i do something and they don't." "oh," said the clerk, a little puzzled, "one of the guests? i must see mr. a---- about that. i don't think he understands that." "well," i observed, "you had better see that he understands that before we proceed any further." the head clerk said, "good-night," and left the room, with a gait that seemed to hit the happy medium between the walk of henry irving and the stride of a pantomimic policeman. the next night he returned, with profuse apologies, stating that mr. a---- of course would receive me as a guest, and would feel honoured at making my acquaintance. this was rather going to extremes, i thought; but the fault was on the right side. i booked the date, and eventually "attended the evening party." i shall never forget it. i was received as a guest--as _the_ guest, in fact--and no mistake about it. my reception was enormous. young mr. a----, who had come of age, was, comparatively speaking, nowhere. i was introduced to nearly everybody--or, more strictly speaking, everybody was _presented_ to me. my entertainments were never better received. they were given at intervals during the dancing. i danced with the most attractive dancers, whom the host compelled to dance with me. i enjoyed it immensely. i don't think they did, and am positive their displaced partners did not. shortly after midnight the supper-rooms were thrown open, and i was requested to take the hostess in to supper. no royal prince could have been treated better than i was. an elderly clergyman quoted from my entertainment in proposing the health of young mr. a----, on the auspicious occasion of his coming of age. young mr. a---- followed the clergyman's example in returning thanks. then, to my utter surprise, mr. a---- sen., proposed my health, and thanked me for coming down. i returned thanks; and as there was a risk of an anti-climax, i rose--with an amount of consummate impudence which, i am sorry to say, is a little characteristic of me--and proposed the health of the host and hostess, on the plea that i was the oldest friend of the family, and had known them all their lives. this observation was received with continued roars of laughter. i did not, and do not even now, think it funny; but please remember, after a good champagne supper, people will roar at anything. we returned to the drawing-room. i sang again, and then came the hour for my departure, for i had to drive all the way to town. mr. a---- stood in the middle of the room and shouted: "silence for a moment. all those who have been delighted with mr. grossmith, please hold up their hands." up went all the hands with the exception of those belonging to the displaced partners. mr. a----, with much forethought, for which i mentally thanked him, refrained from appealing to the "noes." continuing his thanks, mr. a---- said: "we are all much obliged to you, mr. grossmith; and"--here he fumbled in his right-hand pocket--"and if ever you want a little rest, we shall give you a hearty welcome if you like to stay here; and"--here he seized my right hand, and i felt an envelope being forced into it--"and mind you come. good-bye. i think you'll find that right," referring to the cheque, of course. on eventually examining the cheque, i found it was written for an amount nearly double my fee. i daresay many will think the cordiality extended towards me by mr. a---- was ostentatious, if not absolutely vulgar. all i can say is, it was infinitely to be preferred to the reception i once received from a lady of title who invited me to her party, who had not engaged me professionally, but who welcomed me at the top of her staircase with a vacant look and the following observation in her most aristocratic tone: "how late you are! will you sing now?" i need scarcely say there was no song; but there was a supper, of which i took full advantage. yet another incident, which occurred in my dressing-room at the opera comique, and which is indelible on my memory: a laird sent his scotch butler to me one evening to make inquiries respecting my entertainment. the butler, an elderly, pompous, and exceedingly stupid man, produced a piece of note-paper containing a string of questions which he was instructed to ask me. the first question was: "can mr. grossmith give an entertainment at aberdeen on jan.----?" i replied that my nightly engagement at the theatre would totally prevent my accepting an engagement at aberdeen. i could only sing at afternoon parties in town, or a short distance from it. the butler, with a broad scotch accent, which i need not imitate here, said: "ye'll have the goodness to answer this question, please. 'can mr. grossmith give an entertainment at aberdeen on jan.----?'" "no; i cannot," i replied. the butler continued reading: "'what will be his terms?'" "but i cannot go," i argued. "ye'll save a deal o' time if ye'll answer the questions, please. what'll be the terms?" "well, we will say a hundred guineas, as i can't go," i answered, endeavouring to restrain myself from bursting out laughing in his face. the butler made a note of the terms, and continued: "'will the entertainment be consistent?'" "what?" i ejaculated. "'will the entertainment be consistent?'" "consistent?" for the life of me, i could not see what he meant. "yes--consistent." i thought a little, and then said: "would you kindly explain the question? i do not understand it in the least." the butler said: "well, you must know, the laird is a strict presbyterian, and all the guests will be strict presbyterians, and he wants to know if your entertainment will be consistent." "now i understand you," i replied. "certainly, my entertainment will be quite consistent. i am always very careful, and shall only sing _presbyterian comic songs_." he made a note of my remark in the most serious way, and left, saying: "the laird himself will write to say if he can accept the terms." that occurred nearly ten years ago, and the laird has not written yet. giving entertainments in private houses is a constant source of delight to me, and i feel both pleasure and pride in my work. i take sometimes enormous pains in writing and composing the sketches, and have often devoted several hours a day for a week or so in arranging and composing a musical illustration which will only occupy a few minutes in performance, and which may pass almost unnoticed by the majority of the audience. but when the connoisseur picks that illustration out from all the rest of the entertainment as his choice, i feel am i more than rewarded for my trouble. all sorts of stories about me appear from time to time in the cheap weekly journals of the coloured paper or wrapper type, and i suppose they are amusing to the readers. the amuse _me_ sometimes. i never mind chaff. my entertainments in private are capital scope for the smaller journalists; and journalists, like other people, can be very small sometimes. i read accounts of my own indignation at having been told to go round to the servants' entrance; how a duchess was horrified at discovering she was dancing with me instead of lord adolphus; my injured feelings because a hostess did not shake hands with me; and my having called upon the butler at marlborough house, and spreading the report that i had visited the prince of wales. these paragraphs, though absolutely untrue, are inoffensive, and do good, inasmuch as they do not hurt me, but supply the author with a few hard and honestly-earned shillings. spiteful and really offensive paragraphs are regarded by me in a different light. an offensive paragraph has the same effect upon me as an anonymous letter. i feel the same sort of pity for the writer as i do for the poor "norfolk howard," who can only do its work in the dark, and cuts such a terrified figure when the light is suddenly flashed upon it. the anonymous letter-writer is, perhaps, the worst of the three; for his action is nearly always dictated by a feeling of spite; whereas the "norfolk howard" and the "offensive paragraphist" are actuated by a feeling of hunger: and _necessitas non habet leges_. there are exceptions to every rule, and i soon ascertained that hunger was not the _raison d'etre_ of the following exceptional notice in reference to my _debut_ in a weekly paper: "* * * * * * * * * and something which was called an 'entertainment' by a beardless boy, whose tones betokened his cockney birth, and whose sole ideas of humour seemed to be derived from an excessive abuse of vulgar gesture, and the constant employment of such slang terms as are heard in police-courts and penny gaffs. when master grossmith was not vulgar, he was simply stupid; for which reason his attempts at amusing an intelligent audience by a wretched imitation of the christy minstrels and a badly-arranged rehash of albert smith's 'evening parties' were, as they deserved to be, a dead failure. the whole exhibition was most painful, and as far beneath what we should have expected to see at the polytechnic as a 'penny dreadful' is from one of thackeray's novels. our advice to the _debutant_ is, to tarry at jericho till his beard be grown." i was extremely hurt at this, but the direct allusion to the police-court aroused my suspicions. i became a sort of amateur detective; and the result was, i "received information" that the article had been written by a gentle of position, who had just beforehand been charged at bow street with a very serious offence, and whose friends had not been successful in persuading me to "keep the case out of the paper," or in "altering his name" beyond recognition. i owe very much to the press, not merely for the favour extended towards me, but also for improvements gathered from their adverse criticism. but whenever i read a notice like the above, i am consoled by the thought that its author, at some time or other, without consent or consultation, has put in an appearance at bow street police court during my reign as reporter. in the foregoing chapter, i have dealt entirely with visits into society professionally. in the next, and last, i shall speak of the non-professional invitations: for, strange as it may appear to the uninitiated, i am _not_ always expected "to oblige with a song;" nor is it a _sine qua non_ that if i accept an invitation to dinner, it is on the distinct understanding that i should be funny. i can be a very rational being when i choose; and any hostess who asked me to her residence in the expectation that i should gratuitously amuse her guests, would find me particularly prosaic. happily for all professional men and women, such hostesses are very rare; and, fortunately, their reputations precede them. still, there _are_ people who cannot understand why i should appear _in propria persona_ in a drawing-room; and a wealthy hatter of slight acquaintance, meeting me at a "mansion house" ball, said: "hulloa! mr. grossmith, what are you doing here? are you going to give us any of your little funniments--eh?" "no," i replied. "are you going to sell any of your hats?" chapter viii. a very snobbish chapter. "i've got a little list."--_the mikado_. captain hawley smart, at the garrick one day, at lunch, gave me a valuable friendly warning. "in your book," said he, "do not fall into that diary mistake, characteristic of most autobiographers; and some autobiographers indulge in it very badly. i mean writing: 'may th.--dined at the duke of a----'s: present, lord and lady b----, count c----, marquis of d----, &c.' much better write down a list of all the people you _have_ met, and say: 'dined with, or met, this lot some time or other.'" unfortunately, i do not keep a diary, and have no list of "people i have known;" but i can truthfully say that during the last twelve or fourteen years i have had the privilege of meeting what the society papers repeatedly call "everybody, who is anybody." what! everybody? well, nearly everybody! i have met royal princes in their palaces, and republicans in their republic houses. i am personally acquainted with bishops and bradlaugh. i have shaken hands with sarah bernhardt and miss bessie bellwood. i have been visited by millionaires who are nobodies, and by beggars who are somebodies. i have exchanged courtesies with gustave dore, and another celebrated painter has exchanged umbrellas with me. i know sims reeves and "squash." i manage to get on with peers and peasants; i talk a little about the weather to the former, and a little (very little) about the crops to the latter. i believe i am a conservative, but i own to a great admiration for gladstone. i am not alone in that respect, except that i "own up" to my admiration, and other conservatives do not. i regret exceedingly that i never met lord beaconsfield; but when i commenced to "go out," he had almost ceased doing so. i met mr. gladstone at a garden party as recently as the autumn of , and was asked to meet him in june, . it is a pleasure to converse with him, or, rather, to hear him converse with you. at the former party, a lady said to me, "if that horrid man comes here, i shall walk through that window on to the lawn. i would not stay under the same roof with him." she evidently thought there was no chance of his coming; in point of fact, she afterwards admitted as much to me. when he _did_ arrive, she followed him about, curtsied as he passed, as if he were the queen, repeatedly offered him her chair, and indulged in that particular kind of adoration in the _presence_ which is usually indulged in by people who are ultra-bitter during the _absence_. but though i have not kept a list of the notable people i have met, i have kept the letters of those who have written to me as a friend or acquaintance. i cannot count myself as one of the "pestilential nuisances who apply for autographs," as gilbert describes them in _the mikado_; still, i must plead guilty to pasting in a book, or keeping in my desk, every letter addressed to me personally that has a good name attached. when i say every letter, i do not include letters addressed to me professionally or purely on business matters: those are merely of passing value to me. i simply treasure the letters of those with whom i have become actually acquainted. this collection is the collection of a snob, no doubt; and i can only beg of those of my readers who sensitive to snobbish actions to pass this chapter over, for my sake as well as theirs. i would add that my wife and i do not possess a card-basket, where the only countess's card will keep shifting to the top, of its own accord, in the most remarkable fashion; nor do we advertise our evening parties in the _morning post_, nor publicly announce that we have removed to a hired cottage at datchet during the fixture of a telephone pole to the roof of our family mansion in dorset (pronounced dossit) square. i will take the letters as they come, simply calling attention to the contents or the writers as i imagine they may interest or amuse the readers. the first--the most interesting to me, perhaps, as it turned the tide of my professional life--is the letter from arthur sullivan, asking me to go on the stage, which has already appeared in a former chapter. the next is from j. r. planche, whom i shall always remember with the greatest pleasure, and whose little parties were delightful. the following is characteristic of j. r. planche's well-known courtesy: royal avenue, chelsea, s.w., _ th august_, . dear mr. grossmith,--nothing could give me more pleasure than doing anything which is agreeable to you. i estimate highly your talent, and am flattered by your friendship. with kindest regards from all of us to you and your amiable and gifted wife, believe me, very sincerely yours, j. r. planche. the above is very flattering, and so is the following from frederic clay; and if i were a truly modest man, i should publish neither: seymour street, portman square. dear grossmith,--miss kate santley has asked me to write her a light song for the piece she is now playing. since miss santley immortalised "nobody knows as i know" for me, my humble pen has always been at her disposal--in fact, i have composed a couple of operas for her--but just now i am night and day at work on this brighton cantata; nor can i dream where to find words without being vulgar. as you were good enough to give me more real amusement and enjoyment at arthur blunt's than i have known for many a long day, i could not help suggesting your name to miss santley, telling her that, if you can find time for the purpose, she could not be in safer or more accomplished hands than yours. . . . yours very sincerely, frederic clay. i afterwards became very intimate with frederic clay; and a great portion of one of his subsequent works (the _black crook_, i think) composed while he was staying with my wife and myself at a tiny cottage which we rented during the autumn each year at datchet. his last work of all he chiefly did at datchet. it was called, i think, _the golden ring_, and the book was by g. r. sims. he hired a cottage a few doors from mine, and as i passed to and fro of a morning i used to see him writing hard at his desk in front of the open window, and invariably greeted him with "good-morning, freddy; do you want any of your harmonies corrected?"--"shall i score the drum parts for you?"--or some such nonsense. it will be remembered that he was seized with a serious illness after the production of the piece at the alhambra. i grieve to say i seldom see him now, as he lives away in the country very quietly. he wrote a charming letter in pencil some months ago respecting a favourable notice he had seen of the pianoforte-playing of my little girl sylvia at a "pupils'" concert. i have kept many of his letters, and value them. i wanted to see him about something, and suggested we should meet at the beefsteak club. this was his reply: [image] at the old gallery of illustration, in , corney grain was suddenly indisposed, and i sang for him; and i was very pleased at the thought of giving a sketch at the very piano on which john parry had played. subsequently i received the following letter from mrs. german reed: . . . please accept my best thanks, and with them a handkerchief which mr. john parry used in his song, "mrs. roseleaf's evening party." you said you would be pleased to have it. the little piece of cotton in the middle he always had tied to prevent confusion in folding while singing. with kind compliments to your wife, sincerely yours, priscilla reed. i sang and acted at the gallery of illustrations on another occasion. corney grain was required to give his "sketches at a country house," where he was to meet the prince of wales; and i undertook, besides giving my sketch "theatricals at thespis lodge," to act the part of the young lover (grain's part) in _very catching_, an excellent little piece by f. c. burnand, and music by molloy. in this, both mrs. german reed and arthur cecil played. i had to sing a sentimental duet with miss fanny holland, "o'er the stones go tripping," during which she had to rest on my shoulder as i led her from stone to stone. but there happened to be a great difference in the height of grain and myself; and when miss holland found that she could not stoop low enough to reach my shoulders, and that the strip of artificial water, which was arranged to well cover grain's ankles, was up to my knees, she fairly burst out laughing on the stage. next come rather amusing letters from the late duchess of westminster and lady diana huddleston. the former concludes her letter thus: if you have any of the philtre to spare, there is nothing i can think of i should like much better! believe me, dear mr. j. w. w., yours sincerely, constance westminster. the initials had reference to john wellington wells, the part in _the sorcerer_ i was playing at the time. i had sent lady diana the name of a professional spiritualist, and here is an extract from her reply: thank you so much for writing to e----. i am all for a medium who stands no nonsense with the spirits, but has them up there and then. i fear w---- lets his ghosties give themselves airs, as both "petre" and also "john king" have always thrown me over. who was john king? . . . yours very sincerely, di. huddleston. letters of invitation follow from frank holl, r.a., george du maurier, nita gaetana (mrs. moncrieff), kate field, and earls of fife and wharncliffe. then comes a letter from f. c. burnand, respecting my proposer for the beefsteak club. he suggested sir arthur sullivan; but eventually corney grain proposed me. i think frank burnand is the most amusing man to meet. he is brimful of good humour. he will fire off joke after joke, and chaff you out of your life if he gets a chance. his chaff is always good-tempered. no one minds being chaffed by burnand. i will not sing a song when he is in the room if i can possibly help it. he will sit in front of me at the piano, and either stare with a pained and puzzled look during my comic song, or he will laugh in the wrong places, or, what is worse still, take out his pocket-handkerchief and weep. a short time ago we were dining at mrs. lovett cameron's, and were seated on either side of her. throughout the dinner i had purposely been making some rude observations respecting the dishes, with which mrs. cameron was immensely amused. eventually a "sweet" was handed round, consisting of little hard cakes of something resembling dark-brown toffee or hardbake, with cream piled on. mrs. cameron said to me, "you must not pass this dish--_do_ have some." i replied, "well, i won't have any of the cream--only some of the _glue_," which the sweet certainly resembled. burnand promptly replied, "oh, are you going to _stick_ here all night?" burnand's parties are to be envied, and not forgotten. at one of his evening entertainments in russell square, he suggested we should get up a "bogus" band. i fell in with his idea at once, and it was left to me to arrange. i decided upon the overture to _zampa;_ and, to give a semblance of reality to the performance, arranged with mr. charles reddie to preside at the piano; and, chaos or no chaos, he was to go steadily on. frederic h. cowen was the violoncello; the first violins were played by mr. samuel heilbut, a capital amateur violinist, and by my brother, who was nearly as good. i played second violin, and was simply awful. rutland barrington played the piccolo; but as he could only play in one key, which, unfortunately, was _not_ the one we were playing, the effect can be imagined. last, but not least, corney grain conducted. the time arrived for the performance, and the music-stands were placed in a circle in the crowded drawing-room; and, in order that there should be no jumble at the commencement, we decided to take the overture at exactly half its proper time. i shall never forget the surprised look on the faces of sir julius benedict and mr. w. g. cusins when we began. there was no idea, at first, it was a joke. we played the next _andante_ movement with sublime expression and perfectly correctly, with the exception of barrington's piccolo, which was here more terribly conspicuous than before. this was rendered all the more ridiculous by the sweet, satisfied smile which grain was assuming, after the fashion of an affected conductor. the audience began to suspect something was up; but their suspicions were soon set at rest when the subsequent quick movement arrived. reddie played on, and heilbut stuck to it. fred. cowen, weedon grossmith, and myself put down our instruments and stared up at the ceiling, as if we had a few bars' rest. barrington played a tune of his own; and grain, in an excited manner and in the german tongue, demanded him to desist. barrington, who also speaks german, retaliated. this german row was most natural and funny, and created roars of laughter. j. l. toole, who was in the audience, and who did not see why he should not join in, forced his way through the people and seized hold of weedon's old italian violin, and was about to bang it on the back of a chair. weedon had a genuine fight to recover his fiddle, and had to remind toole that it was not one of his own "properties." reddie and heilbut still seriously stuck to the piano and violin. grain then bullied me for not playing. a general altercation ensued; and as the final chords of the shortened overture were played, grain seized me up under his arm, as if i had been a brown-paper parcel, and marched out of the room with me. after supper there was an extemporised christmas pantomime, in which grain, arthur cecil, fred. leslie, chas. colnaghi, william yardley, the brothers grossmith, and mrs. cecil clay (miss rosina vokes) took part. it was great fun for audience and performers, and miss vokes was excellent. at the final tableau, fred. leslie and myself struck two matches to represent coloured fire. i daresay all this seems silly; but i have seen many very serious people silly after a jolly supper with jolly people, so i hope some allowance will be made for the society clown. a little pencil sketch, by w. s. gilbert, comes next in my book; "bab" is an excellent draughtsman, as everyone knows. next on the list are annie thomas (mrs. pender cudlip) and florence marryat. the latter often signed herself "the ship," because one of the birmingham papers, speaking of the "entre nous" entertainment, described her as "of pleasant appearance, with bright, frank features, somewhat massively moulded, unaffected manners, and with a carriage reminding one of the stately motion of one of those noble vessels of which the glorious old captain loved to write." the same paper, continuing, observes: "in the second costume recital of 'joan of arc in prison,' she appeared in the usual grey tunic and with massive manacles on her waist; mr. grossmith, sitting at the piano as a sort of mute but comical gaoler, ready to accompany her in a musical scena at the end." i have before said that arthur cecil took a kind interest in me, and favoured me with many a valuable hint. i therefore print a letter of his (dated , when i knew him only slightly) in full, with the assurance, from experience, that jealousy in the theatrical profession is the exception and not the rule: beefsteak club, king william street, strand, w.c. my dear grossmith,--i am so delighted to hear you "obliged again" on wednesday, at grosvenor house, after i left. i was most anxious that you should be at your best before the prince and princess, and only regretted i could not stop to suggest the things that i consider your happiest efforts. i am sure "the muddle puddle porter" must have been all right. yours ever, arthur c. blunt. it was a charity concert, and i may incidentally remark that i had to appear early in the programme, and when my turn came their royal highnesses had not arrived. arthur cecil, who was announced later on, said: "the prince and princess have heard my song, so you take my place." the above voluntary suggestion on his part needs no comment. this letter is followed by ordinary letters from irving, toole, a. w. pinero, countess of charlemont (the late), viscountess combermere, herbert herkomer, a.r.a., earls of londesborough and dunraven, mrs. charlie mathews, mrs. kendal, the hon. lewis wingfield, emily faithful, and kate terry (mrs. arthur lewis). then comes a letter from thomas thorne, which is interesting because it is an invitation to dine with him to celebrate the thousandth night of _our boys_. then follow robert reece (he persuaded me to set to music one of his songs, "a peculiar man," which he need not have done, for he is a most excellent musician himself), john oxenford (dated --a birthday congratulation), j. ashby sterry (who always addresses me, "dear young jaarge"), r. corney grain, herman vezin, lord otho fitzgerald, and viscountess mandeville. the letter from lady mandeville, referring to some of my songs, is amusing--an extract from which i give: thanks a thousand times for the songs, which were delightful. we tried them all last night and i am sure some of the neighbours wished us at the north pole. . . . i have sent to america for a charming pathetic song for you; the last line is "let me hit my little brother before i die." a letter from j. b. buckstone, giving me permission to play paul pry (_en amateur_); a most amusing letter from howard paul, describing his futile attempt to learn "the muddle puddle porter" while "going up and down the lake of lucerne, under the shadow of the rigi, and within sight of the historical tell's platte;" a most flattering letter from sir julius benedict, which modesty, &c., will not permit of my reproducing; jacques blumenthal (he simply had "a message to send me" inviting me to dine) and henry j. byron. i knew byron when i was a boy, and i loved him because he was not above playing cricket with me on the sands at the seaside, when i was in trousers, or rather knickerbockers, which they resembled through my having outgrown them. in i wanted to purchase some clever words of his with a refrain, "yeo, heave ho." he wrote back from the haymarket theatre: dear george,--i wrote to you, saying you might have the song gratis, and posted the letter to j. s. clarke instead of you. yours ever sincerely, h. j. byron. everybody knows byron was about the best punster existing. he was also the worst. i heard him make this observation at margate: "i don't like _cock_roaches because they '_en_croaches." then come arthur a beckett, countesses of wharnecliffe and bantry, s. b. bancroft, lionel brough, viscounts hardinge and baring; a charming letter from clement scott, asking me for a contribution to a collection of theatrical stories; sir algernon borthwick, duke of beaufort, earl of hardwicke, and mrs. keeley. the letter (dated ) from the latter lady, i value most highly, of course: pelham crescent, s.w. dear mr. grossmith,--i was at the savoy on thursday evening with miss swanborough, and delighted we were with the performance. trusting yourself and madame are well, and with kind regards, ever yours sincerely, mary anne keeley. ------ finchley new road, _thursday_. dear mr. grossmith,--i am not going to use any flourishing phrases, but simply ask you if you would be so extremely good as to appear in the concert i arrange for the poor exiles at walmer. it is to be on the th or th of this month, in the house of lord denbigh. i am going to play a little french piece with m. berton, and i asked some artists to play and sing. i hope you will frankly tell me if you can do it or not, as i certainly should not like you to put yourself to any inconvenience for my sake. i know how busy you are, and it is a great impudence on my part to give you some more work. with many kind regards, i remain, always sincerely yours, helena modjeska. "next, please," as mr. t. thorne would say, as partridge. h.s.h. the duke of teck, countess of kenmare, james albery (author of _the two roses_), henry labouchere, miss e. braddon, joseph hatton (a very old and esteemed friend of mine) and professor pepper. the following is interesting to me, coming, as it does, from the most successful entertainer of his day. his songs, "a life on the ocean wave," "cheer, boys, cheer," "the ivy green," "the ship on fire," etc., will be ever remembered: hanover square club, _nov. nd_, . my dear grossmith,--many thanks for your kind letter. i leave for boulogne to-morrow (friday), or i should be only too glad to avail myself of your generous offer. i have been for years one of the warmest admirers of the great talent you possess; and all i can say is, that if you want to confer a favour on me, you will, without hesitation, jump on board the boulogne boat, and, after two hours of "a life on the ocean wave," come direct to the hotel du nord, where i reside, and where you shall have a good dinner, a glorious weed, a first-class bottle of chateau margaux, a shake-down, and a sincere warm welcome from your old friend, henry russell. ------ grand hotel, stockholm, _june th_, . dear grossmith,--i have just remembered you have received no reply to your invite for the "small and early." . . . we left london on the th, and since then have visited hamburg and copenhagen. to-night we start for christiania on our way to the north cape. should any friends ask my address, tell them for the next three weeks, "arctic ocean." kind regards from mrs. and self to mrs. g. and self. yours sincerely, edward terry. the following is from nellie farren: gaiety theatre, strand, _friday_. dear george,--will you repeat yesterday's performance on the rd of this month for your old friend, nell. alfred scott gatty, hamilton aide, duke of abercorn, earl of onslow, william j. florence (the popular american comedian), john hare, w. kuhe, w. maybrick (his "nancy lee" still haunts me), chas. wyndham, w. j. hill, oscar wilde, and j. mcniel whistler, from whose epistle i give an extract: "je tu savois brave--mais je ne tu savois pas plus brave que moy!" ton roy, henri. which means, my dear bunthorne, that "i knew you amazing!--but i did not know you more amazing than i"! thine then appears the well-known "butterfly" signature. madam dolby, madam liebhart, viscountess folkestone, lady coutts lindsay (whose charming collections of people at the grosvenor gallery some years ago will not be easily forgotten), beatty kingston, frederick boyle, manville fenn, lady chas. beresford, marchioness of ormond, lady chesham, g. h. boughton, a.r.a., pro. ray lankester, sir coutts lindsay, earl and countess of donoughmore. her ladyship writes: . . i am afraid we cannot go to london this season. there is an idea that digging turnips at knocklofty would be a pleasing change. i should not mind the turnips if kind friends would come and help dig them. have you and mrs. grossmith any sharp spuds, and would you like to race me in a drill? (i don't know if turnips are planted in drills--potatoes are.) are you afraid of the sea? it's not very rough, and your chicks could play and fight with mine all day, and we would have a good time somehow. mrs. alfred wigan, carlotta leclercq, viscountess pollington, harry furniss, e. willard, sir morell mackenzie, duchess of abercorn (a kind letter referring to my severe illness in jan., ), harry payne (certainly the best clown in my time), rutland barrington, fred. leslie, meyer lutz, earl of clarendon. pro. hubert herkomer, a.r.a., writes, in reply to my enquiry whether he was busy: i am now at work on my thirty-first portrait this year--which does not count water-colour subjects. can't you spend a sunday with me? milton wellings, lord hay of kinfauns, arthur stirling. _july th_, . dear grossmith,--we are looking forward with great pleasure to lunching with you next monday. my duty to your wife. yours ever, douglas straight. ------ melbury road, w. _ th april_, . my dear grossmith,--no congratulations i have received have given me more pleasure than those coming from old friends, and among them i was gratified to have yours; for we have known each other a long time, and i believe with corresponding regard. accept my very best thanks for your nice letter; and with best wishes for yourself and your wife, i am, sincerely yours, luke fildes. sir edward sieveking, baroness burdett coutts (a kind invitation for my wife and myself to see the jubilee procession), paul rajon (the french etcher), e. gibert (whom the _daily telegraph_ flattered me by designating the french grossmith). the following, from hamilton clarke, had reference to a small theatre work of mine which i had to score for an exceedingly limited orchestra: dear george,--yardley tells me to send you a list of the band at ---- theatre. i regret to say that, owing to the fact that the accommodation for the musicians is about the dimensions of a third-class railway compartment (i believe the trombone-player has to play lying down), the "orchestra" is limited to the following list: . . . no chance of the slightest delicacy or fancy! only plain, straightforward english slogging. long live the cornet and side-drum--briton's boast! yours sincerely, hamilton clarke. ------ longridge road, earl's court, _december th_. dear george,--£ , if you don't mind; and i am so sorry for the poor lady. i've just come back from paris, and your letter had been sent there and back here after me, or you would have heard from me before. hope you are very well. with love to you both, yours ever, ellen terry. i'm having a lovely christmas holiday. percy fitzgerald (i shall naturally look forward to his _chronicles of bow street_ with special interest), emily lovett cameron, joseph hollman, duchess of westminster (the present), h. s. marks, r.a., arthur roberts, c. d. marius, wilford morgan, george giddens, dr. anderson critchett, bottesini, h.s.h. prince leiningen, sir frederick leighton, p.r.a. white lodge, richmond park, _january th_. dear mr. grossmith,--i thank you for sending me your photos; it was a very kind thought of you. i trust ko-ko and yourself to be in the best of spirits. i must go to the savoy again, and i hope you will from thence proceed with me to the bachelor's and have some supper. yours sincerely, teck. ------ untere promenade, homburg, _saturday_. dear grossmith,--the prince of wales hopes that mrs. grossmith and you will dine with him at the kinsaal on monday evening, at . . yours truly, h. tyrwhitt-wilson. i had promised to write david james a song for _little jack sheppard_, at the gaiety,--a promise which i failed to keep. u had a good "intention," but not an "idea." the reward for my failure was this amusing letter: buckingham street, adelphi, _may nd_, . dear grossmith,--the _song_ you wrote for me for blueskin goes immensely every night, and everybody is asking who is the _author_ and _composer_. now, as you cannot come and bow your acknowledgments at _night_, you might as well come and do so in the _morning_; and what better morning than thursday, the th of may, at my _matinee_ benefit at the gaiety? i want all my old pals to be there. . . . like a good boy, come and sing and play, and very much oblige your old "partic.," david james. a. goring thomas, percy reeve, sir percy shelley, fred. barnard (with humorous sketch), john t. bedford (author of "robert," in punch). lyceum theatre, _ th february_, . dear grossmith,--greeting! right hearty congratulations on your recovery and reappearance this evening. sincerely yours, h. irving. a letter from lady freake reminds me of (to me) a memorable performance at cromwell house. the musical triumviretta, _cox and box_, formed part of the programme: box ... ... ... ... ... ... mr. arthur cecil. cox ... ... ... ... ... ... mr. george grossmith. serjeant bouncer... ... ... mr. corney grain. piano ... ... ... mr. alfred cellier. harmonium ... ... sir arthur sullivan. i remember seeing at this entertainment the dowager countess of waldegrave, who was the daughter of john braham, the celebrated singer. but what most impressed me was an incident at the first rehearsal. cecil, grain, and i were under the impression that we had the well-fitted little theatre to ourselves; but suddenly two elderly and very prim ladies came and sat in the front row and watched us. there is nothing so disconcerting to actors as to watched at the preliminary rehearsal. i cannot bear it even at the dress rehearsal. in the present instance we grumbled to ourselves and delayed commencing, hoping the two ladies would take the hint and depart. no such luck. one of them, the mother of an exceedingly clever amateur who has played _cox and box_ all his life (i believe he was born playing it), suddenly said in a loud voice: "why don't they begin? don't they know what to do? i wish johnnie were here; he could show them at once." royal princess's theatre, _march rd_, . dear grossmith,--i know one "little piece" only, "gone with a handsomer man." if that will do, i am ready to help you; unless it should be the date on which _clito_ is produced. i expect to play it earlier than that. kind regards. faithfully yours, wilson barrett. miss hope glen, isidore de lara, wilhelm ganz, linley sambourne, charles warner, fred. h. cowen, e. w. royce, miss fortescue (informing me of the breaking off of the engagement between herself and lord garmoyle, now earl cairns), john clayton, lady mildred denison, lady william lennox, lady ventry, lady ardilaun, m. riviere, sir john bennett, madame lemmens-sherrington. i am frequently asked, when singing professionally in private houses, if i am friendly with mr. corney grain. here is an extract from one of his letters. i had been suffering from sore throat, and could not fulfil a certain engagement, and he kindly sang in my stead. in return, i sent him a small souvenir in the shape of a "tantalus." dear george,--thank you very much for your very handsome--and, moreover, very useful--present. it shall be entirely at your service from march st till the th april, when i hope, barring accidents, to be at the willows, datchet, where you have, not a general, but a particular invitation during that period. another of his letters terminates thus: then farewell my trim-built wherry. from that sheer hulk, r. corney grain. countess of bective, marshall p. wilder (the american humorist), gordon thomson, sir john millais, john hollingshead, earl of hopetoun. at a party at sir arthur sullivan's one evening, i was asked to sing the lord chancellor's enormous patter song. i could not remember it; so lord hopetoun, himself a most excellent humorous singer, volunteered to prompt me. the effect was most ludicrous; for lord hopetoun had really to sing quickly the whole of the song about one bar ahead of me. after this, arthur sat at the piano, and lord hopetoun and myself arrayed ourselves in a few antimacassars and performed a graceful ballet; that is to say, as graceful as the circumstances would permit. a kind letter from my old friend, alfred cellier, respecting the death of my father, reminds me of another evening at sir arthur sullivan's. we had been previously to a dinner-party and subsequent reception at lady sebright's, where i was introduced to mrs. langtry--it being, i believe, her first introduction to london society. subsequently, sullivan persuaded cellier, arthur cecil, and myself, and i fancy a few others, including archibald stuart wortley, to return to his rooms at albert mansions, where the gifted composer was then residing. we stayed very late--much later than i would dare stay up now. i left with alfred cellier, and he asked me if i could drop him in park lane, as he had another party to go to. there was every excuse for my being astonished, considering it was half-past four in the morning and the beautiful daylight had long since appeared. i acquiesced, and the next day asked cellier if he did not find that everybody had gone. "no, indeed," replied cellier; "in fact, i was the _first arrival_." rather an early card party! speaking of mrs. langtry, recalls to my mind a curious incident affecting both of us. i was asked to a musical party in prince's gardens, and proceeded there after my work at the theatre. on arriving in the locality, and seeing the awning out, and the usual line of footmen, and the will-o'-the-wisp linkman, i shouted to the cabman, who was passing the door, to stop. i gave up my coat and walked into the drawing-room, being announced in the usual way. i found, however, that a ball was in full swing. i could not discover my host or hostess, although i met many people i knew. i soon ascertained that i had come to the wrong house, and, instead of being at mrs. g----'s musical party, was at sir william d----'s ball. i slipped downstairs--having ex-explained the matter to a friend of sir william's--got my coat, and went to mrs. g----'s, which was a few doors off. as i was proceeding upstairs i met mrs. langtry coming down, and she said: "oh, mr. grossmith, i've made _such_ a mistake! i've come to the wrong house. i ought to be at the ball at sir william d----'s. i couldn't understand how it was there was singing and no dancing upstairs, and have only just discovered my mistake." i replied, "you maybe comforted; i have been to sir william d----'s by mistake, when i ought to have been here. lady greville, madame de fonblanque, brindley richards, henry s. neville (asking me to play "paul pry" at the crystal palace), earl of desart, who, in kindly sending me an invitation, described the whereabouts of his house thus: "there's a place called victoria lodge, it lies in victoria street; to find it, i'll tell you the dodge-- ask ev'ry policeman you meet." h. beerbohm tree, countess of wilton, miss millward, dr. louis engel, h. bracy, kate vaughan. marlborough house, pall mall, s.w., _june th_, . dear mr. grossmith,--by direction of the prince and princess of wales, i send you the accompanying pin, which their royal highnesses hope you will accept as a small souvenir of your visit to marlborough house on the evening of the th inst. believe me, yours truly, d. m. probyn. ------ court theatre, sloane square, s.w., _march th_. my dear george,--many thanks for your kind letter. the play, so far, promises to exceed _the magistrate_. yours truly, john clayton. ------ harley street, w., dear mr. grossmith,--i have been asked by people right and left; but put my name down, and if i can recite--i will. yours faithfully, madge kendal. ------ cambridge street, warwick square, s.w. my dear grossmith,--one line to say "thank you;" another from my mother to repeat the "thank you." the two joined make the words bear their fullest measure of truth, and your kindness is very pleasant to yours sincerely, clifford harrison. ------ dear mr. grossmith,--i will (d.v.) be there on the th. many thanks. yours ever truly, m. e. bancroft. ------ russell square, _march th_, . dear gee gee ("i've spotted you"),--you'd do much more good if you'd just leave _cox and box_ alone, and stick to writing what i ask you to. i chuckled over this week's _very trying_, no. viii. _capital_. i've written to committee, and told 'em weedon is a _much better_ fellow than you are. _ergo_, if they like _you_, they'll elect weedon; if they _don't_ like you, _still_ they'll elect weedon. q.e.d. yours ever, f. c. burnand. ------ hill street, _ th may_, . dear mr. grossmith,--i am very much obliged to you for your note and the photos sent with it. my daughter will write her own thanks for your note addressed to her. i take the liberty of sending you one of my photographs in return for those you have so kindly sent me. with many thanks, i remain, very truly yours, wolseley. ------ _may th_. my dear grossmith,--i am desired by the duke of albany to invite mrs. grossmith and yourself to lunch at claremont, on friday next, before the concert. a train leaves waterloo for esher at . , by which i hope you will come. please send a line in reply to the comptroller of the household, claremont, esher; and believe me, yours very sincerely, alec yorke. ------ sainte croix, upper east sheen, mortlake, _june th_, . my dear george grossmith,--i hope there is no doubt about you and your wife giving us the pleasure of sharing our housewarming on the th prox.; for, in addition to the gratification of having you both with us, i want you to volunteer a song on the occasion. . . . you mustn't ridicule the idea of my giving a housewarming at my time of life, for on the th inst. i shall have achieved my th year; but the meeting of old friends under a new roof will be a cheery event to look back upon by an aged pilgrim who is starting a new family home in his st year. with kindest regards to mrs. grossmith, believe me, my dear george grossmith, faithfully yours, t. german reed. the following is from the once famous clown, the legitimate successor to grimaldi, with whom he played: upper lewes road, brighton, _october th_, . my dear mr. grossmith,--yours to hand. many thanks for the kind epistle respecting my birthday and health. i should like to have seen you. pray give me a call next time you visit brighton. god bless my dear, kind, good old friend, john l. toole. excuse my being brief. shakespeare says, "let those who play your clowns, speak no more than is put down for them." so i remain, very faithfully yours, tom matthews. eighty years of age october th, . excuse all mistakes, my sight is bad. he does not show it in his letter; for he had sketched, in coloured crayons, a tiny representation of himself in the motley--head and shoulders. sir rivers wilson, eric lewis, lord garmoyle (now earl cairns), frank miles, herman merivale, kyrle bellew, jules lasserre, brandon thomas, alfred german reed, lady fanny fitzwygram, mrs. arthur stirling, alice barnett (lady jane in _patience_), leonora braham, jessie bond, jenny lee (jo), carlotta addison, alfred scott gatty, countess of londesborough (asking me to sit with his lordship and "cheer him up" at the time of his dreadful accident), lady dorothy nevill. everybody knows that lady dorothy nevill gives very charming luncheon parties, their chief characteristic being the odd assortment of celebrities. on one of these occasions the announcement of the guests, who, somehow or other, arrived in strange couples, was especially amusing. the servant threw open the drawing-room doors, and announced "lord pembroke and mr. george grossmith." as i am only five-feet-five in height and comic in appearance, and his lordship is six-feet-six and rather serious, it is not to be wondered at that those already assembled indulged in a titter. the next announcement by the servant was "the earl of wharnecliffe and mr. justin mccarthy." for political reasons alone, this was amusing. then came "the duke of wellington and mr. corney grain." i do not know why, but this sounded very funny. it is only fair to lady dorothy to state that these are not "surprise" parties. her guests are always informed whom they are to meet. the following letter is _apropos_ of my _debut_ at the opera comique: the green room, adelphi terrace, w.c., _december th_, . dear george,--let me congratulate you very heartily on your success. i read with very great pleasure the good notices about you. i shall hope to _hear_ you soon; because when at "the globe" i shall cut a hole in the wall, and hope to listen to the charming music whilst i'm going through my own performance. with kind regards to your wife and self, and all good wishes for your continued success in your new arena, i am, yours sincerely, j. l. toole. besides being a very old and privileged friend of the famous and popular comedian, i have had the pleasure of being associated with him in business, having composed the music for _mr. guffin's elopement_ and _the great tay-kins_, written by arthur law, and produced at toole's theatre. toole is fond of stories about other people. here is one about him. not being a musician, and not being a quick study, it becomes no easy task to drum a song, or especially duet, into his head. in _the great tay-kins_ there was a "one-line-each" duet between him and mr. e. d. ward. i could not get toole to get the rhythm right. he kept saying it was all right, but it was not. this is what it ought to have been: [image] this is how toole first got it: [image] after a dozen rehearsals of these few bars, he got it thus: the company were in roars of laughter; but toole struggled on perfectly seriously until he got it. he was then as pleased as punch, and insisted on my lunching with him, an invitation i was not likely to refuse. the following is from sir algernon borthwick, who was my proposer for the garrick club: _morning post_, _february th_, . dear grossmith,--you were elected this afternoon, not only unanimously, but with warmest expressions of welcome and goodwill. i never saw so cordial and sympathetic an election. sincerely yours, algernon borthwick. ------ _march th_, . my dear grossmith,--if you are not too tired, and have no better engagement, will you come up and see my "show"--all portraits (chamber of horrors)--before they go to the r.a. on friday evening? the usual business--not dress. yours sincerely, frank holl. ------ _from_ mrs. john wood. gordon square, w.c., _july th_, midnight. my dear george,--i cannot go to rest to-night without thanking you really and truly for your invaluable help this afternoon, and for the very graceful courtesy you have shown through the entire affair. i can only say if at any time i can do anything for you, you will confer a favour on me by asking it. your dear little wife cheered me by saying she and everybody were very pleased with us, and i don't think she would have said so if she hadn't meant it. so good-night to you both, and god bless you. your faithful friend, matilda wood. the following, from george m. du maurier, the incomparable _punch_ artist, has reference to the death of "chang," the enormous dog which he possessed, and which he so often immortalised on the pages of the above periodical: new grove house, hampstead heath. we are all (especially i) much touched by your kind note about poor old "chang," whom we miss very much. although his death was expected, it was very painful when it came, more so than i should have thought possible in the case of an animal. his bones have gone to the museum of the college of surgeons, and his skin is coming back to me. he was so big that, having no groom or manservant to look after him, i had to be his slave, and nothing is so attaching as voluntary slavery; so that i cannot yet rejoice in my new-found liberty. please thank your wife for me for her kind feeling. ------ the terrace, kennington park, s.e., _october st_, . dear grossmith,--on the th inst. i make my last appeal to the public, and on that occasion i want all the friendly support i can obtain. may i ask the favour of your vocal assistance? if agreeable and convenient, the programme will be complete. yours faithfully, wm. creswick. ------ marlborough house, _may th_, . dear mr. grossmith,--the princess has desired me to thank you for so kindly sending her that prettily-bound collection of your songs. h.r.h. is delighted to have it, and will value and prize the book extremely. believe me, yours truly, charlotte knollys. i naturally conclude "my little list" with letters from gilbert and sullivan, to whom i shall ever feel grateful for their many kindnesses and the opportunities they have offered me of more or less distinguishing myself: harrington gardens, south kensington, _ th february_, . my dear grossmith,--carte tells me you had made some engagement for to-morrow afternoon. if so, pray don't trouble to come down to the theatre, as i know _your_ business is all right. but some of the others have become slack, and want bracing up. yours faithfully, w. s. gilbert. during my dangerous illness, mr. gilbert never failed a day to come up and enquire after me. he also came down to brighton with d'oyly carte, and kept me in roars of laughter the whole time. this was one of the bright days during an anxious time. but to see gilbert at his best, is to see him at one of his juvenile parties. though he has no children of his own, he loves them, and there is nothing he would not do to please them. i was never so astonished as when on one occasion he put off some of his own friends to come with mrs. gilbert to a juvenile party at my own house. the following had reference to a mock melodrama, written by myself, which barrington, my brother, and i were to act at sir arthur's on an occasion when he was entertaining the prince of wales, the duke of edinburgh, and other distinguished guests: queen's mansions, victoria street, s.w. dear grossmith,--are you down in this neighbourhood to-morrow any time? if so, we might run through the "melos" here, or i could meet you in town (chappell's) at . . send me a wire early, please. i hope mrs. grossmith will come; and, furthermore, that she understands that i shall never send her a separate invitation, as i shall always be delighted to see her whenever you come. it does not, of course, follow that i shall be delighted to see _you_ whenever _she_ comes. yours sincerely, arthur sullivan. ------ hotel de paris, monte carlo, _ th february_, . dear g. g.,--the earthquake knocked me about so much mentally, that i could not write sooner to you to say how glad i am that you are all right again--for both our sakes. don't get ill again, but take care of yourself. we are all calm again here, but we had a nasty time of it. i think the suspense afterwards was worse than the shock itself. . . . yours sincerely, arthur sullivan. the following is an instance of the good feeling that has always existed between the authors and actors: queen's mansions, victoria street, s.w., _ th january_, . my dear grossmith,--many thanks for your very kind letter. it is pleasant to be thought of when one is ill; and it is also pleasant to know that one's works are in the hands, not only of artists, but of _friends_ like yourself, who bring something more than a mere professional interest to bear on their work. i have had a very sharp and severe attack; but, fortunately, a short one. i have been out three times for a drive, and to-day go into the country till friday. my kind remembrances to mrs. grossmith. yours sincerely, arthur sullivan. on second thoughts, i will conclude with a letter from myself to the purchasers of _a society clown_: dear readers,--if i have succeeded in amusing or interesting you, i shall feel myself more than repaid for my trouble. if i have bored or disappointed you, i beg to offer my apologies; for it was not my intention to do so. your grateful and obedient servant, george grossmith. dorset square, _july_, . finis. [transcriber's note: in chapter vi, the reference to the first production of _the sorcerer_ "in " appears to be a misprint.] [transcriber's note: the missing first word of the quotation at the beginning of chapter vii appears to be a misprint.] generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) transcriber's notes italic text is denoted by _underscores_. obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. more detail can be found at the end of the book. nat goodwin's book nat goodwin's book by nat c. goodwin illustrated [illustration: (publisher's colophon)] boston richard g. badger the gorham press toronto: copp clark company limited copyright, by nat c. goodwin and richard g. badger _all rights reserved_ the gorham press, boston, u.s.a. preface in penning memoirs or autobiographing it is extremely difficult to avoid writing impersonally, yet i shall strive to avoid it as much as possible, not so much from a sense of duty as from a standpoint of mercy. i have never enjoyed reading about myself and i am firmly convinced that there are few who have. perhaps, if i am tempted during this review to give myself an opinion of myself, it may be received with favor even by those critics who have never agreed with any of my characterizations. i started this little work with some degree of terror. i had such a poor background to frame my somewhat checkered career upon. i fully realized that a man must be a very great person, or at least imagine himself to be, to write an autobiography. but finally after listening to the advice of friends i approached myself, albeit surprised at my temerity. after having read many autobiographies i discovered that most nearly-great persons who indulge in the dissipation of giving to the world their opinions of themselves were either born in dilapidated garrets or on unproductive farms. as there were no trees in my garden of youth nor a candle placed in an empty bottle to shed its effulgence upon my future life i wondered how i could diversify and be truthful, yet entertaining. a feeling of apprehension akin to that which always follows the first night of one of my productions took hold of me. i wondered how this little effort of mine would be received. when reading a criticism the morning following a production i am always fearful of being found out. if i am condemned i know i have been! but after i have fully digested all the unkind criticisms, which are usually written by those who do not fancy me in any serious effort, i am in the end always superlatively happy in knowing that the critic has done his duty. if i had my way, he would be doing time! generally he is so blissfully ignorant of what he prates about that i have a silent chuckle all to myself at the expositions of his glaring and blatant incompetency. yet it has always been a question in my mind whether the public enjoys reading vituperative attacks upon its stage favorites particularly after it has been entertained and amused the previous evening. i think that it is thoroughly satisfied with its own verdict and resents another's antagonistic to it. it much more enjoys reading something of the actor's private life particularly when it can read something which exposes his or her particular vagaries. and the public is prone to believe everything the visionary gentlemen of the press chronicle. the more unwholesome it is the more it believes; the more suggestive, the more palatable. you have only to put any sort of halo around an actor or a cigar, good or bad, to beget a following or a smoker! unfortunately the halo that the public has been kind enough to place above me will not bear minute inspection. it is opaque. however, being unable to escape it i have always been content to smile within and when the haloed one has been supposedly exposed i can do nothing but sit tight and accept the inevitable. at times it has been a bit harrowing to submit, yet it has taught me self-control which i will endeavor to exercise in this little work. if i am tempted to use the personal pronoun more frequently than necessary i shall deflect and command my thoughts, to wander among more agreeable persons. having lived so long within the confines of my kindly bestowed halo i have become fully aware of my limitations. the agreeable personalities are easily found and i hope my readers will enjoy their companionship as much as i have enjoyed them. every reference made to these delightful people is inspired by the kindliest of feelings and if i have judged one or two more harshly than they seemingly deserve the error is of the head, not of the heart; for i loved, liked or admired them all and i am none too poor to do them reverence--even now. while some may regard my opinions as impertinences none can convincingly deny my right to think, and as all is given impersonally i believe that none will doubt my motives. many will question the various attitudes in this book particularly regarding marriage and divorce. they will advance the theory that the bonds of matrimony must be welded more closely even when the participants find it difficult to live normally. i know that many who are incarcerated in the dungeons of matrimonial thraldom would not stop at murder to burst their bonds. it does not require the philosophy of a bacon or an emerson to prove that such incarceration is wrong. why make martyrs of those forced to live together when hate supplants love, when bodies and thoughts play upon different instruments producing only discords? the laws of our country make it possible for us to file the bars of our unwholesome cells and suppress this monumental mockery. the views i have incorporated in this book, right or wrong, i stand by. all through my life i have never feared criticism for any of my acts. my moral or physical courage has never failed. i have been and always will be willing to stand by my guns and take my medicine. before completing this work i unfortunately submitted a few excerpts to a visionary representative of one of the los angeles papers. he immediately published broadcast what he had absorbed and very obligingly gave it the title of his own imagination, "memoirs of matrimony," thereby creating the impression that my book was to be devoted simply to my marital experiences. such was never my intention, but as more than thirty years of my life have been devoted to matrimony naturally my autobiography demands mention of the women who have borne my name. i have been censured sometimes harshly for my versatility in the selection of wives and many have marvelled at my fortunate (or unfortunate) selections. i have always been long on the market of home and wives. i truly believe that no home is complete without a wife, providing she is of the kind that enjoys the company of intelligent, honest and clever people. some men only lease their mates and then prate about their respectability. if i have decided at different times to tear down any of the ephesian domes which i have erected, is the fact of my destroying them enough to warrant my being known, as was alexander, as the fool that razed (or is it raised?) them? while autobiography and a round up of memories will necessarily be conspicuous i shall endeavor also to make this book a medium of retrospective thoughts given to the many people, prominent and otherwise, with whom i have come in contact. as i have no notes i shall write purely from memory's tablets. if inaccuracies occur they will be unintentional. many of those dear friends have long since passed down the lonely mountain trail, but their sweet memories still linger by the roadside. if they but leave the perfume of their souls to mark the road for me to follow when i arrive at the corral nature has established in the valley i hope that we all shall meet and that they will elect me their callboy, that i may be privileged to ring up the curtain upon perpetual joy. n. c. g. ocean park, california. contents chapter page i commencement day ii my debut iii stuart robson iv john mccullough v sir henry irving vi "barry" and jefferson vii a sunny son of sometime viii charles hoyt ix sir charles wyndham x charles r. thorne, jr. xi sol smith russell xii richard mansfield xiii in variety xiv eliza weathersby xv successful failures xvi back in the 'eighties xvii the halcyon days of union square xviii the birth of the syndicate xix stars xx atmospheric plays xxi actors past and present xxii maude adams xxiii tyrone power xxiv an artistic success! xxv the skating rink xxvi number two xxvii a fight won (?) xxviii john chamberlain xxix w. s. gilbert xxx henry e. dixey xxxi swagger new yorkers of another day xxxii james whitcomb riley xxxiii digby bell and de wolf hopper xxxiv blaine and ingersoll xxxv jim corbett in england xxxvi the cockney cabby comedian xxxvii a gilded fool and other plays xxxviii george m. cohan xxxix thoughts vaudeville-born xl john drew xli the rivals revival xlii wilton lackaye xliii "young" mansfield xliv david warfield xlv a day at reno xlvi lillian russell xlvii dramatic schools xlviii number three (almost) xlix the confessional l san francisco li antony (?) and cleopatra lii honolulu and samoa liii publicity--its results liv in the land of the kangaroo lv welcome(!) home lvi number three lvii when we were twenty-one and other plays lviii at jackwood lix "why do beautiful women marry nat goodwin?" lx billy thompson lxi the critics lxii james a. hearne lxiii eddie foy lxiv william gillette lxv william brady, esq. lxvi robert ford lxvii more plays lxviii willie collier lxix henry miller lxx what's in a name? lxxi i try being a business man lxxii the five fateful fish cakes and number four lxxiii sir beerbohm tree lxxiv the origin of the stage lxxv my stage-struck valet lxxvi george c. tyler lxxvii i find the very best phyllis lxxviii the lambs club lxxix i "come back" lxxx i go back lxxxi david belasco lxxxii "author--author" lxxxiii mushroom managers lxxxiv "keep off the grass" lxxxv california lxxxvi i become a barnstormer lxxxvii number five lxxxviii l'envoie index list of illustrations facing page nat c. goodwin _frontispiece_ william warren _the greatest comedian that ever lived_ stuart robson _the best shakespearean clown of modern times_ tony hart _he had the face of an irish apollo, did tony hart_ john mccullough and associate players in the dramatic festival _"mr." mccullough and the rest of us_ sir henry irving _an extraordinary man_ joseph jefferson _i firmly believe i improved his morals_ sir charles wyndham _a remarkable man_ charles r. thorne, jr. _a royal picture to contemplate_ in the little rebel _one of my first excursions into the legitimate_ eliza weathersby _the wife who mothered me_ in hobbies with eliza weathersby _the play i won at faro_ lithograph of goodwin's froliques in turned up _in the days when i was an imitator_ lotta _in the days when work was play_ jack haverly _the man who conceived the syndicate_ in the gold mine _my get-up in the gold mine_ those were the happy days coquelin _would he have gone in vaudeville? i wonder_ nella baker pease _the best amateur piano player i ever heard_ nat c. goodwin, iii pals _richard carle, fred g. stanley, nat goodwin, walter jones, de wolf hopper_ in confusion _back in the eighties_ nat goodwin and company in in mizzoura _one of the best casts i ever saw_ ticket sale for in mizzoura dick golden _we were pals for many years_ david warfield and nat goodwin _i'm proud of the company_ in mizzoura _one of the greatest of american plays_ mrs. n. c. goodwin, sr. _a dear old lady living in boston_ how much a lamb i was i didn't know--then! an australian greeting can't touch its farewell! in an american citizen _if we had been associated a few years longer my name would have been up as her leading support!_ as bob acres _i gave bob a country dialect_ maxine elliott _fate's partner_ in when we were twenty-one _the biggest bit of any play i ever produced_ in nathan hale "_they hang nat in the last act_" wm. h. thompson _an artist to his finger tips_ james a. hearne _he knew how poor sol "fell"_ robert ford "_a cold-blooded, conscienceless murderer_" as cameo kirby _i never played a character i liked so well_ edna goodrich _my young and handsome star_ as shylock _one of my successful failures_ in hamlet _it had always been my desire to appear in shakespearean roles_ margaret moreland _the very best phyllis_ as fagin in oliver twist "_fagin was a comedian_" david belasco _an intellectual giant_ drawn while we were "barnstorming" the ranch at san jacinto, california _a scene not equalled in the austrian tyrol_ nat goodwin's book nat goodwin's book _chapter i_ commencement day one bright morning in june, , the little blue academy of old farmington college, maine, rang with the plaudits of an admiring throng of visitors. some of them had come in their capacious coaches, lumbering and crushing their way through the streets of the usually quiet village, while others in good old puritan fashion had come afoot and across fields and by-ways. altogether the tumult was great both without and within and the puritan housewives, their quiet thus sadly disturbed, devoutly offered up thanks that such affairs occurred but once in a twelvemonth. but the clatter of contending jehus and vociferous villagers on the campus was nothing compared with the resounding clash of palms and other noisy demonstrations of approval within. it was commencement day. eager papas and mammas, sweet, admiring misses and anxious friends were there that neither valedictorian, salutatorian, orator nor poet might lack that proper sort of encouragement, without which any affair of this nature must necessarily be incomplete. they were to decide as well the winner of the prize in elocution. truly it was a day of mighty portent. many had spoken their parts and the rafters and roof had given back the approving shouts in echoes almost as resounding as the words themselves. at length my name was announced by our preceptor and worthy master, mr. alden j. blethen, the present manager and owner of the seattle "times." with some timidity, but tremendous eagerness, i mounted the improvised rostrum and began my recitation of a poem called "the uncle." as i began my eyes seemed to be swimming back and forth in my head. i saw nothing but birds floating into space. then a death-like silence ensued and images usurped the place of birds. they assumed forms and through the mists came men and women and one by one they seemed to come before my vision until the room was filled. i finished, i thought, in a hush and was utterly oblivious to the great burst of applause which greeted my efforts. my seat-mate, poor charlie thomas who in after years was associated with charles hoyt, the writer and producer of many successful farce comedies, grabbed me by the arm and hurled me back upon the stage whispering, "give them that 'macbeth' speech!" mechanically i acted upon his suggestion and began the soliloquy. i remembered nothing more until we left the hall. in fact i was in a comatose state until summoned that evening by mr. blethen to come into his library where, in the presence of the other scholars, i was presented with a set of shakespeare's complete works. as i went to my room that night i began to dream of the life to come. i saw myself startling the world as king lear. two days after i received the first newspaper criticism of my work from the portland papers. the notices pleased me beyond words and brought more joy to my young heart than any i ever received in after life. with pardonable pride, i trust, i set one forth here:-- "the little academy had never known the delirium of applause until a slight, delicate youth, with peculiar flaxen hair, round blue eyes, and a complexion as fair as a girl's mounted the rostrum and spoke his lines. such elocution must have awakened unusual interest, and so easy was the speaker, so perfect his actions and charming his intelligence, that the old dormitory shook with plaudits." i was told twenty-five years later by a little jew critic named cohen that i lacked all these attributes, after i had devoted a quarter of a century in earnest endeavor to accentuate them! how i must have retrograded in all those years! until he told me i thought i must have travelled ahead, for i could not possibly have gone back. but perhaps i never started! the notices in the portland papers fanned the smoke into a flame and from that day i determined to become an actor. some years before i had become imbued with the idea, the inspiration coming from my living in close proximity to an actors' boarding-house kept by a mrs. fisher at no. bulfinch place, boston. many and many a time have i waited between school hours and play to catch a glimpse of the occupants of this celebrated yet modest hostelry, for here were housed many conspicuous actors of the day. many a time i endeavored to touch the sleeve or any part of the garment of the players as they emerged from the house on their way to rehearsals and if i succeeded my mission was fulfilled for the day. on one occasion william warren's hat blew off. i rushed for it and rescued it from beneath a horse's hoofs. i returned it to the owner and he thanked me very graciously. the incident was too much for my young nerves. i played hookey that afternoon. school had no charms for me that day. an actor had spoken to me! years after i was privileged to meet this gentleman at a breakfast given in my honor by the elks of boston with mayor o'brien in the chair. i had been invited to appear at a charity benefit to be preceded by this breakfast. i was playing at the time at the bijou theatre, new york, but i arranged to leave on the midnight train, arriving in time for the breakfast at nine. afterwards i appeared at eleven o'clock at the benefit, catching the one o'clock train back to new york. upon my arrival in boston the mayor met me at the train with a committee which took me in charge. we drove straight to the breakfast room. there the first to greet me was dear old william warren. a lump came up into my throat as big as a water melon. think of it--that tall, big player to greet me! with out-stretched hand he bade me welcome home where, he said, all loved me. "come and sit by me, my son," said he, and as i turned to answer him he looked to me like a god. i was privileged to sit by the genius whose coat hem i had in years gone by waited for hours to touch. he was unconsciously rewarding me for my boyish hero-worship. he was touching my heart strings and creating delightful memories to remain forever in my mind. no food passed my lips. i was above the clouds playing upon a golden harp! my blood flowed through my veins like lava! i was sitting by a great comedian and, believe me, i was glad, for i consider william warren the greatest comedian that ever lived. after the breakfast which was hurriedly eaten we started for the playhouse. i was so nervous that i could scarcely make up, but i knew that i had to do something as this great man was in the audience. [illustration: william warren _the greatest comedian that ever lived_] at length the moment came for me to make my entrance. tremendous applause greeted me. i endeavored to play as i had never played before. my inspiration was the gentle face in the right-hand box beaming upon my incompetency. i was dreadfully self conscious. i knew i was in the presence of a master and try as i would nothing seemed to get over the footlights as i wished. every word seemed to stop dead at that right-hand box and would not go beyond. when the finish came i offered up a silent prayer of gratitude. as i wended my way slowly to the dressing-room someone congratulated me upon my efforts. as i sank into my chair the stage manager opened the door, reiterating the congratulations. i simply asked, "how did mr. warren like me?" before he could answer the tall figure of warren appeared at the door and he said, "i couldn't have done it better myself, young man!" then he patted me on the shoulder, saying, "hurry, or you'll miss your train." he shook me by the hand, bade me good-bye and returned to the boarding-house where he had lived for many years, to his little back room. a few weeks later twelve men bore his body to mt. auburn cemetery placing him among the roses. warren's sir peter teazle, jefferson scattering batkins, jessie rural, tony lumpkin, bob acres, dr. pangloss and about all of shakespeare's clowns have never been equaled by any player of any age. he had all the humor and the pathos that comedy is heir to--a player of the old school, not the night school. _chapter ii_ my debut after leaving the little blue academy of old farmington i returned to new york with my parents. we were there but a short time when we returned to boston, where my father, one of those thoroughgoing bostonians who intended me for the law, compromised by securing for me a position as an entry clerk in the counting-room of wellington bros. & co., dry goods merchants. this did not appeal to me, and at stray intervals i found great pleasure in fraternizing with a few actors with whom i had become acquainted. i preferred play books to the ledgers and account books of wellington bros. they were my special delight, and i devoted all my spare time to committing the lines of the leading parts to memory. my father always allowed me money to attend the theatres. i was privileged to see all the great actors of my day, and every other night found me in either the front row of the balcony, or gallery of the local theatres. i would go over the lines as i had heard them, and in doing so found that i could reproduce the tones and gestures of the players i had seen. thus i discovered that i had the gift of imitation. one by one i added to my parts until at length i found that i had a repertoire of seventeen. i would rehearse them with my only auditor, my mother, who considered them perfect. night usually found me at the back door of the boston theatre or boston museum importuning the captain of the supers to be allowed to carry a spear. the major portion of my time was given to affairs theatrical until finally my employers decided to dispense with my valuable services, and much to my delight i was cast adrift. my mother, who always had a great fondness for the stage and was always seeking the society of those connected with it, made the acquaintance of mr. and mrs. charles r. thorne, sr., the father and mother of charles, edwin and william thorne, and persuaded them to take a suite of rooms at our house in boston, situated at the corner of bulfinch and howard streets, directly opposite the famous mrs. fisher's theatrical boarding-house. the thornes were very delightful old people, and for hours i would sit and listen to them discussing the favorites of olden times, dating back to the advent of the keans. finally, they persuaded their son edwin to come and live with us, and for the first time i found myself in the divine atmosphere of the players' life. edwin was the leading man at the howard athenaeum, playing stock pieces and supporting travelling stars. the thornes were a great delight to me, as they had the entry to all the playhouses in boston, and it was my joy to accompany dear mrs. thorne to every "first night." edwin thorne finally left our house and became leading man at the providence opera house, under the management of william henderson. i would often visit providence, go behind the scenes and hold the book while thorne was committing his various parts to memory. it is unnecessary to state that i was always enthralled at these golden opportunities. after repeated requests thorne was persuaded to use his influence in procuring me an engagement. finally i was offered the part of sir george hounslow in the old melodrama, "the bottle." i fortified myself with a blonde wig, never dreaming of using my own blonde locks. i thought every actor should wear a wig. from thorne's wardrobe i selected clothing altogether too large for my slim proportions. i required inspiration and atmosphere and decided that in the wardrobe of the illustrious player i should find it. bedecked in those ill-fitting garments i stood at the wings on the opening night waiting for my cue. i was possessed of so much assurance at rehearsals that little attention had been paid to me regarding the details of stage business, the stage manager taking all for granted. i was the bad young man of the play, seeking to bring about the dishonor of the soubrette. i was supposed to have endeavored to embrace her down the road, she to have eluded my advances and broken away, rushing onto the stage, i following. naturally she did not rehearse all she intended to do that evening, and while i was quietly talking with her in the entrance, the cue was given and she uttered a fearful shriek! i didn't know what had happened and looked around for the cause. then i found she was in the center of the stage wildly beckoning me to come on and finish the scene that was supposed to have started down the road. somebody shoved me on. the orchestra played chilly music suggestive of my base intentions. this took every line out of my head, and i simply stood there and gasped! not a sound could i ejaculate! the young lady contemplated me for a moment and cried, "you shall not!" then she rushed off, leaving me transfixed. from each side of the stage i could hear, "come off! come off!" but i seemed paralyzed and could not stir. at last the lights went out, the scene was changed and when i came to i found myself in the property room with two or three gentlemen in red flannel shirts throwing water into my face. they left me for an instant, and i ran out of the stage door in all my makeup and thorne's wardrobe (which he afterwards told me i failed to return). i waited until the train came through for boston and boarded it, utterly oblivious of the sensation i was creating among the passengers by my painted face and penciled eyebrows. i jumped into a cab upon my arrival at the boston station, drove home to my parents and threw myself into my mother's arms crying, "i cannot act! get me a position in a shoe store!" i was heartbroken for many weeks and firmly resolved never to become an actor; but gradually my mother, who always believed in my hidden histrionic powers, instilled some courage into my soul, i yielded to her sympathy and advice and determined to try once more. through my mother's influence my father bowed at last to what seemed the inevitable and consented to permit me to prepare myself for the stage, exacting from me a promise, however, that i would devote not less than five hours a day to my studies. accordingly i was sent to wyzeman marshall, an old-school actor of some repute during the reign of edwin forrest, who undertook my training. i spent many happy hours with this charming old gentleman as he devoted most of his (and my) time to anecdotes and stories of the past. he taught me but little, apart from the scanning of shakespeare, which he thoroughly instilled into my mind, so the few months which i spent under his tutelage did me much good. i had no thought of being a comedian and devoted all of my time to the study of serious rôles, from douglas to the bloody thane of cawdor, and committed all those parts to memory. fortunately for me at this time i became acquainted with stuart robson. _chapter iii_ stuart robson my meeting with stuart robson was brought about by the influence of joseph bradford, a clever playwright of the day. he had heard my imitations of actors and pronounced upon them favorably, "not only for their accuracy," as he put it, but the methods i employed reminded him of a dear friend of his who had passed away some years before--robert craig, to whom i was told i bore a striking resemblance. robert craig was a clever player, playwright and wonderful mimic. he was for years leading comedian at mrs. john drew's arch street theatre, philadelphia. had he lived he would certainly have made dramatic history for himself. i have only a faint recollection of him, but bradford often told me of his many wonderful gifts and i have many times wished that i had been born earlier or he later. bradford was an extraordinary person. a most incompetent actor, which he often with great regret admitted, but one of the greatest geniuses that i have ever met--a master in all matters pertaining to the drama and literature of the theatre. had he lived i feel certain that he would have become the pinero of the american stage. alas, he was given to conviviality and lived only for his friends. [illustration: stuart robson _the best shakespearean clown of modern times_] he possessed a splendid physique and was gifted with fine conversational power. his fund of humor was excelled by none. he was liberal to a fault, devoid of egotism, with always a kindly word for those with whom he came in contact and possessed a brain as pyrotechnical as paine's fireworks. you can imagine his influence upon those who were fortunate enough to be his associates. his knowledge of painting, drama, music, sculpture, literature, poetry, in fact all the arts, seemed unlimited. as a critic he had a style peculiarly his own, equalled only by hazlitt, lamb, lewes and a few others. he was a graduate of annapolis and left there with many honors. very often we would sit in his rooms and he would read me his prose and poetry, which he never allowed to be published but which i think was as nearly unique as that of edgar allan poe, to whom he bore a striking resemblance. he was a devotee at the shrine of poe and often regretted the untimely end of america's greatest lyrical genius. little did he imagine that his end would be the same. burns, poe and bradford were the victims of their mastering passion--the loving cup. through his kindly interest and guidance i was enabled to secure my first real engagement and make the acquaintance of the best shakespearean clown of modern times and one of the cleverest of modern comedians as well, stuart robson. i remember the morning bradford guided me behind the scenes of the old howard athenaeum to present me to stuart robson. as we entered we found that gentleman in the throes of a busy rehearsal of one of bradford's plays. as i stood in the entrance faint from excitement robson stopped, looked toward the entrance where i stood, transfixed, walked toward me and said, "my god, brad! who is this young man?" bradford answered, "a young friend of mine who wants to go on the stage. of whom does he remind you, rob?" robson looked at me for a minute, and ejaculated, "merciful powers, bob craig!" after being introduced we shook hands and he said, "come into my dressing-room, young man, and let me have a good look at you." as we entered the room he seated me upon a trunk, took both my hands in his and with the tears streaming down his face gasped, "wonderful! wonderful! i have never seen such a resemblance between two human beings!" within a few minutes the rehearsal was dismissed. bradford and robson took their seats in the front row of the parquet and i went through my repertoire of imitations. i rendered sixteen and rob, bless him, always pronounced the last one the best. i was about to leave the stage when brad insisted that i should give one of robson. i put a veto upon that proposition and after about fifteen minutes of violent pleading robson, who understood my feelings, sustained the veto. robson immediately offered me a part in the play which he was about to produce, and on the following monday i appeared in bradford's play, "law in new york," as ned the newsboy, and in the pier scene i first gave my imitations of celebrated actors on the stage of a theatre. they told me that my stunt went remarkably well, but i have no recollection of what occurred. after i had responded to several encores someone in the gallery cried out, "give us an imitation of robson!" it took my breath away, but i stood still and calmly shook my head. i was recalled and still the cry came, "robson! robson!" he was standing in the wings and as i came off i said, "what can i do, mr. robson? they are clamoring for me to give an imitation of you!" "do?" said he in that falsetto voice so well known to theatregoers of that period, "go back and give the villains hell!" on the impulse of the moment i went through an entire scene which the audience had just witnessed between robson and a favorite player named henry bloodgood. as i assumed each voice, particularly robson's, the applause was deafening, and at the finish, after repeated recalls, robson was obliged to take me on and make a speech, thanking the audience in my behalf. after the play robson said to me, "young goodwin, you have done two things tonight that i shall never forget--halted the performance of a very good play and given a very bad imitation of me. i could have done it better myself." poor rob, like all people possessed of conspicuous mannerisms, was never able to detect his even when emphasized by mimicry. one can never see himself in another. i appreciated this in after life when i was seated in the private box of the broadway theatre, new york. a young man named alf hampton had given what i considered some remarkably clever imitations of leading actors. having somewhat of a reputation at that time in this same line and being rather conspicuous that evening i gave vent to my pleasure by applauding most vociferously all of his efforts. to my horror he approached the footlights and announced an imitation of me! as he finished the applause from all over the house shook the rafters, but i could not discover one familiar tone. as he gave the imitation a friend of mine, seated in the front row, looked over and very audibly asked, "well, what do you think of that, nat?" i replied, "one of us is rotten." poor bradford dissipated his genius, and died, twenty odd years ago, in penury. i was not present at his death, but fortunately i arrived in time to save him from a pauper's grave, and he now sleeps tranquilly in beautiful mt. auburn with his poems and other children of his brain--a happy family known only to the elect. adieu, dear friend. "though lost to sight, to memory dear." through all my theatrical career up to robson's exit from life's theatre the closest association and dearest friendship existed between us. he was always my sponsor, my adviser; and what knowledge he bestowed relative to the ethics of our art! analytically he was master of more of the fundamental rules of acting than even lawrence barrett who was an authority. while robson was never able to convey a sentimental thought by any facial expression or delivery, he could point out correctly the methods required to convey them. had he not been handicapped by a vocal organ that squeaked forth only fun, his pathos would have equalled john e. owens' or joe jefferson's. i shall never forget the time when robson, crane, and i appeared in an act of "julius caesar" at a benefit given to poor tony hart. robson was the cassius; crane, brutus, and i was cast for antony. we gave the characters all the study and attention due to the great master and were firm in our resolution to play the respective rôles with proper reverence, to bestow upon them all the tragic force and power within our capacities; but the public took the idea in a spirit of jest and came prepared to see us burlesque the characters, never assuming that we were in earnest in our purpose. the afternoon came. the theatre was packed. i was the first of the trio to make an entrance. fortunately i came on with the mob and my few lines passed unnoticed, as none in front recognized me. to be sure i was denied the thrills of a reception, but i had the end of an act and was quite content to wait. [illustration: tony hart _he had the face of an irish apollo, did tony hart_] the scene was soon over and the full stage of the old academy of music opened radiantly as robson and crane made their entrances as cassius and brutus. they came majestically forth and were greeted by applause that lasted fully a minute. they looked pictures. forrest and macready never looked more like roman senators than those two comedians as they acknowledged the plaudits with true tragic dignity. then a hush, as the audience settled back for the expected travesty. it needed only the familiar notes of rob's voice to reassure them that they were right in their conjectures and a shout of laughter went up as he began the speech, "that i do love you, brutus," etc. the shrieks of laughter interrupted his long thought-out delivery. he paused. his face became livid even through his heavy make up. then he began the speech again in a more modulated tone. the second time he got as far as "i do love you, brutus," when another yell blared from the front. he again stopped, bit his lips with suppressed rage and waited a few seconds. it seemed an eternity to us in the entrance. then rob raised his hand and by a simple gesture commanded silence. the laughter soon quieted down as it became apparent that robson was endeavoring to play the part legitimately and a subdued silence greeted him as he began his speech for the third time. he started in even a lower key and continued the speech. as he got into it he began to feel the meaning of the words and tried to read them with true expression. as he gave them the necessary emphasis his voice, that most ready of organs, refused to obey the dictation of the brain and the gradual crescendo required for the delivery became a succession of robsonian squeaks! the audience loyally tried to suppress its hilarity. at first it smiled, then giggled, then peals of laughter hurled themselves across the footlights like shots from a gatling gun. all upon the stage, except poor robson, heard the merry storm. he was now thoroughly engrossed and squeaked away to beat gilmore's band, utterly oblivious of the fun he was creating. thinner and thinner came rob's squeak; louder and still louder came the laughter until it became a veritable avalanche. as he reached the line, "did from the flames of troy upon his shoulder the old anchises bear"-- he realized that the audience was laughing at him and he continued, "did i, the tired caesar, you blankety-blank, blankety-blank!", his added interpolation being really unfit for publication. fortunately the laughter drowned the words. had the audience heard them the performance would have ended then and there. we all thought that it must have heard, that the end had come. i prayed fervently that it had, but no such luck! it gradually quieted down and the play proceeded. when my turn came to end the act some of my friends said i did very creditably. at all events i got through without a laugh. and that i considered a triumph. we often referred to it in after life and always with great pleasure. robson was a unique person, gifted with the most thorough sense of right and wrong of any man i ever knew. his word was a contract and with it went the liberality of a king. he absolutely refused to grow old and sought only the young. he tried to emulate the deeds of charity of the good samaritan and had a kind word for all humanity. he possessed the soul of a saint and the heart of a fawn. his motto was justice. he wrote the words and music of honor. in a spirit of jest he once promised a coachman a gift of five thousand dollars if the coachman succeeded in winning the hand and heart of a certain lady. he gave him one dollar on account never dreaming that the man would woo and win successfully. imagine his surprise when six years later the man turned up and informed him of the date of the wedding. i happened to be present at the time at his summer place at cohasset, mass. the coachman went his way and rob told me of his promise. i said, "surely, you are not going to make good a promise made in jest?" he answered, "i am," went inside the house and in a few minutes came back on the veranda with the cheque for four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars in his hand. he called his daughter and sent her down the road with the cheque in quest of the young coachman, with instructions to present it to him as a wedding gift "from s. robson, esquire," ordered a brandy and soda from his servant and rudely left me with instructions to "go home!" knowing dear rob's proclivities for b and s's, i loitered about for a few hours and then returned to the house, but rob had disappeared. his daughter and i finally located him, with a few convivial friends in the hotel bar at hingham. he called us to one side and quietly asked his daughter if she had performed the duty as requested. she answered, "yes, papa, i gave him the cheque." rob asked, "how did he take it?" his daughter replied, "papa, he cried!" "how long did he cry?" asked rob. "about a minute," she replied. "that's nothing," said rob, "when i signed it i cried an hour!" i could fill pages with such deeds of his as this one and i knew him, man and boy, for thirty years. the world never knew a better man than stuart robson; a loving father, a dutiful husband, a great comedian, an honest actor and an upright american citizen. to quote from one of boucicault's plays in which he appeared, "he had the soul of a romeo and the face of a comic singer." god bless you, rob, wherever you and our dear friend, bob ingersoll, are! move over, and leave a place for me! if it's hell, i'll invoke a blizzard; if heaven, we shall need each other's companionship! we shall say that we were wrong down here and ask to be forgiven. shall we be? i wonder! _chapter iv_ john mccullough at the end of the year i attracted the attention of the manager of the dramatic festival which was to be held at cincinnati and was engaged to play the grave digger in "hamlet" and modus in "the hunchback." neither of these parts had ever been assumed by me prior to his engagement. it had always been my desire to appear in shakespearean rôles and other legitimate characters. the dramatic festival was a splendid success, artistically and financially. we began april , , the first performance being "julius caesar." my associates were john mccullough, lawrence barrett, james e. murdoch, mary anderson, mlle. rhea, clara morris and kate forsythe. the other plays given were "the hunchback," "much ado about nothing," "othello," "hamlet" and "romeo and juliet." the enterprise was managed by r. e. j. miles and stage-managed by william h. daly. the receipts for the week were in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars. it was a happy time, marred only by our discovering that poor john mccullough was a doomed man, his mind showing a gradual decay. it was the beginning of the end, for in a few months the curtain rang down on dear john and he walked the stage no more. a great, big-hearted, genial soul was lovable john mccullough! everybody loved him and who could help it? broad-minded and equally broad-shouldered, his companions ranged from prize-fighters to senators, wantons to duchesses. he was a splendid player and many suggestions have i received from him. he was a tragedian on the stage, a comedian off. i knew him for twenty years and in all that time, as intimate as we were, i always addressed him as "mr." mccullough--and it annoyed him greatly. one night at the old st. james (new york) bar i greeted him with the usual salutation. he replied, "damn it, my name is john!" i answered, "i don't care whether it is or not, i can't say it"--and i never did. to me he was a roman senator and oh, how simple, how kind! i was always awed when in his presence. when we met and he slapped me on the back by way of comradeship my spine would open and shut. maybe it was the vehemence of the attack, but i always attributed it to my admiration of the man. one noon i went into delmonico's after a long siege of poker with the late billy scanlon, actor (and clever chap by the way), william sinn, proprietor of the park theatre, brooklyn, billy barry, henry watterson and john r. fellows, district attorney of new york city. i wanted a bracer badly, i can tell you, for we had participated in a very strenuous evening. as we entered, there was dear old mccullough having luncheon. [illustration: john mccullough and associate players in the dramatic festival _"mr." mccullough and the rest of us_] i stopped, transfixed. he saw me and beckoned me to a seat at the table. i was terribly self conscious. he said, "son, have a drink." i replied, rather timidly, "no, thank you." (i was slowly passing away.) he continued, "well, you do drink, don't you?" "yes," i replied, "once in awhile." "i mean you get drunk!" he insisted. i replied in the affirmative. "good for you! i wouldn't give a damn for a man who didn't, occasionally!" he commented. "is that right?" i queried. "certainly," he replied. "well, then," and i yelled to the waiter, "give me an absinthe frappé!" "that's right, my boy; and, waiter, make it two," he quietly remarked. we sat there for some time and soon i forgot all about my losses, listening to his fascinating stories of edwin forrest and the palmy days. he was a most entertaining man and my memory often returns to the many happy hours passed in the company of my good friend, "mr." mccullough--"john" for short--and sweet--now. _chapter v_ sir henry irving after the dramatic festival my wife and i embarked for europe. it was during this time that i made the acquaintance of henry irving who was then managing successfully the lyceum theatre in london. irving apparently took quite a fancy to me. he showed me many attentions and i was the recipient of many hospitalities at his hands. irving was an extraordinary man in many ways and considering what nature had denied him his achievements were little short of marvelous. possessed of a voice of but little power, utterly lacking in grace, even ungainly and awkward in action, he was possessed of that occult power that made all those infirmities subservient to his fine intellect. i think that irving had a wider knowledge than any man whom i have ever met in the theatrical world. so much has been written by able writers regarding this remarkable man's abilities that anything that emanates from me will seem puerile in comparison. irving's humor always appealed to me, his sense of it ever being in evidence no matter how serious the surroundings. his utterances were subtly humorous and at times a little cynical, but never harsh, his gentleness of delivery always disguising the little cynicisms that might lurk beneath them. i remember lunching with him one afternoon at the garrick club. an actor named kemble came in, a little under the influence of the succulent grape, and began bewailing the decline of the drama. he expatiated upon the downward trend of the player, expressing great dissatisfaction over the then present conditions and his desire to "chuck it." he preferred solitude, away from the incompetency that he was forced to witness. he would like to build a shack and relieve himself from all these humiliating associations on some desert island. irving, calmly wiping his glasses, looked at him for a moment and asked, "why not try one of the scilly islands?" another time an awful bore, one fletcher, whom irving detested, rushed up to him in a most affectionate manner, saying, "my dear harry! whom do you suppose i met in paris, last week?" irving replied, "i have no idea. paris is so filled with people." fletcher continued, "i know, dear harry, but it was our old friend graham--charlie! you remember him." irving grunted, "ah!" fletcher rattled on. "well, harry, you know we had not met for years and he accosted me right in front of the louvre and placing both hands upon my shoulders he said, 'great god! is this really fletcher?'" irving quietly looked up and queried, "and was it?" we passed many happy evenings, together with dear old johnny toole, at the beefsteak club. i look back with pleasure upon those improvised little suppers irving used to bestow upon the visiting americans and his fellow players upon the stage of the lyceum after the evening performance. i have never seen such unostentatious, yet lavish, display as he exercised in those delightful hospitalities. they extended far into the night and many times the sun was up as he, toole and i made the rounds of the covent garden market where the butchers and fruit venders were as friendly disposed towards him as were the guests of the previous evening. i never knew when irving slept. the last time we met was in his dressing-room at the broadway theatre, new york. i had just produced "a midsummer night's dream" at a great outlay--a new experience for me at the time--investing a fortune on the production before receiving the verdict of the capricious public. it was an old story with irving. as i shook hands with him he said, "ah! goodwin, my boy, i see you are indulging in a little monte carlo around the corner." i answered, "yes, sir henry, i have a big bet down on the single ." "well," said he, "this business is a fascinating gamble no matter where the little ivory ball may land." the little ivory ball proved in the end very disappointing to this splendid player who did so much to dignify our art. for when the ball fell into the single " " sir henry's bet was on the black, no. . had he lived he would have found it impossible to indulge again in the dissipation of costly productions. [illustration: sir henry irving _an extraordinary man_] _chapter vi_ "barry" and jefferson "the world delights in sunny people." i recall many. maurice barrymore, actor, playwright, raconteur, gentleman, all-around athlete and man of the world, was the most effulgent man whom i have ever met. a brain that scintillated sparks of wit that charles lamb or byron might envy, a tongue capable of lashing into obscurity any one who dared enter into verbal conflict with him (yet always merciful to his adversary), with the wit of douglas jerrold without the cynicism, the courage of a lion, the gentleness of a saint--there you have but a faint conception of the qualities of this child of bohemia. i knew him for twenty-five years and in all the many hours that we spent together i never saw him out of temper, never heard him utter one unkind expression nor speak a cruel word. even under the most trying conditions he seldom permitted himself to use his rapier. and his muscle and brawn were always subordinates, servants, never masters. fate hardly played fair with barry. perhaps the fickle jade was fearful to bestow her best upon one whom the gods had created so powerfully brilliant. she allowed his genius to run purposelessly upon the sands of time until, jealous of the admiration which he won from all, she robbed him of his chief asset and hurled his fine mind from the cliffs of reason. i shall not dwell upon the passing away of this remarkable man--it is too terrible to recall--but i shall give the world a few of his quips and jibes, showing his brilliant wit. he gave the world much--a powerful play, "nadjesda," sunshine and happiness and a legacy of three brilliant children, whom i knew as barry's babies, whom i love for their own and their father's and mother's sakes-- ethel, john and lionel--i greet you all! barry came into the lambs club one evening evidently much distressed. asked the reason, he answered "i am terribly annoyed and excessively angry at the brutal treatment of mrs. bernard beere by the press of new york." barry was the leading man of mrs. beere's organization, the recipient of three hundred dollars a week and, in the foreshadowing of that lady's failure in a rather _risqué_ play, "as in a looking glass," felt his engagement trembling in the balance. "brutal!" quoth the loquacious and severe lackaye. "it was thoroughly deserved! i was there and i never saw such an immoral play in my life before a civilized community!" "granted," replied barrymore, "but why censure the lady personally, a foreigner as well? we can at least be courteous. only the offensive theme of the play was dwelt on; no attention was paid to her finesse and subtle art. that was all lost, due to the huge playhouse in which we were forced to appear. hammerstein's was never intended to house acting that requires such delicate treatment; it should be devoted to opera, or the circus. nothing ever gets beyond the third of fourth row." "which is most fortunate," replied lackaye. "you punish the musicians, and save the remaining rows, the suffering endured by those closer to the actors. i am no prude, but i felt the blush of shame mounting to my cheeks as the terrible and unwholesome dialogue came over in chunks." "my boy," said barrymore, "you don't comprehend the theme of that play. dialogue amounts to nothing when problems are to be solved. maybe the language suffered in the adaption but that does not palliate the offense perpetrated upon the lady who was endeavoring to perform a duty and teach a lesson by her consummate art." "you call that art," asked lackaye, "a wanton, expounding her amorous successes? what edification can that give? i tell you, barrymore, you may be all right in your argument but the performance was simply nauseating, nasty and suggestive. the whole thing reeked with filth!" "i know," said barrymore, quickly but quietly, "but you fail to realize, my dear lackaye, that hammerstein's is a theatre where one may be obscene and not heard." barry was chided by one of his friends for not going to see sothern's "hamlet" which he was playing for the first time at the garden theatre with mediocre success. "why don't you go and witness a performance?" asked a friend. "go and sit out only one act." barrymore replied, "my boy, i never encourage vice." dear old frank mayo who was passionately fond of argument, after exchanging the usual greetings with barrymore one afternoon, soon became engaged in a very heated controversy. mayo would project an idea and before barrymore could get breath enough to answer would spring another. mayo had put several vital questions to barry to his own entire satisfaction and answered them with equal satisfaction before barry had a chance even to offer a reply. "my dear barry," said mayo; "it is a pleasure indeed to meet a man of your calibre--to interchange thoughts and ideas with one so brilliantly gifted as yourself." "how do you know anything about my mental capacity?" asked barry. "i never get any further with you than 'yes, but'!" barry went home late, or rather early, one sunday morning after a long session at the club. he met his wife on the stoop of their dwelling. she evidently was on her way to church. as barry said afterwards, "she was made up for the part perfectly and had a prompt book with her." she simply bowed haughtily and was about to pass on when he apologized for being away all night, finishing with, "oh, by the way, georgie, dear, i was with geoff hawley last evening." "indeed," said his wife, "i thought hawley was a man!" this was a body blow to barry but he took his punishment smilingly and as she disappeared down the steps shouted after her, "where are you bound for, dearie?" to which, without turning, she replied, "i'm going to mass; you can go to ----!" "summer isn't as bad as it is painted," remarked barrymore as he calmly contemplated a landscape picture, painted by joseph jefferson, hanging on the walls of the lambs club. this criticism came from one who knew whereof he spoke concerning the climatic conditions of the rialto during the hot months when the thespian is prone to talk about the summer's adversity. barrymore was equally conversant with the value of paintings. his remark fell like a bomb among the sycophants who were ever ready to praise even a chromo were it oiled over by the illustrious player they were pleased to call "the dean of the drama." the adulation paid to jefferson's landscape was but a reflex of the homage paid to this player by all those not "in the know." dear old joseph jefferson was loved by all those who came under his magnetic influence. a delightful, scintillating, keen, old man, possessed of rare technique, exquisite repose and the touch of a master (but always guarded as to the manner of touch!). he touched an effect but never assaulted it, as mansfield did. conscious of his limitations he never ventured upon dangerous ice and always left his auditors wishing that he might have been endowed with a more venturesome spirit. he always wisely refrained from pioneering upon original ground, quite content to pasture in the sheridan and boucicault downs. for four weeks i studied this man when i appeared some years ago in an "all star" cast of "the rivals." my associates were julia marlowe, william h. crane, the holland boys, francis wilson, fanny rice and mrs. john drew. (what a performance mrs. drew gave! she put the play in her gown every night and took it home with her and the management told me that her salary for the tour was less than that paid to francis wilson! my weekly stipend was far in excess of hers and every night after viewing her performance i was really ashamed to take the money.) during that artistic trip (five dollars a seat makes anything artistic) i watched mr. jefferson day and night. he was most kind to me and attentive (for reasons which he afterwards explained). some one had told him that i associated with his sons a great deal; consequently i was not a desirable person to have in any first class organization! he had given up all hope regarding his sons so he thought that he would have a try at my redemption. my conduct was so exemplary, however, that the third week he apologized to me and earnestly begged that during the rest of the tour i kindly look after him. as willie, joe and tom were really wielding a bad influence over the artistic congregation i took the job and firmly believe that i improved his morals to a great extent. (i tried to reform wilson, too, but met with failure!). i watched this charming man for days and parts of some nights. i never missed any of his scenes and during the performance when not concerned in the play i was always watching him from the entrance. i absorbed his methods in his interpretation of bob acres and while he was not my ideal i think that his interpretation was really better than the author intended. i used to shriek with laughter listening to his curtain speeches or, rather, his curtain speech. like his performance it never varied--always the same, never a change, standing in the same position, no altering of intonation or gesture, everything given by rote, but always with fine effect. [illustration: joseph jefferson _i firmly believe i improved his morals_] after those performances, i would walk to the private car, go over "the rivals" as i had seen it performed and wonder if any of us, with the exception of mrs. drew, were anything like the characters of sheridan's brain. i became firmly convinced that one was not--myself. were the others? was he, "the dean," anything like what the author intended bob acres to be? then i would ponder over the night speech of the dear old gentleman, remembering the homage that he paid to the author, his reference to the artistic rendering that they were giving his work, the extreme pleasure it afforded him and his comrades to have the privilege of acting such a comedy as this. then with a five-dollar-trembling voice he would bewail the fact that sheridan was not permitted to view this wonderful interpretation of his work. choking with sobs that hardly gave his words utterance, he would refer to past performances by lamented actors and thank the audience for its attention. concluding with a semi-congratulatory reference to its being permitted to view this wonderfully artistic performance, the benign old gentleman would make his bow, deftly wiping away a tear, amid the plaudits of the throng. after listening to all this, i became convinced that we were artistic. at least my associates were. (i was on to myself from the first night.) they must have been terribly artistic. the sprint from the theatre to the private car, participated in by joseph brooks, the jefferson boys, and the dear old gentleman (with charles jefferson in the lead, with the nightly receipts), convinced me that they were! they would arrive at the car--panting--and falling into their seats prepare to divide the artistic spoils, "the dean" taking fifty per cent. as i viewed this "chimes of normandy" episode my artistic side went to the winds and i knew that we were as commercial as cohan and harris are now. then i began, by comparison, to study this man, and wonder what he had accomplished for the drama. had he built a playhouse, like the man of his hour and time, edwin booth? had he produced any original plays, made any production, or even leased a theatre, like mansfield, or sothern, irving, or possart? had he during the last decade created any characters? an echo answered "no!" then what had he done from the time of his association with laura keene (at which time he was considered only a fair actor as compared with charles burke, john e. owens, william e. burton and william blake) to the time of his becoming conspicuous in the eyes of the american public? briefly, he returned from london after a successful engagement, having previously occupied his time for three years in australia producing successfully american plays; then launched forth in a revised edition of "rip van winkle," a play previously performed with success by his half brother, charles burke. for thirty years or more he presented rip to the dear american public with intermittent changes to "the rivals," "caleb plummer," dr. pangloss in "the heir at law" and "lend me five shillings." the revival of these latter plays met with little pecuniary success unless he added names to the cast, featuring conspicuously such artists as william florence or mrs. john drew. after a brief tour he would again drift back to dear old rip and dear old scenery with some of the dear old gentleman's dear old family dominating the cast. thus he went on for years, and posterity will say that he was "a great actor," "beloved by all." yet he lived among the great producers of his era--without producing! irving, who died almost penniless and who invested thousands of dollars in an earnest endeavor to uphold the drama, lawrence barrett and dear edwin booth, who lost a million in erecting a temple to art only to see his name chiseled out by a dry goods establishment--these were truly great men. i concede that joseph jefferson was "a great actor" as rip--a most benign person, a charming companion. for this man i have the most profound respect; for what he did for the stage i have not. his performance of "rip van winkle" was perhaps a very great one (i never saw charles burke). as for bob acres, i can only quote a really great actor, william warren--"jefferson played bob in 'the rivals' with sheridan twenty miles away." i have seen two men who are alive to-day play sir lucius o'trigger in "the joseph jefferson version of 'the rivals'" and i have played it. which leaves me to imagine that all those who made a hit in the part are dead! _chapter vii_ a sunny son of sometime a sunny son of sometime was peter dailey. when the creator called him to join the merry throng that had passed before the world lost one of the sweetest characters that i have ever known. his memory will go laughing down the ages. there were no clouds when pete pranced among the men and women of the profession. he met you with the honest grip of a man and a smile that only the seraphs can appreciate. never an unkind word left the brain that invented only sweet and wholesome sallies. the wit of a sheridan and a repartee that made it an impertinence to attack made him impervious to all retort. as gentle as a fawn, as brave as a warrior, pete dailey was a man among men. during a friendship of over twenty-five years i never heard him utter a profane word or use an obscene expression. no adjective was necessary to enhance a story of his, no preface to foretell the trend of his wit--which was as quick as the flight of a rifle ball. when he was on tour with his own company some years ago he was chided for his familiarity with his company by a german comedian, al wilson. wilson told him that he was losing his dignity by even associating with the members of his organization, following this by saying, "why, pete, i do not even speak to my company!" pete replied, "well, if i had a company like yours, i would not speak to them either." it was useless for any author to give pete lines to speak, his interpretations were so much better than any lines the author could invent. i well remember one of the first nights at weber and field's music hall, new york. he had a scene with charles bigelow who had apparently given much thought and study to his part. bigelow was a bald-headed, blatant, obvious comedian who was principally engaged to make children laugh or frighten them to death. they started in on the scene and after a few words of the text dailey threw his lines to the winds and in a few moments had bigelow tied into knots. bigelow stood there, hopelessly fuzzled, while the audience yelled with delight at his discomfiture. finally, enraged and mortified, the perspiration pouring off him, he removed his hat to mop his brow. quick as a flash pete said, "put your hat on; you're naked!" this was too much for bigelow and he rushed off the stage. i could fill pages with a recital of this man's many gifts, his goodly deeds. would there were more pete daileys! the world would be better, humanity more gentle, hypocrisy unknown; fewer tears would be shed and the journey through life made lighter. _chapter viii_ charles hoyt during the early ' 's a young man jumped into the theatrical arena, having previously graduated from the editorial rooms of the boston "post" where he had achieved some degree of success as a comic writer and dramatic critic. he was a man of considerable education with an absorbing insight into character. in this respect he was like the present george cohan. but he had more refinement than cohan and was more of a caricaturist than he. he had little charm but possessed a brand of cynical humor which appealed to men, seldom to women. all his characters were well defined. for about fifteen years his plays were received with much favor and had he lived i have no doubt that he would have proved a dangerous rival to the clever cohan. his name was charles hoyt. his financial partner, charles thomas, was my seat mate at the little blue maine academy and it was through him that i became acquainted with the versatile hoyt. for whatever charm poor hoyt lacked charles thomas made amends as he was one of the handsomest and most fascinating of men. he died very young. that cruel censor death was the master that beckoned him to phoenix, arizona, where he passed away. hoyt was noted for his pungent and satirical humor. when in his cups he was most poignant and insulting, never sparing even his best friends. one night in a _café_ adjoining the bijou theatre he was very rude to me. i realized his condition and was silent, but the first time i met him sober i demanded an apology, which he gave, but not with very good grace. a few months later bert dasher, one of his business friends, told me that hoyt met him one cold, frosty night in january in front of the hoffman house and after vainly endeavoring to explain our quarrel imparted the information that i had talked to him pretty roughly and he was determined to revenge himself. hoyt had taken lessons in the manly art of self-defense. "i realize that nat is alert and dangerous," he told bert, "so i am going to accost him unawares, feint him with my left hand and uppercut him on the point of the jaw." he accompanied the remark with a downward swing from the shoulder to the knee. the force of the swinging gesture hurled him into the middle of broadway where he fell in a semi-conscious state until bert came to his rescue and took him home. the first night of my production of "nathan hale" hoyt had assured me of his intention of being present with his wife. but when the time came she refused to accompany him. charley, having purchased two tickets and not desiring to be alone, sought someone to go with him. he soon found a friend and invited him to come along. much to hoyt's astonishment his friend quietly but firmly refused the invitation. "why not?" asked hoyt. his friend replied, "i don't like goodwin." "well," said charley, "you like him as an artist, don't you?" his friend replied, "no, i don't like him, on or off the stage." "well," said hoyt, "come along; you are sure to enjoy this play for they hang nat in the last act." "have you any idea what the price of american beauties is?" asked a friend of hoyt's one day, referring to the exorbitant charges of the florists. "i ought to" answered the witty hoyt, "i married one." years after i indulged in flowery dissipation for i married a bunch and yet there are some curious creatures who wondered why i was appearing in vaudeville while hoyt was playing a harp. _chapter ix_ sir charles wyndham sir charles wyndham is a remarkable man in many ways, a delightful actor, a splendid manager and a most sagacious business man. of prepossessing appearance, he is further blessed with a slight figure which he keeps even after passing the age of seventy. he still manages to win approval in _jeune première_ rôles in spite of a most disagreeable, rasping voice. he is ably assisted, artistically and managerially, by miss mary moore. he has won a place on the english stage second to none. what a blessing to win fame on the english stage! no impertinent references to one's age; no vulgar inferences concerning the social position of any player! how like our own delightfully free country! (it's so different.) one afternoon at the green room club while actors of renown and some just budding were seated at the long table enjoying the "two and six" dinner, sir charles came in. he had just finished his matinee performance of "david garrick" with which he was packing the criterion theatre. they have a chair in the club, supposed to have been the property of garrick. wyndham sank into it, seemingly overcome by his efforts of the afternoon. (many of the poor devils dining would have liked to share his exhaustion.) [illustration: sir charles wyndham _a remarkable man_] a very clever dramatist named hamilton, looking up, caught sight of him and in a quizzical tone remarked, "wyndham, you make rather a fetching picture, sitting in the original garrick chair--and, what is most remarkable, you are absolutely playing the character!" wyndham nodded back a mumbling and patronizing answer, evidently pleased with the interest that he was creating. hamilton studied his victim a moment and then said, "by jove, wyndham, do you know, you are more and more like garrick every day and less and less like him every night!" _chapter x_ charles r. thorne, jr. what an extraordinary, complex creature was charles r. thorne, jr. beginning a stage career under the management of his father, an actor of considerable repute in the ' 's, young charlie soon developed into a leading actor of the old school, a ranting, vigorous player, declamatory and thoroughly devoid of repose. he gradually drifted from california to the east and during the ' 's became the leading man of the then well known boston theatre stock company. there he remained for several seasons supporting all the leading players then starring throughout the united states, including such celebrated artists as edwin forrest, edwin booth, lawrence barrett, charlotte cushman, lotta, edwin adams and many others. of an extremely jovial disposition, never dissipated but fond of company, naturally witty and an extremely courageous man, he soon worked himself into the hearts of the boston public. he was not particularly versatile, but had a splendid personality and a magnificent physique--marred only by a head too small for the quality of intelligence such a figure demanded. however, he was a royal picture to contemplate, particularly in romantic and shakespearean rôles. in these he truly suggested the "greek god." he gave his professional work little thought and was quite content to bask in the sunshine of the encomiums of press and friends until dion boucicault discovered latent talents which even thorne himself did not know he possessed. boucicault was about to produce one of his plays, "led astray," at the union square theatre, new york, and selected thorne to create the leading rôle. taking him under his wing for a few months he succeeded in transforming the man. under his able tutelage thorne, discarding his ranting and mouthing methods, awoke the morning after the première of "led astray" to find himself famous. he became founder of the modern school of suppressed, natural acting and the most convincing actor of the american stage. he was not a man easily handled and had no respect for the rules and regulations of any theatre. he was in constant difficulties with a. m. palmer, manager of the union square, but palmer realized thorne's value and put up with many annoyances from him. thorne held despotic sway, much to the amusement of his companion players who loved him as they loathed the management. palmer exercised every means within his power to humiliate thorne, casting him for leading heavies for instance, but thorne's convincing methods always made the hero look ridiculous. in the play "false shame," in which he was cast for the villain, he took all the sympathy from the hero and of course killed the property. palmer brought over the late charles coghlan at a salary of $ , a week--thorne's salary had never gone beyond $ !--and cast them both to create simultaneously the leading rôle in "a celebrated case," giving coghlan the quodus of the new york and thorne the pittsburgh opening. i saw coghlan's opening. he gave a marvelously thought-out performance and made a tremendous hit. i saw thorne some weeks after and told him of my impressions. i remarked, "charlie, i think that palmer has got you at last." he observed, "yes, i hear that that chap coghlan is an actor. i am up the spout as palmer intends playing me at the grand opera house in two weeks and i guess the boys will get me as that english fellow has had the first whack at them and they will have the chance to compare us in the same rôle." i said, "well, i am going in front to-night and i will tell you what i think." before leaving his dressing-room i added, "charlie, if you take my advice you won't go to new york. be ill, and let your understudy go on." he laughed and, waving his hand, cried, "all right, sonny boy, i may take your advice!" i went in front and after the performance i rushed back into his dressing-room and yelled, "for god's sake, don't get ill! get to new york as soon as possible!" i had never seen such a performance! while you admired coghlan's technique and art, thorne gave you no time to think of anything--he was so real, so convincing. he drowned all judgment with the tears his acting started. you simply sobbed your heart out. in a few weeks thorne went to new york and amazed the public. in a short time coghlan's name headed the road company and thorne was snugly housed again at the union square theatre where he remained a czar for many years, until john stetson engaged him to star in "monte cristo," a play made famous by the french actor, charles fechter. he opened at booth's theatre to a $ , house. the streets were packed for blocks by a swaying, eager multitude ready to pay homage to an actor who for twenty years had been their idol and whose salary was never more than $ a week at any time. he was very ill on the opening night--in fact he was dying on the stage before his beloved public, but no one knew it. the fact that his performance was most unsatisfactory gave no one an inkling of the truth. he was driven home after the play, and never appeared again, dying in a few weeks. just as power was within his grasp, they rang the curtain down and poor thorne's soul passed into the great beyond. all of the thorne family were possessed of a wonderful sense of humor. i, as i have said, knew them all--charles, william and edwin and their father and mother. many happy evenings have i passed with this delightful family. they were truly, to quote from dumas' "three guardsmen," "one for all, and all for one!" charles had a much keener sense of the ridiculous than the others and he would exercise it even in a serious scene, if for no other reason than to break up the players. one day at the old niblo's garden in new york, charlie came to play a two weeks' starring engagement for his father who was at that time the lessee of the theatre. i was a member of the company playing general utility. business was very, very bad and the advent of charles did not enhance the exchequer of the theatre. we were playing a scotch drama, "roderick dhu." charles and his father had a powerful scene, ending an act. the old gentleman spoke the tag, saying to charlie, "if you are king james of scotland, i am roderick dhu!" before the curtain fell upon the line charlie, who had bribed the prompter to delay its coming down on the direct cue, took out a large document and said, "yes, mr. thorne, and your rent is due." when the curtain fell the old man chased his son out of the theatre and in a fit of passion swore he would not allow the play to continue. charles came back, apologized and the play proceeded. boucicault took him and stuart robson to london to play in "led astray." charlie made a great hit and poor rob a dire failure. robson's failure charlie took to heart as his love for rob was unbounded. after about six weeks three gentlemen, the proprietors of the drury lane and covent garden theatres, called on thorne and robson at their chambers with a proposition to thorne for a long engagement. he listened to their patronizing suggestions as to a consummation of the deal and, pointing to rob, asked, "is my pal included in this?" when told that their business was with him solely he cried, "out upon ye for arrant knaves! i'll not play at dreary's lane nor at covey's garden either!" they thought he was mad and quickly withdrew. [illustration: charles r. thorne, jr. _a royal picture to contemplate_] _chapter xi_ sol smith russell what a dear, delightful humbug was sol smith russell. by humbug i mean nothing disparaging for sol was one of the sweetest natures i have ever met. but he was a most eccentric person, a combination of good and a tiny bit of bad, with the aspect of a preacher and the inclination of a beau and man about town. if sol had had the moral courage i am sure he would have turned out a _roué_. he worshipped the beautiful, particularly in woman, was passionately fond of gambling and loved the cup that soothes and comforts. yet he indulged his foibles only in solitude. very few knew the real man. there was nothing vicious in his nature. he was merely alert, artistically inclined. he was a genius in his quiet and inoffensive dissipation. of a frugal turn of mind, he became commercial when he loosed his mental bridle and gave himself his head. tommy boylan of guy's hotel, baltimore, told me that sol, evidently contemplating a slight debauch, asked him in his bland way the price of gin cocktails. tommy replied, "fifteen cents per." "how much a dozen?" asked sol. "to you," answered tommy, "ten cents." "two dozen to my room, please," said sol. at the door he turned and added, "by the way, tommy, ten per cent off for cash and thus enable me to reimburse the bell boy. and, tommy, be sure and have them made separately and send six at a time when i ring the bell." in this way sol would have his little spree with only his mirror for a companion and emerge the next day spick and span with two bottles of an aperient water added to his account. by noon he would be found officiating at some church function or passing tea at some lady's seminary. i never considered sol a very great actor on the stage--but a marvel off. he was a splendid entertainer and sketch artist, but he had higher ambitions. his greatest was to wear the mantle of jefferson whom he worshipped. we three were supping one night at the richelieu hotel, chicago. jefferson had previously suggested to me the idea of my playing doctor pangloss in "the heir at law," endeavoring to point out the many benefits i would bestow by appearing in that character. i listened with much respect but refused, knowing how old fashioned were both the play and rôle. sol, however, was not proof against the clever old gentleman's blandishments and fell for the suggestion. the fact of appearing in any character made famous by the astute old fox was enough for the guileless sol. i knew jefferson wanted some one to play the part only to court comparisons. to prove his interest in sol's future, jefferson presented him with his entire wardrobe, even to the shoes and awful wig. sol was delighted at the prospect and accepted them readily. when told of this at the supper that evening, i turned to sol and said, "well, the press has been hurling mr. jefferson's mantle at me for years, but you have undressed him. i guess i'll have to wear my own." jefferson seemed to enjoy the sally but i'm afraid sol failed to appreciate my remarks or gather my meaning. it would have been better for him if he had, for later he produced the play and met with instant failure. while touring in the all star cast of "the rivals" i called on an old and esteemed friend of mine at chicago--the bar keeper at the grand pacific hotel--who informed me that my friend sol smith russell and he had spent a most enjoyable evening the night before. sol had left him at about two a. m. saying he was looking forward to our appearing in "the rivals" with joyous anticipation. i asked about sol's health and capacity. the bar keeper replied, "he's fine. i have his tabs for sixty dollars." i gasped, "not cocktails!" he replied, "no, pints." the next afternoon at the matinee after the first act sol's card came up to mr. jefferson's dressing-room (which i shared on tour). of course he was admitted at once. not appearing in the first act, i was preparing the finishing touches to my make-up in a remote corner of the room and was not seen by sol. he rushed over to jefferson who warmly greeted him. sol was most enthusiastic over the performance of the first act. standing in the center of the room, safely braced by both hands on a massive oak table he gushed forth as follows: "my dear joseph, i have never seen such acting, such art. surely sheridan in his grave must appreciate such artistic values as are being dealt with this afternoon, such--" then came a long pause and his eyes closed as if he were in deep meditation--i knew it was a hold over--then his lids started open and he gathered up the thread of his complimentary effusion:-- "such superb treatment, delicacy, subtlety, and--" again a pause and the same closing of the eyes, the awakening and continuation:-- "your work is a revelation and great object lesson to the students of the drama, the commingling of the older and younger elements only lends a charm to the works of the grand master and," again the pause, and on his awakening after this last standing siesta, he discovered my presence. "ah, nattie, i hear splendid reports of your sir lucius o'trigger." i inquired from whom as i had been kept in ignorance of any. he said from everyone. "and now, my good friend," said sol, addressing jefferson, "i must leave you as i don't want to miss nat's first scene, the opening of the second act." bowing, he made his exit, his left hand deftly placed upon the wall of the room as he guided himself in a somewhat circuitous way to the door. as he was bent directly opposite, i went to his assistance and led him outside, detecting a slight odor of what seemed to me gin fizzes. i bade him adieu and returned to my dressing table. jefferson appeared much gratified. "sol is awfully pleased apparently and was most gracious," he said. i answered, "yes, for a tired man, sol spoke remarkably well." jefferson, who was very literal, asked, "is sol tired?" i replied, "he ought to be with that load he is carrying." said jefferson, "what load is he carrying?" "a basket of lovely peaches," quoth i. "i didn't notice he had a parcel with him," replied jefferson. "he is tanked up to the collar button," i said. "oh, what a lovely skate he has!" "tanked up to the collar button and skate? what the devil are you talking about. you have a vernacular, my dear nat, that requires translation. what are you talking about?" "didn't you notice his condition?" i asked. "he's loaded to the eyebrows." "tight?" asked jefferson. "as a new drum," i replied. "i can't realize it," said jefferson. "my eyesight prevented my scanning his face as accurately as i could wish. i noticed his conversation was a bit measured, but very well expressed. i can't believe he was under the influence of liquor. are you sure?" i replied with much pride in my delivery, "you can't deceive an artist." jefferson simply screamed at this remark and during the afternoon repeated the incident several times to each and every member of the company. it met with so much favor and seemed to amuse the people to such an extent that for several years, by imitating both sol and jefferson, i made it one of the best stories of my repertoire. i once told the story to a number of actors at the green room club in london. at the finish, "you can't deceive an artist," it failed to provoke the laughter it always aroused in america and i thought i noticed a look of blank amazement on my auditors' faces. i paid no attention to it at the time, attributing their lack of appreciation to their density or their limited acquaintance with the mannerism of the gentlemen i was imitating. three weeks later fred terry met me on the strand and with much gravity apologized for the silent manner his _confrères_ at the club had received my story. "my dear nat," said terry, "the lads entirely mistook your meaning. they thought you were putting on a lot of side and when you pointed to yourself with that egotistical gesture and proclaimed yourself an artist, they thought it in exceedingly bad taste. i have been all this time taking each one aside and telling him that was not your meaning at all; that you were a very modest man for an american. you were simply telling your superior officer what a drunkard you were. now they thoroughly understand the story and won't you please come to-night and tell the story over again?" which request i politely but firmly refused. the last time i saw poor sol was at a luncheon at the home of the late stillson hutchins given in our joint honor at washington. now both are gone. god bless their memory. adieu, good friends. a few nights after telling this story, i was relating the incident to beerbohm tree at a supper party. he agreed with me as to the density of the average britisher so far as appreciating american humor is concerned. he told me he understood it thoroughly. as the supper progressed we were entertained by song and story, contributed by the guests. in my turn i told of an incident that happened in denver. i had come in from one of the clubs very late and directed the clerk at the hotel to call me at a. m. sharp, impressing upon him that i was a very heavy sleeper. having only a few hours to rest i wanted him to be sure to rap on the door as loudly as possible and not go away until he heard a response from me. it was vital i make the train for leadville and it left at o'clock. an irish porter standing near overheard my instructions and volunteered to assume the responsibility of awakening me on time. i handed him a dollar and retired to my room, a cold, bleak apartment, and was soon asleep between the icy sheets. it seemed but a few minutes until i was awakened by a most violent knocking on my door. i shouted, "what's the matter?" "are yez the man that left the call for the five o'clock train?" i answered, "yes." "well," came the reply from outside, "go back to sleep. your train's gone." several of the guests laughed loudly. tree, however, looked blank and ejaculated, "the silly man should have been discharged for incompetency." i hurriedly left the party and told no more stories that summer. _chapter xii_ richard mansfield had i known as much then as i do now or had my youthful obduracy been less pronounced the sudden rise to heights of fame which marked richard mansfield's career might never have happened--in any event it would have been postponed. it was while i was rehearsing in "the black flag," a melodrama which won much success later, that a gifted journalist, a. r. cazauran, who was then acting in the capacity of play reader, adapter and general factotum for shook and palmer, the lessees of the union square theatre, came to see me. after watching the rehearsal cazauran decided that i was sacrificing my time and talent with "such drivel as 'the black flag.'" when the rehearsal was finished he insisted upon my accompanying him to mr. palmer's office, as he had something of great importance to communicate to me. after seating ourselves at mr. palmer's desk, he said, "goodwin, i am now going to give you the opportunity of your life. we are going to produce a play called 'a parisian romance.' j. h. stoddard has been rehearsing the part of the baron, but he has decided not to play it, feeling that he does not suit the character." cazauran then continued in his delightfully broken english that that was the part he had in mind for me and it would suit me "down to the ground." the character of baron chevreal was that of a man of middle age; but a young man, with virility, was necessary to act the death scene which required tremendous force. he brought out the manuscript and read me the entire play. when he had finished, i said, "for the love of heaven, cazauran, why did you select me to play that gruesome tragedy rôle?" "because i think you can play it," he replied. i was dumbfounded. "why, i am a comedian, and it looks to me as though that part were made to order for stoddard." cazauran shrugged his shoulders and, placing both hands on mine, observed in a most impressive manner: "goodwin, you are a comedian and, i grant, a fine one. so was garrick, but no one remembers garrick in comedy." how true that was, and how often that expression has come back to me in after life! they seldom remember those who make them laugh. "you accept this part of the baron," cazauran continued, "give me three hours of your time each day for three weeks and i will guarantee that you will never play a comedy part again. i and the baron will make you famous." i sincerely thanked him, but firmly declined to be made famous in that particular line. we adjourned to his favorite restaurant, solari's, in university place, where for three hours he endeavored to persuade me to play the part. i was obdurate and would not listen to any of his suggestions. "well," he said at parting, "stoddard cannot and will not play the part and i have resolved to try a young man we have in our company, selected from the standard theatre company, where he was playing in a comic opera 'the black cloak.' he is now rehearsing the part of the ambassador in 'a parisian romance.' he shall play the baron. he is intelligent, knows french and i am convinced that i can coach him into a success." in four weeks from that time the young man who was taken from the ranks to play the baron awoke to find himself famous. his name was richard mansfield. _philosophy, thou liest!_ one night several years ago at the garrick club in london, joseph knight and i were discussing the american invasion of england by american artists. during the course of our conversation, knight said:-- "my dear goodwin, we had an extraordinary chap over here from your country some years ago. i can't recall him by name, but he was a most uncomfortable person to meet and an _awful_ actor! he endeavored to play richard the iii and gave an _awful_ performance! he followed this with a play, written by robert louis stevenson in which he scratched the carpet and was somebody else! he was a boss-eyed chap, spoke several languages and was remarkably adept at the piano. i can't for the life of me recall his name." from knight's description i knew that he meant mansfield and ventured to suggest that that might be the man to whom he referred. "mansfield! yes, that's the chap! is he still going strong in america?" "going strong!" i replied. "why, he makes more money than all of us combined. he is called america's greatest player!" "really!" exclaimed the illustrious knight. "what an extraordinary country!" mr. knight unconsciously echoed my sentiments. we are an extraordinary people. think--and be called a fool. 'tis better to realize a fact than agree with the majority. only a few weeks ago i was reading a biography of the late mr. mansfield, written by one of his managers; another, by a notorious critic; and, believe me, edmund kean's biographers were amateurs compared with mansfield's in their shamelessly abject adulation of that "genius." the fulsome flattery of the senile, undersized critic who pens his truckling screeds at so much a column (but never again in the paper from which he was dropped) and has been doing so to my certain knowledge for over thirty years, is but the vaporing of his infinitesimal soul. for years this critic held the position of reviewer on one of the leading new york daily papers and was the recipient of a stipulated salary from the late augustin daly. he was also on the payroll of many of the successful stars of america and the recipient of many bounties at their hands. thirty years ago i was standing in the lobby of the tremont house in boston talking with john mccullough, "the noblest roman of them all," when this drunken critic, an "authority" on plays and players, reeled into our presence and in a thick voice asked john the number of his room. i shall never forget the look of disgust which mccullough bestowed upon this leech of the drama. as he shuffled to the elevator, mumbling incoherently, mccullough turned to billy conners, his manager, and in stentorian tones that could be heard a block away cried, "for god's sake, billy how long am i to be annoyed by this drunken incubus?" years after this same critic came to my opening performance of "the merchant of venice" at the knickerbocker theatre, in new york, long after the curtain had been up. in fact my first scene was finished before he staggered down the center aisle to criticise my efforts. i knew that he contemplated treating me severely, irrespective of what i might be able to achieve. he did not consider it worthy of his attention and left before the play was finished. the following morning his "criticism" appeared, containing over two columns of vituperative abuse of my work, deservedly, no doubt; but as the paper went to press at eleven thirty and our performance was finished precisely at that hour i wondered how so beautifully a worded review could have been composed or even dictated in so short a time. the article was evidently inspired by an imaginary production which he was privileged to witness before it was seen or heard. yet this man's adulation of mansfield, patently written at so much a line, will be handed down to posterity and be believed and respected by the multitude! truly, "what fools these mortals be!" mansfield, to me, was an enigma. ask any worthy member of my profession to-day his opinion of mansfield as an actor and he will, i am sure, agree with joseph knight. i am one of the few actors who made a study of mr. mansfield--for many reasons, the paramount one being that i considered that i was indirectly responsible for his amazing and sensational success in "a parisian romance." i maintain that mansfield was never a great actor, but a clever and gifted man--a dominant personality which asserted itself even when clothed in mediocrity. i ask any fair-minded person if mansfield ever moved him to tears, broke his throat and caused his heart to burst and sob his soul away, as did our beloved booth. did he ever cause a ripple of laughter to equal those ripples set running by delightful willie collier? did he ever make you feel like bounding upon the stage and climbing up to juliet's balcony, as one is prompted to do when witnessing e. h. sothern pay tribute to julia marlowe? did he ever make you start from your seat and thank god that the performance was over, as when listening to edwin booth's appeal to be allowed to enter the banquet hall where his daughter is being held prisoner in "a fool's revenge"? did he ever rivet you to the spot by pure, sweet, untheatric delivery of a speech without effort, as did charles r. thorne, in "the banker's daughter"? did he ever hold you enthralled in a spell of reverence, as did salvini or john mccullough in his address to the senate in "othello"? in a word did mansfield ever make you really laugh or truly sob? never? then greatness was denied him. i argue that if an actor cannot appeal to you through the emotions he should take down his sign. if an actor cannot make you laugh or cry; fails to impress by any method except that of physical force or personality; cannot make love, he fails to qualify. mansfield's attempts to storm or win any of these emotions were as futile as they were absurd and when he ventured within the realms of shakespeare he was atrocious or preposterous. with all his unquestionable intelligence, he was never able to master shakespeare's rhythm or to scan correctly, as those who have witnessed his richard, henry the fifth, and shylock, will remember. that is my opinion of his acting. what he did for the american stage is a far different proposition. there is no denying the fact that he was quite as successful in elevating the drama in america as irving was in england, but he suffered by comparison, as irving was superior in knowledge of stage craft. he was not the equal of irving, either as actor or stage manager. true, he was denied irving's authorities and the assistance of technicians who lightened irving's efforts and materially added to his fame. neither were mansfield's methods, employed to further his ends, as legitimate as irving's. irving never found it necessary to insult his audience for its lack of patronage, or failure of appreciation. dear benign henry irving devoted as much time to beget a friend as mansfield did to destroy one. had mansfield studied his characters with the same amount of reverence which he bestowed upon his productions and attention to "detail" i might have agreed with his biographers; but i conscientiously say that i cannot. the mistakes he perpetrated were often misconstrued into perfections of art. mansfield, in my opinion, was an actor who selected the one art in which he was totally unfitted to shine and in which nature never intended him to soar. he did everything wrong, well. personally, i liked mansfield. he was most companionable, full of anecdotes, a fine musician, sculptor, linguist, conversationist and could be most agreeable, particularly to those whom he cared to interest. i had several delightful chats and very often dined with him in his private car and always came away wishing he could be persuaded to send over his charm into some of the plays of his extensive repertoire. but no, his channels were in the deep, dark waters of the uncanny. i have never left the playhouse, after witnessing one of his performances, with a sweet taste in my mouth or a wholesome thought. the trend of his characterizations was towards the cruelty in mankind. he catered to the morbid. there was little sunshine in his plays. they were as a rule overcast with the clouds of misery, crime, and the "winter of our discontent!" in the words of joseph knight, "_how awful!_" yet what a true disciple of cazauran he proved to be! no one remembers a laugh provoker, while even third rate "serious" actors win posthumous praise! mansfield was considered a great actor by the masses. but do the masses know? no! you will hear them prate about his "detail." i do not agree with the masses and never have agreed with them. i do not enjoy a visit to the morgue. i consider mansfield's detail, as a rule, misapplied. if sitting upon a great piece of scenery resembling an artichoke and stabbing himself with a huge roman dagger without toppling over, as he did as brutus, is detail, then i am wrong. when i saw him perform this piece of "business" i marvelled at the vitality of brutus and the weight of his head for surgeons tell me that when one dies of a self-inflicted wound, particularly when administered by a cleaver, the head falls forward and naturally the body follows. not so with mr. brutus as played by mansfield! he appeared too busily engaged in counting the people in the gallery to allow any authority on self-inflicted wounds to interfere with his "detail." again take the death scene in "a parisian romance." he is supposed to die from a stroke of apoplexy, not a stroke of lightning. mansfield flopped over as if hit on the head with a club. the original, germaine, who played the part in paris, received his stroke like a gentleman, sank into his chair, was carried into an ante-room and calmly passed away, a white hand appearing between the curtains as he endeavored to rejoin his disreputable friends. if one were privileged to read the original manuscript one would find that the baron is supposed to faint as he has fainted many times before. the people carry him off and the party continues its revels until notified that its host has passed away in the adjacent room. not so with mansfield, catering to the masses, which enjoy "detail!" he got his stroke, dropped his glass upon the table, fell--tableau! all stand riveted. someone cries, "the baron is dead! stop that music!" curtain! the american people not only fancy "detail"; they also want "ginger" and "the punch"! no _pousse café_ for them! they want "the straight goods"--and mansfield certainly handed them over! _chapter xiii_ in variety after my engagement with robson at the howard athenaeum, which lasted for only a week, my mind was fully made up to adopt the stage as my vocation. i went to new york and secured a position as utility man at niblo's garden, under the management of charles r. thorne, sr., and edwin eddy. but this lasted for only a few weeks, the season proving a failure. during the seasons of and i found it difficult to secure any employment whatever. the variety business, now called vaudeville, about this time had well-nigh supplanted the legitimate drama in the estimation of the masses and i, being rather an astute observer for a youngster, determined to turn my attention in that direction. the salaries offered were tempting and the opportunities of advertising one's ability much greater than in the legitimate. i persuaded my father to advance me enough money to have some costumes prepared and succeeded in inducing bradford to prepare a sketch for me. it was called "his first rehearsal," the receipt for which i take pleasure in submitting. you will see that sketches in those days cost small fortunes! [illustration: (handwritten receipt from joseph bradford.)] [illustration: in the little rebel _one of my first excursions into the legitimate_] i succeeded in procuring an opening at the howard athenaeum under the management of john stetson. my associates appearing in the same programme were gus williams, sol smith russell, pat rooney, denman thompson and several others who afterwards became famous players. i was handicapped to a great extent by this competition and my success was not very flattering until about the end of the week when i gained more confidence and my methods were a bit surer. on the saturday night of my engagement bradford brought a friend of his, clay greene, to see his _protegé_. that evening, fortunately for me, my sketch went particularly well. years after mr. greene wrote the following tribute: the legend of nathaniel by clay m. greene "come thou with me, tonight, and sit awhile, to see the mummers; not at the museum: 'tis laughter's tomb. the park's a dull te deum; the globe's a morgue. mayhap there be a smile that lurketh somewhere in the dingy athenaeum." thus spake my friend, joe bradford: rest his soul! i'd known him then a day, and we were chumming, as though we'd been for years love's lute-strings thumbing. we'd told each other's lives; each ope'd his soul, and drank the other's health 'till riotous becoming. to his beloved athenaeum, then, we almost reeled, and in a trice were seated, so close that we could scent the footlights heated. we laughed indeed, again, again, again, as clownish mummers ancient songs and quips repeated. then came into the light a slender boy, and bradford yelled with lusty acclamation: "that's nat, god bless him!" then, without cessation, the stripling held each hearer like a toy, and thrilled him now with song, then wondrous imitation. first farce, then opera, now broad burlesque, then e'en in tragic realms majestic soaring, and each attempt success prodigious soaring; (be it pathetic, tuneful, or grotesque,) till every palm was bruised with ravenous encoring. the youth had scarce outgrown his spelling book, and yet tho' oft some honored name defaming, by matchless ridicule, his pure declaiming came easily as ripples to a brook, or thrills to lover's souls when latest sweethearts naming. "who is this boy?" i cried. "he's clever, quite; whence came he? where began his gentle schooling? 'tis pity there's no art in such tomfooling, and much i fear this youth i've seen, tonight, is but a clever clown! alas! such kindless ruling!" "then thou'rt a weakling judge to so decide!" cried joseph, redd'ning in his indignation. "a clown? no art? why 'tis no imitation that we have heard; nor can it be denied this callow boy is that one genius of a nation!" "you smile; you purse your lips; and even doubt. e'er i have drunk myself into perdition, nat goodwin will have filled with inanition the fame of every actor hereabout:-- for nature gave him the creator's tireless mission!" he reproduced no song, no speech, no jest, but it was lustered by some hidden power that comes to genius born with fortune's dower. youth in his veins, ambition in his breast, this boy will be one day the hero of his hour. more than a decade passed. unlike to me, joe lived not to fulfill that night's foretelling; yet oft adown the years there comes a welling from that somewhere, to green prophecy which in my doubting soul that night usurped a dwelling. today, i saw an eager, jostling throng, like some greed-laden human panorama, surround a playhouse door with vulgar clamour, to honor bradford's star. "seats! seats!" their song:-- to witness his, nathaniel's, show of laurelled glamour. oh, gentle friend of mine, thou art no more; but lend thy spirit ear while i am spinning my admiration's tale of endless winning nat ever made. he never failed to score since we together saw his modest first beginning. i hid thy prophecy within my breast, and ever and anon its force recalling, watched goodwin stride with speed that was appalling; till now his very foes proclaim him best amongst his votaries, thy very words forestalling. and i am glad to know, my spirit chum, that i long since let honest admiration be leavened by a friendship's adulation for him who in these decades hath become no artless clown, but that one genius of a nation. drink deep with us, thou gentle friendship's wraith;-- if thou hast aught to drink where thou'rt abiding, and nat and i'll recall thy stalwart faith which met my doubting with indignant chiding, that night when you a new star's orbit were deciding. "come thou with me, tonight, and sit awhile, to see the mummers (not at the museum. 'tis laughter's tomb; the park's a dull te deum; the globe's no more): for i would see thee smile, while thousands laud the star of thy loved athenaeum!" after my run at the howard athenaeum tony pastor offered me an engagement at $ a week to appear at his variety theatre in new york. when i arrived i was terror stricken at the way in which he had announced me. i was advertised as "actor, author and mimic." i remained with tony several weeks and when i left gotham my salary had grown to the sum of $ a week, a tremendous salary in those days. variety was hardly to my liking as it gave me too much time to myself and i regret to say that i saved but little from my season's work. colonel sinn of the olympic theatre, new york, made me alluring offers to continue on the variety stage, but i decided to enter the legitimate and accepted an engagement to appear as captain crosstree under the management of matt morgan, then the manager of the th street theatre in the burlesque of "black-eyed susan." it was there i met for the first time dainty little minnie palmer and we appeared together in two farces, "sketches in india" and "the little rebel." after a few weeks at the fourteenth street house we accepted an engagement to return to the howard athenaeum and we opened there at a joint salary of $ a week. i was very proud of this, as i had previously left that theatre, not particularly successful, at a salary of only $ a week. _chapter xiv_ eliza weathersby minnie and i determined to remain together and continue in vaudeville through the following year and made our arrangements accordingly. but these were vetoed by her mother who decided that we had better earn our respective livings apart. the following summer ( ) i opened in the production of rice and goodwin's "evangeline," words and lyrics by j. cheever goodwin, music by edward e. rice. i appeared in the character of captain dietrich. my associates in this production were william h. crane, james moffit, harry josephs, veney clancy, lizzie webster and eliza weathersby, one of the most famous beauties of the burlesque stage, who came to this country originally with lydia thompson. a friendship sprang up between miss weathersby and me. it quickly ripened into love and at the close of our season we were married by the rev. m. kennedy of new rochelle, new york, on the th day of june, . eliza weathersby proved a loving and lovable wife and was of great assistance to me in my profession, playing the principal female rôles in all my plays with great success until she was forced to retire from the stage because of the illness which gradually brought about her death. [illustration: eliza weathersby _the wife who mothered me_] eliza weathersby was one of the most beautiful women whom i have ever known and one of the most self-sacrificing wives that ever blessed man with devotion and love. forced by circumstances, she left a position at the haymarket theatre, london, where she was considered the best soubrette since mrs. keely, and came to america with the celebrated lydia thompson's famous troupe of british blondes. her environment was most distasteful to her as the women with whom she was forced to associate were not to her liking. lydia thompson, herself, was a most exemplary woman and as virtuous as eliza. she, too, was a very clever actress even before entering the field of burlesque and a friendship sprang up between them which lasted for many years. the reason for eliza weathersby's entry into the burlesque field was that the salary offered enabled her to support her widowed mother and five sisters who were left in want by the death of their father. she knew that no matter what her surroundings were she was proof against all temptations and her after life revealed how thoroughly she had diagnosed her character and future. every week after our marriage a certain sum was sent across the ocean, out of our joint salary, to the widow and orphans left in london and, one by one, each succeeding year a sister would come over and join our happy family. emmy, the most beautiful, our favorite sister, was taken away from us two years after she arrived. contracting a severe cold she died of pneumonia and we sorrowfully put her away in woodlawn. she was a charming girl. and she gave promise of becoming a splendid actress. i was only a stripling when i married this beautiful creature. moreover i was unreliable and, i confess, unappreciative of what the fates had been so kind as to bestow upon me. many have accused me of "wanton neglect." i may have neglected her, but only for the companionship of men. she never complained and during the ten years of our happy married life there was never one discordant note. she was ten years my senior and treated me more like a son than a husband, but, like the truant boy who runs away from school now and then, i was always glad to return and seek the forgiveness that an indulgent mother always gives a wayward child. our own home near boston was a little paradise. i was seldom away from it and together we spent many, many happy hours, surrounded by our little sisters and my friends--who were always her friends. she was domesticated to a degree and never cared for the theatre. a loving sister, a dutiful daughter, a loving wife, she is resting in woodlawn and the daisies grow over her grave. we remained with the "evangeline" aggregation during the summer of . this engagement was interrupted by my accepting another to appear at the walnut street theatre in philadelphia in conjunction with the famous john brougham. this only lasted for two weeks when i rejoined rice and continued with him until i was discharged for having a fistic encounter with the stage manager who was always making things particularly disagreeable for me. eliza was offered an increase of salary to remain, but she preferred casting her lot with me. we packed up our parcels and went to new york in search of an engagement. i succeeded in procuring an opening with harrigan and hart at the theatre comique where i remained for several weeks. tony hart and i were always like damon and pythias. what a delightful character was tony hart! "his face was a thanksgiving for his past life and a love letter to all mankind." about a bright-eyed irish-american lad named anthony cannon came over the theatrical horizon like a burst of sunshine and it took but a few short years for him to establish himself in the hearts of the american public. i met him about , before i went on the stage, and a friendship sprang up between us that terminated only when he was laid to rest in the worcester graveyard. tony hart was the name of the lad of melody, after he had fired the cannon. from the time he became associated with edward harrigan until the name of harrigan and hart became famous from coast to coast, that boy caused more joy and sunshine by his delightful gifts than any artist of his time. to refer to him as talented was an insult. genius was the only word that could be applied. he sang like a nightingale, danced like a fairy, and acted like a master comedian. no dialect was too difficult for him--irish, negro, dutch, german, italian became his own, and one lost sight of the individual in the truthfulness of portrayal. his magnetism was compelling, his personality charming. he had the face of an irish apollo. his eyes were liquid blue, almost feminine in their dove-like expression. his head was large and round and covered with a luxurious growth of brown curly hair which clustered in ringlets over a strong brow. his feet and hands were small, his smile almost pathetic. his disposition turned december into may. this was the lad who sang, danced and acted himself into the hearts of america during the seventies and early eighties. tony hart was the friend of all mankind and my especial pal. i have loved three men in my life, and he was two of them. i miss him greatly, especially on the th of each july. we both were born on that day and during a period of twenty years we exchanged telegrams, letters or cables of loving friendship. he went away many years ago, but his memory will always linger with me. we laughed and sang together for twenty years and when they took him away to join the seraphs, nature discarded the mold that fashioned him. she could find no one worthy to fill it. when poor tony left us the stage was seen through tears; an artist had gone to join the past masters; the world had lost a man and i, man's greatest treasure--a friend. after leaving harrigan and hart, eliza and i made up our minds to go on our own. i knew my limitations and her reputation. she had previously made one or two journeys into stardom alone and i thought it would be a good idea to organize a company featuring her. i would be in her support. our finances prohibited a production sufficiently elaborate for a burlesque organization so we determined to have a play written on the lines of the vokes family skits and salsbury's troubadors which were then playing successfully throughout the country, i interested a ne'er-do-well playwright named george murray. we collaborated and brought out a little play called "cruets" into which we injected all the little stunts in which we excelled (and all others that we could crib!). thus we started out on our first starring tour, her name heading the company. we played through the new england circuit where we had previously appeared in "evangeline." our proceeds the first week went away beyond our most iridescent expectations. we cleared in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars profit. [illustration: in hobbies with eliza weathersby _the play i won at faro_] out of the proceeds of our first week i paid a retainer to benjamin wolfe, a boston journalist who had written "the mighty dollar" for w. j. florence, to write us a play on the lines of the one we were then doing. had i known what was in store for us i would not have indulged in such extravagance. for the next five months we never saw a house of more than two hundred dollars at any performance and in a little while the remainder of our $ , had almost vanished. i had paid wolfe a thousand dollars down as a retainer on his agreeing to deliver the manuscript in five months. we had been travelling through new york, ohio and illinois to gradually decreasing business. we always left a favorable impression, so much so that john albaugh who was then managing the leading theatre at albany wired me for a return date. i accepted with avidity, as it meant a week's rest and a possible relief from bad business. upon our arrival at albany i received a telegram saying that wolfe had sent his play, called "hobbies" c. o. d. a thousand dollars was needed to get the manuscript from the confines of the post-office. a thousand dollars to me then looked like a million! poor eliza had saved enough from her earnings to enable her to put aside ten one thousand dollar government bonds. these i insisted she lock up in a safe deposit box the day after our marriage with instructions to tell no one of her hidden fortune nor ever to molest it unless we were starving. when the telegram arrived she insisted upon going down to new york and taking out one of the bonds with which to release our play. i would not give my consent and started out to try to borrow the money. i knew few people in albany, but had two friends in troy whom i thought i could rely upon to come to my rescue. one was a judge, the other a gambler. i found them both financially embarrassed, but between them they dug up a hundred dollars which they presented to me. my gambler friend suggested that i take the hundred dollars, go upstairs into a faro game in which he held a slight interest and try to win out. i reasoned that the hundred was of no use to me and determined to take a chance. i went into the gambling room, and bet the hundred dollars on the high card. it won. i let it stay and it won again, giving me four hundred dollars. i asked for a chair then and sat down. in ten minutes i had eleven hundred and fifty dollars! i immediately returned the hundred dollar loan, bought eliza a bunch of lilacs, her favorite flower, went to the post-office and returned home with the much coveted manuscript. i was ashamed to tell her how i "earned" the money, but i wouldn't tell her a falsehood and finally told her of my afternoon's experience. this worried her greatly as she never believed that any good results came from money obtained that way. i assuaged her grief and as usual was forgiven. we spent that night pondering over the manuscript and at the finish we both decided it was vastly inferior to our little play "cruets." however, we announced a production for friday night. this gave us only five days of preparation. we thought so little of it that we never gave any attention as to what we should wear, arriving at no definite conclusion until the night of the performance. so little did we think of the play that i offered charles bowser, my leading comedian, a half interest in it for five hundred dollars and a cancellation of the three hundred and fifty dollars i owed him for back salary. "natty," he said, "i haven't five hundred dollars and even if i had i wouldn't care to invest it in your property." how little did he know he was refusing a fortune! when the curtain rang down on the finale of that play i would not have sold a half interest in it for fifty thousand dollars! it was a whirlwind of laughter from beginning to end. we were all dumbfounded and could not understand why the play was received with such manifestations of delight. everything was encored time and time again and the rafters shook with applause and laughter. the saturday morning papers were most enthusiastic and in a few days i was besieged with offers from all over the country. we performed this play successfully for four years, eliza and i dividing a small fortune. hers was put away in the safe deposit vault while most of mine went back into the coffers of the proprietors of various places of the same kind as that in which i won the original thousand dollars. i really never knew how much we did make out of that play until eliza died and willed me her share. it came in very handy at the time and was gratifying for two reasons--it eliminated all my debts and was a vindication for me, in a way, as i considered it proof that (since she left me every dollar she possessed, with the exception of the ten thousand dollars in bonds which she had earned before our marriage) i had not treated her as cruelly as my vilifiers would have the world believe. we followed "hobbies" with several other productions including "the member for slocum," "sparks," "ourselves," "the ramblers" and one or two others. then we associated ourselves with edwin f. thorne and produced a melodrama by henry pettit called "the black flag." i appeared as sim lazarus and eliza as ned the waif. we produced this play at the union square theatre in september, , and continued through that theatrical season with very gratifying success. our association with edwin thorne was a delightful one. though only a mediocre actor, he was a charming companion and his personality was most attractive. it was a funny experience to be associated with thorne as it seemed but a few short months since frank burbeck and i would sneak into thorne's bedroom at my mother's house, abscond with his sword and scabbard, adjourn to the back yard and indulge in a "duel" which we would continue until interrupted by the thornes or other occupants of the dwelling. [illustration: goodwin's froliques n.c. goodwin jr. in "hobbies" lithograph of goodwin's froliques] _chapter xv_ successful failures paradoxically my most conspicuous failures, barring one or two, have been my greatest successes notwithstanding the reports which perhaps will be handed down to posterity. the best instance of this is my production of "the merchant of venice." the critics condemned it harshly; some before they saw it and more cruelly after. maybe it was deserved. i say maybe because against those cowardly assaults i have the comforting knowledge that there were a few, including myself, who disagreed with those enlightened gentlemen. among the minority i might mention henry watterson, mr. clapp of the boston "advertiser," william ball, stillson hutchins, george riddel, george p. goodale of the detroit "free press" and a few actors of intelligence. many of the sapient censors of my work objected most strenuously to the disguising of my known methods and a loss of personality. i presume they would have preferred me to play shylock as it was played by the predecessors of macklin, but why should i copy "tradition" before tradition was born? nobody with human intelligence could ever discover humor in the dignified shylock, a jew, but, nevertheless, the only gentleman in the play. possessed of subtlety? yes. humor? no. a thousand times, no! had the learned critics who assailed my efforts known anything regarding the motives that prompted shakespeare to adapt the play from a spanish source, written only to please the vagaries of the elizabethan court, they might not have marvelled at my efforts to dignify the character of shylock. i would not venture to assert how easy was the rendering after i had absorbed the character nor would i even dare whisper what the performances throughout the country yielded. as a matter of fact history tells me that they were the largest returns, at the prices, of any series of performances ever given in america up to that time. the same results marked my production of "a midsummer night's dream"--which is written down as "another goodwin failure." if more than five thousand dollars on the day (which were the receipts of the last saturday at the new amsterdam theatre) spells failure, mine was unmitigated. the same story of successful failure may be told of my production of "nathan hale." it was greeted by packed houses and condemned by the press for my "audacity." it was audacious to play characters in serious plays. my performance of nick bottom in "a midsummer night's dream" was supposed to be funny, but shakespeare's name was on the front door and "knocking" was forbidden until the door was opened. then how the iconoclasts did knock! they even found fault with the anatomy of the ass's head! however, that is easily accounted for--one sees oneself reflected in a brook and an ass never looks down. two failures i concede--"beauty and the barge" and "wolfville." the former, a splendid play, was inadequately cast. the other, a bad play, was perfectly cast. the net results--both hopeless. i knew that "beauty and the barge" was lost with all on board before i made my entrance. "wolfville" was wiped off the map at the dress rehearsal. they met deserving ends but i honestly believe that "beauty and the barge" could be resuscitated and, properly cast, run the allotted span. so sanguine was i regarding the reception of those plays, barring "wolfville," that i was fearful lest the critics would not be present. i regret to say that they were! they strangled my shylock, crucified my beauty, sank my barge, burned my wolfville, spanked my bottom and relegated me to the sage brush of farce comedy, gaining their ends by withholding their praises--for business gradually decreased. up to the period of my return to farce comedy i broke every record at the knickerbocker theatre with "nathan hale"--much to the discomfiture of "willie" winter and his satellites; and of course i was condemned by the critics who shine in the reflected light of that hypocritical, self-seeking thersites. shortly after i appeared in a farce called "the genius" at the bijou theatre, new york, and never in my life have i been the recipient of such commendatory notices for my work. i was "absolutely perfect" from the critics' point of view. even the hebraic gentleman who writes for the new york "american" was courteous--aye, even complimentary, as was also the dainty critic of the "evening sun"--and receipts never reached $ , during any given week! truly a wonderful picture is that painted by reynolds of garrick between the muses, tragedy and comedy. to which does he turn? i wonder! which leads me to remark-- give the average american critic a mirror and a hammer and he will demonstrate his prowess as an iconoclast. _chapter xvi_ back in the eighties my first trip to england resulted in my being able to add to my list of imitations a study of sir henry irving. how it came about may be of interest. it followed my decision to produce "confusion" and "turned up." "confusion" had previously been played by henry e. dixey and florence gerard with some degree of success. i think they would have made a great success had they not made the play subservient to a most wonderful imitation of henry irving and ellen terry in a travesty on "the merchant of venice." they performed this travesty delightfully, but as it lasted only about thirty minutes and was the feature of the entertainment the _pièce de resistance_ naturally suffered. i saw the possibilities of "confusion" and made a deal with john stetson for a road tour. i gave it a most excellent cast, including such names as john mason, robert coote, loie fuller, charles bishop, leila farrell and others who were conspicuous at that time. [illustration: in turned up _in the days when i was an imitator_] during this engagement i produced for the first time my burlesque of "the bells," imitating henry irving as mathias. it was a double bill and included "turned up." the performance made an instantaneous hit and i received much credit for what the press and public were pleased to call a most faithful reproduction of the great man. i was extremely nervous on the first night as i was following a magnificent imitation of irving lately given in the same theatre by henry e. dixey who had scored a tremendous success. he had a striking make up for his irving, suggesting him in face and carriage, but his reproduction was more of a caricature than mine and i suffered little by comparison. later on, while producing "the bells" in conjunction with "confusion" at the grand opera house, one of the company whispered, "irving's in the box!" i nearly fainted. however, i had only a few moments more in which to finish the performance so i gritted my teeth and went to it. irving visited me later on in my dressing-room and grasping me by the hand ejaculated, "my dear goodwin, i congratulate you! i had no idea that 'the bells' was such an interesting play!" "my dear irving," i said, "think of the man you saw play it!" "having played the part for over twenty years and having seen your wonderful reproduction of me, i can now see where i have been very much in error," he replied laughingly. some years after at a supper given in my honor he referred to my performance very graciously, pronouncing it the only true burlesque he had ever witnessed, with the possible exception of one by frederick robson, called the great robson. robson was a wonderful player of the early sixties. i followed "confusion" with "turned up," preceding each play with "lend me five shillings" and an adaption from the french of a play called "gringoire." i was enabled to show a good profit on the correct side of the ledger for the following two years. on my next trip to europe i succeeded in interesting william yardley to write for me. with leander richardson he adapted a play from the french which was produced successfully in london by charles wyndham and called "the candidate." i returned to america that year with their adaption, calling it "the nominee." i afterwards produced it for a limited run at the bijou theatre, new york. previously i had made several plunges into musical comedy and comic opera, producing with edward e. rice at the boston museum "cinderella at school," "the mascot" and "pinafore." those productions were given in a spirit of fun and as a relief from the more serious work which occupied my road tours. irrespective of the profits which were made by these plunges into dissipation we always had a royal time. it was here that i again resumed my delightful associations with dear old ned rice. what a misunderstood person is this happy-go-lucky ne'er-do-well who would spend his last twenty dollar bill to give a dinner to a pal! the sordid, practical manager of to-day would do well to emulate this self-sacrificing gentleman. salaries meant nothing to him if he considered the actor necessary to enhance the artistic value of any of his magnificent productions. so thoughtful of his women and appreciative of his men was he as to make it a joy to be associated with him in the management of the classic boston museum. i was always fond of the comic opera style of entertainment and to be associated with rice added greatly to my pleasure. the extreme gratification of being for a time the lessee of a playhouse in which i had previously been conspicuous only as a spear carrier was joy indeed. to tear down the walls of respectability and storm the citadel of the legitimate; to make the sacred place a playground were dissipations which i enjoyed immensely. to surround myself with both principals and chorus after the matinee, have dinner served from the parker house (and be able to liquidate from the profits of that matinée) in the greenroom, where the people were allowed to talk to one another without being subject to a fine for their audacity; to have the exquisite power of bringing viands behind the scenes without fear of challenge or interruption; with the satisfaction of knowing that only we knew what was going on behind the scenes of this revered old playhouse--these were joys indeed! it was very wrong, no doubt, but nevertheless a beatific revenge for the cuffs i had received in years gone by. maybe it was only a mistake. perhaps i should not have indulged in these sprees, but the engagement was in the summer, we paid large salaries, the theatre was packed at every performance, the dignified and austere management shut their eyes to our moods and tenses and, really, after all, it was but a little holiday and john mason, joseph haworth, william j. lemoyne, fred archer, barney nolan, my dear brother edward, sadie martinot, catherine lewis, belle archer, rice and i enjoyed the outing, or inning, immensely! _chapter xvii_ the halcyon days of union square the early eighties were replete with much excitement and lucrative receipts. from ' to ' i made productions annually and nearly all, i am pleased to say, were successful. a half dozen worth naming were "sparks," "a gay deceiver," "col. tom bottom's dream," "a royal revenge," "the skating rink" and "a terrible time." during these eight years i made many friends and always looked forward to the summer with much pleasure. the two months devoted to booking my tour for the coming season always afforded me unbounded joy. what would i not give to swing back into time and have one brief yesterday; to stroll down broadway and grasp the hands of long ago; to drop in at the old hoffman house, stroll to the bar and be greeted by john mccullough, by ned buckley (he of the angelic voice and fist of a gladiator), by johnny mackie, the lovable cynic, jim collier, the uncle of our magnetic willie, and sam piercy, of stentorian tones (who died ere he blossomed)! what would i not give to continue down broadway to fourteenth street; to stop and talk with the austere, but charming barney macauley; to be joined by charlie read, the delightful minstrel; the tall and well-groomed charles r. thorne, jr., and his equally attractive brother, ned, the handsome fred bryton, the scholarly charles coghlan, the fascinating harry j. montague, clever george knight, billy barry, sol smith russell, james lewis and john drew! these gentlemen constituted america's "lowest and lightest," as i referred to them one spring morning as we exchanged salutations. anon come john gilbert and the aggressive little john t. raymond and, as you continue down, the distinguished members of wallack's and the union square nod kindly recognition. then you return on a journey to the st. james hotel to be met graciously by its popular proprietor, billy conners, fascinating henry perry, the wit of broadway, and divers other men about town, including "plunger" walton and the well-groomed john daly. john daly, the gambler? yes, but only in the truest meaning of the word--not a corner lounger with dyed mustache, leering at the women as they passed, but a true gambler in every sense, of a type now extinct. those men were all "pals," men of the hour. where they foregathered a perpetual loving cup was in evidence. after passing the usual greetings one would take a stroll uptown as far as thirty-fourth street. that was as high as the afternoon professional pedestrian cared to ramble. if one were as favored as i was in those happy days one would be sure to be greeted by such beautiful and attractive women as lillian grubb, marie jansen, kate forsythe, pauline hall, josie hall and dainty mollie fuller, her chum, the hanley sisters, the attractive lillian russell (almost as beautiful and radiant as now!), marie tempest, clever minnie maddern, the daughter of tom davey, now the talented mrs. fiske, the haughty rose eytinge, ada dyas and the regal ada rehan. the brain grows giddy as my fancy wanders back to those beautiful autumnal days of twenty odd years ago when all was chaotic and congested, but nevertheless a delightful pot pourri of brilliancy, genius, talent and beauty. some, in fact a majority, have passed away, but to those who were privileged to enjoy the happy association of those clever men and women a memory remains that will only be obliterated when the bell that summoned king duncan to his doom tells us that the time has come for us to join those gone before. shall we join them? i wonder! life is a bridge of sighs, over which memory glides into a torrent of tears. it was somewhere in the early eighties that i first heard of the existence of the lambs club, situated at that time somewhere near union square and suggested to me as a good one to join by harry becket, then the leading comedian of wallack's theatre. it was during those busy times when all of us were compelled to travel for the season of the then thirty-two weeks that we looked forward with greatest joy to meeting our pals on the glorious rialto. it was bounded by broadway and fourth avenue, fourteenth and seventeenth streets with the attractive union square park forming the center of rest. it was our busy playground after our toils of the road. [illustration: lotta _in the days when work was play_] i always put up at the union square hotel where, after a hurried bath and shave, i would rush down to the street below to be welcomed by my many friends. ah! what times they were! i brush away a tear as the happy memories come upon my vision. i see the tall, commanding figure of charlie thorne come briskly across the pavement, switching his well-shaped limbs with a tiny cane as he rushes over with outstretched hands to bid me welcome and congratulate me upon my season's efforts. a slap on the back from clever louis harrison and an embrace--yes, even in the open!--from his talented sister alice; a yell from dear old matt snyder, many times a member of my various organizations, a grunt of welcome from the stoic, sheridan shook and an acknowledgment from the dignified lawrence barrett; a benign smile from edwin booth, salutations from the various members of my company, now disbanded, but only for a time! we generally kept our organizations intact for many seasons in those happy, golden yesterdays. often the ladies of our profession would wander downtown to meet their brothers and here and there one would come across a group of men and women in converse under the shady trees, comparing notes and making their arrangements for the following year. dainty kate claxton, then the heroine of "the two orphans," would be seen in earnest conversation with a. m. palmer in front of the union square theatre. maggie mitchell would briskly acknowledge the respectful doffing of hats as she tripped across from the morton house with sprightly lotta as her one bright particular companion of that morning. midway between the morton house and the union square the fascinating joe emmett would chirp merrily on his way and hold those ladies enthralled until some other came along to interrupt their entertaining conversation. in those days, no arbitrary booking organization held sway; no peeping izzies or sols had access to our books; we were all on our own, masters of our own enterprises. like the brokers on the curb we arranged our bookings on the street. hither and hither we flew, now procuring a week in pittsburgh or a night in dayton, crossing and recrossing from the morton house to union square, corralling a manager for a two weeks' tour in the sunny south or four in the unattractive middle west, ever and anon stopping on our way to engage the services of some particular actor we desired for the new play. we made railroad rates with hustling agents, always on the lookout to do business with professionals. there was no interstate commerce law in force at that time! we made contracts with printers and appointments with authors simultaneously! thus the day was occupied from ten until three when all work was suspended. then, though a bit fatigued, we would make a hasty recapitulation of what had been accomplished, select our own particular coterie of friends and adjourn to charlie collins' (known as "dollar five" charlie) _café_ where the balance of the day was devoted to food, drink, anecdote and song. managers, agents, printers, railroad agents, actors, singers (of obscurity and fame)--all were as one when the bell struck three. perfect equality, unanimity, brotherly love and comradeship were the qualities in vogue on the rialto in dear old new york during the early eighties. at that time i made the remark, "when you leave new york you're camping out." i have been camping out since . _chapter xviii_ the birth of the syndicate those were halcyon days on union square. the booking of tours was as attractive as it was uncertain, attractive because it was uncertain! who does not find a hazardous game attractive? one man i've not mentioned was in daily evidence on the square. he was fair, always faultlessly dressed, in frock coat, soft black felt hat, low cut waistcoat (showing an abundance of pleated shirt front, ornamented in the center with a single, glittering, pure white diamond), peg top trousers tapering down to a pair of dainty feet encased in the latest parisian patent leather boots. he was straight of figure and easy of carriage and affected a drooping mustache. also he bowed pleasantly to everyone he met! in make up he suggested the type of man drawn by bret harte in the "outcasts of poker flat"--john oakhurst, gambler. such was jack haverly, the originator of the scheme of forming a theatrical trust or, as it is now called, a syndicate. the idea must have worked its way into the brain of a little, rotund, breezy chap who always accompanied the genial haverly. he was ever at his side, taking notes, penciled and mental, running to the telegraph offices with instructions from his master, always returning for more, his little furtive eyes constantly wandering from one point to another, calling his master's attention to matters of detail too complicated for the busy haverly sometimes to consider. the little lieutenant never overlooked anything. like a trusty sentinel was this little aide upon whom the mantle of the master was soon to fall. haverly neglected the business which formed the nucleus of his success and sought bigger and more alluring schemes only to encounter failure. he speculated in mines which soon brought about his ruin and he died, penniless and neglected, leaving only the legacy of an idea. but the little corporal who took advantage of the suggestions absorbed from haverly soon arose from an obscurity as dense as that of his corsican predecessor and charles frohman jumped over the horizon and in a short period amazed the theatrical world. it was in the fall of that i chanced into haverly's office in the fifth avenue theatre building on a matter of business regarding my first trip to the coast. in his employ at that time were gustave, daniel and charles frohman and al hayman. they were the representative staff, and haverly, from out the quartette, selected gustave as his chief, considering him the most brilliant of them all! daniel, the present lessee of the lyceum theatre, confined himself to conservative lines and was quite satisfied to manage a first class stock company and one or two minor attractions. charles was the atlas destined to uphold the family name and make dramatic history. while planning the scheme that has since made many men millionaires haverly little dreamed that his rotund employee was also eagerly planning as he unfolded his plans to the others. [illustration: jack haverly _the man who conceived the syndicate_] (if anyone doubts that haverly was the first man who first thought of a theatrical trust, he need only refer to an old lithograph showing this astute gentleman on an elevation and in his hands various wires, to the ends of which are attached ten theatres. haverly controlled these houses and about six attractions. there he stands, smiling and manipulating the wires. this was the birth of the syndicate.) in a few years charles blossomed forth as a manager. i think his first winner was "shenandoah," written by bronson howard. the world knows of his rapid ascent, so i won't dwell upon his wonderful and well deserved success. i write of the man as i know him and charles frohman is a man among men. yet he is seldom seen among men! only a few are privileged to enjoy his magnetic society. i have been one of these. i have met him in my own home, in england, in my dressing-room, at his office, on the stage, when he and i were producing plays, at dinners, supper parties--in fact under every circumstance and in all walks of life. and he is always the same urbane, kindly, patient creature. he laughs at failures and runs from success--runs, but only in quest of another! he is one of the most scintillating persons in the world. geographical space means nothing to him. his word is a contract. i have never known such perseverance, industry and thought combined in one man. i am one of the few who knew what he was up against when he began his american invasion of england. a conversation held in my presence in my home at jackwood, england, between three men who have since been associated with him advised me of a conspiracy to ruin him. but frohman overcame them all, beat them at their own game and his methods have been imitated broadcast throughout the british empire. the little corporal has made himself a factor in london and his name as a rule spells success. he has brought before the american public the most celebrated players of the day, made so only by his undying energy and patience. i have often regretted that even after i had begun my career i had not started under his management, for notwithstanding his great business capabilities he has a naturally artistic temperament, combined with a wondrous sense of humor--splendid qualities in these days of commercialism. one time, nearly twenty-three years ago, i sent for him to come to my residence on west end avenue, new york, with a view of placing myself under his management. he listened very quietly as is his custom and when i had finished asked how remunerative the season i had just closed had been. i showed him my books thinking that disclosure might lead to results. after examining them most carefully he placed them gently upon the table and with that merry twinkle in his eyes his friends know so well said, "my dear boy, you don't require a manager; you want a lawyer." later i played under his management in london and i am happy to say i caused him no loss. the engagement was a most happy one and i look back to the association with joy. during my several engagements at his knickerbocker theatre he was seldom in evidence. the first night he would take his customary seat in the rear of the balcony and at the end of the play a slight knock would come at my dressing-room door. "come in," i would say. the door would open and his bright, cheery face appear. "it's all right," would be the assurance and he would disappear as quickly as he came. during the run of "nathan hale" i had not seen him for four or five weeks. one night i came into the dressing-room, turned on the electric light and there he sat in a corner, all huddled up. "what in the world are you doing there, charley?" i asked. he quietly replied, "i am casting a new play and came here to get some inspiration. good night." and away he went. my next association with him was in the production of "beauty and the barge" at the lyceum theatre. i often regretted that i had not listened to his suggestions and gone on the road with the play, but the sting of defeat was too bitter and in a hysterical moment i decided to abandon it. he offered no advice, but, as usual, when his stars are unhappy in their rôles, he left me to determine the fate of the play. charles frohman is the most unselfish man whom i have ever met in the theatrical profession. a spendthrift, so far as productions are concerned, with no thought of pecuniary results, no sordid desires, a slave to his work, and with a thorough appreciation of an artist's value, he has done more to increase actors' salaries, he has produced more plays and received less reward than any manager in the world. the history of the american stage will be incomplete unless the name of charles frohman stands conspicuous among the many. will history do the little corporal justice? i wonder! about the time that the idea of haverly's began scintillating along the horizon it became noised about that a theatrical syndicate was to be formed--to make the booking of tours less irksome; to guarantee continued time in the cities; to amalgamate forces which would lessen the burden of the actor-manager--in fact everything would be done to enhance the success of both player and producer. the napoleonic erlanger was the instigator and promoter of the finally adopted scheme and he was aided by the subtle klaw, whom i had previously known in louisville as a reporter--a silent, but ever watchful person. associated with these clever gentlemen were the elusive al hayman, then a wealthy and powerful man; rich and harris, of boston and nixon and zimmerman, of philadelphia. this sextette made a very powerful organization. being possessed of a little business instinct i saw the danger, or rather the supposed danger, that lurked behind these samaritans of the drama, but not until i was approached by mr. rapley of washington, charlie ford of baltimore and one or two suburban managers did i realize what was in the power of this coterie if they succeeded in carrying out their schemes. those managers realized their peril and were quietly soliciting the stars not to play at any other theatres save theirs, as they feared the syndicate would book the then strong attractions at opposition houses, offering as an inducement better terms and time. being loyal, as i have always tried to be, i assured them that i would stick. then it occurred to me that if i could organize a syndicate of players we might be able to strangle the contemplated move at its very birth. i succeeded in interesting joseph jefferson, william h. crane, stuart robson, sol smith russell, richard mansfield, fanny davenport, francis wilson, modjeska, j. k. emmet and four or five other leading players--and they all promised to stand by me. we were to elect a. m. palmer president. i was to be the vice-president. we were all to form an incorporated company and play as one body. i even went so far as to have the papers drawn up. i worked incessantly night and day. i even had sites picked out and money guaranteed for theatres in boston, new york, chicago, cleveland and st. louis, providing i could guarantee the appearance of these players for five years. everything was going better than i anticipated when one day i received my first shock. the "dear old dean," mr. jefferson, had reneged! he went back on every promise made to me in new orleans. crane, after being my guest for a week in baltimore, going over every detail and agreeing that it was "a great scheme," quietly and unknown to me signed a three-years' contract with joseph brooks, a representative of the syndicate. one by one they all left me, with the single exception of francis wilson, who had to stay, as he had been blacklisted by nixon and zimmerman with whom he had quarreled. i was disgusted and quietly folded my tent and departed for europe to ponder over the ass i had made of myself and to wonder what the syndicate would do to me by way of a punishment i so richly deserved. imagine my surprise when abe erlanger called me into his office one morning after my return from europe and after greeting me most cordially said, "well, my boy, you didn't pull that thing off." i answered, "no, but i tried hard, abe, i can tell you." he said, "i know you did. some of your companions have lied to me, and they will get their's, but you have told me the truth and the syndicate will always be your friend; at least i'll be. your terms will always be the same, no matter what you have to offer, your tours booked and all your business done through this office without charge." the syndicate has kept faith with me, with but one exception. only one man out of the eight has broken faith with me. they are all, barring this particular one, my personal friends. i would rather have abe erlanger's word than a contract from rockefeller. after all, what a silly fight i contemplated making and what a blessing it turned out that i did not consummate it. the theatrical syndicate has in fifteen years made more actors and managers rich, improved the drama to a greater extent, built more theatres and increased patronage more consistently than has been accomplished by any other factor during the last century. the only fault that i have to find with the syndicate is that through its dignified and thorough business-like methods it has made the theatrical profession so alluring that unreliable imitations have broken through the windows of the drama and allowed the draughts of unsavory methods to permeate the stage. other so-called syndicates have sprung up and nauseated the thinking public with vulgar and obscene plays which, i am sorry to admit, some seem to fancy. but everything will adjust itself in time and the theatrical syndicate, headed by the brainy erlanger, will destroy all enemies of the drama. honest plays and playwrights will receive their just dues, wholesome plays will be in vogue, and the names of klaw and erlanger will be synonyms for honesty and justice. _chapter xix_ stars to be a star to-day an actor needs only to be featured in large type in all advertising matter. at least this is all that is necessary to win popular acceptance as a star. that such undeserved, misapplied, wrongful foistering of mediocre actors on a long suffering public is unwise is self-evident. the antagonism it provoked among authors and managers is quite justified. all true artists object to the featuring of incompetency fostered by notoriety. the men and women of the stage who entered the profession through the small door and not the open broad window protest with much vehemence against the launching of a so-called "star" who, because of some act of violence, the singing of a rotten song with an attractive melody, a beautiful face, a german accent, becomes born over night. but the managers who are now objecting to this kind of starring system are the very ones who inaugurated the iniquity. i maintain that when a man or woman has attained a position on the stage through honest endeavor, mental application, strict attention, conscientious study and practical experience, he should be rewarded and recompensed. and these gains should be conspicuous and financially worth while. among many of the so-called producers of to-day there seems a prevailing tendency to decry and belittle the starring system. this is all very well from their point of view. if they succeed in making the star subservient to the author and to those who "present," they will add more to their respective coffers by confiscating the financial share of those men and women who have in the past made them rich. they base their theories (that stars do not make successes) on the fact of the success of such plays as "the lion and the mouse," "bought and paid for," "the heir to the hoorah," "seven days," "paid in full" and a half dozen more. with the possible exception of "bought and paid for" most all of these so-called starless plays were accidental successes. "the lion and the mouse" was turned down by several stars and as many managers and i consider rightly so. when the stars refused to accept it, the managers followed suit. ethically, and in spite of its remarkably successful financial success, i consider it a most improbable play. i refused to play the leading part in london, predicting its failure. london can distinguish between a good and bad play. "the lion and the mouse" was a failure in london. there are some plays in which the characters are so equal that it is unwise to feature any particular one, as the public expects too much from the one conspicuous in the billing and being disappointed--dislikes the play. not only the play suffers but, when the unlooked for happens and some unknown person suddenly makes a hit in a play in which a star is featured, the star naturally suffers. the public never differentiates. when "the heir to the hoorah" was submitted to me i told paul armstrong, the author, that it would be unwise to star any one in his plays and he took my advice. "bought and paid for" was written for a star, but the author unwittingly wrote another part that proved more acceptable to the public than the character he originally intended should be featured. the play was eventually produced without a star and proved a success. perhaps had a different star been selected at the beginning there would have been a different story told. in spite of the success of "bought and paid for" in new york, "baby mine" played a week in los angeles (with marguerite clarke featured) to more than two thousand dollars more than "bought and paid for." the manuscript of "paid in full" kept the author warm for many nights as he slumbered on the benches of the parks in new york. and the stars refused to comfort him. "paid in full" was an accidental hit, but it created a star--tully marshall. clyde fitch read "the climbers" to me many years before henry harris decided to produce it. almost every manager in new york had turned it down. the excellent acting of that play saved it. from the cast sprang such stars as robert edeson, clara bloodgood, amelia bingham and minnie dupree. the average author and manager of to-day are prone to advertise themselves as conspicuously as the play (as if the public cared a snap who wrote the play or who "presents"!). i doubt if five per cent of the public know who wrote "the second mrs. tanqueray," "in mizzoura" or "richelieu," but they know their stage favorites. i wonder how many mantels are adorned with pictures of the successful dramatist and those who "present" and how many there are on which appear maude adams, dave warfield, billie burke, john drew, bernhardt, duse and hundreds of other distinguished players. no matter how hard you may strive to strangle the successful star player, messrs. author and manager, you won't succeed. you may succeed in fostering a few more plays without a star but the clouds will surely come and, when they disburse, the accidents that caused them will give way before intelligence. the stars will twinkle again more resplendent than ever and light you once more to the road that leads to permanent success. you may trade and barter but you will finally be made to understand that ours is a profession in which sentiment plays a most important part and when you insist on robbing the public of its favorite player, the disappointment will be as bitter as when the little boy is told there is no such thing as santa claus. now i'll take the commercial side of the question. i'll venture the opinion that dave warfield and maude adams play each season to double the receipts any play without a star ever earned. the cincinnati festival, composed only of stars, in one week played to more than one hundred thousand dollars. booth and barrett cleared over six hundred thousand dollars net in one season. henry irving took away from america in one season three hundred thousand, bernhardt averages a quarter of a million net on every farewell tour. the average successful star up to five years ago (before the influx of the so-called producers, the authors who feature themselves and those who "present") counted it a bad year if his profits failed to reach a hundred thousand dollars. i wonder how much charles frohman has made with his stars! and now let us face a fact that is indisputable--business is very bad. ten years ago a ten thousand dollar week was considered only a good one. to-day it is an event. even poor little i played to over fifteen thousand and no fuss was made about it. let me hear the name of a single successful play without a star of to-day that averages eight thousand per week. i wonder if people go to see clever george cohan or george cohan's play? [illustration: in the gold mine _my get-up in the gold mine_] i consider it an insult and audacity for any manager to, assert that the starring system is a menace to the theatre when almost every leading theatre of europe heads the cast with the name of a conspicuous player. every first-class theatre in london for the last fifty years, from kean to irving, has owed its success to one bright particular star. if any manager in america would like to try the experiment i would be willing to make a wager that i will take the most successful stock play now running in any city in the world, go to any town or city in america and with a star double, yes treble the receipts of the stock organization presenting the same play. again let me ask the author and those who "present" as to the longevity of a stock play as compared with that of the play in which a star appears. also how about the returns from a revival of both? in the all star revival of "the rivals" we averaged five thousand dollars a performance. did the public go to see the players or the play? i wonder. how many knew the author or joseph brooks who presented us? i wonder! again let me ask the great author and those who "present," those commercial gentlemen who seek to crucify the star, what inducement they offer the young beginner in the way of a future. are all the budding geniuses to be strangled at their birth, their dreams to be made delusions? are they to have no chance to gratify their ambitions, only the remote possibility of being one of an ensemble? you are trying to rob the public of its favorite player, to destroy all individuality, to make us a melting-pot, a cesspool of ensemble, subject to your will and dictation. it is a pretty tall order, my friends, and be careful lest you who would destroy be not destroyed. if the stars are forbidden to shine it is their own fault. if only twenty would band themselves together (and it can be done) i'd guarantee to finance the scheme with half a million dollars. if they would form a syndicate, i would guarantee to drive these impertinent gentlemen into the clouds of oblivion from which they sprang and the little and big stars would form a constellation that would maintain the dignity of our glorious profession! _chapter xx_ atmospheric plays it was some sage of long ago who wrote: "the muse of painting should be, on the stage, the handmaid, not the sister nor rival of the drama." i quite agree with the gentleman who penned those lines. i disagree with any suggestion or device that dwarfs the beauty and art of a play. that is why i strenuously object to the term "atmosphere" as applied to any of our present day productions. it is only a cloak and an excuse to conceal incompetency. let the scenery be well painted, attractive and fitted to the frame, but don't take off your roof to pile pelion upon ossa! endeavor to please the eye--with processions and real running water, if you like, but keep all in due subordination to the acting. realism was strangled after some ungodly years of struggling life. for a time acting became subservient to railroad trains, buzz saws and waterfalls. ships were sunk in full view of the audience, ice floats cracked and dialogue was smothered in the dust of stage cloth and salt. public opinion soon demonstrated this was wrong. "bertha the sewing machine girl" was relegated to the farm to ascertain "why women sin" until laundered hebraic managers rescued those ladies and atmospheric plays became the vogue. during the year i had splendid opportunities for reflection, retrospect and thought, finding consolation in books pertaining to the drama of the past, present and future. i have found great consolation in going over the theatrical situation under existing conditions. true, i note the devastating results of commercialism, the self-interested remarks regarding the welfare of the drama (and all concerned in it), the fact that too many theatres are being built by managers and stars (with disgusting flaunting of the means employed to construct these playhouses). i have noticed this and i have marvelled. but i found relief in reviewing the conditions of long ago. more than three hundred years have played havoc with the theatres truly. the men of shakespeare's time are no more--and few worthy successors have been born. that "inspired intellectual spendthrift," as shakespeare was called by robert ingersoll, failed to measure the wonder of the journey to be traversed. i discover that we have gone back, artistically, in the last fifty years. the only atmosphere in the theatre of shakespeare was furnished by the hooting, jostling crowd as it wended its way over london bridge for a night at the fox under the hill, to be joined later on by the "merry fellow" and his companions at the falcon or mermaid. no doubt they criticised his play to their own, if not his entire satisfaction. however, irrespective of any of their opinions and without "atmosphere," these criticisms apparently had the same value as the condemnations of the self-styled censors of our modern theatre and its players. what does it matter after all? in the words of ben jonson, "let them know the author defies them and their writing tables!" one never heard of atmospheric plays in my early life. it is a delightful coinage. personally i prefer the aeriform fluid in front of the curtain. i never discovered the intrinsic value of a painting in a fog, neither did a frame ever enhance its value. i want the playhouse to furnish its own nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide and other organic matter before the play is produced. then let the performance proceed on its merits, _sans_ atmosphere. widen your stage to allow your forests to be seen; paint your oceans to flow into space, apparently interminable; dress your characters as befits the times, with corresponding architecture, but, for heaven's sake, don't add incense to injury! let the play proceed and the dialogue be heard; let your ear as well as the eye, decide the verdict and devote whatever atmosphere you consider necessary to the theatre proper, as did irving, the colossal. when one entered the portals of the london lyceum theatre, as managed by henry irving, one felt that sense of intellectual environment and cultivating influence experienced on entering notre dame. a theatre will lose its atmosphere when the lessee vacates the premises just as a small town will when the inhabitants leave it. we remember the cities that appealed to us in early life and note the changes that advancement and progress have made architecturally. maybe we admire the improvements, but that charm of something has vanished. what is it? some will answer, "atmosphere." i say, "the people"--those who talked and invented the architecture and painting of the earlier day. we want a papin or a newcombe to give us back the so-called atmosphere of our youth, but that kind of atmosphere talked and said something. _chapter xxi_ actors past and present in this era of dramatic chaos the question often arises, "how would the actors of the past compare with those of the present?" it is a motley question, and one that requires careful consideration in the answer. in our youth, we are prone to worship those who occupy a sphere above us. youth is always demonstrative and always partial. therefore views formed at that time are apt to influence our opinions in after life. to be honest we must discard early impressions, accept existing conditions as they materialize and allow our judgment full sway only after a thorough retrospect and careful analysis of what we considered great in our youth. i but mildly assert things, full realizing the status of the modern player, his wealth, position and social standing. i put him in comparison with the actors of other days carefully! and i am convinced we have retrograded, so far as the serious and tragic are concerned. also we have materially advanced in comedy and specialty work. the legitimate comedian of to-day i consider far in advance of his elder brother. he is cleaner, more human, of lighter touch and more subtle. [illustration: those were the happy days] we have advanced more rapidly from even my time than we did from the ' 's to the ' 's. from the days of william e. burton and the owens and jefferson era the advance has been most pronounced. dialogue and stage business which were in vogue even as late as would not be tolerated now. they were not as particular regarding comedy as they were in the serious drama. the licentious portions of shakespeare's plays were eliminated after (but long after!) the elizabethan era. no doubt the serious dramatist and actor took their cues from that procedure and the result was clean and dignified performances. but comedy suffered. i am sure a play like "the easiest way" would never have gone beyond the dress rehearsal, as much as they admired the serious drama. the serious actor always held sway. he was the axle upon which the wheels of the theatre were put in motion. consequently the goal of acting of the aspiring alexanders was the realm of tragedy and the market was overrun. the result--a garrick, a george frederick cooke, two keans, a macready, a forrest, three booths, a gustavus brooke, an edwin adams, a davenport, a mccullough, an irving, a possart, a salvini, a phelps, a rossi! and the words of william shakespeare came down the years until comedy, properly portrayed, came gaily alongside the statelier craft and with laughter sank the ship of tears, leaving only one survivor--robert mantell! (and, really, with all the respect that i have for robert's miraculous art i must give my youth the benefit of the doubt and award the victory to those departed gentlemen who for one hundred and fifty years piloted the works of the immortal bard towards the shores of prosperity!) if they failed to receive the compensation that is now conferred upon their comic (and comical) brothers they have at least the satisfaction of knowing that they brought their art up to the standard of the greatest. now this question arises: has the comic (and comical) brother kept faith with his dead sponsor while he has leaped over the form of his serious predecessor? has he maintained the dignity of the drama? he will answer, "of course! we are living in the era of progression. comedy is a success! all the world is laughing! success! success! we are superior to those who have gone before! we make the world laugh!" and the judicious grieve! but time looks sadly down upon the merry makers and the measured swing of the pendulum of thought and argument questions, "how long will it last?" i wonder! _chapter xxii_ maude adams how fitting that it should have been maude adams to create the title rôle in "peter pan!" for, truly, here is the living personification of the human who will never "grow up." because this is so i have no hesitancy in setting down here the fact that the first time i saw miss adams play a part was in ! it was previous to my production of "the nominee" while i was looking about for an adequate cast that i chanced to meet charlie hoyt one day. he was then successfully producing a new line of farce comedies and he asked me to witness the first production of one of his plays, "a midnight bell." in the cast were isabel coe, who afterwards became mrs. frank mckee, paul arthur and maude adams. with the exception of paul arthur no one in the cast was particularly notable. those three players appealed to me and i endeavored to secure their services, first ascertaining how long they were contracted for with hoyt. i succeeded in procuring contracts with miss coe and arthur, but failed in my endeavors to secure miss adams as she insisted upon her mother accompanying her. as estelle mortimer was engaged for the rôles of old women in my company i could not see my way clear and much to my regret i was forced to resign miss adams to other managers. arthur and miss coe appeared with me in "the gold mine," a play of which i had the splendid fortune to get control on the death of johnny raymond, who produced it originally. arthur is now spending his time racing in england, playing bridge and now and then appearing in light comedy rôles in london. i have always considered paul a most agreeable player. miss coe has long since retired, maude adams still continues making history for herself and is to-day, as we all know, the most conspicuous actress in america, drawing the largest receipts of any actress in the world. what a splendid little artist she is! "you are missing the sweetest thing on earth--romance," said maude adams in barrie's play "what every woman knows." with what significance did those lines strike me while watching that clever little woman one afternoon. the house was packed, women were weeping and laughing with her. at the fall of every curtain it was raised and raised again. the little artist would bow demurely, coyly acknowledge the compliments bestowed upon her work and then shuffle to her dressing-room. i found her there during one of the intermissions and chatted a few moments with her. eight years before we had met in switzerland. while her figure and manner had changed but little i could not help but notice the sharpness of feature which the eight years had chiseled upon her face. the promissory note demanded by eight years of success must be liquidated and the principal paid. the law of compensation must be obeyed. the little furrows on her tiny face were accentuated by the lustre of her large, blue-gray eyes that looked into yours as though they could penetrate into the recesses of your very soul. when she talked it was with a little jerky delivery that plainly showed she had herself under perfect control and knew whereof she spoke. the secluded life she leads, i am told, has given her much time to devote to her art and study of the masters. one must do something besides act when not appearing in repertoire. the intelligence expressed in her work plainly indicates the thought she has bestowed upon it. i consider maude adams one of the best english speaking actresses on the stage to-day. she has an appealing, modulated voice, is easy of carriage, graceful, has the power of expressing deep emotion and any quantity of comic power, combined with nice repose. these qualifications make an actress. miss adams has enthralled the public of the united states; her name is a household word; she stands for all that represents true and virtuous womanhood; at the zenith of her fame she has woven her own mantle and placed it about the pedestal upon which she stands, alone. and yet as i looked into those fawn-like eyes i wondered! with all her powers, envied by the many, rich in worldly goods--did those searching liquid orbs denote complete happiness? i felt like taking those tiny little artistic hands in mine and saying, "little woman, i fear you are unconsciously missing the sweetest thing in life--romance." would she exchange one for the other? i wonder! _january, _ what a commentary on the existing commercialism of our stage is the present performance of "chantecler" at the knickerbocker theatre, new york! what a farce is the selection of the dainty, clever maude adams as the scapegoat for the anticipated failure that is certain to ensue! there is no gainsaying the fact that after the novelty of the production wore off "chantecler" failed in paris. london, after viewing it, said "not for mine!" coquelin spoke of the play to me twelve years ago. think of it! the play was in embryo then and rostand selected coquelin to create the rôle later played by maude adams! after coquelin's death guitry, that sterling french player, created the character. notwithstanding even his tremendous abilities, rostand and the critics discovered that he was not the man for the part. the underlying meaning of the part was sacrificed. bombastic display usurped the subtle humor intended by the author. cynical humor was stifled by the declamatory guitry. but waiving all criticism of guitry, by what power of monstrous reasoning could any manager select maude adams to play a rôle acted by guitry and written for coquelin? when london put "chantecler" in the discard our own astute charles frohman--of whom i am very fond (and i assure my readers that i am not censuring him for he is quite right from his point of view) and who had an option on the play--realized he must produce it or incur the enmity of the entire french family of authors. he was bound to produce that play, submit to the exorbitant terms demanded by the author and make a production equal to the one in paris or the parisian theatre doors would be closed against him. he agreed to their demands, knowing that he was up against it and sure to come out a big loser. he doubtless ruminated, "i must produce it; but how?" he was thoroughly assured that no man in america could play the part! [illustration: coquelin _would he have gone in vaudeville? i wonder_] then it was that this manager, after being drugged with the artistic incense of the parisian stage, became suddenly inspired to grape-nut his property before the american public, pear's soap his chantecler upon the cleanly critics, mellin's food the baby managers and put his one best bet down on maude adams, whose name is as familiar as any of these articles! was this fair to her? was this fair to the public, to the author, to anyone? of course not? why be fair with anything or anybody? if you do, you're sure to be found out and the world will write you down an ass! no! go on with the good work; don't stop, nor even hesitate! everybody's rich! the dramatic merchants own all the moving picture shows, musical comedies, burlesques. they are spending their profits in automobiles! they are bedecked in sables! commercialism is running amuck while the artistic foreigner cynically observes and stands amazed! but fear not, gentle censors, the worst is yet to come! maggie cline is contemplating an appearance in "hamlet" and elsie janis may yet be permitted to show us the humor of dogberry! why not? if the commercial gentlemen who wield the sceptre do but command submission what does it signify who pays the price of admission? _chapter xxiii_ tyrone power gee! what a bully actor tyrone power is! _chapter xxiv_ an artistic success! just before producing "the nominee" and "the gold mine" i made the acquaintance of a very fine fellow, james piggott, a member of mrs. langtry's travelling company, who had adopted the stage as a livelihood, after having lost a fortune through the failure of a bank in manchester, england. jimmie, as his friends were pleased to call him, was the personification of an english gentleman, always faultlessly dressed, gloved and caned at all hours. he would appear at the breakfast table in an immaculate get-up, including gloves, even in the dim recesses of one-night stands. he always gave the impression that he had slept in them. he had always a kind word and a smile even under such trying conditions as travelling in support of "the jersey lily" through the one-night stands of the country. it was at this time we met. he was most unhappy. he had written a play which the managers to whom he had submitted it had failed to pass upon favorably. he read it to me and it appealed to me very much. i agreed to produce it and put it on for one week at hooley's theatre, chicago, where it met with some degree of success. it had vivid local color, the story being english, the scene laid in england. it was called "the bookmaker." i produced it the following year at the gaiety theatre, london. this was in , following "the gold mine." both plays failed, but, personally, i made what they were pleased to call "an artistic success." judging from the receipts i would not enjoy an artistic failure! poor piggott was much distressed at the reception of his play but was more than courteous to me--perhaps because of what he considered my unquestionable hit. the play was afterwards revived by edward terry and arthur williams, but "sacred to its memory" is inscribed over the tomb of the departed "the bookmaker." while acting in "the gold mine" and "the nominee" i became thoroughly convinced that farce comedy was doomed, that frivolity was losing ground and that the public wanted comedies combining pathos with laughter. i found it was becoming easier for me to handle pathetic scenes and deliver serious passages. i had solved the problem. it was simply a change of method. if i were compelled to make a sudden transition from gay to grave or vice versa the secret lay in assuming another tone, the discarding of a familiar gesture and allowing a certain time to elapse before expressing the emotion, if only for the infinitesimal part of a second. thought travels quickly and the eyes work in unison. this must be studied, rehearsed and exemplified before any comedian can hope for a successful interpretation of rôles combining humor and pathos. there are a few comedians of to-day who know the art. were it not that i have no desire to be personal i could name names and make it clear to the public those who don't know how. among the few who do (and there are only a few) i might mention david warfield, william thompson, john mason, george nash and eddy ables. i was privileged to be one of a box party some years ago witnessing the performance of a play which i very much desired. i had seen it perfectly performed in paris by a man who knew everything pertaining to our art, whose pictures were painted with all the delightful lights and shadows that form a background for those capable of portraying comedy and pathos. this play gave an actor every opportunity of portraying all the emotions--comedy, tragedy, farce and sentiment. the character ran the dramatic gamut, but it required most deft handling, the dividing lines being as fine as silken threads, the transitions requiring the art of a master. it was a great success in paris, but failed both in london and new york. the englishman and american to whom this character was entrusted were direct opposites in their respective qualifications, one being a pronounced low comedian, the other a character actor with little, if any idea of humor. the frenchman combined all the gifts of these two men together with the versatility which this character required. his success was as pronounced as these gentlemen's failures. as i sat in the box with the star's wife at my right i waited with some anxiety and fear the result of the performance. my forebodings became realized as the character assumed its first serious aspect. the audience failed to differentiate and a slight titter passed through the house as he arrived at his first dramatic, sentimental climax. as the play progressed i could see the audience manifest its displeasure and move uneasily as the plot developed. when the crucial moment came--the grand, tragic, culminating scene of the play in which the frenchman held his audience as in a vise the american audience simply smiled, looked bored and relaxed. instead of applause coming as it should have come at the end of the act, the curtain was raised only through the appreciation of the ushers at the back! the star's wife turned to me and asked, "what is the matter? why can't ---- do this?" "it is very simple, my dear friend," i replied. "he hasn't solved the problem. he has failed to change his method." _chapter xxv_ the skating rink it was some time after, i forget the exact date, that i became associated with the late frank sanger in the production of a farcical comedy, called "the skating rink." we surrounded ourselves with a capable company, including henry donnelly, fanny rice, james ratcliff, the fletchers, a trio of trick skaters, major newall and others. we opened in buffalo (where i had the misfortune to meet the second lady who bore my name). we opened to a packed house and when the curtain rang down i credited myself with another failure. i was amazed to ascertain the next morning that i had made another "artistic success." but this time the house sold out for that evening--also. i was far from being satisfied, but i was convinced that if the public fancied the material offered at our opening i could improve the entertainment very much. i so informed sanger, suggesting that he book us for four weeks at hooley's. i guaranteed to give him an entirely new and better interpretation of "the skating rink" for chicago. he acquiesced and started the next day for new york. i called the company together the following evening after the play for a rehearsal. my idea was to ascertain if any of the company had a specialty that could be interjected into this porous play. it permitted all sorts of pioneering. the plot stopped at eight thirty! one gentleman proved capable of swallowing the butt of a lighted cigar during the rendering of the verse of a song, allowing it to reappear before finishing, and repeating the operation until his stomach rebelled. this appealed to me and was introduced the following evening with marked favor! i resuscitated my imitations of famous actors which had been lying dormant for years. two or three of the young ladies interpolated some of the latest new york ditties, fanny rice and i cribbing the see-saw duet. i also introduced an entire act of a play called "the marionettes," assisted by one of the skating trio, an irish song written by a jew, "since maggie learned to skate," and a burlesque on "camille." i appeared as the coughing heroine! by the time we reached chicago i had discarded all of the old manuscript. the plot stopped a few minutes earlier. but i kept my promise to sanger! i worked like a galley slave in this polyglot entertainment, making no less than fifteen changes. when not on the stage, which was but seldom, i was busy making my wardrobe shifts between scenes, my most trying effort being a very quick change from the ball gown (with all the female accessories, including corsets) of camille to the apparel of an irish hod-carrier. i made the latter change in less than a minute, disappearing as the dying lady on one side of the stage to return from the opposite as the irishman in search of his daughter, maggie. the company, i am pleased to say, made distinct successes and received great praise for their individual efforts. a most amusing incident occurred during a performance of this play in louisville. one of my staunchest admirers, named eli marks, who always regretted my turning aside from serious drama to embark upon the sands of farce, came one night much against his will to witness the performance. i met him afterwards. while he was pleased with the efforts of the company he failed to bestow any particular praise upon my playing. in fact nothing i had done seemed to meet with his favor. of course he liked my imitations, but he had seen them before. "by the way, nat," he said, "don't lose that irishman! i think he is the best thing in the whole show. nothing you did can compare with him!" i agreed and gravely assured him that it had caused me a lot of trouble to coach that man. "well," he concluded, "you are rewarded and don't lose him!" i promised to keep him as long as he lived. marks was afterwards told that he was unconsciously paying me that compliment, but he refused to believe it! he made a wager with the friends who contradicted him and would not assume the responsibility of the debt until he had come behind the scenes and witnessed my change. as i got into the overalls and hurriedly grabbed the dinner pail, he ejaculated, "well, by golly, you fooled me, old man, but i am glad of it! come and sup with us to-night at the club. if you take my advice you will have a play written around the plot of that song. you are the best hod-carrier i ever saw!" _chapter xxvi_ number two about this time i began to weary of the solitude of single life. living with dear old john mason in our flat in twenty-eighth street did not appeal to me. we were very respectable persons at the time and led a most exemplary life, irrespective of the opinions in vogue concerning our little haven of unrest. it was while enduring those disconsolate hours that i became interested in mrs. nella baker pease, wife of a dilettante, living in buffalo. she made her appearance nightly at the playhouse where we were performing and made herself particularly conspicuous by effusive applause, generally bestowed when the other portions of the audience had finished theirs. it was evident that she was discovering hidden beauties in my artistic efforts. we were finally introduced and became steadfast friends. it took me but a little while to discover that she was a gifted woman, possessed of many talents, her most conspicuous one being music. she was the best amateur piano player to whom i have ever listened. during my week's sojourn in buffalo i was presented to her mother, sister, brother and husband. her sister was charming. i wish i could say the same of the rest of her family. the brother must have emanated from the same pod in which the husband, pease, was conceived, or on some coral reef where sponges predominate. he proved a most absorbing person. [illustration: nella baker pease _the best amateur piano player i ever heard_] i invited him once to spend a few days with us in new york. he wired that he was coming for "a cup of tea"--and stopped for two years! with my inherent divinatory gift it required but a short time for me to satisfy myself that the little home of sunshine occupied by the row of pease was in reality a whitened sepulchre. i discovered that nella loathed her husband, but with the other members of her proud family was content to live with him and upon the bounty supplied by the dilettante's father (her hubby's papa). she bestowed no love, not even respect, upon that dilettante hubby. during one of our interviews the husband was sent down town, her family was called in to meet me and at the earnest solicitations of them all i promised to endeavor to aid her in severing her matrimonial bonds. i also promised to fit her for the stage and to enlist the assistance of steele mackaye who was then preparing pupils for artistic careers and sunning himself upon the porch of delsarte. after binding myself with these obligations i took my departure. in a few days i was besieged with letters from mrs. pease and the family, earnestly entreating me not to forget my promises. finally an epistle came from the husband endeavoring to persuade me to do something for him! i did, all right! to gratify his wife's ambition would i secure her an opening on the stage or put her with some good tutor? he would pay all the expenses, etc. unfortunately for me i assumed this responsibility and succeeded in interesting my mother in mrs. pease's behalf, informing her of the harrowing details. so interested did my mother become at the recital of the unhappiness of this young lady that she invited her to spend a few days at our boston home. mrs. pease was also fond of tea! she accepted the invitation--and remained for several months. in fact during her visit at my mother's house i had resumed my tour on the road and even made a trip to europe! upon my return i met her in our boston domicile where we were thrown a great deal into each other's society. she proved very attractive, being well educated, a fine conversationist, with a most lovable disposition. her compositions and execution upon the piano were remarkable for an amateur. in the meantime i had succeeded in interesting mackaye and was about to place her in his charge, when, one day, i was served with papers from the husband who charged me with alienating his wife's affections! this dropped like a bomb-shell into our little circle, as nothing was further from my thoughts than marriage. when the summons came she took it as a joke, saying, "what a splendid release from the little incubus!" being at the time interested in a certain prima donna known to fame (i might say rather seriously interested), i confessed to a non-appreciative state of mind regarding her idea of humor and mildly suggested that she furnish some solution as a means of escaping from this most embarrassing situation. i realized the publicity and scandal that must surely come. "it is very simple," said she. "go to buffalo, buy him off, come back to boston and marry me. your mother is very fond of me and i love her and dad immensely; i am passionately fond of art; i think you are one of the most charming men whom i have ever met, and i know i can make you superlatively happy!" after that what could a true-born american do? i went to buffalo, saw this half a husband (good title, that!), paid him five thousand dollars, stopped off in new york and explained the situation as best i could to my prima donna friend who tearfully told me that i was "doing the only thing a man could do." i had "stolen the lady from her husband," "robbed his fireside," "broken up his home" and i "must necessarily abide the consequences." "the world will condemn you, and it should, but she was certain, as was i, that my crime would be condoned and maybe in time forgiven." the papers were beginning to hint at some unwholesome episode connected with our lives; accusations were being forged, ready to be hurled. i must marry at once and listen to her play the piano for the rest of my life! i was sure of one thing, however--she would never bore me and she never did. but, gee whiz! what a lot of things she did to equalize things. well, i kept my word. we were married and a beautiful boy came "to cement our union." from the time that that youngster, nat c. goodwin, iii, came into the world until the law separated us, she was a changed woman. up to that time we were happy. i purchased a fine residence on west end avenue, new york, and our home was the rendezvous of some of the brightest lights of the artistic world. and then she became insanely jealous of our darling boy and it is here that i drop the curtain upon our lives. it is not my mission in this book to say anything unkind or harsh of any of the women who have married me. i wish to confine myself to speaking in terms of fullest appreciation of their virtues and merits, leaving it to wise censors to judge me. by some power of reasoning all men and women elect themselves the judges and juries of my actions. their harsh criticisms i leave unanswered, being thoroughly satisfied in my own mind that i have committed no offense whatever against humanity, knowing that i have treated honest women as they should be treated, with all due deference and respect to womankind. poor nella baker! she abandoned the glitter and glare of the world of fashion to seek refuge in the bosom of bohemia. she extricated herself from the vortex of society to get a glimpse of real life! the pet of drawing rooms, she became the wife of a comedian. she sought the atmosphere of henri mürger, but, alas! found it not. marriages are made in heaven--cancelled in reno! perhaps some will object to a number of my attitudes in this book, particularly as regards my marital ventures. i have "no right to refer" to the sanctity of marriage--"a union of two souls," cemented by a (paid) preacher, "ordained by the deity," etc! but these good people will mistake my attitudes. i do not recognize as sanctified any ceremony that can be annulled by a five-thousand-dollar-a-year judge. reno is known as the mecca for vacillating souls. new york makes it look like thirty cents! new york, by comparison, makes reno look like a mormon mausoleum! all you have to do in new york is to call at the captain's office, behind closed doors, whisper "guilty" and, presto, you go as free as the birds! if you are hoarse, send someone in your place, it's all the same. and yet people prate about "the holy bonds of matrimony!" holy? yes, with holes big enough to crawl through! i leaped through my last one and had the aperture sewed behind me! [illustration: nat c. goodwin, iii] i presume that i shall be terribly censured by those goody-goody persons who are constantly preaching their trust in all mankind and womankind and expatiating upon filial devotion and implicit faith in those they profess to love. bah! there is no perfect trust in perfect love. whenever i hear a man (or woman) express himself as being tremendously in love, combined with an abiding faith even if he and his mate are living in different zones, i always watch for the finale and generally read the epilogue in the reno "gazette." when married people are separated (this is from my point of view), unless he has misgivings when her name is mentioned and his pulse does not quicken, if he does not quiver when he is told that his wife was seen, beautifully arrayed, entertaining a party of friends at some particular garden party or golf club--the little messenger cupid has taken wings. he may strut about like chantecler, proclaiming that his crow awakens the slumbering embers of a dying passion, but he is only mesmerizing himself. married people should never be separated, not even by chamber doors. our forefathers and mothers never occupied separate chambers when the time came for prayer and slumber. they were healthy people, if not fashionable. canaries and monkeys provide the warmth and oils for their mates' bodies, but in this age of advancement and hypocrisy it is considered common to be human. if mankind would study the ostrich and abide by its acts, morality would triumph and married people would always be together. distance lends enchantment only when the door of the cage is opened by mutual consent. when only one returns the door will be found rusty and difficult to close. _chapter xxvii_ a fight won (?) miles and barton, lessees of the bijou theatre, new york, took me under contract in and immediately i embarked for europe in search of material. as i was scheduled to follow henry e. dixey, who had made himself famous at the time by his performance of adonis, i realized that my task would be a heavy one. on my arrival in london i put myself in touch with several authors and succeeded in purchasing the rights of "little jack shepard," "erminie," "turned up" and a musical comedy called "oliver cromwell." armed with this material i returned to america with william yardley, intending to open the season at the bijou with the musical play "little jack shepard" under his direction. we produced this play in the autumn, but did not realize our expectations. in the cast were loie fuller, who played the title rôle, charles bishop, lelia farrell and a prima donna whose name i forget. (she couldn't sing for nuts, but fortunately the first night she suffered from a severe cold which forced her to speak the lyrics.) during the run of "little jack shepard" i read the various librettos i had purchased abroad and while miles (dear old bob!) congratulated me on my perspicacity in procuring such material, barton objected strenuously to one and all of them and advised me to dispose of them to the best advantage. i immediately sought frank sanger and disposed of all my holdings to him at just what they had cost me. i had previously read the book of "erminie." gus kerker played the score for us. barton, with his usual capacity for doing the wrong thing, violently protested against "erminie," saying it was a reflex of the old play "robert macaire" and vastly inferior! when business dropped with "little jack shepard," miles and barton were in a quandary as to what would follow it and came to me with a request that i put on one of the plays which i had brought over from europe. i asked them which they preferred and they decided upon "erminie." "very well," i said, "i will see what i can do, but unfortunately i have disposed of the rights to mr. frank sanger." we called him up on the telephone and found that he had left the office at the request of the management of the casino, but would be back in half an hour. i jumped into a cab, went to the office and saw frank. he informed me that he had just sold the american rights to aronson, manager of the casino, who had engaged francis wilson to play the leading part. sanger was much distressed about this as he considered that the part would suit me "down to the ground." everyone knows the history of "erminie." it made everybody connected with it rich. through barton's dogmatic stupidity we all lost fortunes. i asked frank if he had disposed of all the material that i had sold him and discovered that "turned up" was still in the market. he very kindly offered it to us for a thousand dollars down (he had previously paid me five hundred cash for it) and only (!) ten per cent of the gross receipts. we were forced to accept the play upon those conditions. we opened with it, in conjunction with a burlesque on "the bells" written for me by sydney rosenfeld. in this i appeared as mathias, giving an imitation of henry irving. we retained most of the cast that we had used in the previous bill with the exception of robert hilliard and charlie coote whom i engaged to play the two light comedy rôles. i have never been associated with an entertainment which was received with such manifest appreciation as that double bill. we thought we were in for a run of at least one season and maybe two. so sanguine was hilliard over the success of that evening that he spent two hundred dollars the following day in decorating his dressing-room. he was sure we had found our theatrical home for six months or a year. barton, one of the old-school managers, considered that the performance of "turned up," irrespective of its success, was destroying the policy of his little playhouse. the idea of miles and barton was to make the bijou the home of burlesque and comic opera and while "turned up" was turning the people away barton writhed under its success. it was produced without his sanction and success meant nothing to him when compared with his wounded vanity. the receipts went as high as nine thousand on the week and never dropped below six thousand during the entire run which was only eight weeks. much to our surprise, barton one day insisted upon taking off "turned up." he figured that whenever the receipts fell below a certain figure (which should have been a sufficient profit for any playhouse), they were losing money and miles discovered that instead of having the usual two weeks' clause in all of their contracts with the artists they were engaged for a stipulated number of weeks. this included even the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus. the result was that a salary list of about fourteen hundred dollars a week represented a company walking around doing nothing. there was no chorus in "turned up." i suggested that he sublet his people and not perform such a suicidal act as closing a gold mine, but i was voted down. we then revived "the skating rink" and "the mascot" to only mediocre business. about this time a new york critic, a. c. wheeler, submitted a manuscript entitled "big pony," music by woolson morse, a very clever composer whose "cinderella at school" i had previously produced at the boston museum. we accepted this play and gave it a magnificent production. on the reading i thought that the first and third acts were exceptionally fine and the title rôle, big pony, i fancied too. i suggested that the second act might be improved. the dialogue referred to political issues that were long since dead. wheeler insisted that the play should be performed as he had written it and would not permit one change. he proved very obdurate and we were finally compelled to either accept it as written or give it up. we finally decided to produce it and much to my dissatisfaction i was compelled to deliver supposedly funny lines which i knew were funereal. the first act proved a sensational hit, my entrance receiving such a tumult of applause that it was fully a minute and a half before i was permitted to sing my first song. this was a most difficult composition. the lyrics were in the true indian language, which made it very difficult for any of the cribbers of the time to hypothecate it. (i am sure that the champion purveyor of songs, seymour hicks, would have encountered a "water jump" had he tried to. hicks has often been called "steal more tricks" on account of his fascinating and "taking" ways.) we had a very good third act, but the second act was so terrible that the play proved an unmitigated failure. wheeler, known as nym crinkle, one of the cleverest critics of his time, was a most unscrupulous fellow and he took his medicine as such fellows usually take it. instead of accepting the inevitable as a true sportsman should, wheeler attributed the play's failure to me and without my knowledge became my bitter foe. the papers were severe in their reviews of the play, but most gracious to all the players, particularly to me. this rankled in his diminutive heart. having torn down so many houses, he could not stand having his own citadel stormed. while we often met in the private office and talked over the possibilities of resuscitation he would smilingly, yet stubbornly, refuse to alter a line or allow anyone to suggest changes. the play evidently appealed to his vanity. he never missed a performance, occupying a box with a lady who owned a half interest in the piece, a miss estelle clayton. we all knew that the play was doomed and knowing that it was shortly to be taken off many of us took liberties with the text and gagged whenever the opportunity presented itself. i remember a gambling scene that i had in the last act in which i threw dice with one of the characters, incidentally losing all my fortune and vast estates. one evening as my last dollar disappeared over the dice cloth i noticed wheeler (as usual in the box) beaming at some of my sallies. i said to the opposite character, "now, my friend, i will throw you for this play--manuscript, parts and all." the players and the audience, knowing that the play was about to be withdrawn, screamed with laughter. just as i was pondering over some other funny quip my heart came up into my throat as i saw the box party get up and file out, their backs expressing profound indignation. i said to myself, "my finish," and maudled through the rest of the performance. i had made an enemy for life of a. c. wheeler and well he exercised his avenging powers. for years he assailed me from every angle, his vilifying articles never ceasing until his death. i was to blame, i presume, but i really intended no harm--only fun. that same evening i unconsciously offended and made an enemy of another person, one of the box party, a mr. durant, a downtown broker who, i afterwards ascertained, shared half of miss clayton's interest in the play. up to that time i had never heard of the gentleman and we never met until several weeks after. one day in kirk's _café_ on broadway at twenty-seventh street i was approached by a half drunken individual who insultingly invited me to drink. i was seated at a table with dear old anson pond and politely refused several of his solicitations. he was most persistent, accompanying his requests with profane and obscene references to me and my work on the stage. the place was packed with men who stopped and listened to the drunken tirade the stranger was heaping upon me. pond, an athlete, calmly looked on and said nothing. one or two of the bartenders quietly signalled me to hit him on the head with something. i turned to anson and said, "if this fellow doesn't stop it looks as if i must put one over." he smilingly approved. then the drunken gentleman leered at me, again inviting me to drink. if that didn't appeal to me he was willing to accompany me to some adjacent room, lock the door and the one who survived would return the winner. before i answered his belligerent request i swung my puny right which landed, fortunately, upon the point of his impertinent jaw and down he went in a heap. this seemed to meet with the approval of the spectators and i calmly resumed my seat, thinking that he would take the count. imagine my horror when i saw this huge man unravel himself, slowly rise and approach me with much ferocity. he was about six feet tall, and weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. that was the way he appeared to me, at all events. i naturally expected pond or some of the on-lookers to interfere, but no such luck! as he viciously approached me he swung his right very hard at my head. i ducked it, got to my feet, determined to find out if he knew anything about boxing. i feinted him and discovered that he was ignorant of everything pertaining to the noble art. i also realized that if he ever caught me in his embrace it was "goodnight to home and mother" for "america's foremost!" i jumped about and finally with good judgment and better luck, landed a punch on the identical chin, in the same place, and down went the part owner of "big pony," again. still no interference! the bartenders continued nonchalantly wiping the tumblers. pond kept on complacently puffing his weed and the spectators obligingly formed an extemporaneous ring. i was standing, gasping, in the center of the room. my right hand was split and rapidly becoming the size of a cantaloupe. the gentleman on the floor slowly uncoiled himself and came at me again, only to receive a blow on the same spot and go to the floor. this time i nearly went with him! weighing about one hundred and thirty pounds my work upon the human punching bag was beginning to tell. this kept up for two more rounds and still no one interfered. the reason was afterwards explained to me. i was "winning so easily!" winning, indeed! i was slowly dying and had i been possessed of the necessary courage i would have solicited interference, realizing that i must stop or faint! i was slowly but surely passing away. i had enough strength left in my legs to back towards the lunch counter, knowing that there were missiles on the table. as he closed in on me, instead of endeavoring to avoid him, i clutched him in a fond, yet tenacious, embrace. as we went down i reached up on the table, endeavoring to grasp the first article on which my hand came in contact. i clutched something, which proved to be a caster filled with its usual bottles. i hadn't enough strength left to lift the article but i dragged it casually down and let it fall gently upon the gentleman's forehead, which was beneath me. as the catsup, worcestershire sauce and vinegar slowly trickled into his eyes he gently drew me towards him and whispered, "i've had enough." he anticipated me by just a second! i gallantly permitted him to rise, after gracefully tumbling off his stomach. then in stentorian tones i said, "get up, you loafer!" and walked majestically away. i pantomimed to pond (i couldn't talk after that one burst of "get up") to get me some brandy and water and under the pretext of fatigue i laid my head upon his shoulder--and passed away for about five minutes. i explained this encounter to ed. buckley some weeks later and after receiving his congratulations, i queried, "kindly tell me, ned, how--when my antagonist was out the next day without a mark on him and i never left my bed for two weeks--how do you figure me the winner?" ned's silence was profound. _chapter xxviii_ john chamberlain for many years i always looked forward to my annual visit to washington with a great deal of pleasure for two reasons--i was sure of magnificent results so far as my engagements were concerned and a jolly good time besides. i always arranged my tour so as to play one week there, followed by a week's vacation. it was a necessary precaution! often i omitted rest altogether, just continuing the round of pleasure without pause. dinners were followed by suppers, suppers by breakfasts! after a night at john chamberlain's famous hostelry one felt that one never wanted to go to bed. at that time chamberlain's was the best known and the most popular resort of the cleverest men in the united states. for here one was sure of the best food in the country. the wines were of the finest quality. it is little wonder that it was known as the rendezvous of the enlightened. generally after the matinée and always after the evening performance i would wend my way to chamberlain's and bathe in the atmosphere of the clever men who were the habitués. here were congregated such men as roscoe conklin, james g. blaine, president arthur, senators brice, beck, blackburne and jones, secretary of the treasury john g. carlisle, william mahone of virginia, arthur pugh gorman, grover cleveland, speaker crisp, tom reed of maine, the first czar of the senate, john allen, lawrence jerome, the witty father of william travers jerome later to become district attorney of new york, amos cummings, blakely hall, joe howard, jr.--but why enumerate all the leading characters of the united states? men who were making american history congregated at this noted tavern and over a bottle of wine or an apple toddy discussed national affairs or the latest leg show. chamberlain's was indeed the hall of fame. for a period extending over twenty-five years john chamberlain was as well known on the streets of washington as any man occupying the executive chair. a portly man, weighing over two hundred pounds, his rotund figure was visible every pleasant afternoon as he strolled along pennsylvania avenue, always in company with some distinguished statesman. john was friendly with the mightiest. john was one of the most affable of men. never ruffled, he took the world for what it was worth and smiled with equal facility whatever came--whether failure or success (and he had his share of both). beginning life as a roustabout on the mississippi river he later blossomed forth as a professional gambler and soon was the most conspicuous member of that fraternity. it was in this way that he became immensely wealthy. but ill-luck overtook him as it chased him down the road of chance and speculation and he landed on the rocks. when men make fortunes by their wits, playing and preying upon the credulity of mankind, and misfortune overtakes them they are as a rule as helpless as children. age has dulled their mentality. the charm that appeals to the gullible has vanished. inventions to trap the credulous are more up to date and aged grafters must give way to the younger and more enlightened. poor john realized that his day had come, but taking advantage of the many friends he had made during the days of his prosperity and realizing that a spark of the old brilliancy yet remained he interested a few friends in a scheme to open a high-class restaurant, where the quality of wine and food could not be excelled in america and the prices prohibitive to any but those who could afford such luxuries. having himself been a _bon vivant_ for years john was of full form, "with good capon lined." no one was better fitted to cater to the tastes and inclinations of american statesmen. the blaine residence was secured and chamberlain was launched. it consisted of two houses thrown into one. we all met in one large room on the corner, a room about a hundred and fifty feet long and forty feet wide. in that room i have met the men as i have mentioned. many a night i have listened to dear william mahone later known as "little billy," relate his experiences in the war. i have gone upstairs and watched the heavy play at poker (for stakes that would have amazed the many had they known the amount played for). i have watched the stolid roscoe conklin, as he came and went, recognizing hardly any one, majestic in demeanor, suggesting a proud turkey contemplating his barnyard companions. then comes the magnetic james g. blaine, in direct contrast to his adversary, conklin, who cost him the presidency of the united states. blaine most often was listening to the caustic, rasping tones of tom reed who ordered his apple toddy in a voice another man would use to give an enemy the lie! i have hung on the words of brilliant bob ingersoll as they rolled from his colossal brain, gone from one table to another--to find each one more attractive than the last! [illustration: pals _richard carle, fred g. stanley, nat goodwin, walter jones, de wolf hopper_] it was like sitting at a dress rehearsal of a play where all the actors were stars. i was in a theatre, a truly national playhouse, where plays were written every night. the plots of these dramas were so thrilling as to make their telling cause for envy! i count it one of the greatest privileges of my life to have seen these players as i saw and heard them. well, the hostelry is torn down, the landlord has paid his rent and sought a perpetual abode. all those whom i have mentioned are john's guests, wherever he is. he will meet them with a cold bottle and a hot bird and in some far off star i fancy i can see them all reunited, old mammy, the cook, still quarreling with the head waiter as he communicates to peter, "the season for canvas-back ducks is over, but mr. john has just ordered some philadelphia capon that he can highly recommend." chamberlain is now only a memory as far as washington is concerned, but he has left a monument at old point comfort where the hotel that bears his name now stands. it took him years to consummate the deal whereby the government gave him the concession that enabled his friends to advance the money to build that magnificent hotel. john never lived to see it succeed. before he died the property went into the hands of a receiver and his friends lost their money. his grief undoubtedly hastened his end. which star do john and the brilliant men i have mentioned occupy? i wonder! _chapter xxix_ w. s. gilbert one of the most gifted men i have ever met was w. s. gilbert, of gilbert & sullivan fame. he was not a very pleasant companion socially as he was more of a cynic than a wit, but at intervals he would make his cynicism subservient and become most agreeable. at the crystal palace one evening i had the pleasure of being seated next to him at a banquet, where, bernand, editor of "punch," was chairman. bernand, i was told, was very jealous of gilbert, which became rather apparent as the banquet progressed, both he and gilbert indulging in several combats of repartee. gilbert was telling us a rather amusing incident at which we were all laughing very decidedly, when bernand shouted down the line of diners, "are you chaps laughing at those funny sayings of gilbert, which he sends to 'punch' and never gets in?" gilbert quickly replied, "i do not know who sends the funny things to 'punch,' but i do know that they never get in." gilbert was once asked his opinion of sir herbert tree's performance of "hamlet." "well," he said "it was very, very funny and not at all vulgar." _chapter xxx_ henry e. dixey equal if not superior to myself in the versatility of "ups" and "downs" in the theatrical firmament has been the career of henry e. dixey. twenty-five years ago he was the toast of the town. as adonis his fame was heralded from coast to coast and even permeated across to england. his appearance on any stage was an event. when he appeared in boston after a run of nearly two years in new york he stopped the traffic and multitudes swarmed the streets as he passed through the city on his way to the adams house. he was finally forced to appear upon the balcony to acknowledge this tremendous reception. ten years after i saw him smothered nearly into oblivion as one of the members of weber & field's burlesque company on broadway, the scene of his former triumphs. my heart bled for him, as i had seen him previously give splendid character performances in the melodrama "romany rye." a few years after i saw him come forth again resplendent as david garrick in stuart robson's play of "oliver goldsmith," only to disappear again as a legerdemain performer and in vaudeville. then he scored a tremendous hit in one of miss amelia bingham's plays. so it has gone on for over twenty-five years. undaunted, the graceful harry jumps over the rails of failure into the pastures of success. he is truly a wonderful man. we have known each other for many years appearing as long ago as in rice's "evangeline" at the boston museum, when dixey performed the character of the _forelegs_ of the heifer not the _hind_ ones, my dear pal, the late dick golden, performing that equally strenuous rôle. i doff my hat to henry e. dixey and wish him a long prosperous career on his journey down the other side of the mountain of life. he, like myself, has passed the fifty mark, and he tells me he is just learning how to act and mr. oliver morosco tells the public he has no use for middle aged actors. think it over mr. morosco. dixey has just scored one of the hits of his life in young mr. mackaye's play of "a thousand years ago." i'm glad and i congratulate my good friend, henry e. dixey. _chapter xxxi_ swagger new yorkers of another day when i was quite a lad in new york i had the good fortune to mingle with some of the swagger men-about-town. they were the real society men of the time, not the milk sops of the present day. my acquaintances were men like leonard jerome, known as larry among his intimates, william p. travers, wright sanford, cyrus field, john hoey, neil o'brien, whose sobriquet was "oby," and many others. and they were all witty, clever men of the world. my talent for mimicry was the cause of my association with these charming men. among the wittiest of the lot was mr. travers, who was handicapped by an impediment of speech, a slight stammer, that was almost fascinating. one day, he asked me if i knew where he could purchase a good dog that could kill rats. a lady friend had commissioned him to purchase one. i took him to a dog fancier's in houston street and introduced him to the canine connoisseur. in a few moments travers was the possessor of as fine a looking terrier as i ever saw. when i told the proprietor who his customer was he was overwhelmed and, taking him to one side, said, "mr. travers, i want to give you a practical demonstration of what that dog can do with a rat." "ger-ger-a-go to it," replied travers, "b-b-bring on your rer-rer-rat and i'll rer-rer-referee the ber-ber-battle." in a few minutes the man returned and threw the largest rat i ever saw into the pit. it had flowing gray whiskers and looked every inch a fighter as it stood on its hind legs ready for battle. the dog looked at it for a moment as if in surprise at the bellicose attitude of the rodent. while the terrier hesitated the rat acted! with one flying leap sir rodent fastened his teeth upon the upper lip of the dog. howling with pain the canine finally shook off the rat and with a yell jumped over the pit and ran yelping down the street. the owner started after him, but travers held him back, saying, "nev-nev-never mind the d-d-dog, wha-wha-what'll you take for the rat?" one day travers was inspecting one of the palatial steamers that had been built by james fisk, jr., and jay gould. as he passed down to the main saloon, he was confronted by two huge medallions, painted in oil, of fisk and gould, on each side of the stairway. he looked at them for a moment, then turned to one of his companions, saying: "where is the per-per-picture of our saviour?" _chapter xxxii_ james whitcomb riley it was just after i had learned of the serious illness of that delightful poet and blessed friend, james whitcomb riley, the bobby burns of america, that i penned the following: how cruel of nature to take one of her favorite children if she decides to! why make humanity weep and chill our hearts? why cause the indiana flowers to cry for a gardener--for who will sing their praises when dear jim has gone? why clog "the old swimmin' hole" with weeds? when our truant fancy wanders to "that old sweetheart of mine," we won't purchase tickets for "grigsby's station" for "the latch string" will have been severed. no coffee will be served "like mother used to make" for "dat leedle boy of mine." only the barren, dusty road of decay will mark the meadows of melody that riley has planted with the seeds of song and when dame nature commands his spirit to join the other singers in the celestial choir we who are left saddened can only kneel upon the sod made fragrant by his presence and entreat the messengers to bear him gently over the hills out to "old aunt mary's" where the "raggerty" man will whisper "good-bye, jim; take care of yourself." as events transpired it was i who nearly started on the last long journey--and jim recovered. and one day in came this message to ease my bed of pain:-- indianapolis ind oct via long beach calif oct th nat goodwin, _ocean park calif._ heartiest appreciation for your good birthday greetings and all best wishes for your speedy recovery loyally as ever. a. m. james whitcomb riley _chapter xxxiii_ digby bell and de wolf hopper it is a supreme satisfaction to look back over a period of years, and realize one has retained the friendship of even one man. i have been successful with a few, but the most gratifying has been the continued friendship between digby bell, de wolf hopper and myself. we began our respective careers in the seventies, at about the same time, and have appeared often in the same characterizations, principally in comic and light opera, and always enjoyed the other's performances much better than our own. we have frequently appeared at benefit performances and always enjoyed ourselves immensely, irrespective of the pleasure we were contributing to others. bell and hopper, are directly opposite to one another in make up and manner, although both are gifted with conspicuous personalities, particularly hopper. they gave a keen sense of humor accompanied with much gray matter, and i consider them two of the most intelligent men on our stage to-day. both are gifted with the power to amuse off the stage as well as on, being splendid raconteurs. hopper is particularly happy as an after-dinner talker and before the curtain speech-maker, and his casey at the bat, has become an american classic. bell and hopper, make charming companions and one never regrets an hour or two spent in their society. they say the only true way to know a man is to travel with him, or be associated with him in business. i had the privilege many years ago to spend many happy days in the society of hopper, enjoying a holiday spent abroad. we intended making a journey over the continent, but london proved so attractive that we remained there most of our time. i had the pleasure of introducing hopper to my english friends and some of the london clubs, and he very soon made a host of friends. rather a funny incident happened during our stay in london. a miss bessie bellewood had made a tremendous hit in the music halls at this time, and i was particularly anxious that hopper should witness one of her performances, as i considered her one of the cleverest vaudeville artists i had ever seen. hopper was doomed to disappointment, however, as he had tried several times to witness her acting, but on these various occasions, something happened which prevented the clever bessie from turning up at the hour she was advertised to appear, and when her turn came, instead of her name being pushed into the receptacle which announces the respective performers, they would shove in a sign which read, "extra turn," and somebody would take her place. [illustration: in confusion _back in the eighties_] one afternoon i met hopper and told him that i had made arrangements for us to accept invitations to luncheon, dinner and supper, but i, not feeling well, decided i would only accept the latter, and intended to go to my hotel preparatory to joining him at supper. he condoled with me and we parted, i ostensibly to go home and secure my much needed rest, hopper determining to accept all three of the invitations. as he was returning from his dinner engagement, he noticed bessie bellewood was to appear that afternoon at the london tivoli music hall, hopper determined to take another chance, his seventh, at seeing the elusive bessie, purchased a ticket after inquiring the time which she was to appear that evening, and went, full of expectations. when the time came for bessie's appearance, to hopper's horror, again was the card thrust into the aperture saying, "extra turn." he arose and went into the street filled with rage, and meeting a friend, he said that he did not believe any such artist lived as bessie bellewood. the friend assured him there was, and if he would take time to cross over and look into romonas' restaurant, he would find the festive bessie, with his friend nat goodwin, at a sumptuous repast, where they have been sojourning since two o'clock that afternoon. hopper came over, his massive form appearing at our table and said, "i thought you were home in bed," to which i replied, "i was on my way my dear 'willie,' but meeting my friend miss bellewood, we came in for a quiet tête-à-tête, and have been tête-à-têting all the afternoon." i apologized for interfering with bessie's professional duties, but told hopper that if he would accompany us upstairs, miss bellewood would volunteer to sing three of her latest songs. we adjourned to one of romonas' private music rooms where bessie regaled us with song and anecdote, which caused us both to miss our supper appointment. he agreed with me that bessie bellewood was the best music hall artist he had ever had the pleasure of witnessing. _chapter xxxiv_ blaine and ingersoll "eddie" sothern, de wolf hopper and i were returning to america after a most delightful trip abroad when we suddenly decided to stop off at queenstown and take a drive through ireland in a jaunting car. the driver of the vehicle proved a most loquacious fellow who bubbled over with irish humor. it took him but a very short time to set us down as americans. hopper and i actually are! i took a seat beside him and began to question him about the possibilities of home rule. he evaded my questions for a time, but presently in a spirit of confidence told me that he was convinced that the time was ripe for the freeing of ireland. he even gave me a date when they would be relieved from thraldom. he leaned quietly forward and imparted the information, under promise of profound secrecy, that there were ninety thousand men hiding in the county of kildare, , in tipperary and among the hills, rocks and caves of killarney, , on the outskirts of dublin and an equal number distributed through county cork, combined with several secret organizations throughout ireland numbering more than , ! the hills were well stocked with dynamite and winchester rifles, sent from america and closely guarded. he further assured me that when the "head-centre" was satisfied all the forces would be concentrated and ireland would be free. "why don't you do it at once?" i asked. "begorra, the police won't let us!" he replied. on my arrival home i told this story to robert g. ingersoll and james g. blaine at a luncheon given me at the former's residence in washington. they were very much interested in my narrative. in fact they took it seriously, blaine being particularly impressed with the amalgamation of the irish forces and in their serious intentions. as i went on, repeating the number of troops that were supposed to be in hiding i noticed a twinkle in ingersoll's eyes. blaine looked somewhat surprised, but credulous. as coffee was being served, i sprang the climax of my story with the result that the coffee spread its course over the damask table cloth. they must have laughed for five minutes. i always knew that ingersoll had a tremendous sense of humor, but i never credited blaine with any. whenever we met in after life, he never failed to refer to my jaunting car story. _chapter xxxv_ jim corbett in england some years ago james j. corbett, the ex-champion pugilist of the world, was appearing at drury lane theatre in london much to the dissatisfaction of the resident actors, authors and managers. they considered it in the light of a sacrilege for a prize fighter to desecrate the boards which a kean and a macready had trod. one night at the green room club i was taken to task by that clever dramatist hamilton for allowing my countryman and fellow player, as he sarcastically put it, to appear upon london's sacred stages. i disclaimed all responsibility. "i know, my dear boy," he insisted, "but you americans should not allow one of your countrymen to take such liberties with the drama; you should take the necessary means to prevent such acts of vandalism!" he continued with a tirade of abuse, accusing me of being a party to corbett's appearance. he finished his remarks with, "do you and your enlightened countrymen consider mr. corbett a good actor?" by this time i had become very much angered at his many impertinent remarks and i said, "no, but he can whip any man in the world and that's why we worship him--not as an actor, but as a representative of the manly art of self-defense!" as i warmed to my argument i went on to extol the man's gifts that have made him famous in fistiana, using terms and expressions utterly unknown to hamilton who was aghast at the adulation and adjectives i applied to corbett. "this man not only combines the prowess of the average heavy-weight," i explained, "but he can counter, side-step and swing! in avoiding punishment he has the agility of a feather-weight! in fact," i concluded, "you can't hit corbett with a bullet!" "what a pity!" said hamilton. _chapter xxxvi_ the cockney cabby comedian i was returning from the newmarket races in england after a very poor day, having failed to back a winner. arriving at waterloo station i found it was raining in torrents. not fancying hansom cabs in that kind of weather i permitted the crowd to rush along the platform in a frantic endeavor to secure a cab, having made up my mind to content myself with a four wheeler. it is not a particularly attractive vehicle (four wheelers are generally in use all night and retain a stuffy and most uncomfortable aroma therefore), but it is safe! at the station there is an opening of about fifty feet from one platform to another, unsheltered and roofless. i looked across and discovered a solitary cab with an old man holding the ribbons listlessly. the downpour fell about his narrow shoulders which were meagerly protected by the thinnest of rubber covering. after i had shouted several times for him to come over and get me he slowly turned around and replied:-- "you come over here; my beast is a bit weary." i dug my head into my coat and waded across the street, drenching myself to the skin in that short interval. i quickly opened the cab door, fell upon the damp cushions and gasped, "carleton hotel." "righto, governor," came the response from the all but drowned cabby and the vehicle began its weary journey, fairly crawling down waterloo hill. having a very important dinner party on hand and realizing it was late i became somewhat anxious. leaning out of the window i shouted:-- "my good man, send your horse along. i am in great haste." "he's doing his level, governor," he replied. "i can't shove him. he's human as we are and besides he's been out all night." i sank back onto the cushions biting my nails in sheer desperation as the cab moved even more slowly. again indulging myself in a shower bath from the open window, i looked out and pleaded. "for heaven's sake, driver, send that horse along; he's simply crawling." "he's striving 'ard, governor," came back the reply, "but he's no sprinter at his best. i'll get you to the carleton, never fear." by this time i was frantic. i opened the door and stood on the step disregarding the rain and shouted:-- "you fool, i'm not going to a funeral." "nor me to no bloomin' fire, neither," replied the cabby cheerfully! _chapter xxxvii_ a gilded fool and other plays in looking about for an author capable of writing me a play wherein i could endeavor to exploit comedy and pathos i met with much opposition until i finally ran across henry guy carlton. carlton was living in boston, financially on his uppers. he had just indulged in the dissipation of writing two tragedies, "memnon" and "the lion's mouth" and when i approached him with this idea of mine he quite agreed with me. i invited him to be my guest for a few weeks and during that time we evolved the plot of "a gilded fool." i produced it that spring at the providence opera house with a carefully selected cast, including clarence holt, theodore babcock, arthur hoops, louis barrett, john brown, robert wilson, mabel amber, minnie dupree, estelle mortimer and jeane claire walters. five of this cast have joined the vast majority. we spent but little time in preparation and after only three weeks' rehearsals produced it at the providence opera house. i was not particularly hopeful as to the result. in fact a few days before its production i became somewhat depressed and sent for my dear old mother to run down from boston to join me. i needed her consoling words, to hear her tell me once more what a great actor i was. she "always knew" i was "a genius." of course the dear old lady came and after witnessing one rehearsal pronounced it "absolutely perfect." [illustration: nat goodwin and company in in mizzoura _one of the best casts i ever saw_] at the last rehearsal i became very pessimistic. we rehearsed from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon and then we hadn't reached the last act, so i dismissed the rehearsal, mother and i went to dinner, which was followed by a short siesta. i went to sleep predicting all sorts of failure. before going to the theatre that night my old dad came down. he had witnessed one rehearsal a few days before and gone home disgusted. we both predicted defeat. i really could see nothing in my part. he shared this opinion with me. (i regret to say he never thought me great in anything. there you have a discerning old gentleman!) night came and much to my surprise my first line provoked great laughter. as it had some reference to drink perhaps that was the cause! it always seems to appeal to an audience! each scene seemed to go better than the preceding one and when we got to the poor, despised and neglected last act it proved to be the most agreeable one of the lot. that night we knew that we had a success. charles frohman who came out from new york to witness the production said, "you have made a great hit to-night, nat, and i only wish that john drew, whom i contemplate starring next year, had so good a vehicle." the following year john began his starring tour with a play equally as strong, by the same author, called "the butterflies." in this play maude adams sprang into fame. "the fool" made a great metropolitan success and i still play it in repertoire. carlton was a most amusing and unique man, although a bit uncomfortable to associate with. he was cursed with an awful impediment, a stammer. with a keen sense of humor and an unusual amount of funny stories at his command, his ability to lampoon you made an afternoon spent in his society somewhat trying. he was fully cognizant of his infirmity, but seemed to revel in it and in the discomfiture it caused his friends. one day he called me up over the 'phone and after vainly endeavoring to say "hello" took one long breath (he generally spoke inhaling and coughing his sentences, reminding you of a person endeavoring to speak through a thunderstorm, while on horseback, jumping hurdles) and, after a paroxysm, said, "nat, have you half an hour to spare?" i replied, "yes." he coughed his reply back through the instrument, "well, if you have half an hour to spare, i want five minutes conversation with you!" i once complimented him upon some medals which he wore. they bore inscriptions for bravery displayed in an indian war. he said he was never entitled to receive them. "why not?" i asked. "well," he answered, "i was leading some troops down a ravine when we were suddenly surrounded by the indians, lying in ambush. i was frightened stiff and tried to give the order to retreat. for the life of me i couldn't say it. all i could get out of my throat was 'charge! charge! charge!' and the more terrified i became the louder became the commands! the result was we turned defeat into a victory and i became a hero!" when i was firmly convinced that i had put the pathos of "a gilded fool" over i at once looked about to secure a play where the comedy was subordinate to the pathos, as i was determined to launch an ultra-serious play--not that the latter is more difficult; on the contrary, i consider that it is harder to make people laugh than to cry (when the humor is applied legitimately)--but the old precept of cazauran was forever singing in my ears:--"remember, no one remembers a laugh." i was determined to obliterate if possible the memories of my preceding laughter epoch. i imparted my views to augustus thomas who had just successfully produced "alabama" and he fell in with my ideas. we at once arranged the terms for an original play. the following june i met maurice barrymore who told me that he had just come from the reading of my new play by thomas. i had no idea that the play was finished nor what it was about. thomas had not even sent me a scenario for which i was most grateful (i hate scenarios; they are always so misleading.) i asked barry what he thought about the play. "well, i like it immensely," he said, "but i don't know how it will strike you, my boy. it is out of the common and most original. all the parts are exceptionally well placed." "what kind of a part is mine?" i asked. "you play a missouri sheriff," he replied. "great scott!" i thought, as visions of a low-browed, black mustached, heavily armed gentleman appeared before me. i could see myself coming on and saving the heroine, frustrating the plans of the villain and arresting everybody at the end of the play. barrymore was most reticent concerning the play and non-committal as to what he thought it would yield, or how he thought the character would suit me. he simply said, "go and hear gus read it." that evening, a sultry night in june, i called on the author, who was just preparing to leave for a holiday in the country. the room was in disorder; in fact, there was nothing for me to do but sit on a huge taylor trunk. i settled back as best i could as gus quietly unfolded the script. i listened intently through the first act and was spell-bound. at the end of every act i simply said, "go on," and at the finish, "when do we produce that play?" i wished it were the next day. "i am ready whenever you are," he answered. we got together in a few days and selected one of the best casts with which it has ever been my good fortune to be associated, including jeane claire walters, minnie dupree, mabel amber, burr mcintosh, frank carlisle, neil o'brien, louis payne (now the husband of mrs. leslie carter), arthur hoops, louis barrett and robert wilson. we produced it at hooley's theatre, chicago, in september, , and i added one more success to my list and pegged another pin in my crib board of pathos as "in mizzoura" was born. the simple little sheriff jim radburn i adored. he was so true, so lovable, so honest! i never have grown weary of little jim. i have seen two or three actors play him, but--whisper--i really like my performance the best! the rehearsals of "in mizzoura" were replete with incident. it was the first time that i had placed myself in absolute charge of a stage manager and it proved a most delightful experience for one who had always borne the weight of a production to become an automaton, moved here and there under the guidance of thomas who proved an excellent stage director. my! how we all put our shoulders to the wheel after thomas had made clear the many hidden meanings that were not apparent at the reading! the play as read did not appeal to many of the company. some even condoled with me. but i knew we were right and we went ahead. we called the company together on a thursday, the opening being set a week from the following monday. we rehearsed the entire play friday, called the first act perfect saturday, two acts perfect monday and the entire play perfect tuesday, when everyone came dead-letter-perfect, as it is called. thomas in the meantime had written in two new scenes. after the opening we never called a rehearsal during the entire season. we played to capacity business for four weeks, then foolishly went to new york, opening at the fifth avenue theatre, where the play failed to draw. it received splendid praise, particularly in the magazines. even the daily papers praised the play, but condemned my daring to rob them of their little funny man. i am sure, however, that i pleased the few who were courageous enough to come and have a cry with me. the play met with unqualified success throughout the country, with the exception of new york and san francisco, the latter city condemning both the play and yours truly. the press was most severe, with the single exception of that gifted critic, ashton stevens, who had the courage of his convictions and whose praise of both play and star was as sweeping as the others' roasts were severe. "in mizzoura" was the only hit of my disastrous australian tour. i consider "in mizzoura" one of the greatest of american plays. it has inspired many authors, particularly david belasco, author of "the girl of the golden west." wilton lackaye met sydney rosenfeld, the author, on the grounds at the chicago world's fair. lackaye said, "where are you going to-night, sydney?" sydney replied, "i'm going to thomas' opening, at hooley's." lackaye said, "well, i'll see you there as i'm going to nat's opening." how clannish we actors and authors are! during one of the rehearsals of "mizzoura," burr mcintosh and i had a scene that sadly bothered poor burr. he fancied that he must be a trifle more pathetic than i. his speeches should have been given in a simple, matter-of-fact manner, but as i used a low tone burr would go me one better until we were both down in the sub-cellar of the drama! we went over the scene many times but, try as he might, mcintosh failed to understand the meaning or motive of the scene. thomas would go over the scene with me and place burr in front to watch it to endeavor to make him comprehend the author's meaning. then burr would try and try, always forcing me to the basement. finally, after hours of rehearsing this scene, thomas said, "burr, stop. the trouble is you're thinking when i wrote this part i had you in my mind. i did--but i wrote it for your feet, not your head." after "a gilded fool" was launched i at once made a contract with carlton for another play and in a few weeks he submitted a scenario to me which i accepted. this play was to follow "in mizzoura." during the interim between "a gilded fool" and "in mizzoura" carlton wholly evolved the plot of "ambition." in time he submitted two acts. i was more than pleased as the character of senator beck appealed to me. it had a fine story and all the parts were unique and full of character. after receiving the two acts i looked about for adequate people for the rôles and was fortunate enough to secure the services of annie russell, henry bergman and clarence montaine and with the other members of my company, i considered it a perfect cast. later i was fortunate enough to be surrounded by such players as george fawcett, louis payne, john saville, estelle mortimer and jeane claire walters. i arranged to open my season early in september at miner's fifth avenue theatre, new york, and called my company for rehearsals of "david garrick." i was anxious to appear in that rôle in new york, having previously performed it on the road with some degree of success. my idea was to put on "garrick" for one week and follow with "ambition." i still had only two acts of the carlton play. i had been trying for weeks to get possession of the last act, having some anxiety as to how carlton intended ending the play, but it was impossible to locate him. he turned up on the first night of "garrick," promising me my last act of "ambition" on the following day, assuring me it was finished. i waited until wednesday, but he failed to keep his word. i knew he was unreliable, but never thought him ungrateful. through his negligence we were forced to announce "garrick" for a second week. this was asking the public to accept a pretty tall order, but there was no alternative. one friday, too late for rehearsal, i took it home with me and read it most carefully and was very much disappointed. it plainly showed the earmarks of hasty composition. however, there was no choice and i produced it as quickly as possible. on the first night we were all extremely nervous and up to the ending of the second act i thought we had a failure. that ending, however, gave me a splendid moment and i received several curtain calls. the papers were very kind on the following morning, more so, i considered, than we deserved. i played it two weeks to gradually decreasing business, the last week being simply ghastly! i honestly believe that i could have drawn more money alone, with a desk and a glass of water. i had no faith in the play and after the first performance began rehearsals of another called "a house of cards" by sydney rosenfeld. previously i had sent it into the discard after three rehearsals. it proved worthy of its title and tumbled down shortly after at the garden theatre. the manager of a philadelphia theatre, where i was to open after the engagement at the fifth avenue, came over and saw our performance of "ambition" (to a $ house) and entered a most violent objection to my appearing at his theatre in that play. i informed him that i had nothing which i could substitute and that it would take me at least two weeks to prepare any of the plays in my repertoire with the exception of "david garrick." there was no alternative; he must accept "ambition" or close his theatre. he concluded to take a chance and one of those psychological events which shapes the destinies of players took place. we opened to nearly twelve hundred dollars--and that was the lightest house of the engagement! we played to capacity business there and everywhere all through that season. it proved to be one of my greatest successes. i never understood carlton's failure to furnish the play as he had agreed until a few days after i opened in philadelphia i read the announcement of the production of a new play of his by a manager who had previously refused to give him a hearing. he forgot (!) i had lifted him from the streets of boston, clothed him, loaned him money, and taken him to my mother's home. he forgot (!) that when he became suddenly ill it was my mother who nursed him back to health as if he were one of her own children! the last time that i saw this gifted but ungrateful man was a few years ago at atlantic city. he was a physical wreck, but mentally a giant still. he had invented some new electric appliance and his mind scintillated as i had never known it to scintillate before. i knew he was doomed and felt grieved. i left his chamber with a heavy heart. since writing this poor carlton has joined the majority. [illustration: ticket sale for in mizzoura] _chapter xxxviii_ george m. cohan what an extraordinary person is sunny george cohan! fancy a young man, in the early thirties, owning his own playhouse, performing there in the leading rôles, the author of his play and lyrics, the composer of the music, associate manager of two new york theatres, of another in chicago, and with a chain of suburban houses! this is making history with a vengeance. the position he occupies in the theatrical world has never been duplicated and i doubt if it ever will be. with all his well-deserved success he bears himself with the modesty of a well-bred boy. to be privileged to meet him in private life is a joy and delight. you will find him never obtrusive and always gentle and respectful to his elders. one would never imagine him a being of so much power. he fascinates me every time i meet him and i always feel an inclination to put my hands upon his shoulders and just listen to him talk. his keen sense of humor, combined with his calm demeanor, always appeals to me. how proud his parents must feel to be the authors of such a fascinating book as georgie cohan! (i always call him georgie. i can't help it. i love the lad for his wonderful versatility.) how i enjoy the attempts of some of the critics, in their futile efforts to slur this man of success and to destroy the affection the public has for him! some even accuse him of being "common." good! bring on some more commoners! we need them! but nature is most discerning in bestowing her mantle of genius. she weaves carefully and adroitly and is conservative with her gifts. she wove her finest for clever georgie and then destroyed the pattern. she has no more to give. mr. and mrs. cohan, i congratulate you! you have given the world a genius! hats off to georgie cohan! it was while i was appearing at ford's theatre in baltimore in that georgie sent me a message which read as follows:-- "i am giving a supper in your honor next wednesday night at friars club house. wire me that you will be there." immediately i replied. this is what i wrote:-- "i am there now, my dear hector, and will eat nothing until i meet you wednesday at the friars club house. have invited my audience to join me. he seems an awfully nice chap. wishing you a merry christmas, but don't you dare wish me one, believe me always thine, ralph goodwin." georgie insisted on addressing me as mr. goodwin for years after he had reached a star's zenith. when i asked him to drop the formality he said he simply could not do it. thereupon i suggested we get around it. if he couldn't call me nat maybe he wouldn't stick on ralph. and i in turn have ever since dubbed him hector--when we meet! _chapter xxxix_ thoughts vaudeville-born how miserable are they who live in the past, who imagine when the sun sinks behind their horizon it will never rise again! to be sure, it is not pleasant to realize one is retrograding, yet it is better to forget the errors of the past, realize the advantages of mistakes and benefit by them "than, by opposing, end them." during a short tour in vaudeville i had many opportunities for serious thought, particularly when i visited the various cities where i previously had been a conspicuous factor in my profession. as i contemplated my name upon the illuminated signs in front of the vaudeville theatres i also strolled through the streets and gazed at the names emblazoned in front of the various legitimate theatres. many had played in support of me. now they had usurped my place in the standard playhouses. i was "in vaudeville!" i reflected upon my companion players--the trained seals, the amusing monkey, the docile elephant! as i wended my way through the sawdust path that led to my dressing-room i wondered what my mission on earth really was. then philosophy took possession of me and convinced me that we were all performing our respective duties in different environments. it was just a case of "all hands 'round and change your partners!" in vaudeville i was never happy. i was rather self-conscious, for when salary day came around i felt as if i were cheating to take the magnificent sum i was receiving for my twenty-seven minutes' work twice a day. then again i wondered if dear old richard hooley, in whose theatre in chicago i had played successfully for twenty years, knew of the evolution that had placed his boy, as he always called me, among the pot pourri of vaudeville. what would my good friend, bob miles of cincinnati, and john norton of st. louis, have said had they seen my name as a head-liner in those cities where i had packed their respective houses? as i strolled by the theatres managed by those dear, departed friends my truant thoughts, much as i antagonized them, would fly back to the past. once again i would go to the theatre of variety in quest of "five shillings" and visions of a new and successful play for the next year or the one after would come with the rising sun! when the clouds came to obscure the sky of hope i would darken my chamber, bury the past and wait for the morrow and accompanying sunshine to light my future down the path of middle age. in this precarious profession of ours we must accept defeat with courage. it should stir us to higher aims, braver deeds, stronger motives, inclinations and honesty of purpose. never give up the fight so long as you have the capacity to hit out. even a dying mule always has a kick up his leg. if he has his health and mentality any actor under seventy has one punch left. i simply underwent a course of training in vaudeville, conditioning myself for a fight to a finish. i am ready at any time during the next ten years to produce a play that will appeal to the public. if i fail to secure one--back to the ranch and simple life! which will it be? i wonder! _chapter xl_ john drew i have always had a profound respect and liking for john drew's art and i have witnessed his performances of many variegated rôles. true, the man's personality always transcends the characterization, but isn't that true of all great actors? those who talk about drew being always the same in every part are unconsciously paying him great homage. for the benefit of the younger members of my profession i want to state that the most difficult rôles to play are those that fall to the light comedian. he must be naturally human and true, for he is portraying the character one meets in every-day life and, to quote from one of boucicault's plays, "the apparatus can't lie!" drew has been amusing the american public for about thirty-five years, playing himself, i will admit. but the man's personality has made him a conspicuous and an agreeable player. he has also been the means of introducing not a few actresses to the world who have become famous. drew is a gentleman, on or off the stage, and while many of the play-folk do not consider him a great actor, they must admit that john is clean and that his father and mother were geniuses, which is something of which to be proud. _chapter xli_ "the rivals" revival "ambition, like an early friend, throws back the curtain with an eager hand, o'erjoyed to tell me what i dreamt is true." it was with happy anticipation that i signed a contract with joseph brooks to appear as one of the supporting cast with joseph jefferson in an all-star revival of "the rivals." the tour was suggested by a performance in which i had appeared for a benefit given to that sterling old player, william couldock, by mr. jefferson and a number of other well known players, including henry miller, william h. crane, viola allen and de wolf hopper. this performance met with so much approval and gave such unqualified satisfaction that the charity bestowed upon couldock suggested a commercial enterprise and the business instincts of charley jefferson and joseph brooks suggested a tour that took place the following spring. [illustration: dick golden _we were pals for many years_] we visited all the principal cities, never playing over two nights in one place. business was enormous, the management clearing many thousands of dollars during the four weeks' tour. we were the recipients of many attentions, our time being spent driving, dining, and visiting various public institutions and colleges. we held impromptu receptions nightly behind the scenes. a large table was always spread on the stage laden with viands and many distinguished people partook of our hospitalities. our happiest times were spent in the private car where we would congregate after the play and spend a few hours in anecdote and song. my contribution was an imitation of dear old sol smith russell--a great favorite of mr. jefferson's. my friend, fred stanley, now passed away, always proved a delightful companion. he accompanied us on the entire trip. i really don't know when freddie slept on that trip. when i inquired how many hours of sleep he averaged out of the twenty-four he replied, "i don't want to go to bed. when you all retire that nigger porter and i swap stories and he is funnier than the whole troupe! he has decided to remain awake the entire tour and i promised to keep him company." and i really believe he did. every man on the trip became very fond of fred. he was a source of great amusement. poor fred "went the pace" and finally the end came in . we were pals for many years. i am the only one of the original quartette left--tony hart, dick golden, fred stanley. they are all gone and there is none to take their place. only a memory remains, a sweet one and yet how sad! be patient, dear friends, and wait for me! god bless you all! what a bright and effervescent man was fred stanley! among the congratulatory messages that i received while playing in australia, upon the announcement of my engagement to miss maxine elliott, was one from fred. it read:-- "congratulations, old man. pick one out for me." a variety man, with whom i had performed years ago, casually remarked to fred, "goodwin! where does he come in? i started with him!" "indeed," replied fred, "somebody must have tied you!" we closed "the rivals" tour in one of the new england towns, coming direct to new york to attend an informal banquet given to me at the lambs club by some of my friends previous to my departure for australia where i had determined to go for reasons which will be explained later. my star of destiny was leading me to the other end of the world. i sat down to the banquet filled with forebodings. it was not the terror of the journey. it was a premonition that it was the wrong thing to do, but fate peeped in and said, "go on!" after a night spent in song, readings, speeches, etc., the familiar drab dawn suggested that the time for parting had arrived. the boys followed me to the door and as i started down the steps they sang "auld lang syne" and i drove off into the day. _chapter xlii_ wilton lackaye of all the players now members of the lambs will lackaye is the most pronounced. i am very fond of him and i think he likes me although he has never expressed himself particularly in my favor. we were never pals, as the word is now applied, but in all our friendly contests of badinage we have always endeavored to play fair with one another. lackaye has a splendid brain, but he does not always use it kindly. in this he has no hidden motive, but it acts quickly and his tongue responds not always pleasantly. his wit savors more of the cynic than the humorist. he always assails a citadel, however, never a snow fort, and while his quick sallies many times provoke pain, as a rule they are given with a knowledge that they were well deserved, at least from his point of view. what i most admire about lackaye is his honesty of purpose and his unflinching courage. in debate he shows no mercy and expects no quarter. he has all the instincts of the old school. he believes in upholding the dignity of the player and will not pander to the ephemeral parasites who have lately attached themselves to the fringe of the drama, the managers "who present." if there were more lackayes and fewer cranes the actor would soon be in a position to assert his rights and maintain them. i love some of lackaye's remarks, particularly when he is annoyed. the last one i heard appealed to me. it seems he approached a very conspicuous actor who is now at his zenith with a request to join the lambs in their forthcoming gambol on tour. lackaye suggested that it would be quite a novelty for this player to revert to one of his old-time specialties and present a short monologue as a baxter street jew, which once had made this particular actor famous. the actor who was packing a new york theatre in a serious rôle replied:-- "my dear will, your request is preposterous! i could not possibly consider such an act! it would be suicide for me after struggling all these years to make my public weep to return to a vulgar monologue and make people laugh! absurd, my boy, absurd! it would be fatal!" lackaye contemplated him for a minute, and remarked:-- "my dear ----, an onion will make anybody cry, but i have yet failed to discover a vegetable that will make people laugh." oh! how true this is! and yet people will come out of a theatre with swollen lids, expressing their delight at being privileged to cry! if they only knew how easy is the one and how difficult the other, they would pay more attention to the god-gifted one, appreciating the comic player who kisses away the tear that flows. my opinion of lackaye's acting is only equaled by his of mine. lackaye has published his through the press. i have kept mine to myself. neither of us is particularly complimentary. we agree on art with reference to ourselves. neither of us can act! _chapter xliii_ "young" mansfield i once had a very dear friend, a young man of splendid dramatic ability with a likable but erratic nature. he is constantly falling in love. as a rule his heart petals fall to those of the opposite sex far beneath him intellectually. this young man has a most impressive and artistic temperament and has absorbed not a little knowledge of his art from the masters. he has blazoned this superficial knowledge to such an extent that he has grown to believe that he is a most important and necessary adjunct to his profession. if he were possessed of the knowledge he imagines he has he would be a genius! as it is he is a nuisance! he has succeeded in making many enemies by his aggressive and argumentative manner in which only a genius can indulge. he has never annoyed me for i love his spontaneity and his youth. he has emulated the acts of several stars and, like the aspiring pugilist who is ever ready to assume the name of a champion older in experience, such as "young" corbett or "young" fitzsimmons, he delights in being known as "young" mansfield. he has some charm and is most convincing to those who are not conversant with his methods. he has succeeded in interesting several conspicuous people--millionaires and prominent theatrical and operatic stars, including a prima donna known to fame. the latter became interested in him to such an extent that an amour sprang up and they disappeared for a time (that is they imagined they had, but delightful paris, which always treats such vagaries as they deserve, was fully cognizant of the situation, looked on and smiled). i was ignorant of their rendezvous. i never imagined that the lady whom he had mentioned to me as being mildly interested in him was in the same country until one day during a visit to a nerve specialist, to whom this young man had recommended me, the man of medicine remarked:-- "i was at the opera last night and bowed to your young friend----but he failed to acknowledge the salutation. he concealed himself behind the curtains of the box he was occupying, evidently not seeking recognition. that was unnecessary as i am on the board of directors at the grand opera house and sent the box to madam ---- whose guest your young friend was. why should he disguise the fact that he was her friend?" "is that known in paris?" i gasped. "certainly," he answered. "and does it not affect the lady's social and professional standing?" i queried. "my friend," replied the doctor, "we love artists; we question not the motives that make them artists, be it illicit love or sanctioned. it's all the same; they are creatures of caprice and have many nests." "does that apply to private life in paris?" i asked. "certainly," quoth the philosopher of nerves. "why, it is most difficult to give a dinner party these days. one cannot invite the husband without first ascertaining the name of his affinity, nor the wife without knowing the name of her sweetheart. my wife always arranges the table to avoid awkward complications." i thought how delightfully naïve and completely perfect was their understanding. that splendid point of view was unlike the ostrich methods in vogue in london and insular new york. no wonder my young friend and his prima donna met with disaster when they crossed the channel! but i admire him and his audacity. _chapter xliv_ david warfield many years ago while i was playing at the bush street theatre, san francisco, a lad of about twenty, of hebraic appearance, was constantly seated on the left-hand aisle watching each performance with evident delight. as i would come from the theatre he would follow me, on the other side of the street, now and then stopping to point me out to some boy friend. one day i smiled at him and his face beamed with apparent pleasure. after that i often watched for my silent admirer. many years after i backed an enterprise in which he was featured--and lost ten thousand dollars! later he became a leading fixture at weber and fields' music hall and made a pronounced success. during my second engagement at the knickerbocker theatre he was always a visitor. he no longer sat on the aisle, however. i always sent him a private box. my youthful admirer who had blossomed forth as a star in the weber and fields' aggregation is now one of the most famous of american actors. his name is david warfield. after witnessing warfield's great portrayal in "the music master" i began to believe in the star of destiny. i saw a man give a performance worthy of a master. and he was without even the fundamental knowledge of his art! [illustration: david warfield and nat goodwin _i'm proud of the company_] springing from obscure parents, with not an ounce of hereditary theatrical blood in his veins, naturally reticent, with a face not particularly attractive, save for a searching and penetrating eye, a mind alert, a shuffling gait--this is the man who on the stage is able to transform himself into one of the most sympathetic beings that i ever saw. with a move of the hand he is grace itself. his delivery of lines bespeaks him a scholar. his face shines like one sent from the deity! the various emotions through which he passed in the sweetly harrowing (but inferior!) play, from gay to grave, from pathos to comedy and from that to tragedy, were expressed with a deftness and surety of touch--why, he sailed along with the assurance of a bird in its flight! every effect he handled like a master! and when he made his exit up the miserable staircase, you realized that you had been entertained by an artist! it is a pleasure to write about such a man, particularly one who wears the wreath of laurel so modestly, who apparently realizes so fully the kindness of the gods! and the gods help only those who help themselves. dear david, you deserve all that has been bestowed! friend, i congratulate you, am proud to know you and feel privileged to call you by that much abused name. _chapter xlv_ a day at reno imagine over sixteen thousand human beings filing slowly from a cemetery where departed heroes have been put away from earthly cares! imagine their conversation in hushed whispers, their bowed heads, smothered ejaculations! hear the mumbled accusations emanating from a few of the unpleasant! so you will have a faint idea of the feelings of that motley, silent crowd which wended its way home after the johnson-jeffries contest at reno, july , . when that human statue sank into obscurity through the center ropes, half of the huge bulk hanging listlessly on the outside, with the little spartan, abe attell, vainly endeavoring to push the great wreck back into the arena (while the magnificent grinning piece of ebony was standing with clenched fists and wicked expression ready to administer the quietus that was within his power), a hush fell upon the assemblage. all turned their heads as the inanimate fighter showed signs of returning consciousness. the ponderous jeff with the aid of attell and others slowly unwound himself from the meshes of rope and regained his equilibrium, only to be crushed again to the boards by the powerful fists of his adversary. then a smothered cry from the spectators and all was over. the mangled gladiator was carried bleeding and bruised to his corner and another champion was heralded throughout the world. i have never witnessed such a spectacle. what a hollow victory! what a disgraceful defeat! it was a defeat without pity, success without compliment! and yet it was a battle fought by two of the most magnificent specimens of humanity ever chiseled by nature's journeymen! at the beginning they were magnificent--from the throat down! their faces were not in harmony with their bodies. as each of these warriors stood in his corner ready for the fray i looked from one to the other and as my eye travelled from their feet to their heads i was dumbfounded at what their faces depicted. both had the expression of the craven! on each was the apprehension of impending danger accurately defined; alarm, dread, terror were imprinted indelibly upon each countenance, the negro trying to force saliva into a mouth as dry as an oven, endeavoring to smile while his jaws worked like the jaws of a hyena. poor jeff stood up, but only for a second. his ponderous legs refused to bear his weight of worry! they trembled so perceptibly that he was forced to seek his chair when his knees began to knock against each other in angry protests at what they were expected to perform. it was past belief--strong men, equally capable of performing any feat of physical prowess, whose brains refused to obey their wills! each knew his terrible responsibility, but the gray matter refused to supply the necessary oil to put the engines to work. millions were waiting to hear the result. i don't accuse either of abject cowardice. i believe that at that moment jeffries would have faced a cannon and awaited the result as befits a soldier in battle. his trouble was that he was not the man of brain who could assume a responsibility. grant sacrificed thousands of men to attain a result. he would willingly have given his life if necessary a thousand times, but he was man enough to live for a cause, not die for it! jeff, having a little more brain than his aboriginal antagonist, suffered more, hence his greater terror. as the bell rang for the commencement of hostilities jeffries, instead of rushing at his dusky opponent, assumed a defensive attitude, disobeying all instructions, all thought-out intentions. he had planned his battle as every general does, the night before, but in the ring he threw away all his plans and obeyed the dictation of a puny, tired, unresponsive brain. with every step he retreated the negro's courage gained and as the round progressed his assurance became more manifest. confidence took the place of fear and as the bell rang to signify the end of the round victory shone in the negro's face and the knell of defeat had sounded for jeff. the king was dying, but not the death of a courageous man. he was dying, retreating, not advancing. the body was willing, but the brain was dead. responsibility was the referee that counted out jeff! that is the truth of this, the greatest and yet the weakest battle ever fought. let us draw a curtain over the reno desert and be charitable to jeff. god gave him brawn, but denied him the necessary brain to equalize it all. perhaps it's all for the best. there's a cloud on the horizon of fistiana. perhaps a bright young american may burst through, the sun may shine once more and a white american, impervious to mental collapse, may wear the laurel of champion. let us hope so. i had taken a party of friends from new york to see the fight. we had travelled in a private car--and the return trip had been paid for in advance! as we left the arena and headed back to town not one of us, hardened sports as we all were, not one of us remembered that we had a fleet of automobiles waiting to take us to our car. we walked right by them! it was the longest, hottest, dustiest tramp i ever took. arrived in the car someone broke the silence with the suggestion that the first man who referred to the fight be thrown off the car. our silence gave assent. as there was nothing else in the world to talk about--we kept still, how long i don't know, but it seemed hours. finally big george considine realized his throat was parched and he pushed a button. up to that moment the summons had never failed to produce our grinning porter from the little buffet instantly. this time there was no response. george pressed the button a second time. we all heard the bell distinctly. all of us had his gaze fixed on the buffet door. again george rang the bell and this time he kept his thumb jammed against the button. then he got to his feet and declared himself. "if that nigger is in that buffet he'll never come out now--alive!" and with that he started. we all sat tight and waited. in less than a minute george reappeared--laughing hysterically. for an instant i thought the terrible shock of the afternoon had affected his mind. "is he dead?" someone gasped. "nearly so," replied george, choking with glee. "you know i went in there firmly determined to kill him. but the minute he saw me he covered his face with both hands and said, 'fo' gawd's sake, mr. gawge, don' hit me. i'm good for nothin'. i caint lift a glass, let alone serve a drink. i'm so weak.' i asked him why. 'well, you see, mr. gawge, i've been savin' and savin' fo' a year evah dollah i could scrap together; borrowed from my wife and soaked my watch at chicawgo. i had six hunderd dollahs on my pusson when i got heah and it was all goin' on mr. johnson. but on this trip, listenin' to all you gemmen talk i got so i couldn't see mr. johnson nohow and switched and my money all went on mr. jeff'ies. when mr. jeff'ies received that awful wallop in the second round i said goodbye, wife and chillen, and when he was knocked out--i went with him! and i haven't come to yet!'" we finally managed to induce him to come out of the buffet and told him we'd try to make him a little less miserable by chipping in on a purse for him. somebody passed the hat. i threw in all i had in cash and i imagine every one else did. the total count was $ . ! i thought we ought to cheer him up further and told him i would give him a good thing on the next fight. he just looked at me a minute, his black eyes nearly popping out of his head, then indicating the bills and silver in his hand said solemnly, "me? me, bet on a prize fight? why guv'nor, i wouldn't bet this money that mr. johnson has licked mr. jeff'ies." _chapter xlvi_ lillian russell what a beautiful and misunderstood woman is lillian russell! one reads only of her wondrous beauty, her splendid preservation and her marriages--seldom of her talents! possessing the soul of a saint, the true spirit of comedy, the repose of a siddons, she must see all these splendid gifts made subservient to vulgar allusions regarding her private life, all cruel and absolutely false! all through life she has endeavored to obtain only a home to enable her to bring her child up an honest woman. she has tried only to make her hand strong enough to keep and guide her. and these efforts have been as futile as her success as an artiste has been assured. who shall say it is not the fault of those who have pointed the finger of scorn at a woman seeking only to do right? lillian russell is first and always an artiste; honest to those who can appreciate trust and fidelity; never a knocker; the fairest actress and singer that ever shared applause with a brother or sister artist; without a desire to dissipate; a true companion and possessor of all the attributes that make a true woman. miss russell, i kiss your hand. _chapter xlvii_ dramatic schools i always lacked the moral courage to ask any member of my organization to resign, no matter what provocation i might have. in my entire experience i have discharged two actors--both actresses! one of these was hardly more than a girl, most intelligent and rather pretty, who was sent to me highly recommended and said to possess marked histrionic abilities. she had appeared successfully in amateur performances of shakespearean rôles and taken first prize at one of the modern schools of acting. i cast her for a very minor rôle in one of my plays. in one scene where she had to criticize a picture of a celebrated artist in a speech of about fifteen lines (which required an intelligent rendering and a delivery which demanded at least elocutionary ability) she floundered about in a most incoherent and jumbling manner. and when she came to the particular speech for which i was sure she was qualified, the amateur juliet fell, balcony and all! i never saw such an exemplification of incapacity! it was a verification of what i have always felt regarding "schools of acting." there have been a few, a very few, graduates of the supposed academies of acting who have made successes on the legitimate stage. but it was brought about only by discarding the methods of these bunco professors, who dare to teach an art of which they know not. the so-called professors of these schools as a rule have had their fundamental knowledge of the theatre only through books, and if an actor hangs out his sign you will find that his career has spelt failure or that he has become so pedantic that all theories of modern acting have been swept past his horizon. i maintain that acting, if it can be taught at all, should be taught by an actor. elocution and emphasis can be taught by a plumber or a gunman with the requisite authorities at hand. but even when those qualities are mastered they belong to the rostrum, not to the playhouse. acting is elementary and can be taught only by suggestion. emotions can be transmitted only through psychological channels and facial expression. they cannot be taught. they are absorbed by those born with the talent for acting. unless one is blessed with this talent all the professors of elocution or so-called "teachers of dramatic art" cannot make an actor or actress. granting that once in a while a budding genius has blossomed forth from one of these academies it is the exception that proves the rule. and even those who have graduated find it difficult to unlearn all that they have been taught. a school of acting, properly organized, would do no harm, but the student should be given his little speech to speak, then directed as to what not to do and the process of elimination continued until such times as he becomes at least an intelligent interpreter of what he is supposed to perform. for all of the arts acting most requires practical demonstration. and that can be taught only by professional tutors. and how few are qualified to teach! one may have the power to portray without the ability to impart. that is why the stage manager is in such demand. so much more is demanded of the actor and actress than the mere delivery of lines. it would take many pages to illustrate what i mean, but as a rule in all these schools that dot the country very little attention is given to the technique of stagecraft. it is always lines, lines, lines, emphasis, intonation, etc. the system of delsarte which devotes most time to the manner of making an entrance or an exit is of little value for fitting a student for the stage. there are a few dramatic schools in europe. in france they have the conservatories, the professors of which have either graduated from the théâtre française or are men of letters, qualified to teach. they are subsidized by the government and no one is allowed a course of learning unless he passes a rigid examination. if the ambitious show no qualifications they are not admitted. in this country they come from haberdashers' county, the salesroom or bankers' homes. it is only a question of money. if they have the necessary wherewithal it's an open sesame. i maintain that it is all wrong and the "professors" who are opening the doors of dramatic art to the incompetent at so much a quarter are obtaining money under false pretenses. [illustration: in mizzoura _one of the greatest of american plays_] _chapter xlviii_ number three (almost) a long, long time ago, while i was playing in paris (kentucky!) a party of ladies and gentlemen came down from mount sterling to witness our performance thinking they could leave paris and get to lexington the same evening. unfortunately the railroad had changed its schedule and there was no train out until the following morning. my private car was waiting for me and i had taken the precaution to charter an engine to take me back to lexington after the performance. when i arrived at the station i found the party very much disturbed at the prospect of having to remain in paris over night. i sent my secretary to them and he placed my car at their disposal. he told them that there was a nice supper prepared and that they were welcome to whatever the chef could furnish. i would remain in my stateroom and not interfere with their party. they accepted the invitation, but insisted that i join their party which consisted of three men and three women. one young lady in particular attracted my attention with her radiant beauty. she was a magnificent creature, blonde and erect, possessing the complexion given only to those living in the blue grass country. during the journey i had little time to talk with her as one of the other young ladies who came from boston usurped all my time discussing the drama and other topics equally uninteresting to me. the beautiful blonde lady told the manager of the theatre at lexington (he was a friend of hers, as well as of mine) that she considered me a very dull person. the manager defended me as best he could and told her that i was to dine with his family that night and he would be pleased to have her do likewise. she consented and that evening we met and had a jolly time. i found her most intelligent and so far as my career on and off the stage was concerned she was a walking encyclopedia. in fact she knew more about my vagaries than i did myself, but as we progressed along lines of casual conversation i thought that i discovered a little scepticism relative to my supposed proclivities for wrong-doing. she asked me if i desired any beverage and i, trying to display proper gallantry, suggested the cool and refreshing draught, the wine of the country, kentucky bourbon. as she poured out a small glass of the liquor she remarked, "i really thought that you were going to ask for a glass of metheglin." "i have been drinking the ingredients which form that compound the entire evening," i replied. she looked at me very intently as i swallowed the whiskey, then suddenly wheeled about and with a half hysterical note in her voice, said, "i don't believe it!" not having the remotest idea as to what she had reference i answered, "no more do i!" she then said, "you don't understand!" i gasped, "quite right!" she gently took my hand in hers and in a sweet, sad voice said:-- "you need a friend. let me be your little friend. i know all about you. for years you have been my favorite player and i have read all the uncomplimentary articles written about you. your gambling escapades, your supposed capacity for drink, your amours, scandals, in fact everything pertaining to your private life have interested me for years. but as i have read and re-read these accusations, which i know now to be absolutely false, i fail to discover where you had wronged anybody but yourself!" it was the first time that anyone had spoken to me like that, with the exception of my little mother, and her words sank 'way down deep into my heart. we talked for several hours, in fact, until the dawn approached, but we interested each other to such an extent that neither was conscious of the departing night until we were rudely told by our hostess that our conduct was most disreputable and that the best place for me was a berth in my private car. during our conversation i had tried to convince her that i was pretty bad, but not so bad as joe jefferson painted. after leaving lexington i corresponded with her for some little time. finally i heard that her parents were objecting and i told her that we must discontinue our correspondence. she refused to act upon my advice and insisted upon communicating with me once or twice a week. i answered her letters with the result that we became engaged. but my friend fate again came upon the scene and exercised his authority. i left "the rivals" tour with a heavy heart, for several reasons. i had signed a contract for a sixteen weeks' tour in australia. many wondered why. i sent out the rumor that it was to see the country and to further my artistic desires. the real reason? i was running away from a woman. cowardly? well, let's reason it out. briefly the young lady from kentucky and i met many times after our first interview and a friendship sprang up that soon ripened into love. i saw a way of releasing myself from my second marriage. the lady who bore my name accepted a large sum of money and allowed me to procede. my plans were all laid. i brought suit in a town in lower california. but now a friend of the kentucky young lady warned me against proceeding and met me in louisville. she told me that my fiancee had informed her parents of her intentions and they were furious, had entered all sorts of protests and threatened even violence. i listened very quietly, waiting to learn my fiancee's attitude. she was determined and defiant and meant to go through. i told her friend that i could readily understand the attitude of the young lady's family and endorsed it. what did they know of me except through the newspapers? i should not care to entrust my daughter or sister to the keeping of a man with my unsavory reputation. i promised then and there that i would endeavor to break the engagement and her friend left very much delighted. i took the matter up with the young lady, but she refused absolutely to annul the agreement. she even threatened to leave her home and join me. of course i soon argued her out of that determination. but the most she agreed to was to wait until such time as i should be free. i had determined upon my course. by various means i had fathomed the whole situation. she was the favorite daughter of a very large family. her father, passed beyond the eighties, fairly worshipped her. her brother simply idolized her. was it fair to break up this happy home? i could only answer my own question negatively. i sent for one of the members of the family. he came, unknown to her, and i suggested that i go at once to europe and remain there for a year. "that won't do," he said. "she will follow you. we can do nothing with her at home; she is a determined woman and has made up her mind." while talking i thought of an offer i had received for an australian tour and excusing myself i went to the telegraph office. presently i came back with a copy of a wire to george musgrove which i had just sent to new york. it read: "accept australian terms. open june twenty-fifth. if successful will continue to india, south africa and london." "will that satisfy you and the members of your family?" i asked. "come and have a drink!" he replied and over an apple toddy informed me that i was a good fellow. he took the next train for lexington leaving me alone at the galt house bar with my thoughts and an apple toddy! ahead i saw only a trip of ten thousand miles to an unknown country, which i had no desire to visit, and a divorce procedure under way that had cost me thousands to bring about. i was about to leave friends, family and a woman who was sure to loathe my name when she heard of my act--and all for what? it was simply to appease the transient sorrow of a family too selfish to allow their offspring to obey the dictates of her own honest heart. they had no thought of her anguish, her future and as for me--of what matter my end? the profligate could go on his way destroying more homes to build one of his own, take a journey into other lands in quest of more victims, etc! if i had only been more selfish, what a different life mine would have been! not that i am ashamed of any act of my past, but the impressions i have unwittingly made would never have been made; my inclinations would have been established; my true motives known to the world, and children, perhaps, be born to endorse my attitude toward mankind! fate said "no," and i began my journey to the antipodes, leaving as a legacy to the kentucky woman--a lie! fifteen years later we met in new york. we drove through central park and i told her the truth. when i had finished she said nothing; for almost an hour we drove in silence. she then turned to me and simply replied, "well i've waited all these years to prove what i thought was true. it is over now and i presume we both are happy." are we? i wonder! it was poe who wrote annabel lee:-- the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of my beautiful annabel lee. it is a strange world. the young lady married some few years ago. i hope she is happy; she deserves to be. _chapter xlix_ the confessional happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call to-day his own; he, who, secure within, can say: "tomorrow, do thy worst, for i have lived to-day!" come fair or foul, or rain or shine. the joys i have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine! not heaven itself upon the past has power, but what has been, has been, and i have had my hour.--john dryden i have-- been addicted to the use of alcoholic stimulants--but always with distinguished and worthy companions; deserted home and fireside, always by request, bought and dearly paid for; lied--to myself--for recreation; cheated--the undertaker; deceived--only "yours truly;" been a reveler--during the day, always too busy at night; been a gambler--on the green; a rambler--on the nod; an actor--on the job; a hypocrite?--no, by god! the shubert theatres and carnegie libraries are running a dead heat in an earnest endeavor to perpetuate their respective names. what sublime egotism and how humorous! a race between a scotchman and a jew! now if only a new england yankee could be persuaded to enter the race i would back him to win! he would be sure to erect against every library and theatre a soup house in which to feed the inartistic hungry--and he would get the money, too. * * * * * i have been accused by many of my reviewers of being a casual person, with no reverence for my art; a trifler, unreliable, never taking myself seriously. to all of which i plead guilty. i am casual; i never found it necessary to plod. i have little reverence for the art that has never played fair with me. i had to play in london to discover that i was an artist. a trifler? yes--when circumstances compelled me to associate with pin-headed critics. and why should i take myself seriously when nobody else does? mind you, when i say i plead guilty that does not signify that i am. many a man has pleaded guilty to save himself from the hangman's noose, being assured that by so doing he will receive life imprisonment. if after a perusal of the itinerary that i have written in this book of thirty-nine years before the public, in which i prove that i have run the gamut from an end man in a minstrel show to shylock in "the merchant of venice" anyone pronounces me guilty i am willing to abide by his verdict. but none will deny that i have worked--worked hard--and enjoyed it! * * * * * the three saddest events in my life:-- the burial of my son. the death of eliza weathersby. inspecting her majesty's theatre, london, with sir henry irving under the guidance of beerbohm tree, then the lessee and manager! the three happiest events:-- the birth of my son. the presentation of a loving cup to me by the lambs club. my first performance in "the merchant of venice." * * * * * i earnestly beseech my readers, particularly the professional critics to whom i pay my respects later, not to misconstrue my motives nor consider any of my references as personal. they are simply mild protests at the methods employed of featuring my professional and private lives, particularly the latter. for years i have been misrepresented, at times assailed, brutally assaulted. i am not defending any real act that has ever been exploited; my principal objection is that the real bad in me has never been discovered! only the supposed errors and little idiosyncrasies are all they have endeavored to circulate. what has been printed is puerile and worthy only of contempt. i am really capable of far more devilish accomplishments than those with which they have credited me, but they are apparent only to my intimate friends who know my tremendous capacity for wrong-doing! conscious of my alleged proclivities i find supreme consolation in knowing a dear old lady living in boston who is proof against the accusations made against me. really she does not believe them. for years i have been the recipient twice a week of just such epistles as this, my latest love letter:-- my own darling son: we were both very very happy to get your dear letter this morning, yet sorry to hear you are suffering with sciatica and rheumatism, i do hope the next letter we get, you will be able to walk with a cane; very thankful you are not having but very little pain in the back. i know dear that you dont believe in christian science yet i feel it is helping us all and if mother is happy in that belief, i know you wont mind me writing this to you. i've prayed night and day your back would heal and your legs would grow stronger every day, and i really believe my prayers have helped you; now i am going to work hard night and day for you to get rid of sciatica and rheumatism, and tell me in your next letter if you are getting all over your illness, and those weak nerves, even if you dont believe in c. s. i've just read this to dad, he says, tell nat his mother is crazy. give miss moreland my fond love and all good wishes for her kindness to our darling, god bless her, tell her i often think of her and hope i may see her soon, and tell her how very grateful i am and thank her over and over again, dont know what you would have done without her, through all your terrible sufferings. dad has written you all the news which isn't very much. i am able to get around and waiting to get stronger to go out. dad joins in sending our fond love with kisses god bless you may you improve every day rapidly, and soon be ready for business and enjoy perfect health and great success in your new part--with all the happiness there is, is ever my constant and silent prayers always for our darling son. from your ever loving and affectionate mother c. r. goodwin [illustration: mrs. n. c. goodwin, sr. _a dear old lady living in boston_] _chapter l_ san francisco after touring the rural towns in "in mizzoura," i opened at the baldwin theatre, san francisco, june, . it was then that i discovered that san francisco stands alone among the cities of the world. it is indeed a strange place. the coolest time of the year and by far the pleasantest is during the summer months and yet many of the inhabitants go east, to swelter in new york or at the hotter sea shores. i know of no more delightful city in america during june, july and august than san francisco. but everyone who can afford it packs up and leaves! this of course has a tendency to affect the business of the theatres, particularly the high-priced ones. dear old "mizzoura!" how i love the play and my character, jim radburn! my company, organized for australia, comprised the following people:--william ingersoll, fraser coulter, clarence handysides, neil o'brien, h. c. woodthorp, louis payne (whom i predict will become an excellent character actor some day), arthur hoops, blanche walsh, estelle mortimer, emily melville and the misses usner and browning. the play went exceedingly well and it was pronounced a big hit. we retired from our labors quite contented for it was really a meritorious performance. barring a little nervousness on the part of some of the ladies and gentlemen who were new in their characters we gave a splendid ensemble. by the way, what an awful thing is this nervousness on the first night! the older the artist the more intense is the suffering. you, dear public, who sit in silent judgment upon the poor player on his initial performance, know nothing of the anguish going on behind the curtain. you do not see the blanched faces that no grease-paint yet invented can conceal nor hear the whispered ejaculations of us all, fearful of our finish and sick with anxiety for our brothers and sisters in art who are experiencing the same torture! everything is forgotten save the result of those awful three or four hours. if you only knew what your verdict meant i tell you, gentle reader, you would be less harsh in your judgment of us. think of the many, many people who are interested in your verdict, the many whose very life and sustenance depend upon your words. think of the amount of toil involved in the production of a new play. first comes the evolution of a plot. and this is but the beginning of the author's work. for him it is toil, toil, toil. then comes his fearful ordeal of reading his work to the actor-manager for whom it was written. perhaps his future depends upon it--his destiny! next comes the selection of the cast to perform the work. i regret to state that in this era versatility is lacking because of the absence of fine stock companies. we actor-managers are forced to select actors and actresses who are fitted only physically, mentally (and sometimes socially) for the respective rôles. this is shocking when one considers the art seriously. however, such is the case, and we "luxuries" must accept the inevitable. after the cast has been selected comes another reading of the play--another ordeal for the author. then begin the rehearsals which last for many weeks and the invention of stage business, a technical term which means pantomime, facial expression, gesticulation, everything pertaining to the performance save the speaking of lines. this is a very powerful, if not the factor in the success of a play. during the long hours of rehearsal one must be on the alert for everything, constantly changing here and there, putting new lines in, cutting others out, changing business (stage managers as a rule are most vacillating and unless particularly gifted prone to forget to-day what they invented yesterday). at the finish we go home and study! it is generally midnight before the actor gets this opportunity! he studies his lines, say, until four. then he retires and sleeps until about nine, if he can! he must be in the theatre for the ten o'clock call to rehearse what he has studied at home. i do not believe in studying one's part during waits at a rehearsal. your lines lose their value unless you understand the meaning that prompts the speaking. hang around the wings during your waits, you young thespian. watch the older ones and you will absorb more knowledge of your profession in one week than in a season of studying during rehearsal. after the company is perfect in lines, business, etc., the announcement is made for the first night's performance. i have not mentioned the mechanical portion of the enterprise and i wish that i could skip it, but i must not. i am against all realism and mechanism in art, but as some of our worthy english cousins have inaugurated these so-called attributes i accept them. this, gentle reader, is part of what a first night means. think of what we all go through. think of the many anxious hearts that are waiting at home for your verdict--the mother, brother, sister, sweetheart, wife, friend. think of this, you men-about-town, who, when an act is over, confuse it with your bad dinner. think of it, gentle (?) critic, and if you can't speak well of us at least be courteous. think of it, you, who have no comprehension beyond the roof gardens of new york! what devastators of art! think of it, you, who consider the theatre a place for mere diversion! think of it, you, who never divorce the actor from his character! be kind and patient. so much depends upon you. remember we are doing our best. don't shatter our little houses or our hopes! to do so is so easy! * * * * * but we were speaking of san francisco! from the opening performance of "mizzoura" the manager of the theatre, mr. bauvier, was delighted. he told my representative that it was a great success and said, "why, by thursday goodwin won't be able to get them in!" he was quite right--i wasn't! thursday night a tranquil mob avoided the baldwin theatre. rows of red plush chairs yawned eloquently. perhaps yours truly was the cause of this. something was the cause. maybe the transition from broadcloth to homespun shocked the san francisco public! it could not have been the play. ruskin classified paintings into three orders and ranks least of all those which represent the passions and events of ordinary life. perhaps the enlightened public of san francisco agrees with ruskin. i don't. i want the mirror held up to nature even though it is bespattered with a little wholesome mud. jim radburn is a little man with red hair. he is dramatic, not theatrical. but san francisco asked, "how can a man be a hero and have red hair?" the public will never divorce the individual from the character portrayed. it has been my great battle for years to endeavor to persuade the public to realize that it must disassociate the two. banish the man and woman artist you meet in every day life and absorb the characters of the parts which they are portraying. then we shall stand side by side in art with any country. i am very glad to say that i see development every day in the right direction, particularly in my own little efforts. if i succeed in piercing the tissue that separates laughter from tears who is so narrow as to grudge me the modest rank i hope to attain in the realms of dramatic art? this talk of mediocre business in san francisco recalls a story told of the late william manning, one of the cleverest of all ethiopian comedians. he had arrived at the most critical period in his career, poor and in ill health. but he procured a backer and took out a company of minstrels. the trip proved disastrous and they were about to close. but manning bore his losses with great fortitude and humorous philosophy. one morning, after a wretched house the previous evening, he chanced to run across a professional rival of his, but socially a great friend, billy emerson. they exchanged salutations. emerson at this time was at the zenith of his fame and quite wealthy. it took but a few moments for the epigrammatic manning to acquaint the successful african impresario, emerson, of his financial condition. to quote a rialto expression, "he touched and fetched!"--meaning, he solicited financial aid and his request was granted. as manning stalked away, his face wreathed in smiles, which actually seemed to reflect their rays on the tall silk hat which always adorned the minstrel irrespective of his bank account, emerson called after him, "say, by the way, bill, where do you play to-night?" manning, after feeling in his vest pocket to reassure himself that emerson had really given him $ , replied: "now we play albany. if i had not met you we should have spent the summer here!" "we play there two nights after you," said emerson. "will you announce us to the public from the stage?" "yes, i will--if he stays," replied manning. _chapter li_ antony (?) and cleopatra san francisco visitors must be very careful never by any chance to abbreviate and call the city 'frisco. the inhabitants object most strenuously if you take such a liberty. we were treated royally in a social way in san francisco. our performance never received such praise, press and public being alike most gracious. we were fêted, banqueted, ridden, driven, etc. in fact, those who knew of our presence made ample amends for those who knew not where we were! that small part of the public which came to see us seemed aware of our loneliness, and endeavored to lighten our heavy hearts by hearty manifestations of approval! i had the pleasure of being the honored guest at a supper given to me by that group of variously gifted men who have banded together and call themselves the bohemian club. what a royal set! how clever! one must ever be ready with a quick reply or chaos will surely follow. mr. peter robinson of "the chronicle" was the chairman on this occasion and with the assistance of sixty or seventy gentlemen did much toward alleviating the sorrow i naturally felt at leaving my country and my friends for the wilds of australia. they presented me with a water-colored caricature of myself with the body of a lamb (the lamb symbolizing the lambs club). i was being entertained by a huge owl (the symbol of the bohemian club). it was a very quaint and most artistic picture and i prize it highly. [illustration: how much a lamb i was i didn't know--then!] mr. tim frawley, once a member of my company and at that time a most successful manager, also was most kind and generous to me. he gave me a supper at the same club the tuesday previous to my sailing. the table was magnificently arranged. huge banks of sweet peas adorned the center of the table. intermingled were variously colored carnations and california wild flowers. toy balloons were suspended. they were hung with red tape to which were attached little american flags, the whole held in place on the table by a delicate bronze anchor suggesting hope (i suppose). these decorations shown in a soft red light made a picture as perfect as it was harmonious. at mr. frawley's left sat the stately, majestic, juno-like maxine elliott, one of the most beautiful women whom i had ever seen, her raven black hair and eyes in delightful contrast to the red hues that formed an aureole, as it were, above her head. there she sat, totally unconscious of the appetites she was destroying, absorbing the delicate little compliments paid her by that prince of good fellows, john drew. how i chafed at the etiquette which prohibited my being at her side! next to her sat the tranquil herbert kelcey and the dainty piece of bisque, effie shannon. down the line sat the radiant and sunny gladys wallis, near her the gracious and emotional blanche bates, farther down the sweet and winsome gertrude elliott. it was a bevy of beauty one rarely sees. at my right sat one of the brightest women i have ever met and as beautiful as she is talented (a rare combination). she had first come to my attention a few weeks previous while i was on my way to san francisco, the other members of my company who had been engaged by my manager, mr. george b. mcclellan, having preceded me. my strenuous tour with the "all rivals" cast had been too much for me. i think i was suffering from fatty degeneration of the art! in any event i found my only amusement in the local dailies along the line and when the denver "post" came aboard the train i fairly devoured it. on the page devoted to the theatres i was amazed to find a roast of maxine elliott (whom i had met casually three years before). it was written in a most artistic manner in excellent english. it was unkind and cruel--but clever. altogether it was one of the most scathing denunciations i ever saw in print. it was signed alice rix. she was my dinner companion. i noticed that she and maxine exchanged more than one sharp glance but neither one showed any outward signs of having anything more in common than superficial things. once or twice maxine even smiled in her direction! clever maxine, tactful even in her respectable poverty! jimmie swinnerton, the cartoonist, presented me with a quaint drawing of a kangaroo on its hind legs, beaming with laughter and bidding me "welcome to australia." i value this picture very highly--and the autographs which were written on it that night. another newspaper man, ashton stevens, afforded us a treat in the shape of producing music out of a banjo! the way he played classical music on that instrument was marvelous. this came at the tail end of the evening and much to my sorrow the party broke up then and there--at a. m. thursday, june , , marked our start for australia on the good ship _alameda_, captain van otterendorf commanding. at the pier to bid us bon voyage were all those who had been at the supper on tuesday, all of the frawley company, several personal friends and many of my professional brothers and sisters who were employed at the various theatres (or were willing to be!). they had prepared a surprise which quite unnerved me. they all bade me goodby and said all manner of nice things. as one by one they grasped my hand and said _farewell_ a great lump jumped up into my throat and it would have taken but a slight suggestion or urging on anybody's part for me to have followed them all back down the gang-plank! i bit my lips to keep back the tears. for the first time i realized what a bold responsibility i had assumed in taking a company of players ten thousand miles away from home! besides, i was leaving all that was near and dear to me behind. "would we ever meet again?" i wondered. but this was no time for pessimism. so i parted from my dear friends and determined to accept whatever fate had in store for me. my depression was soon turned to great joy. the boys had chartered a tug, quietly trailed behind us and after we had gone out into the bay for about half a mile they suddenly appeared on the port side only a few feet from us. we could easily talk to one another from our respective decks. on the side of the tug was suddenly hung a huge canvas on which were painted in large, black letters the words, "good luck to nat!" it made me feel proud and happy, i can tell you! they cheered and chattered and we followed suit. the little craft kept up with us until the sea and wind prohibited their going further. then, with a pipe from the little whistle of the tug, to which the captain of the _alameda_ responded, she turned her bow towards the city as we sped silently and swiftly toward the antipodes. my leading lady at this time was miss blanche walsh who was engaged only for the australian tour. while contemplating the fair maxine the evening of the banquet it suddenly struck me what a fine leading woman she would be for my organization! everybody told me she was an extremely poor actress, but i made up my mind to find out for myself. as i looked at her i thought that surely a woman of so much charm and beauty who spoke english so purely could be taught. that evening i went home and told my business manager, mcclellan, of my determination. "why, you're crazy!" he shouted. "she's beautiful to look at, but she can't act; she hasn't the emotion of an oyster! blanche bates is playing rings around her in frawley's company! get bates if you can, but pass up elliott! read what the san francisco papers say about her! go to sleep and in the morning i'll try to engage blanche bates for you!" i only wish i had followed his advice, but fate was peeping over my ramparts! and he caused me to pass a very restless night! dressing in my best regalia the next morning i called upon miss elliott at the baldwin hotel. in a few moments i was ushered into her presence and quickly told her of my purpose. it appeared to appeal to her, but there were several barriers in the way. she was about to sign with harry miner and joseph brooks for the following season. i soon learned that that part of it could be easily arranged as no documents were signed nor material secured. her little sister gertrude must also be looked after. i said i would engage her whole family if she so desired. as i look back to that little impromptu business talk i can see the demure, simple, intelligent gertrude elliott, whose fawn-like, penetrating eyes and shell-like ears drank in every word of our conversation. i recall the awe with which she reviewed every act and speech of her beautiful sister! [illustration: an australian greeting can't touch its farewell!] best of all i can realize, irrespective of all the sorrow which that interview cost me in after years, that it was the cause of presenting to the american and english public one of the sweetest actresses that the world has ever known and the bringing into the world three of the most beautiful children with which a mother was ever blessed! had it not been for that interview gertrude would never have met forbes-robertson, whose marriage to gertrude elliott has proven a blessing to both and caused the sun to shine resplendently when focused upon those two loving hearts. fate plays pranks with us all and shifts about to suit its pleasure. why did he concentrate his force upon one sister at that interview and demand obedience? there were two prizes in that room for me to select. as usual i drew the blank! it took me but a short time to consummate my arrangements and at three o'clock i returned with the contracts. one was for $ and one for $ a week. thus maxine and gertrude elliott were engaged for three years as members of my organization. i had seen neither on the stage. i simply took a chance, despite all the uncomplimentary expressions i had heard regarding their want of abilities, especially maxine's. that night i saw them act and i never was more surprised in my life. i saw and heard two women with so much culture that they were lost in their environment. no attention was paid to their superb diction nor to the refinement of their manner. all of it was lost upon the insular, low-browed audience to which they were playing and of course it was overlooked by the management! i came home in ecstasy and told mcclellan that i had found a gold mine. when i told him of part of what i had accomplished he sat bolt upright in bed and upbraided me unmercifully, ending with, "you ---- ---- fool! you're going away from one woman only to fall in love with another! you haven't a chance, though, for she and frank worthing are head over heels in love with each other!" "i don't give a d--n," i replied cheerfully. "i will engage him too if he'll come to australia! he's a fine actor!" "what?" yelled mac. "you haven't engaged her for australia, have you?" "sure, mike," i replied. "well," said he, "i always thought you were crazy; now i know it! i'll bet you a thousand dollars that neither of them will come!" "you're on," i said. "that is, i'll bet you one will come. gertrude gave me her word." "oh go have your head examined," growled mac as he covered his face and rolled over into slumberland, leaving me alone. and all night long fate paced up and down outside my door in the palace hotel plotting my future! had i not made those two engagements the pages of history would have been greatly changed. had the little kentucky family held aloof there would have been no maxine elliott theatre in new york; forbes-robertson would never have met the sweet gertrude; the latter would never have been launched as a star; maxine would not now be a retired actress, rich and famous; clyde fitch's career would have been postponed and the avenues of my poor life would have been broader and less clogged with weeds. _chapter lii_ honolulu and samoa after my friends had left me i gave one last longing look at the cliff house, the scene of many happy hours, and wended my way to the stateroom which i was to occupy for the next four weeks. i loathe ocean travel and did not look forward to my trip with much pleasure. the company came to me after a bit and we passed the afternoon planning what we would do to while away the hours of the voyage. louis payne had ingratiated himself with a confiding young lady who was on her way to honolulu to join her fiancee. before p. m. it looked bad for the waiting-to-be-bridegroom. payne was reading her sonnets which evidently appealed to her. neil o'brien, dear old neil, wrote a poem suggestive of the flirtation. aside from this diversion the first few days were a trifle monotonous after the strenuous events of the preceding five weeks. but then came a splendid contrast. as we entered honolulu harbor a new colored water seemed to greet us. a softer sky than i had ever seen hung over the little picturesque city. the sea resembled a huge flat sapphire. to the right was a range of devastated mountains, the remnants of pre-historic days. the little city is a veritable paradise and as one rides into the country it seems to grow more and more beautiful. we rode seven miles to the summit of mt. pali (meaning precipice). we could see about and down for miles. it was a most uncanny sight. the brocken scene in faust and yellowstone park pale into insignificance by comparison. relics of volcanoes, thousands and thousands of years old, cliffs, mountains of rocks, precipices and barren tracts of land meet you on every side. this spot is quite interesting in a historical way. for here it was that king kamehameha came over from oahu and conquered the hawaiians. then he depopulated the island. he landed at the entrance to the harbor and drove the natives on and on until they reached mt. pali. rather than surrender or through fear they jumped into the horrible abyss. he must have been some fighter. we remained at honolulu about sixteen hours, rode all about the town and dined at the sans souci, a delightful little place about four miles out. before dining we enjoyed a bath in the sea. the temperature of the water ranges all the year round from seventy-five to eighty. we also enjoyed shooting the rapids, a most fascinating sport. you wade and swim out against the tide for five hundred yards. a stalwart native pushes your tiny canoe in front of him. when you arrive at a given point you get into the canoe, head toward the shore and the terrific current hurls you back to the beach. it is exciting. very often you are pitched into the sea but you don't mind as the water is shallow and you are in your bathing suit. when i look back on honolulu after all these years i know it is one of the most glorious spots on earth; but had i penned these lines on the ground i'm afraid i'd have been less complimentary. not that the harbor and landscape were not wondrous in their beauty in every direction as far as one could see, but--before we ever reached our hotel we encountered myriads of mosquitoes, all of which pests seemed to be bent on the destruction of my left eye! in no time it was swollen tight shut. a native doctor attended me, pouring something suggesting vitriol--into the wrong eye! "great scott!" i yelled. "there goes my good eye. why didn't you put it in the bad eye? you know that's gone for good anyway." the hawaiian physician only smiled, charged me ten dollars and went his way after assuring me that i'd be "all right in no time." before i did recover arthur hoops came along. "governor," said he, "why don't you write about this beautiful place in your new book?" "how can i write about a place when i can't see?" i queried indignantly. it's great to leave honolulu. the whole city bids you goodby. we were covered with flowers when we reached the deck of our ship the next day and as we backed out of the dock their band played aloha, their goodby song. seven days later, july , to be exact, land appeared on the horizon which the skipper informed us was apia, samoa. it was about four o'clock in the afternoon when i was awakened from my slumbers to catch a view of the coveted land. my attention was divided contemplating the horizon and looking back at the wake of the steamer. as we approached the entrance to the harbor we were reminded very much of honolulu. samoa however, is protected on each side by two peninsulas projecting far out into the sea. as one approaches land one notices the ground is covered with much vegetation. cocoanut trees are in abundance. tiny specks appear as one draws nearer. these soon develop into delightful little huts and homes of modern architecture, occupied by consuls and men with diplomatic positions. this harbor has a history. once it was the scene of a tremendous hurricane which caught several ships at anchor in the bay and blew them on the rocks. one english ship perished with all on board as she vainly endeavored to turn her bow towards the storm. the crew went down to davy jones's locker with the ship's band playing rule, britannia! on the rocks we saw a monument to the lost of this catastrophe in the shape of a wrecked german man-of-war. as we approached the shore swarms of natives came rowing out to meet us. what splendid specimens of manhood they were! perfectly formed they were apparently quite unconscious of their power and as gentle as they were strong. i noticed one strapping fellow standing in the bow of his boat beckoning me to join him. as the sun shone upon his copper colored skin he seemed a monarch even in his semi-nudity and in barbaric splendor he suggested othello. with the aid of two assistants othello soon landed us on the sands of sunny samoa. here we were at once surrounded by a swarm of natives who persuaded us to purchase fans, beads, rings, wooden canoes, corals, shells and a score of other things in which the island abounds. these articles are secured with the least possible labor for the true samoan considers it _infra dig_ to labor long and is firmly convinced that it is a very poor world that won't support one race of gentlemen. i am sorry to say the women do not appeal to one as much as the men. they are small of stature and run to fat. they take but little time in arranging their toilet for the day and seldom keep their men friends waiting when asked to a party or a ball, their raiment consisting mostly of beads! we spent but little time among the natives as we were anxious to visit the home of robert louis stevenson. we finally succeeded in procuring a conveyance, a small cart and pony, and were soon on our way to his home. after two miles the road turned into a smaller one and there a sign board, cleanly white-washed, told us in the samoan tongue that we were nearing the abode of the great romancer. the sign, translated, told all travellers that the road was built by the samoans as a monument to their beloved friend. at the end of the road we came upon a locked gate. we vaulted over and in a few minutes we came upon a house, flat, but of rather huge dimensions. as we approached the veranda a lady, of small stature, dressed in a mother hubbard, in bare feet, came graciously forward to meet us. in a moment i recognized her. her face was keen and intelligent and once must have been beautiful. she was pale, thoughtful, dignified and sad. hers was the right kind of face! it stamped her as the wife of the man who has made the world marvel at his wondrous imagination. we made ourselves known and were received most hospitably. she seemed glad to welcome anglo-saxons. i told her the news of mckinley's nomination and the sad tidings of the death of kate field, her life-long friend. she prepared a luncheon for us (which did not quite suit my fancy, but i was too polite to refuse it). it was some kind of a mushy mixture, requiring the use of a mortar and pestle, which the natives manipulate quite skillfully. it consisted of several ingredients, one of which i thought was----never mind! that was soon over, thank the lord, and mrs. stevenson showed us the house. we reveled in r. l.'s study which was filled with many original prints, books, emblems and gifts of every description. in this room he passed away one afternoon while giving a reception to the natives who loved him dearly. while bestowing his hospitality he complained of a pain in his side and, excusing himself to his guests, started for his chamber. his wife, noticing his deathly pallor, rushed to his assistance. (mrs. stevenson was explicit in her description.) "give them my compliments," he said to her as she half carried him toward his bedroom. "tell them i'm a trifle ill, but we will all be together a week from to-night." and he waved an adieu and tried to hide the pain that racked his body. "it's nothing," he kept repeating to his wife, "it will soon pass away." but just as he entered his bedroom words failed him; he could only smile, grasp her hand and sink back onto the bed. thus passed the soul of one of the dearest men and one of the most brilliant. he suffered but he uttered no complaint. he had a kindly word even for savages. now his body lies at the top of a huge mountain and if you look steadily you can almost outline the form as if it were lying on some great catafalque. it is most difficult of access; it took the natives two days and nights to place him on his bed of flowers. but to this day many of the sturdier ones make the toilsome climb and pay homage to the man they call their "dear master." there alone he lies, as far as possible away from this plaything called earth. huge trees stand like silent sentinels sheltering him from wind and rain. his companions are the little birds who sing his praises through all the hours of the day and night. above the moon and stars dance with joy and i can fairly hear the jolly old moon say, "bobby, we've got you at last!" and each star is whispering as it twinkles along, "bobby has come, bobby has come!" rest on, robert, until eternity has grown gray. if we worshipped you down here, what must they be doing for you now? the world is jealous. we have only your memory. they have your soul. tears streamed down my face as i bade goodby to mrs. stevenson. it was all very sad, but i wouldn't have missed it for the crown the bourbons lost. by midnight we were back on board and off to auckland. we arrived seven days later after a most perilous journey. i have never seen such storms as we encountered. the pacific can pick up more trouble than two atlantic oceans. during the entire seven days we were thrown from one side of the ship to the other with our trunks, hat boxes and valises. we finally had to tie them down. it took two "ordinary" seamen to open a handbag! captain van otterendorf, who apparently had taken a fancy to me, one day after we were compelled to heave to and lie in the trough of the sea, called me to his chart room. "my tear goodvin," he said, "ve are in a most precarious position. ve haf no more coal in de bunkers and ve are quietly drifting on to de rocks vich are only about two hundred miles to de vest. i vish ve were farder avay from de land." i said, "i don't." he said, "vell, i am now burning de live stock for fuel and we vill put out de fires in about an hour and hoist de mainsail." "why didn't you do this two days ago and save the coal?" i asked. "i didn't know how much ve started away from samoa vith until the purser yust told me," he replied. i looked at him. "what do you tell me all this for? don't you think i am frightened enough without this information?" he replied, "vell, i like you. no one yet knows vat vill take place on de ocean and ve can only hope for de best." he pulled out a huge bottle of scotch whiskey from somewhere and i drank a goblet and in about an hour i didn't care whether the ship sank or not. luckily the next day the storm abated. we arrived at harbor of sydney. _chapter liii_ publicity--its results before arranging my australian tour (while i was engaged to the kentucky lady) i had planned to obtain a divorce in california by an understanding with the second mrs. goodwin from whom i was then legally separated. she gave her consent for a cash payment of twenty thousand dollars. (wives came high even in those days!) when i decided to call off the engagement with the kentucky lady the divorce was nearly consummated and on my arrival at san francisco my attorneys informed me that everything was "o. k." if i came through with the twenty thousand i would be free in forty-eight hours! i was so dejected i did not care whether i was free or not and so informed my lawyers. they told me that they had worked hard over the case, that there would be no publicity (the suit was brought in a remote town in lower california) and that i would better pay the money and get it over. i complied with their arguments and sailed away feeling as blue as the waters beneath me. again fate was quietly weaving his web. at the very moment that i had secured my freedom, after months of preparation, maxine elliott filed a suit for her divorce. neither of us knew of the other's intention until the american papers came, eight weeks later, with pages, not columns, devoted to the arch-conspiracy formed by us at san francisco! i had "stolen" miss elliott away from frawley, "deserted" my poor, confiding (twenty-thousand-dollar) wife. miss elliott and i had obtained our divorces in order to marry in australia! it was very difficult to inform the world ten thousand miles away that we very innocently signed a business contract without any thought of matrimony. but the fact of our obtaining divorces at the same time, hers following mine by only four weeks, was proof positive! i shall never forget the day max and gertrude came to my room in the hotel in sydney with tears streaming down their faces. they were literally buried in newspapers which they threw on the tables, chairs and bed. in them were pictures of us all and glaring headlines of a most sensational character. the girls upbraided me for not telling them that i was seeking a divorce. i told them i had forgotten all about it until my arrival in san francisco and in my turn asked max why she didn't let me know that she was endeavoring to secure her freedom? she answered that it was nobody's business, particularly not mine. i agreed with her and suggested that the best thing to do was to say nothing and let matters take their course. i succeeded in assuaging her grief and we confined ourselves to writing denials to our friends in america. as for our contemplated plunge into matrimony gertrude asked, "why deny that? one never knows what may occur and you two do certainly seem to get along together." that got a laugh and we decided not to deny the possibility. during our australian tour we were very much together, the three of us, but only in a professional and social way. expressions of love never passed between maxine and me then--and very few in after life! well, we finished the australian tour and came back to america, only to be met with more severe and even more vilifying articles. they were so cruel, untrue and personal that i very foolishly replied to one or two of the scorpion writers, which resulted in the article i shall quote later on written by the hon. henry watterson, and published in the louisville "courier journal." i think that even then we would not have married if it had not been for the reports circulated by three female members of my australian company; one, an old lady who had once been a prima donna in an opera company, another, a young lady whom i discharged in australia for being photographed nude and another lady who considered that miss elliott had usurped her position in my company. two of these ladies perjured themselves in affidavits. one of them swore that miss elliott and i had communicating cabins on the ship coming back, also communicating rooms at honolulu. the columns of most of the dailies contained articles not quite as flagrant as the above accusations, but enough to establish a liaison between us and to ruin the reputation of any woman. having dear gertrude to prove our alibis we were conscious of having committed no crime and still allowed matters to take their course. i always had great respect for maxine's brain and her splendid opinions regarding untried plays. had it not been for her superlative judgment i should never have produced "an american citizen" or "nathan hale." perhaps she discovered that my rôles in both plays were subservient to hers. i later found that the lady was as discerning as she was discriminating. however, both plays were produced with much success. we both scored, i making base hits, she, home runs. i first printed her name featured as supporting me, but as i became enamoured of her charms her type gradually became larger until it equaled mine. i think if we had been associated a few years longer my name would have been up as her leading support! [illustration: in an american citizen _if we had been associated a few years longer my name would have been up as her leading support!_] _chapter liv_ in the land of the kangaroo we were to have opened our australian engagement in sydney--but we didn't. at the dock, awaiting us, was james c. williamson, then and until his death the magnate of the antipodes in theatrical affairs. i had known him back in new york in the eighties when he was just "jimmy." i had played under his management and had always found him a likable, fair-minded man. we were to play in australia under the management of williamson and musgrove. mr. george musgrove had made the contract with me before we started. well, as soon as i landed williamson informed me we were not to open in sydney but must go through to melbourne that very night. the sting of this disappointment was largely lessened by our finding on the pier, ready to greet us, two american girls, one of them little sadie mcdonald whom we all loved. poor little sadie mcdonald! how she wanted to go back to god's country! she died before we finished our engagement in australia. that night we went to melbourne was the coldest i ever lived through. it was like a december blizzard without the snow. and the date was july ! forgetting that we were going to a land where the seasons are upside down i had no heavy clothing with me and almost froze. we were billed to open the night of our arrival. in the forenoon i drove about trying to discover some announcements of the fact. what i found would have done injustice to a high school's graduating exercises. then i remembered that williamson had been opposed to my coming. i found him and asked why our attraction had not been billed. "well," replied williamson, "musgrove cabled me to announce you modestly and quietly." "you've complied with the request," i said. "why didn't you say johnny jones was coming? it would have meant just as much. considering the years we've known each other i consider your treatment of me most unfair." musgrove's idea had been that i open in "the prisoner of zenda" and when he found maxine and gertrude elliott were to be in my company he had wired instructions to san francisco to have them measured for costumes and the figures were sent to him in london. williamson consistently objected to my playing "zenda." he thought the play strong enough to do without a star. so it happened, one night in chicago where i was playing "david garrick," that musgrove changed his mind about our opening bill. i held out for "zenda" firmly. but musgrove insisted that no matter what my vehicle i was sure to be a success in australia. in the week he watched my work i put on six different plays and after each one he was more enthusiastic. i couldn't make him realize that i was playing before a public i had grown up with, who came to see me in any play. "in australia," i argued with him, "i shall be a cold proposition hurled at them and i must have the best play possible for my introduction. as the prince in 'zenda' i'm only part of the ensemble surrounded by beautifully gowned women, with splendid male opposing parts, playing a character almost any good actor would succeed in. after 'zenda' i can spring my repertoire with some chance." "you're the best actor i ever saw," replied musgrove. "i know australian audiences and you'll knock 'em dead." i disagreed with him! therefore i changed the terms of our agreement and instead of taking a gamble took fifteen per cent of the gross receipts and a guarantee of so much money weekly. mcclellan signed the documents for me. our opening bill was "a gilded fool." you may imagine my amazement when i found we had a packed house. and it was a most kindly-disposed audience too. every member of the company got a reception on his entrance and i came in for an ovation. the play went especially well, i thought. we went home assured we had made a hit. the papers the next day were fairly enthusiastic, with one exception, and that one criticized us unmercifully. the opening occurred on saturday. monday night's house was $ in our money--and that was the best we did any night in the week until saturday when a change of bill drew another capacity audience. williamson's local manager told me after this second saturday night that we were "all right now." but monday night came and with it a $ house. not until the next saturday night and a change of bill did we do any business, then it was capacity again. i came to the conclusion that melbourne was a one-night stand, to be played only on saturday! this was the story of the whole sixteen weeks i played in australia. the last week in sydney, however, we did do a trifle over $ , with "an american citizen," its first production on any stage. personally i had a bully time, particularly on the race courses where i spent most of my time. we played only sydney, melbourne and adelaide. our business in adelaide was wretched but the weather was worse! it was as hot as melbourne was cold. i never suffered so with the heat. i am told that australia has improved. there was plenty of room for improvement! had it not been for the generosity of several bookies i certainly would have had an unhappy four months. williamson was heartless in his treatment of us. i learned from one of his staff that after our first week musgrove cabled, "put goodwin on immediately in 'zenda.'" williamson stalled with musgrove for almost the whole four months. finally when musgrove's ire had been aroused he expressed himself so emphatically in his cables that williamson came to me and asked that i remain an additional ten weeks, appearing in "zenda." before this he had hardly spoken to me. and that very day i had sent dear old george appleton, my personal manager at the time, on a steamship for america to book a tour for me opening in san francisco in november. i listened to williamson's proposition and made no reply. "shall i send you the script to read?" he asked. "jimmie," i replied, "we've been friends a great many years. there was no cause for your brutality towards my company and me. now back of you is the bank of australia. for all the gold that bank contains you couldn't keep me here ten more weeks and i sail for america four weeks from to-day. good afternoon. kindly excuse me. i'm going to the races." and that was the last conversation i ever had with james c. williamson, esquire. an incident of our stay in adelaide may serve to show the mental attitude of your average antipodean. the local manager, one goodi, was very friendly with me and i liked him immensely. he worried over our failure more than i did. one night he met me in the lobby of the theatre almost distracted. "think of these people!" he exclaimed. "they liked mrs. brown potter and kyrle bellew! see what 'a trip to chinatown' is doing, packing 'em in! and an artist like you doing nothing! it's a blooming shame. we haven't a seat sold in advance for to-night's performance. now, don't you think it's wise for me to paper the house?" (to "paper" is to give away tickets.) "do what you like, goodi," i replied. "i'm satisfied." directly opposite the theatre lounging in chairs on the sidewalk was a gang of men, about sixty i should say. they were rather a rough looking lot but i thought they might be human. i suggested we invite them in. goodi approached them. after a moment they silently slouched out of their chairs and shuffled into the lobby in a body. here they gathered into little groups and held a consultation. finally one of them approached goodi and pulling off his cap asked, "it's all right, guv'nor, but what do we get for our time?" one other incident of that australian visit was not so humorous. it happened early in our stay. i had noticed for several days that mcclellan was nervous and ill at ease. finally i asked him to explain. "well," he began haltingly, "i guess i've got to tell you. it'll come out soon enough. i'm broke." "that's all right, george. my guarantee of $ a week gives us a profit of $ . and you have the tickets back to san francisco." "that's it," wailed mcclellan. "i haven't! i haven't even paid for the tickets that brought us over." "how did you get them then?" i asked. "i went to adolph spreckles," he replied, "and on the strength of your name got him to lend me the money and i signed notes for it. and the first one is due to-morrow." i felt like pitching him out of the window. the tickets cost almost $ , ! and i was stung for it! that was the end of george b. mcclellan so far as i was concerned, at least for many years. (finally i made it up with him at a supper in london given by the savage club to the lambs.) i never have thought george meant to do wrong. he simply took a gamble and lost out. it was fortunate for the company that it was i who was the goat. had it not been so most of them would have been stranded in that awful land! as it was i got them all back to san francisco. in the previous chapter i referred casually to my becoming engaged to maxine. it may be well to enlarge a bit. the divorce proceedings instituted by my attorneys against nella baker pease had been quite forgotten by me. it was not until we had been in australia four weeks that it was called to my attention and then as i have already described. the day it happened had been an especially profitable one for me at the track and i came back to the hotel buoyant and full of good spirits. i remember detached bits of our conversation following the hysterical entrance of maxine and gertrude. "i'll never go back to that beastly country," wailed maxine. "just see what they say about you and me," and she thrust an armful of newspapers at me. "never mind me," i replied. "think of yourself." and when i discovered that that attempt at consolation was no go i added, "why, it will all be dead by the time we get back." maxine was not to be comforted, however. she was sure our arrival in america would result in a fresh outburst of scandal. "maybe it will," i agreed, "but we haven't done any wrong, any harm, so why should we worry?" maxine wrung her hands and sobbed. "we know our behavior has been absolutely right," i urged. "we know," said maxine, "but the world doesn't know." and i confess i could find nothing to say to that. i was rattled. a chicken i had bought on my way home from the track and had put on a spit to roast over my grate fire was a mass of charcoal when i finally discovered it. at dinner i upset a bottle of claret all over the table cloth and spilled a pot of hot tea into gertrude's lap. it was the most inharmonious meal i ever ate. i was rattled! and all the time gertrude said nothing. that is up to the moment that scalding tea hit her. then she let go! "you two people are acting like a couple of fools," she began--succinctly. "there's only one way out of it and you've got to take it." "what is it?" maxine and i asked. "cable america you're engaged and are to be married some time next season." i left the room. at the theatre maxine and i made no reference to gertrude's suggestion. on our return to the hotel i tried to excuse myself from our usual supper. but max, with a merry little twinkle in her eyes, said, "oh come on." "what do you think of gertrude's suggestion?" asked max. "what do _you_ think of it?" i parried. "i'm game," said max. "you're on," said i. and thus began my "romance." _chapter lv_ welcome (!) home the australian sense of humor is peculiar. my last night at sydney, at the end of the five-thousand-dollar-week, i interpolated in my speech of farewell a line from shakespeare, "parting is such sweet sorrow." the audience applauded vociferously! we packed with joyous anticipation. we were going home! after we got out of the theatre i made straight for a little hotel run by a new england woman and gorged myself on baked beans! on the way i ran across arthur hoops and louis payne. "governor," said payne, "if we turn up aboard the ship to-morrow a bit squiffy or with a hold-over, you won't mind, will you?" "go to it," responded i. "i may turn up that way myself." they kept their promise and i nearly kept mine! there were hundreds of people at the pier to see us off. i wondered if they were inspired by feelings of gratitude! it sounded like a courteous farewell but i was never sure. at honolulu we had our first taste of the "welcome home" we were all so fondly counting on. a new theatre had just been finished and a mr. marks, now one of the lessees of the columbia theatre in san francisco, was on the ground making arrangements for its formal opening as agent for the frawley company. [illustration: as bob acres _i gave bob a country dialect_] almost as soon as we docked a dozen gentlemen approached me and asked that i give a performance that night in the new playhouse. i told them it was impossible; our wardrobes and scenery were packed in the hold of the ship; it would be out of the question. "never mind," said they, "go on in your street clothes!" i explained we had no make-up even. my company was scattered all over the island, sight-seeing. "we'll send out a posse and corral them," they insisted. "but how will anyone know we're going to play?" i asked. "we'll call everybody in town on the telephone and tell them," they replied. and they did. and that night, in our street clothes and without make-up, we gave a performance that took in $ , of which i got ninety per cent! it was a nice bit of spending money on the way to san francisco. marks was very indignant. but the gentlemen told him that if he tried to prevent the performance they would cancel the contract with frawley. altogether that stop at honolulu was joyous. and as we sailed out of the harbor the next morning, followed by the strains of aloha from the native band, we were a very happy lot. we were amazed to find a solid jam of humanity waiting on the pier in san francisco. such a greeting had never entered our minds! when we opened the newspapers we found the reason. they were teeming with the most sensational matter concerning our goings on in australia. it was indeed a "welcome home!" we paid as little attention to the scurrilous slanders as possible and prepared for our opening at the baldwin theatre in "an american citizen." as a measure of safety i announced "the rivals" as the bill for the second half of the week. but capacity audiences was the rule during the whole engagement. i was very nervous about doing "the rivals." i knew comparison with jefferson was inevitable. i had caught it in australia for daring to play a rôle made classic by the "dean of the drama" and i feared for my presumption in invading his own bailiwick. i was afraid i could never avoid using jefferson's methods as i had played with him so many times; but i finally hit on the plan of giving bob a country dialect and this made him a very different characterization from jefferson's. i received splendid reviews and one editorial. _chapter lvi_ number three the series of malicious falsehoods concerning maxine and me which were being published daily would have made us fit subjects for the penitentiary had they been true. articles, hideous in their construction, were sent broadcast throughout the country purporting to picture our lives and conduct in the antipodes. (and with what zest did the press of america copy them!) by the time our opening in "an american citizen" arrived we were so nervous we gave a performance fifty per cent below our best. but the next morning we were amazed to discover that we were a great aggregation of actors--maxine and i scoring tremendously! the papers expressed much surprise that she had "improved" so much during her short association with me. poor, deluded critics! never by any possible chance do you differentiate. never do you disassociate the player from his part. a genius playing osric would vanish into obscurity if a duffer were playing hamlet. maxine elliott, be she good or bad, was quite as clever when i first saw her act as the night she opened with me in san francisco. but now she was appearing in a star part, surrounded by a clever company, beautifully gowned and (pardon a little pride) very carefully edited! she had left a dollar aggregation, an extremely good competitor, miss blanche bates (whose acting eclipsed maxine's beauty), and a company of players all acting for individual hits irrespective of the ensemble. she returned a member of an organization noted for its team work whose motto was "one for all and all for one"--and that particular one maxine! she appeared in a character molded to her charm and beauty and supported (!) by a star of twenty years' standing! naturally she scored in such an environment! she would have done as well months before under the same conditions, but the ever wise critic saw an "improvement." was it her acting or the unwholesome notoriety that preceded us that had opened his discerning eyes? i wonder. i sandwiched in "the rivals" with "an american citizen" as a matter of self-protection. max was fairly smothering me in most of the cities we visited! i was shining in a reflected light, her effulgence forcing me back into the shadows. also, and equally annoying to me, questions were beginning to be asked as to our marital intentions. allusions to "beauty and the beast" were not infrequent. happily a few of the critics were respectful and while none could pay homage to my beauty a few allowed that i had not lost the art of acting! this was encouraging and i endeavored to win the fair maxine along those lines. i finally succeeded! but it was some endeavor! i don't remember the date of the marriage. it is extremely difficult for me to remember dates. i know the place, however! it was the hollenden hotel in cleveland. and i know i spent the previous evening with dear dick golden and walter jones and we three jolly bachelors had a bully time! it was a lucky thing that the marriage ceremony was only recovery for me! the boys had put me in no condition to learn a new part! max received two wedding presents--a diamond ring from me and an anonymous letter from some "christian lady" warning her against the "monster" who had lured her into "holy matrimony!" we were very happy--at least i was--for a few months. i made the mistake of introducing her to a few conspicuous, powerful financiers who gave her tips on the stock market (and casual luncheons!). they also gave me tips. mine lost invariably. hers always won. how very strange! as we toured through the country to splendid business i discovered her authority was growing. i was constantly being censured for my grammar. she began to stage-manage my productions without waiting for my suggestions. she complained of my companions whom she found "common." my previous marriages came in for a share of her disapproval. i found this amusing inasmuch as she herself had made a previous plunge; as i had taken one of her family out of a lumber yard and tried to make him an actor; as i had taken a cousin from a picture gallery in boston where she was going blind trying to copy miniatures and made her an actress, and as another member of her family had committed suicide in a disreputable place in san francisco. with this genealogical tree waving in the background she still had the courage to pluck my friends from my garden and call them "vulgar." perhaps they were and are, but they all continue to be my friends! it was during the run of "an american citizen" that the first thought of the disruption of my union with maxine clouded my mind. it is seldom i care to refer to the dead except in a kindly way, but her attitude and that of clyde fitch is sufficient provocation. fitch at this time (in ) was not especially prosperous. two years earlier he had come to me with an idea of making a play out of the story of nathan hale's life. i had told him i thought it an excellent subject and to go ahead. when he finished the play he decided it was beyond my capabilities and submitted it instead to e. h. sothern--who turned it down! then he went to mansfield with the script and again met with no encouragement. from mansfield he peddled "nathan hale" to each of the three frohmans--and they unanimously voted it no good. thus it transpired that i was in no friendly mood when i received the following letter:-- , west fifty-seventh st. oct. , . my dear mr. goodwin, i am just returned to n.y. & i am glad to find you here, at least i shall be glad if you let me read you my new play--"nathan hale"--& dont escape me as you did so successfully in london. if you liked the scheme & story at all, i feel pretty sure you will like the play itself twice as well, & if you had been at the new columbia college the other day when they unveiled a bas relief of _knowlton_--one of my characters--& heard the _tremendous_ enthusiasm at the slightest mention of hale, i think your interest in the play & subject would have immensely increased. i can read it in two hours--or less, you can send me away as soon after i _start_ as you like, if you dont care about it. i've no desire to choke the play down yr throat. all i want you to do is take _one_ chance in it! & right away, as i am back here to _sell this_ play to somebody & dont want to waste time. wont you give me an appointment tomorrow? or the next day? or the next? (any hour you like.) go on! _do!_ yours, clyde fitch i must tell you the girl's part comes out rather important, but i hope you won't mind that. [illustration: maxine elliott _fate's partner_] and this is the gentleman who, a few years later, insisted on the transportation of an entire company from philadelphia to new york because he was too weary to make the trip himself. (the company was rehearsing one of his plays and he insisted on personally supervising it.) even after his supplicating letter i dodged fitch. i didn't like him in the first place and his shabby behavior with "nathan hale" made me disgusted with him. i broke a dozen appointments with him, but finally he cornered me and i had to hear the play. while i knew i could neither look nor suggest the character i did see possibilities for acting and i was sure the rôle of alice adams would fit maxine down to the ground. for these reasons i agreed to produce the play. from that day forward clyde fitch and my wife conspired against me. they exchanged endearing expressions through the mail--aided and abetted by the wife of a chicago dentist who had committed suicide after one of his "best friends" had stolen his wife (who deserted her child to come to new york and aid other women with affinities!). fancy, killing one's self! why not kill her and her paramour? they made a worthy trio! and they finally succeeded in hatching a scheme which developed in maxine's starring alone in a play written for her by fitch called "her own way"--an appropriate title cunningly selected. they launched her as a star (on my money!) and broke up my home! they had to come to me to obtain bookings for a road tour. for putting up the cash i was to get one third of the profits. abe erlanger refused to go in with me for one dollar, insisting that maxine would be an awful flivver on her own. but the play made an instant hit and her success was just as big. could i have possessed even a little bit of clairvoyance i should have then and there bought a ticket to reno! _chapter lvii_ when we were twenty-one and other plays our success with "nathan hale" was tremendous. for maxine it was nothing short of a triumph. and during the season i signed a contract with fitch for another play to follow it. he turned out "the cowboy and the lady." neither max nor i fancied our characters and although we did big business with the play we were most uncomfortable in our rôles. it failed miserably in london--where they recognize the real value of plays! i think it was the summer of (but what difference does it make?) that i met henry v. esmond, the author-actor and a very clever young man. in any event it was in london and at the time of the failure of "the cowboy and the lady." he asked me how i would like a play founded on thackery's poem "when we were twenty-one." i thought the idea immense and told him so. we made a contract for the play on the spot and six weeks later he delivered the manuscript! max and i were both delighted with it. we brought it back with us in the fall but instead of producing it in new york immediately we revived "the cowboy and the lady." poor as that play was it absolutely refused to play to bad business! i kept it on until about the middle of the season and took it off with a nineteen-hundred-dollar-house begging me to keep it going! "when we were twenty-one" made the biggest and the most nearly instantaneous hit of any play i ever produced. it was a gold mine for me. but there is little i could say about it that any of you, dear readers, can't anticipate. i might say only that i never played the rôle i liked best in the play! it was along about this time that i made a production of "the merchant of venice." and it was a production! and, although it was not so advertised, it was as nearly an "all-star" cast as many of the revivals of late years have been--if not more so! for four weeks my characterization of shylock seemed to please the public and certainly attracted large audiences in spite of the fact that the critics in new york roasted my performance to a fare-ye-well. for one reason or another the critics have always resented me except as a comedian! my next production was "the altar of friendship" which had been a failure with john mason in the leading rôle. he had made a great personal success and the play had received splendid notices but the public stayed away. when the late jacob litt consigned the production to the storehouse i opened negotiations with him, bought the property and put it on. it proved to be one of the biggest money-makers maxine and i ever had! but maxine's bee for starring alone came buzzing by and deafened her to the tinkle of the box office receipts. it finally stung me and our professional partnership came to an end. "the altar of friendship" was our last joint vehicle. "the usurper" was my first production after our separation. it made a big hit on the road but failed in new york. i left gotham at the end of two weeks and went to boston where we did a tremendous week, continuing on for the rest of the season to splendid business. it was during this time that klaw & erlanger approached me with an offer to open their new new amsterdam theatre. the bill was to be "a midsummer night's dream," my rôle bottom. it sounded good to me and i accepted. erlanger gave it a most lavish production and announced it for a long run. the opening house was $ ! but the next night the receipts dropped to $ . i have always believed it was due to insufficient advertising and to the fact that the theatre was new and in a strange locality (in those days forty-second street west of seventh avenue was strange--theatrically!). erlanger was much annoyed. he was not very keen for shakespeare anyway. in his disappointment he rashly determined to end our engagement in three weeks. i argued and pleaded in vain. i could not make him see it was madness deliberately to kill all chances of our making any money on the road. and to quit in three weeks in new york was admission of failure beyond dispute. it didn't take long for the trouble to start. within a fortnight alan dale got in his choicest work. an illustrated page in the hearst sunday paper showed maxine, costumed to represent florence nightingale, standing juno-like with outstretched hands as if she might be charity--or perhaps hope! below her was a caricature of arthur byron who had just failed in a play called "major andré." maxine had moved into the savoy theatre as byron was forced out. he was pictured running up a hill with a valise in his hand, saying, "she saved me, nat!" i was down in the lower left hand corner at the back door of a theatre in a beseeching attitude. out of my mouth issued these words: "won't you please come in, max?" that alleged comic picture settled our road business once and for all. to make matters worse, if that were possible, klaw & erlanger acted on dale's suggestion and insisted on maxine's following my engagement at the new amsterdam. i knew this was the last straw and fatal to whatever chances we might have had otherwise and i asked to be let out then and there. but erlanger insisted that we go to boston. our company numbered one hundred and fifty people! our weekly expenses were $ , ! arrived in boston i strolled into the hollis street theatre where we were to open. there wasn't a soul on hollis street as i turned the corner from washington street. it was noon and i had expected to see a line extending half way to the corner. i found the treasurer in the box office smoking a cigarette. after the usual salutations i inquired casually if we were sold out. "pipe that rack," quoth the treasurer laconically as he indicated a forest of tickets arranged on a board. "are all those tickets for to-night?" i asked. "uh huh," grunted the treasurer and took a deep inhale of his cigarette. we opened to less than $ . the performance made such a tremendous hit that we were sold out the last three performances of the week and the following week saw never an empty seat at any performance--and for all that we made no money! from boston we went to brooklyn where our opening house was $ . (florence nightingale was working her influence!) we played to gradually increasing business--but not enough to cover expenses--during the rest of the week. the next (and last) stand was newark where we opened to $ ! again business increased with every performance but again we had a losing week. then it was i insisted on closing. florence nightingale was an advance agent no attraction could hope to win out against. thus newark saw the last of "a midsummer night's dream." and this is the record of a play which drew in two performances in one day more than $ , ! the day was the last saturday of our three-weeks' run at the new amsterdam! following this fiasco i entered into a contract with charles frohman under which we produced "beauty and the barge," by jacobs, the english playwright. it should have run a year. it failed dismally. i knew it would after witnessing the dress rehearsal. david warfield, frohman and i sat out front at that rehearsal, my part being read so i could get an idea of the ensembles. i discovered my two ingenues might have been taken from the forest home! my two light comedians were so light i am sure they could have walked on water! an old man character insisted on hitting the hard stage with his cane--supposed to be a garden! i begged frohman to postpone the opening. these five people had a twenty-two-minute scene before i came on. warfield agreed with me. a friend of frohman's had come in meantime. he insisted that my "marvelous" acting would carry the play. "marvelous acting be damned!" i cried. "no human being could succeed with such incompetent surroundings." i was voted down, however, and the next night we opened at the lyceum theatre. the play was dead before i made my entrance, a score of men leaving the house in the first fifteen minutes. my dressing-room was within five feet of the stage and i could hear every sound, from front and back. it wrung my heart as i heard the delicate, pretty little scenes i had worshipped when i had seen cyril maude's company play it in london just torn all to pieces! point after point went for nothing. all the humor disappeared. it was awful! [illustration: in when we were twenty-one _the biggest bit of any play i ever produced_] finally came my cue and i went on. my reception was vociferous and brought me out of my slough of despair. i even got a scene call after i made my exit. but the play was doomed. afterwards i commiserated with mr. jacobs in london and told him it was only the acting that was to blame for its failure to run two years. it ran two weeks. "wolfville," clyde fitch's dramatization of those excellent short stories by alfred henry lewis, was my next production. this time it was not the fault of the actors. fitch was to blame. he had taken all of lewis' characters and then tried to write an original story around them. fitch couldn't touch lewis when it came to western types--or stories. again, before the first performance, i told frohman we would fail--and we did, the piece dying at the end of six weeks. frohman was at a loss to provide me with another play. he suggested that i take a steamship and see the first performances of two plays which he controlled, "dr. quick's patient" and "the alabaster staircase." the latter was written by captain marshall of england who wrote "the second in command." john hare was to enact the leading rôle. it looked good to me and i jumped across. my trip saved me two more failures as each of this pair of plays lasted just one week. instead of either of them i brought back a manuscript of a comedy called "what would a gentleman do?"--which proved as big a failure as any i ever had! next i produced "the master hand" by a mr. fleming--whew! what a flivver! (the play, of course!) but before i increase this list further let me hark back to matters more personal if no less gloomy! _chapter lviii_ at jackwood during the early days at jackwood when i was busily engaged in hiring guests to come and partake of my board and rooms (i mean the professional diners out) i found great difficulty in securing patrons. i had plenty at my command so far as professional friends and visiting americans were concerned, but the fair maxine had the english bee in her american bonnet and insisted that we try to get together some of the impecunious nobility and army men as guests. i knew of no one who represented those particular branches and had no desire to know any, but being under her hypnotic influence i sought a woman, the wife of a friend of mine, an american mining man, who knew all the swagger members of "the guards." through her influence one of these sapheads was persuaded to visit our humble home from saturday to monday. he came, accompanied by one of the present dukes of england (whose father, by the way, died owing me a paltry two thousand dollars, borrowed on the race course at deauville, france). they came down with mme. melba and haddon chambers. we had a lovely time (that is, i presume they had). max insisted on my entertaining the guests between courses with my supposedly funny stories. generally after the telling of each one, which occupied some little time, my portion of the feast was either cold or confiscated by the butler. very little attention was paid to me anyway except when i was telling anecdotes (and on the first of every month when the bills became due!). on this particular sunday evening the guests sauntered into the drawing room expecting to hear melba sing. she didn't even talk! then the party, in couples, sauntered through the house and inspected the grounds. being on particularly good terms with the butler i selected him for my companion and we quietly strolled through the upper rose terrace discussing a _menu_ that might appeal to the next influx of england's dilettantes. by this time all my american friends were barred. max considered them "extremely common" by now. the butler and i were figuring out the expenses of the previous month as the pale moon cast its rays over my book of memoranda. inadvertently we stopped before an open window of the drawing room. as we stood there i chanced to overhear this remark: "how could you possibly have married such a vulgar little person?" being terribly self conscious at all times i said to my butler, "luic, i am the v. l. p. to whom that chocolate soldier is referring. listen, and we'll have a warrior's opinion of a thespian!" then ensued the following dialogue:-- she: do you think him vulgar? he: not necessarily vulgar, but an awful accent! she: well, no one ever accused him of an american accent. he was educated in boston. don't you think him rather amusing? he: in what way? she: by way of anecdotes and funny stories? he: were those stories he told at dinner supposed to be funny? she: of course; didn't you hear the guests laugh? he: yes; so did i, but simply in a spirit of compliment. is he supposed to be a comic man in your country? she: extremely so. he: really? she: and he talks remarkably well. he: did he talk remarkably well to-night? she: i thought so. he: well, maybe, but i was deafened by your beauty. i saw nothing but those beauteous eyes of yours, my dear mrs. goodwin and everything else was a blank. really, i-- she: now don't pay me silly compliments, lord algy; it isn't nice. he: i beg your pardon; but please tell me how did you happen to marry that funny little man. she: now don't ask impertinent questions; one has to get married and, really, when he talks he says something. he: does he--really? the butler and i resumed our stroll. some time after i met this grenadier, talked--and said something! (my editor refuses even to edit it.) jackwood proved a lovely summer abode for me. it cost me fifty thousand dollars to get it and fifteen thousand a "year" to keep it up (we were there about ten weeks every season). it cost me twenty-five thousand dollars to lose it! during our lives at jackwood incident followed incident, each of which convinced me the autumn leaves were falling that would soon bury me. i discovered the fair maxine was being bored save when the house was filled with english guests. americans bored her even more than i did! my repertoire palled and the anecdotes she screamed at when we first were wed met with but little response and that only when the dinner table was filled with english guests who found it quite as difficult to fathom my wit as maxine. life at jackwood was beginning to pall on me. many sundays found me a lonely host. max was constantly accepting invitations to meet people at country houses, spending the usual saturday to monday outing away from her own fireside. these saturday to monday gatherings as a rule were the rendezvous for unblushing husbands and wives whose mates were enjoying the hospitality of opposite houses of intrigue. generally no husband is ever invited to these meetings accompanied by his own wife, the husband always accepting invitations to the house party of his friend's wife--and thus the silly and unwholesome game goes on. in nine weeks my wife made nine trips of from two to six days' duration each. these outings included a visit to one of england's ex-prime minister's country house, a member of parliament's yacht and a society lady's home at doncaster. being very respectable at the time, i was never invited to any of these functions. during my entire occupancy of jackwood i accepted just one such invitation. and then i was bored stiff. of all the asinine, vacant, vapid lot of people i ever saw commend me to the polyglot mob one meets at the average saturday to monday gathering. even the few actors and actresses who were present seemed to absorb the atmosphere and became deadly dull. you must understand the guests are invited from some ulterior motive--women to meet men for every kind of purpose, men to mingle with men for financial reasons, from a tip on the race course to the promotion of a south african mining scheme, women to meet women to plot and intrigue and make trouble for either of the sexes. it is a sort of clearing-house for the sale of souls and the ruin of women's morals. at these gatherings more plots are schemed, more sins consummated, more crimes committed than at whitechapel during a busy sunday! when one stops to consider what can be accomplished by a bunch of these parasites in forty-eight hours it is appalling. i leave it to your imagination--what can be consummated in a week at these places--where statesmen and financiers lend themselves to such intrigues--on yachts, in closed stone castles and concealed hunting lodges! at first i mildly protested against my wife's accepting these invitations and was always met with mild acquiescence and a desire to do what i demanded. if it were distasteful to me she would not accept and, like a dutiful wife, remain at home with me from saturday to monday. for two sundays we sat in the drawing room with each other twirling our thumbs! it was a day of eloquent silence--each of those sundays! at first i tried to think up stories to amuse her but she would look up from her book with those dreamy, cruel eyes, listen for a moment and in sweet dulcet tones remark:-- "very clever, my dear, and most amusing, but you told me that some time ago at seattle!" then she would resume the reading of her engagement book for the following week. i soon grew tired of our saturday-to-monday _tête-à-têtes_ and let her go on her own as they say in england. we gave a few parties, but as i found it difficult to separate my friends from their wives i gave it up--and usually spent my forty-eight hours going to paris to see a play or to ostend to indulge in it. [illustration: in nathan hale _"they hang nat in the last act"_] it took me but a short time to become disgusted with our mode of living and alarmed at the expense involved. my clever wife adroitly managed to avoid all expense (although we had agreed to share it equally). once in a while she would accidentally leave her check book where i could see it and the stubs convinced me she was not paying any of the household bills. large sums were artfully arranged in a cipher which a philadelphia lawyer or a writing expert could not fathom. "cigarette case for a" might mean arthur or alice; "luncheon to n" might be nellie or ned; "sundries for m" might mean mike or mabel--and there you are. wherever her money went she was contributing nothing to the maintenance of the home (which included the services of sixteen servants)! i made up my mind to bring things to an issue--to use a slang expression, to vamp. ugly rumors were rife concerning the attentions of the ex-prime minister, the member of parliament, two american millionaires, an english lord and the leading man of maxine's company. i put jackwood on the books of a real estate firm and placed my furniture in a storehouse together with the contents of my wine cellar (only to see them again, alas, adorning the home of my wife on duke street, london, a residence purchased during our marriage, to which i was never invited!). after i had tried so hard to entertain her at jackwood i think her conduct most discourteous. our life was very tranquil at jackwood so far as we were personally concerned. things went along pretty smoothly until we made a trip to trouville for a holiday. i was privileged to enjoy myself alone most of the time as the fair maxine would leave me early in the morning returning in time for dinner after a day's outing on the golf links accompanied by some english admirer. i spent most of my time gambling at the casino, where i managed to lose thirty thousand dollars! and some ass has written:-- "unlucky in love, lucky at cards!" up to this time i considered my wife thoughtless and fond of admiration as all women are--but not worse than that. the only time she failed to exercise her diplomacy and splendid tact was during our sojourn at this french watering place. perhaps my constant presence irritated her. there is nothing that so gets on one's nerves as the presence of someone who is a bore. i don't blame any woman for wanting to jump the traces under these conditions. the only thing i hold against her is that she never told me. it would have been very easy and i would willingly have released her from her misery, but to inform people by inference--to make a boob of me--was unkind, unjust and cruel. it never occurred to me that i was boring her until i came across a letter which fell into my hands quite by accident. my servant mistook it for a note addressed to me and placed it with several others he had previously opened for my perusal. it furnished one of my reasons for divorcing the most beautiful woman in the world. here it is:-- _wednesday_ dear lord ---- you see i don't quite dare say "----" yet but you wait till we take our next walk together and i shall practice it every minute. you nice thing! i am delighted with the photograph--it stands before me as i write giving the modest room an air of fashion and i shall always keep it among my treasures. aren't you lucky to be at ---- with that blessed ---- and as many attractive people; this place would bore you to death i think--the gaiety seems such hollow, tinsel-ly sort; if it were not for golf i should find it intolerable. unless one is filled with sporting blood and goes in for gambling at the races, one has a pretty dull time but then, england is the only place for _me_ and my dolly is always stuffed with sawdust when i am away from it. perhaps i shall have the good luck to see you in london. i get back sept. st but only as a bird of passage; probably we can't stay there even one night for i must go at once to the country to see my sister and stay with lady ---- from sat. to monday and sail the th which means tuesday would be our only day in town i suppose. alas! my love to you and don't forget me. i am filled with the most affectionate thoughts of you all at ---- maxine any man who could live with a woman who wrote such a letter does not deserve the name of man. i made up my mind to quit then and there and told her so. i gave her my reason, kept the letter and took the train for london and the boat for america--thirty thousand loser! gee! but i had a bully summer! maxine elliott is a variously gifted woman. with the ambition of a cleopatra she used me as a ladder to reach her goal and found her crowning glory in the blinding glare of a myriad incandescent lights which spell her name over the portals of a new york theatre. she is one of the cleverest women i ever met. her dignity is that of a joan of arc, her demeanor nero-like in its assertive quality and yet she has channels of emotion that manifest womanhood in the truest sense of the word. _chapter lix_ "why do beautiful women marry nat goodwin"? "why, oh why, do beautiful women marry nat goodwin?" i shall endeavor to answer that query so frequently put to me by the newspapers, not from any sense of obligation but simply in the spirit of anecdote. time and again impertinent printed remarks have been made about my plunging into matrimony and there have appeared flaming headlines such as, "bluebeard goodwin anticipates a marriage" (or divorce!), "red headed nat contemplates matrimony!" etc. these polite and complimentary references in the yellow journals appear as a rule annually. generally they occupy half a page and are illustrated with pictures of the poor misguided creatures who had the misfortune to bear my name with my photograph stuck up in one corner (with a countenance suggesting more the physiognomy of a bill sykes than a romeo!). then some extremely clever reviewer of prize fights comes forth with this headline:-- "why do beautiful women shake nat goodwin?" the scoffers, the envious, who know nothing about me except the fact that i have furnished paragraphers much material anent my "matrimonial forays," are inclined to credit my succession of beautiful wives for any success that i have attained. matrimony may and often does breed notoriety and an actor's record may excite comment upon its endurance, but neither personal antics nor long service ever won a man genuine fame. is it a crime to be respectable? is it a crime to have an honest fireside? i never stole any of my wives, neither were they ever forced into matrimony--with me. my friends who have been privileged to visit any home of mine will tell you that it was the abode of a lady and gentleman! this will jar my vilifiers. i have no right to be respectable and have a home. i am a brawler and a reveler, a drunkard and a gambler. maybe. yet with all these alleged vagaries i fail to remember any time when i dined a mistress at the same table with my wife and children--an incident in the career of a most conspicuous member of our profession who has the reputation of being possessed of supreme chastity. he prefers marshmallows to champagne--stick licorice to havana cigars. he married at the beginning of his career and is quite content to stand pat--with his head in the sand. i have often wondered if these self-elected critics of my actions would have refused any of the women whom i have had the privilege of marrying! does it ever occur to them that a woman must first be interested in a man (in some little degree!) before allowing him the privilege of taking her hand in marriage? if she has a brain she understands his motives and even if moved by other reasons than that of affection it is still she who decides to meet the issue. the women who married me had the reputation of being possessed of brain as well as beauty and all of them had tasted the sweets of matrimony before i came along. i wonder what these ebony-tipped-fingered gentlemen who have marvelled at my success in the matrimonial field would say if they were privileged to glance at my visitors' book in use at jackwood or in my west end avenue home in new york! it would convince them that they never could have passed the butler! it has never been chronicled that the heads of the theatrical profession were my constant visitors. statesmen, diplomats, lawyers, conspicuous public men from abroad, multi-millionaires (not forgetting one president) and some of the nobility have graced my board. this may have been the reason why one of the beautiful women married me! fancy any of my critics writing that lord ---- had visited me, senator ---- dined with me, marchioness ---- accompanied me on a hunting trip! that would not be news--it's too clean! but they do cable to the remotest corner of the globe my presence at a prize fight. that is interesting matter--and news! how considerate of the feelings of one's aged parents who are forced to bear the brunt of their unwholesome lies! how i loathe these mephitic hounds who burglarize men's firesides, the pestilential pirates of women's homes who invade the sanctity of loving hearts, who write with pens steeped in venom! [illustration: wm. h. thompson _an artist to his finger tips_] _chapter lx_ billy thompson what a splendid player is william h. thompson--bill as he is known to his friends! i have known him for over thirty years and have admired him in many rôles. an artist to his finger tips, he is obliged by existing conditions to fritter away his time in vaudeville instead of heading his own company or occupying a theatre as the bright particular star. while the favershams, millers and skinners are starring through the country at the head of their own companies this grand artist is compelled to stifle his ambitions in playhouses which feature performing elephants, negroes and monkeys! he tells me he is acting now only to gather enough shekels to make his passing down the other side of the mountain of life be unincumbered by financial difficulties. this is a sad situation--an actor willing and capable forced to humiliate himself while ignorant german comedians, song and dance men and incompetent leading men foster their wares before a vacillating public. well, perhaps things may change, but i fear not in dear bill's day. the moving pictures reign supreme! pantomime seems to gratify the multitude! let the incense burn low and as it disappears let memories of the work of a master like thompson cast its shadow on the pathway of the time to come! _chapter lxi_ the critics "praise is the best diet after all." in an address before the national press club on november , , the hon. henry watterson had this to say: "pretending to be the especial defenders of liberty we are becoming the invaders of private rights. no household seems any longer safe against intrusion. our reporters are being turned into detectives. as surely as this is not checked, we shall grow to be the objects of fear and hatred, instead of trust and respect." "shall grow!" as if you have not already grown, decayed and gone to seed, once more to be transplanted and again born, to invade the sanctity of homes and become the invaders of private rights! "detectives" indeed! as a rule you are not even common cops! no wonder public men look upon such "journalists" with aversion and contempt and liken them to the police and the scavenger! no wonder honest journalists, like watterson, antagonize such methods as are employed by the emissaries who represent the yellow journalism of our delightfully free country! very often after reading one of the vilifying attacks made upon me (for no apparent reason other than to vent the writer's spleen or for lack of other material) i have wondered what effect it has had upon my associates, my audiences and my friends. it is wonderful how little the power of will asserts itself. falsehood and scandal seldom concern any except those personally negligent. it is a pity that a critic who has so much power to do good and make happy the artist by a few kind words will use the weapon of the wood chopper. fortunately you cannot make or unmake the artist of to-day. you may flaunt your accusations regarding his private life, but after all the good remains. i honestly believe that a true american man or woman derives more pleasure from reading an account of the happy marriage of ethel barrymore and the delightful coming of her first born than from the lurid announcement that mary mannering has at last secured her permanent release from the bonds of her unhappy alliance with james k. hackett. it has taken me many years to come to this conclusion, and it was only after two years passed in silent retrospect among the flowers, hand in hand with nature in glorious california, that i determined to don again the sock and buskin. but i went back to my professional work with a clearer conscience, a lighter heart, a determination to pay little heed to the scoffers and a resolve to try to make the world laugh once more. he who rises above mediocrity is sure to incur the envy and hatred of the mediocre. i am astounded that i among so many should be selected as a perpetual target. were i as egotistical as some of my critics say, the published reports of my vagaries and dissipations would have been as balm in gilead to my immoral soul! but such balm is far from any desire of mine. the unwholesome notoriety that i received during my absence in australia shocked and grieved me and had it not been for the few good friends who gallantly came to my assistance with cheery words of encouragement my burden would have been too heavy to bear. with the greatest indignation i read the truly astonishing articles written about me during my exile. away from home as we had been for months and always looking forward eagerly to the arrival of the american mail, it was a shock indeed to be deluged with highly sensational accounts of my divorce suit, a shock all the more disagreeable for the wholly unwarrantable dragging in of the name of one as completely ignorant of the entire matter as any one of you who may read this. for years i have been brutally assailed by certain members of our press who have disliked the color of my hair or the shape of my nose. as i alone have been the victim of these assaults, i have not wearied the public with constant denials, realizing the futility of the "apology" our great dailies vouchsafe when they are proven to be in the wrong. this generous "apology" may be found in an obscure corner of the paper, in very small print, weeks after columns and columns have spicily set forth the details of one's supposed wrong doings. and this is all we get by way of reparation from our traducers. here is the article, written by the hon. henry watterson in the louisville "courier journal," january , , to which i have referred: "in the course of an interview with one of our local contemporaries mr. nat c. goodwin, the eminent comedian, takes occasion to correct some recent stories circulated to his disadvantage and to protest against that species of journalism which seeks to enrich itself by the heedless sacrifice of private character. "since no one has suffered more in this regard than mr. goodwin himself he has certainly the right to speak in his own behalf and at the same time he has a claim upon the consideration of a public which owes so great a debt to his genius. as a matter of fact, however, mr. goodwin is just beginning to realize the seriousness of life and the importance of his own relation to the art of which he has long been an unconscious master. "with an exuberance of talent rivaled only by his buoyancy of spirit, uniting to extraordinary conversational resources a personal charm unequaled on or off the stage, he has scattered his benefactions of all kinds with a lavish disregard of consequences and that disdain for appearances which emanates, in his case, from a frank nature, incapable of intentional wrong and unconscious of giving cause for evil report. "he is still a very young man, but he has been and is a great, over-grown boy; fearless and loyal; as open as the day; enjoying the abundance which nature gave him at his birth, which his professional duties have created so profusely around about him and seeking to have others enjoy it with him. but, before all else, it ought to be known by the public that he amply provides for those having the best claim upon his bounty; that he is not merely one of the most generous of friends, but one of the most devoted of sons, and that it can be truly said that no one ever suffered through any act of his. "to a man of so many gifts and such real merits the press and the public might be more indulgent even if mr. goodwin were as erratic as it is sometimes said he is. but he is not so in the sense sought to be ascribed to him. he never could have reached the results, which each season we see re-enforced by new creations, except at the cost of infinite painstaking, conscientious toil; for, exquisite and apparently spontaneous as his art is, he is pre-eminently an intellectual actor and it is preposterous to suppose that he has not been a thoughtful, laborious student, finding his relief in moments of relaxation, which may too often have lapsed into unguarded gayety, but which never degenerated into vulgarity or wantonness. indeed the warp and woof of mr. goodwin's character are wholly serious. "he is a most unaffected, affectionate man and with the recognition which the world is giving him as the foremost comedian of his time, the inevitable and natural successor to the great jefferson, it is safe to predict that he will fall into his place with the ready grace that sits upon all he says and does. "meanwhile the boys in the city editor's room ought to use more blue and less red in pencilling the coming and going of one so brilliant and so gentle and, in all that they have a right to take note of, so unoffending." god bless you, marse henry! the avidity with which the average penny-a-liners scent failure is only equaled by the blatant exposition of their reviews. they are like a lot of sheep huddled together, vainly endeavoring to emerge from the perfume of their own manure to flaunt their individual opinions before the garrulous public which itself is only too willing to proclaim "the king is dead!" senator arthur pugh gorman once told me that failures were a good remedy for success and brought people to a realization of their own unimportance. granted, if failure were individual, but as failure does not as a rule affect only one's self it is hard to administer the doses of the plural to mitigate the humiliation of the singular. has it ever occurred to the average critic that when a play fails not only the author and the leading artist are submerged in the vortex of despair, but all the tributaries of the enterprise go down with the ship? but what do they care--when many of the successful actors proclaim to the world that they enjoy their "art"--succeeding or failing!--and respect the reviewers of their work? i regret that many of them are only too willing to assist the critics in tearing down the structure of the successful player. some time ago i had a long talk with a comedian, short and very funny, on and off the stage. he is a true artist, a wit, gentle in his methods and a truly legitimate comedian. he was complaining of the existing conditions of the stage and assured me that it was only the lack of funds which compelled him to remain upon the boards to make the public laugh; that he was praying for the time when he could forget his gifts and leave the stage forever. the little chap has worked like a galley slave for years. i know of one period in his career when he produced three consecutive failures in an equal number of weeks in a new york theatre; produced them and incurred all the risks--and finally landed the fourth a winner. he is constantly producing new material and to-day a new york playhouse displays an electric sign which spells his name. yet he desires to leave the stage forever! of course, he does! what honest actor does not? another artist, a friend of mine who has played to the largest receipts ever known in the history of the stage, told me recently that he was going to give it up, imparting to me the fact that he could no longer stand the humiliation and the heartaches he was forced to endure! the attitude of these gifted players is as an oasis in the desert of incompetency and convinces me that irrespective of the type that spells inadequacy and commercial success for a few of the ephemeral stars there are some self-respecting actors left who refuse to accompany these unworthy disciples down the narrow path that must lead to an eventual eclipse. what an unthinking person is the average front-of-the-curtain speech maker! fancy thanking an audience for the privilege of entertaining it! it has always struck me as being ludicrous. but i can sympathize with an actor thanking an audience for sitting out a failure! i believe it was charles lamb or someone equally clever who remarked, "apprentices are required for every trade, save that of critic; he is ready-made." how true! critics--what a queer lot!--are generally foes to art--from dr. johnson down to those of the present day. seldom sponsors, always antagonistic, jealous and even venomous, they are eager to tear down citadels of honest thought and houses of worthy purpose! they remain hostile until the continued success of their victim compels a truce. and how cravenly they acknowledge defeat! like the shot coyote they will only fight when wounded. the reviewer of a prize fight will comment upon a picture; criticize sculpture, literature, acting! why should the average critic know anything about acting when his horizon does not extend beyond the ill-ventilated room containing his trunk filled with the manuscripts which he has not succeeded in having produced? conscious of the revenues of the successful playwrights of the day he criticizes with venom in his drab heart and vitriol in his ink-bottle! no wonder he enjoys storming the forts of prosperity! but what gets on my nerves is the attention given some of these penny-a-liners by the average american manager-producer who cull the complimentary expressions of these incompetents and print them conspicuously upon their posters. to add further insult to the honest player most of the yellow journals photograph these critics, heading the columns of their uninstructive matter with their faces! shades of lamb, hazlitt, and george henry lewes! i wonder how many readers cut out the pictures of those little cherubs, "alan dale" and "vance" thompson, and paste them in their scrap books? i utilized their pictures beautifying (!) two cuspidors in my home--and they are always in constant use! my antagonism to the critics is not sweeping. i have the most supreme respect for the memory of such critics as the late mr. clapp of boston, mr. mcphelim of chicago, clement scott and joseph knight of london, mr. wiliard of providence, "brick" pomeroy, joseph bradford and frank hatton. i have the same regard for some of the living critics including, the hon. henry watterson, arthur warren, james o'donnell bennett, philip hale, blakely hall, amy leslie, george goodale, ashton stevens, lyman p. glover, lawrence reamer, elwyn barron, stilson hutchins, marion reedy and many others. these gentlemen know whereof they write and never allow personalities to enter their critical views. but for those effeminate, puerile, sycophantic, dogmatic parasites who live from hand to mouth, who bite the hands that feed them, whose exposed palms are always in evidence (to receive the stipends that warp their supposed knowledge of the art)--i have an equal amount of disgust. "alan dale" whose real name is cohen called on me some years ago in paris with instructions from his master, mr. hearst, to interview me. i sent my servant to tell him to come up and arranged the furniture for his reception (i did not care to pay for breakage and i was afraid his thick skull might destroy some of the bric-a-brac if he fell where i intended he should fall!). i set the scene for him, but when he entered and i contemplated this little, self-opinionated, arrogant, subservient, and grovelling person i asked myself "what's the use?"--gave him an interview and dismissed him. i felt only pity for the poor, little, puny hireling! (since the above was penned i have read a most complimentary criticism of my fagin in "oliver twist" written by "alan dale." consequently the above remarks "don't go!") an astute gentleman on one of the chicago papers, gushing over "the great art of mr. john hare" as old eccles in "caste," wrote: "what a remarkable metamorphosis it was to see mr. hare, the quiet, dignified man of the world, in his dressing-room discussing his profession when, a few moments before, he had been depicting the drunken sot with shaggy eyebrows, dishevelled hair, unkempt beard and filthy clothes!" this he considered the art of acting. i call it the art of make-up. he further annoyed me by saying, "this should be a lesson to some of our comedians, who fancy themselves actors, who simply come on the stage, speak fat lines and have only to appear natural." "only to appear natural!" i happen to know the critic who wrote the above article. he is a remarkably graceful man and a most proficient golf player. now taking him at his word i should like to place that gentleman in a conspicuous place on my stage, in evening dress, and have him rise, walk across the stage, ask the servant to assist him on with his coat, bid the other characters good night and make an exit. he would, i am sure, cease chiding any actor for being "natural." it is far easier to be somebody else on the stage, with the aid of wig and grease paint, than to appear as one's self. no one fails to recognize bernhardt or duse. neither did booth nor forrest sink his individuality or hide his face, like the ancient greeks, behind a mask. i'll wager that if mr. hare had been an american the hound would have objected to the hare's disguise! one of the most natural actors whom i ever saw on any stage and who never by any possible chance endeavored to destroy his identity was william warren. he was and is considered by the elect the finest comedian that american has ever produced. i wish my golf player could have enjoyed the privilege of seeing that grand old man play eccles! every great actor that we have sent abroad for the past fifty years has signally failed (with one single exception and he assured me that his largest house was a trifle over $ and he had a play written or rather re-written by one of the most popular of english authors). with three exceptions no one has ever failed, man or woman, who has come to us from foreign shores. it is "the thing" to applaud the efforts of all european actors. it is far different in england. i am certain there is no prevailing antagonism because of the fact that we are americans, but the public as a rule does not understand our methods and is quite content with its own. i only wish that we could absorb its temperament. it does get on my nerves, though, when shiploads of english actors visit america, simply to enable them to replenish their impoverished bank accounts at home. how long will it last? i wonder! however, when any foreigner visits our country with a determination to make it his permanent abode and does so i always wish him well. take for instance edward h. sothern. if ever a man deserved the position he has attained sothern does, if only for his energy and tenacity of purpose. of course, in any other country than america, he could never have succeeded. even in this country, surrounded as he is by an over production of filth, to make shakespeare a paying investment is an achievement of which to be proud. i am not airing any opinion of his artistic work, as i have been privileged to witness only his performance of "hamlet." i have also seen charles fechter, e. l. davenport and edwin booth as the dane, which naturally prejudices me in my criticism of sothern's performance! but any man who has the courage to announce his intention of playing "macbeth" for one week (and does it!) deserves a place in the hall of fame! mr. sothern deserves the congratulations of the american public--for getting away with it! and for all i've written in this chapter i must confess that-- observation makes critics of us all! also-- while i have confined my attention to the so-called critics i have not forgotten that there are other men engaged in the newspaper business and of these-- the average reporter reminds me of the little boy with a pea shooter. he bears malice towards no one in particular but--he's got a pea shooter! _chapter lxii_ james a. hearne at the time james a. hearne gave me the photograph which accompanies this chapter he was one of the best actors, if not the best actor who spoke any language--in my estimation. he was then well into the fifties and for two score years had run the gamut from bill sykes (and he was king in that rôle) to the tender nathan'l in that best of american plays, "shore acres." the reproduction of the inscription which hearne wrote on the back of his photograph shows that the old gentleman was not without a keen sense of humor. i knew him all my stage life and in my eyes he was always a most wonderful person. in his early days he was prone to much dissipation, even to ruffianism; but he always drank and fought before the world. he was honest even when violently inclined. he never sneaked up back alleys to fight a foe, but met him in the open--no hiring of rooms in which to get drunk but at the open door where all could see him. and even in those days everybody loved the man. in his later life he used his great mentality and became a real man, a beatific creature. he married three times. his first wife was the distinguished lucille western, a most wonderful natural, emotional actress. it is said she has made more money in a single season than any other star of any time. her first husband, james meade, a new york gambler, told me he handed her personally more than $ , in forty-two weeks! this was during the civil war. and she died in poverty! herself a spendthrift, she was ably assisted in dissipating her fortune by both meade and hearne. her death followed her marriage to william whalley, a ne'er-do-well but clever actor and at that time a great bowery favorite. after lucille's death hearne married her sister helen, one of the most beautiful women ever born. they were very unhappy and a divorce speedily ended their union. from this time hearne's career showed a marked change. he died nearly a christian! behind him he left his third wife, a most brilliant, clever woman who helped to bring about his regeneration, several successful plays and two talented daughters, julie and chrystal hearne. * * * * * it is just as natural for two human beings, brought constantly in contact with each other, to mate as it is for birds and animals. * * * * * a man of genius, if he marries at all, should marry a peasant. [illustration: james a. hearne _he knew how poor sol "fell"_] _chapter lxiii_ eddie foy fancy a man's being father of six or seven or eight children--and then adopting an additional brace! what a heart, what a great, big, fine heart has a man like that! and this is what eddie foy has done. eddie foy is a unique character in the american drama. aside from his prowess as a disciple of that theory which measures patriotism by infants he is the greatest clown our stage has ever known. and he takes his clowning very seriously. i always like to hear eddie foy talk. i enjoy being with him. he is a true comedian. it happened i was his fellow voyager on his first passage across the atlantic. he was on his way to meet his bride, an italian woman. (fancy my listening to rhapsodies about a bride--not my own!) they are a numerous family--and as happy as numerous. he is a most generous and home-loving person for all his fondness for his clubs. i love to hear him talk about playing hamlet. he really thinks he can! perhaps he's right. i wonder. _chapter lxiv_ william gillette i was standing, many years ago, in the lobby of the parker house, boston, speaking to the late louis aldrich, an old and esteemed friend of mine, who had just made a tremendous success in a play written by the late bartley campbell, called "my partner," when a gaunt, thin and anaemic person suddenly approached us and grasping louis by the arm said, "i saw your play last night, great house, splendid performance, bad play," and left us as quickly as he came. "who is that chap?" i asked.--"oh, he is a young crank," said aldrich, "who has written a play he wants me to produce called 'the professor,' not a bad play, but he insists upon playing the leading rôle." "he looks more like a chemist than an actor," i replied. several years after i was negotiating with the late a. m. palmer, to produce a play called "the private secretary," but, unfortunately, strolling into the boston museum pending the negotiations, i witnessed an adaptation of "the private secretary," taken from the german i believe, called "nunky," excellently played by the stock company. having four weeks booking at the park theatre in boston the ensuing season, where i intended playing "the private secretary," if my negotiations with palmer proved successful, i called everything off, as i did not desire to enter into competition with ian robertson, who was scoring immensely in the character of "the private secretary," which i contemplated doing. shortly after palmer secured an injunction against "nunky," and i witnessed the performance of "the private secretary," at the madison square theatre in new york, to a packed house, and the so-called crank i had previously met with aldrich at the parker house, in boston, was playing the leading rôle. his name was william gillette. william is a very quaint person, and even to this day, many people call him a crank. he may be eccentric, all geniuses are, but he is a very able man, one of the best american dramatists, and a most excellent actor, particularly when playing the hero of one of his own plays. he has no natural repose and is possessed of very little magnetism. he certainly has a personality however and has solved the problem of standing still like the center pole of a merry-go-around in all his plays, successfully contriving to arrange his scenes so that his characters rush around him, while he stands motionless in the center, giving the impression of great repose. this is a splendid trick but only permissible to actors who pay themselves their own author's fees. i once saw gillette play a character i had previously seen guitry perform in paris, and i must confess that gillette suffered by comparison. in this play he had to move and he proved he was no sprinter. an english critic, a friend of mine who had witnessed the performance of gillette in "too much johnson" and "held by the enemy" remarked, "this man gillette is a most confusing person. if i did not know the plot of his plays, i could not tell whether he was playing the villain or hero." i do not know if gillette ever realized his limitations, but i fancy he did, for he succeeded unquestionably in cultivating a pose, an air of, 'please don't approach me, i am too much absorbed,' etc. i have seen him enter a drawing room in london, and by his presence stop all conversation. apparently oblivious to his surroundings, he would enter, stop at the door, locate his host or hostess, say a few epigrammatic things in a hard rasping nasal voice, acknowledge the presence of a few friends by a casual nod and quickly take his leave. the conversation for the next hour would be devoted to the man who had entered and left so unceremoniously. "what an eccentric person," "how unique," "what personality," "splendid presence," would be heard from all sides. this pose, eccentricity, or whatever you call it, may be assumed or natural, i do not know which, but it is effective if you can get away with it. mansfield did it successfully, barrett and arnold daly tried it and failed, booth had the gift. perhaps the cause of gillette's eccentricity is his liver, a successful man with a poor digestion can do most anything out of the ordinary, if he has courage and money. the rush of blood to the head causing a twitching of the lips when observed, may mean to the on-looker the concentration of thought; a scowl brought about by a pain in the abdominal cavity may suggest the villain of the yet to be born play contemplating the ruin of the heroine, and there you are. every act, every suggestion, every attitude of the successful author or actor has a hidden meaning. the gyrations of the successful gillette proved so effective, i am told, that he has invested part of his fortune in a headache powder. i have known mr. gillette, thirty years, not intimately; there are few who enjoy that privilege. he is a reticent person, very difficult to fathom, easy of manner, courteous and refined, a gentleman at all times, splendid playwright, a fine exponent of character in all his plays, and a man of whom america should be proud. _chapter lxv_ william brady, esq. from a vendor of peanuts on the southern pacific railroad, to the owner of two new york playhouses, and the manager of more than a dozen theatrical enterprises in twenty-five years, is the history of "bill" brady, the man who made james corbett the champion pugilist of the world. brady is a man with the courage of his own convictions. he will stand by any production he finances in the face of overwhelming defeat, and cease to present it only when the managers refuse to give him time. no matter what the box office returns are, the play remains on if brady fancies it. he is an excellent judge of untried plays and seldom produces a failure. being a very good actor, irrespective of his managerial capacity, he will jump in and play any part at a moment's notice if necessary. he has done this many times during his career and thus saved the closing of the theatre. his married life is most happy, grace george and two splendid children, together with a charming residence on riverside drive, new york, make a peaceful fireside and a haven for the tired "billie," when worn out by worries of office life and travel. we have been friends for many years and i always enjoy his society immensely. may good luck and well deserved success attend you, william brady, esq. _chapter lxvi_ robert ford i have as little patience with the theory that one's character is patently defined in one's physiognomy as with that other sophism concerning the leaking out of truth as wine "leaks in." look at the accompanying photograph. is there anything in that frank, boyish countenance which even suggests a cold blooded, conscienceless murderer? yet the young gentleman was not only a murderer, he was that most despicable of human hounds--the betrayer of his friend. it was one night many years ago in kansas city, in a pool parlor to be exact, that i first saw this young scoundrel. i was playing pool with a stranger who had been introduced as "mr. hunter." my attention was directed toward the boy by the singular behavior of my friendly antagonist. no matter where "mr. hunter" had to go around the table to make a shot he never allowed his back to be turned toward the door nor toward the young man who sat peacefully in one corner of the smoke-filled room and gazed benignly, if steadily, at "mr. hunter." intuitively i knew questions would not be welcomed and i stilled my curiosity. the next day i joined the throngs which travelled over to st. joe to see the remains of the notorious jesse james who had been shot dead in his own home. there, lying on a bed, was all that was left of my "mr. hunter!" [illustration: robert ford _"a cold-blooded, conscienceless murderer"_] two weeks later in a turkish bath i recognized my young gentleman of the pool parlor. he was not averse to talking and presently informed me that he was robert ford, murderer of jesse james. this explanation followed my expression of surprise on discovering that he had a villainous-looking revolver in his hand--in the steam room! he explained his life was not worth a cent because of his murder of james and he was taking no chances of being caught unarmed. we chatted for two hours--agreeably! after a bit he told me all about his life with jesse james--how he had been befriended by the bandit. casually he described the killing and laughed as if it were a great joke that he had had to wait eighteen months for james to turn his back toward him! "that is," he added, "long enough for me to get out my gun and kill him." he admitted readily that had it not been for the fact that james grew to have a positive affection for and belief in him he never would have succeeded in his murderous scheme. "but finally," he concluded laughingly, "he fell for me--whole--and i got my chance." i asked him how he could bring himself to do such a foul murder. "well," he replied thoughtfully, as if wishing to be literally truthful, "the governor offered a reward for him dead or alive--and i needed the money." not excepting even benedict arnold this boy was the most universally despised individual this country ever produced. he drifted further west after the murder and became one of the most desperate characters those lawless days ever knew. he met his end in a bar room in cripple creek. that time he tried to shoot a man whose back was not turned! yet what physiognomist could read in this boyish face such dastardy as robert ford delighted in? _chapter lxvii_ more plays if george broadhurst had not promised me the first call on his play "bought and paid for" i should have been saved another failure. it was on the strength of his promise that i should be the first to read the manuscript of what was destined to become his biggest money-making success that i agreed to produce "the captain." i kept my agreement and scored up against myself a costly fizzle. broadhurst broke his word--and i never saw "bought and paid for" until i bought and paid for a seat! and this in face of the fact that broadhurst spent most of his time with me at my house on the beach in california while he was working out the plot of the play! (and i later discovered he had not refused to take advantage of at least one of my freely offered suggestions--to make the biggest climactic moment of the action!) failures were becoming not only frequent, they were getting to be a habit! "a native son" was my next venture. it was written by james montgomery, author of "ready money," and it was as perfect a failure as "ready money" was a success! it was an awful thing. i wonder that i ever produced it. at last i had had my fill of trying to discover the great american play--and headed for my california home to rest--and think! that period didn't last long. it never has. presently george c. tyler (who is liebler & company) got in touch with me, the outcome of it being that i signed a three-years' contract with him on the understanding that i should get as my first vehicle under his management an original play by booth tarkington. in due course tarkington completed "cameo kirby." in my thirty-nine years of experience on the stage i never played a character i liked so well as this delightful, urbane, southern gentleman-gambler. i gave him a southern dialect and the production all the touches of the real south of that early era i could invent. the audiences seemed to like my interpretation; but the press was divided. sensing what would happen to me in new york i refused to go into that city and surrendered the rôle to mr. dustin farnum. with farnum in the title rôle "cameo kirby" failed in new york exactly as i had it predicted. farnum made a success with the play on the road, however. his youth, beauty and simple delivery were the opposites of my characterization--and he succeeded where i failed! i was delighted to hear of dustin's success. i am very fond of him and of his brother bill and i consider them both excellent players. _chapter lxviii_ willie collier what a quaint, clever, original comedian is willie collier! he is as companionable with those he likes as are flowers in a meadow. his meadow is very limited, however, as he likes but few. he believes, as i do, that the environment of friends should be narrow. willie insists upon being addressed as william by the majority. only the few, among whom i am a privileged member, may call him willie! his wit scintillates like forked lightning and he possesses sarcasm equal to that of a douglas jerrold. many authors can attribute "their" success to willie's wit. his personality off the stage is rather stern for a comedian--in the opinion of the majority. but his acting has conquered three countries--america, australia and england! i could fill pages with his wit, but the one first to come to my mind must suffice. for some reason willie dislikes the players club. (perhaps it is because one sees so few actors there!) it was during the first all-star gambol of the lambs club that willie sprang a joke at the players' expense--a joke that has since come to be a classic. we travelled palatially on this lambs tour, in fine, private cars, magnificently fitted, and with our every comfort catered to. as we were pulling out of syracuse in our train de luxe, a dingy engine pulling a dirty caboose passed us on the other track. we were at dinner. willie wiped his lips with his napkin and remarked quietly: "boys, there goes the players club back to new york." i have known him for more than twenty years. his late partner, charlie reed, was as dear to me as willie is. we three had many good times. poor charlie passed away years ago and willie, left alone, has struggled bravely to earn his now well-merited success. i have known him to produce three successive failures in as many weeks--and come forth smiling! after the second failure i suggested that he come down to the footlights the night of his third première and salute his audience with, "well, here i am again." willie collier asked the volatile hopper why he had failed to invite him to one of his weddings. hopper promised him that he would--to his next! a few of those who pose as my critics might do worse than to marry--once in a while. it would at least save expense! the world is better with such men as charlie reed and willie collier as occupants. i hope that willie will come dancing down the sun, casting his wit and humor to all the pessimistic censors of the drama for years to come. _chapter lxix_ henry miller a wholesome and natural actor is henry miller with all the technique of our art at his finger tips, he is a splendid stage manager. had he the facilities at his command i am sure he would rank equally with david belasco and the late henry irving--as a master producer. what i like about miller's acting is his exquisite touch and splendid repose. i have known him for more than twenty years and have followed his career steadily--from the days of the old empire stock company (where he was surrounded by such artists as billy thompson, viola allen and william faversham) down to his most recent vehicle, "the rainbow." and always he has proved equal to his task. i may be prejudiced in his favor because i am so fond of him personally. he has exquisite charm off the stage as well as on. i always anticipate joyfully meeting him and indulging in our little dressing-room chats. miller is an artist and a gentleman and an ornament to the american stage. _chapter lxx_ what's in a name? my memory was never my strong point. as i approach maturity (!) i find to my surprise that it is growing better rather than worse. but perhaps it couldn't grow worse! nevertheless the time i won the world's championship as the prize forgetter i really didn't deserve it. it happened early in the divorce proceedings i had instituted at reno against maxine elliott. pardon an interjection; but i must express my surprise here that so many men and women i meet are all laboring under the delusion that i have always been on the receiving end of divorce actions! no less recently than june, , i had the pleasure of reading in the new york "evening world" a very clever article concerning my kinship with bluebeard, and solomon, and henry the eighth in the course of which the young woman who wrote the article declared i was "more divorced against than divorcing!" the truth is quite the reverse of this and it seems to me should be so easy of confirmation as to admit of no uncertainty in anyone's mind, however much my reputation makes it seem as if i should be the "divorced against" half of any match! three divorces have marked my matrimonial experiences. i obtained two and by dint of hard work and much skirmishing (and for purely business reasons) managed to help my fourth wife obtain her freedom from me! before the thought of divorcing maxine had entered my head, in fact while we were still living at jackwood, i had become interested in the mining game and after the _dénouement_ at trouville i headed straight for reno. even then i think it was rather my purpose to get into the mining gamble head over heels than to make the divorce center of america my "legal residence" that led me to nevada. i'll admit that my establishing my business headquarters at reno proved a great convenience! the proceedings were well under way and i was on the stand as a witness when the judge asked me the name of my wife before i married her. i told him it was hall. "that's not what she says," replied the judge severely. and then it developed that when her answer to my complaint had been returned to the court she signed herself mcdermott. "but that is the name of her first husband," i explained. "her maiden name is hall." "she swears her maiden name is mcdermott," quoth the judge. "well, her brother's name is hall," i insisted. "i always supposed it was her name too." "great scott!" thundered the judge. "don't you know your own wife's name?" "no, not if it isn't hall," i responded. then it developed that maxine's maiden name was mcdermott, sure enough. the mcdermott she married was no relation. her brother had assumed the name of hall. but after all--what's in a name? _chapter lxxi_ i try being a business man while spending a holiday at glenwood springs, colorado, i met a man from goldfield, nevada. he was fresh from the mining camp then just blossoming into great public notice and he knew in detail all the stories of its vast mineral products. his name was brewer, not that it matters, and he had all the swagger and bluster of a mining magnate. in no time at all he had convinced everyone in the hotel, including me, that he was one of the lucky ones who had struck it rich in that land of gold! he literally threw money broadcast. bell boys sprinted in a continuous marathon to and from the telegraph office with voluminous messages brewer sent and received. the guests spent most of their time admiring and envying this croesus. for my part i found my gambling blood becoming aroused at his wondrous recitals of the possibilities of this strange country. when he invited me to attend the gans-nelson prize fight at goldfield i accepted with alacrity. at reno we found a private car awaiting us and we were conveyed the remaining two hundred miles to the scene of the fistic encounter in royal state. what an exciting two hundred miles they were! brewer, who had proved a most hospitable gentleman, planned our having the car for our exclusive use, but before we had journeyed half the distance from reno to goldfield that car was crowded to suffocation! his impromptu guests included gamblers, fighters, thieves, soubrettes, merchants, miners, lawyers! it was a conclave as interesting as it was motley. thus, _sans_ sleep, we rolled into goldfield. what an exciting place it was! it reminded me of another primitive community in nevada, virginia city, which i had visited twenty years earlier. here were the same lack of civilization, utter abandon, tent houses by the hundreds, a few straggling brick and adobe buildings and the inevitable long street running from end to end of the town. on this occasion the street was filled with a howling mob of men and women--rabid fight fans. scores of derricks and piles and piles of ore dumped on the sides of operating mines, not to mention hundreds of prospects and claims, told the veriest stranger that here was a mining town. every other door led into a gambling house or a saloon. as you contemplated the arid desert utterly devoid of vegetation, hemmed in by huge mountains themselves great uplifts of barren rock, you marvelled at the courage of the first man who made bold to enter that land of devastation and dust. to see that transplanted brocken scene trodden by people from every part of the globe made me stop and ponder. what will man not do for gold? to be sure a greater part of this mob was attracted to goldfield by the fight; but the aftermath was horrible to contemplate, the time when only those remained who gambled on what they hoped to find under the crust called earth. i realized that truly this was the country of the survival of the fittest. [illustration: as cameo kirby _i never played a character i liked so well_] a mining camp is a cesspool in which the unfortunate ones wish for death and a mecca for a certain type of speculators, the latter almost as numerous as the former. a poor man has a better chance on broadway! the desert is no place for him. a practical miner can earn a fair living, but invariably he squanders it all on the green cloth. the wanderer has an ephemeral existence living upon the bounty of the workman who never refuses him a drink or a stack of white chips--if he is winning. as he seldom wins the wanderer (under this caption i include all those outcasts who form a veritable scum in mining camps) finds little chance to recoup his fortunes at the gambling table. the desert for such as these is a prison difficult to escape from. after the fight brewer persuaded me to remain as his guest for a few days. he had a pretentious dwelling, as dwellings in goldfield went, and continued to fill the rôle of host admirably. i was already seized with a spirit of speculation and shortly had become launched with brewer and an englishman named kennedy on a big deal which ended in our securing an option on a prospect known as the triangle. it was situated about a mile from town at diamond fields (why the diamond no one seemed to know!). everybody was most courteous to me. (i can't imagine why!) one night, in casey's hotel, i almost made a fortune. one always "almost" makes a fortune in a mining camp. on this occasion i was playing roulette when a chicago capitalist approached me and suggested that i join a syndicate which was about to lease a property of great potential value. to get in would cost me $ , . just as i was about to pay down the money brewer arrived on the scene and dragged me away unceremoniously. he told me more than $ , had already been sunk in the property and although they had gone down to a depth of nearly one thousand feet they had not discovered even a tomato can. "do you expect to find tomato cans as far down in the bowels of the earth as that?" i am afraid brewer doubted the ingenuousness of my credulity as i asked this question--blandly. brewer persuaded me to keep out of the syndicate. the chicago capitalist and his few associates in the succeeding nine months each took $ , , out of this property and the price of the stock rose from $ to $ a share! i put my all into triangle. we bought a controlling interest for fifteen cents a share and then bulled the stock on the goldfield exchange until it sold at more than one dollar a share. this was making money fairly fast. the whole thing was accomplished in about four months! i journeyed back to new york and quickly told all my friends to get aboard. expert engineers had told me that at the one-hundred-foot level they had struck ore averaging $ a ton. when the public received this illuminating bit of information the stock rose to $ . . i bought some at that price! previously i had bought more than , shares with my partners and as many more on my own account at varying prices from fifteen cents up. the engineers were strictly truthful. they had found forty-dollar ore all right. but my partners neglected to inform me that they had carefully placed it where it was found! that was my introduction to the gentle art of "salting" a mine. ever since, at the mere mention of the word mine there comes a brackish taste in my mouth. they had taken their profits when the stock was selling at one dollar and had gone short , shares above this price; in fact they were the sellers of all the stock i purchased above the dollar price! happily they were unable to control the upward trend of the market. as fast as they sold short i bought. their stock got away from them. when they were called on to deliver what they had sold they had not one share and were forced to call upon me for help. thinking they were in a hole merely because of innocent blunders i loaned them , shares for $ , . that block of stock they sent to my own brokers for my own account in goldfield! my brokers confiscated all of it to satisfy a loan they had extended to this pair of partners of mine! thus was i robbed of stock worth in the open market $ , . when i was fully awake i sold the remainder of my holdings, realizing about cents a share. in all i cleared about $ , in this first adventure into the mining game--although many of my friends still believe i made a half million out of triangle. meantime i had endorsed brewer's notes for $ , taking as security stock in another property he controlled. when the notes fell due i had to pay them as by that time everybody had discovered brewer's specialty and was demanding liquidation. by threatening to send him to the penitentiary i succeeded in regaining part of the $ , and erased his name from my visiting list. brewer is now playing the tambourine in the salvation army. at the last reports he was trying to trade that instrument for a harp, with which to pick his way into heaven--undoubtedly. he was a failure with the pick in nevada. perhaps he will be more successful in heaven. if he succeeds in gaining admission (and i ever get there) i'll try to steal his harp! although i made but little money at goldfield i was very greatly attracted by its life; the utter abandon, the manhood, the disregard of municipal laws, the semblance of honor which fooled so many, the codes of right and wrong, the tremendous chances that were taken with a dice box. it was as exciting as being a member of a suicide club! why do we court conflict with fate when we know fate is merciless? i wonder. immediately after my unfortunate alliance with brewer i formed an association with two men who, with me, believed in going at the mining game legitimately. by this i mean it is legitimate to buy options on prospects and properties which look good and place them on the market after they have been carefully examined by mining experts. placing them on the market involves forming stock companies in each of which we must have the controlling interest. if the properties turn out well we continue to develop them and work them for all they're worth. this was the general idea of our new association. i was the financial backer. one of my partners was a practical miner who knew nothing about publicity work nor the art of promotion. the other was a young man who had gone stranded in reno and whom i had known slightly in goldfield as one of the boldest operators in that roaring camp. he had failed for $ , , in goldfield (mentioned by way of corroboration of this young gentleman's boldness!), and then paid his creditors cents on the dollar, quitting the camp broke. in due time and with no little formality was launched the nat c. goodwin company, mine operators with headquarters in reno. presently we secured control of a valuable property in the new mining town rawhide. the stock was worth most in rawhide itself. all the mining experts there knew the property. thousands of shares were sold to the inhabitants of the new mining camp who were loudest in their boasts that we would soon prove that our property was the peer of the great goldfield consolidated. so confident were we that we had a really valuable property that we determined to go to new york and let the public in on the ground floor. with no difficulty at all we listed our stock on the new york curb and with no manipulation that stock soared from cents to $ . per share, almost over night. all we had to do with it was publishing the mining experts' reports. the gentlemen who call themselves brokers on the curb banded themselves together and conspired to work our ruin. in the end they succeeded. but before they did we managed to mount fairly high in the business; our legitimate methods and the unflagging industry of my partners resulting in nine months in our acquiring the controlling interest in rawhide coalition, owning outright another property in rawhide, one in bovard, one in fairview, one in goldfield and the ely central. the purchase price of rawhide coalition was $ , and of ely central, $ , , . we had fine offices in new york in which we employed one hundred and twenty-five stenographers! there we edited and published a weekly newspaper, not to mention a daily and weekly market letter. each had a circulation of , copies weekly. this was the time that the big promoters of wall street decided we had been prosperous long enough. they "raided" our stocks--an interesting process for which there is not room here. their raids were followed by the publication in two of the daily newspapers of the fact that one of my partners had a past. it was a youthful past--the event happened back in , just sixteen years before--but they dug it up to bludgeon the market with. what of it? in nevada it's what a man is--not what he was--that counts. they said our "mines" and "prospects" were fakes, my partners impostors and i a willing tool. a burly police captain came to my apartments and threatened me with all sorts of punishments unless i agreed to pay for "protection." i was fearfully upset and insisted that my attorney examine the books of the company to assure me that everything was being conducted honestly. i knew the properties in nevada were all we claimed for them. i had spent months there and had panned gold on every yard of these properties. my attorney made a rigid examination of the books and assured me that everything was strictly legitimate. then it was i determined to continue for i knew we had the goods and had been "on the level." but the market looters were inexorable and showed no mercy. they broke our stock in one day from $ . to cents. my partner, the man with a youthful past, stood by his guns. instead of allowing the stock to tumble and against my advice, he bought every share as fast as it was offered with the result that we found ourselves owners of hundreds of thousands of shares of stock bought at prices ranging from $ . downwards which we could not readily dispose of again, because of the slanderous utterances of the destroyers. this sportsmanlike act of my partner was repeated on another occasion, a few months later, during the marketing of ely central stock. the conspirators finally used a "pull" in washington and succeeded in getting the federal authorities to close-up the business. rawhide coalition, according to latest information, is earning $ , a year now ( - ). ely central has been "grabbed" and will be merged with the rockefeller-cole-ryan owned giroux, its neighbor. i had learned months previously that there was a plot on foot to put our firm out of business and the identity of the big interests behind this scheme thoroughly impressed me. the suggestion that i "get out" while the getting was good appealed to me strongly. but first i acquainted my partners with the facts. the man with the past was as stubborn as he was honest. he knew we were dealing honestly with the public and he was bent on standing by his guns and proving it. i knew the sword of damocles was hanging by the slenderest of threads--and resigned. eighteen months later the offices were the scene of a sure-enough, wild-western raid. all the staff was placed under arrest and indicted by the grand jury. it cost the government several hundred thousands of dollars to put that partner of mine in jail for six months, but they did it by main force and broke him first. the combat was an uneven one, and the "government" practically confessed before the trial was finished that they had been unwittingly used to do a "job" for wall street. the only crime my partner was guilty of was telling the truth and trying to protect his customers. i have set this down, not so much as autobiography as a vindication for a man who insisted on being an honest man, no matter what the cost! also i have wished to disabuse some of my friends of an impression that i made a fortune out of my adventure into the mining game. i didn't make a fortune. i lost one! _chapter lxxii_ the five fateful fish cakes and number four marriage for me had become an incident, not a conquest, now that i had tried and tried again--three times! ever since my earliest youth i had loved the beautiful in nature. but i never sought these beautiful creatures who sooner or later took my name. on the contrary, as i have shown, my second and third wives were thrust upon me by force of circumstances. being human i allowed my bark of irresponsibility to sail tranquilly into the harbor of intrigue. if these two marriages were errors my fourth venture into matrimony was a catastrophe! i fled from a cleopatra to meet a borgia. and a dish of fish cakes proved my undoing! i am passionately fond of the mixture of salt fish and potato--at least i had been for twenty-five years. now, for some reason, the mention of the aforetime delicacy makes me shudder. it was early one morning that i was hurrying to the ferry on my way to washington when i caught the indescribable odor of fish cakes wafted toward me from the open door of the old metropole hotel. instantly i forgot everything. fish cakes appealed to me more then than anything in all the world--except only a cup of child's "surpassing" and a plate of butter cakes, colloquially known as "sinkers." into the metropole i went and sat me down to await the execution of my order. hardly had i taken my seat when an ex-manager of an ex-champion prize fighter approached me with a proposition which reduced to its simplest terms meant that i become angel for a theatrical troupe. i had little confidence in his managerial ability and knew enough of his past environment to convince me that he was not the man to handle any part of my money. when he told me the enterprise had already been launched and had met with failure after a disastrous tour i was positive i should never be induced to act as its reviver. i arrived at this sane conclusion, however, before the fish cakes were set before me! the scenery, it seemed, was held by the sheriff in jersey city for unpaid debts. the young and handsome woman star was lying in hiding in an apartment house nearby--in a hysterical condition promoted by her discovery of the perfidy of her manager and of the syndicate of backers who had "backed" with spontaneous unanimity at the crucial moment. these gentlemen, my informer continued, had not only refused to rescue the scenery from the vulgar jersey sheriff, but had also refused to redeem $ , worth of jewels which the young and handsome star had pawned in louisville that the attraction might remain on tour. before i had finished the first fish cake i discovered with mild surprise that the ex-champion prize fighter's ex-manager had a hitherto concealed attractive manner of speech and was altogether a magnetic sort of chap. as my digestive processes began work on that first fish cake i found myself interested not a little in this recital of the young woman's sufferings. i must have shown it for my companion waxed more and more enthusiastic and concluded an especially colorful description of her anguish with the whispered statement that she had been ruined! in response to my sympathetic query he replied that he had intended to qualify the remark with the word financially! in order further to test the truthfulness of his tale i asked the names of the syndicate of backers. they included a notorious _roué_, a wealthy stock broker and the ex-champion prize fighter--a versatile trio. it took but a short time for me to discover also the name of the attraction and of the young and handsome star. fate was again at my elbow. i had heard of both play and player weeks before. the play had been suggested to me for my own use. i had refused to negotiate for it as i was then under the management of charles frohman and had no wish to make a change. but i knew that it was a very clever farce. its failure, i was convinced, was the fault of inadequate acting and bad booking. this conclusion was not reached until i had masticated five fish cakes! by the time i had finished the fifth my blood was fairly boiling and the whole universe seemed to me to be calling aloud for a man to step forward and right the wrongs the young and handsome star had suffered. the treatment she had received was inhuman, i was sure of it! impulsively i telegraphed the young lady in washington on whom i had started to call that i was detained in new york on most important business. then we jumped into a cab and were on our way to the abode of the young and handsome (not to forget hysterical) star. oh why did i not go to washington? why, oh why, did my mad passion for fish cakes cause me to tarry at the metropole? perhaps demon fate will answer that when posterity turns gray. [illustration: edna goodrich _my young and handsome star_] arrived at our destination we were first, and speedily, ushered into the presence of the mother of our heroine-in-distress. she was a middle aged woman of the modern, alert type--who enjoyed cigarettes when her dear daughter was not in evidence. as we chatted inconsequentially i fancied i had seen her somewhere previously; but as she launched forth on her distracted tale of her daughter's ruin (she did not qualify it!) my truant thoughts were squelched. then came radiantly the daughter. she was submerged in sables! resplendent jewels covered her! evidently the aspiring juliet had not left everything in louisville. i was sure i had to deal with a very thrifty and provident, yes, and young and handsome star! all the ex-manager had told me was quickly verified by the daughter and her astute mama. as was to be expected i let all my doubts dissolve in pity. also i felt a combined desire to be philanthropic and heroic. i was almost as quick a thinker in those days as i was rapid as a spender. i was years old! perhaps, gentle reader, you know how susceptible are we clever men at that time of life, how tranquilly we sit back on the cushions of our thoughts and say to ourselves we are proof against the blandishments of women. we are sure that all the favors we bestow emanate from the bigness of our hearts! we are proof against all temptation. we know that december and may can not mate! believe me, my dear reader, i was convinced when i made up my mind that i would assist this young woman i was doing an act of simple charity, combined with a little business tact. it was to be merely a business transaction. fate might have nudged my elbow, at least once, that i might have foreseen the cost of my vanity. within four hours from the moment the young and handsome star appeared on my horizon i had financed this worthy trio to the extent of releasing the scenery and redeeming the jewels. also and by way of security (!) i found myself owner of the play. oh i was some business man in those days! five days later i sailed for london. alone? oh no. with me i took the just-released scenery, the play (which i had never read but which i "knew" was a clever farce) and a promise from the young and handsome star that she would follow on a steamship three weeks later. before i sailed, with what seemed to me unnecessary foresight i cabled tom ryley, then lessee of the shaftesbury theatre, announcing my coming and asking that he prepare for the opening of my young and handsome star and me in "the genius." when i reached london i found ryley had obtained the rights to "the lion and the mouse" and was enthusiastic over its production. charles frohman had cabled him to endeavor to induce me to play the leading rôle. but i never for one moment believed london would accept "the lion and the mouse" and refused to appear in it. (my opinion of london's acceptance of "the genius"--now that i had read it--was not much more optimistic!) we compromised on a production of "a gilded fool." this ran one week. ryley again approached me with the leading part in "the lion and the mouse" and again i refused. and now i urged him to put on "the genius." ryley, ordinarily a brainy chap, showed unexpected lack of appreciation of talent and refused point blank to produce the farce if the young woman from america appeared in it. he seemed not at all impressed by my eloquent description of her ability as an actress. (later he told me he had seen her on the stage!) (much later i confided to him that i never had!) back i came to new york--bringing with me a young woman i had discovered in london. (i am always "discovering" young women. it's a habit.) this young woman, however, has since made history for herself. the wife of an automobile salesman and earning pin money as an "extra woman" at the shaftesbury theatre, she volunteered one day to type extra copies of "a gilded fool" which were needed quickly. she did the work so well i engaged her as my secretary. one day she read me a speech from the play and so impressed me with her intelligence i gave her the leading parts in both "a gilded fool" and "an american citizen" to study. her readings of these two parts led me to engage her then and there as my leading lady--in place of the young and handsome star whom ryley couldn't "see." (in passing i may say i paid her five pounds per week!) after the opening night's performance i engaged her for three years at a salary of $ per week! thus began the career of alexandra carlisle, to-day the highest salaried leading lady in london! i had a most trying experience with miss carlisle. on the railway trip from london to southampton we had as fellow travellers her father and mother and husband--and we made a very happy quintette. but directly we were aboard the ship miss carlisle fell victim to an attack of homesickness. perhaps it was her sense of loss of her husband, perhaps _mal de mer_ was at the bottom of it. in any event she spent the entire trip in tears and in borrowing all my spare cash to send love messages, via wireless, to the husband for whom she had shown no affection at all--up to the time of our leaving. of course all the old lady passengers glared at me the first day out! the rumor literally flew all over that ship that i was either abducting the young woman--or, equally heinous offense, was neglecting her! but to return to the mundane fish cakes--and the consequences thereof! the ex-champion's ex-manager had remained in london after the departure of the discomfited young and handsome star and her mama--to watch over me! instructions had been cabled to him later to be especially watchful now that i was at my old game of "discovering" leading ladies. the trio of conspirators were very, very busy those days! the purpose of the ex-manager's presence at my elbow, constantly shown, was to have me land in new york fancy free. in spite of my susceptible nature there was no cause for alarm this time! i was intensely respectable! as yet i had not even thought of divorcing maxine elliott. my idea was to combine two types of beauty, english and american, and with good press work make both my leading women popular favorites. but the hopeless state of mind of miss carlisle put rather a damper on my plan. i turned her over to the care of the ex-manager and remained in my stateroom during the entire trip. on our arrival in new york i loaned miss carlisle the cost of her passage home and the following week she started back to london--much to the satisfaction of my american beauty, pardon, my young and handsome star. it struck me as an odd coincidence that on the same ship with miss carlisle, also bound for london, was miss maxine--who always found it convenient to go to england within a day or two of my arrival in america! fate was a busy bee these days, i can tell you. he was weaving his net well--and tightly. of course the young and handsome star and her mama met me at the pier. they drove me to a most luxurious flat in twenty-sixth street--in a landau drawn by two spanking bays. truly my young and handsome star was going some! after a hearty luncheon prepared by martin i went to my hotel and spent the evening with my friends, who were, are and always have been--men! the next day i arranged a tour for "the genius." the less said about that tour-- with my marriage to edna goodrich, the young and handsome star, forsooth, the mere mention of fish cakes caused me to shudder! at the end of that first tour i knew that the end was at hand. perhaps i was influenced by the fact that my friends told me at every conceivable opportunity of the record of the young woman and her mama. of course i indignantly refused to listen to these allegations; but the fact that there existed grounds for such allegations may possibly have disturbed me. however, we went along, producing "when we were twenty-one," "an american citizen," one act of "the merchant of venice" (thank god it was only one act!) and an original play written by george broadhurst, which made a tremendous hit in the south but was a failure in the east. my star-wife complained of being ill at the end of the season and i sent her to a famous specialist in minnesota for a series of treatments. her recovery was almost instantaneous! in five days, from the day she left me, she wired me in california that she was in new york about to start for europe! she asked that i follow her. i replied i had just reached los angeles and had business that would keep me there--at least over night. this was the beginning of the end indeed. one night at dinner, a month or so later, i received an anonymous letter containing charges against my absent bride. these general allegations interested me less than the statement that the writer could show me a watch which i had mourned as lost for many months. you see i wanted the watch! i arranged for an interview with my unknown correspondent, by putting a club in the pocket of my dressing gown. two men appeared. one, a very common sort of person, i kept in my drawing room and the other, a young, respectable looking chap i took into my den. there i began my cross-examination. after promising to show me the long-lost watch the following morning he called in his companion who proved to be a waiter in a _café_ in which my wife had enjoyed her clandestine meetings. his description of the man immediately served to identify him as one of my wife's former admirers--a gentleman-about-town who had squandered $ , on her, proposed and been accepted (before our marriage) and, fortunately, gone broke before the ceremony could be performed! my discovery that he was the gentleman in the case made me wonder. i had not heard that his fortunes had been repaired--before this! the following morning we visited a pawn broker's shop and there in the window, hanging on a line, was my watch. i recognized it, not only from its engraved initials but also because it was one of three which were never duplicated. i had bought all three in paris years before and given two of them to my two best friends. when it disappeared i was sure it had been stolen and did my best to trace it with the aid of the police. i did not suspect my wife! the young man had discovered the facts when the man-about-town in a moment of drunken braggadocio boasted of his friendship with my wife and displayed my watch as proof of it! [illustration: as shylock _one of my successful failures_] in the frenzy of the moment my impulse was to drop all else and find this whelp--to drive him at the point of a revolver into that pawn shop and there make him redeem and return to me the property which i could not accuse him of stealing! on second thought i realized that if i ever laid eyes on him i could never refrain from taking just one pop at him--and if the sound appealed to me i was afraid i might continue popping. so i counted ten and my reason returned. to be locked up for murder even if for only a few minutes is not a thing to be courted. besides there were always my mother and father to consider. altogether it would have been the act of a fool and for once i determined to play another rôle. in following out this resolve i hastily left los angeles and started for london. loving wife and fond mama had no intimation of my discovery. they were awaiting me at the station and never did a husband get a warmer greeting! why, even mama seemed to have absorbed much of loving daughter's excess of affection for me! and thus they conducted me to a snug apartment in the savoy hotel. to interrupt such tender solicitude for my well being by vulgar references to other men who yesterday had been the recipients of all i was getting then would have put me too far out of the picture! so i sat tight and waited for morning. after breakfast the next day i opened the ball by remarking that i had finally come across the trail of the thief who had stolen my watch. also i added with seeming irrelevancy that i had heard about the clandestine meetings my wife had been indulging in with a gentleman i named. her denials were not only positive; they were indignant. the fact that i had absolute proof of all i had thus far said was the only thing that saved me from becoming thoroughly convinced that i was mistaken. why is it so many women are such consummate actresses off the stage and such impossible amateurs on? i did a little acting on my own account, however, and evidenced complete belief in all my wife's denials. she was sure i would eventually find my watch in the top tray of a trunk which had lain in storage in new york for months. i let it go at that. i had acquired all the proof i wanted, in other directions, and was satisfied. besides, all this happened during the month of june, , and i was in a great hurry to get back to america. the contest for the heavy-weight pugilistic championship of the world was scheduled to be held july , ! my wife remained abroad that summer but the jeffries-johnson-fight-disappointment almost offset that benediction. preparatory to my going back into my profession i bought a play from george broadhurst who for some inconceivable (!) reason refused to let me produce it if i allowed my wife to appear in it. this was quite a shock to me but i set it down to the well-known eccentricity of authors. present in a box at the opening performance of the play was my quondam "young and handsome star" who returned to new york just in time to grace the occasion. later she descended on our little organization while we were playing in toronto and this time she hurled accusations of all kinds at my head--any one of which would have enabled her to divorce me even in england! when the trial of her divorce action came along all these charges were disproven--but that one session in toronto was not conducted along parliamentary lines, so far as she was concerned. that she had instituted the proceedings didn't bother me at all. having done all the affirmative work in two other divorce actions i thought i might as well take it easy this time and let her do it! but i had forgotten all about a certain deed of trust i had made in paris some time before. during my mining activities i foresaw the calamity that was inevitable and acting on the advice of an incompetent attorney i foolishly entered into a trust agreement with my wife under the terms of which i placed all my property in the hands of a trustee. in avoiding a possible loss i ran headfirst into a dead sure steal! as soon as i had been served in the divorce action i began suit on my own account to cancel this trust agreement. it had always been a nuisance even in the days when wife and fond mama were at their loving-est! now it was imperative that i be allowed to handle my own property alone. the settlement of that action was a long, drawn-out affair as compared with the divorce action. during the several months before my wife finally won (?) her case the newspapers were filled daily with sensational articles about my affairs with women i had never even seen! it seemed to me as if the gentlemen of the press just published any and every photograph of a pretty woman they could find and named her as one of the unfortunate objects of my attentions. in spite of this my wife's able counsel had been able to present no facts to the referee that could justify him in recommending a decree in her favor--up to the tuesday before the saturday on which he was to render his decision. it never dawned on me that this was the case until my dear old friend, jim killduff, who had been following the suit more closely than i had came to me that tuesday night and congratulated me! "you're winning so easily, it's a laugh," he exclaimed. "winning?" i echoed feebly. "do you mean she isn't going to get her divorce?" "she hasn't a chance on earth," replied jim gleefully. "every charge she has made against you has been stricken from the referee's record." "good lord," i gasped, "she's got to win! it's the only way i can ever get this trust agreement busted!" the result of our conversation i can not set forth in detail. the fact remains, however, that before that next saturday the referee had presented to him the evidence necessary to make his course of duty plain--and once again the newspapers had grounds (?) for proclaiming me a disciple of solomon! between you and me, gentle reader, justice must have had to tighten that bandage about her eyes when she learned of that decree! she surely must have loosened it laughing! i can say, however, that it is a most expensive luxury--being divorced! it's much cheaper to use the active voice of that verb! * * * * * marriages are made in heaven--canceled in reno. * * * * * i have had many sweethearts, but only one survives--my mother. * * * * * if a man steal your wife don't kill him--caution him! _chapter lxxiii_ sir beerbohm tree a most extraordinary man is beerbohm tree. refined, almost aesthetic in manner yet as worldly and practical as the most prosaic merchant. his humor is human if a bit cynical. he has the manner of a dreamer and an eye like a city man or an american gambler. among those he loves he is nothing but a boy with a boyish simplicity but when he is surrounded by uninteresting acquaintances he suggests a german philosopher or danish poet--in his impenetrable reserve! a clever man is beerbohm tree and i like him. as is the case with all successful players especially if they have the good sense and good taste to present refined art he has many enemies. and most of these are members of his own profession! these malcontents have the effrontery to discuss a genius who has so far distanced them by his indefatigable industry, mentality and application as to leave them nowhere. he has succeeded in producing dignified plays in a dignified manner and his success has not been only "artistic." he makes enough to be able to pay $ , per annum for one of the prettiest playhouses in the world! i smile with you at your scoffers, mr. tree (i can't say sir beerbohm!). my hat's off to you. here is a little anecdote of the man they say is characteristic. he had been dining quite late--yes, and well. when the party broke up tree hailed a cab and jumped in with the one word, "home," addressed toward the cabby. that artful individual saw his chance for a fat fare and drove off without inquiring for more explicit instructions. after he had let his horse wander about london all night--with tree in peaceful slumber inside--the cabby peeked in through his little aperture in the roof and awoke the sleeping player. "where shall i drive you to now, sir?" queried the cabby. "home, i say," replied tree angrily. "i beg pardon, guv'nor," replied the cabby, "but where is your 'ome, sir?" tree opened one eye long enough to direct a look full of reproach at the cabby. "you don't imagine i'm going to tell every common cabman my private address, do you?" _chapter lxxiv_ the origin of the stage far be it from me to be a dusty delver into dates! but a word as to the origin of the profession in which so many of us have toiled so many years may not be amiss, especially if it point the moral or adorn the tale i have in mind. and that is not so much a tale as a protest against the customary reverence the public has for the actor who dares essay the classic rôles. it's not only not difficult to play a classic rôle. it's fifty per cent easier than to play a modern part! but to be historical! it was almost (or only, as you please) years ago that the first properly licensed theatre was built in london. the exact date was . it was called the black friars theatre. (and to-day, , there are a dozen or so on one block, on one side of one block in forty-second street, new york!) on the other hand it is marvelous to consider the amount of discussion one causes when one announces a forth-coming production of a classic play. by common impulse the critics sharpen their quills and prepare for the onslaught! how dare men and women who have been known to wear modern garments attractively and in style even attempt to enter into competition with past or present "masters"? by what right has the modern actor forsaken his frock coat for the sock and buskin? but again, the first religious spectacle was probably "st. catherine," a miracle play mentioned by mattheu paris as having been written by geoffrey, a norman, afterwards abbot of st. albans, and played at dunstable abbey in . in the "description of the most noble city of london" by fitz stephen, a monk, in treating of the diversions of the inhabitants of the metropolis in , says that while the plays all dealt with holy subjects the methods of the merchants who "presented" the attractions were anything but that. the gentle art of the ballyhoo was evidently well known even in those days for they used jugglers and buffoons and minstrels to draw the crowds up to the box office window. when the clergy awoke to what was going on they promptly put their sandaled feet down and stopped the money-making! monks took the place of the unfrocked actors and the box offices and theatres all disappeared. thereafter the miracle plays were enacted in the cathedrals and there was no way to check the gross receipts! according to the critics the classic comedy should never be played by an actor who has not arrived at an age that physically incapacitates him from not only looking the part but acting it! it is no different with classic tragedy. and this is based, perhaps, on the absurd fallacy that the classic drama is most difficult to portray. in fact it is the easiest. it is easily proved. take any one of the old comedies. in the first place they create their own atmosphere, an atmosphere unknown to nine hundred and ninety-nine out of one thousand. the costumes are of brilliant coloring and in exquisite taste and a novelty in themselves. nine-tenths of the idioms are not understood by the audience--and that is always most attractive! the methods of provoking laughter are uncommon, hence sure-fire! the play is a classic, therefore beyond criticism! no one is alive to-day who can judge of its accuracy--so it must be perfect! and, best of all, it is guaranteed to be in conformance with all the best standards--by tradition! a tramp could make a success with a modern play with half this much in its favor! on the other hand take the modern play. you know the atmosphere. you live in it. none is created. it is just there. consequently the critics wail the lack of it! the costumes are simply the dull prosaic garments of the day. there isn't any novelty to be found there. the language is understandable--perilous fault! the fun is provoked by well-known, legitimate methods and is accordingly "stupid." the comedian is a human being--and "tiresome" therefore! mind you, dear reader, i would not be of those who wail about the decline of the drama and the ascendency of the movies. but i can't escape the facts. and here is another angle of the situation which perhaps is too often overlooked. there is no question that the actor of to-day is living in a more agreeable environment than his brother of a hundred years ago. he is accepted now socially. he was a gypsy then. his opportunity to annex a large share of the world's goods is larger to-day than ever it was. yet in his artistic life he is less fortunate than his confreres of even twenty-five years ago. why? simply because we have lifted the curtain, let loose the secrets of our little house, discussed our art with the gambler and the janitor! it is a difficult job to convince a friend with whom you're dining that you are capable of playing hamlet. he can't disassociate you from the evening clothes you wear! abroad the man and the actor are separate beings. here, through our own fault, we are always ourselves. and so it must continue to be until the old back door keeper is reinstated, the green room refurbished and--the curtain dropped! let the janitor be silenced and the stage door barred and securely fastened! then and not until then may we hope to attain truly artistic results. [illustration: in hamlet _it had always been my desire to appear in shakespearean roles_] _chapter lxxv_ my stage-struck valet it was back in the early nineties that an invitation was extended to me to appear in an all-star performance of "richard the third" in a monster benefit for some charitable institution. (my friends, the critics, permit me to play tragedy--for charity!) with my acceptance of the invitation i also sent word i should appreciate it if a "bit" (a small part) were given to my valet to play. this valet of mine was the most woefully stage-struck individual i ever saw. it was his only fault. otherwise he was without a blemish as a valet. he had begged me for months to let him go on in one of my productions but i had never had an opportunity until now. the messenger sent from richmond through lord stanley to richard on the field of battle was the part my valet was to play and his line was "a gentleman called stanley desires admittance from the earl of richmond." for weeks prior to the benefit matinee that valet repeated his line aloud! if i asked for my slippers he brought them mumbling, "a gentleman called stanley desires admittance from the earl of richmond." no matter what i said to him he prefaced his answer with this line. it got on my nerves to such an extent i told him i'd dismiss him if he said it again in my hearing. it was no use. every time i turned my head i saw my valet repeating "a gentleman called stanley desires admittance from the earl of richmond." we put in a long rehearsal session the morning of the matinee. i was so much occupied with my own performance i paid no attention to the valet. i forgot even to inform him about the costume he should wear. as i was finishing my make-up and within a moment or two of the rise of the curtain my valet appeared in the doorway of my dressing-room with a request that i look him over. what i saw sent me into a paroxysm of laughter. there he was, pounds of him, in a green hauberk extending only to the top of his stomach! (it should have covered him to his knees.) blue tights pulled over the generous paunch met the lingering and deficient hauberk. scarlet boots were fitted with spurs so huge as to stagger any tragedian! the helmet whose side chains should have touched his shoulders sat atop his head like a chestnut on an apple with the side chains tickling the tops of his ears! as a finish he had the largest sword i ever saw strapped to his side! there was no time to change so i suppressed my laughter and told him for the fiftieth time to go to the left first entrance and when he saw my back toward him and heard me say, "off with his head, so much for buckingham," to rush on and with all his vigor shout his line. the valet promptly began, "a gentleman called--" but i stopped him and he started off as proud as a peacock and as confident as possible. the moment came. out of the corner of my eye i saw the valet waiting in his place. in his eagerness he was like a tiger ready to spring on his prey. i gave the cue. on came the valet! then i turned and with all the force at my command snarled, "how now?" the valet began to fall backwards! nearer and nearer the footlights he tottered until his feet became entangled in the spurs--and down he went flat on his back! picking himself up he managed to rescue the funny little helmet from the footlights trough, put it on his head, look for the exact center of the stage, reach it carefully, face the audience (with his back toward me!) and shouted, "a lady named stanley is downstairs!" of course everybody died! it was really my fault. i had omitted telling him that in tragedy actors save their voices at rehearsal and of course my rage was altogether unexpected by him as i had previously said "how now?" in a conversational tone. of course every one of my friends insisted my valet was not to blame inasmuch as he had been making just announcements every day of his life to either john mason or me in our little flat in the west thirties! but i always set it down as the best proof in the world that valets are born and not made. * * * * * tragedy is the husband of humor; comedy the child. * * * * * many comedians either make you laugh or frighten you to death. _chapter lxxvi_ george c. tyler of all the managers now producing plays in america there is one who stands like caesar alone, looking down upon the victorious battle field of success. if there are any laurel wreaths for sale in your neighborhood, gentle reader, buy one and bestow it upon the brow of george c. tyler. patient, keen, gentle and aggressive, he merits it. he has more artistic blood coursing through his veins than any man i know and, better still, he knows how to exude it. courageous even to being stubborn he never allows anyone to rob him of his convictions. once he embarks on any project he is as unmovable as the sphinx whose counterpart appears in his spectacular triumph, "the garden of allah." although he owns wonderful business ability he never allows commercialism to influence him in the production of a play. his knowledge of the ethics of the theatre equals the masters' and he can fly with the speed of a bird from tragedy to comedy. here is no purveyor of established successes but a discoverer of them! he is truly a servant of the masses. and with all his success he remains as urbane as when he began. he has fought his battles alone and unaided; borne his failures with fortitude; accepted defeat with the same equanimity as success. and now he stands one of the representative producing managers of the world! i have been associated with him only once and it was one of the most delightful experiences of my career. shall i ever again enjoy that pleasure? i wonder. august, it was a long time ago i wrote the preceding encomium. to-day i am suing mr. tyler for a large sum of money for breach of contract! but i meant it when i wrote it and i mean it still! and it goes as it stands! _chapter lxxvii_ i find the very best phyllis fate in the person of george broadhurst may seem incongruous to those who know that dramatist--but fate is not to be held accountable for his guises! and it was through broadhurst that fate brought onto my horizon a young woman who presently was to save my life--and that is the least of countless benefits she has bestowed upon me! broadhurst spent most of his time in southern california from to and not a little of it at my beach home. after my long run of failures i hoped i had landed a winner in his new play "the captain" which i took to new york for production there. he accompanied me and undertook to select the cast. it was he who engaged as my leading woman miss margaret moreland. the play was a fizzle as complete as any of the others. until it proved a disastrous failure i never knew it was not all broadhurst's. he told me afterwards he had written it in collaboration with some "unknown!" [illustration: margaret moreland _the very best phyllis_] to round out my season i revived several of my tried and trusted old plays and did fairly good business on the road. if i accomplished nothing else that season could be set down by me as a success inasmuch as i discovered in miss moreland's acting of phyllis in "when we were twenty-one," the finest performance that rôle ever received--and i knew that in her lay the ability to become a really great emotional actress--a distinct discovery in these days. when i received an offer at the close of the season to go to los angeles and appear in a repertoire of my plays at the auditorium theatre where a new stock company was being formed, i accepted. on my arrival there i found the whole city wildly excited over this first attempt at opposition which the emperor of stage land in southern california, oliver morosco, had ever been called upon to throttle. it was a battle royal while it lasted. the auditorium, which seats , was packed at every performance--at very cheap prices. during the several months of my engagement morosco spent many thousands of dollars tying up all the plays available for stock performances he could lay his hands on. also my engagement served to increase the salaries of a number of morosco's actors who he feared were about to desert him. for me it was a brief holiday and amusing. i recruited a company in los angeles following this engagement, engaging miss moreland as my leading woman, and opened in phoenix, arizona, playing my way across the country and arriving in new york in the holiday season in . it was during this cross-country tour that i received a telegram from george c. tyler which resulted in my proving to not a few doubting thomases that i could "come back." i have constantly referred to fate taking my cue from homer. now i learn he used this word simply to save time! it seems it is "the fates" who have directed my course through life. with those three little maids from school, clotho, lachesis and atropos leading me along with their silken threads through my nose, allowing me to go on and on and then reeling me back again as one toys with a yellowtail, is it any wonder i've made so many failures? had i only known i should have given up long ago! young ladies, you've certainly made it warm for me! * * * * * a love scene on the stage, properly played, leads to recriminations--if an explanation is demanded by the one left at home. * * * * * an "american beauty" is a flower which seeks to adorn a coronet. wear one as a boutonnière--but never, never marry one! * * * * * marriage in the profession should be made obligatory. _chapter lxxviii_ the lambs club what a remarkable institution is the lambs club! i say institution because in its development during the past twenty years it has grown from a cozy little rendezvous for the tired actors after their night's work to a clearing house for plays, sketches and engagements of artists. to visit that beautiful home on forty-fourth street between the hours of one and two o'clock is to imagine you are in a business man's luncheon club down town. as i look back upon the many years when, of a cold winter's night, i would wander into the little twenty-sixth street home of the lambs--i sigh deeply! then i was sure to find a greeting from dear old clay greene, from that budding genius gus thomas. there were there to welcome me also the erratic sydney rosenfeldt, suave frank carlisle, dominant wilton lackaye, brilliant maurice barrymore, dear old lincoln (now passed away) and countless others, including clever henry dixey, then at the zenith of his success, the holland boys and--but then why continue? it was then we knew how to spend the time, how to regale ourselves and how to pass many, many happy hours with anecdote and song. all the members knew each other in those days. i, among many others, never entered the club without embracing that dearest of men, george fawcett. there were no favored few in those days. it was one for all and all for one. clever john mason and that equally talented artist, george nash, were the staunchest upholders of this slogan. how different now! as i enter the lambs club today i scarcely know a member. almost all of the old guard have passed away. as i look into the faces of the many unknown to me it seems almost impossible that i have not wandered into the wrong building! but presently i find gus thomas and a few remaining members of the old flock--and then all is well once more. thomas has developed into the greatest american dramatist--as i knew he would. to be sure now and then one of his plays fails to meet with favor while perhaps one of the anaemic broadhurst's sensual plays is meeting with success, but thomas's plays will live and be in the libraries of america when the products of these ephemeral writers have been consigned to the waste baskets of obscurity. i consider thomas not only a great dramatist but a great american. i am sure if he had entered politics the world would have recognized him as a great statesman. with a suavity of manner, full of repose and a geniality which few possess, thomas exerts on an audience a combined feeling of restfulness and awe. i never heard him utter an unkind word to anybody nor discuss an actor's or author's ability with anything approaching antagonism. he goes along quietly and unassumingly, writes a couple of failures and then--bang!--he hits you in the eye with a play that has a knock-out punch. such plays as "the witching hour" and "as a man thinks" will be acted when he and his many admirers shall have long since passed into the great beyond. augustus thomas i count the pinero of america--and a true american gentleman. we have been friends for twenty years and i am proud of that friendship. [illustration: as fagin in oliver twist "_fagin was a comedian_"] in the same spirit of thanksgiving i may mention my friendship for john mason. surely the american public must be proud of this splendid player. john and i were very dear pals in our younger days and we have kept up the friendship to date. in those days john was prone to indulgence in all the existing vagaries of the moment and never took himself seriously until recently. but now he has settled down and showed his real merits as an actor. the fact that he is a great favorite in london speaks volumes for his capability. i sincerely hope that john mason may be spared for many years to show this great american public that there are a few american artists still capable of delivering the goods. john! i wish you continued success, for you deserve it! * * * * * in casting a play nowadays, never seek ability, seek only "personality." * * * * * the true philosophy of life is to try to achieve something and when you have--forget it. * * * * * put a uniform on the average middle class "american" and you make of him a vulgar despot. _chapter lxxix_ i "come back" tyler's telegram contained an offer to play fagin in an all-star production of "oliver twist" to be produced in february, , on the occasion of the dickens' centenary celebration. it had been a long time, the longest time in my entire stage career, that i had been without a successful characterization in new york--and the thought of giving my interpretation of the famous jew appealed to me. i accepted. the production was very good. the company was quite capable. associated with me were constance collier, lyn harding, marie doro and other equally well-known and finished artists. fuller mellish's performance of mr. grimwig was one of the most delightful bits of character acting i ever saw. we opened at the new amsterdam theatre to a capacity audience and tremendous business was the rule during the entire engagement. it was a fine playhouse in which to stage such a pretentious production as tyler had given the play. there is little doubt that "oliver twist" might have remained at the new amsterdam almost indefinitely had it not been that other, earlier bookings compelled us to move out. the demand for seats was so great, however, that charles frohman welcomed us at the empire theatre where, much to my surprise (for it is altogether too small and "intimate" a place for such a production as this), it continued to "turn 'em away." the critics were all very enthusiastic. it amused me not a little to detect in several of the reviews expressions of surprise that i was able to portray fagin to the reviewer's satisfaction. of course i knew all along that the rialto and park row were a unit in declaring that i could never "come back." i think perhaps the simple fact that i made fagin a humorous old codger instead of the sinister object our very best tragedians have always painted him may account for the laudatory notices my work received. but there can't be any question about fagin. he was a comedian--positively! think of his telling charlie bates he would give "dear little oliver a treat"--by letting him sleep in that awful, awful bed of his! oh yes, fagin never stopped having silent laughs. and i liked him for it. while we were playing to packed houses at every performance at the empire tyler sailed for europe assuring us he would send us out on tour after the empire theatre engagement. he said we were to go to the coast and continue the tour throughout the following season. as a result i turned down a very flattering offer to appear in new york that fall. had he not failed to keep his promise i should have been spared a year of physical suffering! but he did break his promise. a week after the titanic disaster we received notice that the season was at an end so far as "oliver twist" was concerned. and now, having "come back" i foolishly determined to go back--and i started for california once more. i've always thought greeley's advice should have read, "go west, old man!" _chapter lxxx_ i "go back" the summer of proved very eventful! closing the "oliver twist" season early in may i headed for california to superintend the development of my ranch at san jacinto. immediately on my arrival i began the laying out and planting of a hundred acres of oranges, lemons and grape fruit. it proved most fascinating work. during the three months i put in at the ranch i lived in a big tent with a party of friends including miss moreland and her married sister. i was up with the birds and in bed by o'clock every night. employing as i was twenty men and ten six-horse teams, ten four-horse and three ten-horse, my job of supervision was necessarily a big one. i would go from one gang to another climbing hills which in a few days would be levelled! oh it was big work--adjusting the miles of pipe lines and cement flumes which we manufactured ourselves during the process of grading, preparing the holes to receive the trees which were being prepared and nourished at the nursery of a mr. wilson of hemet, two miles away, seeing that the hot ground was properly cooled by the water i had developed from a concealed spring in the mountains and doing the thousand and one other things necessary to insure the successful development of an orange grove. i had previously given the work a great deal of thought and study. it requires a great deal. the average orange grower neglects the study of the planting and rearing of the trees and the result is more often failure than success. an orange tree will not nourish alone and neglected any more than a baby and it is in its early life, like the infant, that it must be watched. the young tree should first be carefully examined as to its vigor and stamina; next its foundation or roots must be well looked after and handled tenderly in its uprooting in the nursery; extreme care expressed in the removal and transplanting. it should be transported, if the weather be hot, during the early morning hours, packed in manure, well watered and the roots covered by canvas or burlap. the holes should be kept moist all the previous evening to cool the earth and in the planting all the roots should be carefully separated and spread out. directly a row is planted it should be deluged with water for six to eight hours or longer. once a week for ten years the ground should be cultivated and disturbed and every year, unless the soil is very rich, the trees should be fertilized. an orchard should be gone over at least every other day for three years when by that time it can take care of itself with a little attention and be made a most profitable investment. but it won't thrive on its own and you can't run an orange grove living three thousand miles away nor intrust it to the management of the average care taker. go to it personally and it will prove a winner with a chance of clearing one thousand dollars an acre annually. * * * * * faith is the harbor of the unwary into which the ship of ignorance tranquilly sails. _chapter lxxxi_ david belasco what an intellectual giant is david belasco! the most conspicuous man associated with the american stage to-day. his accomplishments have been colossal. even irving, pouissard, charles keane and many other artists of their day, who have devoted their lives to art, bow in obeisance to the modern david. think what this gentleman has accomplished! he has given to the world david warfield and made him a master; blanche bates, mrs. carter and many others of equal talent. produced plays that will go down in history among the classics; modernized stagecraft to the extent that one never realizes they are in a theatre when privileged to witness one of the belasco productions. yet, with all his wondrous powers and attainments, he is never in evidence, only his handiwork. he has built the only playhouse worthy the name in america. it suggests the old irving lyceum in london, and one approaches the portals of the belasco theatre with awe and reverence. i have known him for over thirty years, and he is as modest as he is clever: every angle of our art at his finger tips. a gentleman, scholar and artist! a man, is david belasco, dean of the american drama. [illustration: david belasco _an intellectual giant_] _chapter lxxxii_ "author--author" not so long ago i was present at the first performance of a play, and during its presentation i was shocked beyond my power to describe by an incident at the same time disgusting and inconceivably vulgar. the play itself--a wearisome thing--was crude and altogether impossible. at the end of the second act, a half dozen paid ushers applauded valiantly. before they could become wearied by their difficult task, a huge, bulky man appeared before the curtain. he ambled slowly to the center of the stage where he stood still for perhaps fifteen seconds as if to enable the audience to contemplate him in repose. then this individual shifted his weight from one leg to the other, still keeping silent. there he stood, a sneer distorting his features, poised on one leg, the left foot pointing toward the right. he wore an ill-fitting evening suit with an abundance of shirt front, very much mussed, protruding from the confines of the waistcoat. his face, unwashed, suggested a cross between a bill sykes and a caliban. oblique, thin slits concealed a pair of green-white eyes. a strong, wide jaw that opened and shut like the snap of an alligator's was tilted forward and upward at the puzzled spectators. finally the person, the author of the drivel we had patiently listened to, leaned over the footlights and casting a look toward the woman for whom he had deserted home, wife and children, literally snarled at the audience. "i wrote this play for the elect," he declared ferociously. a perceptible shudder ran through the house. many men and women rose from their seats and left the theatre, refusing to remain to hear the incoherent and egotistical remarks of this revolting person. i have known this brute for twenty years, and in all that time i have never heard one human being speak anything except ill of him. managers avoid him. artists loathe him. authors despise him. a moral and physical coward, this man without a friend, wanders from east to west, vulgarly attempting to foist upon a long-suffering and all-too-easily deceived public, the woman whose chief claim to public notice is the fact that she was named as co-respondent in the divorce action obtained by his wife. he continues to write plays of the underworld with inspirations obtained in the sewers of humanity and founded on ideas purloined from departed authors or stolen from the living too weak to protect themselves. his blustering, bullying tactics have enabled him to push his way upwards to some success--but no one envies him. all who know him "have his number." i have often wondered how he has escaped bodily injury. no woman is safe from his insults. i know one young woman who went to him in search of an engagement. his first question was so dastardly as to cause her to burst into tears, and she ran from his presence in hysterics. when this young woman's uncle learned of it he loaded a revolver and started on this playwright's track. but the tears and entreaties of his wife and his niece stopped him. will the world ever be rid of this form of human parasite? i wonder. the antithesis of this person is another author equally despised. he is a little, pale person who writes problem plays and has met with much success. he never drinks or smokes. in fact he poses as a paragon of all the virtues. he once wrote me an insulting letter accusing me of uttering profane remarks concerning a certain business transaction between us. i never answered it, but have it in my possession. it may prove useful some day. this beauty, who also has a wife and children, came west some few years ago accompanied by a woman whom he introduced to many persons as his wife. i knew she was not, but kept my counsel. one day we were discussing a play which he had promised to write for me. i asked him why he did not divorce his wife or insist on her divorcing him. he blandly replied: "great scott, i've tried everything to induce her to do so, but she doesn't believe in divorce. besides, she is a christian." fancy this pious little man saying this. he goes merrily on his way, living a dual life--the woman of his easy choice provided for far better than his wife and children. and he writes plays dealing with moral problems! he receives very large royalties and basks in the sunshine of his own hypocrisy. and this individual has had the audacity to criticise my actions and elect himself the censor of my various attitudes. well, let him. i would not exchange my conscience for his for all his affluence. and yet, from his point of view, he is right. the world applauds his plays. no one seems to interfere with his private affairs. he is received by all his fellow club members with impersonal respect. the wide white way is always open to him and the woman. there no one ever pushes them aside. the legal wife and children are unknown to cruel, gay broadway. the narrow paths of the meadows and lanes of the suburban retreat in which this successful author has his family housed are their only byways. through them they slowly tread--to the little church and beyond it to the graveyard, towards which the wife and mother ever sets her gaze--as if in prayerful hope. and the author of successful plays is content. he knows his wife is a christian. what is he? i wonder. * * * * * i would rather sell fresh eggs from the end of my private car in one-night stands--than barter impure ones on the stage of a leading new york playhouse. * * * * * an agnostic objects to salaries for draped preachers and to temples whose roofs prohibit thought from permeating the realm of inspiration. * * * * * fact is the whiplash that scourges faith. _chapter lxxxiii_ mushroom managers the past year has been an appalling one for the mushroom producing manager. i mean those insolent young men nearing the thirties, who by accident or some unknown reason secure control of musical comedies written by some obscure author and after interesting friends to the extent of investing capital enough to enable them to produce the aforesaid comedies, they launch their productions and sometimes get them over. they look about for the best available talent, establish salaries that make it prohibitive for legitimate producers to sustain, and calmly go on their way. if they fail they can assign the production to the storehouse and leave their artists in any town or city where they come a cropper. if they succeed with their first venture they at once organize two or three road companies and go through the country circusing their first accidental success. they establish themselves in expensive offices; engage a staff and go at once into the producing game seriously, seeking the best authors and composers and outbidding managers of standing, and endeavor to secure prevailing european successes, or produce original plays of their own. naturally, their lack of training and experience is a handicap and their first success is seldom followed by another. two or three successive failures soon put them on the shelf and they seek the bankruptcy court to avoid their creditors. artists are left stranded with an inflated idea of their respective values and generally indulge in a well merited vacation. they have no sense of honor and their idea of speculation is to invest a shoe string with an idea of securing a tannery. one of these producers was standing in the lobby of a new york theatre, last season, on the eve of one of his $ , . productions, when he was approached by one of the leading actors of the past winter, to whom he owed several thousand dollars back salary. the actor offered to compromise for a thousand. the manager looked at him and replied: "my boy, where could i get the thousand?" these are the methods that are destroying the theatrical game. irresponsible managers have only to enter the office of these syndicates, assure the gentleman in charge that they have a production ready costing many thousands of dollars, and the booking agent at once arranges a tour, throwing aside standard attractions who have not invested quite as much money as the new producer, and the older attraction must take what is given him or leave it alone. if he objects, he is told that the mushroom manager has invested from $ , to $ , in his enterprise and his capital must be protected and the terms made accordingly. in other words, the booking agents gamble with them and allow them a percentage of the gross receipts according to the amount of his investment. i consider this all wrong and one of the reasons of the unsuccessful theatres of the present day. men who have judgment and talent should be protected. if they draw the money, what matter to the booking agent what amount of money has been invested? three or four of these mushroom managers have gone into bankruptcy this season and they can be found every evening at present, tangoing on the various roof gardens, where they belong. there is no denying the fact that as a nation we prate about patriotism that does not exist. every foreign artist who visits our shores finds us ready to bow down and pay homage, be it the mistress of a dethroned king, a bare-legged countess or an anemic tragedian. i have no desire to be personal; but the adulation, attention and grovelling at the feet of sir johnston forbes-robertson is to me, as an american actor, simply disgusting; not that sir john is not a good actor, or even a great actor, but i have memories of a departed actor named edwin booth, who lost a million dollars in an honest endeavor to perpetuate his art by erecting a playhouse which bore his name. now, this foreigner who has done absolutely nothing to advance the art of acting, advertises his farewell to a public who are as fickle as they are undiscriminating and packs the theatres, giving his last performance in new york to receipts that dear edwin booth never dreamed of playing to; conspicuous citizens pay him tribute, and go forth proclaiming his performance of hamlet superior to that of booth. how we americans forget and fawn. one of our best known and oldest comedians at present appearing before the public, had the extreme bad taste after witnessing the performance of robertson's hamlet, to enter the players club, which edwin booth presented to the profession, and pronounce robertson's hamlet superior to booth's. as a boy i had the pleasure of witnessing booth play hamlet; i saw a prince to his finger tips looking the character of a philosopher of thirty, and playing it to perfection. now an anemic old gentleman past sixty, with a supporting company of which corse payton would be ashamed, is packing the playhouses of america, bidding farewell to a public that has long since forgotten edwin booth and his supporting company, which included such actors as edwin adams, john mccullough, milnes levick and divers others of equal talents. one never heard of e. l. davenport's farewell nor edwin forrest's, another actor who left a home for actors incapacitated for work; they are in the grave, forgotten. actors are walking broadway seeking employment, others are travelling seeking to earn a livelihood, while an anemic old gentleman is calmly gathering in the american dollars to build his english palace. * * * * * how unfortunate to grow up with one's country! far better to burst suddenly upon it--unknown--but heralded! * * * * * one failure in america will blot out the memory of a score of successes. here art is sold by the yard. * * * * * to realize the unimportance of art, read the average critical review of it. * * * * * acting is now a matter of geography. * * * * * america is the english actor's mecca; england is our cemetery. [illustration: drawn while we were "barnstorming"] _chapter lxxxiv_ "keep off the grass" i wonder if the average american citizen, particularly that type of long-haired reformer whom the middle west sends to southern california, ever stops to seek the reason for the annual exodus abroad of so many of us. in these annual trips to europe we leave millions of dollars earned in this country to add to the coffers of those who understand the broad principles and liberal ideas of government. it is for freedom! free thought! free inclinations! free expenditures! masters of themselves, they go where they please, eat and drink what they desire at any hour, time and place. there they are not subservient to the prying eyes of long-haired men and short-haired women. there they find a patch of green for rest and recreation without a sign reading "keep off the grass." the majority of the law-makers of our supposedly free country are not legislators. they are either school-teachers or policemen or hypocritical saints who eat cold food on sunday and prate from their platform of platitudes their plenary inspirations with a desire that all mankind do likewise. if you fail to live up to their doctrines you are a heretic. if you desire to live among them with free instincts you write yourself down an anchorite. personally, i would rather be a hyperborean and subsist on icicles than be compelled to live subject to the insular municipal laws of this boasted free country. were i personally denied the opportunity of visiting the various capitals of europe at intervals and watching and enjoying results of modern civilization and really free government, i might be converted and agree with some of the ignorant and incompetent law-makers of our so-called free country. come, oh, come with me, some of you moralists who consider it a crime to take a cocktail on the sabbath, and visit berlin, the best governed city in the world, where life begins at midnight and continues for twenty-four hours. then let us on to paris and vienna and st. petersburg, with a stop at rome. gaze upon the many happy faces, a large per cent truant, free american citizens enjoying themselves like school children at recess, finding a respite from the puritanical laws of their own country. no arbitrary ordinances forbid their ordering wine, visiting the race courses, playing at baccarat, spending an evening at the opera, and there are no policemen to tell them "keep off the grass." and all this enjoyment on the lord's day! fancy! how horrible! what blasphemy! truly shocking! it is enough to make john calvin ask his neighbor to turn over. does it ever occur to these psalm singers that people do this of their own volition? there are as many cathedrals as there are restaurants, but there is no law that compels you to patronize either. we are denied the sport of kings--horse racing. in england racing is upheld by royalty and the house of lords. here it is decried by disloyalty and a house of cards. it would be amusing to the native american who has travelled throughout the world and watched the growth of really free and sensible governments, were it not so humiliating, to regard this wave of morality that is sweeping the country like a forest fire. that bewhiskered gentleman in new york, who wielded his scepter of cant from the governor's chair, confessed he had never attended a theatre or seen a horse race. i can well believe it. i presume when he was at college the pantry attracted him more than the foot ball field. he chooses to disfigure his face with a square cut beard. therefore from his point of view barbers are unnecessary! why didn't he shut up all the barber shops and revoke the gillette safety razor patent? he has just as much authority, morally, to shut up all the restaurants and bars because he never tasted wine. a good tonsorial spree and a cocktail would benefit this disciple of john knox, i am sure. fancy an ordinance in this free country forbidding wine at restaurants on sundays unless a meal is ordered and that hot! can you imagine anything more ludicrous than these psalm singers making arbitrary laws about the temperature of our food? no prize fights are allowed nor even pictures of the manly art of self-defense to be shown. what a rebuke to american manhood! what a future for our sons to contemplate! boys in time to come will settle their disputes crocheting and knitting instead of in a good stand up fight as in the days of old. you won't take your son to witness the pictures of the jeffries-johnson fight, but you will accompany your daughter to view an amorous picture. gambling of every description is debarred and all the public parks feature "keep off the grass!" no wonder we are known as a nation of travellers. how different it is abroad. frenchmen never leave france, germans, germany and the average londoner seldom gets beyond the sound of bow bells. yet true born americans will go anywhere to escape the thraldom of the insular laws of this supposedly free country, only returning to gather enough shekels to enable them to buy more freedom. i learn from a banker of los angeles that more than $ , was drawn from the city banks one summer in cheques and letters of credit on european houses. imagine anyone leaving the gorgeous city of los angeles. and yet there is a reason--less climate, more freedom. i predict ere long if the present conditions continue everyone who can afford it and who has red corpuscles flowing through his veins will spend his holidays abroad. ten times $ , will be drawn from the banks of los angeles annually unless some live one is put at the helm of that grand ship--los angeles. contrast the seaside resorts of ostend, aix-les-bains, trouville and dieppe with our coney island, atlantic city and ocean park, california. at ocean park we have the same sunshine and sea as the mediterranean, with a few mountains thrown in. god gave us the best of it--man the worst. at the seashore in foreign countries are beautiful hotels, delightful promenades and a casino where one is allowed to gamble. fancy gambling by the sea and the government permitting it! and why not? part of the revenue goes toward maintaining its charities and churches. the government realizes it is the duty of every municipality to enhance its treasury for the benefit of its institutions and the poor. ten per cent of the revenues of the race tracks in france the government confiscates--and quite right. i would rather contribute to the church from my winnings, racing, than pay a like amount into the poor box listening to a stupid sermon in a poorly ventilated church. one can be ten times more devout paying admission into heaven with another fellow's money! these far sighted foreigners have taken advantage of our insular laws with the result that they have attracted the rich of the universe who desire to spend their money as they wish. they prefer casinos to shacks--people to peanuts. here are we in beautiful los angeles with laws as arbitrary as salem a hundred years ago. no wines are served on the sabbath; a race course is going to decay; wantons and women of the street are compelled to move on. in all the european cities the poor wanderers are protected by the laws and placed within the jurisdiction of the medical fraternity and housed instead of hounded. necessary evils must be protected for the sake of humanity. if we would only open the flood-gates of progress, batter down the doors of dogmatism, take off the lid that suffocates the rich and strangle the cant and hypocrisy of these modern reformers--the magdalenes would have shelter; race tracks would be permitted to give enjoyment to those who appreciate the sport of kings; prohibition would cease to make drunkards; freedom would run amuck; turnpikes would be established from coast to coast; the incense of orange blossoms would permeate to the atlantic--and california become the rendezvous of the world. * * * * * a hypocrite is one who emerges from his own shadow and apologizes to the sun for asking it to shine. * * * * * idle gossip is a busy bee. * * * * * the astronomers who almost opened the gate of heaven crucified the souls of those who held tickets of admission. _chapter lxxxv_ california what a royal country is california! i am the happy possessor of an alfalfa and orange ranch in san jacinto county. how beautiful it is! as i stand under the trees at sunset i contemplate a scene not equaled even in the beautiful austrian tyrol! down from the mountain top, furrowed with many natural terraces from the base to the crest, trimmed by gradually receding rows of full grown orange trees to the infant ones, just planted, i look with reverence upon the valley. i see the bovine and the hog bow as the angelus is heard. the lilac and the rose hold converse and whisper to the sun to shed less light that they may embrace and sink into the night. the chug of the practical water pump gives demonstration that it must nourish the alfalfa's life, only to destroy it, to give added life to the tenants of the velvety carpet. all is hushed, the fowls bidden hence by the watchman, chanticleer, to their respective homes, mistress hen to quench the fires and prepare for dawn. the stately eucalyptus nods his head signifying that time is done. the sun apologetically starts away to make his daily run. the vegetables prepare themselves for the noonday meal, the barley and the oats keep tune to the zephyr's lullaby as they sink gracefully into slumberland. [illustration: the ranch at san jacinto, california _a scene not equalled in the austrian tyrol_] from the east the gentleman called moon appears and smilingly bids all good cheer, for, when he's on the watch, care vanishes. all is hushed. the twinkling of the stars seems to make a melody as they hit and strike each other down the heavens. something moves, as if to destroy the harmony of thought. an indian glides by with just a sign of recognition as he passes on to the adjacent mountain, which the government is pleased to call a reservation. a limpid, casual stream flows slyly down as if fearful of discovery. the shrill, demoniac bark of the coyote gives the chickens and the goats warning that the scavenger of the desert is near, seeking to destroy. then all is hushed again and a luminous silence known only to the few imparts to us the fact that a day has died. but another and another will yet be born--and thus they'll come and go until eternity. * * * * * life is a bridge of sighs over which memory glides into a torrent of tears. * * * * * there is nothing so serious as fun. * * * * * i have never known a true comedian who was not a master of sentiment. * * * * * all the tragedians whom i have ever known were never more tragic than when they tried to be comic. _chapter lxxxvi_ i become a barnstormer! while i was at work on my ranch, disgusted with the methods of new york managers, i received a proposition from oliver morosco to appear in new york under his management in a new play which i was first to try out with one of his stock companies in los angeles. if that play proved a failure morosco agreed to submit others to me until we finally succeeded in finding a success. evidently my short season with the opposition stock company had given morosco pause! it looked like an advantageous offer and i accepted, consenting to appear in "oliver twist" in one of his stock houses--among other plays. we had just begun rehearsals of "oliver twist" when an accident laid me low. morosco, who was in new york at the time, sent two of his employees to my house within an hour after i had been carried in and from them and from him, by telegrams, i received repeated assurances that i need not worry, that the contract would continue in force indefinitely. as soon as i should be able to appear on the stage morosco promised to carry out his part of the agreement to the letter. i was sufficiently recovered in february, , to appear as fagin. the play ran three weeks at the stock house in los angeles and then i found myself wondering what was to become of me! the great morosco was "back east" somewhere. no one seemed to be able to locate him or to get word to him. so i waited about four or five weeks on the pleasure of this magnate! finally came word that we were to organize a company on the spot and make a tour of the coast in "oliver twist," extending it to canada and continuing in it for the remainder of the season. i had heard of but had never known what "barnstorming" meant before. i know now! the production which morosco sent out with me was the thrown-together junk which had been used in the stock production. it was never intended to last more than a few weeks or to be moved! it was quite the worst collection of moth-eaten scenery and "properties" i ever saw. the company, with a very few exceptions, was recruited from the members of the morosco stock companies who chanced to be idle at the moment. some of the men, driven desperate by the nature of the backwoods country through which our route lay, were thoroughly intoxicated (and not infrequently blind drunk!) most of the time--and i for one had no heart to reprove them! some of the towns we played are not on any map--the map could never survive it! from pillar to post we were yanked along over single-track railroads--with bits of our scenery falling out through open baggage doors all along the line! how that scenery ever managed to hang together as long as it did has always puzzled me. finally we had to eliminate the london bridge scene. the platforms were so insecure it was positively dangerous for the actors to stand on them. this was one of the greatest and most effective scenes in the new york production and gave my leading woman, miss moreland, as nancy, one of her biggest moments. the night before we took it off, in one of the smaller coast towns, some of the gallery boys, noticing the stone (!) steps and huge pillars of granite (god save the mark!) wabbling to and fro, began to whistle "london bridge is falling down"--and in a moment the whole house had taken it up! that was enough for me. after five weeks of miserable business we closed in victoria and i returned to my beach home outside los angeles to the far more congenial task of completing this book. i sincerely hope you, dear reader, will find as much pleasure in reading what i've written as i have found in its composition. i have striven to be kind to everyone in these pages and if any of my criticisms appear harsh or my views on various subjects be considered arrogant, pray accept my apologies. i have written as i think and whatever the verdict i stand by my guns. what will the verdict be? i wonder. i say i returned to my home to complete this book. i did--and i thank the gods that fate stepped in and for once was kindly enough disposed to permit me to write the most appropriate and happy finis any book of mine could have! * * * * * fact and unconsecrated fields oppose faith and architecture. _chapter lxxxvii_ number five the day (a beautiful day in may, , such a day as only southern california at its happiest moment knows), i made margaret moreland my wife i once again set the buzzards and the gossips to wagging their ears and tongues and lashing their tails (i have always been sure both have tails!). * * * * * my first (wife) was an angel; my second a silly woman; my third a roman senator; my fourth a pretty little thing; my fifth--all woman! my whole (desire) was by repetition to prove that hope can conquer experience! _chapter lxxxviii_ l'envoi i am sorry for the poor american who deserts this sun-kissed california country for worn-out europe. i am enjoying the breezes and ozone wafted from the great pacific while poor deluded eastern folk are festering in heat and humidity, varied only by an occasional murky thunderstorm. i face the sea and at my back are roses! on either side the blue-brown mountains hold converse with the sun and stars and dip their august heads in silent acquiescence to the others' whispers. at night massive mars, always on duty, ever luminous, sternly bids them silence and the world to "go to" while he blinks a patronizing approval upon those "beneath" him. he has much of cynicism in his blinking as he contemplates this tiny carbon, earth, for all his constant attendance. mars is my companion, ever peering through my casement. only our sex and distance prevent a silent flirtation! i am sometimes tempted to address him anyhow, but his majesty always awes me. still, i find consolation communing with the waves that lull me to sleep as they embrace the sandy shore. the consolation is all too brief, the sleep intermittent, and i awake to fly back to the companionship of mars. he is such a splendid officer! always on guard--at sea and over the desert. he seldom shows himself resplendent in crowded cities. he dislikes company and turmoil. he is always alone, now and then racing with the moon and always leaving that gentleman to the left as he smilingly beckons the wary miner of the desert and the patient mariner of the sea to the right. mars knows the road--a magnificent, reticent soldier--and i pray ere long my friend tesla will make him better known. the drab morning is approaching o'er the mountain tops. a sea gull of corresponding color is on the sand, seeking what it may devour. the color of the bird and atmosphere are not to my fancy. i am going to beg a favor of sleep and awake when the colors are more radiant, when the sunbeams glisten and dance from sky to wave, when the white clouds meet and kiss the shadow that lets fall diamond drops of crystal that quench the thirst of the flowers and give them life. my home is by the sea. my lot is one hundred feet wide. its height is interminable. it is a thousand fathoms deep! my front yard extends to the antipodes. am i not to be envied? i wonder? index ables, eddy, academy of music, adams, edwin, , , adams house, adams, maude, , , , , "alabama," "alabaster staircase, the," albaugh, john, aldrich, louis, allen, john, allen, viola, , "altar of friendship, the," amber, mabel, "ambition," - "american citizen, an," , , , - , , anderson, mary, "andré, major," "antony, mark," appleton, george, archer, belle, archer, fred, arch street theatre, armstrong, paul, arthur, chester, arthur, paul, , "as a man thinks," "as in a looking glass," attell, abe, auditorium theatre, babcock, theodore, "baby mine," baldwin's theatre, , , ball, william, "banker's daughter, the," barrett, lawrence, , , , , , , barrett, louis, , barron, elwyn, barry, billy, , barrymore, ethel, , barrymore, georgie drew, barrymore, john, barrymore, lionel, barrymore, maurice, - , , bates, blanche, , , , "beauty and the barge," , , beck, senator, becket, harry, beefsteak club, beere, mrs. bernard, belasco, david, , , belasco theatre, bell, digby, , bellew, kyrle, bellewood, bessie, , "bells, the," , bennett, james o'donnell, bergman, henry, bernand, bernhardt, sarah, , , "bertha, the sewing machine girl," bigelow, charles, bijou theatre, , , , bingham, amelia, bishop, charles, , blackburne, senator, "black cloak, the," "black flag, the," blake, william, blethen, alden j., blaine, james g., , , bloodgood, clara, bloodgood, henry, bohemian club, "bookmaker, the," , booth, edwin, , , , , , , , , , , booth's theatre, boston "advertiser," boston museum, , , , , boston "post," boston theatre, boston theatre stock company, "bottle, the," "bottom, nick," "bottom's dream, col. tom," boucicault, dion, , "bought and paid for," , , bowser, charles, boylan, tommy, bradford, joseph, - , , brady, william, brewer, - brice, senator, broadhurst, george, , , , broadway theatre, , brooke, gustavus, brooks, joseph, , , , , brougham, john, browning, miss, bryton, fred, buckley, ned, , burbeck, frank, burk, charles, burke, billie, burton, william e., bush street theatre, "butterflies, the," byron, arthur, "camille," campbell, bartley, "candidate, the," cannon, anthony, "captain, the," , carlisle, alexandra, , carlisle, frank, , carlisle, john g., carlton, henry guy, - , - carter, mrs. leslie, , casino, "caste," cazauran, a. r., , , "celebrated case, a," chamberlain, john, , chambers, haddon, "chantecler," cincinnati festival, "cinderella at school," , clancy, veney, clapp, henry a., , clarke, marguerite, clayton, estelle, , claxton, kate, cleveland, grover, cliff house, "climbers, the," cline, maggie, coe, isabel, , coghlan, charles, , , cohan, george, , , , collier, jim, collier, willie, , - collins, charlie, collins, constance, "confusion," conklin, roscoe, , conners, billy, , considine, george, cooke, george frederick, coote, charlie, coote, robert, coquelin, corbett, james j., - , couldock, william, coulter, fraser, covent garden, "cowboy and the lady, the," craig, robert, crane, william ii., , , , , crinkle, nym, crisp, speaker, criterion theatre, "cromwell, oliver," "crosstree, captain," "cruets," , crystal palace, cummings, amos, cushman, charlotte, dailey, peter, , dale, alan, daly, arnold, daly, augustin, daly, john, daly, william h., dasher, bert, davenport, e. l., , , davenport, fanny, davey, tom, denver "post," detroit "free press," "dietrich, captain," dixey, henry e., , , , - , donnelly, henry, doro, marie, dramatic schools, drew, john, , , , , drew, mrs. john, , , drury lane theatre, , dupree, minnie, , , duse, eleanora, , dyas, ada, "easiest way, the," edeson, robert, edwin, eddy, elliott, gertrude, , - , - , , - elliott, maxine, , - , - , , - , - , , - , , elliott theatre, maxine, ely central, emerson, billy, emmet, j. k., , empire stock company, empire theatre, erlanger, abe, , , , , "erminie," , esmond, henry v., "evangeline," , , "evening sun," eytinge, rose, "fagin," , , , "false shame," farnum, bill, farnum, dustin, farrell, leila, , faversham, william, fawcett, george, , fechter, charles, , fellows, john r., field, cyrus, field, kate, fifth avenue theatre, fisher's, mrs., boarding house, fiske, james, jr., fiske, minnie maddern, fitch, clyde, , , - , flemming, mr., fletchers, the, florence, w. j., , "fool's revenge, a," forbes-robertson, , ford, charlie, ford, robert, , ford's theatre, forrest, edwin, , , , forsythe, kate, , fourteenth street theatre, foy, eddie, frawley, tim, , friars club house, frohman, charles, - , , , , - , , frohman, daniel, frohman, gustave, fuller, loie, , fuller, mollie, gaiety theatre, galt house, gans-nelson fight, "garden of allah, the," garden theatre, , garrick club, , garrick, david, , "garrick, david," , - , "gay deceiver, a," "genius, the," , , george, grace, gerard, florence, germaine, gilbert, john, gilbert, w. s., "gilded fool, a," , , , , gillette, william, , "girl of the golden west, the," golden, dick, , , goldfield, "gold mine, the," , , "goldsmith, oliver," goodale, george p., , goodi, , goodrich, edna, goodwin company, nat c., goodwin, edward, goodwin, j. cheever, goodwin, nat c., as camille, captain crosstree, captain dietrich, fagin, , , , grave digger, the, jim radburn, , , mark antony, mathias, modus, ned, the newsboy, nick bottom, shylock, , sim lazarus, sir george hounslow, sir lucius o'trigger, , goodwin, nat c., iii, gorman, arthur pugh, gould, jay, grand opera house, , grand pacific hotel, "grave digger, the," greene, clay m., , greenroom club, , , "gringoire," grubb, lillian, guitry, , guy's hotel, hackett, james k., "hale, nathan," , , , , - hale, philip, hall, blakely, , hall, josie, hall, pauline, hamilton, mr., , , , "hamlet," , hammerstein's, hampton, alf, handysides, clarence, harley sisters, harding, lyn, hare, john, , harrigan, edward, harrigan and hart, harris, henry, harrison, alice, harrison, louis, hart, tony, , , , hatton, frank, haverly, jack, haworth, joseph, hayman, al, , haymarket theatre, hearne, chrystal, hearne, james a., , hearne, julie, "heir at law, the," , "heir to the hoorah, the," "held by the enemy," henderson, william, "her own way," hicks, seymour, hilliard, robert, "his first rehearsal," "hobbies," , hoffman house, holland brothers, , hollenden hotel, hollis street theatre, holt, clarence, holy, john, hooley, richard, hooley's theatre, , hoops, arthur, , , , , hopper, de wolfe, , , , "hounslow, sir george," "house of cards, a," howard athenaeum, , , , howard, bronson, howard, joe, jr., hoyt, charles, - , "hunchback, the," hutchins, stillson, , , ingersoll, robert, , , , , "in mizzoura," , , , irving, henry, - , , , , , , , , , , jackwood, , , jacob, l. h., jacobs, w. w., , james, jesse, , janis, elsie, jansen, marie, jefferson, charley, jefferson, joseph, - , - , jefferson, thomas, jeffries-johnson fight, , jerome, lawrence, jerome, leonard, jerome, william travers, jones, senator, jones, walter, jonson, ben, josephs, harry, "julius caesar," , kean, keane, charles, keene, laura, kelcey, herbert, killduff, jim, "kirby, cameo," klaw, marc, klaw and erlanger, , knickerbocker theatre, , , , knight, george, knight, joseph, lackaye, wilton, , , , lamb, charles, lambs club, , , , , , , , , langtry, lilly, "law in new york," "lazarus, sim," "led astray," , lemoyne, william j., "lend me five shillings," , leslie, amy, levick, milnes, lewis, alfred henry, lewis, catherine, lewis, james, liebler & co., "lion and the mouse, the," , "lion's mouth, the," "little jack shepard," , "little rebel, the," lotta, lyceum theatre, , , , lyceum theatre, london, , "macaire, robert," macauley, barney, "macbeth," mackaye, steele, , mackie, johnny, macklin, macready, madison square theatre, mahone, william, , mannering, mary, manning, william, mansfield, richard, - , , , mantell, robert, "marionettes, the," marks, eli, , , , marlowe, julia, , marshall, captain, marshall, tully, marshall, wyzeman, martinot, sadie, "mascot, the," , mason, john, , , , , , , , "master hand, the," "mathias," maude, cyril, mayo, frank, mcclellan, george b., , , , , , mccullough, john, - , , , , , mcdonald, sadie, mcintosh, burr, - mckee, mrs. frank, mcphelim, mr., of chicago, meade, james, melba, nellie, , mellish, fuller, melville, emily, "member for slocum, the," "memnon," "merchant of venice, the," , , , , metropole hotel, "midnight bell, a," "midsummer night's dream," , , , "mighty dollar, the," miles, bob, miles, r. e. j., miles and barton, - miller, henry, , miner, harry, miner's fifth avenue theatre, mitchell, maggie, modjeska, "modus," moffit, james, montague, harry j., montaine, clarence, "monte cristo," montgomery, james, moore, mary, moreland, margaret, , , , , , morgan, matt, morosco, oliver, , , , morris, clara, morse, woolson, mortimer, estelle, , , morton house, "much ado about nothing," murdock, james e., murray, george, musgrove, george, , , , "music master, the," "my partner," "nadjesda," nash, george, , national press club, "native son, a," "ned, the newsboy," newall, major, new amsterdam theatre, , , newcombe, new york "american," niblo's garden, , nixon and zimmerman, , "nominee, the," , , , norton, john, "nunky," , o'brien, mayor, o'brien, neil, , , , "oliver twist," , - , - olympic theatre, "othello," "o'trigger, sir lucius," , "ourselves," owens, john e., , "paid in full," palmer, a. m., , , , , , palmer, minnie, papin, "parisian romance, a," , , , parker house, , park theatre, brooklyn, , pastor, tony, payne, louis, , , , , payton, corse, pease, nella baker, , , , , perry, henry, "peter pan," pettit, henry, phelps, piercy, sam, piggott, james, , "pinafore," players club, , "plummer, caleb," pomeroy, "brick," pond, anson, , "pony, big," possart, , potter, mrs. brown, pouissard, power, tyrone, "prisoner of zenda, the," "private secretary, the," , "professor, the," "providence opera house," , "punch," "quick's patient, dr.," "radburn, jim," , , "rainbow, the," "ramblers, the," rapley, ratcliff, james, raymond, john t., , rawhide coalition, read, charlie, , "ready money," reed, tom, , reedy, marion, rehan, ada, rhea, mlle, rice, edward e., , , rice, fannie, , , rich and harris, "richard the third," "richelieu," richelieu hotel, chicago, riddel, george, riley, james whitcomb, "rip van winkle," , "rivals, the," , , , , , , , , , , rix, alice, robertson, ian, robinson, peter, robson, frederick, robson, stuart, , - , , , "roderick dhu," "romany rye," "romeo and juliet," romona's restaurant, rooney, pat, rosenfeld, sydney, , , , rossi, rostand, "royal revenge, a.," russell, annie, russell, lillian, , russell, sol smith, - , , , , ryley, tom, "st. catherine," st. james hotel, salsbury's troubadors, salvini, , sanford, wright, san francisco "chronicle," sanger, frank, , , savage club, saville, john, scanlon, billy, scott, clement, "second in command, the," "second mrs. tanqueray, the," "seven days," shakespeare, shakespeare's plays, shannon, effie, "shenandoah," shook, sheridan, shook and palmer, "shore acres," "shylock," , sinn, col., sinn, william, "skating rink, the," , , "sketches in india," snyder, matt, solari's, sothern, e. h., , , , , "sparks," , spreckles, adolph, standard theatre company, stanley, fred, stetson, john, , , stevens, ashton, , stevenson, robert louis, - stevenson, mrs. robert louis, - stoddard, j. h., swinnerton, jimmie, tarkington, booth, tempest, marie, "terrible time, a," terry, edward, terry, ellen, terry, fred, theatre comique, thomas, augustus, - , , thomas, charlie, , thompson, denman, thompson, lydia, , thompson, william h., , , thorne, charles r., jr., - , , thorne, charles r., sr., , thorne, edwin, , , thornes, the, , "thousand years ago, a," toole, johnny, "too much johnson," tree, sir beerbohm, , , , tree, sir herbert, tremont house, triangle, "trip to chinatown, a," "turned up," , - "two orphans, the," tyler, george c., , , , , , union square, union square hotel, union square theatre, , , usner, miss, "usurper, the," van otterendorf, capt., vokes family, wallack's theatre, , wallis, gladys, walnut street theatre, walsh, blanche, , walton, "plunger," warfield, david, , , , , , , , warren, arthur, warren, william, - , , watterson, henry, , , , , weathersby, emmy, weathersby, eliza, - weber and field's, weber and field's music hall, , webster, lizzie, western, helen, western, lucille, , whalley, william, "what every woman knows," "what would a gentleman do?", wheeler, a. c., , "when we were twenty-one," , , , "why women sin," wiliard, williams, arthur, williams, gus, williamson, james c., , , wilson, al, wilson, francis, , , , wilson, robert, winter, william, "witching hour, the," wolfe, benjamin, , "wolfville," , woodthorp, h. c., worthing, frank, wyndham, sir charles , , yardley, william, , transcriber's notes italic text is denoted by _underscores_. obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. inconsistent spelling of a word or word-pair within the text has been retained, except for those changes noted below. for example: goodby good-bye; make up make-up; role rôle; to-night tonight. spelling has been left as found in the text, except for those changes noted below. page xii 'fishcakes' changed to 'fish cakes'. page xi and xiv 'dewolf' changed to 'de wolf'. page 'sponser' changed to 'sponsor'. page and page 'thoughtout' changed to 'thought-out'. page 'robsoneyn' changed to 'robsonian'. page 'quodus retained; probably 'kudos'. page 'every one' changed to 'everyone'. page 'grewsome' changed to 'gruesome'. page 'be to annoyed' changed to 'to be annoyed'. page 'magestic' changed to 'majestic'. page 'afterlife' changed to 'after life'. page 'beseiged' changed to 'besieged'. page 'devasting' changed to 'devastating'. page 'deferentiate' changed to 'differentiate'. page 'exceptionaly' changed to 'exceptionally'. page 'castor' changed to 'caster'. page 'recontours' changed to raconteurs'. page 'ostensively' changed to 'ostensibly'. page 'illusive' changed to 'elusive'. page 'varigated' changed to 'variegated'. page a duplicated line "congratulations ... for me." was removed. page 'ecstacy' changed to 'ecstasy'. page 'oaui' changed to 'oahu'. page 'likeable' changed to 'likable'. page 'go' inserted into phrase 'must through to melbourne'. page 'any way' changed to 'anyway'. page 'accidently' changed to 'accidentally'. page 'think to be' changed to 'thing to be'. page 'conspicious' changed to 'conspicuous'. page 'will down to history' changed to 'will go down in history'. page 'one night' changed to 'one-night'. changes made to index entries are noted below. page 'andre' changed to 'andré'. page 'looking-glass' changed to 'looking glass'. page 'bouser' changed to 'bowser'. page 'cazuran' changed to 'cazauran'. page 'forsyth' changed to 'forsythe'. page 'kilduff' changed to 'killduff'. page 'levick, mulner' changed to 'levick, milnes'. page 'lyceum theatre': ' ' corrected to ' '. page 'morne' changed to 'morse' page 'poussard' changed to 'pouissard'. page 'ratcliffe' changed to 'ratcliff'. the drama addresses by henry irving with a frontispiece by whistler [illustration] contents i. the stage as it is ii. the art of acting iii. four great actors iv. the art of acting lecture sessional opening philosophical institution edinburgh november the stage as it is. ladies and gentlemen, you will not be surprised that, on this interesting occasion, i have selected as the subject of the few remarks i propose to offer you, "the stage as it is." the stage--because to my profession i owe it that i am here, and every dictate of taste and of fidelity impels me to honor it; the stage as it is--because it is very cheap and empty honor that is paid to the drama in the abstract, and withheld from the theatre as a working institution in our midst. fortunately there is less of this than there used to be. it arose partly from intellectual superciliousness, partly from timidity as to moral contamination. to boast of being able to appreciate shakespeare more in reading him than in seeing him acted used to be a common method of affecting special intellectuality. i hope this delusion--a gross and pitiful one as to most of us--has almost absolutely died out. it certainly conferred a very cheap badge of superiority on those who entertained it. it seemed to each of them an inexpensive opportunity of worshipping himself on a pedestal. but what did it amount to? it was little more than a conceited and feather-headed assumption that an unprepared reader, whose mind is usually full of far other things, will see on the instant all that has been developed in hundreds of years by the members of a studious and enthusiastic profession. my own conviction is, that there are few characters or passages of our great dramatists which will not repay original study. but at least we must recognize the vast advantages with which a practised actor, impregnated by the associations of his life, and by study--with all the practical and critical skill of his profession up to the date at which he appears, whether he adopts or rejects tradition--addresses himself to the interpretation of any great character, even if he have no originality whatever. there is something still more than this, however, in acting. every one who has the smallest histrionic gift has a natural dramatic fertility; so that as soon as he knows the author's text, and obtains self-possession, and feels at home in a part without being too familiar with it, the mere automatic action of rehearsing and playing it at once begins to place the author in new lights, and to give the personage being played an individuality partly independent of, and yet consistent with, and rendering more powerfully visible, the dramatist's conception. it is the vast power a good actor has in this way which has led the french to speak of creating a part when they mean its being first played; and french authors are so conscious of the extent and value of this co-operation of actors with them, that they have never objected to the phrase, but, on the contrary, are uniformly lavish in their homage to the artists who have created on the boards the parts which they themselves have created on paper. i must add, as an additional reason for valuing the theatre, that while there is only one shakespeare, and while there are comparatively few dramatists who are sufficiently classic to be read with close attention, there is a great deal of average dramatic work excellently suited for representation. from this the public derive pleasure. from this they receive--as from fiction in literature--a great deal of instruction and mental stimulus. some may be worldly, some social, some cynical, some merely humorous and witty, but a great deal of it, though its literary merit is secondary, is well qualified to bring out all that is most fruitful of good in common sympathies. now, it is plain that if, because shakespeare is good reading, people were to give the cold shoulder to the theatre, the world would lose all the vast advantage which comes to it through the dramatic faculty in forms not rising to essentially literary excellence. as respects the other feeling which used to stand more than it does now in the way of the theatre--the fear of moral contamination--it is due to the theatre of our day, on the one hand, and to the prejudices of our grandfathers on the other, to confess that the theatre of fifty years ago or less did need reforming in the audience part of the house. all who have read the old controversy as to the morality of going to the theatre are familiar with the objection to which i refer. but the theatre of fifty years ago or less was reformed. if there are any, therefore, as i fear there are a few, who still talk on this point in the old vein, let them rub their eyes a bit, and do us the justice to consider not what used to be, but what is. but may there be moral contamination from what is performed on the stage? well, there may be. but so there is from books. so there may be at lawn tennis clubs. so there may be at dances. so there may be in connection with everything in civilized life and society. but do we therefore bury ourselves? the anchorites secluded themselves in hermitages. the puritans isolated themselves in consistent abstinence from everything that anybody else did. and there are people now who think that they can keep their children, and that those children will keep themselves in after life, in cotton wool, so as to avoid all temptation of body and mind, and be saved nine-tenths of the responsibility of self-control. all this is mere phantasy. you must be in the world, though you need not be of it; and the best way to make the world a better community to be in, and not so bad a place to be of, is not to shun, but to bring public opinion to bear upon its pursuits and its relaxations. depend upon two things--that the theatre, as a whole, is never below the average moral sense of the time; and that the inevitable demand for an admixture, at least, of wholesome sentiment in every sort of dramatic production brings the ruling tone of the theatre, whatever drawback may exist, up to the highest level at which the general morality of the time can truly be registered. we may be encouraged by the reflection that this is truer than ever it was before, owing to the greater spread of education, the increased community of taste between classes, and the almost absolute divorce of the stage from mere wealth and aristocracy. wealth and aristocracy come around the stage in abundance, and are welcome, as in the time of elizabeth; but the stage is no longer a mere appendage of court-life, no longer a mere mirror of patrician vice hanging at the girdle of fashionable profligacy as it was in the days of congreve and wycherley. it is now the property of the educated people. it has to satisfy them or pine in neglect and the better their demands the better will be the supply with which the drama will respond. this being not only so, but seen to be so, the stage is no longer proscribed. it is no longer under a ban. its members are no longer pariahs in society. they live and bear their social part like others--as decorously observant of all that makes the sweet sanctities of life--as gracefully cognizant of its amenities--as readily recognized and welcomed as the members of any other profession. am i not here your grateful guest, opening the session of this philosophical and historic institution? i who am simply an actor, an interpreter, with such gifts as i have, and such thought as i can bestow, of stage plays. and am i not received here with perfect cordiality on an equality, not hungrily bowing and smirking for patronage, but interchanging ideas which i am glad to express, and which you listen to as thoughtfully and as kindly as you would to those of any other student, any other man who had won his way into such prominence as to come under the ken of a distinguished institution such as that which i have the honor to address? i do not mince the matter as to my personal position here, because i feel it is a representative one, and marks an epoch in the estimation in which the art i love is held by the british world. you have had many distinguished men here, and their themes have often been noble, but with which of those themes has not my art immemorial and perpetual associations? is it not for ever identified with the noblest instincts and occupations of the human mind? if i think of poetry, must i not remember how to the measure of its lofty music the theatre has in almost all ages set the grandest of dramatic conceptions? if i think of literature, must i not recall that of all the amusements by which men in various states of society have solaced their leisure and refreshed their energies, the acting of plays is the one that has never yet, even for a day, been divorced from literary taste and skill? if i meditate on patriotism, can i but reflect how grandly the boards have been trod by personifications of heroic love of country? there is no subject of human thought that by common consent is deemed ennobling that has not ere now, and from period to period, been illustrated in the bright vesture, and received expression from the glowing language of theatrical representation. and surely it is fit that, remembering what the stage has been and must be, i should acknowledge eagerly and gladly that, with few exceptions, the public no longer debar themselves from the profitable pleasures of the theatre, and no longer brand with any social stigma the professors of the histrionic art. talking to an eminent bishop one day, i said to him, "now, my lord, why is it, with your love and knowledge of the drama, with your deep interest in the stage and all its belongings, and your wide sympathy with all that ennobles and refines our natures--why is it that you never go to the theatre?" "well," said he, "i'll tell you. i'm afraid of the _rock_ and the _record_." i hope soon we shall relieve even the most timid bishop--and my right reverend friend is not the most timid--of all fears and tremors whatever that can prevent even ministers of religion from recognizing the wisdom of the change of view which has come over even the most fastidious public opinion on this question. remember, if you please, that the hostile public opinion which has lately begun so decisively to disappear, has been of comparatively modern growth, or at least revival. the pious and learned of other times gave their countenance and approbation to the stage of their days, as the pious and learned of our time give their countenance and approbation to certain performances in this day. welcome be the return of good sense, good taste, and charity, or rather justice. no apology for the stage. none is needed. it has but to be named to be honored. too long the world talked with bated breath and whispering humbleness of "the poor player." there are now few poor players. whatever variety of fortune and merit there may be among them, they have the same degrees of prosperity and respect as come to members of other avocations. there never was so large a number of theatres or of actors. and their type is vastly improved by public recognition. the old days when good-for-nothings passed into the profession are at an end; and the old bohemian habits, so far as they were evil and disreputable, have also disappeared. the ranks of the art are being continually recruited by deeply interested and earnest young men of good education and belongings. nor let us, while dissipating the remaining prejudices of outsiders, give quarter to those which linger among players themselves. there are some who acknowledge the value of improved status to themselves and their art, but who lament that there are now no schools for actors. this is a very idle lamentation. every actor in full employment gets plenty of schooling, for the best schooling is practice, and there is no school so good as a well-conducted playhouse. the truth is, that the cardinal secret of success in acting are found within, while practice is the surest way of fertilizing these germs. to efficiency in the art of acting there should come a congregation of fine qualities. there should be considerable, though not necessarily systematic, culture. there should be delicate instincts of taste cultivated, consciously, or unconsciously, to a degree of extreme and subtle nicety. there should be a power, at once refined and strong, of both perceiving and expressing to others the significance of language, so that neither shades nor masses of meaning, so to speak, may be either lost or exaggerated. above all, there should be a sincere and abounding sympathy with all that is good and great and inspiring. that sympathy, most certainly, must be under the control and manipulation of art, but it must be none the lest real and generous, and the artist who is a mere artist will stop short of the highest moral effects of his craft. little of this can be got in a mere training school, but all of it will come forth more or less fully armed from the actor's brain in the process of learning his art by practice. for the way to learn to do a thing is to do it; and in learning to act by acting, though there is plenty of incidental hard drill and hard work, there is nothing commonplace or unfruitful. what is true of the art is true also of the social life of the artist. no sensational change has been found necessary to alter his status though great changes have come. the stage has literally lived down the rebuke and reproach under which it formerly cowered, while its professors have been simultaneously living down the prejudices which excluded them from society. the stage is now seen to be an elevating instead of a lowering influence on national morality, and actors and actresses receive in society, as do the members of other professions, exactly the treatment which is earned by their personal conduct. and so i would say of what we sometimes hear so much about--dramatic reform. it is not needed; or, if it is, all the reform that is wanted will be best effected by the operation of public opinion upon the administration of a good theatre. that is the true reforming agency, with this great advantage, that reforms which come by public opinion are sure, while those which come without public opinion cannot be relied upon. the dramatic reformers are very well-meaning people. they show great enthusiasm. they are new converts to the theatre, most of them, and they have the zeal of converts. but it is scarcely according to knowledge. these ladies and gentlemen have scarcely studied the conditions of theatrical enterprise, which must be carried on as a business or it will fail as an art. it is an unwelcome, if not an unwarrantable intrusion to come among our people with elaborate advice, and endeavor to make them live after different fashions from those which are suitable to them, and it will be quite hopeless to attempt to induce the general body of a purely artistic class to make louder and more fussy professions of virtue and religion than other people. in fact, it is a downright insult to the dramatic profession to exact or to expect any such thing. equally objectionable, and equally impracticable, are the attempts of quixotic "dramatic reformers" to exercise a sort of goody-goody censorship over the selection and the text of the plays to be acted. the stage has been serving the world for hundreds, yes, and thousands of years, during which it has contributed in pure dramaturgy to the literature of the world its very greatest master-pieces in nearly all languages, meanwhile affording to the million an infinity of pleasure, all more or less innocent. where less innocent, rather than more, the cause has lain, not in the stage, but in the state of society of which it was the mirror. for though the stage is not always occupied with its own period, the new plays produced always reflect in many particulars the spirit of the age in which they are played. there is a story of a traveller who put up for the night at a certain inn, on the door of which was the inscription--"good entertainment for man and beast." his horse was taken to the stable and well cared for, and he sat down to dine. when the covers were removed he remarked, on seeing his own sorry fare, "yes, this is very well; but where's the entertainment for the man?" if everything were banished from the stage except that which suits a certain taste, what dismal places our theatres would be! however fond the play-goer may be of tragedy, if you offer him nothing but horrors, he may well ask--"where's the entertainment for the man who wants an evening's amusement?" the humor of a farce may not seem over-refined to a particular class of intelligence; but there are thousands of people who take an honest pleasure in it. and who, after seeing my old friend j.l. toole in some of his famous parts, and having laughed till their sides ached, have not left the theatre more buoyant and light-hearted than they came? well, if the stage has been thus useful and successful all these centuries, and still is productive; if the noble fascination of the theatre draws to it, as we know that it does, an immortal poet such as our tennyson, whom, i can testify from my own experience, nothing delights more than the success of one of the plays which, in the mellow autumn of his genius, he has contributed to the acting theatre; if a great artist like tadema is proud to design scenes for stage plays; if in all departments of stage production we see great talent, and in nearly every instance great good taste and sincere sympathy with the best popular ideals of goodness; then, i say, the stage is entitled to be let alone--that is, it is entitled to make its own bargain with the public without the censorious intervention of well-intentioned busybodies. these do not know what to ban or to bless. if they had their way, as of course they cannot, they would license, with many flourishes and much self-laudation, a number of pieces which would be hopelessly condemned on the first hearing, and they would lay an embargo for very insufficient reasons on many plays well entitled to success. it is not in this direction that we must look for any improvement that is needed in the purveying of material for the stage. believe me, the right direction is public criticism and public discrimination. i say so because, beyond question, the public will have what they want. so far, that managers in their discretion, or at their pleasure, can force on the public either very good or very bad dramatic material is an utter delusion. they have no such power. if they had the will they could only force any particular sort of entertainment just as long as they had capital to expend without any return. but they really have not the will. they follow the public taste with the greatest keenness. if the people want shakespeare--as i am happy to say they do, at least at one theatre in london, and at all the great theatres out of london, to an extent unprecedented in the history of the stage--then they get shakespeare. if they want our modern dramatists--albery, boucicault, byron, burnand, gilbert, or wills--these they have. if they want robertson, robertson is there for them. if they desire opera-bouffe, depend upon it they will have it, and have it they do. what then do i infer? simply this: that those who prefer the higher drama--in the representation of which my heart's best interests are centred--instead of querulously animadverting on managers who give them something different, should, as lord beaconsfield said, "make themselves into a majority." if they do so, the higher drama will be produced. but if we really understand the value of the drama, we shall not be too rigid in our exactions. the drama is the art of human nature in picturesque or characteristic action. let us be liberal in our enjoyment of it. tragedy, comedy, historical-pastoral, pastoral-comical--remember the large-minded list of the greatest-minded poet--all are good, if wholesome--and will be wholesome if the public continue to take the healthy interest in theatres which they are now taking. the worst times for the stage have been those when play-going was left pretty much to a loose society, such as is sketched in the restoration dramatists. if the good people continue to come to the theatre in increasing crowds, the stage, without losing any of its brightness, will soon be good enough, if it is not as yet, to satisfy the best of them. this is what i believe all sensible people in these times see. and if, on the one hand, you are ready to laugh at the old prejudices which have been so happily dissipated; on the other hand, how earnestly must you welcome the great aid to taste and thought and culture which comes to you thus in the guise of amusement. let me put this to you rather seriously; let me insist on the intellectual and moral use, alike to the most and least cultivated of us, of this art "most beautiful, most difficult, most rare," which i stand here to-day, not to apologize for, but to establish in the high place to which it is entitled among the arts and among the ameliorating influences of life. grant that any of us understand a dramatist better for seeing him acted, and it follows, first, that all of us will be most indebted to the stage at the point where the higher and more ethereal faculties are liable in reading to failure and exhaustion, that is, stage-playing will be of most use to us where the mind requires help and inspiration to grasp and revel in lofty moral or imaginative conceptions, or where it needs aid and sharpening to appreciate and follow the niceties of repartee, or the delicacies of comic fancy. secondly, it follows that if this is so with the intellectual few, it must be infinitely more so with the unimaginative many of all ranks. they are not inaccessible to passion and poetry and refinement, but their minds do not go forth, as it were, to seek these joys; and even if they read works of poetic and dramatic fancy, which they rarely do, they would miss them on the printed page. to them, therefore, with the exception of a few startling incidents of real life, the theatre is the only channel through which are ever brought the great sympathies of the world of thought beyond their immediate ken. and thirdly, it follows from all this that the stage is, intellectually and morally, to all who have recourse to it, the source of some of the finest and best influences of which they are respectively susceptible. to the thoughtful and reading man it brings the life, the fire, the color, the vivid instinct, which are beyond the reach of study. to the common indifferent man, immersed, as a rule, in the business and socialities of daily life, it brings visions of glory and adventure, of emotion and of broad human interest. it gives glimpses of the heights and depths of character and experience, setting him thinking and wondering even in the midst of amusement. to the most torpid and unobservant it exhibits the humorous in life and the sparkle and finesse of language, which in dull ordinary existence is stupidly shut out of knowledge or omitted from particular notice. to all it uncurtains a world, not that in which they live and yet not other than it--a world in which interest is heightened whilst the conditions of truth are observed, in which the capabilities of men and women are seen developed without losing their consistency to nature, and developed with a curious and wholesome fidelity to simple and universal instincts of clear right and wrong. be it observed--and i put it most uncompromisingly--i am not speaking or thinking of any unrealizable ideal, not of any lofty imagination of what might be, but of what is, wherever there are pit and gallery and foot-lights. more or less, and taking one evening with another, you may find support for an enthusiastic theory of stage morality and the high tone of audiences in most theatres in the country; and if you fancy that it is least so in the theatres frequented by the poor you make a great mistake, for in none is the appreciation of good moral fare more marked than in these. in reference to the poorer classes, we all lament the wide prevalence of intemperate drinking. well, is it not an obvious reflection that the worst performance seen on any of our stages cannot be so bad as drinking for a corresponding time in a gin-palace? i have pointed this contrast before, and i point it again. the drinking we deplore takes place in company--bad company; it is enlivened by talk--bad talk. it is relished by obscenity. where drink and low people come together these things must be. the worst that can come of stage pandering to the corrupt tastes of its basest patrons cannot be anything like this, and, as a rule, the stage holds out long against the invitation to pander; and such invitations, from the publicity and decorum that attend the whole matter, are neither frequent nor eager. a sort of decency sets in upon the coarsest person in entering even the roughest theatre. i have sometimes thought that, considering the liability to descend and the facility of descent, a special providence watches over the morals and tone of our english stage. i do not desire to overcharge the eulogy. there never was a time when the stage had not conspicuous faults. there never was a time when these were not freely admitted by those most concerned for the maintenance of the stage at its best. in shakespeare, whenever the subject of the theatre is approached, we perceive signs that that great spirit, though it had a practical and business-like vein, and essayed no impossible enterprises, groaned under the necessities, or the demands of a public which desired frivolities and deformities which jarred upon the poet-manager's feelings. as we descend the course of time we find that each generation looked back to a supposed previous period when taste ranged higher, and when the inferior and offensive peculiarities of the existing stage were unknown. yet from most of these generations we inherit works as well as traditions and biographical recollections which the world will never let die. the truth is that the immortal part of the stage is its nobler part. ignoble accidents and interludes come and go, but this lasts on forever. it lives, like the human soul, in the body of humanity--associated with much that is inferior, and hampered by many hindrances--but it never sinks into nothingness, and never fails to find new and noble work in creations of permanent and memorable excellence. heaven forbid that i should seem to cover, even with a counterpane of courtesy, exhibitions of deliberate immorality. happily this sort of thing is not common, and although it has hardly been practised by any one who, without a strain of meaning can be associated with the profession of acting, yet public censure, not active enough to repress the evil, is ever ready to pass a sweeping condemnation on the stage which harbors it. our cause is a good one. we go forth, armed with the luminous panoply which genius has forged for us, to do battle with dulness, with coarseness, with apathy, with every form of vice and evil. in every human heart there gleams a bright reflection of this shining armor. the stage has no lights or shadows that are not lights of life and shadows of the heart. to each human consciousness it appeals in alternating mirth and sadness, and will not be denied. err it must, for it is human; but, being human, it must endure. the love of acting is inherent in our nature. watch your children play, and you will see that almost their first conscious effort is to act and to imitate. it is an instinct, and you can no more repress it than you can extinguish thought. when this instinct of all is developed by cultivation in the few, it becomes a wonderful art, priceless to civilization in the solace it yields, the thought it generates, the refinement it inspires. some of its latest achievements are not unworthy of their grandest predecessors. some of its youngest devotees are at least as proud of its glories and as anxious to preserve them as any who have gone before. theirs is a glorious heritage! you honor it. they have a noble but a difficult, and sometimes a disheartening, task. you encourage it. and no word of kindly interest or criticism dropped in the public ear from friendly lips goes unregarded or is unfertile of good. the universal study of shakespeare in our public schools is a splendid sign of the departure of prejudice, and all criticism is welcome; but it is acting chiefly that can open to others, with any spark of shakespeare's mind, the means of illuminating the world. only the theatre can realize to us in a life-like way what shakespeare was to his own time. and it is, indeed, a noble destiny for the theatre to vindicate in these later days the greatness which sometimes it has seemed to vulgarize. it has been too much the custom to talk of shakespeare as nature's child--as the lad who held horses for people who came to the play--as a sort of chance phenomenon who wrote these plays by accident and unrecognized. how supremely ridiculous! how utterly irreconcilable with the grand dimensions of the man! how absurdly dishonoring to the great age of which he was, and was known to be, the glory! the noblest literary man of all time--the finest and yet most prolific writer--the greatest student of man, and the greatest master of man's highest gift of language--surely it is treason to humanity to speak of such an one as in any sense a commonplace being! imagine him rather, as he must have been, the most notable courtier of the court--the most perfect gentleman who stood in the elizabethan throng--the man in whose presence divines would falter and hesitate lest their knowledge of the book should seem poor by the side of his, and at whom even queenly royalty would look askance, with an oppressive sense that here was one to whose omnipotent and true imagination the hearts of kings and queens and peoples had always been an open page! the thought of such a man is an incomparable inheritance for any nation, and such a man was the actor--shakespeare. such is our birthright and yours. such the succession in which it is ours to labor and yours to enjoy. for shakespeare belongs to the stage for ever, and his glories must always inalienably belong to it. if you uphold the theatre honestly, liberally, frankly, and with wise discrimination, the stage will uphold in future, as it has in the past, the literature, the manners, the morals, the fame, and the genius of our country. there must have been something wrong, as there was something poignant and lacerating, in prejudices which so long partly divorced the conscience of britain from its noblest pride, and stamped with reproach, or at least depreciation, some of the brightest and world-famous incidents of her history. for myself, it kindles my heart with proud delight to think that i have stood to-day before this audience--known for its discrimination throughout all english-speaking lands--a welcome and honored guest, because i stand here for justice to the art to which i am devoted--because i stand here in thankfulness for the justice which has begun to be so abundantly rendered to it. if it is metaphorically the destiny of humanity, it is literally the experience of an actor, that one man in his time plays many parts. a player of any standing must at various times have sounded the gamut of human sensibility from the lowest note to the top of its compass. he must have banqueted often on curious food for thought as he meditated on the subtle relations created between himself and his audiences, as they have watched in his impersonations the shifting tariff--the ever gliding, delicately graduated sliding-scale of dramatic right and wrong. he may have gloated, if he be a cynic, over the depths of ghastly horror, or the vagaries of moral puddle through which it may have been his duty to plash. but if he be an honest man, he will acknowledge that scarcely ever has either dramatist or management wilfully biassed the effect of stage representation in favor of evil, and of his audiences he will boast that never has their mind been doubtful--never has their true perception of the generous and just been known to fail, or even to be slow. how noble the privilege to work upon these finer--these finest--feelings of universal humanity! how engrossing the fascination of those thousands of steady eyes, and sound sympathies, and beating hearts which an actor confronts, with the confidence of friendship and co-operation, as he steps upon the stage to work out in action his long-pent comprehension of a noble master-piece! how rapturous the satisfaction of abandoning himself, in such a presence and with such sympathizers, to his author's grandest flights of thought and noblest bursts of emotional inspiration! and how perpetually sustaining the knowledge that whatever may be the vicissitudes and even the degradations of the stage, it must and will depend for its constant hold on the affection and attention of mankind upon its loftier work; upon its more penetrating passion; upon its themes which most deeply search out the strong affections and high hopes of men and women; upon its fit and kindling illustration of great and vivid lives which either have been lived in noble fact or have deserved to endure immortally in the popular belief and admiration which they have secured. "for our eyes to see! sons of wisdom, song, and power, giving earth her richest dower, and making nations free-- a glorious company! "call them from the dead for our eyes to see! forms of beauty, love, and grace, 'sunshine in the shady place,' that made it life to be-- a blessed company!" address to the students of the university of harvard th march the art of acting i. the occasion. i am deeply sensible of the compliment that has been paid, not so much to me personally as to the calling i represent, by the invitation to deliver an address to the students of this university. as an actor, and especially as an english actor, it is a great pleasure to speak for my art in one of the chief centres of american culture; for in inviting me here to-day you intended, i believe, to recognize the drama as an educational influence, to show a genuine interest in the stage as a factor in life which must be accepted and not ignored by intelligent people. i have thought that the best use i can make of the privilege you have conferred upon me is to offer you, as well as i am able, something like a practical exposition of my art; for it may chance--who knows?--that some of you may at some future time be disposed to adopt it as a vocation. not that i wish to be regarded as a tempter who has come among you to seduce you from your present studies by artful pictures of the fascinations of the footlights. but i naturally supposed that you would like me to choose, as the theme of my address, the subject in which i am most interested, and to which my life has been devoted; and that if any students here should ever determine to become actors, they could not be much the worse for the information and counsel i could gather for them from a tolerably extensive experience. this subject will, i trust, be welcome to all of you who are interested in the stage as an institution which appeals to the sober-minded and intelligent; for i take it that you have no lingering prejudice against the theatre, or else i should not be here. nor are you disposed, like certain good people, to object to the theatre simply as a name. these sticklers for principle would never enter a playhouse for worlds; and i have heard that in a famous city of massachusetts, not a hundred miles from here, there are persons to whom the theatre is unknown, but who have no objection to see a play in a building which is called a museum, especially if the vestibule leading to the theatre should be decorated with sound moral principles in the shape of statues, pictures, and stuffed objects in glass cases. when i began to think about my subject for the purpose of this address, i was rather staggered by its vastness. it is really a matter for a course of lectures; but as president eliot has not proposed that i should occupy a chair of dramatic literature in this university, and as time and opportunity are limited, i can only undertake to put before you, in the simplest way, a few leading ideas about dramatic art which may be worthy of reflection. and in doing this i have the great satisfaction of appearing in a model theatre, before a model audience, and of being the only actor in my own play. moreover, i am stimulated by the atmosphere of the greek drama, for i know that on this stage you have enacted a greek play with remarkable success. so, after all, it is not a body of mere tyros that i am addressing, but actors who have worn the sock and buskin, and declaimed the speeches which delighted audiences two thousand years ago. now, this address, like discourses in a more solemn place, falls naturally into divisions. i propose to speak first of the art of acting; secondly, of its requirements and practice; and lastly of its rewards. and, at the outset, let me say that i want you to judge the stage at its best. i do not intend to suggest that only the plays of shakespeare are tolerable in the theatre to people of taste and intelligence. the drama has many forms--tragedy, comedy, historical-pastoral, pastoral-comical--and all are good when their aim is honestly artistic. ii. the art of acting. now, what is the art of acting? i speak of it in its highest sense, as the art to which roscius, betterton, and garrick owed their fame. it is the art of embodying the poet's creations, of giving them flesh and blood, of making the figures which appeal to your mind's eye in the printed drama live before you on the stage. "to fathom the depths of character, to trace its latent motives, to feel its finest quiverings of emotion, to comprehend the thoughts that are hidden under words, and thus possess one's-self of the actual mind of the individual man"--such was macready's definition of the player's art; and to this we may add the testimony of talma. he describes tragic acting as "the union of grandeur without pomp and nature without triviality." it demands, he says, the endowment of high sensibility and intelligence. "the actor who possesses this double gift adopts a course of study peculiar to himself. in the first place, by repeated exercises, he enters deeply into the emotions, and his speech acquires the accent proper to the situation of the personage he has to represent. this done, he goes to the theatre not only to give theatrical effect to his studies, but also to yield himself to the spontaneous flashes of his sensibility and all the emotions which it involuntarily produces in him. what does he then do? in order that his inspirations may not be lost, his memory, in the silence of repose, recalls the accent of his voice, the expression of his features, his action--in a word, the spontaneous workings of his mind, which he had suffered to have free course, and, in effect, everything which in the moments of his exaltation contributed to the effects he had produced. his intelligence then passes all these means in review, connecting them and fixing them in his memory to re-employ them at pleasure in succeeding representations. these impressions are often so evanescent that on retiring behind the scenes he must repeat to himself what he had been playing rather than what he had to play. by this kind of labor the intelligence accumulates and preserves all the creations of sensibility. it is by this means that at the end of twenty years (it requires at least this length of time) a person destined to display fine talent may at length present to the public a series of characters acted almost to perfection." you will readily understand from this that to the actor the well-worn maxim that art is long and life is short has a constant significance. the older we grow the more acutely alive we are to the difficulties of our craft. i cannot give you a better illustration of this fact than a story which is told of macready. a friend of mine, once a dear friend of his, was with him when he played hamlet for the last time. the curtain had fallen, and the great actor was sadly thinking that the part he loved so much would never be his again. and as he took off his velvet mantle and laid it aside, he muttered almost unconsciously the words of horatio, "good-night, sweet prince;" then turning to his friend, "ah," said he, "i am just beginning to realize the sweetness, the tenderness, the gentleness of this dear hamlet!" believe me, the true artist never lingers fondly upon what he has done. he is ever thinking of what remains undone: ever striving toward an ideal it may never be his fortune to attain. we are sometimes told that to read the best dramatic poetry is more educating than to see it acted. i do not think this theory is very widely held, for it is in conflict with the dramatic instinct, which everybody possesses in a greater or less degree. you never met a playwright who could conceive himself willing--even if endowed with the highest literary gifts--to prefer a reading to a playgoing public. he thinks his work deserving of all the rewards of print and publisher, but he will be much more elated if it should appeal to the world in the theatre as a skilful representation of human passions. in one of her letters george eliot says: "in opposition to most people who love to _read_ shakespeare, i like to see his plays acted better than any others; his great tragedies thrill me, let them be acted how they may." all this is so simple and intelligible, that it seems scarcely worth while to argue that in proportion to the readiness with which the reader of shakespeare imagines the attributes of the various characters, and is interested in their personality, he will, as a rule, be eager to see their tragedy or comedy in action. he will then find that very much which he could not imagine with any definiteness presents new images every moment--the eloquence of look and gesture, the by-play, the inexhaustible significance of the human voice. there are people who fancy they have more music in their souls than was ever translated into harmony by beethoven or mozart. there are others who think they could paint pictures, write poetry--in short, do anything, if they only made the effort. to them what is accomplished by the practised actor seems easy and simple. but as it needs the skill of the musician to draw the full volume of eloquence from the written score, so it needs the skill of the dramatic artist to develop the subtle harmonies of the poetic play. in fact, to _do_ and not to _dream_, is the mainspring of success in life. the actor's art is to act, and the true acting of any character is one of the most difficult accomplishments. i challenge the acute student to ponder over hamlet's renunciation of ophelia--one of the most complex scenes in all the drama--and say that he has learned more from his meditations than he could be taught by players whose intelligence is equal to his own. to present the man thinking aloud is the most difficult achievement of our art. here the actor who has no real grip of the character, but simply recites the speeches with a certain grace and intelligence, will be untrue. the more intent he is upon the words, and the less on the ideas that dictated them, the more likely he is to lay himself open to the charge of mechanical interpretation. it is perfectly possible to express to an audience all the involutions of thought, the speculation, doubt, wavering, which reveal the meditative but irresolute mind. as the varying shades of fancy pass and repass the mirror of the face, they may yield more material to the studious playgoer than he is likely to get by a diligent poring over the text. in short, as we understand the people around us much better by personal intercourse than by all the revelations of written words--for words, as tennyson says, "half reveal and half conceal the soul within," so the drama has, on the whole, infinitely more suggestions when it is well acted than when it is interpreted by the unaided judgment of the student. it has been said that acting is an unworthy occupation because it represents feigned emotions, but this censure would apply with equal force to poet or novelist. do not imagine that i am claiming for the actor sole and undivided authority. he should himself be a student, and it is his business to put into practice the best ideas he can gather from the general current of thought with regard to the highest dramatic literature. but it is he who gives body to those ideas--fire, force, and sensibility, without which they would remain for most people mere airy abstractions. it is often supposed that great actors trust to the inspiration of the moment. nothing can be more erroneous. there will, of course, be such moments, when an actor at a white heat illumines some passage with a flash of imagination (and this mental condition, by the way, is impossible to the student sitting in his arm-chair); but the great actor's surprises are generally well weighed, studied, and balanced. we know that edmund kean constantly practised before a mirror effects which startled his audience by their apparent spontaneity. it is the accumulation of such effects which enables an actor, after many years, to present many great characters with remarkable completeness. i do not want to overstate the case, or to appeal to anything that is not within common experience, so i can confidently ask you whether a scene in a great play has not been at some time vividly impressed on your minds by the delivery of a single line, or even of one forcible word. has not this made the passage far more real and human to you than all the thought you have devoted to it? an accomplished critic has said that shakespeare himself might have been surprised had he heard the "fool, fool, fool!" of edmund kean. and though all actors are not keans, they have in varying degree this power of making a dramatic character step out of the page, and come nearer to our hearts and our understandings. after all, the best and most convincing exposition of the whole art of acting is given by shakespeare himself: "to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure." thus the poet recognized the actor's art as a most potent ally in the representation of human life. he believed that to hold the mirror up to nature was one of the worthiest functions in the sphere of labor, and actors are content to point to his definition of their work as the charter of their privileges. iii. practice of the art. the practice of the art of acting is a subject difficult to treat with the necessary brevity. beginners are naturally anxious to know what course they should pursue. in common with other actors, i receive letters from young people many of whom are very earnest in their ambition to adopt the dramatic calling, but not sufficiently alive to the fact that success does not depend on a few lessons in declamation. when i was a boy i had a habit which i think would be useful to all young students. before going to see a play of shakespeare's i used to form--in a very juvenile way--a theory as to the working out of the whole drama, so as to correct my conceptions by those of the actors; and though i was, as a rule, absurdly wrong, there can be no doubt that any method of independent study is of enormous importance, not only to youngsters, but also to students of a larger growth. without it the mind is apt to take its stamp from the first forcible impression it receives, and to fall into a servile dependence upon traditions, which, robbed of the spirit that created them, are apt to be purely mischievous. what was natural to the creator is often unnatural and lifeless in the imitator. no two people form the same conceptions of character, and therefore it is always advantageous to see an independent and courageous exposition of an original ideal. there can be no objection to the kind of training that imparts a knowledge of manners and customs, and the teaching which pertains to simple deportment on the stage is necessary and most useful; but you cannot possibly be taught any tradition of character, for that has no permanence. nothing is more fleeting than any traditional method of impersonation. you may learn where a particular personage used to stand on the stage, or down which trap the ghost of hamlet's father vanished; but the soul of interpretation is lost, and it is this soul which the actor has to re-create for himself. it is not mere attitude or tone that has to be studied; you must be moved by the impulse of being; you must impersonate and not recite. there has always been a controversy as to the province of naturalism in dramatic art. in england it has been too much the custom, i believe, while demanding naturalism in comedy, to expect a false inflation in tragedy. but there is no reason why an actor should be less natural in tragic than in lighter moods. passions vary in expression according to moulds of character and manners, but their reality should not be lost even when they are expressed in the heroic forms of the drama. a very simple test is a reference to the records of old actors. what was it in their performances that chiefly impressed their contemporaries? very rarely the measured recitation of this or that speech, but very often a simple exclamation that deeply moved their auditors, because it was a gleam of nature in the midst of declamation. the "prithee, undo this button!" of garrick, was remembered when many stately utterances were forgotten. in our day the contrast between artificial declamation and the accents of nature is less marked, because its delivery is more uniformly simple, and an actor who lapses from a natural into a false tone is sure to find that his hold upon his audience is proportionately weakened. but the revolution which garrick accomplished may be imagined from the story told by boswell. dr. johnson was discussing plays and players with mrs. siddons, and he said: "garrick, madam, was no declaimer; there was not one of his own scene-shifters who could not have spoken 'to be or not to be' better than he did; yet he was the only actor i ever saw whom i could call a master, both in tragedy and comedy, though i liked him best in comedy. a true conception of character and natural expression of it were his distinguished excellences." to be natural on the stage is most difficult, and yet a grain of nature is worth a bushel of artifice. but you may say--what is nature? i quoted just now shakespeare's definition of the actor's art. after the exhortation to hold the mirror up to nature, he adds the pregnant warning: "this overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others." nature may be overdone by triviality in conditions that demand exaltation; for instance, hamlet's first address to the ghost lifts his disposition to an altitude far beyond the ordinary reaches of our souls, and his manner of speech should be adapted to this sentiment. but such exaltation of utterance is wholly out of place in the purely colloquial scene with the gravedigger. when macbeth says, "go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, she strike upon the bell," he would not use the tone of "pity, like a naked new-born babe, striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed upon the sightless couriers of the air, shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, that tears shall drown the wind." like the practised orator, the actor rises and descends with his sentiment, and cannot always be in a fine phrenzy. this variety is especially necessary in shakespeare, whose work is essentially different from the classic drama, because it presents every mood of mind and form of speech, commonplace or exalted, as character and situation dictate: whereas in such a play as addison's _cato_, everybody is consistently eloquent about everything. there are many causes for the growth of naturalism in dramatic art, and amongst them we should remember the improvement in the mechanism of the stage. for instance, there has been a remarkable development in stage-lighting. in old pictures you will observe the actors constantly standing in a line, because the oil-lamps of those days gave such an indifferent illumination that everybody tried to get into what was called the focus--the "blaze of publicity" furnished by the "float" or footlights. the importance of this is illustrated by an amusing story of edmund kean, who one night played _othello_ with more than his usual intensity. an admirer who met him in the street next day was loud in his congratulations: "i really thought you would have choked iago, mr. kean--you seemed so tremendously in earnest." "in earnest!" said the tragedian, "i should think so! hang the fellow, he was trying to keep me out of the focus." i do not recommend actors to allow their feelings to carry them away like this; but it is necessary to warn you against the theory expounded with brilliant ingenuity by diderot, that the actor never feels. when macready played virginius, after burying his beloved daughter, he confessed that his real experience gave a new force to his acting in the most pathetic situations of the play. are we to suppose that this was a delusion, or that the sensibility of the man was a genuine aid to the actor? bannister said of john kemble that he was never pathetic because he had no children. talma says that when deeply moved he found himself making a rapid and fugitive observation on the alternation of his voice, and on a certain spasmodic vibration which it contracted in tears. has not the actor who can thus make his feelings a part of his art an advantage over the actor who never feels, but who makes his observations solely from the feelings of others? it is necessary to this art that the mind should have, as it were, a double consciousness, in which all the emotions proper to the occasion may have full swing, while the actor is all the time on the alert for every detail of his method. it may be that his playing will be more spirited one night than another. but the actor who combines the electric force of a strong personality with a mastery of the resources of his art must have a greater power over his audiences than the passionless actor who gives a most artistic simulation of the emotions he never experiences. now, in the practice of acting, a most important point is the study of elocution; and in elocution one great difficulty is the use of sufficient force to be generally heard without being unnaturally loud, and without acquiring a stilted delivery. the advice of the old actors was that you should always pitch your voice so as to be heard by the back row of the gallery--no easy task to accomplish without offending the ears of the front of the orchestra. and i should tell you that this exaggeration applies to everything on the stage. to appear to be natural, you must in reality be much broader than nature. to act on the stage as one really would in a room, would be ineffective and colorless. i never knew an actor who brought the art of elocution to greater perfection than the late charles mathews, whose utterance on the stage appeared so natural that one was surprised to find when near him that he was really speaking in a very loud key. there is a great actor in your own country to whose elocution one always listens with the utmost enjoyment--i mean edwin booth. he has inherited this gift, i believe, from his famous father, of whom i have heard it said, that he always insisted on a thorough use of the "instruments"--by which he meant the teeth--in the formation of words. an imperfect elocution is apt to degenerate into a monotonous uniformity of tone. some wholesome advice on this point we find in the _life of betterton_. "this stiff uniformity of voice is not only displeasing to the ear, but disappoints the effect of the discourse on the hearers; first, by an equal way of speaking, when the pronunciation has everywhere, in every word and every syllable, the same sound, it must inevitably render all parts of speech equal, and so put them on a very unjust level. so that the power of the reasoning part, the lustre and ornament of the figures, the heart, warmth, and vigor of the passionate part being expressed all in the same tone, is flat and insipid, and lost in a supine, or at least unmusical pronunciation. so that, in short, that which ought to strike and stir up the affections, because it is spoken all alike, without any distinction or variety, moves them not at all." now, on the question of pronunciation there is something to be said, which, i think, in ordinary teaching is not sufficiently considered. pronunciation on the stage should be simple and unaffected, but not always fashioned rigidly according to a dictionary standard. no less an authority than cicero points out that pronunciation must vary widely according to the emotions to be expressed; that it may be broken or cut, with a varying or direct sound, and that it serves for the actor the purpose of color to the painter, from which to draw his variations. take the simplest illustration, the formal pronunciation of "a-h" is "ah," of "o-h" "oh;" but you cannot stereotype the expression of emotion like this. these exclamations are words of one syllable, but the speaker who is sounding the gamut of human feeling will not be restricted in his pronunciation by the dictionary rule. it is said of edmund kean that he never spoke such ejaculations, but always sighed or groaned them. fancy an actor saying thus, "my desdemona! oh, [)o]h, [)o]h!" words are intended to express feelings and ideas, not to bind them in rigid fetters. the accents of pleasure are different from the accents of pain, and if a feeling is more accurately expressed, as in nature, by a variation of sound not provided for by the laws of pronunciation, then such imperfect laws must be disregarded and nature vindicated. the word should be the echo of the sense. the force of an actor depends, of course, upon his physique; and it is necessary, therefore, that a good deal of attention should be given to bodily training. everything that develops suppleness, elasticity, and grace--that most subtle charm--should be carefully cultivated, and in this regard your admirable gymnasium is worth volumes of advice. sometimes there is a tendency to train the body at the expense of the mind, and the young actor with striking physical advantages must beware of regarding this fortunate endowment as his entire stock-in-trade. that way folly lies, and the result may be too dearly purchased by the fame of a photographer's window. it is clear that the physique of actors must vary; there can be no military standard of proportions on the stage. some great actors have had to struggle against physical disabilities of a serious nature. betterton had an unprepossessing face; so had le kain. john kemble was troubled with a weak, asthmatic voice, and yet by his dignity, and the force of his personality, he was able to achieve the greatest effects. in some cases a super-abundant physique has incapacitated actors from playing many parts. the combination in one frame of all the gifts of mind and all the advantages in person is very rare on the stage; but talent will conquer many natural defects when it is sustained by energy and perseverance. with regard to gesture, shakespeare's advice is all-embracing. "suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance that you over-step not the modesty of nature." and here comes the consideration of a very material part of the actor's business--by-play. this is of the very essence of true art. it is more than anything else significant of the extent to which the actor has identified himself with the character he represents. recall the scenes between iago and othello, and consider how the whole interest of the situation depends on the skill with which the gradual effect of the poisonous suspicion instilled into the moor's mind is depicted in look and tone, slight of themselves, but all contributing to the intensity of the situation. one of the greatest tests of an actor is his capacity for listening. by-play must be unobtrusive; the student should remember that the most minute expression attracts attention: that nothing is lost, that by-play is as mischievous when it is injudicious as it is effective when rightly conceived, and that while trifles make perfection, perfection is no trifle. this lesson was enjoined on me when i was a very young man by that remarkable actress, charlotte cushman. i remember that when she played meg merrilies i was cast for henry bertram, on the principle, seemingly, that an actor with no singing voice is admirably fitted for a singing part. it was my duty to give meg merrilies a piece of money, and i did it after the traditional fashion by handing her a large purse full of coin of the realm, in the shape of broken crockery, which was generally used in financial transactions on the stage, because when the virtuous maiden rejected with scorn the advances of the lordly libertine, and threw his pernicious bribe upon the ground, the clatter of the broken crockery suggested fabulous wealth. but after the play miss cushman, in the course of some kindly advice, said to me: "instead of giving me that purse don't you think it would have been much more natural if you had taken a number of coins from your pocket, and given me the smallest? that is the way one gives alms to a beggar, and it would have added to the realism of the scene." i have never forgotten that lesson, for simple as it was, it contained many elements of dramatic truth. it is most important that an actor should learn that he is a figure in a picture, and that the least exaggeration destroys the harmony of the composition. all the members of the company should work towards a common end, with the nicest subordination of their individuality to the general purpose. without this method a play when acted is at best a disjointed and incoherent piece of work, instead of being a harmonious whole like the fine performance of an orchestral symphony. the root of the matter is that the actor must before all things form a definite conception of what he wishes to convey. it is better to be wrong and be consistent, than to be right, yet hesitating and uncertain. this is why great actors are sometimes very bad or very good. they will do the wrong thing with a courage and thoroughness which makes the error all the more striking; although when they are right they may often be superb. it is necessary that the actor should learn to think before he speaks; a practice which, i believe, is very useful off the stage. let him remember, first, that every sentence expresses a new thought and, therefore, frequently demands a change of intonation; secondly, that the thought precedes the word. of course there are passages in which thought and language are borne along by the streams of emotion and completely intermingled. but more often it will be found that the most natural, the most seemingly accidental effects are obtained when the working of the mind is seen before the tongue gives it words. you will see that the limits of an actor's studies are very wide. to master the technicalities of his craft, to familiarize his mind with the structure, rhythm, and the soul of poetry, to be constantly cultivating his perceptions of life around him and of all the arts--painting, music, sculpture--for the actor who is devoted to his profession is susceptible to every harmony of color, sound, and form--to do this is to labor in a large field of industry. but all your training, bodily and mental, is subservient to the two great principles in tragedy and comedy--passion and geniality. geniality in comedy is one of the rarest gifts. think of the rich unction of falstaff, the mercurial fancy of mercutio, the witty vivacity and manly humor of benedick--think of the qualities, natural and acquired, that are needed for the complete portrayal of such characters, and you will understand how difficult it is for a comedian to rise to such a sphere. in tragedy, passion or intensity sweeps all before it, and when i say passion, i mean the passion of pathos as well as wrath or revenge. these are the supreme elements of the actor's art, which cannot be taught by any system, however just, and to which all education is but tributary. now all that can be said of the necessity of a close regard for nature in acting applies with equal or greater force to the presentation of plays. you want, above all things, to have a truthful picture which shall appeal to the eye without distracting the imagination from the purpose of the drama. it is a mistake to suppose that this enterprise is comparatively new to the stage. since shakespeare's time there has been a steady progress in this direction. even in the poet's day every conceivable property was forced into requisition, and his own sense of shortcomings in this respect is shown in _henry v._ when he exclaims:-- "where--o for pity!--we shall much disgrace with four or five most vile and ragged foils the name of agincourt." there have always been critics who regarded care and elaboration in the mounting of plays as destructive of the real spirit of the actor's art. betterton had to meet this reproach when he introduced scenery in lieu of linsey-woolsey curtains; but he replied, sensibly enough, that his scenery was better than the tapestry with hideous figures worked upon it which had so long distracted the senses of play-goers. he might have asked his critics whether they wished to see ophelia played by a boy of sixteen, as in the time of shakespeare, instead of a beautiful and gifted woman. garrick did his utmost to improve the mechanical arts of the stage--so much so, indeed, that he paid his scene-painter, loutherbourg, £ a year, a pretty considerable sum in those days--though in garrick's time the importance of realism in costume was not sufficiently appreciated to prevent him from playing macbeth in a bagwig. to-day we are employing all our resources to heighten the picturesque effects of the drama, and we are still told that this is a gross error. it may be admitted that nothing is more objectionable than certain kinds of realism, which are simply vulgar; but harmony of color and grace of outline have a legitimate sphere in the theatre, and the method which uses them as adjuncts may claim to be "as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine." for the abuse of scenic decoration, the overloading of the stage with ornament, the subordination of the play to a pageant, i have nothing to say. that is all foreign to the artistic purpose which should dominate dramatic work. nor do i think that servility to archæology on the stage is an unmixed good. correctness of costume is admirable and necessary up to a certain point, but when it ceases to be "as wholesome as sweet," it should, i think, be sacrificed. you perceive that the nicest discretion is needed in the use of the materials which are nowadays at the disposal of the manager. music, painting, architecture, the endless variations of costume, have all to be employed with a strict regard to the production of an artistic whole, in which no element shall be unduly obtrusive. we are open to microscopic criticism at every point. when _much ado about nothing_ was produced at the lyceum, i received a letter complaining of the gross violation of accuracy in a scene which was called a cedar-walk. "cedars!" said my correspondent,--"why, cedars were not introduced into messina for fifty years after the date of shakespeare's story!" well, this was a tremendous indictment, but unfortunately the cedar-walk had been painted. absolute realism on the stage is not always desirable, any more than the photographic reproduction of nature can claim to rank with the highest art. iv. the rewards of the art. to what position in the world of intelligence does the actor's art entitle him, and what is his contribution to the general sum of instruction? we are often told that the art is ephemeral; that it creates nothing; that when the actor's personality is withdrawn from the public eye he leaves no trace behind. granted that his art creates nothing; but does it not often restore? it is true that he leaves nothing like the canvas of the painter and the marble of the sculptor, but has he done nought to increase the general stock of ideas? the astronomer and naturalist create nothing, but they contribute much to the enlightenment of the world. i am taking the highest standard of my art, for i maintain that in judging any calling you should consider its noblest and not its most ignoble products. all the work that is done on the stage cannot stand upon the same level, any more than all the work that is done in literature. you do not demand that your poets and novelists shall all be of the same calibre. an immense amount of good writing does no more than increase the gayety of mankind; but when johnson said that the gayety of nations was eclipsed by the death of garrick, he did not mean that a mere barren amusement had lost one of its professors. when sir joshua reynolds painted mrs. siddons as the tragic muse, and said he had achieved immortality by putting his name on the hem of her garment, he meant something more than a pretty compliment, for her name can never die. to give genuine and wholesome entertainment is a very large function of the stage, and without that entertainment very many lives would lose a stimulus of the highest value. if recreation of every legitimate kind is invaluable to the worker, especially so is the recreation of the drama, which brightens his faculties, enlarges his vision of the picturesque, and by taking him for a time out of this work-a-day world, braces his sensibilities for the labors of life. the art which does this may surely claim to exercise more than a fleeting influence upon the world's intelligence. but in its highest developments it does more; it acts as a constant medium for the diffusion of great ideas, and by throwing new lights upon the best dramatic literature, it largely helps the growth of education. it is not too much to say that the interpreters of shakespeare on the stage have had much to do with the widespread appreciation of his works. some of the most thoughtful students of the poet have recognized their indebtedness to actors, while for multitudes the stage has performed the office of discovery. thousands who flock to-day to see a representation of shakespeare, which is the product of much reverent study of the poet, are not content to regard it as a mere scenic exhibition. without it shakespeare might have been for many of them a sealed book; but many more have been impelled by the vivid realism of the stage to renew studies which other occupations or lack of leisure have arrested. am i presumptuous, then, in asserting that the stage is not only an instrument of amusement, but a very active agent in the spread of knowledge and taste? some forms of stage work, you may say, are not particularly elevating. true; and there are countless fictions coming daily from the hands of printer and publisher which nobody is the better for reading. you cannot have a fixed standard of value in my art; and though there are masses of people who will prefer an unintelligent exhibition to a really artistic production, that is no reason for decrying the theatre, in which all the arts blend with the knowledge of history, manners, and customs of all people, and scenes of all climes, to afford a varied entertainment to the most exacting intellect. i have no sympathy with people who are constantly anxious to define the actor's position, for, as a rule, they are not animated by a desire to promote his interests. "'tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus;" and whatever actors deserve, socially or artistically, they are sure to receive as their right. i found the other day in a well-circulated little volume a suggestion that the actor was a degraded being because he has a closely-shaven face. this is, indeed, humiliating, and i wonder how it strikes the roman catholic clergy. however, there are actors who do not shave closely, and though, alas! i am not one of them, i wish them joy of the spiritual grace which i cannot claim. it is admittedly unfortunate for the stage that it has a certain equivocal element, which, in the eyes of some judges, is sufficient for its condemnation. the art is open to all, and it has to bear the sins of many. you may open your newspaper, and see a paragraph headed "assault by an actress." some poor creature is dignified by that title who has not the slightest claim to it. you look into a shop-window and see photographs of certain people who are indiscriminately described as actors and actresses though their business has no pretence to be art of any kind. i was told in baltimore of a man in that city who was so diverted by the performance of tyrone powar, the popular irish comedian, that he laughed uproariously till the audience was convulsed with merriment at the spectacle. as soon as he could speak, he called out, "do be quiet, mr. showman; do'ee hold your tongue, or i shall die of laughter!" this idea that the actor is a showman still lingers; but no one with any real appreciation of the best elements of the drama applies this vulgar standard to a great body of artists. the fierce light of publicity that beats upon us makes us liable, from time to time, to dissertations upon our public and private lives, our manners, our morals, and our money. our whims and caprices are discanted on with apparent earnestness of truth, and seeming sincerity of conviction. there is always some lively controversy concerning the influence of the stage. the battle between old methods and new in art is waged everywhere. if an actor were to take to heart everything that is written and said about him, his life would be an intolerable burden. and one piece of advice i should give to young actors is this: do not be too sensitive; receive praise or censure with modesty and patience. good honest criticism is, of course, most advantageous to an actor; but he should save himself from the indiscriminate reading of a multitude of comments, which may only confuse instead of stimulating. and here let me say to young actors in all earnestness: beware of the loungers of our calling, the camp followers who hang on the skirts of the army, and who inveigle the young into habits that degrade their character, and paralyze their ambition. let your ambition be ever precious to you, and, next to your good name, the jewel of your souls. i care nothing for the actor who is not always anxious to rise to the highest position in his particular walk; but this ideal cannot be cherished by the young man who is induced to fritter away his time and his mind in thoughtless company. but in the midst of all this turmoil about the stage, one fact stands out clearly: the dramatic art is steadily growing in credit with the educated classes. it is drawing more recruits from those classes. the enthusiasm for our calling has never reached a higher pitch. there is quite an extraordinary number of ladies who want to become actresses, and the cardinal difficulty in the way is not the social deterioration which some people think they would incur, but simply their inability to act. men of education who become actors do not find that their education is useless. if they have the necessary aptitude--the inborn instinct for the stage--all their mental training will be of great value to them. it is true that there must always be grades in the theatre, that an educated man who is an indifferent actor can never expect to reach the front rank. if he do no more than figure in the army at bosworth field, or look imposing in a doorway; if he never play any but the smallest parts; if in these respects he be no better than men who could not pass an examination in any branch of knowledge--he has no more reason to complain than the highly-educated man who longs to write poetry, and possesses every qualification--save the poetic faculty. there are people who seem to think that only irresistible genius justifies any one in adopting the stage as a vocation. they make it an argument against the profession that many enter it from a low sphere of life, without any particular fitness for acting, but simply to earn a livelihood by doing the subordinate and mechanical work which is necessary in every theatre. and so men and women of refinement--especially women--are warned that they must do themselves injury by passing through the rank and file during their term of probation in the actors' craft. now, i need not remind you that on the stage everybody cannot be great, any more than students of music can all become great musicians; but very many will do sound artistic work which is of great value. as for any question of conduct, heaven forbid that i should be dogmatic; but it does not seem to me logical that while genius is its own law in the pursuit of a noble art, all inferior merit or ambition is to be deterred from the same path by appalling pictures of its temptations. if our art is worth anything at all, it is worth the honest, conscientious self-devotion of men and women who, while they may not achieve fame, may have the satisfaction of being workers in a calling which does credit to many degrees of talent. we do not claim to be any better than our fellows in other walks of life. we do not ask the jester in journalism whether his quips and epigrams are always dictated by the loftiest morality; nor do we insist on knowing that the odor of sanctity surrounds the private lives of lawyers and military men before we send our sons into law and the army. it is impossible to point out any vocation which is not attended by temptations that prove fatal to many; but you have simply to consider whether a profession has in itself any title to honor, and then--if you are confident of your capacity--to enter it with a resolve to do all that energy and perseverance can accomplish. the immortal part of the stage is its nobler part. ignoble accidents and interludes come and go, but this lasts on forever. it lives, like the human soul, in the body of humanity--associated with much that is inferior, and hampered by many hindrances; but it never sinks into nothingness, and never fails to find new and noble work in creations of permanent and memorable excellence. and i would say, as a last word, to the young men in this assembly who may at any time resolve to enter the dramatic profession, that they ought always to fix their minds upon the highest examples; that in studying acting they should beware of prejudiced comparisons between this method and that, but learn as much as possible from all; that they should remember that art is as varied as nature, and as little suited to the shackles of a school; and, above all, that they should never forget that excellence in any art is attained only by arduous labor, unswerving purpose, and unfailing discipline. this discipline is, perhaps, the most difficult of all tests, for it involves the subordination of the actor's personality in every work which is designed to be a complete and harmonious picture. dramatic art nowadays is more coherent, systematic, and comprehensive than it has sometimes been. and to the student who proposes to fill the place in this system to which his individuality and experience entitle him, and to do his duty faithfully and well, ever striving after greater excellence, and never yielding to the indolence that is often born of popularity--to him i say, with every confidence, that he will choose a career in which, if it does not lead him to fame, he will be sustained by the honorable exercise of some of the best faculties of the human mind. and now i can only thank you for the patience with which you have listened while, in a slight and imperfect way, i have dwelt with some of the most important of the actor's responsibilities, i have been an actor for nearly thirty years, and what i have told you is the fruit of my experience, and of an earnest and conscientious belief that the calling to which i am proud to belong is worthy of the sympathy and support of all intelligent people. address at the university of oxford june address at the university of oxford. when i was honored by the request of your distinguished vice-chancellor to deliver an address before the members of this great university, i told him i could only say something about my own calling, for that i knew little or nothing about anything else. i trust, however, that this confession of the limitations of my knowledge will not prejudice me in your eyes, members as you are--privileged members i may say--of this seat of learning. in an age when so many persons think they know everything, it may afford a not unpleasing variety to meet with some who know that they know nothing. i cannot discourse to you, even if you wished me to do so, of the respective merits of Ã�schylus, sophocles, and euripides; for if i did, i should not be able to tell you anything that you do not know already. i have not had the advantage--one that very few of the members of my profession in past, or even in present times have enjoyed--of an university education. the only _alma mater_ i ever knew was the hard stage of a country theatre. in the course of my training, long before i had taken, what i may call, my degree in london, i came to act in your city. i have a very pleasant recollection of the time i passed here, though i am sorry to say that, owing to the regulation which forbade theatrical performances during term time, i saw oxford only in vacation, which is rather like--to use the old illustration--seeing _hamlet_ with the part of hamlet left out. there was then no other building available for dramatic representations than the town hall. i may, perhaps, be allowed to congratulate you on the excellent theatre which you now possess--i do not mean the sheldonian--and at the same time to express a hope that, as a more liberal, and might i say a wiser, _régime_ allows the members of the university to go to the play, they will not receive any greater moral injury, or be distracted any more from their studies, than when they were only allowed the occasional relaxation of hearing comic songs. macready once said that "a theatre ought to be a place of recreation for the sober-minded and intelligent." i trust that, under whatsoever management the theatre in oxford may be, it will always deserve this character. you must not expect any learned disquisition from me; nor even in the modified sense in which the word is used among you will i venture to style what i am going to say to you a lecture. you may, by the way, have seen a report that i was cast for _four_ lectures; but i assure you there was no ground for such an alarming rumor; a rumor quite as alarming to me as it could have been to you. what i do propose is, to say to you something about four of our greatest actors in the past, each of whom may be termed the representative of an important period in the annals of our national drama. in turning over the leaves of a history of the life of edmund kean, i came across the following sentence (the writer is speaking of edmund kean as having restored nature to the stage): "there seems always to have been this alternation between the schools of nature and art (if we may so term them) in the annals of the english theatre." now if for _art_ i may be allowed to substitute _artificiality_, which is what the author really meant, i think that his sentence is an epitome of the history of our stage; and it struck me at once that i could not select anything more appropriate--i will not say as a text, for that sounds as if i were going to deliver a sermon--but as the _motif_, or theme of the remarks i am about to address to you. the four actors of whom i shall attempt to tell, you something--burbage, betterton, garrick, and kean--were the _four_ greatest champions, in their respective times, on the stage of nature in contradistinction to artificiality. when we consider the original of the drama, or perhaps i should say of the higher class of drama, we see that the style of acting must necessarily have been artificial rather than natural. take the greek tragedy, for instance: the actors, as you know, wore masks, and had to speak, or rather intone, in a theatre more than half open to the air, and therefore it was impossible they could employ facial expression, or much variety of intonation. we have not time now to trace at length the many vicissitudes in the career of the drama, but i may say that shakespeare was the first dramatist who dared to rob tragedy of her stilts; and who successfully introduced an element of comedy which was not dragged in by the neck and heels, but which naturally evolved itself from the treatment of the tragic story, and did not violate the consistency of any character. it was not only with regard to the _writing_ of his plays that shakespeare sought to fight the battle of nature against artificiality. however naturally he might write, the affected or monotonous _delivery_ of his verse by the actors would neutralize all his efforts. the old rhyming ten-syllable lines could not but lead to a monotonous style of elocution, nor was the early blank verse much improvement in this respect; but shakespeare fitted his blank verse to the natural expression of his ideas, and not his ideas to the trammels of blank verse. in order to carry out these reforms, in order to dethrone artifice and affectation, he needed the help of actors in whom he could trust, and especially of a leading actor who could interpret his greatest dramatic creations; such a one he found in richard burbage. shakespeare came to london first in . whether on this, his first visit, he became connected with the theatres is uncertain. at any rate it is most probable that he saw burbage in some of his favorite characters, and perhaps made his acquaintance; being first employed as a kind of servant in the theatre, and afterwards as a player of inferior parts. it was not until about - , that shakespeare began to turn his attention seriously to dramatic authorship. for five years of his life we are absolutely without any evidence as to what were his pursuits. but there can be little doubt that during this interval he was virtually undergoing a special form of education, consisting rather of the study of human nature than that of books, and was acquiring the art of dramatic construction--learnt better in a theatre than anywhere else. unfortunately, we have no record of the intercourse between shakespeare and burbage; but there can be little doubt that between the dramatist, who was himself an actor, and the actor, who gave life to the greatest creations of his imagination, and who, probably, amazed no less than delighted the great master by the vividness and power of his impersonations, there must have existed a close friendship. shakespeare, unlike most men of genius, was no bad man of business; and, indeed, a friend of mine, who prides himself upon being a practical man, once suggested that he selected the part of the ghost in _hamlet_ because it enabled him to go in front of the house between the acts and count the money. burbage was universally acknowledged as the greatest tragic actor of his time. in bartholomew fair, ben jonson uses burbage's name as a synonym for "the best actor"; and bishop corbet, in his _iter boreale_, tells us that his host at leicester-- "when he would have said king richard died, and call'd, 'a horse! a horse!' he, burbage, cried," in a scene, in which burbage and the comedian kemp (the j.l. toole of the shakespearean period) are introduced in _the return from parnassus_--a satirical play, as you may know, written by some of the members of st. john's college, cambridge, for performance by themselves on new year's day, --we have proof of the high estimation in which the great tragic actor was held. kemp says to the scholars who are anxious to try their fortunes on the stage: "but be merry, my lads, you have happened upon the most excellent vocation in the world for money; they come north and south to bring it to our playhouse; and for honors, who of more report than _dick burbage_ and _will kempe_; he is not counted a gentleman that knows not _dick burbage_ and _will kempe_; there's not a country wench that can dance 'sellenger's round,' but can talke of _dick burbage_ and _will kempe_." that burbage's fame as an actor outlived his life may be seen from the description given by flecknoe:-- "he was a delightful proteus, so wholly transforming himself into his part, and putting off himself with his clothes, as he never (not so much as in the 'tiring house) assumed himself again until the play was done.... he had all the parts of an excellent orator, animating his words with speaking, and speech with acting, his auditors being never more delighted than when he spake, nor more sorry than when he held his peace. yet even then he was an excellent actor still, never failing in his part when he had done speaking, but with his looks and gestures maintaining it still to the height." it is not my intention, even if time permitted, to go much into the private life of the four actors of whom i propose to speak. very little is known of burbage's private life, except that he was married; perhaps shakespeare and he may have been drawn nearer together by the tie of a common sorrow; for, as the poet lost his beloved son hamlet when quite a child, so did burbage lose his eldest son richard. burbage died on march th, , being then about years of age: camden, in his _annals of james i._, records his death, and calls him a second roscius. he was sincerely mourned by all those who loved the dramatic art; and he numbered among his friends shakespeare, ben jonson, beaumont, and fletcher, and other "common players," whose names were destined to become the most honored in the annals of english literature. burbage was the first great actor that england ever saw, the original representative of many of shakespeare's noblest creations, among others, of shylock, richard, romeo, hamlet, lear, othello, and macbeth. we may fairly conclude burbage's acting to have had all the best characteristics of natural, as opposed to artificial acting. the principles of the former are so clearly laid down by shakespeare, in hamlet's advice to the players, that, perhaps, i cannot do better than to repeat them:-- speak the speech, i pray you, as i pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, i had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as i may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. o, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-show and noise: i would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing termagant; it out-herods herod; pray you, avoid it. be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. o, there be players that i have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of christians nor the gait of christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that i have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. when we try to picture what the theatre in shakespeare's time was like, it strikes us that it must have been difficult to carry out those principles. one would think it must have been almost impossible for the actors to keep up the illusion of the play, surrounded as they were by such distracting elements. figure to yourselves a crowd of fops, chattering like a flock of daws, carrying their stools in their hands, and settling around, and sometimes upon the stage itself, with as much noise as possible. to vindicate their importance in their own eyes they kept up a constant jangling of petty, carping criticism on the actors and the play. in the intervals of repose which they allowed their tongues, they ogled the ladies in the boxes, and made a point of vindicating the dignity of their intellects by being always most inattentive during the most pathetic portions of the play. in front of the house matters were little better: the orange girls going to and fro among the audience, interchanging jokes--not of the most delicate character--with the young sparks and apprentices, the latter cracking nuts or howling down some unfortunate actor who had offended their worships; sometimes pipes of tobacco were being smoked. picture all this confusion, and add the fact that the female characters of the play were represented by shrill-voiced lads or half-shaven men. imagine an actor having to invest such representatives with all the girlish passion of a juliet, the womanly tenderness of a desdemona, or the pitiable anguish of a distraught ophelia, and you cannot but realize how difficult under such circumstances _great_ acting must have been. in fact, while we are awe-struck by the wonderful intellectuality of the best dramas of the elizabethan period, we cannot help feeling that certain subtleties of acting, elaborate by-play, for instance, and the finer lights and shades of intonation, must have been impossible. recitation rather than impersonation would be generally aimed at by the actors. thomas betterton was the son of one of the cooks of king charles i. he was born in tothill street, westminster, about , eighteen years after the death of burbage. he seems to have received a fair education; indeed, but for the disturbing effect of the civil war, he would probably have been brought up to one of the liberal professions. he was, however, apprenticed to a bookseller, who, fortunately for betterton, took to theatrical management. betterton was about twenty-four years old when he began his dramatic career. for upwards of fifty years he seems to have held his position as the foremost actor of the day. it was fortunate, indeed, for the interests of the drama that so great an actor arose at the very time when dramatic art had, as it were, to be resuscitated. directly the puritans (who hated the stage and every one connected with it as heartily as they hated their cavalier neighbors) came into power, they abolished the theatres, as they did every other form of intellectual amusement; and for many years the drama only existed in the form of a few vulgar "drolls." it must have been, indeed, a dismal time for the people of england; with all the horrors of civil war fresh in their memory, the more than paternal government allowed its subjects no other amusement than that of consigning their neighbors to eternal damnation, and of selecting for themselves--by anticipation--all the best reserved seats in heaven. when the restoration took place, the inevitable reaction followed: society, having been condemned to a lengthened period of an involuntary piety--which sat anything but easily on it--rushed into the other extreme; all who wanted to be in the fashion professed but little morality, and it is to be feared that, for once in a way, their practice did not come short of their profession. now was the time when, instead of "poor players," "fine gentlemen" condescended to write for the stage; and it may be remarked that as long as the literary interests of the theatre were in their keeping, the tone of the plays represented was more corrupt than it ever was at any other period of the history of the drama. it is something to be thankful for, that at such a time, when the highly-flavored comedies of wycherley and congreve were all the vogue, and when the monotonous profligacy of nearly all the characters introduced into those plays was calculated to encourage the most artificial style of acting--it was something, i say, to be thankful for, that at such a time, betterton, and one or two other actors, could infuse life into the noblest creations of shakespeare. owing, more especially, to betterton's great powers, the tragedy of _hamlet_ held its own in popularity, even against such witty productions as _love for love_. it was also fortunate that the same actor who could draw tears as hamlet, was equally at home in the feigned madness of that amusing rake valentine, or in the somewhat coarse humor of sir john brute. by charming the public in what were the popular novelties of the day, he was able to command their support when he sought it for a nobler form of drama. he married an actress, mrs. saunderson, who was only inferior in her art to her husband. their married life seems to have been one of perfect happiness. when one hears so much of the profligacy of actors and actresses, and that they are all such a very wicked lot, it is pleasant to think of this couple, in an age proverbial for its immorality, in a city where the highest in rank set an example of shameless licence, living their quiet, pure, artistic life, respected and beloved by all that knew them. betterton had few physical advantages. if we are to believe antony aston, one of his contemporaries, he had "a short, thick neck, stooped in the shoulders, and had fat, short arms, which he rarely lifted higher than his stomach. his left hand frequently lodged in his breast, between his coat and waistcoat, while with his right hand he prepared his speech." yet the same critic is obliged to confess that, at seventy years of age, a younger man might have _personated_ but could not have _acted_, hamlet better. he calls his voice "low and grumbling," but confesses that he had such power over it that he could enforce attention even from fops and orange-girls. i dare say you all know how steele and addison admired his acting, and how enthusiastically they spoke of it in _the tatler_. the latter writes eloquently of the wonderful agony of jealousy and the tenderness of love which he showed in _othello_, and of the immense effect he produced in _hamlet_. betterton, like all really great men, was a hard worker. pepys says of him, "betterton is a very sober, serious man, and studious, and humble, following of his studies; and is rich already with what he gets and saves." alas! the fortune so hardly earned was lost in an unlucky moment: he entrusted it to a friend to invest in a commercial venture in the east indies which failed most signally. betterton never reproached his friend, he never murmured at his ill-luck. the friend's daughter was left unprovided for; but betterton adopted the child, educated her for the stage, and she became an actress of merit, and married bowman, the player, afterwards known as "the father of the stage." in betterton's day there were no long runs of pieces; but, had his lot been cast in these times, he might have been compelled to perform, say, _hamlet_ for three hundred or four hundred nights: for the rights of the majority are entitled to respect in other affairs besides politics, and if the theatre-going public demand a play (and our largest theatres only hold a limited number) the manager dare not cause annoyance and disappointment by withdrawing it. like edmund kean, betterton may be said to have died upon the stage; for in april, , when he took his last benefit, as melantius, in beaumont and fletcher's _maid's tragedy_ (an adaption of which, by the way, was played by macready under the title of _the bridal_,) he was suffering tortures from gout, and had almost to be carried to his dressing-room; and though he acted the part with all his old fire, speaking these very appropriate words:-- "my heart and limbs are still the same, my will as great, to do you service," within forty-eight hours he was dead. he was buried in the cloisters of westminster abbey with every mark of respect and honor. i may here add that the censure said to have been directed against betterton for the introduction of scenery is the prototype of that cry, which we hear so often nowadays, against over-elaboration in the arrangements of the stage. if it be a crime against good taste to endeavor to enlist every art in the service of the stage, and to heighten the effect of noble poetry by surrounding it with the most beautiful and appropriate accessories, i myself must plead guilty to that charge; but i should like to point out that every dramatist who has ever lived, from shakespeare downwards, has always endeavored to get his plays put upon the stage with as good effect and as handsome appointments as possible. indeed, the globe theatre was burned down during the first performance of _king henry viii._, through the firing off of a cannon which announced the arrival of king henry. perhaps, indeed, some might regard this as a judgment against the manager for such an attempt at realism. it was seriously suggested to me by an enthusiast the other day, that costumes of his own time should be used for all shakespeare's plays. i reflected a little on the suggestion, and then i put it to him whether the characters in _julius cæsar_ or in _antony and cleopatra_ dressed in doublet and hose would not look rather out of place. he answered, "he had never thought of that." in fact, difficulties almost innumerable must invariably crop up if we attempt to represent plays without appropriate costume and scenery, the aim of which is to realize the _locale_ of the action. some people may hold that paying attention to such matters necessitates inattention to the acting; but the majority think it does not, and i believe that they are right. what would alma-tadema say, for instance, if it were proposed to him that in a picture of the roman amphitheatre the figures should be painted in the costume of spain? i do not think he would see the point of such a noble disregard of detail; and why should he, unless what is false in art is held to be higher than what is true? little more than thirty years were to elapse between the death of the honored betterton and the appearance of david garrick, who was to restore nature once more to the stage. in this comparatively short interval progress in dramatic affairs had been all backward. shakespeare's advice to the actors had been neglected; earnest passion, affecting pathos, ever-varying gestures, telling intonation of voice, and, above all, that complete identification of themselves in the part they represented--all these qualities, which had distinguished the acting of betterton, had given way to noisy rant, formal and affected attitudes, and a heavy stilted style of declamation. betterton died in , and six years after, in , garrick was born. about twenty years after, in , samuel johnson and his friend and pupil, david garrick, set out from lichfield on their way to london. in spite of the differences in their ages, and their relationship of master and pupil, a hearty friendship had sprung up between them, and one destined, in spite of johnson's occasional resentment at the actor's success in life, to last till it was ended by the grave. much of johnson's occasional harshness and almost contemptuous attitude towards garrick was, i fear, the result of the consciousness that his old pupil had thoroughly succeeded in life, and had reached the highest goal possible in the career which he had chosen; while he himself, though looked up to as the greatest scholar of his time, was conscious, as he shows us in his own diary, of how much more he might have done but for his constitutional indolence. garrick's family was of french origin, his father having come over to england during the persecution of the huguenots in , and on his mother's side he had irish blood in his veins; so that by descent he was a combination of french, english, and irish, a combination by no means unpromising for one who was going to be an actor. on reaching london, garrick enrolled his name in lincoln's inn, and was looking about him to see what would turn up, when the news of his father's death reached him. there is no doubt that, if garrick had consulted his own wishes only, he would at once have gone upon the stage. but fortunately, perhaps, for his future career, he could not bear to grieve his mother's heart by adopting at once, and at such a time when she was crushed with some sorrow for her great loss, a calling which he knew she detested so heartily. within a year mrs. garrick followed to the grave the husband whom she never ceased to mourn, and david had nothing more to face than the prejudice of his brother, peter, and of his sisters, if he should resolve ultimately to adopt the profession on which his heart was fixed. it was not, however, till nearly three years after, in , that garrick, determined to take the decisive step, first feeling his way by playing chamont in _the orphan_, and sir harry wildair, at ipswich, where he appeared under the name of mr. lydall; and under this same name, in the same year, he made his first appearance at goodman's fields theatre, in the part of richard iii. his success was marvellous. considering the small experience he had had, no actor ever made such a successful _début_. no doubt by waiting and exercising his powers of observation, and by studying many parts in private, he had to a certain extent, matured his powers. but making allowance for all his great natural gifts, there is no denying that garrick, in one leap, gained a position which, in the case of most other actors, has only been reached through years of toil. he seems to have charmed all classes: the learned and the ignorant, the cultured and the vulgar; great statesmen, poets, and even the fribbles of fashion were all nearly unanimous in his praise. the dissentient voices were so few that they were drowned in the clamor of applause. quinn might snarl and growl; and horace walpole, who seems to have grown alarmed at so much of the incense of praise finding its way to the nostrils of another, might give vent to a few feeble sneers; such as when he said, "i do not mention the things written in his praise because he writes most of them himself." but the battle was won. nature in the place of artificiality, originality in the place of conventionality, had triumphed on the stage once more. consternation reigned in the home at lichfield when the news arrived that brother david had become a play-actor; but ultimately the family were reconciled to such degradation by the substantial results of the experiment. such reconcilements are not uncommon. some young man of good birth and position has taken to the stage; his family, who could not afford to keep him, have been shocked, and in pious horror have cast him out of their respectable circle; but at last success has come, and they have managed to overcome their scruples and prejudices and to profit by the harvest which the actor has reaped. garrick seems to have continued playing under the name of lydall for two months, though the secret must have been an open one. it was not till december the second, the night of his benefit, that he was at last announced under his own name; and henceforward his career was one long triumph, checkered, indeed, by disagreements, quarrels and heart-burnings (for garrick was extremely sensitive), caused, for the most part, by the envy and jealousy which invariably dog the heels of success. second-rate actors, like theophilus gibber, or gnats such as murphy, and others, easily stung him. he was lampooned as "the sick monkey" on his return to the stage after having taken a much needed rest. but discretion and audacity seemed to go hand-in-hand, and the self-satisfied satirizer generally over-shoots the mark. garrick was ever ready with a reply to his assailants; when dr. hill attacked his pronunciation, saying that he pronounced his "i's" as if they were "u's," garrick answered-- "if 'tis true, as you say, that i've injured a letter, i'll change my note soon, and i hope for the better. may the just right of letters as well as of men, hereafter be fixed by the tongue and the pen. most devoutly i wish that they both have their due, and that _i_ may be never mistaken for _u_." comparing garrick with betterton, it must be remembered that he was more exposed to the attacks of envy from the very universality of his success. never, perhaps, was there a man in any profession who combined so many various qualities. a fair poet, a most fluent correspondent, an admirable conversationalist, possessing a person of singular grace, a voice of marvellous expressiveness, and a disposition so mercurial and vivacious as is rarely found in any englishman, he was destined to be a great social as well as a great artistic success. he loved the society of men of birth and fashion; he seems to have had a more passionate desire to please in private even than in public, and almost to have justified the often quoted couplet in goldsmith's "retaliation." "on the stage he was natural, simple, affecting, 'twas only that when he was off he was acting." some men, envious of the substantial fortune which he realized by almost incessant hard work, by thorough good principle with regard to money, and by a noble, not a paltry, economy, might call him mean; though many of them knew well, from their own experience, that his nature was truly generous--his purse, as well as his heart, ever open to a friend, however little he might deserve it. yet they sneered at his want of reckless extravagance, and called him a miser. the greatest offender in this respect was samuel foote, a man of great accomplishments, witty, but always ill-natured. it is difficult to speak of foote's conduct to garrick in any moderate language. mr. forster may assert that behind foote's brutal jests there always lurked a kindly feeling; but what can we think of the man who, constantly receiving favors from garrick's hand, could never speak of him before others without a sneer; who the moment he had received the loan of money or other favor for which he had cringed, snarled--i will not say like a dog, for no dog is so ungrateful--and snapped at the hand which had administered to him of its bounty. when this man, who had never spared a friend, whose whole life had been passed in maligning others, at last was himself a victim of a vile and cruel slander, garrick forgot the gibes and sneers of which foote had made him so often the victim, and stood by him with a noble devotion as honorable to himself as it was ill-deserved by its object. time would not suffice, had i as many hours as i have minutes before me, to tell you of all the acts of generosity that this mean man, this niggardly actor, performed in his lifetime. one characteristic anecdote will suffice. when whitfield was building his tabernacle in tottenham court road, he employed one of the carpenters who worked for garrick at drury lane. subscriptions for the tabernacle do not seem to have come in as fast as they were required to pay the workmen, so that the carpenter had to go to garrick to ask for an advance. when pressed for his reason he confessed that he had not received any wages from mr. whitfield. garrick made the advance asked for, and soon after quietly set out to pay a visit to mr. whitfield, when, with many apologies for the liberty he was taking, he offered him a five hundred pound bank note as his subscription towards the tabernacle. considering that garrick had no particular sympathy with nonconformists, this action speaks as much for his charity as a christian as it does for his liberality as a man. perhaps richard iii. remained garrick's best shakesperean character. of course he played cibber's version and not shakespeare's. in fact, many of the shakesperean parts were not played from the poet's own text, but garrick might have doubted whether even his popularity would have reconciled his audiences to the unadulterated poetry of our greatest dramatist. next to richard, lear would seem to have been his best shakesperean performance. in hamlet and othello he did not equal betterton; and in the latter, certainly from all one can discover, he was infinitely surpassed by edmund kean. in fact othello was not one of his great parts. but in the wide range of characters which he undertook, garrick was probably never equalled. a poor actor named everard, who was first brought out as a boy by garrick, says: "such or such an actor in their respective _fortes_ have been allowed to play such or such a part equally well as him; but could they perform archer and scrub like him? and abel drugger, ranger, and bayes, and benedick; speak his own prologue to _barbarossa_, in the character of a country-boy, and in a few minutes transform himself in the same play to _selim_? nay, in the same night he has played _sir john brute_ and the _guardian, romeo_ and _lord chalkstone, hamlet_ and _sharp, king lear_ and _fribble, king richard_ and the _schoolboy_! could anyone but himself attempt such a wonderful variety, such an amazing contrast of character, and be equally great in all? no, no, no! garrick, take the chair." garrick was, without doubt, a very intense actor; he threw himself most thoroughly into any part that he was playing. certainly we know that he was not wanting in reverence for shakespeare; in spite of the liberties which he ventured to take with the poet's text, he loved and worshipped him. to powell, who threatened to be at one time a formidable rival, his advice was, "never let your shakespeare be out of your hands; keep him about you as a charm; the more you read him, the more you will like him, and the better you will act." as to his yielding to the popular taste for pantomime and spectacle, he may plead a justification in the words which his friend johnson put into his mouth in the prologue that he wrote for the inauguration of his management at drury lane:-- "the drama's laws the drama's patrons give, and we, who live to please, must please to live." we must remember how much he did for the stage. though his alterations of shakespeare shock us, they are nothing to those outrages committed by others, who deformed the poet beyond recognition. garrick made shakespeare's plays once more popular. he purged the actors, for a time at least, of faults that were fatal to any high class of drama, and, above all, he gradually got rid of those abominable nuisances (to which we have already alluded), the people who came and took their seats at the wings, on the stage itself, while the performance was going on, hampering the efforts of the actors and actresses. the stage would have had much to thank garrick for if he had done nothing more than this--if only that he was the first manager who kept the audience where they ought to be, on the other side of the footlights. in his private life garrick was most happy. he was fortunate enough to find for his wife a simple-minded, loyal woman, in a quarter which some people would deem very unpromising. mrs. garrick was, as is well-known, a celebrated _danseuse_, known as mademoiselle violette, whose real name was eva maria weigel, a viennese. a more affectionate couple were never seen; they were not blessed with children, but they lived together in the most uninterrupted happiness, and their house was the scene of many social gatherings of a delightful kind. mrs. garrick survived her celebrated husband, and lived to the ripe age of ninety-eight, retaining to the very last much of that grace and charm of expression which had won the actor's heart. time will not allow me to dwell on the many points of interest in garrick's career; all of which are to be found in mr. percy fitzgerald's _life of garrick_. on returning to london after a visit to the spensers at althorp in january, , he was struck down by a fatal attack of his old malady, the gout, and died at the age of sixty-three. he was buried in westminster abbey with ceremonies as imposing as ever graced the funeral of a great man. the pall-bearers were headed by the duke of devonshire and the earl spenser, while round the grave there were gathered such men as burke and fox, and last, not least, his old friend and tutor, samuel johnson, his rugged countenance streaming with tears, his noble heart filled with the sincerest grief. the words so often quoted, artificial though they may seem, came from that heart when, speaking of his dear davy's death, he said that it "had eclipsed the gayety of nations." garrick's remarkable success in society, which achieved for him a position only inferior to that he achieved on the stage, is the best answer to what is often talked about the degrading nature of the actor's profession. since the days of roscius no contempt for actors in general, or for their art, has prevented a great actor from attaining that position which is accorded to all distinguished in what are held to be the higher arts. nearly nine years after the death of garrick, on november th, , a young woman, who had run away from home when little more than a child to join a company of strolling players, and who, when that occupation failed, earned a scanty living as a hawker in the streets of london, gave birth, in a wretched room near gray's inn, to an illegitimate child. this woman was nancy carey, the grand-daughter of henry carey, the author of the "national anthem." she was the great-grand-daughter of george saville, marquis of halifax, whose natural son henry carey was. a compassionate actress, miss tidswell, who knew the father of the child, aaron kean, gave her what assistance she could. poor nance was removed to her father's lodgings, near gray's inn, and there, on the day before mentioned, edmund kean was born. three months after his birth his mother deserted him, leaving him, without a word of apology or regret, to the care of the woman who had befriended her in her trouble. when he was but three years old he was brought, amongst a number of other children, to michael kelly who was then bringing out the opera of _cymon_ at the opera house in the haymarket, and, thanks to his personal beauty, he was selected for the part of cupid. shortly afterwards he found his way to drury lane, where the handsome baby--for he was little more--figured among the imps in the pantomime. taught here the tricks of the acrobat, he had at four years old acquired such powers of contortion that he was fit to rank as an infant phenomenon. but the usual result followed: the little limbs became deformed, and had to be put in irons, by means of which they regained that symmetry with which nature had at first endowed them. three years afterwards, in march, , john kemble was acting macbeth at drury lane; and, in the "cauldron scene," he engaged some children to personate the supernatural beings summoned by the witches from that weird vessel. little edmund with his irons was the cause of a ridiculous accident, and the attempt to embody the ghostly forms was abruptly abandoned. but the child seems to have been pardoned for his blunder, and for a short time was permitted by the manager to appear in one or two children's parts. little did the dignified manager imagine that the child--who was one of his cauldron of imps in _macbeth_--was to become, twenty years later, his formidable rival--formidable enough to oust almost the representative of the classical school from the supremacy he had hitherto enjoyed on the tragic stage. in orange court, leicester square, where holcroft, the author of _the road to ruin_, was born, edmund kean received his first education. scanty enough it was, for it had scarcely begun before his wretched mother stepped in and claimed him; and, after her re-appearance, his education seems to have been of a most spasmodic character. hitherto, the child's experience of life had been hard enough. when only eight years of age he ran away to portsmouth, and shipped himself on board a ship bound to madeira. but he found his new life harder than that from which he had escaped, and, by dint of feigning deafness and lameness, he succeeded in procuring his removal to an hospital at madeira, whence, the doctors finding his case yielded to no remedies, the authorities kindly shipped him again to england. he insisted on being deaf and lame: indeed, so deaf that in a violent thunder-storm he remained perfectly unmoved, explaining his composure by declaring that he could not hear any noise at all. from portsmouth he made his way on foot to london. on presenting himself at the wretched lodgings where his mother lived, he found that she had gone away with richardson's troupe. penniless and half-starving, he suddenly thought of his uncle, moses kean, who lived in lisle street, leicester square, a queer character, who gained a precarious living by giving entertainments as a mimic and ventriloquist. the uncle received his nephew warmly enough, and seems to have cultivated, to the best of his ability, the talent for acting which he recognized at once in the boy. edmund again enjoyed a kind of desultory education, partly carried on at school and partly at his uncle's home, where he enjoyed the advantage of the kind instructions of his old friend, miss tidswell, of d'egville, the dancing master, of angelo, the fencing master, and of no less a person than incledon, the celebrated singer, who seems to have taken the greatest interest in him. but the vagrant, half-gypsy disposition, which he inherited from his mother, could never be subdued, and he was constantly disappearing from his uncle's house for weeks together, which he would pass in going about from one roadside inn to another, amusing the guests with his acrobatic tricks, and his monkey-like imitations. in vain was he locked up in rooms, the height of which from the ground was such as seemed to render escape impossible. he contrived to get out somehow or other, even at the risk of his neck, and to make his escape to some fair, where he would earn a few pence by the exhibition of his varied accomplishments. during these periods of vagabondism he would live on a mere nothing, sleeping in barns, or in the open air, and would faithfully bring back his gains to uncle moses. but even this astounding generosity, appealing, as it must have done, to the uncle's sentiments, could not appease him. his uncle went so far, apparently with the concurrence of miss tidswell, as to place round the boy's neck a brass collar with the inscription, "this boy belongs to no. lisle street; please bring him home." his wandering propensities being for a time subdued, we find the little edmund again engaged at drury lane, and delighting the actors in the green-room by giving recitations from _richard iii._, probably in imitation of cooke; and, on one occasion, among his audience was mrs. charles kemble. during this engagement he played arthur to kemble's king john and mrs. siddon's constance, and appears to have made a great success. soon after this, his uncle moses died suddenly, and young kean was left to the severe but kindly guardianship of miss tidswell. we cannot follow him through all the vicissitudes of his early career. the sketch i have given of his early life--ample details of which may be found in mrs. hawkins's _life of edmund kean_--will give you a sufficient idea of what he must have endured and suffered. when, years afterwards, the passionate love of shakespeare, which, without exaggeration, we may say he showed almost from his cradle, had reaped its own reward in the wonderful success which he achieved, if we find him then averse to respectable conventionality, erratic, and even dissipated in his habits, let us mercifully remember the bitter and degrading suffering which he passed through in his childhood, and not judge too harshly the great actor. unlike those whose lives we have hitherto considered, he knew none of the softening influences of a home; to him the very name of mother, instead of recalling every tender and affectionate feeling, was but the symbol of a vague horror, the fountain of that degradation and depravation of his nature, from which no subsequent prosperity could ever redeem it. for many years after his boyhood his life was one of continual hardship. with that unsubdued conviction of his own powers, which often is the sole consolation of genius, he toiled on and bravely struggled through the sordid miseries of a strolling player's life. the road to success lies through many a thorny course, across many a dreary stretch of desert land, over many an obstacle, from which the fainting heart is often tempted to turn back. but hope, and the sense of power within, which no discouragements can subdue, inspire the struggling artist still to continue the conflict, till at last courage and perseverance meet with their just reward, and success comes. the only feeling then to which the triumphant artist may be tempted is one of good-natured contempt for those who are so ready to applaud those merits which, in the past, they were too blind to recognize. edmund kean was twenty-seven years old before his day of triumph came. without any preliminary puffs, without any flourish of trumpets, on the evening of the th january, , soaked through with the rain, edmund kean slunk more than walked in at the stage-door of drury lane theatre, uncheered by one word of encouragement, and quite unnoticed. he found his way to the wretched dressing-room he shared in common with three or four other actors; as quick as possible he exchanged his dripping clothes for the dress of shylock; and, to the horror of his companions, took from his bundle a _black_ wig--the proof of his daring rebellion against the great law of conventionality, which had always condemned shylock to red hair. cheered by the kindness of bannister and oxberry, the latter of whom offered him a welcome glass of brandy and water, he descended to the stage dressed, and peeped through the curtain to see a more than half-empty house. dr. drury was waiting at the wings to give him a hearty welcome. the boxes were empty, and there were about five hundred people in the pit, and a few others "thinly scattered to make up a show." shylock was the part he was playing, and he no sooner stepped upon the stage than the interest of the audience was excited. nothing he did or spoke in the part was done or spoken in a conventional manner. the simple words, "i will be assured i may," were given with such effect that the audience burst into applause. when the act-drop fell, after the speech of shylock to antonio, his success was assured, and his fellow-actors, who had avoided him, now seemed disposed to congratulate him; but he shrank from their approaches. the great scene with tubal was a revelation of such originality and of such terrible force as had not probably been seen upon those boards before. "how the devil so few of them could kick up such a row was something marvellous!" naïvely remarked oxberry. at the end of the third act every one was ready to pay court to him; but again he held aloof. all his thoughts were concentrated on the great "trial" scene, which was coming. in that scene the wonderful variety of his acting completed his triumph. trembling with excitement, he resumed his half-dried clothes, and, glad to escape, rushed home. he was in too great a state of ecstasy at first to speak, but his face told his wife that he had realized his dream--that he had appeared on the stage of drury lane, and that his great powers had been instantly acknowledged. with not a shadow of doubt as to his future, he exclaimed, "mary, you shall ride in your carriage;" and taking his baby boy from the cradle and kissing him, said, "and charley, my boy, you shall go to eton,"--and he did. the time when edmund kean made his first appearance in london was certainly favorable for an actor of genius. for a long while the national theatre had been in a bad way; and nothing but failure had hitherto met the efforts of the committee of management, a committee which numbered among its members lord byron. when the other members of the committee, with a strange blindness to their own interests, proposed that for the present, kean's name should be removed from the bills, byron interested himself on his behalf: "you have a great genius among you," he said, "and you do not know it." on kean's second appearance the house was nearly doubled. hazlitt's criticism had roused the whole body of critics, and they were all there to sit in judgment upon the newcomer. his utter indifference to the audience won him their respect, and before the piece was half over the sentence of the formidable tribunal was in his favor. from that moment kean exercised over his audiences a fascination which was probably never exercised by any other actor. garrick was no doubt his superior in parts of high comedy; he was more polished, more vivacious--his manner more distinguished, and his versatility more striking. in such parts as coriolanus or rolla, john kemble excelled him: but in shylock, in richard, in iago, and, above all, in othello, it may be doubted whether edmund kean ever had an equal. as far as one can judge--not having seen kean one's-self--from the many criticisms extant, written by the most intellectual men, and from the accounts of those who saw him in his prime, he was, to my mind--be it said without any disparagement to other great actors--the greatest genius that our stage has ever seen. unequal he may have been, perhaps often so, but there were moments in his acting which were, without exaggeration, moments of inspiration. coleridge is reported to have said that to see kean act was "like reading shakespeare by flashes of lightning." this often-quoted sentence embodies perhaps the main feature of edmund kean's greatness as an actor; for, when he was impersonating the heroes of our poet, he revealed their natures by an instant flash of light so searching that every minute feature, which by the ordinary light of day was hardly visible, stood bright and clear before you. the effect of such acting was indeed that of lightning--it appalled; the timid hid their eyes, and fashionable society shrank from such heart-piercing revelations of human passion. persons who had schooled themselves to control their emotion till they had scarcely any emotion left to control, were repelled rather than attracted by kean's relentless anatomy of all the strongest feeling of our nature. in sir giles overreach, a character almost devoid of poetry, kean's acting displayed with such powerful and relentless truth the depths of a cruel, avaricious man, baffled in all his vilest schemes, that the effect he produced was absolutely awful. as no bird but the eagle can look without blinking on the sun, so none but those who in the sacred privacy of their imaginations had stood face to face with the mightiest storms of human passion could understand such a performance. byron, who had been almost forced into a quarrel with kean by the actor's disregard of the ordinary courtesies of society, could not restrain himself, but rushed behind the scenes and grasped the hand of the man to whom he felt that he owed a wonderful revelation. i might discant for hours with an enthusiasm which, perhaps, only an actor could feel on the marvellous details of kean's impersonations. he was not a scholar in the ordinary sense of the word, though heaven knows he had been schooled by adversity, but i doubt if there ever was an actor who so thought out his part, who so closely studied with the inward eye of the artist the waves of emotion that might have agitated the minds of the beings whom he represented. one hears of him during those early years of struggle and privation, pacing silently along the road, foot-sore and half-starved, but unconscious of his own sufferings, because he was immersed in the study of those great creations of shakespeare's genius which he was destined to endow with life upon the stage. when you read of edmund kean as, alas! he was later on in life, with mental and physical powers impaired, think of the description those gave of him who knew him best in his earlier years; how amidst all the wildness and half-savage bohemianism, which the miseries of his life had ensured, he displayed, time after time, the most large-hearted generosity, the tenderest kindness of which human nature is capable. think of him working with a concentrated energy for the one object which he sought, namely, to reach the highest distinction in his calling. think of him as sparing no mental or physical labor to attain this end, an end which seemed ever fading further and further from his grasp. think of the disappointments, the cruel mockeries of hope which, day after day, he had to encounter; and then be harsh if you can to those moral failings for which his misfortunes rather than his faults were responsible. if you are inclined to be severe, you may console yourselves with the reflection that this genius, who had given the highest intellectual pleasure to hundreds and thousands of human beings, was hounded by hypocritical sanctimoniousness out of his native land; and though, two years afterwards, one is glad to say, for the honor of one's country, a complete reaction took place, and his reappearance was greeted with every mark of hearty welcome, the blow had been struck from which neither his mind or his body ever recovered. he lingered upon the stage, and died at the age of forty-six, after five years of suffering--almost a beggar--with only a solitary ten-pound note remaining of the large fortune his genius had realized. it is said that kean swept away the kembles and their classical school of acting. he did not do that. the memory of sarah siddons, tragic queen of the british stage, was never to be effaced, and i would remind you that when kean was a country actor (assured of his own powers, however unappreciated), resenting with passionate pride the idea of playing second to "the infant roscius," who was for a time the craze and idol of the hour, "never," said he, "never; i will play second to no one but john kemble!" i am certain that when his better nature had the ascendency no one would have more generously acknowledged the merits of kemble than edmund kean. it is idle to say that because his style was solemn and slow, kemble was not one of the greatest actors that our stage has produced. it is only those whose natures make them incapable of approbation or condemnation in artistic matters without being partisans, who, because they admire edmund kean, would admit no merit in john kemble. the world of art, thank heaven, is wide enough for both, and the hearts of those who truly love art are large enough to cherish the memory of both as of men who did noble work in the profession which they adorned. kean blended the realistic with the ideal in acting, and founded a school of which william charles macready was, afterwards, in england, the foremost disciple. thus have we glanced, briefly enough, at four of our greatest actors whose names are landmarks in the history of the drama in england, the greatest drama of the world. we have seen how they all carried out, by different methods perhaps, but in the same spirit, the principle that in acting nature must dominate art. but it is art that must interpret nature; and to interpret the thoughts and emotions of her mistress should be her first object. but those thoughts, those emotions, must be interpreted with grace, with dignity and with temperance; and these, let us remember, art alone can teach. address sessional opening philosophical institution edinburgh november the art of acting i have chosen as the subject of the address with which i have the honor to inaugurate for the second time the session of the edinburgh philosophical institution, "the art of acting." i have done so, in the first instance, because i take it for granted that when you bestow on any man the honor of asking him to deliver the inaugural address, it is your wish to hear him speak of the subject with which he is best acquainted; and the art of acting is the subject to which my life has been devoted. i have another reason also which, though it may, so far as you are concerned, be personal to those of my calling, i think it well to put before you. it is that there may be, from the point of view of an actor distinguished by your favor, some sort of official utterance on the subject. there are some irresponsible writers who have of late tried to excite controversy by assertions, generally false and always misleading, as to the stage and those devoted to the arts connected with it. some of these writers go so far as to assert that acting is not an art at all; and though we must not take such wild assertions quite seriously, i think it well to place on record at least a polite denial of their accuracy. it would not, of course, be seemly to merely take so grave an occasion as the present as an opportunity for such a controversy, but as i am dealing with the subject before you, i think it better to place you in full knowledge of the circumstances. it does not do, of course, to pay too much attention to ephemeral writings, any more than to creatures of the mist and the swamp and the night. but even the buzzing of the midge, though the insect may be harmless compared with its more poison-laden fellows, can divert the mind from more important things. to disregard entirely the world of ephemera, and their several actions and effects were to deny the entirety of the scheme of creation. i take it for granted that in addressing you on the subject of the art of acting i am not, _prima facie_, encountering set prejudices; for had you despised the art which i represent i should not have had the honor of appearing before you to-day. you will, i trust, on your part, bear this in mind, and i shall, on my part, never forget that you are members of a philosophical institution, the very root and basis of whose work is to inquire into the heart of things with the purpose of discovering why such as come under your notice are thus or thus. the subject of my address is a very vast one, and is, i assure you, worthy of a careful study. writers such as voltaire, schlegel, goethe, lessing, charles lamb, hazlitt, and schiller, have not disdained to treat it with that seriousness which art specially demands--which anything in life requires whose purpose is not immediate and imperative. for my own part i can only bring you the experience of more than thirty years of hard and earnest work. out of wide experience let me point out that there are many degrees of merit, both of aim, of endeavor, and of execution in acting, as in all things. i want you to think of acting at its best--as it may be, as it can be, as it has been, and is--and as it shall be, whilst it be followed by men and women of strong and earnest purpose. i do not for a moment wish you to believe that only shakespeare and the great writers are worthy of being played, and that all those efforts that in centuries have gathered themselves round great names are worthy of your praise. in the house of art are many mansions where men may strive worthily and live cleanly lives. all art is worthy, and can be seriously considered, so long as the intention be good and the efforts to achieve success be conducted with seemliness. and let me here say, that of all the arts none requires greater intention than the art of acting. throughout it is necessary to _do_ something, and that something cannot fittingly be left to chance, or the unknown inspiration of a moment. i say "unknown," for if known, then the intention is to reproduce, and the success of the effort can be in nowise due to chance. it may be, of course, that in moments of passionate excitement the mind grasps some new idea, or the nervous tension suggests to the mechanical parts of the body some new form of expression; but such are accidents which belong to the great scheme of life, and not to this art, or any art, alone. you all know the story of the painter who, in despair at not being able to carry out the intention of his imagination, dashed his brush at the imperfect canvas, and with the scattering paint produced by chance the very effect which his brush guided by his skill alone, had failed to achieve. the actor's business is primarily to reproduce the ideas of the author's brain, to give them form, and substance, and color, and life, so that those who behold the action of a play may, so far as can be effected, be lured into the fleeting belief that they behold reality. macready, who was an earnest student, defined the art of the actor "to fathom the depths of character, to trace its latent motives, to feel its finest quivering of emotion, is to comprehend the thoughts that are hidden under words, and thus possess one's-self of the actual mind of the individual man"; and talma spoke of it as "the union of grandeur without pomp, and nature without triviality"; whilst shakespeare wrote, "the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure." this effort to reproduce man in his moods is no mere trick of fancy carried into execution. it is a part of the character of a strong nation, and has a wider bearing on national life than perhaps unthinking people are aware. mr. froude, in his survey of early england, gives it a special place; and i venture to quote his words, for they carry with them, not only their own lesson, but the authority of a great name in historical research. "no genius can dispense with experience; the aberrations of power, unguided or ill-guided, are ever in proportion to its intensity, and life is not long enough to recover from inevitable mistakes. noble conceptions already existing, and a noble school of execution which will launch mind and hand at once upon their true courses, are indispensable to transcendent excellence; and shakespeare's plays were as much the offspring of the long generations who had pioneered his road for him, as the discoveries of newton were the offspring of those of copernicus. "no great general ever arose out of a nation of cowards; no great statesman or philosopher out of a nation of fools; no great artist out of a nation of materialists; no great drama, except when the drama was the possession of the people. acting was the especial amusement of the english, from the palace to the village green. it was the result and expression of their strong, tranquil possession of their lives, of their thorough power over themselves, and power over circumstances. they were troubled with no subjective speculations; no social problems vexed them with which they were unable to deal; and in the exuberance of vigor and spirit, they were able, in the strict and literal sense of the word, to play with the materials of life." so says mr. froude. in the face of this statement of fact set forth gravely in its place in the history of our land, what becomes of such bold assertions as are sometimes made regarding the place of the drama being but a poor one, since the efforts of the actor are but mimetic and ephemeral, that they pass away as a tale that is told? all art is mimetic; and even life itself, the highest and last gift of god to his people, is fleeting. marble crumbles, and the very names of great cities become buried in the dust of ages. who then would dare to arrogate to any art an unchanging place in the scheme of the world's development, or would condemn it because its efforts fade and pass? nay, more; has even the tale that is told no significance in after years? can such not stir, when it is worth the telling, the hearts of men, to whom it comes as an echo from the past? have not those tales remained most vital and most widely known which are told and told again and again, face to face and heart to heart, when the teller and the listener are adding, down the ages, strength to the current of a mighty thought or a mighty deed and its record? surely the record that lives in the minds of men is still a record, though it be not graven on brass or wrought in marble. and it were a poor conception of the value of any art, if, in considering it, we were to keep our eyes fixed on some dark spot, some imperfection, and shut our eyes to its aim, its power, its beauty. it were a poor age indeed where such a state of things is possible; as poor as that of which mrs. browning's unhappy poet spoke in the bitterness of his soul: "the age culls simples, with a broad clown's back turned broadly to the glory of the stars." let us lift our faces when we wish to judge truly of any earnest work of the hand or mind of man, and see it placed in the widest horizon that is given to us. poetry, painting, sculpture, music, architecture, all have a bearing on their time, and beyond it; and the actor, though his knowledge may be, and must be, limited by the knowledge of his age, so long as he sound the notes of human passion, has something which is common to all the ages. if he can smite water from the rock of one hardened human heart--if he can bring light to the eye or wholesome color to the faded cheek--if he can bring or restore in ever so slight degree the sunshine of hope, of pleasure, of gayety, surely he cannot have worked in vain. it would need but a small effort of imagination to believe that that great wave theory, which the scientists have proved as ruling the manifestations of light and sound, applies also to the efforts of human emotion. and who shall tell us the ultimate bounds of these waves of light and sound? if these discernible waves can be traced till they fade into impalpable nothingness, may we not think that this other, impalpable at the beginning as they are at the end, can alone stretch into the dimness of memory? sir joshua's gallant compliment, that he achieved immortality by writing his name on the hem of mrs. siddons's garment, when he painted her as the tragic muse, had a deeper significance than its pretty fancy would at first imply. not for a moment is the position to be accepted that the theatre is merely a place of amusement. that it is primarily a place of amusement, and is regarded as such by its _habitués_, is of course apparent; but this is not its limitation. for authors, managers, and actors it is a serious employment, to be undertaken gravely, and of necessity to be adhered to rigidly. thus far it may be considered from these different stand-points; but there is a larger view--that of the state. here we have to consider a custom of natural growth specially suitable to the genius of the nation. it has advanced with the progress of each age, and multiplied with its material prosperity. it is a living power, to be used for good, or possibly for evil; and far-seeing men recognize in it, based though it be on the relaxation and pleasures of the people, an educational medium of no mean order. its progress in the past century has been the means of teaching to millions of people a great number of facts which had perhaps otherwise been lost to them. how many are there who have had brought home to them in an understandable manner by stage-plays the costumes, habits, manners, and customs of countries and ages other than their own; what insight have they thus obtained into facts and vicissitudes of life--of passions and sorrows and ambitions outside the narrow scope of their own lives, and which yet may and do mould the destinies of men. all this is education--education in its widest sense, for it broadens the sympathies and enlarges the intellectual grasp. and beyond this again--for these are advantages on the material side--there is that higher education of the heart, which raises in the scale of creation all who are subject to its sweetening influences. to hold his place therefore amongst these progressing forces, the actor must at the start be well endowed with some special powers, and by training, reading, and culture of many kinds, be equipped for the work before him. no amount of training can give to a dense understanding and a clumsy personality certain powers of quickness and spontaneity; and, on the other hand, no genius can find its fullest expression without some understanding of the principles and method of a craft. it is the actor's part to represent or interpret the ideas and emotions which the poet has created, and to do this he must at the first have a full knowledge and understanding of them. this is in itself no easy task. it requires much study and much labor of many kinds. having then acquired an idea, his intention to work it out into reality must be put in force; and here new difficulties crop up at every further step taken in advance. now and again it suffices the poet to think and write in abstractions; but the actor's work is absolutely concrete. he is brought in every phase of his work into direct comparison with existing things, and must be judged by the most exacting standards of criticism. not only must his dress be suitable to the part which he assumes, but his bearing must not be in any way antagonistic to the spirit of the time in which the play is fixed. the free bearing of the sixteenth century is distinct from the artificial one of the seventeenth, the mannered one of the eighteenth, and the careless one of the nineteenth. and all this quite exclusive of the minute qualities and individualities of the character represented. the voice must be modulated to the vogue of the time. the habitual action of a rapier-bearing age is different to that of a mail-clad one--nay, the armor of a period ruled in real life the poise and bearing of the body; and all this must be reproduced on the stage, unless the intelligence of the audience, be they ever so little skilled in history, is to count as naught. it cannot therefore be seriously put forward in the face of such manifold requirements that no art is required for the representation of suitable action. are we to imagine that inspiration or emotion of any kind is to supply the place of direct knowledge of facts--of skill in the very grammar of craftsmanship? where a great result is arrived at much effort is required, whether the same be immediate or has been spread over a time of previous preparation. in this nineteenth century the spirit of education stalks abroad and influences men directly and indirectly, by private generosity and national foresight, to accumulate as religiously as in former ages ecclesiastics and devotees gathered sacred relics, all that helps to give the people a full understanding of lives and times and countries other than their own. can it be that in such an age all that can help to aid the inspiration and to increase direct knowledge is of no account whatever, because, forsooth, it has a medium or method of its own? there are those who say that shakespeare is better in the closet than on the stage; that dramatic beauty is more convincing when read in private than when spoken on the stage to the accompaniment of suitable action. and yet, if this be so, it is a strange thing that, with all the activity of the new-born printing-press, shakespeare's works were not known to the reading public till the fame of the writer had been made on the stage. and it is a stranger thing still, if the drama be a mere poetic form of words, that the writer who began with _venus and adonis_, when he found the true method of expression to suit his genius, ended with _hamlet_ and _the tempest_. how is it, i ask, if these responsible makers of statements be correct, that every great writer down from the days of elizabeth, when the drama took practical shape from the wish of the poets to render human life in all its phases, have been desirous of seeing their works, when written in dramatic form, represented on the stage--and not only represented, but represented under the most favorable conditions obtainable, both as to the fitness of setting and the choice of the most skilled and excellent players? are we to take it that the poet, with his eye in a fine phrenzy rolling, sees all the minute details of form, color, light, sound, and action which have to be rendered complete on the stage? is there nothing in what the individual actor, who is gifted with fine sense and emotional power, can add to mere words, however grand and rolling in themselves, and whatsoever mighty image they may convey? can it be possible that there is any sane person who holds that there is no such thing as expression in music so long as the written notes are correctly rendered--that the musical expression of a paganini or a liszt, or that the voice of a malibran or a grisi, has no special charm--nay more, that there is not some special excellence in the instruments of amati or stradivarius? if there be, we can leave to him, whilst the rest of mankind marvel at his self-sufficient obtuseness, to hold that it was nothing but his own imagination which so much influenced hazlitt when he was touched to the heart by edmund kean's rendering of the words of the remorseful moor, "fool, fool, fool!" why, the action of a player who knows how to convey to the audience that he is listening to another speaking, can not only help in the illusion of the general effect, but he himself can suggest a running commentary on what is spoken. in every moment in which he is on the stage, an actor accomplished in his craft can convey ideas to the mind. it is in the representation of passion that the intention of the actor appears in its greatest force. he wishes to do a particular thing, and so far the wish is father to the thought that the brain begins to work in the required direction, and the emotional faculties and the whole nervous and muscular systems follow suit. a skilled actor can count on this development of power, if it be given to him to rise at all to the height of a passion; and the inspiration of such moments may, now and again, reveal to him some new force or beauty in the character which he represents. thus he will gather in time a certain habitual strength in a particular representation of passion. diderot laid down a theory that an actor never feels the part he is acting. it is of course true that the pain he suffers is not real pain, but i leave it to any one who has ever felt his own heart touched by the woes of another to say if he can even imagine a case where the man who follows in minutest detail the history of an emotion, from its inception onward, is the only one who cannot be stirred by it--more especially when his own individuality must perforce be merged in that of the archetypal sufferer. talma knew that it was possible for an actor to feel to the full a simulated passion, and yet whilst being swept by it to retain his consciousness of his surroundings and his purpose. in his own words--"the intelligence accumulates and preserves all the creations of sensibility." and this is what shakespeare means when he makes hamlet tell the players--"for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as i may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must beget a temperance that may give it smoothness." how can any one be temperate in the midst of his passion, lest it be that his consciousness and his purpose remain to him? let me say that it is this very discretion which marks the ultimate boundary of an art, which stands within the line of demarcation between art and nature. in nature there is no such discretion. passion rules supreme and alone; discretion ceases, and certain consequences cease to be any deterrent or to convey any warning. it must never be forgotten that all art has the aim or object of seeming and not of being; and that to understate is as bad as to overstate the modesty or the efflorescence of nature. it is not possible to show within the scope of any art the entire complexity and the myriad combining influences of nature. the artist has to accept the conventional standard--the accepted significance--of many things, and confine himself to the exposition of that which is his immediate purpose. to produce the effect of reality it is necessary, therefore, that the efforts of an artist should be slightly different from the actions of real life. the perspective of the stage is not that of real life, and the result of seeming is achieved by means which, judged by themselves, would seem to be indirect. it is only the raw recruit who tries to hit the bull's-eye by point-blank firing, and who does not allow for elevation and windage. are we to take it for a moment, that in the art of acting, of which elocution is an important part, nothing is to be left to the individual idea of the actor? that he is simply to declaim the words set down for him, without reference to the expression of his face, his bearing, or his action? it is in the union of all the powers--the harmony of gait and utterance and emotion--that conviction lies. garrick, who was the most natural actor of his time, could not declaim so well as many of his own manifest inferiors in his art--nay, it was by this that he set aside the old false method, and soared to the heights in which, as an artist, he reigned supreme. garrick personated and kean personated. the one had all the grace and mastery of the powers of man for the conveyance of ideas, the other had a mighty spirit which could leap out in flame to awe and sweep the souls of those who saw and heard him. and the secret of both was that they best understood the poet--best impersonated the characters which he drew, and the passions which he set forth. in order to promote and preserve the idea of reality in the minds of the public, it is necessary that the action of the play be set in what the painters call the proper _milieu_, or atmosphere. to this belongs costume, scenery, and all that tends to set forth time and place other than our own. if this idea be not kept in view there must be, or at all events there may be, some disturbing cause to the mind of the onlooker. this is all--literally all--that dramatic art imperatively demands from the paint room, the wardrobe, and the property shop; and it is because the public taste and knowledge in such matters have grown that the actor has to play his part with the surroundings and accessories which are sometimes pronounced to be a weight or drag on action. suitability is demanded in all things; and it must, for instance, be apparent to all that the things suitable to a palace are different to those usual in a hovel. there is nothing unsuitable in lear in kingly raiment in the hovel in the storm, because such is here demanded by the exigencies of the play: but if lear were to be first shown in such guise in such a place with no explanation given of the cause, either the character or the stage-manager would be simply taken for a madman. this idea of suitability should always be borne in mind, for it is in itself a sufficient answer to any thoughtless allegation as to overloading a play with scenery. finally, in the consideration of the art of acting, it must never be forgotten that its ultimate aim is beauty. truth itself is only an element of beauty, and to merely reproduce things vile and squalid and mean is a debasement of art. there is apt to be such a tendency in an age of peace, and men should carefully watch its manifestations. a morose and hopeless dissatisfaction is not a part of a true national life. this is hopeful and earnest, and, if need be, militant. it is a bad sign for any nation to yearn for, or even to tolerate, pessimism in its enjoyment; and how can pessimism be other than antagonistic to beauty? life, with all its pains and sorrows, is a beautiful and a precious gift; and the actor's art is to reproduce this beautiful thing, giving due emphasis to those royal virtues and those stormy passions which sway the destinies of men. thus the lesson given by long experience--by the certain punishment of ill-doing--and by the rewards that follow on bravery, forbearance, and self-sacrifice, are on the mimic stage conveyed to men. and thus every actor who is more than a mere machine, and who has an ideal of any kind, has a duty which lies beyond the scope of his personal ambition. his art must be something to hold in reverence if he wishes others to hold it in esteem. there is nothing of chance about this work. all, actors and audience alike, must bear in mind that the whole scheme of the higher drama is not to be regarded as a game in life which can be played with varying success. its present intention may be to interest and amuse, but its deeper purpose is earnest, intense, sincere. [illustration: william e. burton.] william e. burton actor, author, and manager a sketch of his career with recollections of his performances by william l. keese _illustrated_ new york & london g. p. putnam's sons the knickerbocker press copyright by g. p. putnam's sons press of g. p. putnam's sons new york to the daughters of william e. burton the author's friends of many years, this memorial of their distinguished father is affectionately inscribed preface. the present volume was prompted by the thought that no adequate account of the late william e. burton had been given to the public. during his life no man was better known, and his death called forth a universal expression of admiration for his genius and regret for his loss. in the many obituary notices by the press some brief details of his career were given; but the narrative was necessarily confined to the narrow limits of a newspaper article. an actor so eminent--one of the greatest in his line the stage has known,--whose name is identified with certain delineations of character that died with him; whose renown stamped his theatre with a celebrity distinct and remarkable; a shakespearian scholar, whose devotion to the poet, attested by the incomparable library he amassed, was only equalled by his interpretation of the master's spirit, surely is entitled to a more painstaking and a more extended record. an endeavor is here made to supply such need; and in the view taken of burton as actor, author, and manager, the relation is from birth to death. in the preparation of this volume, the author owns his indebtedness to ireland's "records of the new york stage," wood's "personal recollections," wemyss's "theatrical biography," hutton's "plays and players," phelps's "players of a century," clapp's "record of the boston stage," and stone's "theatrical reminiscences." the writer also gratefully acknowledges the assistance given him by members of mr. burton's family, and their loan to him of old play-bills, engravings, letters, etc. mr. matteson, of new york, may also be mentioned in acknowledgment of friendly aid. the illustrations accompanying the memoir will be viewed with interest. the frontispiece is from a daguerreotype, and has been chosen as a faithful likeness of the comedian. the _bob acres_ is from a painting by t. sully, jr.; the _dr. ollapod_ from a portrait by henry inman; the _captain cuttle_ and _aminadab sleek_ from daguerreotypes; the _timothy toodles_ from a photograph. all the above were family possessions. the picture of the chambers street theatre is from a water-color drawing in the collection of thomas j. mckee, esq. many shortcomings will doubtless be found in this book, and readers of it who are old play-goers may think of many things the author has missed. but we are told by ruskin that there is "no purpose so great but that slight actions may help it," and by wordsworth that "small service is true service while it lasts." december, . w. l. k. list of illustrations. william e. burton _frontispiece_ mr. burton as bob acres mr. burton as dr. ollapod palmo's opera-house, afterwards burton's theatre mr. burton as captain cuttle mr. burton as timothy toodles mr. burton as aminadab sleek contents. page william e. burton, - william e. burton, - burton in new york, - burton in new york, - list of characters recollections mr. burton in farce mr. burton in parts he made specially famous mr. burton in comedy and shakespeare mr. burton's library conclusion index william e. burton. - . "_he was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so._"--shakespeare. william e. burton. - . william evans burton, the son of william george burton, an author of some repute, was born in london, september , , and died in new york, february , . his father was a printer, with a bent of mind toward theology, and gave expression to his views in a work entitled "biblical researches," published in the close of the last century. the son was classically educated in st. paul's school in london, an institution where, before his day, elliston and the elder mathews were instructed; and the father's design was to prepare him for the ministry. the parent's death, however, summoned him from his studies, and, at the age of eighteen, he assumed the direction of the printing-office, which he managed for the maintenance of his mother. it may be observed that one of the specialties of the elder burton's business was the printing of classical works, and the son's knowledge had often been of service in the matter of proof-reading. from the printing-office he was led to the experiment of editing a monthly magazine, thus early revealing an inclination toward the profession of letters which never wholly deserted him; fostered by sundry efforts of authorship in his native land, and appearing subsequently, in this country, in his conduct of "the gentleman's magazine" and "literary souvenir," and in the compilation known as "burton's cyclopædia of wit and humor." the youthful experiment was not a substantial success, and did not long continue; but his editorship brought him into connection with certain members of the dramatic profession, and he was persuaded (we wonder if persuasion were really needed!) to make a trial of his stage ability by playing with a company of amateurs. his success in this venture foreshadowed his destiny, and we find him in performing with a provincial company on the norwich, sussex, and kent circuits. we cannot help the indulgence, at this moment, of a playful fancy regarding burton's early efforts. did he, in the exemplification of tragedy, which he then aspired to, reveal by a single facial example the dawning of a future _toodle?_ could imagination discover in the dagger of _macbeth_ the hook, and in the thane himself the features, of _ed'ard cuttle, mariner of england?_ did the thoughtful countenance of _hamlet_ suggest in any possible way the lugubriousness of an incipient _sleek?_ did he make his majesty george iv. laugh at windsor, where, as tradition has it, he played before the king at this stage of his career? we know not; but the mask of melpomene had been thrown aside when, after another round of the provinces, with varying success, but gaining celebrity through an unusually wide range of parts, he made his first appearance in london in , as _wormwood_, in "the lottery ticket," a character that became famous in his hands. this engagement was at the pavilion theatre, and was a highly successful one. the great liston, just twice burton's age, was then at the haymarket, and we can imagine with what emulous admiration the young comedian regarded the veteran actor. he little dreamed that many of liston's renowned characters would descend to him by right of ability and comic power! in the following year ( ) liston retired from the haymarket, "through a pique," as they say, and burton succeeded him; but the audiences retained too vivid a recollection of liston's performances, and the engagement was only moderately successful. recovering suddenly from his disaffection, liston returned to the haymarket, and burton in his turn retired, to once more make the rounds of the provinces. but he bore with him one remembrance in connection with the haymarket that consoled him for many a disappointment; and that was the thought of having played _marall_ to edmund kean's _sir giles overreach_. the story runs that mrs. glover,[ ] a leading actress of the company, objected for some reason to the _marall_, and declared that she or burton should be omitted in the cast. kean, despite irregularities, still retained a remnant of his old sway, and he insisted on being supported by burton. the result was that mrs. glover was compelled to yield, and in due course _marall_ appeared before a full house, containing many celebrities of the day. it was at this time, too, that a production of his pen--the play of "ellen wareham,"[ ]--enjoyed the unusual distinction of being performed at five london theatres on the same evening. a year and a half went by in efforts to enhance his reputation, and it may be said that his career was not free from the vicissitudes that frequently attend dramatic itineracy. but through it all he gained ground and advanced steadily in his profession. he played almost every thing; his industry was indefatigable, his will indomitable. the lamp of experience never waned; and that knowledge gained from contact with the world and human nature, was a preparation for events and emergencies in another scene and another land. for now his thoughts were turned toward the united states, and in he determined to cross the ocean, and to take the chance of fortune and of fame. [ ] dr. doran, in his "annals of the stage," referring to kean in various parts, says: "among these, _sir giles_ stands pre-eminent for its perfectness, from the first words, 'still cloistered up,' to the last convulsive breath drawn by him in that famous _one_ scene of the fifth act, in which, through his terrible intensity, he once made so experienced an actress as mrs. glover faint away,--not at all out of flattery, but from emotion." [ ] first produced, may, . - . burton landed on our shores unheralded, to begin the twenty-five years of the artistic career which holds so conspicuous a place in the annals of dramatic achievement. he was not "brought over," and he came at his own expense. he came, indeed, with the prestige of having written "ellen wareham," and of having made a comic character[ ] famous by fifty consecutive representations; but he was simply announced as coming "from the pavilion theatre, london," and he made his first appearance in america at the arch street theatre, philadelphia, under the management of maywood & co., on september , , playing _dr. ollapod_, in colman's "poor gentleman," and _wormwood_, in "the lottery ticket." _ollapod_ always remained one of burton's most effective parts. the portrait, on another page, of the comedian in that character is from an engraving by j. sartain of a picture painted from life by henry inman, in . [ ] _wormwood_, in "the lottery ticket." there lies before us a bill (elsewhere reproduced) of the above theatre, dated wednesday, september , , being the fourth night of burton's first engagement in this country. the plays on the occasion were sheridan's comedy of "the rivals" and the farce of "the lottery ticket,"--which last seems to have met with great favor, as the bill states it to be a repetition, owing to "numerous enquiries having been made at the box-office"; thus beginning the train of similar "numerous enquiries" with which, in the years to come, his own box-office became familiar. burton was the _bob acres_ of the comedy and _wormwood_ in the farce. then at the age of thirty, we can believe that the comedian's unfolding genius gave full promise of the delightful humor which clothed his _acres_ at a later day; and that in the _wormwood_ of the farce he afforded glimpses of that wealth of comic power which thereafter, and for so long, he lavished for the amusement of the public. miss pelham was the _lydia languish_ and miss elphinstone the _julia_, english actresses of no special distinction; but it is interesting to note that miss elphinstone became the second wife of sheridan knowles, the author of a celebrated and far more popular _julia_ than the lady of "the rivals," and who appeared on the philadelphia stage of that year. something akin to his reception by the audiences at the haymarket in london, was for a time burton's experience in philadelphia. [illustration: mr. burton as bob acres.] as the recollection of liston by the london audience dwarfed the efforts of the youthful aspirant, so the memory of joseph jefferson, senior, (who played in the city as late as ,[ ]) diluted the interest felt in the new actor by the philadelphia benches.[ ] but the native force and humorous capability of the comedian were destined to conquer indifference; and, although the creative genius which informed his subsequent delineations was yet to be made clearly manifest, he soon had a secure footing; and a belief was strengthening in the public mind that an actor of rare endowments and promise had come from the land of munden, elliston, and liston, and one who might, it was not too much to say, worthily perpetuate the traditions of jefferson. [ ] he died in . [ ] so the memory of burton in new york to-day may still be a warning ofthe danger of inviting comparison. on the fifth night of his engagement (september , ) he played _timothy quaint_, in "the soldier's daughter," and _tristam sappy_, in the afterpiece of "deaf as a post," and so on through a round of characters in comedy and farce--_daffodil twod_, among the latter, in "the ladies' man"--written by himself--was a great favorite. and it may here be said, in passing, that the farce, which previous to burton's advent had sunk into lethargy, revived under his touch and became a vital point of attraction. he made a great hit as _guy goodluck_, in "john jones," in which part he sang a comic song--"a chapter of accidents"--and the fact leads us to remark that very few of those who saw the comedian in his ripe prime were aware of the musical talent he exhibited in earlier years, and that he made a specialty of introducing humorous ballads in his pieces, and sang them with marked effect. a collection of such songs, entitled "burton's comic songster," was published in philadelphia in ; and we were surprised, on looking it over, at the quantity of mirthful verse he had written and sung. the well-known ditty of "the cork leg," it may be mentioned, was written expressly for him. [illustration: arch street theatre poster] the engagement of burton with maywood & co. lasted two years, and was renewed for two more, during which period the comedian's powers greatly developed, and displayed remarkable versatility and dramatic resource. he widely extended his repertory, and was seen at the arch and chestnut street theatres in a variety of comedy rôles and in innumerable farces. among the many noted parts performed by him at various times we may name: _ollapod_, in "the poor gentleman"; _doctor pangloss_, in "the heir at law"; _farmer ashfield_, in "speed the plough"; _goldfinch_, in "the road to ruin"; _billy lackaday_, in "sweethearts and wives"; _tony lumpkin_, in "she stoops to conquer"; _maw-worm_, in "the hypocrite"; _sir peter teazle_ and _sir oliver surface_, in "the school for scandal"; _mr. dove_ and _mr. coddle_, in "married life"; _dogberry_ and _verges_, in "much ado about nothing"; _launcelot gobbo_, in "the merchant of venice"; _bob acres_, in "the rivals";--the last-named character he played on one occasion with the conjunction of the elder wallack as _capt. absolute_, tyrone power as _sir lucius o'trigger_, and mr. abbot (an actor celebrated in his day) as _falkland_; truly a striking distribution. a few of the farces out of the many were "the lottery ticket," "sketches in india," "the mummy" (so famous in chambers street), "no song no supper," "john jones," "deaf as a post," "the ladies' man," and a piece called "cupid," which had won renown in england through the acting of the famous john reeve. burton's growing popularity was substantially shown in the attendance at his regular benefits. they were always bumpers, and occasions of warm demonstrations of regard. he was always ready, too, with his sympathy and support where the claims of a professional brother were in question. william b. wood, in his "personal recollections of the stage," to which work we are indebted for much useful information, refers to an occurrence of the kind as follows: "i must apologize for the mention here of a circumstance purely personal, which proved one of the most gratifying events of my life. during the month of december, , while acting in chestnut street, burton called me aside between the acts, and with an expression of great pleasure, informed me that a meeting for the purpose of giving me a grand benefit had just adjourned, after completing the necessary arrangements. this was the first hint i ever had of this intention. the object was at once carried into effect, and on the th of january, , i was honored by the presence of one of the most brilliant audiences ever assembled.... the following entertainment was offered: 'three and deuce,' two acts of 'venice preserved,' 'john of paris,' 'antony's orations,' and a new song, and 'how to die for love.' i was favored in these pieces with the valuable aid of mr. balls, mr. j. wallack, mr. abbot, mrs. and miss watson, mr. wemyss, and mr. burton." in the years while the comedian was advancing in his profession, and acquiring that knowledge of the stage which distinguished his subsequent management, his pen was not idle. he wrote several farces, and contributed stories and sketches to the periodicals of the day. these articles were widely read, and a collection of them was published by peterson at a later date, with the title, "waggeries and vagaries"--a volume that has afforded entertainment to many readers of light literature. the literary taste referred to at the beginning of this narrative now sought indulgence, and in he started "the gentleman's magazine," a monthly publication of original miscellany. articles of his own appeared in it from time to time, among others a graceful and appreciative sketch of his friend, james wallack. he continued the editorship until july, , when he associated edgar a. poe with him in the control. to those who have paid any attention to the career of the gifted author of "the raven," as depicted by various pens in recent years, it need scarcely be said that, though a man of genius, he was not without frailties; and his warmest defenders will not deny that his life was marred by many irregularities of conduct. he was appointed editor of the magazine at a fixed salary, and the arrangement was such as to give him leisure to contribute to other periodicals and to produce many of his famous tales. "happier now," says one of his biographers,[ ] "than he had been for years past, for his prospects seemed assured, his work regular, interesting, and appreciated, his fame increasing, he writes to one friend that he 'has quite overcome the dangerous besetment,' and to another that he is 'a model of temperance and other virtues.'" for nearly a year he remained with burton; "but," continues the same biographer, "so liable was he still to sudden relapses that the actor was never with confidence able to leave the city. returning on one occasion after the regular day of publication, he found the number unfinished, and his editor incapable of duty. he left remonstrances to the morrow, prepared the 'copy' himself, and issued the magazine, and then to his astonishment received a letter from his assistant, the tone of which may be inferred from burton's answer: 'i am sorry you have thought it necessary to send me such a letter. your troubles have given a morbid tone to your feelings which it is your duty to discourage. i myself have been as severely handled by the world as you can possibly have been, but my sufferings have not tinged my mind with melancholy, nor jaundiced my views of society. you must rouse your energies, and if care assail you, conquer it. i will gladly overlook the past. i hope you will as easily fulfil your pledges for the future. we shall agree very well, though i cannot permit the magazine to be made a vehicle for that sort of severity which you think is so "successful with the mob." i am truly much less anxious about making a monthly "sensation" than i am upon the point of fairness. you must, my dear sir, get rid of your avowed ill-feelings toward your brother authors. you see i speak plainly; i cannot do otherwise upon such a subject. you say the people love havoc. i think they love justice.... but i wander from my design. i accept your proposition to re-commence your interrupted avocations upon the _maga_. let us meet as if we had not exchanged letters. use more exercise, write when feelings prompt, and be assured of my friendship. you will soon regain a healthy activity of mind, and laugh at your past vagaries,'" we think nothing can be clearer than that burton had good cause for fault-finding, and that he was more than considerate and just in his frank expression of feeling. [ ] henry curwen, "sorrow and song." london, . we do not intend to pursue the ill-starred connection further. a more glaring offence on poe's part severed the relationship, and not long thereafter the magazine was sold out to graham and merged in his "casket," the consolidation ultimately to become "graham's magazine." "the literary souvenir," an annual published by carey & hart, was edited by burton in and , and its pages contained many of his entertaining sketches. he also contributed to the "knickerbocker magazine" a series of theatrical papers styled "the actor's alloquy." occasional starring tours belong to the chronicle of these years, and there lies before us a bill of the american theatre, walnut street, dated october , , announcing "first night of the re-engagement of mr. burton," and also that "his excellency martin van buren, president of the united states, will honor the theatre with his presence." the president must have been greatly amused, for not only did he see the comedian as _tom tape_ and _peeping tom_, but he also saw him "dance with mrs. hunt the minuet de la cour and gavotte de vestris." burton was fairly well known now throughout the union--except in the town of napoleon, on the mississippi river, where, if we may believe mr. davidge, he found his waterloo. the engagement had not been profitable, and his only hope was by personally drumming for his benefit. so he deposited a goodly number of tickets with the bartender at the hotel where he was staying, with a polite request that he would use his best endeavor to get rid of them. the benefit came off, and the attendance was very flattering. after the play the comedian invited several friends up to the bar, and there had the satisfaction of learning that the man had managed to dispose of all the tickets entrusted to him. this was very gratifying; but no offer of settlement being made, he ventured to suggest that, as he was on the point of quitting the town, he would like to have the pleasure of receiving the insignificant amount of seventy-five cents for each piece of pasteboard deposited. mr. davidge says it takes a great deal to astonish a barkeeper in napoleon; but this one was distanced. he surveyed burton for a quarter of a minute, and seeing not a muscle move in the comedian's expressive countenance, he said: "look here, mr. billy burton, none of your infernal northern tricks here; it won't do, no way! you told me to get rid of them tickets, and as i had promised i was bound to go straight through with it--_and by thunder, i was obliged to stand drinks to every man to take one!_" an audience may be uncultured if not lukewarm; and the unimpressible community of napoleon reminds us that the "antigone" of sophocles was once produced under burton's management, and, on loud and repeated calls for the _author_, the comedian presented himself before the foot-lights and said: "ladies and gentlemen, it would give me the greatest pleasure to introduce the author of the play; but, unfortunately, he has been dead for more than twenty centuries, and i shall have to throw myself upon your indulgence." burton made his first appearance in new york october , , at the old national theatre in leonard street--then under the management of the elder wallack--for the benefit of samuel woodworth, the poet, playing _guy goodluck_, in "john jones"; and his first appearance as a star was made at the same theatre february , , when he played _billy lackaday_, in "sweethearts and wives," and _guy goodluck_. a complimentary benefit was given to mr. wallack in the same year, when burton played _sir simon slack_, in "spring and autumn." the opera of "amilie; or, the love test" was produced on the same occasion. if we mistake not, he was connected with the management when the theatre was destroyed by fire not long after. he also appeared at niblo's garden as a star in this year, opening june th, and was seen in a round of parts, including _gregory thimblewell_, _euclid facile_, _ignatius polyglott_, and _tobias munns_, in his own farce of "forty winks." he first appeared on the park stage june , , playing _sir timothy stilton_, in "patrician and parvenu," the occasion being a complimentary benefit to peter richings; and in the same month acted at niblo's garden. at his benefit (july th) he played _brown_, in "kill and cure," and _fluid_ in "the water party." the participation of the cushman sisters in this entertainment greatly enhanced its interest and attractiveness. in this year he fitted up cooke's circus-building in chestnut street, philadelphia, calling it the national theatre. he gathered a fine company and was very prosperous. charlotte and susan cushman appeared there, and the sterling comedians henry and thomas placide were among the force. the fairy piece, "the naiad queen," was there presented for the first time in the united states, and brought wealth to the manager's coffers. a large amount of his earnings by this enterprise he invested in nick biddle's united states bank, and in the downfall of that institution suffered severely. [illustration: mr. burton as dr. ollapod.] in , after a brief engagement at the providence theatre, he returned to new york, and leased the rebuilt theatre corner of leonard and church streets, where his first appearance in new york had been made; brought on his philadelphia company, and there established himself. this was april , , and his first essay as manager in new york. he transported all the beautiful scenery of "the naiad queen," and reproduced the piece with gratifying success. but a dread fatality seemed to attend this temple of the drama. as, while under wallack's management, it was destroyed by fire, so the same doom befell it under burton. in the height of prosperity the building was again consumed, and with it the elaborate and splendid scenery of "the naiad queen." of this calamity, f. c. wemyss, in his "theatrical biography," remarks: "on this occasion a magnificent and extensive wardrobe, the property of mr. burton, was consumed, together with his private wardrobe, manuscripts, books, and other articles of considerable value. he was not insured to the amount of a dollar. the citizens of new york expressed their sympathy with the manager; and a complimentary benefit at the park placed a handsome sum at his disposal." undaunted by a disaster which would have utterly discouraged most men, burton again sought philadelphia, and after starring for a brief season leased the chestnut street theatre for a fresh essay. there for a while he continued with good fortune, until better prospects invited him to arch street, where at last he located with a view to permanency. meeting now with rich success, he determined to extend his sphere of operation, and added in turn to his lesseeship the front street theatre, baltimore, and the theatre in washington; so that in - he was guiding the destinies of three dramatic houses, distinguished for well-chosen companies and for the admirable manner in which the plays were mounted and cast. but again the fiat of destiny was written in words of flame. the washington theatre, for the first time in many years, was handsomely rewarding its manager, when one night, during the performance, the scenery caught fire, and the building was burnt to the ground. the baltimore theatre was continued; but the lion's share of attention was given to arch street, and there for several years burton enjoyed a flow of prosperity; his fame increasing in public estimation; surprising and delighting all by his wonderful acting, and by the knowledge, taste, and liberality, with which he catered for his patrons. but new york was in the manager's thoughts and seemed to beckon him northward. perhaps burton's prophetic gaze discerned in the great city a field that would respond to careful tillage, and that the rapid growth of the metropolis could not fail to give momentum to enterprise. whatever the motive spring, the step was taken, and in the building known as palmo's opera-house became burton's theatre. in this brief survey of fourteen years, the absence of detail in many instances will be pardoned, we hope, on a reflection of what it may suggest. we are aware of the interest attaching to strength of companies, citations of casts, and notes of special performance; and in all theatrical histories such details should evoke the most careful consideration. the philadelphia record, however, is not always full and clear on those points, as respects individual careers, even in one so active and fruitful as our subject's; for, so far as we know, there is no history of the stage of that city which pretends to do for its dramatic life what ireland has done for the new york stage--regarding which monument of painstaking fidelity, william winter, in the preface to his recent admirable volume on "the jeffersons," truly says: "every writer who touches upon the history of the drama in america must acknowledge his obligation for guidance and aid to the thorough, faithful and suggestive records made by the veteran historian, joseph n. ireland. "yet, in depicting the career of a great actor, many things are rendered subordinate which in a history of the drama of any given period would receive due prominence. that the career of burton in philadelphia from to embraced much of its stage history during those years, will, of course, be understood; and we shall be sorry if our readers, at the same time, fail to discern the industry, sagacity, courage, and varied powers--with which the actor, author, and manager, illustrated those years--suggested by this recital. we now approach a period within the memory of many persons now living. some few octogenarians may survive who can recall burton's performances of over forty years ago; but they must be few indeed; and their recollections cannot be otherwise than dim and uncertain. but the achievements of burton in chambers street; the unexampled popularity of his theatre; the unequalled company he gathered there; the indisputable creations of character that there originated; the birth of a revival of shakespeare, with a felicity of conception that revealed the appreciative student, and with a beauty and minuteness of appointment unprecedented at the time;--all this, through a decade of years, forms an enchanting reminiscence vivid still in the retrospect of numberless new yorkers. it is not surprising that we of the city of new york forget that the comedian so long belonged to philadelphia. so brilliant was his success in chambers street that all other theatres where he flourished seem to be viewed by the reflected light of that; and we think there will be no question that there were clustered his rarest triumphs and there blossomed the flower of his fame. burton's theatre, chambers street. _"there is the playhouse now, there must you sit."_ --shakespeare. burton in new york. - . palmo's opera-house was built in , and, according to wemyss' chronology, was the sixteenth theatre erected in new york. it was built by ferdinand palmo, and designed for the presentation of italian opera. to palmo, it is said, belongs the honor of having first introduced that department of music in the city. in he opened with "lucia di lammermoor"; but the support given to his venture was not generous, notwithstanding the fact that wealth and fashion still resided in warren, murray, and beekman streets. the time apparently was not ripe; the experiment ended in financial ruin to palmo, and the unfortunate man never wholly recovered from the blow. the house passed into divers hands, and was the scene of a variety of entertainments for two or three years afterward. the writer remembers distinctly going there of an afternoon, when a boy, to a circus entertainment. the place was at a low ebb in point of popularity and attraction when the comedian fixed upon it as his future professional home. he rearranged, fitted it up, and adorned it, and called it burton's theatre. [illustration: palmo's opera-house, afterward burton's theatre. (after a water-color drawing in the collection of thomas j. mckee, esq.)] it had no doubt long been a dream of the manager to attain as nearly as possible to perfection in the organization and direction of a first-class theatre. his varied experience in philadelphia and elsewhere constantly suggested an administration composed of members equally valuable in their respective lines, and forming an harmonious whole under an efficient executive, as the best system of government for the growth and development of dramatic art; and perhaps during his reign in chambers street he came as near the realization of that dream as is permitted to human aspiration. in confirmation of the foregoing, we quote a passage from william b. wood's recollections, where, writing in of the evils of the star system, he says: "let me here remark, that i am happy to see of late times--i mean within the last few years--that the pernicious system of which i speak, by carrying itself fairly out, and by so breaking up all sound stock companies, has finally destroyed itself.... to that intelligent manager, mr. burton, the first credit is due. he has been striving for a number of years in new york, as he had been doing here in philadelphia, to bring his theatre to a proper system, based on the principles of common sense and experience. with talents of his own equalled by few stars, he has preferred to ascertain whether the public could not be better attracted by a good stock company of combined talent, and every new yorker knows with what excellent effect he has labored. his success, i am happy to learn, has amply confirmed his reputation for dramatic judgment." we may supplement this by a paragraph taken from laurence hutton's entertaining volume of "plays and players." describing in glowing terms the production of buckstone's comedy of "leap year," at burton's, march , , mr. hutton says: "that our readers may fully comprehend the subject and period of which we write, it will be well to remind them, perhaps, that the art of acting had arrived at such a point in burton's theatre, that, to play a comedy well, was not enough. every thing was so well done, so perfect in every respect, mere excellence was so much a matter of course, was so positive, on the chambers street boards, that there was but little room for the comparative, and the superlative itself was necessary to create a sensation." the chambers street theatre opened july , , with "maidens, beware"; "raising the wind," and "the irish dragoon." these were succeeded by "new york in slices," "dan keyser de bassoon," and "lucy did sham amour." the work was slow at first, but the disappearance of money was rapid. we have seen, however, that there was no limit to burton's energy and perseverance. he played in new york, philadelphia, and baltimore, week after week; managed, in conjunction with john brougham, an engagement with mr. w. c. macready at ford's theatre, boston, october, ; was announced, on macready's departure, to appear himself; but the intention was unfulfilled, and so it chanced that he never acted there until the last years of his life. he played for the benefit of the widow and family of edmund simpson, at the park theatre, december , , in referring to which event mr. ireland says: "we insert the entire bill to show the forgetfulness of self evinced by the volunteers, and their willingness to assume any character to insure the best result, there being no less than five gentlemen in the cast who had played, and might justly have laid claim to the principal character of the play." the play was "the school for scandal," cast principally as follows: sir peter teazle mr. henry placide. sir oliver surface " wm. e. burton. joseph surface " thomas barry. charles surface " george barrett. crabtree " w. r. blake. sir benjamin backbite " peter richings. careless " c. m. walcot. sir harry " h. hunt. moses " john povey. trip " dawson. lady teazle mrs. shaw. lady sneerwell " john gilbert. mrs. candour " winstanley. maria miss mary taylor. this deed of charity was followed by others for the same object on the part of new york managers, and among them burton contributed a night at his own theatre, on the th of march ensuing, in which the full strength of his company appeared. the burning of the park theatre in left burton without a rival. the olympic was of the past; forrest thundered at the broadway; wallack's and daly's were yet to be. it was not long before the public discovered the genius that presided in chambers street, and recognized the unusual excellence which characterized the performances. the location was favorable for brooklyn people, and from first to last the theatre enjoyed a monopoly of their patronage. "for several years," says ireland, "burton's theatre was the resort of the most intelligent class of pleasure-seekers, and there beauty, wit, and fashion, loved to congregate, without the formality or etiquette of attire once deemed necessary at the park." its fame was really phenomenal. leaping metropolitan bounds, it spread to distant states and neighborhoods, and became, one might almost say, a familiar and welcome contribution to the social and intellectual communion of the time. for a stranger to come to new york in those days and omit to visit burton's, would imply an obtuseness so forlorn, or an indifference so stolid, that in the one case he would be an object of compassion, and in the other a grave offender of public sentiment. but in all probability he looked forward during his journey city-ward to his evening in those halls of momus; and we may be certain that the "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles" of that night lived in his memory for many a long day. it is not too much to say that this attraction was almost wholly due to the extraordinary powers of burton himself. true, his company embraced the finest artists in their several lines of any stage in the country; and it was well known to all lovers of refined drama that the chambers street theatre was the home of english comedy, and that any given play could be there produced with a cast entirely adequate, and with a perfection of detail ensuring to the auditor an artistic delight and a representation of the highest class. but there are many who, while appreciating the delineation of manners and character, seek amusement pure and simple, and who believe that good digestion waits on hearty laughter. to this large constituency burton was the objective point, for his humor and comic power were a perennial fountain of mirth. his appearance, either discovered when the curtain rose, or entering from the wing, was the signal for a ripple of merriment all over the house. every countenance brightened, the dullest face glowed with gleeful expectancy. no actor, we believe--unless possibly liston,--ever excelled burton in humorous facial expression. tom hood, in referring to certain pastimes of a london evening, says in his felicitous rhyme: "or in the small olympic pit sit, split, laughing at liston, while you quiz his phiz." read the couplet thus: "or in the _chambers street_ snug pit sit, split, laughing at _burton_, while you quiz his phiz," and we have the nightly situation. it was a common circumstance for the theatre to receive accessions toward the close of the performance, the new-comers standing in line along the walls, drawn thither by the potent magnet of the manager in the farce. thus it was that, though the theatre furnished constantly a rich feast of comedy, and was more widely known than any other, still more celebrated was the great actor whose name it bore; and it was the magic of that name that drew the people, and it was he whom the people went to see. it seemed to make little difference what the bills announced; burton would play,--and that was enough. it was the privilege of the writer of these pages to have free access to the chambers street theatre, and to know personally its manager, and his recollections are such as to induce him to believe that in no better way can he perform his task of completing mr. burton's career than by employing his own knowledge and recording the impressions he received. in so doing, the opportunity afforded for special reference to members of his company will be improved; and perhaps our retrospection may arouse in other breasts a remembrance of past delight. alluding to the comedian's first appearance in new york, october , , joseph n. ireland, so often quoted, remarks: "the advent of mr. w. e. burton, the most renowned comedian of recent days, demands more than a passing notice. for nearly twenty years no other actor monopolized so much of the public applause, and popular sentiment universally assigned him a position in broad low comedy entirely unrivalled on the american stage." it was a little over three years between his arrival in america and his new york débût; about eleven between that appearance and his lesseeship in chambers street; and eleven more remain to be taken note of. of these, eight belong to chambers street, two to the uptown theatre, and one to starring engagements in various cities--the last being in hamilton, canada, and abruptly terminated by the malady of which he died. * * * * * the company at chambers street now demands our attention; and the wish to suitably recognize the talents, and to chronicle, however simply, the triumphs of that famous array, has constrained us to widen the scope of our original design, and to extend somewhat our notices of certain individual actors. we shall in nowise regret this; for in recalling past delight it is a pleasure to dwell on those who caused it; and we may, perchance, awaken thereby a happy thought of them in other hearts. the departed years are full of memories, and the turning of a leaf may lay bare a volume of reminiscence. it forms no part of our purpose, however, to follow individual careers, and to trace their course on other boards than those of the chambers street theatre. many of them, indeed, after burton removed uptown, and after his death, continued their successes and won renown in other scenes and under other management; and our readers may feel that but scant justice is done many meritorious names familiar to the present generation, in confining mention of them to a period when their talents and capabilities had not ripened to that excellence which afterward gave them fame. but we are concerned with them only as they figured as members of burton's company, and as such contributed richly to our fund of memory. they stand in the dramatic pantheon with their great chief; and in approaching that central and dominant figure we pause to bend delighted gaze upon the admirable group surrounding it. from to the following names were numbered on the muster-roll: henry placide, blake, brougham, lester, t. b. johnston, bland, jordan, barrett, dyott, fisher, thompson, holland, c. w. clarke, norton, parsloe, jr., holman, charles mathews, setchell, mrs. hughes, mrs. russell (now mrs. hoey), mrs. skerrett, mrs. rea, miss raymond, mrs. hough, mrs. buckland, miss weston, miss devlin, miss malvina, miss agnes robertson, fanny wallack, mary taylor, miss chapman. this is by no means intended as a complete enumeration--"but 't is enough, 't will serve." many names have been forgotten, and some remembered but omitted. it may be of interest to note at this point the fortunes that awaited at least five of the actresses above named--viz.: mrs. russell, miss weston, miss devlin, miss malvina, miss agnes robertson. mrs. russell, while at burton's in , and a great favorite, was married to john hoey of express fame, and shortly thereafter retired from the stage, the manager doing the honors at her farewell, and presenting her on the occasion with a valuable testimonial of his regard. long afterward mrs. hoey was induced by the elder wallack to forsake her retirement, and for many years was the leading lady at his theatre, her refined manners, correct taste, and exquisite toilets, exciting anew public esteem and admiration. she quitted the stage and returned to private life in . miss lizzie weston, whose beauty, dramatic aptitude, and versatility, won nightly plaudits, and whose performance was not without much that was highly meritorious, signalized a career more or less checkered by uniting her fortunes with those of the late charles mathews, during his starring tour in , and is now the widow of that famous actor. miss malvina, a sister of mrs. barney williams, was a _danseuse_ at burton's,--for it was the fashion in the old days to beguile the lazy time between the pieces with a terpsichorean interlude; and we remember but one instance of her appearance in any other character, and that was a minor part in the farce of "a school for tigers." she became mrs. wm. j. florence in , and has since shared her husband's fortunes and honors. miss agnes robertson made her débût in new york at the chambers street theatre, october , , as _milly_ in "the young actress," and has since been well known as the wife of dion boucicault. a more illustrious alliance--so soon to end in piteous sorrow--was the portion of mary devlin. she was a minor actress at burton's, but a woman of rare and lovely character. so much so, that she won the heart of edwin booth, and became his wife, and the idol of his home, till death early called her from his side. it was in memory of this sweet and gentle lady, that the poet thomas william parsons penned the following exquisite stanzas: "what shall we do now, mary being dead, or say, or write, that shall express the half? what can we do but pillow that fair head and let the spring-time write her epitaph? "as it will soon in snow-drop, violet, wind-flower, and columbine, and maiden's tear,-- each letter of that pretty alphabet that spells in flowers the pageant of the year. "she was a maiden for a man to love, she was a woman for a husband's life, one that had learned to value far above the name of love the sacred name of wife. "her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep, had all there is of life--except gray hairs: hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep, and that mysterious tie a mother bears. "she hath fulfilled her promise and hath past: set her down gently at the iron door! eyes! look on that loved image for the last: now cover it in earth--her earth no more!" let us now summon, as first in order, the name that heads the list of the actors above given. henry placide enjoyed in public estimation a fame worthy and well deserved. he was an actor of the old school, and his conceptions were the fruit of appreciative and careful study; his acting was a lucid and harmonious interpretation of his author; and his elocution, clear and resonant, was the speech of a scholar and a gentleman. the artistic sense was never forgotten in his delineations, and his name on the bills was a guaranty of intellectual pleasure. he was not broadly funny like burton, or holland; but those who remember his _sir harcourt courtley_, his _jean jacques françois antoine hypolite de frisac_, in "paris and london," and his _clown_, in shakespeare's "twelfth night," will not deny that he was the owner of a rich vein of eccentric humor, and that he worked his possession effectually. he was an expert in the gallic parts where the speech is a struggle between french and english, and, indeed, since his departure they, too, have vanished from the stage. but those who saw him as _haversac_, in "the old guard"; as _the tutor_, in "to parents and guardians"; or as _monsieur dufard_, in "the first night," will bear witness to his inimitable manner, and to his facile blending of the grave and gay. we shall never forget how, in the last-named character (_mons. dufard_), having engaged his daughter for a "first appearance," and having declared his own ability to manage the drum in the orchestra on the occasion, he, suddenly, during the mimic rehearsal, at an allusion in the text to sunrise, stamped violently on the stage; and to the startled manager's exclamation of "what's that!" serenely replied: "zat ees ze cannon vich announce ze brek of day--i play him on ze big drum in ze night." in choleric old men placide was unsurpassed. all the touches that go toward the creation of a grim, irascible, thwarted, bluff old gentleman, he commanded at will. his _colonel hardy_, in "paul pry," for instance, what an example was that! i hear him, now, at the close of the comedy, when things had drifted to a happy anchorage--hear him saying in reply to the soothing remark: "why, colonel, you've every thing your own way,"--"yes, i know i have every thing my own way; but ---- it, i hav'n't _my own way_ of having it!" his repertory covered a wide range; and we retain vivid recollections of his _sir peter teazle_, his _doctor ollapod_, and his _silky_; the last in "the road to ruin," in which comedy, by the way, we remember seeing placide, blake, burton, lester, bland, and mrs. hughes; truly a phenomenal cast. such, briefly sketched, was the actor who constituted one of burton's strongest pillars. for some years he played at no other theatre in new york. he gave enjoyment to thousands, and in dramatic annals his name and achievements have distinguished and honorable record. as one of the many who remain to own their debt of pleasure and instruction, the present writer pays this tribute to the genius and memory of henry placide.[ ] [ ] "when edwin forrest was in europe on a visit, he was asked whom he deemed the best american actor; he promptly and unequivocally replied: 'henry placide is unquestionably the best general actor on the american boards, and i doubt whether his equal can be found in england.'"--henry dickinson stone's "theatrical reminiscences." we now summon another name from the famous corps, for the purpose of analysis, since we should be ill content with the cold respect of a passing glance at an artist so celebrated as was william rufus blake. we can recall no actor of the past, and we know of but one in the present, comparable with blake in certain lines of old men--certainly in the rôle of tender pathos like _old dornton_, and in the portrayal of a sweetly noble nature framed in venerable simplicity, as in _jesse rural_, he had no equal; and it is simply truth to say that with him departed from the stage that unique, all-affecting, wondrous embodiment of _geoffrey dale_, in "the last man." the characteristics of blake's power were a broad heartiness, suggestive sentiment, and eloquent idealization. these traits informed respectively the parts he essayed, and gave to each in turn rare flow of spirit, richness of color, and poetic fervor. for the verbal expression of these salient elements, he possessed a tuneful voice, which rose or fell as the sway of feeling dictated, and his delivery was singularly felicitous in tone and emphasis. nor was he lacking in a humor at once subtle and delicate, happily evinced in his acting of _mr. primrose_, in the comedietta of "bachelors' torments." those who saw blake at the period of which we are writing, found it hard to believe that the _sir anthony absolute_ of aldermanic proportions before them was once a slender young man and played light comedy! yet so it was. very old play-goers will recollect the chatham garden theatre, and perhaps some tenacious memory bears record of having seen blake there in the long ago; for there he first appeared to a new york audience, in , playing _frederick_, in colman's "poor gentleman." we never saw him earlier than at burton's, and then with added years had come a rotundity of person which, however unobjectionable in the famous impersonations of his prime, was not, it must be confessed, the ideal physique of light comedy; so his _frederick_ had long departed and his _sir robert bramble_ had appeared. the first time we saw blake was in "the road to ruin," and the impression he made has never been effaced. we were young, it is true, and sentimental, and easily moved; but our heart tells us that the effect would be the same could we see the actor in the play to-morrow. we have read since of the extraordinary sensation produced by the great munden in the part of _old dornton_; but we have an abiding faith that the acting of the famous englishman would have been no revelation to blake; and we cannot, indeed, conceive of any added touch that would not have impaired, rather than heightened, the latter's superb delineation. but blake's portrayal of the outraged, doting, fond, tender father, is, like his _jesse rural_, so fresh in the memory of living persons, that we feel it to be needless to descant upon its beauties. few will forget the years of his last and long engagement at wallack's--a fitting crown for a great artistic career. blake played many parts and rarely touched but to adorn. even his _malvolio_, had it not been for the advent of charles fisher (who was born in yellow stockings and cross-gartered), would have passed into history as a carefully conceived and highly finished performance. whenever we see mr. john gilbert we are reminded of blake. there is a grace of action, a courtliness of manner, inseparable from gilbert, which lends to all his efforts an elevating charm, a feature blake did not possess in like degree. but the two actors belonged to the same school; their traditions will be much akin; and neither loses in being spoken of in the same breath, and with the same accent of admiration. following placide and blake is the name of an actor better remembered than either, and whose death is of comparatively recent date. we refer to john brougham, who for thirty years and more was one of new york's prime favorites, and his name is associated with many of the drama's brightest and worthiest triumphs. his inexhaustible flow of spirits, in his best days, pervaded all his acting, and invested the most unattractive part with an alluring charm, as many a prosaic spot in nature becomes enchanted land by the music of falling waters. add to this exuberant vitality a rich endowment of mother wit; a bright intelligence; keen sympathy and appreciation, and rare personal magnetism, and you have before you "glorious john," whose hearty voice it was always a pleasure to hear, and whose face, beaming with humor, was always welcomed with delight. [illustration: mr. burton as captain cuttle.] brougham was burton's stage manager in , and his dramatization of "dombey and son" was first produced in that year. the representation of this play established the chambers street theatre, drew attention to the talents of the stock company, and put money into burton's purse. if theatres, like other things, succeed either by hook or crook, as the saying is, surely it was by hook that the manager won fame and fortune, for the digit of _captain cuttle_ held sway like a wizard's wand. the temptation to dwell here on this renowned burtonian impersonation is hard to resist; but we must be patient and bide our time. brougham played _bunsby_ and _bagstock_, investing the oracular utterances of the tar, and the roughness and toughness and "devilish" slyness of the _major_, with a humor and spirit all his own. we laugh outright as we think of that scene where _cuttle_ is being rapidly reduced to agony and despair by _mrs. macstinger_, and is rescued therefrom by _bunsby_, who, with a hoarse "avast, my lass; avast!" advances solemnly on the redoubtable female, and with a soothing gravity ejects the entire _macstinger_ family, following in the rear himself--_cuttle_ meanwhile gazing in speechless astonishment at the unexpected succor, until the door is closed; and then, drawing an immense breath, and turning toward the audience his inimitable face, exclaims in a tone of profound respect and admiration: "there's wisdom!" it was a great treat to see burton and brougham together. the two actors were so ready, so full of wit, so alive to each other's points and by-play, that any fanciful interpolation of the text, or humorous impromptu, by the one, was instantly responded to by the other; and the house was often thrown into convulsions of merriment by these purely unpremeditated sallies. this was notably the case in the afterpiece of "an unwarrantable intrusion"--committed by mr. brougham upon mr. burton--when in the tag the comedians suddenly assumed their own persons, and, addressing each other by their proper names, engaged in a droll colloquy respecting the dilemma of having nothing to say to conclude the piece; and each suggesting in turn something that ought to or might be said to an audience under such peculiar and distressing circumstances,--the audience meanwhile in a state of hilarious excitement, drinking in every sparkling jest and repartee, and wishing the flow of humor would last forever. and here we are reminded of an incident not down in the bills, which furnished an audience with an unlooked-for and affecting episode. it occurred during the performance of colman's comedy of "john bull," produced for the benefit of a favorite actor; burton playing _job thornberry_, and brougham, who had volunteered for the occasion, appearing in his capital rôle of _dennis brulgruddery_. brougham was no longer with burton--an estrangement existed between them of which the public was aware--and the conjunction of the two actors naturally awakened a lively interest. it chances in the comedy that _mary thornberry_ finds a refuge in her distress at the "red cow," and is greatly befriended by _dennis_. her father, discovering her there, and grateful for the service rendered, exclaims: "you have behaved like an emperor to her. give me your hand, landlord!" now, in the play, the reply of _dennis_ is: "behaved!--(_refusing his hand_)--arrah, now, get away with your blarney,"--but brougham paused for a moment before burton's outstretched hand, and then, as if yielding to an impulse, stretched forth his, and the two actors stood with clasped hands amidst an outburst of applause that fairly shook the building. of course they were "called out" at the close, and brougham, in the course of a felicitous little speech, remarked--alluding, perhaps, to the success of his lyceum not being all he could wish--that he had "lately run off the track"; to which burton, in his turn, responded by saying: "mr. brougham says he has 'run off the track.' well, he _has_ run off the track; but he hasn't burst his boiler yet!" at this speech the enthusiasm of the audience knew no bounds; and indeed, with the exception of mary taylor's farewell benefit, we can recall no theatrical occasion where more genuine feeling was manifested. but to return to "dombey and son." mrs. brougham was the original _susan nipper_, and played the part acceptably; but all previous _nippers_ suffered eclipse when caroline chapman appeared at a later date, giving us a _susan_ that seemed to have sprung full-_nippered_ from the head of boz himself. her inimitable acting and ring of delivery were like a new light turned on the scene. her flow of spirit and alert movement, her independent air and saucy glance, her not-to-be-put-down-under-any-circumstances manner,--all was freshness and sparkle, and her presence was as welcome to the audience as a summer shower to drooping wayside flowers. miss chapman was a great acquisition to burton's, and her bright individuality shone in all her assumptions. her line was the stage soubrette, a specialty which she lifted entirely out of the commonplace and informed it with force and distinction. it is a pleasure to place on record the memory of happy hours that we owe to the performances of caroline chapman. the original _toots_ was oliver b. raymond, whom we never saw. t. b. johnston was his successor, and as that admirable comedian never did any thing unacceptably, his _toots_ was a memorable effort; and had _uriah heep_ not followed we should have been satisfied with his _toots_; but when "copperfield" was produced and johnston appeared as _heep_, it seemed as if he was born for that and nothing else. now that we think of it, it seems to us, as we recall johnston, that nature had peculiarly fitted him for the delineation of many of dickens's characters. something in his spare figure, his grotesqueness of demeanor, his whimsical aspect, his odd manner of speech, continually suggested a flavor of boz; and whether as _toots_, or _heep_, or _newman noggs_, he seemed to have glided into his element, and was _en rapport_ with the great novelist. we must not forget, in writing of "dombey and son," to note how much its attraction was enhanced by the assumption, in , of the part of _edith_ by mrs. josephine russell (the present mrs. hoey). laurence hutton, referring to the event in his volume of "plays and players," says: "up to the time of her assumption of the rôle, _edith_, in brougham's version of the story, was comparatively a secondary part, and one to which but little attention had been paid either by performer or audience. mrs. russell, however, by her refined and elegant manner, brought _edith_ and herself into favor and prominence. she made of _edith_ more than brougham himself ever imagined could be made; and _edith_ made her a reputation and a success on the new york stage, which, until her honorable and much-to-be-regretted retirement, she ever sustained.[ ] [ ] the first appearance of mrs. russell (whose maiden name was shaw) in chambers street was made september , . we have dwelt thus on "dombey and son," because, in the first place, it gained for the chambers street theatre an enduring public regard, and was no doubt the incentive to the after-production of dramatizations of dickens, which gave us burton in _micawber_, _squeers_, _mr. bumble_, and _sam weller_; and because in so celebrating it we pay a deserved tribute to brougham, from whose fertile brain and ready pen it came. we may say, in this connection, that not only as actor, but as playwright also, brougham achieved fame and honor. many of his comedies are well known to the stage, and are included in the published drama; and as a writer of burlesque we question whether any thing better or funnier than his "po-ca-hon-tas or the gentle savage" has ever been composed. of one thing we are certain: an incarnate pun-fiend presided over its creation. this extravaganza, first acted at wallack's lyceum, took the town by storm, and its bons-mots, local hits, and trenchant witticisms, were on the lips of everybody. in structure, idea, and treatment of theme, it was ludicrous to a degree. who does not remember brougham and the late charles walcot in their respective parts of _powhattan_ and _captain smith_? it goes without saying that brougham's hibernian delineations were perfect and to the manner born. many an irish farce we recall, during his stay at burton's, to which he gave a new lease of life; and we congratulate ourselves that our memory holds record of having once seen him as _sir lucius o'trigger_, the only cast in our experience wherein sheridan's creation found a fitting representative. we now pause before an actor of illustrious lineage; of a name honored in dramatic annals by encomiums bestowed only upon abilities of the highest order; an actor who, conscious of his inheritance of genius, worthily perpetuates the traditions of his house; and who is now, despite the flight of time, the most engaging and accomplished comedian known to the american stage. our readers will need no further introduction to lester wallack, the "mr. lester" of burton's, where first we saw him so many years ago. we recall the evening when we sat in the cosy parquette, awaiting with eager interest the rising of the curtain on charles dance's comic drama of "delicate ground," in which mr. lester would make his "first appearance since his return from england" (so the bill ran), in the character of _citizen sangfroid_. we say eager interest, for we had heard much of mr. lester: that he was graceful, handsome, _distingué_,--in fact, splendid generally; and our expectancy was akin to that of the watching astronomer-- "when a new planet swims into his ken." at last the tinkle of the bell; the curtain rose, and enter miss mary taylor, the universal favorite, as _pauline_. her soliloquy closes with the cue for _sangfroid's_ entrance, and at the words, "hush! my husband!" a pause succeeded--and then from "door left" was protruded an elegantly booted foot, and a moment later lester stood before us, bowing with characteristic ease and grace to the demonstrations of welcome. we confess to an unconditional surrender on that occasion. the actual fact was far beyond any expectation or hope. we thought we had never seen any one quite so splendid; and _sangfroid_ was forthwith invested with the best and noblest elements that combine to elevate mankind. we endeavored for many days afterward to conform our daily life to the general teachings of _sangfroid_; we imitated the gait and manner, the calm aplomb of _sangfroid_; the accent of _sangfroid_ was impressed on all our ordinary forms of speech; our conversation on whatever topic was plentifully sprinkled with _sangfroidisms_; in short, the whole tenor of our existence was shaped and directed by _sangfroid_ in the person of mr. lester. we recovered in due course from our abject submission to the spell of _sangfroid_; but lester continued to stretch forth the "sceptre of fascination," and to his matchless grace and finish we owe many a delightful recollection. then in early manhood,[ ] the unrestrained alertness and vivacity of youth were his in bounteous measure. he was in the _percy ardent_ and _young rapid_ period, and had not yet entered the corridor of years at the far end of which lurked the _blasé_ figure of "my awful dad." we remember him in so many parts which in all likelihood he never will play again! there was _rover_, in "wild oats," that buskined hero, with his captivating nonchalance dashed with tragic fire; his tender conversion of _lady amaranth_--played, be it said, with all proper demureness by miss lizzie weston; his triumph over _ephraim smooth_--one of blake's instances of versatility--in a scene rich with the spirit of frolic abandon; and his humorous tilt with _sir george thunder_--a belligerent sea-dog, played by burton as he alone could play it--an episode replete with comic power;--all these contributed to a performance which we revelled in many and many a night; and the memory of it, now as we write, draws near in a succession of vivid pictures. there was _tangent_, in "the way to get married," a capital part in lester's hands, blending manly action and debonair grace with that easy transition to airy farcical expression, a favorite and effective dramatic habit of this actor, and given full play in that memorable prison scene in the comedy, when, a victim to adverse circumstances, and actually fettered, he makes felicitous use of his handkerchief to hide his mortification and his chains from the eyes of the heroine during her visit of sympathy. _percy ardent_, in "the west end," was another of his characteristic assumptions in those days; so also were _young rapid_, in "a cure for the heartache," and the _hon. tom shuffleton_, in "john bull"; and, indeed, burton's frequent revivals of the old comedies would have been a difficult matter without lester; for in every one of them a light comedy part is distinctly drawn, and unquestionably the rarest among all dramatic artists is the first-class light comedian. [ ] lester wallack's first appearance in new york was made at the broadway theatre, sept. , , as _sir charles coldstream_ in "used up." let any one who thinks otherwise endeavor to recall the names of those who have been or are famous in that special line, and he will be surprised to find how few he can enumerate. one might suppose that all young actors would naturally incline toward light comedy, and be ambitious in that direction, since in that sphere are found the charm of youth, the expression of lofty sentiment, the impulse to chivalrous action, the opportunity for the display of graceful and manly bearing,--not to mention the lover, whom, as emerson declares, all the world loves; and why then, one may ask, should there not be always a plentiful crop of ripening light comedians? alas, it is not enough to be young, good-looking, intelligent, and of virtuous impulse, or even a lover. something more is needed, and we conceive it to be that gift of nature, which study and practice develop into seeming perfect art, but which neither study nor practice can create; the gift, let us say, of perceiving instinctively the salient points of a character, and going beyond the author in felicitous and suggestive expression of them. it is easier, we think, to compass tragedy; easier to simulate age; easier to be funny; than to be at once airy and gay, delicately humorous, and engagingly manly. there are fewer light comedians born,--that is the whole story; and where we find one actor like lester wallack, we meet with plenty of every other specialty. this was made strikingly evident by burton's experiments in supplying lester's place, when the latter joined his father in the establishment of wallack's lyceum. charles fisher was imported, and he for a season essayed to succeed lester; but "the expectancy and rose of the fair state" he was not, and it was not long before the fiddle of _triplet_ and the yellow stockings of _malvolio_ emancipated him from the bondage of light comedy, revealed his true powers, and made us grateful to burton for introducing to new york one of the best eccentric comedians of the day. dyott, norton, and even holman, were severally thrown into the breach, such was the strait in which the manager found himself; and it was not until he secured george jordan that equilibrium was restored to the company. but to return. the versatility of lester, so conspicuous throughout his career, was early made apparent. we remember him as _steerforth_, as _sir andrew aguecheek_, and _captain murphy maguire_; and though in the last he acted under the shadow of brougham's rich impersonation, still he was a delightful _captain_. we saw him as the young lover, in "paul pry"; as _frederick_, in "the poor gentleman," and many more; besides those parts, such as _young marlow_, _charles surface_, and _captain absolute_, which need no reference, since they remain ripe and finished conceptions in his present repertory. but of all his delineations of the past, that which we linger on with the greatest pleasure, and which affected us most, was his _harry dornton_, in "the road to ruin." from the moment he appears beneath his father's window, importunate for admittance, he awakens an interest and sympathy that follow him to the end. the part abounds in touches of lesterian hue and flavor: the scene just mentioned; that wherein _milford_ makes careless and heartless allusion to _old dornton_, and is met by _harry's_ eloquent and electric rebuke; the scene with the _widow warren_, and with _sophia_;--all are charming; and we feel it to be no small tribute to hold in memory lester's _harry_ side by side with the _old dornton_ of blake. we have spoken of t. b. johnston, and referred to famous parts of his, particularly to the conception and execution of certain characters in dickens which undeniably he made his own; but we remember this actor in other and sundry enjoyable delineations, of which brief mention may be made. the odd aspect of johnston, joined to his whimsical method, so in keeping, as before remarked, with the creations of boz, peculiarly fitted him for the apt portrayal of those idiosyncrasies of nature and temperament shadowed forth by characters in many of the old farces, in which he often appeared, those pieces being quite the fashion in the days of which we are writing. we may instance _panels_, in "a school for tigers," as one of these; his part in "a blighted being" (the name quite forgotten), was another; _humphrey dobbins_, in "the poor gentleman" (that not a farce, however), was a capital portraiture, and an amusing foil to burton's _sir robert bramble_; his _miss swithers_, in "a thousand milliners," where he almost divided the honors with burton as _madam vandepants_;--these are a few of the many that come floating back on the tide of recollection. bland was a useful member of burton's company, though we think his stay was brief, and he contributes less to memory, as it chances, than many others. we never regarded him as a great actor, though we have read of his being thought the best _jacques_ of his day, and very fine as _sir thomas clifford_. we never saw him in either, and have no recollection of "the hunchback" being produced at the chambers street theatre. in "the honeymoon" burton himself was the _jacques_. we remember bland very well as _sulky_, in "the road to ruin," and as _ham_, in "david copperfield," and both efforts were creditable and contributed to the general success--his share in the exciting and touching scenes between _old dornton_ and himself, as _sulky_, being admirably done. we are surprised that we remember so little interesting to record of jordan. succeeding lester, and deemed by many the peer of that comedian, one might naturally suppose that his achievements would figure largely in these reminiscences; but we can recall very few impersonations of which we retain a vivid impression. we cannot concur with that estimate of his powers which ranked him with lester, yet we cordially admit that he came nearer than any actor we know of. he was very handsome, had a fine stage presence, and was agreeable in all that he did. we recall his spirited performance of _rover_; his _kitely_, in ben jonson's "every man in his humor"; his _ferdinand_, in "the tempest"; his _lysander_, in "midsummer night's dream"; and his _captain hawksley_, in "still waters run deep," was superb and unequalled. it was always a pleasure to see jordan, and we owe to his acting many an hour of enjoyment. george barrett--or, "gentleman george," as he was quite as well known--was one of burton's company for a short period, and with his name are associated many pleasant memories. among them we may mention with delight his performance of _sir andrew aguecheek_, a companion picture to fisher's _malvolio_. his long body and attenuated "make up," his piping voice, his fantastic manner, and absurd assumption of acumen,--all contributed to an embodiment artistic and entertaining in the highest degree. he also played _flute_, the bellows-mender, in the revival of "midsummer night's dream"; and it seems but yesterday, so vivid is the remembrance, that we saw him stalking about the stage, in the guise of ben jonson's bombastic hero, _captain bobadil_. old play-goers, if they remember nothing else of john dyott, will recollect his admirable reading--his distinct utterance--his fine emphasis,--qualities specially noticeable in his shakespearian assumptions and in characters of a didactic cast; and which made acceptable many a part he undertook, half redeeming it from deficiencies consequent upon natural unfitness. it was such a pleasure to listen to his delivery of the text, that you overlooked or pardoned inadequacy of treatment in other respects. necessarily his impersonations were of very unequal merit. certain phases of the character assumed might be justly conceived and well executed; others manifestly lacking in the expression of what was naturally suggested, or sufficiently obvious. we might cite instances of this--_claude melnotte_ or _alfred evelyn_, for example; but we prefer to think of him in his most agreeable aspects, which were not conspicuous in light comedy, though that rôle, under the stress of exigency, often fell to his lot. we pleasantly recall him as _lieut. worthington_, in "the poor gentleman"; as _peregrine_, in "john bull"; as _penruddoch_, in "the wheel of fortune"; as _duke orsino_, in "twelfth night"; as _master ford_, in "the merry wives of windsor"; and others that might be mentioned. he was a useful member of the chambers street company, acted always with intelligence and spirit, and, though leaving no great name, deserves remembrance as a finished reader and conscientious artist. charles fisher, well known to the present generation of play-goers as a sterling comedian, came to burton's after lester's withdrawal, and, as previously remarked, succeeded that actor as the exponent of light comedy. we saw him in several characters of that order; but it must be confessed that his efforts, however praiseworthy, were not such as to induce a condition of complacency on the part of the management, with regard to his capacity in that direction. but the whirligig of time, as shakespeare tells us, brings on its revenges; and in due course mr. fisher had his, and a truly artistic one it was. it came about on the second revival of "twelfth night," and was achieved in the part of _malvolio_. in referring to blake's assumption of this character, we observed, in passing, that fisher was born in yellow stockings and cross-gartered--meaning to express the natural affinity for shakespeare's creation existing in the actor; and we believe there will be no question among those who remember the impersonation, as to the subtlety of conception, the felicity of portrayal, and fidelity to detail, that so eminently distinguished it. from first to last it was a masterpiece. his manner when he interrupts the orgies of _sir toby_, the _clown_, and _aguecheek_, and during their maudlin mockery, was full of rare suggestiveness; the great scene in the garden, where he falls into the trap set by _maria_, was one of the finest pieces of acting known to our stage. the audience were as intent during its progress as if their own lives and fortunes hung upon that enigmatic letter. when it comes home to him at last that he indeed is the favored of _olivia_, and he gives full rein to his fancy respecting his future exaltation--how he must bear himself, the lofty air he will assume, the consideration he will extort,--he was inimitable. already he is clothed in yellow stockings and cross-gartered; and he smiles, as he struts, the smile that his deceiver declares so becomes him. in the ensuing scene before _olivia_, where the stockings and smiles play so important a part, he was equally fine; and if fisher had played nothing else, his _malvolio_ would remain an interpretation of the highest class, and a glory of dramatic art. the press, with one accord, united in its praise; and mr. richard grant white, whose ability to judge of shakespearian delineations was well known, confessed, in the columns of the _courier and inquirer_ that he did not know where mr. fisher learned to play _malvolio_ so well. to say that we enjoyed what we have here endeavored to recall, is to say but little. it is one of our most valued memories--and we could not help thinking, when the lovely _viola_ of the late miss neilson was captivating all hearts, what a revelation it would have been to her admiring audience had fisher presented his picture of _malvolio_. in burton's revival of the "midsummer night's dream," fisher was cast as _duke theseus_; and in thinking of the part, that glorious passage descriptive of the _duke's_ hounds rings in our ears, as spoken with glowing enthusiasm by the actor: "my hounds are bred out of the spartan kind, so flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew; crook-kneed, and dew-lapp'd like thessalian bulls; slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells, each under each. a cry more tunable was never holloa'd to, nor cheered with horn, in crete, in sparta, nor in thessaly: judge when you hear." in "the tempest" also, as _prospero_, mr. fisher appeared to advantage, and swayed the destinies of the enchanted isle with dignity and effect. _triplet_, in "masks and faces," was another performance of fisher's that we might linger over in pleasant memory of its humor and pathos; a performance, too, by the way, which brought to public view a new accomplishment of the actor; namely, his acquaintance with the violin,--an advantage that lent unusual force and brilliancy to the capital scene where _woffington_, having played lady bountiful to the forlorn family, completes her conquest by calling for the fiddle and dancing "cover the buckle." and with the tune in our ears, and a vision of fisher's elbow in deft movement, we take leave of the actor who gave us in the past so many happy hours. an artist of quite another sort was lysander steele thompson. he was an importation of burton's; and his specialty was the yorkshireman of the stage, a line in which he stood alone and unapproachable. actors there have been who played the same parts, and with a sufficient mastery of the dialect to pass muster; but, compared with thompson's, their assumptions were like artificial flowers in a painted vase beside a clump of spring violets in the dew of morning. the semblance was there; but the delicious fragrance of nature's breath it was not theirs to give. the native freshness and out-of-door breezy spirit were thompson's own and born with him. his engagement was followed by the production of all the known plays in which there was a _zekiel homespun_, or a _robin roughhead_. we saw him in them all: _bob tyke_, in "the school of reform"; _zekiel homespun_, in "the heir-at-law"; _stephen harrowby_, in "the poor gentleman,"--and until the advent of thompson, the _harrowby_ family had been omitted in burton's version of the comedy;--_robin roughhead_, in "a ploughman turned lord"; _john browdie_, in "nicholas nickleby"; and _giles_, in "the miller's maid"; in which last, indeed, he acted under an inspiration that almost laid claim to genius itself; and we see him now, in that high-wrought scene, where, as the defender of virtue and innocence, he towers in superb wrath above the villain _gamekeeper_, who would tear from her home the person of _susan fellows_. it goes without saying that his dialect was perfect, and all the humorous phases--the touches of bewilderment and arch simplicity, the quaint retort, the rollicking drollery, the innocence blent with audacity,--all these traits and characteristics were so many gifts of expression summoned and employed at will. we have seen many tragedians and artists in melodrama; many "old men" and light comedians; many funny men and eccentric actors, but we have seen one yorkshireman only--lysander thompson. he was not without vanity, however, and possibly aspired to other dramatic walks than his famous specialty, if we may judge from a little episode in his career at burton's, which really makes too good a story to be lost. burton had in view the production of "the merry wives," in order to act _falstaff_; and in the distribution thompson was asked to make choice of a part. the story runs that, after due reflection, mr. thompson answered that on the whole he would prefer to play _sir john_. the manager regarded him for a moment with a glance of wonder, and then: "i'm ---- if you do; one _falstaff_ is enough; you must choose again, thompson." and he chose the _host of the garter inn_, and made a palpable hit. the late charles mathews played a short engagement at burton's; and we remember his capital acting in "little toddlekins" and as _young rapid_; but we need not dwell upon an actor whose stay was so fleeting, whose celebrity was so extended, and whose memoirs have so recently been given to the public. george holland, also departed, was for a brief period at the chambers street theatre, and we recall our enjoyment of his broad fun and facial extravagance. we always felt, however, that--as his line was somewhat akin to burton's--he underwent a perilous ordeal in appearing on the same stage with the great actor whose genius was so overshadowing. messrs. norton,[ ] holman, and parsloe, jr., were useful members of the stock company, limited in range and ability; and we mention them as painstaking actors, who always did their best, and aided materially in the general success of the theatre. the name of young parsloe is included on account of his performance of _puck_, which, owing to natural cleverness and acrobatic aptitude, he succeeded, under burton's training, in making exceedingly effective and full of goblin action. [ ] an amusing experience may be related apropos of mr. norton. not liking a part in which he was cast, he addressed the following letter to the manager: "mr. burton, my dear sir:--it was not necessity which drove me to america. i wished to travel, to see the country, and, after having satisfied myself as to whether it pleased me, professionally or otherwise, to arrange either to remain in it or return to england. i consider myself greatly insulted by being cast for the part of scaley in 'nicholas nickleby.' to offer such an indignity to a gentleman who has held a good position in the olympic theatre, london, under the management of so great an actor as mr. w. farren, where he has played sir john melville, sir lucius o'trigger, sir arthur lascelles, etc., i consider a great insult, and positively request you to take me out of the objectionable cast, and in future to keep to the promise you made on engaging "yours, w. h. norton." shortly he received the following reply: "my dear mr. norton:--when i engaged you i thought you were merely an actor. i find that you are a gentleman on your travels, and i have to apologize for detaining you. if you proceed, let me advise you to visit niagara about this time. take a tour through canada. after that take your way through the country generally, not forgetting the caves of kentucky, and in mid-winter return to niagara, a splendid sight. but should you feel inclined to defer your travels, w. e. burton will be happy to retain your services until the close of the season." "what could i do or say?" said norton, relating the incident. "i literally roared with laughter. he had beaten me completely. we adjusted the difference, and i remained with him for two seasons." and now let us fancy ourselves sitting, as of old, in the parquette, the curtain having risen on "the serious family." _sleek_ reads his appeal, and we hear a voice saying: "those words give comfort to every fainting and world-worn spirit, good mr. aminadab sleek"--and we know that _lady sowerby creamly_ has spoken, and that mrs. hughes is before us. of this estimable lady and admirable actress, much more might be said than present space will allow. almost as familiar a figure as the manager himself, for years she enacted those characters which were peculiarly her forte, and was identified with all the success and shared all the fame of the renowned theatre. we can recall no instance of her having disappointed an audience; and though, in the course of her long service, she may have assumed uncongenial parts, yet so intelligent was she, so thorough, so conscientious, that, in spite of unsuitableness, her performance was always acceptable and meritorious. _lady duberly_, in "the heir-at-law," _mrs. malaprop_, in "the rivals," _lucretia mctab_, in "the poor gentleman," were her accustomed line, and well indeed she played them. _widow warren_, in "the road to ruin," _mrs. skewton_, in "dombey and son," _betsy trotwood_, in "david copperfied," were kindred felicitous portraitures; and no one can think of burton as _sleek_ and _toodle_ without instantly associating mrs. hughes as _lady creamly_ and _mrs. toodle_. how many times did they play those parts together! in all those lighter pieces and farces burton made so popular and famous, she was his ally and strong support; and no history of the drama of that period can be written without conspicuous mention of her name; nor can the professional career and triumphs of burton be recounted without suggestion and remembrance of mrs. hughes. their professional relation was perfectly harmonious, and she was with him to the last. she went with him from chambers street to the new theatre, and when that was given up accompanied him on all his starring tours, acting with him when he appeared for the last time in new york, and when he acted for the last time in his life at hamilton, canada. in a speech burton once made, he thus referred to their theatrical relations: "i have been her father, her son, her uncle, her first husband, her second husband, and her third husband, her friend, and her disconsolate widower, and i have liked her better and better in each relation!" even as far back as mrs. hughes was a great favorite. h. b. phelps, in his valuable work known as "players of a century," gives a notice of the press she received for a benefit night at that period, which he says is worth preserving as a model: "mrs. hughes takes her benefit at the theatre to-night. it would be an insult to the generous enthusiasm of her numerous admirers, to say another word on the subject." as it cannot fail to be of interest to readers of this volume, we copy from mr. phelps's book a reply to a letter addressed by him to the hon. charles hughes, state senator, asking information respecting mrs. hughes's subsequent history. "dear sir:--mrs. esther hughes, formerly mrs. young, was my mother. she died upon her farm, three miles from this village (sandy hill, n. y.), on the th of april, , at the age of seventy-five, from the effects of an accident (falling down stairs, caused by vertigo). she had left the stage before the war, her last engagement being a travelling tour with w. e. burton, in the south and north. she was acting in albany as mrs. young when the war of was declared, and i have often heard her speak of solomon southwick and of john o. cole, who was a boy in southwick's office. her many years of theatrical life speak for themselves." we have heretofore alluded to the miss agnes robertson of long ago; and now a memory steals in upon us of her débût at burton's, and of her enchanting performance in the protean play of "the young actress." of the half dozen parts assumed, the scotch lassie and the irish lad still haunt us. the highland fling of the one and the "widow machree" of the other were charming to see and hear; and, indeed, miss robertson was charming altogether. we could give a long list of actors and actresses who from year to year were enrolled in the chambers street company, and whose efforts are pleasantly remembered. we do not mean to slight them; but we must hasten toward our appointed goal. one actress, however, a recognized favorite in new york long before her engagement with burton, which terminated with her farewell to the stage, deserves more than a passing notice, for the pleasure she gave was as pure and healthful as it was winsome and bright. we refer to miss mary taylor--"our mary,"--better known and esteemed than any actress of her day, except charlotte cushman, that we can recall. we shall not dwell upon any part of her career, nor examine her dramatic capabilities. she never appeared without eliciting the warmest of welcomes; and when we try to think of the many characters we saw her in, we find ourselves remembering only how sweet and good she was. we were present at her farewell benefit, and during the speech mr. burton made for her the emotion throughout the house, at the thought of parting, was as sincere as it was deep. she stood, visibly affected, in the midst of her companions, and when the curtain fell there was a sigh, as if the audience had lost a friend. we have endeavored in the foregoing to indicate the strength of the chambers street company, and we think the reader cannot fail to be impressed by the exhibit. the fact of such dramatic portraiture being easy, seems to us a striking proof of its supreme excellence. the majority of them were they living now might be comedy stars. when we have jefferson, raymond, fawcett rowe, stuart robson, and florence, starring about the country, playing their one part hundreds of nights, what shall we think of burton, placide, blake, brougham, lester, johnston, and the rest, appearing together nightly in characters of varied but equal dramatic power? there has been a great change since then. the name of the places of amusement now is legion, and one bright star in the heaven of scenic splendor consoles the public for the loss of a concentration of wit and genius. as we recall for a moment all that bright array, we are taken back through the maze of distance, and old familiar forms arise; we see the glimmer of accustomed footlights; the scene is alive with well-known faces; we even hear voices that we know; we join in the old-time plaudits--and forget how many years have rolled between! there is no retrospection without its tinge of sadness. "never to return" is the refrain of human memory. how beautifully holmes expresses it in "the last leaf": "the mossy marbles rest on the lips that he has pressed, in their bloom; and the names he loved to hear, have been carved for many a year on the tomb." the years of the chambers street theatre were fruitful in dramatic events. we have already mentioned "dombey and son," in ; and that signal triumph was followed by "david copperfield," "oliver twist," "nicholas nickleby," and "the pickwickians." the immortal _toodles_ was first seen october , , and an account of that performance will be found in our recollections. it became later the custom of the management to present "the serious family" and "the toodles" every tuesday and friday in each week, so great was the popularity of those pieces. people came from all parts of the country to see them; parents brought their families and relatives; and one middle-aged couple, a husband and wife, never failed, for successive seasons, to occupy the same seats at every representation. all the old comedies were given in due course, with that perfection of cast to which we have alluded, and those pieces made famous by burton's acting--such as "the breach of promise," "charles xii.," "happiest day of my life," "paul pry," "family jars," "soldier's daughter," "charles ii.," "how to make home happy," etc., (and which now seem for ever lost,)--were a constant source of joyous pleasure. the wisdom and good judgment of the manager were conspicuous in the nightly programmes, and it may here be said that no theatrical caterer ever excelled burton in an acute perception of what was needful to meet the public taste, and in providing the requisite entertainment. to wide experience he added intuitive appreciation of stage effect, and his extensive knowledge of the drama was seen in the disciplining of his forces and in his sagacious distributions. it must not be forgotten that as manager as well as actor burton shone in the prosperity and fame of his theatre; and it will not be when now we touch on the shakespearian revivals that lent such beauty, grace, and dignity to his stage, and revealed the manager in the gracious aspect of a profound and reverent student of the mighty dramatist. these revivals were the crowning triumphs of burton's management. the production of "a midsummer night's dream," "twelfth night," "the tempest," "winter's tale," "the merry wives of windsor," marked an era in theatrical representation, for up to that time no attempt had been made so ambitious; and the success that attended the enterprise was in all respects richly deserved. "a midsummer night's dream," in particular, won universal admiration. the fairy portion was so beautiful; the play before the duke so capital; that shakespeare's creation acted upon the public like a revelation, and heart and mind felt the glow of a new sensation. the notices of the press were so unqualified in their praise of "a midsummer night's dream," that they were gathered and issued in a pamphlet as a tribute to the achievement. the effect of the succeeding revivals was similar in kind, and the people marvelled at the resources of a management that on so limited a stage could produce such wonderful results. and with these plays of shakespeare came the impersonations of _nick bottom_, _sir toby belch_, _caliban_, _autolycus_, and _falstaff_--never to be forgotten by those who witnessed them, and of which a more extended review is given in our recollections. it only needed shakespeare to round the glory of chambers street; after that there were no more worlds to conquer. [illustration: mr. burton as timothy toodle.] following the years, we find a record of "as you like it," produced for the benefit of the american dramatic fund at the astor place opera-house, january , , in which burton appeared as _touchstone_, with a cast including hamblin, bland, jordan, chippendale, chapman, miss cushman, mrs. abbott, mrs. walcott, and mrs. j. gilbert. in the same year he played a short engagement at the chatham theatre, and also essayed to revive the old olympic; but the division of attraction was of brief duration. his home was in chambers street, and there, to borrow from lord tennyson, the banner of burton blew. the usual even tenor of the theatre was varied by new accessions to the company, and by first appearances, and other interesting events. the present miss maggie mitchell appeared june , , as _julia_, in "the soldier's daughter"; but we cannot say positively that the occasion was her stage débût. may , , was the farewell benefit of mary taylor, to which reference has already been made. september th of the same year was the date of the "centenary festival of the introduction of the drama into america," at castle garden, and we find burton figuring in the elaborate and attractive programme as _launcelot gobbo_, in "the merchant of venice." miss agnes robertson made her new york débût october , , and november d of the same year witnessed the production of "the fox hunt," an original comedy by dion boucicault, in which burton appeared as _william link_. in , that long baronet, sir william don, entered upon the scene, and in the same year (december th) a benefit to morris barnett occurred, on which occasion "the serious family" was given with all the honors. mr. h. a. perry made his débût in , playing _gossamer_, in "laugh when you can," and that actor was also seen as _leontes_, in "winter's tale." every summer for several years, during the recess at chambers street, burton played engagements at niblo's with a selection from his company, and was seen at that resort in a round of his favorite characters. this was a great boon to strangers visiting the city, and to those whose circumstances kept them in town. it was some consolation to be moved to mirth, and there never was any disaffection in burton's summer constituency. but the theatrical tide was setting uptown, and the rapid growth of the city counselled a removal to more available neighborhoods; and so, following the current, the manager bid farewell to the scene of so many triumphs, and leased the building originally known as tripler hall, calling it the metropolitan, or, as stated by ireland, "burton's new theatre," where he opened september , , with "the rivals." the chambers street theatre was opened july , , and was closed september , . the eight years of its existence are replete with fascinating dramatic history, and are a copious and important contribution to the annals of the stage. it was the school of many an actor who rose to fame, and the most famous actors of the time were seen upon its boards. it was the birthplace of plays and characters never excelled in their effect upon an audience, and its record is graced by a noble and poetic celebration of shakespeare's immortal works. and who shall say how many hearts were lightened, and spirits cheered, by the good genius of mirth that presided there? - . it goes without saying that the new theatre, to those who had been accustomed to the cosiness of chambers street, was not _burton's_. the home feeling so peculiar to the other house could not readily be reproduced in the spacious auditorium of the metropolitan. the far-reaching stage seemed alien and unreal, and the lofty walls were cold and unfamiliar. there were changes in the company, too; old favorites were missing, and a kindred interest was not awakened by new-comers. but the manager was there, and with wonted energy began the campaign. the first season was prosperous, and many of the well-known chambers street pieces were revived and given with effect. daniel setchell made his appearance september , , and grew rapidly in public favor. this comedian at a later date essayed the part of _aminadab sleek_; but, as ireland observes, "burton's _sleek_ alone filled the public mind," and the effort was not encouraged. the irish comedian, john collins, was seen about this time, and in november dion boucicault and wife opened an engagement. january , , burton played _dogberry_ for the first time in new york, and the same year (may th) edwin booth appeared at the new theatre as _richard iii_. it was in this year (october) that burton was seen in albany for the first time, playing a round of his famous parts; and it is interesting to note that the present joe jefferson, then at laura keene's, "during the absence of burton," to quote ireland again, "was recognized as the best low comedian in town." burton also appeared in boston for the first time in , opening in _captain cuttle_. his reception was so extraordinary in warmth and enthusiasm that he lost control of himself and could not speak for several minutes. this engagement was at the boston theatre, and every night the house was crammed. he visited boston again in , and with the same gratifying success. it is not impossible that these starring tours suggested to burton a new and prosperous field of activity, and perhaps some physical symptom dictated relief from the strain and responsibility of management. from whatever cause, after another season of varying fortune, the metropolitan was given up ( ), and he commenced a starring tour with the highest success, "his name and fame," says ireland, "being familiar in every quarter of the union, and more surely attractive than any other theatrical magnet that could be presented." [illustration: mechanics hall poster] in conjunction with mrs. hughes and a few members of his former company, he opened an engagement at niblo's, july , , playing to crowded houses. his last appearance in new york was at the same theatre, on the occasion of his benefit, october , , playing _toodle_ in the afternoon, and _mr. sudden_, _toby tramp_, and _micawber_ in the evening, supported by mrs. hughes as _mrs. toodle_, _mrs. trapper_, and _betsy trotwood_. "on the day and evening of his benefit," says ireland, "more than six hundred persons who had paid for tickets received their money back from the box-office, not being able to obtain admission." on saturday, december , , mr. burton started for hamilton, canada, to fulfil an engagement there and at toronto. a terrible snow-storm was met on the way; the train was blocked; and the delay and discomfort consequent were almost unendurable. while recovering from the exposure and fatigue, mr. burton wrote the following letter to his children, and we are kindly permitted to make use of it in this volume. it will be read with interest, not only for its feeling, but for its graphic vigor of narration and humorous spirit. and we believe it was the last letter he ever wrote. hamilton, canada; _sunday, december_ , . my darling children: here i am, in this provincial city of the western wilderness, snowed up, miles away from my dear home and my precious treasures. such a day and night as we had yesterday i hope never to go through again. you remember how warm it was on friday? positively hot; and on the next morning the weather was cold as new year's, but clear and brisk, and the icy tone of the atmosphere seemed to agree with me. we reached albany in good order, and started at twelve on the long trip to the suspension bridge, over miles, with a light fall of snow, blown about in every direction by a very low sort of a high wind. as we got on our way we found the snow getting deeper, and the flats of the mohawk river covered with ice. we dined at utica--a pretty fair meal, with cold plates and dutch waiters, who looked cold too. when we changed cars at rochester the wind blew ferociously, and the snow fell heavily, so much so that some fears were expressed that a drift might form on some part of the road and prevent our progress for a while. at the suspension bridge, at half-past twelve in the night, i had to get out of the car and wade ankle deep in snow to the open road beside the baggage-car, and pick out and give checks for our wagon-load of trunks, seeing them safely deposited in another car for transportation into canada. i thought this was a hard job, but it was nothing to what i had to do in canada, and really a pleasant little episode compared with my doings hereafter. we crossed the suspension bridge within sight of the falls of niagara, but we saw them not. the wind howled as we passed over that fearful gulf, and drowned the roaring of the falls and the rumbling of the rapids as they boiled along some feet below us. i confess that i rejoiced in reaching _terra firma_, even on the cold, inhospitable land of canada. well, we thought we were snugly housed for the balance of our journey, some forty-four miles to hamilton, where we intended to rest for the night (at two in the morning) and pass a cheerful canadian sunday in our own rooms looking at the snow, when we were roused from our seats: "change cars and re-check your baggage." out we turned, bundles, bags, shawls, top-coat, brandy bottle, cough mixture, papers, books, and growls, leaving behind my old travelling cap, which i have had for years, and is now gone for ever. when i got out i had to jump into a bed of snow up to my knees, wade a quarter of a mile through the unbroken whiteness to a stand of cars inhumanly situated far from the shelter of the dépôt or the lee of any building whatever. there, in that snow, without any feeling in my feet, the wild wind whistling no end of verdi overtures with ophicleide accompaniment in the snort of various engines, i had to select my nine packages, see them weighed, have them checked, wait while the numbers of the checks were written down, copied off for me, and a receipt written for the payment imposed on me for extra baggage. if i had not been so miserably perished with cold, i could have felt some pity for the poor officials who had to do all this, not only for me, but for some twenty others, and in the open air too. but it seemed that i had all the baggage in the car. "who owns , ?" "i do." "why, you have baggage enough for a dozen." and it was so. the nine boxes looked like ninety in the confused atmosphere of steam and drifting snow. "that's all right, sir." "then why don't you put the trunks in the baggage car?" "so we will when they have passed the customs"!!!!!!! yes, my darlings, at that hour, past midnight, in the open snow-storm, with a wind that killed old _cuttle's_ "what blew each indiwiddiwal hair from off yer 'ed," in a blinding drift of frozen crystals biting each feature and driving their minute but piercing angles into every pore, i had to wait the presence and the pleasure of victoria's excisemen, to say whether my baggage might or might not pass duty free into her infernal dominions. i had one cheerful and pleasant thought that filled my bosom with religious delight while i waited. i remembered playing _harrop_ in the drama of "the innkeeper's daughter,"--he is an old smuggler, and _shoots the exciseman_. i remembered that when i fired the pistol and the victim dropped, i exclaimed "he's done for!" and the audience laughed and applauded! yes, the discriminating public applauded me for killing that exciseman! oh, was it to do again! how well i could kill that canadian gauger here, in the snow-storm, at midnight, on the banks of the mad niagara! don't be alarmed, darlings. i didn't kill him. he came at last, booted up to his middle, with a canadian capote and hood, and a leather belt buckled tightly around his waist. but, despite his canadian costume, the cockney stuck out boldly all over him. he had a roast-beef-and-porter look, red cheeks, and big english whiskers. again i had to go over my list, "great box, little box, bandbox, bundle," to the potentate of the tariff. i gave him my honor as a gentleman, etc., and then told him my profession, and, oh! my loves--oh! my darling children--what is fame? _he had never heard of mr. burton, the comedian!_ of course, after that, you agree with me that he ought to be killed at once, "without remorse or dread." and he had such an aggravating smell of hot steak and brandy-and-water. now, i suppose you think that my _ledger_ story of intense interest, describing the agonies of a middle-aged (or more so) individual, is over. not a bit of it. the fifth act is to come. we were jogging along in the cars, slowly crunching the hard snow on the rails, when we came gradually to a full stop. presently whisperings were heard, occasional and inquisitive male passengers braved even the fury of the storm, and went abroad to see what was the matter, and in a few minutes we learned that there was a "break in the road." you will ask the meaning of the phrase--so did i, without avail. gradually the passengers withdrew from the car (we had but one) and i was compelled to look for myself. there had been a collision, or rather an overtaking, for a fast passenger train ran into a freight train, and fearful work they made of it. i went back for mrs. hughes and the bags, coats, and books. heaven knows how we got along, in such a fearful storm, knee-deep in snow and the track full of holes, with a yawning gulf on each side. when at last we reached our place of refuge, we found the car so high off the rail that it seemed impossible to mount it. some gentlemen helped mrs. hughes in, with such exertions that i expected to see my dear old friend pulled into bits. then your poor father was left to his fate. i got up--don't ask me how, but when i get home i'll climb into my bedroom window from the street, to show you how i did it. we had with us in the car an admiring friend from detroit, who claimed relationship with me because his son married niblo's niece. well, we mustered in the car, wet, weary, excited, and chilled to the centre. oh! my precious ones, didn't that brandy bottle come in well in that scene? how i let them smell it, and only smell it! how i took a drink and smacked my lips, and drank again, and didn't i win the heart of old niblo's brother's daughter's husband's father by giving him a big drink? at last we started, slowly, backed into hamilton at half-past four in the morning, with snow two feet deep in the streets. half an hour's ride in a dilapidated article of the omnibus genus, and we were dumped at a place a cad called the "hanglo-american 'otel," recommended me by miss niblo's marital ancestor. a fire in my room, a quiet night's rest, a good breakfast (first-class venison steak), and i feel quite well. my feet were wet. my boots could hardly be pulled off, and in revenge to-day they won't be pulled on. now am i not a brave old papa to carry a heart disease and a nervous cough through such scenes? we are now forty miles from toronto, whither we proceed at nine in the morning. i hear melancholy doings are prevalent at the place we are bound to, and this deep snow will not make it any better. if business is bad, i shall stay but one week, and go to rochester for the second week. i am afraid our plants at glen cove were badly hurt by the cold spell coming on so suddenly. i hope this weather has not increased your coughs. my cough is still troublesome, but i am every way better. may the great god of goodness keep his blessing on all my children; may they keep in health, and in the spirit of love with each other, is the nightly prayer of their affectionate father, w. e. burton. the last appearance of the comedian on any stage was at mechanics' hall, hamilton, canada, december , . he played _aminadab sleek_ and _goodluck_ in "john jones." he returned from the trip in an almost exhausted condition, and, after lingering for nearly two months, suffering greatly, died of enlargement of the heart, february , . mr. burton left a wife and three daughters, all of whom are living. his remains were interred in greenwood cemetery. * * * * * the following is a list of parts acted by mr. burton, and though probably there are many omissions, it fully justifies ireland's observation that his repertory was extended almost indefinitely, and "carried into a range, where, if he was sometimes excelled by placide and blake, his rivalry was such as to demand every effort on their part to retain their generally acknowledged superiority." it may be mentioned that the parts of _aminadab sleek_ and _timothy toodle_ were acted by burton respectively six hundred and six hundred and forty times. list of characters performed by mr. burton. characters. plays. host, } falstaff,} in "the merry wives of windsor." dromio, in "the comedy of errors." dr. ollapod, } sir robert bramble,} in "the poor gentleman." munns, in "forty winks." job thornberry, in "john bull." launcelot gobbo, in "the merchant of venice." harrop, in "the innkeeper's daughter." bottom, in "a midsummer night's dream." caliban, in "the tempest." sir toby belch, in "twelfth night." capt. cuttle, in "dombey and son." timothy toodle, in "the toodles." aminadab sleek, in "the serious family." van dunder, in "the dutch governor." triplet, in "masks and faces." bob acres, in "the rivals." dr. pangloss,} lord duberly,} in "the heir-at-law." billy lackaday, in "sweethearts and wives." pillicoddy, in "poor pillicoddy." toby tramp, in "the mummy." tony lumpkin, in "she stoops to conquer." chas. goldfinch, in "the road to ruin." jacques strop, in "robert macaire." septimus poddle, in "take that girl away." jem baggs, in "the wandering minstrel." slasher, in "slasher and crasher." john unit, in "self." gregory thimberwell, in "state secrets." bonnycastle, in "the two bonnycastles." jeremiah clip, in "the widow's victim." dimple, in "leap year." megrim, in "blue devils." felix fumer, in "the laughing hyena." la fleur, in "animal magnetism." tom ripstone, in "evil genius." tom noddy, in "tom noddy's secret." snobbington, in "a good night's rest." pettibone, in "a kiss in the dark." paul pry, in "paul pry." joe bags, in "wanted milliners." sir oliver surface,} sir peter teazle, } in "the school for scandal." meddle, in "london assurance." thomas trot, in "paris and london." wormwood, in "the lottery ticket." waddilove, in "to parents and guardians." squeers, in "nicholas nickleby." micawber, in "david copperfield." john mildmay, in "still waters run deep." sudden, in "the breach of promise." caleb quotem, in "the review." pedro, in "cinderella." schnapps, in "the naiad queen." mr. bumble, in "oliver twist." peter spyk, in "the loan of a lover." mock duke, in "the honeymoon." sir wm. fondlove, in "the love chase." coddle,} dove, } in "married life." dominie sampson, in "guy mannering." peter, in "the stranger." mr. gilman, in "happiest day of my life." graves, in "money." duke's servant, in "high life below stairs." sam weller, in "pickwick." don whiskerandos, in "the critic." simpson, in "simpson & co." touchstone, in "as you like it." tom tape, in "sketches in india." tony bavard, in "the french spy." scrub, in "now-a-days." brown, in "kill or cure." fluid, in "the water party." nicholas rue, in "secrets worth knowing." mr. flare, in "such as it is." frederick stork, in "the prince's frolic." mr. tweedle, in "the broken heart." galochard, in "the king's gardener." snowball, in "the catspaw." waggles, in "friend waggles." euclid facile, in "twice killed." jenkins, in "gretna green." bullfrog, in "the rent day." box, in "box and cox." mrs. macbeth, in "macbeth travestie." christopher strap, in "pleasant neighbors." old rapid, in "a cure for the heartache." col. damas, in "the lady of lyons." verges, } dogberry,} in "much ado about nothing." john smith, in "nature's nobleman." ephraim jenkinson, in "the vicar of wakefield." michael, in "love in humble life." tetterby, in "the haunted man." mr. menny, in "socialism." pierre de la roche, in "the midnight watch." sphinx, in "the sphinx." tom bobolink, in "temptation." picadilly, in "burton's new york directory." justice woodcock, in "love in a village." bill, in "peep from the parlor windows." haresfoot, in "life among the players." noggs, in "the mormons." marc antony barown, in "a great tragic revival." signor topaz, in "fascination." vandam, in "wall street." col. rocket, in "old heads and young hearts." von fiezenspan, in "the slave actress." jonas blot, in "the poor scholar." epaminondas, in "genevieve." anthony gab, in "the witch wife." bonus, in "laugh when you can." william rufus, in "helping hands." col. goldie, in "'tis ill playing with edged tools." berryman, in "false pretences." dick, in "ellen wareham." suckling, in "education." spatterdash, in "the young quaker." bob clover, in "married an actress." old revel, in "school for grown children." giles grizzle, in "stag hall." balthazar, in "player's plot." william link, in "the fox-hunt." blanquet, in "the lancers." brainworm, in "every man in his humor." manuel coggs, in "married by force." rattan, in "the beehive." gregory grizzle, in "my wife and umbrella." delph, in "family jars." tewberry, in "a heart of gold." jupiter, in "apollo in new york." count ventoso, in "pride must have a fall." dr. lacquer, in "our set." de bonhomme, in "a nice young man." sir hippington miff, in "comfortable lodgings." maximus hogsflesh, in "barbers at court." fright, in "crimson crimes." infante furibond, in "invisible prince." mr. greenfinch, in "duel in the dark." timothy quaint, in "soldier's daughter." sir simon slack, in "spring and autumn." peeping tom, in "all at coventry." tristam sappy, in "deaf as a post." codger, in "you're another." tactic, in "my fellow clerk." tony nettletop, in "love in a maze." tobias shortcut, in "the spitfire." bob ticket, in "an alarming sacrifice." jeremy diddler, in "raising the wind." jack humphreys, in "turning the tables." maw-worm, in "the hypocrite." daffodil twod, in "the ladies' man." golightly, in "lend me five shillings." christopher crookpath, in "upper ten and lower twenty." ghost, in "hamlet travestie." diggory, in "the spectre bridegroom." benjamin buzzard, in "the two buzzards." marmaduke mouser, in "betsey baker." crack, in "the turnpike gate." billy black, in " -pound note." capt. copp, in "charles the second." marall, in "new way to pay old debts." tobias shortcut, in "the cockney." peter popples, in "man of many friends." adam brock, in "charles the twelfth." richard pride, in "janet pride." polonius, } first grave-digger, } in "hamlet." first witch, in "macbeth." sir george thunder, in "wild oats." guy goodluck, in "john jones." marplot, in "the busybody." joe sedley, in "vanity fair." gil, in "giralda." queen bee, in "st. cupid." dabchick, in "how to make home happy." shadowly softhead, in "not so bad as we seem." smyth, in "mind your own business." sir timothy stilton, in "patrician and parvenu." cardinal mazarin, in "youthful days of louis xiv." twinks, in "mrs. bunbury's spoons." recollections of mr. burton's performances "_and now what rests but that we spend the time with stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows._" --shakespeare. recollections. when burton opened in chambers street, he was forty-four years old, in the prime of life, his powers mature and approaching culmination. let us endeavor to give a portrait of the comedian as he appeared at this time. above the medium height; rotund in form, yet not cumbersome; limbs well proportioned; deep-chested, with harmonious breadth of shoulder; neck short and robust; large and well-balanced head; the hair worn short behind, longer in front, and brushed smartly toward the temples; face clean-shaven; complexion bordering on the florid; full chin and cheeks; eyes seemingly blue or gray, beneath brows not over heavy, and capable of every conceivable expression; nose straight, and somewhat sharply inclined; mouth large, the lips thin, and wearing in repose a smile half playful, half trenchant. such is the picture memory draws, the likeness in some degree confirmed by engravings in our possession. outlined thus, and in his proper person, he seemed in general aspect to blend the suave respectability of a bank president with the easy-going air of an english country squire. we shall have occasion to refer in due course to the marvellous changes that were possible to that face and form, when the man became the actor and walked the stage with momus, with dickens, and with shakespeare. prominent among his physical attributes was a clear, strong voice, capable of a great variety of intonations, and his delivery was such that no words of his were ever lost in any part of the house. before entering the wide field of our memories, we wish to offer some observations respecting the comedian's mental equipment, and to consider briefly the features of his unrivalled powers. we have no doubt but that the classical education of his youth had much to do with his early preference for the tragic muse. his mind, imbued with admiration for classic form and color, was fed with divine images, which, while replete with grace and beauty, bore still the impress of greek austerity. he inclined naturally, therefore, toward the conception of that which was the predominating influence in his mental training. at the same time, after eschewing his predilections for tragedy, he found that the classic discipline had created a receptivity of mind in the highest degree important to his future study; and that quickened apprehension proved of inestimable value in his subsequent introduction to shakespeare, the old dramatists, and in all his intellectual excursions. yielding to him, then, this vantage-ground of culture, let us glance at the attributes of his genius, which entitle him, as we think, to the claim made for him--namely, one of the greatest actors in his line the stage has known. we need not specify that line further than to say that it passes with the title of "low comedy"; but burton's versatility was so extraordinary, his repertory so extended, his conceptions so forcible, that the theatric nomenclature seems insufficient to define and measure the scope and range of his abilities. his impersonations, especially those shakespearian, were often of too high an order to be classed under the accepted notion of low comedy. let us style him an expounder and representative of the humor of the drama in all its aspects, and we shall come nearer to what he really was. for an all-embracing perception of humor revealed itself perpetually in his acting. as the imagination of longfellow transformed to organ pipes the musketry of the springfield arsenal, so would burton change dull inanities into vital and joyous images. this informing power, this native faculty of rising superior to the part assumed, and investing it with undreamed-of humorous interest, was an instinct of his genius, and gave to all his embodiments an originality and a flavor peculiarly his own. the character mattered not. it might be _nick bottom_ or _paul pry_, _cuttle_ or _micawber_, _doctor ollapod_ or _charles goldfinch_, _sleek_ or _toodle_. there was the complete identification, the superlative realization of the author's meaning; but the felicitous interpretation, the by-play, the way of saying a thing, the facial expression--his own and no other man's,--the burtonian touch and treatment. in the extravagance of farcical abandon no one ever was funny as he. in comic portraits like _toby tramp_ or _jem baggs_, he absolutely exhaled mirth; and we cannot help thinking how perfectly hazlitt describes him in writing of liston: "his farce is not caricature; his drollery oozes out of his features, and trickles down his face; his voice is a pitch-pipe for laughter." "we have seen burton," says wemyss, "keep an audience in roars of inextinguishable laughter, for minutes in succession, while an expression of ludicrous bewilderment, of blank confusion, or pompous inflation, settled upon his countenance." and this was penned by wemyss at a time when _cuttle_, _micawber_, _sleek_, and _toodle_ were yet to be. in thus indicating burton's natural gifts, we must not lose sight of the study and knowledge necessary to their development and to the achievement of his fame. let it not be supposed that his famous delineations were so many intuitions, easily shaped and clothed by him into substantial dramatic form. easy, indeed, they might appear in the handling--for it was characteristic of the great comedian never to seem to entirely expend himself,--he always suggested a reserved force;--but this facile rendering was attained at the expense of as much intellectual attrition as moore declared the melodious numbers of his verse often cost him. the late dr. john w. francis relates a conversation with the famous george frederick cooke, respecting the actor's impersonation of _sir pertinax macsycophant_, and in reply to the question, how he acquired so profound a knowledge of the scotch accentuation, cooke said: "i studied more than two and a half years in my own room, with repeated intercourse with scotch society, in order to master the scottish dialect, before i ventured to appear on the boards in edinburgh, as _sir pertinax_, and when i did, sawney took me for a native. it was the hardest task i ever undertook." how do we know how many years of thoughtful application the comedian's masterpieces expressed? mr. burton was a student and man of the world as well as actor, and the supremacy of his performances was due to his close and comprehensive study of his author, his acquaintance with dramatic composition, his artistic sense, his thorough knowledge of the stage, his varied experience, his human insight,--the rest, like dogberry's reading and writing, came by nature. it is a habit with old play-goers, when over their cakes and ale, to recall the "palmy days" of the drama, and to say: "ah, you should have seen ----; he was a great artist--none equal to him nowadays. ah, the stage has declined since the old time." we do not wholly believe in the drama's decadence, but as we enter upon our recollections we feel that _there_ were our palmy days, and the years seem long between. twenty-four have passed since the comedian died, and there has been no sign of a successor to the mask and mantle. and it may be twice--nay, thrice twenty before the actor shall arise who will compel us to recall the triumphs of burton for the sake of comparison. mr. burton in farce. a man like mr. burton, endowed with keen humorous perception and the mimetic faculty, competent to express easily and with unction every phase of mirthful extravagance suggested by fancy and flow of spirit, must occasionally yield to the imperious demands of his nature, and, perforce, when so pressed, he opens the safety-valve of play and gives escape to his excess of humor. in this connection, we are reminded of sydney smith, as an example of humorous irrepressibility. restraint seldom fettered the expression of the witty suggestions of his fancy. it was as natural in him to be gay and mirthful as it was to breathe. his humor welled from a perpetual spring. it was like the profanity of the scotchman who didn't swear at any thing particular, but just stood in the middle of the road and "swore at large." there is a story that the divine, arriving first at a gathering of notables, was ushered into the drawing-room, which was hung with mirrors on all sides. seeing himself reflected at all points, he looked around and observed: "ah, a very respectable collection of clergymen!" now his only auditor was the servant; but the thought came and was at once expressed. of course, sydney smith could be serious when he wished, as all know who are familiar with his life and works; but he had his play-ground at holland house and in kindred coteries, where his buoyant spirit worked its own sweet will. when the clergyman of lugubrious aspect called upon poor tom hood, the story goes that the humorist could not help remarking: "my dear sir, i'm afraid your religion doesn't agree with you!"--and we are quite willing to believe the story to be one of "hood's own," for it has all the flavor of the author who gave us "laughter from year to year." instances might be multiplied of this humorous self-abandonment; but we are growing digressive. the train of reflection, however, leads us to the belief that burton's merry-making powers needed occasionally an avenue of escape; and the safety-valve, in his case, was often found in the farces his acting made so popular--those exhibitions of fun and drollery in which, through the lens of memory, we now intend to view him. the farce, by the way, is a thing of the past. it may almost be said that as a form of the acting drama, at least in america, it has been passed to the limbo of disuse. rarely, if ever, do our programmes nowadays bear the old, familiar formula: "to conclude with the laughable farce of ----." we are no longer invited to laugh at the droll situations and funny dialogues contained in the many pieces of buckstone, mathews, and morton; yet all will admit their efficacy to beguile a lagging hour, and to smooth away the obtrusive wrinkle from the proverbial brow of care. such, certainly, was the power they exerted in other days; and perhaps it is to be lamented that the frolic atmosphere diffused by those comic productions is ours no more to make merry and revel in. "custom exacts, and who denies her sway?" remarks colman, the younger; and for many years the design of our managers, in catering for the public, has comprehended the representation of one play only for the performance of an evening; setting it elaborately, bestowing upon it a wealth of scenic embellishment, and presenting it generally with a due regard to strength and fitness of cast. many of the standard comedies have been thus illustrated--notably "the school for scandal" and "she stoops to conquer"; the comedies of robertson--"home," "caste," "school," "ours,"--have been so rendered at wallack's, and at the same theatre that play of charming improbabilities, "rosedale," has enjoyed a periodic return. "led astray," acted so long at the union square theatre; mr. daly's many successful adaptations, and the irish dramas of mr. boucicault; "the two orphans"; "the banker's daughter"; "hazel kirke";--all these, and more, are like examples. mr. jefferson's "rip van winkle" suffices for an evening; so also does mr. raymond's _col. sellers_, and so also did mr. sothern's _dundreary_. this new departure may be a very good departure, for it gives us perfection in the details of scenery and costume, and concentrates the managerial resources in one splendid whole; and we may add, that a theatrical system is to be commended when it permits the audience to get comfortably home and to bed before midnight. but, all the same, if burton were living and acting, the farce would hold its own; and every auditor would remain to the fall of the curtain, for the last glimpse of that face, the last word and action of that comedian who held such sway over the risibilities of mankind. if among our readers there should be any old play-goers, they cannot fail to remember how often they dropped in for an hour's hilarity with "the wandering minstrel," or "poor pillicoddy." for, as previously stated, it was a circumstance by no means unusual to see fresh arrivals lining the walls of the theatre, drawn thither by the potent magnet of burton in the farce. it was a matter of almost as much consequence to know what afterpiece was on the bill as what comedy. often, indeed, the effect produced by burton in some exceptionally droll part had become so widely known, that to see him in it was the prime object of a visit to the theatre; and if to the question--"what does burton play to-night?" the answer named _toby tramp_, _madame vanderpants_, or the like, it was enough: "let us go!" was the eager exclamation. what a piece of fun was _toby tramp_, in "the mummy"! how many who are living now will laugh as they recall the appearance of burton in that close-fitting garment, covered with hieroglyphics! the plot is simple and easily told. _toby_ is an itinerant player, needy and shabby, out at elbow and out of money; and agrees for a cash consideration to personate a mummy, already sold and promised to an old antiquarian. as we think of the scene in which the bargain is concluded we remember how full of stage strut and quotation burton was, and how he embraced the opportunity to present a specimen of _toby's_ histrionic quality, selecting the familiar soliloquy of _richard_, and giving it as he (_toby_) declared shakespeare ought always to be interpreted. he commenced: "now is the winter of our discontent"-- and with the words turned up his coat-collar, blew his fingers, shivered, and was frozen generally. continuing then: "made glorious summer by this sun of york"-- he instantly thawed, threw open his coat, puffed, and from his brow wiped the perspiration. and so he went through the whole. at the words "grim-visag'd war," a gloomy and malignant frown darkened his features, which changed, as he pronounced "hath smooth'd his wrinkled front," to a bland expression of peace;--and the climax was reached when at the lines: "he capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, to the lascivious pleasing of a lute"-- he executed a fantastic dance, thrumming the while an imaginary guitar. this burlesque, for aught we know, may have been an interpolation, a contribution of burton himself to the fund of merriment--one of the instances, in fact, where he dropped the rein and let momus have his way. but however it came, the travesty created unbounded amusement, and put the audience in the best possible humor; yet we feel how pointless is our sketch to even suggest the facial power, the comic attitudes, the air, the touches of drollery, born of the whole scene; and our readers must summon their imagination to help our failure. the next scene is the antiquarian's museum, and the mummy is brought in. after the necessary raptures consequent upon such a unique possession, the professor withdraws and the stage is left alone. there lies the mummy in his case, and a pause succeeds. the intent audience observe a slight movement in the box. slowly the head of burton is raised, and he glances warily around the room. raising himself to a sitting posture in the case, he turns toward the audience his marvellous face, on which rests an expression of doleful humiliation. we shall never forget how, finally, he rose to his feet, stepped out of the case, walked abjectly to the foot-lights, looked his disguise all over with intense concern, and then turned to the house--by this time scarcely able to contain itself--and said, with the accent of self-reproach and mortification--"i'm ---- if i'm not ashamed of myself!" situations follow, affording full opportunity for the display of burton's humorous characteristics; but we need not pursue them in detail. he frightens everybody as a mummy; makes love as a mummy; devours the antiquarian's dinner; has his tragic bursts;-- in short, leaves nothing to be desired on the part of those who paid their money to laugh and be jolly with him. _mad. vanderpants_ was another uproarious creation, more laughable even, in some ways, than "the mummy." _joe baggs_ (burton) is a lawyer's clerk, and during the absence of his employer on a journey, arranges a programme of deviltry for himself and comrade (t. b. johnston). _baggs_ becomes _mad. vanderpants_, and his companion _miss smithers_, her assistant, and they advertise for "a thousand milliners." burton's "make-up" was one of the most astonishing things we ever saw, and johnston's was by no means lacking in artistic finish. the milliners arrive (that is a representation), and then ensues an hour of unparalleled fun and frolic. the manner of burton in sustaining the character and in replying with complacent air to the numerous questions asked by the deluded damsels, was so supremely ludicrous that we pause in writing to laugh at the remembrance. some work is wanted, and the window shades are unceremoniously torn down and given to the milliners. "what shall we do with it?" ask they. "do?" replied burton, with imperturbable gravity, "why, you can hemstitch it up one side, and back-stitch it down the other--and then gusset it all around!" the fun waxes fast and furious, when suddenly the employer returns. the _dénouement_ can be imagined; we cannot describe it;--but those who remember burton's mimetic power, and his faculty to express abject terror and kindred emotions, can well understand what a scene of indescribable riotous humor it was. and we cannot omit, in referring to this farce, to mention the admirable support given by the lamented mrs. hughes, who, as one of the milliners, contributed largely to the general success by her conscientious acting. how can we, in this allotted space, deal justly with our crowding memories? what shall we say of _jem baggs_, in "the wandering minstrel"?--that minstrel whose entrance on the stage was heralded by a sounding strain certainly never before heard on sea or land, and whose appearance, as he emerged from the wing, continuing still the dirge-like air, was a signal for a gleeful burst all over the house. how paint his introduction, under a mistaken identity, into musical society; the situation that follows; his song of "all around my hat"; the comic incidents that strew the too-fleeting hour of his career? how view him as _pillicoddy_, awaiting with supreme anguish the "turning up" of his wife's "first," through all the phases of ludicrous bravado and comic despair? how depict him in "turning the tables"? or in "the siamese twins"? or in "that blessed baby"? how see him as _mr. dabchick_, in "the happiest day of my life"? or as _megrim_, in "blue devils," and ever so many more? and yet we ought to linger on each one; for we have never seen them since, and it may be we may never see them again--certain is it that we shall never see them so performed. and only for the sake of refreshing a memory of something greater would we wish to behold them now. in concluding this imperfect tracing of recollection, we are conscious of many deficiencies; one of these a few final words may supply. we have said nothing of the individualization of burton's many characters in farce. it is true that the native hue and flavor of the comedian's humor were so strong, and his physique so pronounced, that he himself was always more or less apparent in whatever guise; but it would be a great mistake to suppose that in the parts above named there was no essential difference, with respect to portraiture. there was a difference, and it was clearly marked. each was a picture by itself--each a distinct characterization; and in the development the author was often left so far behind that the actor became the creator. but this loyalty to ideal perception denotes, as it seem to us, that even in farcical abandon his delineations were shaped and governed by his artistic sense. mr. burton in parts he made specially famous. the familiar picture of john philip kemble in the character of _hamlet_, standing at _ophelia's_ grave, in sad retrospection over the skull of yorick, always impressed us as a revelation of the fact that an actor's fame is bequeathed to posterity in the traditions of effect produced by a few celebrated embodiments, and is forever associated with those special triumphs. that kemble was a supreme representative of the impressive school, that he merited the glowing eulogium contained in campbell's eloquent verses, there will be no question; but when we think of him or read of him, the figure of the dane looms up in sombre majesty, and we are haunted by the avenging spirit of elsinore. the picture of edmund kean, as _richard_, kneeling at the feet of _lady anne_, with the words, "take up the sword again, or take up me," upon his lips, impresses us in the same way; and any thought of that great tragedian conjures an attendant vision of the dark and aspiring _gloster_. when, in the years to come, the name of jefferson is spoken, will not imagination linger on _rip van winkle's_ long slumber amid the everlasting hills? and will not sothern and raymond appeal to a future generation as _dundreary_ of the glaring eye, and _sellers_ of the uplifted arm? and we have no doubt that mr. burton is, in the memory of those now living who saw him, and will be to those who shall know him from tradition and dramatic annals, the actor who was so inimitable as _captain cuttle_, _aminadab sleek_, and _timothy toodles_. and no wonder. the mere mention of them opens the flood-gate of recollection, and we seem to hear far down the aisles of time the free, glad laughter of delighted audiences. if, haply, in our memories hitherto we have struck in some heart the chord of reminiscence, surely now we may hope to prolong the strain. for, among the many who are still here to tell of their nights at burton's, few, perchance, will revert to _bob acres_ or _goldfinch_, _nick bottom_ or _autolycus_; while all, at the comedian's name, will at once summon the images of _cuttle_, _sleek_, and _toodles_. in view of the extraordinary popularity of these performances, we shall treat now of certain parts made specially famous by mr. burton, and present in another group a view of other and various characters in his comedy repertory. a favorite part, and one which always delighted us, was that prince of stage busybodies, _paul pry_. the character as poole drew it affords unusual scope for the exhibition of comic power, and in burton's hands its humorous possibilities were made the most of. the play was frequently on the bills, and always drew a house that followed the comedian through all his mirth-moving entanglements in a state of hilarious enjoyment. the more we think of it, the more we are disposed to class _paul pry_ as one of burton's masterpieces, so rich was it in certain phases of humor and so replete with droll suggestiveness. it may not, perhaps, be generally known that mr. burton was the second comedian who played the part in england, and it was a favorite of the renowned liston, whose impersonation of it won him fame and fortune. there is a story to the effect that at the last rehearsal of the comedy, previous to its presentation at the haymarket, liston was undecided as to his costume; and while on the stage, still doubtful and uncertain, a workman entered on some errand, wearing a large pair of cossack trousers, which, it being a wet day, he had tucked into his wellingtons. the appearance of the trousers struck liston, who adopted the idea; and hence the origin of the dress peculiar to _pry_. we remember very well the general effect of burton's "make-up"; can recall various details; but the point of the trousers is not clear; so a better memory than ours must determine whether or no liston's notion was perpetuated by his successor. we see burton now, as he entered upon the scene at _doubledot's_ inn with: "ha! how d' ye do, doubledot?" and we hear him asking with ingratiating audacity question after question, pausing for an answer after each one, and in no wise put out at getting none,--"never miss any thing for the want of asking, you know." then his lingering departure, and _doubledot's_ fervent: "i've got rid of him at last, thank heaven!" no, he returns. "i dropped one of my gloves" (looking about). _doubledot_ waxes impatient and speaks his mind. "mr. doubledot," said burton, swelling with insulted dignity, "i want my property; i want my property, sir. when i came in here i had two gloves, and now--ah--that's very odd; i've got it in my hand all this time!" (hasty exit). how little it seems in the telling. the air of anxiety on returning, and the eye-glass brought into play; the look of injured innocence, the indignant assertion, and then the sudden collapse--cannot be reproduced in words. the piece is full of diverting situations, but nothing was more natural than that burton should improve on and add to them. his bright instinct kindled the dry fagots of a scene till they fairly crackled with merriment. certain "business," humorous amplification of dialogue, a diffusion of comic incident, that we vividly recall, are not to be found in the printed "paul pry"; and the conclusion of the second act, especially, where the pistols are used with such ludicrous effect, all that was burton's own. the pistols lay on the table, left there by _col. hardy_, and _pry_ is alone. burton took them up, one in each hand. he regarded the weapons fixedly. then, with solemn enunciation: "i never fought a duel; but if i was called out," extending an arm, "i say if i was called out"--bang! went one of the pistols, and down dropped burton, the picture of fright, when bang! went the other, and the curtain fell on the comedian sitting in abject terror, a smoking pistol in each hand, gazing in every direction for succor, and wildly ejaculating "murder!" then, at the close of the play, when _pry_ reminds _col. hardy_ that, thanks to him (_pry_), things, after all, have resulted to the satisfaction of everybody, the _colonel_ relaxes his sternness somewhat and says: "well, i will tolerate you; you shall dine with me to-day." "colonel," replied burton, with airy condescension, "i'll dine with you every day." it was a rare pleasure to see placide and burton in their respective parts; and as once again we think of them the chambers street stage is before us, and the garden scene; and we see _col. hardy_ place the ladder against the wall, mount it and peer cautiously over, and then hastily descend, saying: "i have him; there he is, crouching on the ground with his eye at the key-hole"; see him quietly approach the gate, suddenly open it, and once again as of old, burton tumbles in, umbrella and all, with "how are you, colonel! i've just dropped in!" he will never more drop in for us, nor does it seem likely that in our day another _paul pry_ will appear. the play may have been performed in new york since the comedian's death, and we seem dimly to remember that it was; but we have no recollection beyond the simple circumstance. we feel sure, however, that public interest in it ceased with the departure of its last great representative; and equally sure that in the memory of those who saw it, burton's _paul pry_ remains a famous creation of delightful humor. what shall we say of _captain cuttle_? how many readers and lovers of dickens thronged the theatre in the old days to witness that wonderful reproduction? and how many to whom dickens was but a name were led by the impersonation to study the pages of the great novelist? it is certain that burton by his sympathetic and admirable portrayal awakened a fresh interest in the enchanting story, so potent to excite intellectual pursuit is fine and sagacious interpretation. "dombey and son" was one of the great triumphs of the chambers street theatre, and not to have seen it constituted an offence against public sentiment utterly without palliation. that it was charles dickens dramatized by john brougham was enough of itself to claim respectful attention; and when burton added the crowning effect of his acting of _cuttle_, then indeed was the dramatic feast complete. nothing could be clearer than that the comedian had made careful and conscientious study of his author, and nothing surer than that the portrait was conceived in an appreciative and loving spirit. if those familiar with the character as depicted by dickens discerned at times certain felicitous touches in burton's delineation which suggested an originality of method and treatment, the points were due, we think, to the genius of the novelist acting upon the actor's imagination, and kindling it to the expression of cognate verisimilitude. what a memory it is to linger on! how the form comes back, clad in the white suit; the high collar, like a small sail, and the black silk handkerchief with flaring ends loosely encircling it; the head bald at top, a shining pathway between the bristling hair on each side; the bushy eyebrows arching the reverential eyes; the knob-environed nose; the waist-coat with buttons innumerable; the glazed hat under his left arm; the hook gravely extended at the end of his right. "may we never want a friend in need, or a bottle to give him! overhaul the proverbs of solomon, and when found make a note of," we hear him saying; and then we follow him through those inimitable scenes which cannot be easily forgotten by those who witnessed them. the scene where he cheers up _florence_, and makes such dexterous play with his hook, adjusting her bonnet and manipulating the tea--and yet exhibiting a simple and natural pathos with it all; where he sits in admiring contemplation of _bunsby_, while that oracular tar delivers his celebrated opinion respecting the fate of the vessel, with the memorable addendum: "the bearings of this observation lays in the application on it"; the scene with the _macstingers_, and the _captain's_ despair; the timely intervention of _bunsby_; the despair changed to wondering awe; and then all the suggestive by-play consequent upon his delivery by _bunsby_ from the impending _macstinger_ vengeance;--all this, and much more than we can describe, passes by like a panorama in memory. burton's _captain cuttle_ occupies a conspicuous place in the gallery of famous dramatic pictures, and there it will long remain.[ ] as we think of it in all the details which made it so perfect an embodiment, it seems a pity that dickens himself never saw it. we can fancy that had he chanced to be in new york when "dombey and son" was the theatrical sensation, and had dropped in at chambers street, an auditor all unknown, he would have made his way behind the scenes, and to burton's dressing-room, and with both hands would have grasped the comedian's hook and enthusiastically shaken it. [ ] ireland, in referring to certain qualities of burton's acting, says: "while in homely pathos, and the earnest expression of blunt, uncultivated feeling, he has rarely been excelled. his grief at the supposed death of walter gay, or poor wally, as captain cuttle affectionately called him, was one of the most touching bits of acting ever witnessed, and has wrung tears from many an unwilling eye." "the serious family" and "the toodles"! what memories of joyous, laughing hours the names awaken! never, we venture to say, were playhouse audiences regaled with so surpassing a feast of mirth as that spread by burton in his performance of those renowned specialities--_aminadab sleek_ and _timothy toodles_. no comedian, we believe, of whom we have any record, excelled those efforts in variety of mimetic effect, facial expression, and display of comic power. that in them the extreme limit of humorous demonstration was reached, the public generally acknowledged. the two plays had their regular nights, and thousands flocked, week after week, to the banquet of jollity, all unsatisfied, though again and again they had revelled there. no greater contrast could be offered an audience than that presented by the two pieces of acting. the sanctimonious and lugubrious _sleek_; the effusive and rubicund _toodles_! coming one after the other, in every way so different, the instance of versatility made a deep impression, and prompted a thought on the flexibility of human genius. we are reminded at this moment of an incident which occurred one evening in connection with "the serious family," which added an unexpected feature to the entertainment. burton did not appear in the first piece, and the audience, eager for _aminadab_, were glad when the orchestra ceased. but the prompter's bell did not tinkle. after a pause the orchestra played again, and again finished. still no bell. signs of impatience began, and as the delay continued the hubbub increased. an attempt on the part of the musicians to fill the gap was received with evident displeasure. at last, when nearly half an hour had elapsed, the bell sounded, and the curtain rose on the familiar group of _sleek_, _lady creamly_, and _mrs. torrens_. applause broke out all over the house; but with it were mingled a few ill-humored hisses. burton left his place at the table and came forward to the foot-lights. there he stood in the well-known suit of pepper and salt, the straight gray hair framing the solemn visage of _sleek_. then, in his own proper voice, he explained the cause of the delay--a mishap of travel,--expressed his regret, and begged the indulgence of the audience. a storm of approval followed his speech, in the midst of which he resumed his place, instantly assuming his character; and as the applause died away another voice succeeded, the voice of _sleek_, in nasal tone, saying: "we appeal to the disciples of true benevolence, and the doers of good deeds, without distinction of politics or party," etc. the effect of the transition was irresistible; and the loss of time was forgotten in the gain of a new delight. and now another story of "the serious family" comes to mind, and it is too good to be lost. playing in atlanta, georgia, he found a wretched theatre, without appointments or properties. at the conclusion of the overture the prompter ran to burton with the announcement that there was no bell to ring up the curtain. "good gracious, what a place! here, my lad," he said to a little fellow who acted as call-boy, "run out and get us a bell--any thing will do--a cow bell, if you can't get any thing better." away went the boy, the orchestra vainly endeavoring to quiet the audience with popular airs. back came the boy, pale and breathless, gasping out: "there ain't a bell in the whole town, sir!" "what's to be done now?" asked the prompter. "shake the thunder!" no sooner said than done. up went the curtain, and "the serious family" commenced amidst the most terrific peal heard in that theatre for many a year. [illustration: mr. burton as aminadab sleek.] it goes without saying that burton's _sleek_ and _toodles_, especially the latter, though founded on another's outlines, were so built upon and humorously amplified, that in diverting dramatic effect they were clearly his own creations, and owed their importance to the impress of the actor's transforming power. when we read "the serious family" as written by morris barnett, clever though it be, we see at once where the author ends and the actor begins; and as for "the toodles," it is sufficient to say that the _timothy toodles_ of burton was never dreamed of by the playwright. how shall we describe to those who were born too late to witness them, these famous performances of the great comedian? we feel that all description must fail in giving any idea of the infinite variety and scope of comic humor they exhibited. we might, indeed, for they are vivid in remembrance, take our readers through the many scenes, and show them _sleek_, from the entrance of _captain maguire_, in the first act, to burton's enraged exit in the last; picturing, as we go, the situations without parallel in droll device and mirth-moving complication; show them _toodles_, from his arraignment of _mrs. toodles_ for her multifarious and preposterous bargains, not forgetting the _door-plate_ of _thompson_--_thompson_ with a _p_--nor "he had a brother,"--to his inimitable tipsy scene and the memorable soliloquy, "that man reminds me";--but, however exhaustive the relation in words, after all was said, we should still hopelessly leave the effect to be guessed at with the help of imagination. we have thus endeavored to give impressions from memory of certain parts in which burton was specially famous; and they seem to us, on account of their versatility and range of humorous spirit, to be conspicuous examples of that varied power which led us to style the comedian an expounder of the humor of the drama in all its aspects. if the sojourn on earth of old robert burton was intended to give the world an "anatomy of melancholy," surely the mission of the later burton was to lay bare the whole body of mirth. mr. burton in comedy and shakespeare. as we think of the many parts in which it was our good fortune to see mr. burton, we are led into a reflection on the surprising versatility displayed by them; and we question whether the record of any comedian embraces a repertory so extensive, so varied, and so distinguished for general ability. the performances we are about to recall, though exhibiting many humorous features in common, were each a distinct conception; and the execution of each was a dramatic portrait by itself, artistic in measure, faithful in delineation, and felicitous in the expression of points of character. the burtonian element--in the shape of by-play, gesture, accent, facial device, mimetic effect--was visible in the composition, as a matter of course, contributing to the picture's expansion, deepening its tints and emphasizing its characteristics,--added touches that were the actor's stamp and sign-manual. we have cited _sleek_ and _toodles_ as strongly contrasting parts, and so indeed they were; but we might easily adduce instances of versatility quite as striking, and would do so were it not more than likely that they will appear to our readers as our memories progress. it is said that the celebrated william farren used to style himself a "cock salmon," the only fish of his kind in the market; and if unique dramatic distinction lies in that piscatorial image, most assuredly mr. burton was a cock salmon of the first water. we cannot hope to remember every thing we saw mr. burton play, yet we think our recollection will embrace a fair array of those characters in comedy and divers pieces which he alone in his generation seemed adequately to fill, and which were such a boon of delight to the audiences of long ago. there was his _micawber_, in the dramatization of "david copperfield," which succeeded "dombey and son,"--equal to if not surpassing his _cuttle_; an inimitable reproduction of the novelist's creation, full of humorous point, and sustained with an indescribable airy complacence and bland assumption of resource, that made it a perfect treat to lovers of dickens; and those who saw "david copperfield" may well rejoice, for they hold in memory burton's _micawber_, johnston's _uriah heep_, and mrs. hughes' _betsy trotwood_! there was _bumble_, the beadle, in "oliver twist," a very funny piece of acting, and especially so in the well-known scene with _mrs. corney_, where, in excess of tenderness, he tells her that "any cat, or kitten, that could live with you ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass ma'am." and then when the matron is called away and the beadle remains, his proceedings are described by dickens thus: "mr. bumble's conduct on being left to himself was rather inexplicable. he opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected the silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat cornerwise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table. having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat again, and spreading himself before the fire with his back toward it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture." we deem it enough to say that mr. burton's management of the foregoing "business" left nothing to be desired. we may note, in the mention of "oliver twist," that _nancy sykes_ was played by the late fanny wallack, with a fidelity of purpose and a pathetic abandon that made it painful to witness. to continue with dickens: there were _squeers_ and _sam weller_, both capital in their way--the last, however, lacking, as it seemed to us, in true wellerian flavor; but the _squeers_ was marked by an appreciative recognition of the schoolmaster's grim traits; and the scene at _dotheboys hall_ was admirably given; mrs. hughes, as _mrs. squeers_, "made up" to the life, and irresistible in her distribution of the treacle. all these portraits from the pages of dickens were so many meritorious presentments of the novelist's creations, and would have won enduring fame for an actor of smaller calibre; the truth is, in mr. burton's case, that his _bumble_, _squeers_, and _weller_ were but dimly seen, owing to the greater glory of his _cuttle_ and _micawber_. we saw mr. burton as _bob acres_, in "the rivals"; as _tony lumpkin_, in "she stoops to conquer"; as _goldfinch_, in "the road to ruin"; as _doctor ollapod_, in "the poor gentleman"; as _sir george thunder_, in "wild oats"; as _job thornberry_, in "john bull"; as _sir oliver surface_, in "the school for scandal"; as _graves_, in bulwer's "money"; as the _mock duke_, in "the honeymoon"; as _adam brock_, in "charles xii."; as _van dunder_, in "the dutch governor"; as _john smith_, in "nature's nobleman"; as _mr. sudden_, in "the breach of promise"; as _thomas trot_, in "paris and london"; as _don ferolo whiskerandos_, in "the critic" of sheridan; as _triplet_, in "masks and faces";--certainly a gallery of dramatic portraits that would put to the test the highest order of ability; and we feel bound to say that burton passed the ordeal well deserving the encomiums that were bestowed upon his efforts. it would be too much to expect that all these delineations were even in points of conception and execution; yet all were entitled to respectful consideration, and many were masterpieces. we will endeavor to go through them briefly, in remembrance of the happy hours we owe to their joyous influence. the recent appearance of jefferson as _bob acres_ has aroused a new interest in the character, and from all accounts the performance was more than equal to expectation, and has enhanced the reputation of the comedian. we hope to have the pleasure of seeing mr. jefferson in due time, and we fancy that his acting of _acres_ would refresh somewhat our recollection of burton in the part. as it is, however, we cannot vouch for a clear memory of burton's _acres_. we saw it but once, and then early in life, when we were new to the theatre; and all we seem to remember is that he was very funny with his curl papers, and his "referential or allegorical swearing," and that the duel scene was very amusing. it was the opinion of hazlitt that sheridan overdid the part, and accordingly he goes on to say: "it calls for a greater effort of animal spirits and a peculiar aptitude of genius in the actor to go through with it, to humor the extravagance, and to seem to take a real and cordial delight in caricaturing himself." this criticism is not without force; but whatever may have been burton's conception, we are certain that a bright intelligence informed it, and that in the portrayal a requisite display of "animal spirits" was not lacking. if, among the audience that greeted jefferson, there chanced to be any old play-goers of tenacious memory who had seen burton, let us hope that they improved the occasion by pleasant reminiscence. _tony lumpkin_ was a very comic piece of acting, and made the people laugh immoderately; but we confess that the character has little charm for us. burton used to sing the song of "the three jolly pigeons" (in the ale-house scene) with more expression than melody; but he threw into it a great deal of frolic spirit and made it quite a feature. in our youthful days, when witnessing "the road to ruin," we knew very well the moment when we should hear the voice of _goldfinch_ outside; and we remember his bustling entrance, in sporting frock, buff waiscoat, and top boots, whip in hand, and his rattling flow of horse-talk; his strut and his "that's your sort!" it is said that lewis, of covent garden, (the original _goldfinch_,) "gave to that catch-phrase a variety of intonation which made it always new and effective"; and burton certainly played upon it adroitly. his delivery of the text was full of point and animation, and his articulation admirable. "why, you are a high fellow, charles," says _harry dornton_. "to be sure!" replies _goldfinch_, "know the odds--hold four-in-hand--turn a corner in style--reins in form--elbows square--wrist pliant--hayait!--drive the coventry stage twice a week all summer--pay for an inside place--mount the box--tip the coachy a crown--beat the mail--come in full speed--rattle down the gateway--take care of your heads!--never killed but one woman and a child in all my life--that's your sort!" we hear burton's voice, we see his face and his gestures now! we were always fond of colman's "poor gentleman," and we took great delight in seeing burton as _doctor ollapod_. as all know, the character affords wide scope for diverting treatment. the incidents are many and droll--and we think burton turned every thing to the best account. henry placide played the part more artistically; but it was not possible for him to expound its humorous nature with the richness that came easily to burton. we never think of colman's comedy without a feeling of grateful pleasure; for its representation at various times gave us burton and placide as _ollapod_; burton as _sir robert bramble_; dyott, as _worthington_; mrs. hughes as _lucretia mctab_; and johnston as _humphrey dobbins_. we have referred in another place to _sir george thunder_ and _job thornberry_; and we need not dwell upon them further than to say that both gave glimpses of that versatile power to which we have alluded, and both were full of the comedian's characteristic ability. we suppose that _sir oliver surface_ would not be deemed a part exactly in mr. burton's "line"; and yet, as we remember it, he invested the character with a simple dignity, and played it with manly directness and feeling. our memory of _mr. graves_ and the _mock duke_ is dim and distant; but if our readers desire another example of versatility, we commend the two parts as furnishing a most conspicuous instance. we have never seen "charles xii." and "the dutch governor" since we saw burton as _adam brock_ and _van dunder_; but we assure the play-goers of to-day that the dramas were well worth seeing long ago when liston played in them, and equally so when his great successor appeared in them at a later period. burton rarely played _adam brock_, and we cannot remember seeing it more than once, when it impressed us greatly. "the dutch governor," on the contrary, was a favorite attraction at the chambers street theatre, and burton's _van dunder_ was a rich feast of mirthful enjoyment. pardey's "nature's nobleman," purporting to be an american comedy, was first produced at burton's in . the prologue, which was spoken by the manager, contained these lines: "the drama languishes. let us detect-- polonius-like--the cause of this defect! 'tis certain that the sprightliest tongue must fail to win attention to an 'oft-told tale.' we cannot, ever, with 'crook'd richard' fight, or weep with desdemona every night; and even cloying is the luscious sack, if we too often sip with 'burly jack'; nor, every week, will people take the trouble to witness hecate's cauldron hiss and bubble; nor can we, as we have done, hope to draw still on the rivals or the heir-at-law. we've seen shy 'jack' his father's anger rouse; we've heard lord dowlas 'tutored' by his spouse. old english comedy should now give way; it has, like acres' 'dammes,' had its day. hang up bag wigs--our study now should be the men and the moustachios that we see. let us some pictures of the time provide; let the pen practically be applied." whether or no the comedy gave us "the men and the moustachios that we see," or provided "some pictures of the time," we shall not pretend to say;--one would think so, since blake, burton, bland, dyott, mrs. hughes, mary taylor, miss weston, and caroline chapman were in the cast,--but, at all events, it gave us burton's _john smith_, which was well worth a journey to see. _john smith_ is "gentleman" to the _earl of leamington_ (dyott), who is making an american tour. the _earl_ gives his attendant a two-months' holiday to enjoy himself; and _smith_, having dressed within an inch of his life, is taken for the _earl_, and yields to the temptation to pass himself off as such. out of this complication arise situations ludicrous in the extreme, through which burton moved, the dispenser of mirth without end. his "make-up," his air, his self-sufficiency, his ignorance,--of which he is grotesquely unconscious,--his blundering malapropos speeches, his frequent social collapses and absurd attempts at recovery, his facial expression at mental mishap and irresistible by-play consequent, his constant display of mimetic power, his voice, look, manner,--all together made a picture of varied humor, which kept the house in hearty laughter from his entrance to the curtain's fall. _mr. sudden_, in buckstone's "breach of promise," was still another of those peculiar parts upon which burton lavished his supreme gift of humor; and we owe to its diverting exposition many a gladsome hour. funny, too, beyond measure, were _thomas trot_ and _don whiskerandos_; we see the first in the many comic incidents during the voyage from paris to london; and we see _don whiskerandos_ "quit this bustling scene" by rolling himself with marvellous celerity out of sight in the folds of the stage carpet. we have reached the end of our string, with the exception of _triplet_, and should love to linger in description on the blended humor and pathos of the impersonation. let it suffice that not even mr. fisher's admirable presentment can dim the recollection of burton's masterly delineation. and now let us in our remaining space recall our memories of the shakespearian parts in which we saw the great actor. "a midsummer-night's dream" was produced at burton's in , and the manager played _bottom_. we well remember with what delight the play was received, and what a marked sensation was created by the scenery and stage effect. the public wondered how so much could be presented on so small a stage, and its accomplishment was a theme of general admiration. the fairy element was made a beautiful feature, and the spirit of poetry brooded over the whole production. the unanimity of the press in its encomiums on the revival was remarkable; and no more emphatic recognition of burton's appreciation and knowledge of shakespeare could be given than was expressed in that approving accord. as we think of it now, it seems to us that burton's idea of _bottom_ was the true one, and we enjoyed the performance immensely. it is very easy to make the character a sort of buffoon; but nothing, of course, was further than that notion from burton's conception. mr. richard grant white gives, in his "shakespeare's scholar," an admirable analysis of _bottom's_ characteristics, and at the close remarks: "as mr. burton renders the character, its traits are brought out with a delicate and masterly hand; its humor is exquisite." we remember his acting in the scene where the artisans meet for the distribution of parts in the play to be given before the _duke_;--how striking it was in sustained individuality, and how finely exemplified was the potential vanity of bottom. with what ingrained assurance he exclaimed: "let me play the lion too; i will roar, that it will do any man's heart good to hear me; i will roar, that i will make the duke say, _let him roar again, let him roar again!_" he was capital, too, in the scene of the rehearsal, and in his translation; and the love scene with _titania_ aroused lively interest. what pleased us greatly was the vein of engaging raillery which ran through his delivery of the speeches to the fairies, _cobweb_, _peas-blossom_, and _mustard-seed_. it goes without saying, that as _pyramus_ in the tragedy burton created unbounded amusement, and discharged the arduous part of the ill-starred lover with entire satisfaction to everybody. _sir toby belch_, in "twelfth night," was one of burton's richest performances, and we remember it with the greatest pleasure. it was characterized by true shakespearian spirit, and was acted with an animation and unctuous humor quite impossible to describe. the scene of the carousal wherein _sir toby_ and _aguecheek_ are discovered; the arrival of the clown with his "how, now, my hearts? did you never see the picture of we three?" and _belch's_ greeting of "welcome, ass,"--inaugurated an episode of extraordinary mirth, in which burton moved the absolute monarch of merriment. the duel scene and the scene in the garden, when _malvolio_ reads the letter, were full of the comedian's diverting power; and we can recall no single instance of humorous execution which more perfectly fulfilled all conditions. burton played _touchstone_ and _dogberry_, as has been mentioned; but it was never our good fortune to see him in either. we saw him as _caliban_, in "the tempest"; as _autolycus_, in "winter's tale"; and as _falstaff_, in "the merry wives of windsor." his _caliban_ we have tried to forget rather than remember; it terrified us and made us dream bad dreams; but for all that, we know that it was a surprising impersonation. his _autolycus_ was a model of oily roguery, and another instance of that wondrous versatility of genius with which the comedian was endowed. very dim in memory is burton's _sir john falstaff_. we remember the scene in the garter inn, and the letters to the merry wives, and, of course, the _dénouement_ of the clothes-basket, and the frolic at herne's oak,--but we cannot go into detail; and we always thought we should like burton so much better in the _falstaff_ of "henry iv." the mention of "henry iv." reminds us that it was once produced at the chambers street theatre, when hackett played _sir john_ to lester wallack's _prince hal_; and in order that nothing might be lacking in honor to shakespeare, burton and blake played the two _carriers_ in scene i. of act ii. fancy those two comedians with about twenty-five lines only between them in a play of five acts! but they must have covered themselves with glory. we have endeavored in this retrospect to furnish a view of the comedian in a number of characters; and we think, however meagre our account, it still forcibly indicates the scope and range of burton's abilities, and exhibits him in a wide scene of varied and striking dramatic power. we have depicted him in farce, in comedy, and in shakespearian delineations; and it is not too much to say that generations will likely pass ere his fellow shall appear. we have heard and read of attempts being made by ambitious actors to revive his masterpieces, and that the efforts were highly commendable. perhaps they were-- "a substitute shines brightly as a king until a king be by." mr. burton's library. "my library was dukedom large enough."--shakespeare. mr. burton's library. mr. burton resided at no. hudson street, new york, and owned also a beautiful country-seat at glen cove, long island, now the property of mr. s. l. m. barlow. in a building adjoining his hudson street residence, and connected therewith by a conservatory gallery, were contained his magnificent library, treasures of art, and precious relics. scholars, actors, and men of art and letters were frequent visitors there, and the owner took a laudable pride in displaying his matchless collection. a very interesting story of the painter elliot may be told in this connection. he was often a visitor, and the striking resemblance between the artist's head and the accepted bust of shakespeare was a matter of common observation. on one occasion, on being shown by burton a choice shakespearian acquisition, he became intensely interested, and quietly seated himself in a study-chair the better to examine the prize. "meantime," says our narrator, "burton and myself were engaged in other parts of the house, and at last we came back to the library. burton looked through the door, and placing one hand on his mouth, he put the other on my chest, and thus held me back. i shall never forget his singular look at the moment. there sat elliot at the table, dressed in a suit of plain black, his hand supporting his cheek, and his eyes intent upon the book. the evening light from the ceiling fell softly upon his high and delicately formed forehead; just over him was an exact copy of the effigy which marks the great dramatist's grave. the resemblance, or the hallucination, for the moment was complete, and burton, with eyes fairly dilating with admiration and astonishment, said: 'shakespeare living again! was there ever such a resemblance?'" it has been thought appropriate to include in this volume a description of the library, from the pen of james wynne, m.d., who in published an account of his visits to various private libraries in new york, and mr. burton's was among the number. at the time of mr. burton's death the collection was probably larger, dr. wynne's visit having been made at a much earlier date than the publication of his volume. every lover of shakespeare, we think, will thank us for enriching this book with a description of that matchless library. wm. e. burton's library. mr. burton's library contains nearly sixteen thousand volumes. its proprietor had constructed for its accommodation and preservation a three-story fire-proof building, about thirty-five feet square, which is isolated from all other buildings, and is connected with his residence in hudson street by a conservatory gallery. the chief library room occupies the upper floor of this building, and is about twenty-five feet in height. its ceiling presents a series of groined rafters, after the old english style, in the centre of which rises a dome sky-light of stained glass. the sides of the library are fitted up with thirty-six oak bookcases of a gothic pattern, which entirely surround it, and are nine feet in height. the space between the ceiling and the bookcases is filled with paintings, for the most part of large size, and said to be of value. specimens of armor and busts of distinguished authors decorate appropriate compartments, and in a prominent niche at the head of the apartment, stands a full-length statue of shakespeare, executed by thom, in the same style as the tam o'shanter and old mortality groups of this scotch sculptor. the great speciality of the library is its shakespeare collection; but although very extensive and valuable, it by no means engrosses the entire library, which contains a large number of valuable works in several departments of literature. the number of lexicons and dictionaries is large, and among the latter may be found all the rare old english works so valuable for reference. three bookcases are devoted to serials, which contain many of the standard reviews and magazines. one case is appropriated to voyages and travels, in which are found many valuable ones. in another are upward of one hundred volumes of table-talk, and numerous works on the fine arts and bibliography. one bookcase is devoted to choice works on america, among which is sebastian munster's "cosmographia novum orbis regionum," published in folio at basle in , which contains full notes of columbus, vespucci, and other early voyagers. another department contains a curious catalogue of authorities relating to _crime and punishment_; a liberal space is devoted to _facetiæ_ another to american poetry, and also one to natural and moral philosophy. the standard works of fiction, biography, theology, and the drama are all represented. there is a fair collection of classical authors, many of which are of aldine and elzevir editions. among the rarities in this department is a folio copy of _plautus_, printed at venice in , and illustrated with wood-cuts. the true name of this writer was t. maccius plautus. he was of humble origin, and is supposed to have once been a slave. he lived at rome about one hundred and eighty years before the beginning of the christian era, and wrote a number of plays which obtained great celebrity in the time of their author, and continued to be looked upon as models of this species of composition for many centuries after his decease. twenty of his plays are extant, which are distinguished for the purity of their style and the exquisite humor of their characters, although horace blames him for the coarseness of his wit. gellius, who held him in much esteem, says that he was distinguished for his poetry upon the stage at the time that cato was for his eloquence in the forum. the first edition of his works was printed at venice, in , by merula. the edition of , in this collection, is so rare as not to be mentioned by brunet, de bure, or michael mattaire. there is also a folio edition of sallust, published at venice in , with wood-cuts; an excellent copy of statius, published at venice in ; and a translation from the greek of plutarch into latin by guarini, of verona, surnamed veronese, who was the first of a family celebrated for their literary attainments, and who is frequently confounded with battista guarini, the author of "il pastor fido." guarini veronese was the grammarian of his day, and a strong advocate for the preservation of the greek language in its purity. he was an assiduous student, and spent considerable time at constantinople in copying the manuscripts of the best models in grecian literature. accompanied by his precious freight, he set sail for italy, but was shipwrecked, and lost all of his laboriously acquired treasure, which produced such an effect upon him as to change his hair from a dark color to white in a single night. the world is indebted to him for the first edition of the "commentaries" of servius on virgil, and likewise for the recovery of a number of manuscript poems of catullus, which he found mouldering and almost obliterated in a garret. with the assistance of his father, he applied himself to the task of deciphering them, and, with the exception of a few verses, reproduced them entirely. the collection is well supplied with editions of virgil. in addition to ogilby's folio, with hollar and fairthorne's plates, is a choice copy of the illustrated edition in three folio volumes, and the very rare _fac-simile_ florentine edition of (_ex cod. mediceo laurentiano_). this edition is now so scarce that a copy was recently sold in london for fifty pounds sterling. the collection also contains a copy of the vatican edition of terence, in latin and italian, after the text of heinsius, with numerous illustrations of ancient masks, etc., published at rome in two folio volumes in ; an excellent copy of the best edition of suetonius, with commentaries by baraldi, printed in roman letter at paris in ; "titi livii," published at nuremberg in folio, in , in its original wood binding; livy's roman history, published in --the first english edition; "diogenes laërtius de vitis et dogmatibus philosophorum," published at amsterdam in ; a vellum black-letter copy of eusebius, of the rare venetian edition of ; boëtius, published in ; the two original editions of the eminent critic, justus lipsius; the antwerp edition of seneca, published in ; the same work in folio, in ; and stephen's edition of sophocles, published in , which is an admirable specimen of greek typography. among the italian poets is a copy of dante, in folio, published in , with most remarkable cuts; and the "commentaries" of landino, the most highly valued of all the old commentators upon this poet; also an excellent large-paper copy of tasso, in the original text, with morghen's exquisite line engravings, published in , in two folio volumes. cervantes appears to have been quite a favorite with the possessor of this library, who has the excellent spanish edition of , with van der gucht's beautiful plates and many inserted illustrations, in four volumes; the quarto edition, published at la hayé, in , containing thirty-one plates from coypel's designs; smollett's quarto edition of , in two volumes, with plates by grignion after designs by hayman; a folio edition by shelton, with many curious engravings, published in , besides several modern editions. in the historical department is a fine edition of montfaucon's works in twenty folio volumes, including the "monarchie française"; the original edition of dugdale's works, including the "monasticon" with the old designs; boissardus's "romanæ urbis antiquitates," in three volumes, folio; and a large number of the old chroniclers, in their earliest and rarest editions. among these latter are two copies of the very scarce "polychronicon," by raulph higden, the monk of chester: the one in black-letter folio, printed in , by wynkyn de worde, is wanting in the last page; the other, printed in by peter traveris, and ornamented with wood-cuts, is in perfect order. both of these volumes have marginal notes, probably in the handwriting of the day. the collection is particularly rich in copies of original editions of old english poetry, among which are the works of samuel daniel, ; sandy's ovid, published in ; lucan, by sir arthur gorges, published in , noticed in colin clout, and personified as alcyon in spenser's "daphnaida"; "arte of englysh poesie," with a fine portrait of queen elizabeth, published in ; quarle's works; harrington's translation of "orlando furioso," folio, published in , with plates in compartments; sir w. davenant's poems, published in quarto in , with an original poem in the author's handwriting, never published; copies of the editions of and of george wither's poems, and chapman's "seven bookes of the iliad of homer," published in . this latter writer, who was born in kent, in england, in , was one of the coterie formed by daniel, marlowe, spenser, shakespeare, and others, and lived upon terms of great good-fellowship with england's greatest bard. he had no mean reputation as a dramatic writer, and was, besides, highly respected as a gentleman. his social position appears to have been an excellent one, and his urbanity of manner such as to endear him to all his friends. his intimate association with shakespeare seems to establish the fact that in his own day the great poet occupied a prominent place in society, and was as duly appreciated in his own time, as johnson and pope in theirs. a monument was planned and erected over the remains of chapman by his personal friend, inigo jones, on the south side of st. george's in the fields; but in the changes which have disturbed the repose of those who were consigned to their last resting-place in that burial-ground, the monument has been destroyed. this department possesses the black-letter folios of chaucer in (the first complete edition), that of , and that of , all of which are now quite scarce; the folio editions of milton of and , possessing the old but characteristic engravings, as well as the quarto edition in two volumes, published at the expense of the earl of bath; touson's edition of , with plates; a large-paper copy of the edition of , which contains westall's plates; and martin's edition of , enriched by twenty-four original and beautiful engravings; likewise the first folio edition of spenser's "fairy queen," published in , and fairfax's tasso, published in . besides the works already noticed, are sylvester's "du bartus"; warner's "albion and england," published in ; "all the works of john taylor, the water-poet, being sixty and three in number," published in folio in . this is a very rare work, and is said to have been sold for eighty guineas. a similar work to this is the "shype of fools of the worlde," translated from brandt, and published in black-letter folio, with many wood-cuts, in . a perfect copy of this work is very rare. the one in the present collection is wanting in the title-page and two last leaves.[ ] its price in the catalogue anglo-poetica, is one hundred guineas. the copy of taylor, in the collection, is a fine large one, and handsomely bound. the real value of these two last volumes, in a literary point of view, is perhaps not great, but still from their peculiar associations they are highly prized by _bibliophiles_. southey says: "there is nothing in john taylor which deserves preservation for its intrinsic merit alone, but in the collection of his pieces which i have perused there is a great deal to illustrate the manners of his age. if the water-poet had been in a higher grade of society, and bred to some regular profession, he would probably have been a much less distinguished person in his generation. no spoon could have suited his mouth so well as the wooden one to which he was born. fortunately he came into the world at the right time, and lived at an age when kings and queens condescended to notice his verses, and archbishops admitted him to their tables, and mayors and corporations received him with civic honors."[ ] [ ] in the british museum, and the _bibliothèque impériale_ at paris, are perfect copies of this work. [ ] southey's "uneducated poets," p. . there is a department of curiosities in the shape of odd or rare books, which is quite interesting: among the works are the singular history of m. ouflé; the "encyclopædia of man," printed in english after the manner of hebrew publications, beginning at the close of the volume and reading to the left; "anteros," by baptista fulgosius, in quarto, published in . this work, "contre l'amour," is said to be of extraordinary rarity. likewise the "zodiacke of life," published in ; a curious manuscript in not very good latin, with illuminated letters, upon the lord's prayer and the creed, by hen. custas, dated ; memorable accidents and massacres in france, in folio, published in ; a singular black-letter edict of emperor charles v., published in ; a very singular siamese work on the laws of marriage; petri bembi, with a frontispiece by hans holbein, published in ; "libri exemplorum," by ric pafradius, published in ; the original edition of "the rogue; or, life of de alfarache guzman," folio, published in , translated by james mabbe, otherwise known as don diego puedesur. there is also a copy of the "opera hrosvite illustris virginis," published in nuremberg in , in folio, bound in old wooden covers with brass clamps. this work, which contains some wood-engravings equal to etchings, probably the work of durer, is fully described by mengerand in his "esprit des journaux"; pisoni's "historia," with engravings of birds, animals, and fishes, that would excite the surprise of the naturalist of the present day; "novus marcellus doctrina," published at venice in , on large paper, with colored initials; a curious folio, manuscript history of the "starre chamber"; and lithgow's "rare adventures and painful peregrinationes," published in , interlined with the author's manuscript emendations, and evidently intended for a new edition. this work is rare--the copy owned by king charles brought £ at jadis's sale. the collection has a large number of old bibles, many thousand biblical illustrations, a large number of other illustrated works, and many books and prints especially devoted to the cromwellian era of english life. the shakespeare department contains many separate editions of the works of the immortal bard, each of which is distinguished by some peculiarity. first among these stand the four folios published in , , , and , with a number of the original quartos of separate plays, illustrated copies, some of which belonged to able scholars, and are enriched by their manuscript notes. mr. burton sought to possess every work that alludes to the early editions of shakespeare, or which serves in any way to illustrate the text. among these are to be found many of the original tracts, the scarce romances, the old histories, and the rare ballads, upon which he founded his wonderful plays, or which are alluded to in the text. the collection contains the book alluded to by the quaint and facetious _touchstone_, in "as you like it," by which the gallants were said to quarrel with the various degrees of proof,--"the retort courteous, the countercheck quarrelsome, and the lie direct"; the "book of good manners," the "book of sonnets" mentioned in the "merry wives of windsor," the "book of compliments," and the "hundred merry tales"; and montaigne, translated by florio, who is supposed by some to be the holofernes in "love's labor's lost"; the edition of holinshed, so freely used by shakespeare in his historical plays, with the lines quoted by him underscored with red ink. among the collected editions of shakespeare is the first quarto, in seven volumes, edited by pope, which, besides having the reputation of being the least reliable of any edition of shakespeare's works, is defaced by an engraving of king james i. of england, which the publishers sought to palm upon the public as the likeness of the great dramatist. it is engraved by vertue from an original painting in the harleian collection, and does not possess the slightest resemblance to any of the various portraits of shakespeare. the collection contains a large-paper copy of hanmer's beautiful quarto edition, published in , with gravelot's etchings, which is now quite rare; also, the reprint of the same work, made in , and a fine copy of the quarto edition, known as heath's, in six volumes, with proof plates after stothard; a beautiful and undoubtedly unique copy of the atlas folio edition in nine volumes, published by boydell in , elegantly bound and tooled with great richness of design. this copy was selected by boydell, with great care, for miss mary nicol, sister of george nicol, printer to the king, and a relative of boydell. it contains proof impressions of the engravings, and an extra volume of original etchings. this work was purchased at the sale of the stowe library. the certificates of nicol and the librarian of the duke of buckingham, testifying to the value and rarity of this picked specimen of typography and engraving, are bound in the first volume of the work. the collection contains mr. boydell's own private portfolio, with the original etchings, artist's proof, and proof before letter, of every engraving, with the portraits, now so difficult to meet with, of the large elephant folio plates, upward of one hundred in number. but the crowning glory is a folio copy of shakespeare, illustrated by the collector himself, with a prodigality of labor and expense that places it far above any similar work ever attempted. the letter-press of this great work is a choice specimen from nicol's types, and each play occupies a separate portfolio. these are accompanied by costly engravings of landscapes, rare portraits, maps, elegantly colored plates of costumes, and water-color drawings, executed by some of the best artists of the day. some of the plays have over two hundred folio illustrations, each of which is beautifully inlaid or mounted, and many of the engravings are very valuable. some of the landscapes, selected from the oldest cosmographies known, illustrating the various places mentioned in the pages of shakespeare, are exceedingly curious as well as valuable. in the historical plays, when possible, every character is portrayed from authoritative sources, as old tapestries, monumental brasses, or illuminated works of the age in well-executed drawings or recognized engravings. there are in this work a vast number of illustrations, in addition to a very numerous collection of water-color drawings. in addition to the thirty-seven plays, are two volumes devoted to shakespeare's life and times, one volume of portraits, one volume devoted to distinguished shakespearians, one to poems, and two to disputed plays,--the whole embracing a series of forty-two folio volumes, and forming, perhaps, the most remarkable and costly monument in this shape ever attempted by a devout worshipper of the bard of avon. the volume devoted to shakespeare's portraits was purchased by mr. burton at the sale of a gentleman's library, who had spent many years in making the collection, and includes various "effigies" unknown to many laborious collectors. it contains upward of one hundred plates, for the most part proofs. the value of this collection may be estimated by the fact that a celebrated english collector recently offered its possessor £ for this single volume. in the reading-room, directly beneath the main library, are a number of portfolios of prints illustrative of the plays of shakespeare, of a size too large to be included in the illustrated collection just noticed. there is likewise another copy of shakespeare based upon knight's pictorial royal octavo, copiously illustrated by the owner; but although the prints are numerous, they are neither as costly nor as rare as those contained in the large folio copy. among the curiosities of the shakespeare collection are a number of copies of the disputed plays, printed during his lifetime, with the name of shakespeare as their author. it is remarkable, if these plays were not at least revised by shakespeare, that no record of a contradiction of their authorship should be found. it is not improbable that many plays written by others were given to shakespeare to perform in his capacity as a theatrical manager, requiring certain alterations in order to adapt them to the use of the stage, which were arranged by his cunning and skilful hand, and that these plays afterward found their way into print with just sufficient of his emendations to allow his authorship of them, in the carelessness in which he held his literary fame, to pass uncontradicted by him. there is a copy of an old play of the period, with manuscript annotations, and the name of shakespeare written on the title-page. it is either the veritable signature of the poet or an admirably imitated forgery. mr. burton inclined to the opinion that the work once belonged to shakespeare, and that the signature is genuine. if so, it is probably the only scrap of his handwriting on this continent. this work is not included in the list given of ireland's library, the contents of which were brought into disrepute by the remarkable literary forgeries of the son, but stands forth peculiar and unique, and furnishes much room for curious speculation. these forgeries form a curious feature in the shakespeare history of the last century. they were executed by william henry ireland, the son of a gentleman of much literary taste, and a devoted admirer of shakespeare. young ireland, who was apprenticed to an attorney, possessed the dangerous faculty of imitating the handwriting of another person with such perfection as to deceive the most careful critic. his occupation led him much among old records, by which means he acquired a knowledge of the phraseology used in them, and the general appearance imparted by age to the paper and ink, all of which he was enabled to imitate very closely. his father's reverence for shakespeare induced him to endeavor to palm off upon himself and friends, probably at first as a good joke, some originals of the great poet. one of these was a declaration of his faith in the protestant church, which, when shown to dr. parr, drew from this great scholar the observation that, although there were many fine things in the church service, here was a man who distanced them all. mr. boaden, a gentleman of great taste, states that when he first saw these papers he looked upon them with the purest delight, and touched them with the greatest respect, as veritable and indisputable relics. a number of gentlemen met at mr. ireland's house, and after carefully inspecting the manuscripts, subscribed a paper vouching their authenticity. among these were dr. parr, dr. valpy, pye, the poet-laureate, herbert croft, and boswell. it is said that when boswell approached to sign the paper he reverentially fell upon his knees, thanked god that he had witnessed the discovery, and, in the language of simeon, exclaimed: "_nunc dimittis servum tuum, domine, in pace_." it was now too late for young ireland to retreat, if he ever intended to have done so, and the discovery of the imposture remained for malone and chalmers fully to develop. the disclosure is said to have brought the elder mr. ireland in sorrow to his grave, and to have bestowed upon the young scapegrace, who, either thoughtlessly, or with malice aforethought, had embittered the last years of the life of a tender parent, the epithet (which clung to him ever afterward) of "shakespeare ireland." the contemporaries of shakespeare are quite numerous. in the cases devoted to the old english drama are the original and best editions of chapman, marston, heywood, dekker, greene, rowley, massinger, ford, jonson, and field. besides the original quartos, the library contains most of the collected editions of the old dramatists, and in this department it is quite complete. three book-cases are devoted to works pertaining to the history of the stage, in every country and language, from the commencement of the art to the present time, and scarcely a work relating to the history, progress, or criticism of the stage can be named which is not to be found in the collection. a full-length statue of shakespeare in freestone, placed in a niche upon the northern side of the room, and surrounded by carved tracery of a gothic design, has already been noticed. upon the eastern side the stratford bust is placed on a bracket of the age of elizabeth. the celebrated antiquary, cottingham, devoted his personal attention to this work, and no other copy has been given to the world. this bust, the bracket upon which it rests, a curious old drinking-vessel of stone with a metal lid, all found in the garden of shakespeare's house at new place, a well-carved head of a nubian girl, and the key-stone of an entrance arch of the theatre at pompeii, were purchased by the owner of the present collection at the extensive sale of the personal effects of mr. cottingham. there is also a beautifully carved tea-caddy, made from the wood of shakespeare's mulberry-tree, which formerly belonged to garrick, and a small copy of roubilliac's statue of shakespeare, which is the first specimen of china-ware executed at chelsea, in england. this likewise belonged to garrick. there are likewise two drinking-cups with silver rims, said to be made of the wood of a crab-tree under which shakespeare slept during his celebrated frolic, formerly in the possession of betterton. conclusion. in depicting the career of william e. burton as actor, author, and manager, we are aware of the secondary value of his authorship, as compared with his dramatic achievements. nevertheless, his pen was a ready and fertile one, and produced much that was meritorious, though belonging to an ephemeral order. his plays, however, continue in the list of present theatrical publications. of his editorship it may be affirmed that his conduct of "the gentleman's magazine" and "literary souvenir" was marked by taste and discrimination; and nothing but unqualified praise can be bestowed upon his superintendence of the compilation of humorous literature known as burton's "cyclopædia of wit and humor." it is by far the most complete repository of mirthful composition ever published in this country--or elsewhere, so far as we know,--and enjoys the peculiar advantage of being the only one in which the productions of american humor have any thing approaching an adequate representation. the selections throughout are indicative of great critical sagacity, and a keen perception and sympathetic appreciation, in the general arrangement, are everywhere suggested. as manager he certainly fulfilled all conditions, as we believe the relation of his successes in that sphere will sufficiently attest. but whatever his capacity in the vocations named, all is dwarfed by his transcendent powers as a comedian. he is remembered, and will be remembered, not as the author or manager, but as the great actor who swayed mankind with his supreme gift of humor. many of the creations of his genius went away with him in death; and the traditions of his triumphs will long be distinguished in dramatic annals. lastly, we have seen him a shakespearian student and the possessor of a library perfectly glorious in its expression of devotion and homage to the great poet,--and linked with that proud association we leave his memory and his name. index. abbot, mr., , abbott, mrs., "a chapter of accidents," song, albany, n. y., , "all at coventry," american theatre, phila., "amilie; or, the love test," "an alarming sacrifice," "animal magnetism," "antigone," "antony's orations," "an unwarrantable intrusion," "apollo in new york," arch street theatre, phila., , , astor place opera-house, "as you like it," , atlanta, ga., "bachelors' torments," balls, mr., baltimore, md., , "banker's daughter," the, "barbers at court," barlow, s. l. m., barnett, morris, , barrett, geo., , ; extended mention, , barry, thos., "beehive," the, "betsey baker," biddle, nicholas, blake, w. r., , , ; extended mention, - ; mention, , , , , , , bland, humphrey, , ; extended mention, , , "blighted being," a, "blue devils," , booth, edwin, , boston, mass., , boston theatre, boucicault, dion, , , , "box and cox," "breach of promise," the, , , , broadway theatre, ; , note "broken heart," the, brooklyn, n. y., brougham, jno., , ; extended mention, - , , , brougham's lyceum, brougham, mrs., buckland, mrs. kate, buckstone, j. b., , burton's company in chambers street; extended review of particular players, - "burton's n. y. directory," burton's new theatre, , , , , burton, robert, burton's theatre, chambers street, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , burton, wm. evans, subject of memoir, mention, preface; birth and parentage, education, ; edits a monthly magazine, amateur acting, ; adopts the profession, first appearance in london, ; succeeds listen at haymarket, plays with e. kean, ; his play of "ellen wareham," ; progress and arrival in america, ; first appearance in america, ; portrait by inman, ; his success in philadelphia, _et seq._; his musical talent, ; development and versatility, ; popularity and benefits, ; busy with pen, ; starts "the gentleman's magazine," ; connection with e. a. poe, , ; letter to poe, ; literary ventures, , ; president martin van buren an auditor, ; amusing experience at napoleon, _et seq._; speech for the author of "antigone," ; first appearance in new york, ; sundry appearances, ; opens national theatre, phila.; produces "naiad queen"; at providence; manager in new york, ; loss by fire, ; returns to philadelphia, ; survey of career in phila., _et seq._; opens chambers st. theatre, ; energy and perseverance, ; charitable benefits, ; popularity of theatre, ; his power of attraction, , ; encomium of jos. n. ireland, , ; extended mention of members of company, - ; produces "dombey and son," ; pleasantries with brougham, ; stage incident, ; surprised by thompson, ; amusing correspondence with norton, , note; relations with mrs. hughes, ; his attributes as manager, ; shakesperian revivals, , ; plays for dramatic fund and centenary festival, , ; plays at niblo's, ; closes chambers st. and opens new theatre, ; progress, ; plays _dogberry_, appears in albany, ; in boston, ; new theatre closed, starring tour, ; last appearance in new york, ; engagement in canada, and letter to his children, - ; last appearance on any stage, and death, ; list of parts acted, - ; personal appearance, ; mental equipment, , ; an expounder and representative of the humor of the drama, , ; his comic power mentioned by wemyss, ; his performances in farce, : "the mummy," _et seq._; _madame vanderpants_, _et seq._; "the wandering minstrel," _pillicoddy_, . his specially famous parts: _paul pry_, _et seq._; _captain cuttle_, _et seq._; ireland's tribute to _cuttle_ , note; aminadab sleek, _et seq._; stage incident of "serious family," ; ushered in with thunder, ; _timothy toodles_, _et seq._ his performances in comedy, _et seq._: _micawber_, ; _mr. bumble_, ; _squeers_, _sam weller_, ; _bob acres_, ; _tony lumpkin_, _chas. goldfinch_, ; _dr. ollapod_, ; _sir. geo. thunder_, _job thornberry_ (see and ), ; _sir oliver surface_, ; _mr. graves_, _mock duke_, _adam brock_, _van dunder_, ; "nature's nobleman," ; _john smith_, ; _mr. sudden_, _thomas trot_, _don whiskerandos_, _triplet_, . his performances in shakespeare: "a midsummer-night's dream," ; _bottom_, _et seq._; _sir toby belch_, ; _caliban_, _autolycus_, _falstaff_, ; one of the _carriers_ in "henry iv.," . his residence and library; story of the painter, elliot, ; description of library, _et seq._ burton, wm. geo., father of subject, , "busybody," the, campbell, thos., carey & hart, "caste," castle garden, "catspaw," the, chambers street theatre (see burton's theatre, chambers st.) chapman, caroline, ; extended mention, , chapman, mr., "charles ii.," , "charles xii.," , , , chatham garden theatre, chatham theatre, chestnut street theatre, , , chippendale, mr., "cinderella," clapp, w. w., preface. clarke, c. w., "cockney," the, cole, john o., collins, john, colman, geo. (the younger), , , "comedy of errors," "comfortable lodgings," cooke's circus building, phila., cooke, geo. fred., "cork leg," the, song, covent garden theatre, "crimson crimes," "critic," the, , "cupid," "cure for the heartache," a, , curwen, henry, , note cushman, charlotte, , , cushman, susan, daly, augustin, daly's theatre, dance, chas., "dan keyser de bassoon," "david copperfield," , , , , , , davidge, wm., , dawson, mr., "deaf as a post," , , "delicate ground," devlin, mary, , , dickens, charles, , , , , , , , "dombey and son," extended mention, , , , , , , , , , don, sir wm., doran, dr., , note "duel in the dark," a, "dutch governor," the, , , dyott, jno., , ; extended mention, , , , edinburgh, scotland, "education," "ellen wareham," , , elliot, c. l., painter, incident, , elliston, r. w., , elphinstone, miss, emerson, r. w., "every man in his humor," , "evil genius," "false pretences," "family jars," , farren, wm., , "fascination," "first night," the, fisher, chas., , , , ; extended mention, - , florence, mrs. w. j., , , florence, w. j., ford's theatre, boston, forrest, edwin, , , note "forty winks," , "fox hunt," the, , francis, jno. w., "french spy," the, "friend waggles," front street theatre, baltimore, "genevieve," george iv. (king), gilbert, mrs., , gilbert, john, "giralda," glen gove, l. i., glover, mrs., , note "good night's rest," a, "great tragic revival," a, "gretna green," "guy mannering," hackett, james, hamblin, thos., hamilton, canada, , , "hamlet," "hamlet travestie," "happiest day of my life," the, , , "haunted man," the, haymarket theatre, london, , "hazel kirke," hazlitt, wm., , "heart of gold," "heir-at-law," , , , "helping hands," "henry iv.," "high life below stairs," hoey, mrs. (see mrs. russell) hoey, john, holland, geo., , , holland house, holman, geo., , , holmes, o. w., "home," "honeymoon," the, , , hood, thos., , hough, mrs., "how to die for love," "how to make home happy," , hughes, hon. chas., hughes, mrs., , ; extended mention, , , , , , , , , "hunchback," the, hunt, h., hunt, mrs., hutton, lawrence, preface; mention, , , "hypocrite," the, , "ill playing with edged tools," 'tis, "innkeeper's daughter," the, inman, henry, painter, "invisible prince," the, ireland, jos. n., preface; mention, , , , , , , , , , note "irish dragoon," the, "janet pride," jefferson, jos. ( st), jefferson, jos. ( d), , , , , "john bull," , , , , "john jones," , , , , "john of paris," johnston, t. b., ; extended mention, , , , , jonson, ben, , jordan, geo., , ; extended mention, , , kean, edmund, , , note, kemble, j. p., kent, england, "kill and cure," , "king's gardener," the, "kiss in the dark," a, knowles, j. sheridan, "ladies' man," the, , , "lady of lyons," the, "lancers," the, "last man," the, "laughing hyena," the, "laugh when you can," , laura keene's theatre, "leap year," , "led astray," "lend me five shillings," leonard and church sts. theatre, lester, j. w. (see lester wallack) lewis, w. t., library, mr. burton's, _et seq._ "life among the players," list of characters, - liston, j., , , , , , "little toddlekins," "loan of a lover," london, england, , , , , , , note, "london assurance," longfellow, h. w., "lottery ticket," the, , , note, , , "love chase," the, "love in a village," "love in humble life," "love in a maze," "lucia di lammermoor," "lucy did sham amour," "macbeth," "macbeth travestie," macready, w. c., "maidens, beware," malvina, miss (see mrs. w. j. florence) "man of many friends," "married an actress," "married by force," "married life," , "masks and faces," , , mathews, chas. (elder), mathews, chas. (younger), , , , maywood & co. (managers), , mechanics hall, hamilton, canada, "merchant of venice," the, , , "merry wives of windsor," the, , , , , metropolitan theatre (see burton's new theatre) "midnight watch," the, "midsummer-night's dream," a, , , , ; extended mention, , , "miller's maid," the, "mind your own business," mississippi river, mitchell, maggie, "money," , "mormons," the, morton, j. m., "mrs. bunbury's spoons," "much ado about nothing," , "mummy," the, , ; extended mention, _et seq._ munden, j. w., , "my awful dad," "my fellow clerk," "my wife and umbrella," "naiad queen," the, , , napoleon, town, , , national theatre, leonard st., n. y., , national theatre, phila. (formerly cooke's circus), "nature's nobleman," , ; extended mention, _et seq._ neilson, adelaide, "new way to pay old debts," a, new york, , , note, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , "new york in slices," niblo's garden, , , "nice young man," a, "nicholas nickleby," , , , norton, w. h., , , ; correspondence with burton, , note norwich, england, "no song no supper," "not so bad as we seem," "now-a-days," "old guard," the, "old heads and young hearts," "oliver twist" (play), , , , olympic theatre, london, , olympic theatre, n. y., , "one-hundred-pound note," "ours," "our set," palmo, ferdinand, palmo's opera-house, , pardey, h. o., "paris and london," , , park theatre, , , , , parsloe, c., jr., , , parsons, thos. wm., poem of, , "patrician and parvenu," , "paul pry," , , , ; extended mention, _et seq._ pavilion theatre, london, , "peep from the parlor windows," pelham, miss, perry, h. a., phelps, h. b., preface, philadelphia, , , , , , , , , , , , "pickwickians," the, , placide, henry, , , ; extended mention, _et seq._, , note, , , , placide, thomas, "player's plot," "pleasant neighbors," "ploughman turned lord," a, "pocahontas; or, the gentle savage," poe, e. a., , poole, john, "poor gentleman," the, , , , , , , , , , , "poor pillicoddy," "poor scholar," the, povey, jno., power, tyrone, "pride must have a fall," "prince's frolic," the, providence theatre, "raising the wind," , raymond, j. t., , , raymond, miss, raymond, o. b., rea, mrs., recollections of burton's acting, - reeve, john, "rent day," the, "review," the, richings, peter, , "rip van winkle," "rivals," the, , , , , , , "road to ruin," the, , , , , , , , , "robert macaire," robertson, agnes, , , , , robertson, t. w., robson, stuart, "rosedale," rowe, fawcett, russell, mrs. (_née_ shaw; mrs. hoey), , ; extended mention, , , note sandy hill, n. y., sartain, j., engraver, "school," "school for grown children," "school for scandal," the, ; cast of, , , , "school for tigers," a, , "school of reform," the, "secrets worth knowing," "self," "serious family," the, , , , ; extended mention, _et seq._; incident, ; story, , setchell, d., , shakespeare, , , , , , , , , , , , , shaw, miss (see mrs. russell) shaw, mrs., sheridan, r. b., , , "she stoops to conquer," , , , "siamese twins," the, "simpson & co.," simpson, edmund, skerrett, mrs., "sketches in india," , "slasher and crasher," "slave actress," the, smith, sydney, "socialism," "soldier's daughter," the, , , , sophocles, sothern, e. a., , southwick, s., "spectre bridegroom," the, "speed the plough," "sphinx," the, "spitfire," the, "spring and autumn," , "stag hall," "state secrets," "st. cupid," "still waters run deep," , stone, h. d., preface, , note st. paul's school, "stranger," the, "such as it is," sussex, england, "sweethearts and wives," , , "take that girl away," taylor, mary, , , , ; extended mention, , , "tempest," the, , , , , "temptation," tennyson, lord, "that blessed baby," theatres: american, phila., arch street, phila., , , astor place opera-house, boston, broadway, , , note brougham's lyceum, n. y., . burton's, chambers st., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , burton's new (metropolitan), , , , , castle garden, chatham, n. y., chatham garden, n. y., chestnut street, phila., , , cooke's circus, phila., covent garden, london, ford's, boston, front st., baltimore, haymarket, london, laura keene's, leonard and church sts., n. y., mechanics' hall, hamilton, canada, national, leonard st., n. y., , national, phila., niblo's garden, , , olympic, london, olympic, n. y., , palmo's opera-house, , park, n. y., , , , , pavilion, london, providence, tripler hall, n. y., union square, n. y., wallack's lyceum, , wallack's, , washington, "the cork leg," song, thompson, l. s., ; extended mention, - "three and deuce," "tom noddy's secret," "toodles," the, , , ; extended mention, "to parents and guardians," , toronto, canada, tripler hall, n. y., "turning the tables," , "turnpike gate," the, "twelfth night," , , , , , "twice killed," "two bonnycastles," the, "two buzzards," the, "two orphans," the, union square theatre, united states bank, "upper ten and lower twenty," "used up," , note. van buren, martin, president, "vanity fair," "venice preserved," "vicar of wakefield," the, walcot, c. m., , walcott, mrs., wallack, fanny, , wallack, j. w. (elder), , , , , , , wallack, lester, , ; extended mention, _et seq._, , note, , , , , , wallack's lyceum, , wallack's theatre, , "wall street," "wandering minstrel," the, , , "wanted, , milliners," ; extended mention, _et seq._ washington theatre, "water party," the, , watson, miss, watson, mrs., "way to get married," the, wemyss, f. c., preface, , , , "west end," the, weston, lizzie, , , , "wheel of fortune," the, white, r. w., , "widow machree," song, "widow's victim," the, "wild oats," , , williams, mrs. barney, windsor, england, winstanley, mrs., "winter's tale," , , winter, wm., "witch wife," the, wood, wm. b., preface, , woodworth, sam'l, poet, wynne, james, m.d., "young actress," the, , young, mrs. (see mrs. hughes) "young quaker," the, "you're another," "youthful days of louis xiv.," transcriber's note variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical errors. italics are shown thus _italic_. transcriber's note italic text is denoted by _underscores_. bold text is denoted by =equal signs=. the oe ligature has been replaced by 'oe' or 'oe'. obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. more detail can be found at the end of the book. note.--_three hundred copies of this edition printed on fine deckle-edge royal vo paper. the fifty portraits are given in duplicate, one on japanese and the other on plate paper, as india proofs._ _each of these copies is numbered._ _no._ ........ "their majesties' servants" dr. doran, f.s.a. volume the third ballantyne press ballantyne, hanson and co. edinburgh and london [illustration: (frontispiece, mrs. siddons)] "_their majesties' servants_" annals of the english stage from thomas betterton to edmund kean by dr. doran, f.s.a. _edited and revised by robert w. lowe_ with fifty copperplate portraits and eighty wood engravings _in three volumes_ volume the third london john c. nimmo , king william street, strand mdccclxxxviii contents. chapter i. page of authors, and particularly of condemned authors chapter ii. the audiences of the last half of the eighteenth century chapter iii. charles macklin chapter iv. a bevy of ladies;--but chiefly, mrs. bellamy, miss farren, mrs. abington, and "perdita" chapter v. a group of gentlemen chapter vi. john henderson chapter vii. sarah siddons chapter viii. john kemble chapter ix. george frederick cooke chapter x. master betty chapter xi. stage costume and stage tricks chapter xii. prologue, epilogue; dedications and benefits chapter xiii. old stagers departing chapter xiv. new ideas; new theatres; new authors; and the new actors chapter xv. edmund kean chapter xvi. edmund kean--continued list of copperplate portraits. volume iii. engraved by messrs. annan and swan, london. page i. mrs. siddons painted by gainsborough _frontispiece_ ii. mrs. inchbald from a rare engraving iii. john bannister from a picture by j. russell, r.a. iv. miss farren (countess of derby) by t. lawrence, r. a. v. mrs. abington from a mezzotint vi. john henderson painted by gainsborough vii. mrs. siddons as the tragic muse by reynolds viii. mrs. jordan as isabella from a picture by george morland ix. john kemble as penruddock by m. a. shee, r.a. x. charles kemble xi. fanny kemble the last work of sir thomas lawrence xii. george f. cooke from a picture by j. corbett xiii. master betty and his various characters xiv. richard suett from a painting by de wilde xv. william lewis from a painting by h. r. cooke xvi. r. w. elliston from a painting by g. h. harlowe, in the garrick club xvii. edmund kean from an engraving by s. w. reynolds xviii. edmund kean as shylock painted from life by w. h. watt, march list of illustrations on wood. volume iii. engraved by del orme & butler, london, and printed on japanese paper by ed. badoureau, london. page . mr. parsons and miss pope in "the drummer" . mr. king in "rule a wife" . mr. macklin as shylock . mr. smith and mrs. yates in the "provoked husband" . mr. palmer as tag . mr. henderson as rolla . mrs. siddons as mrs. haller . john p. kemble . interior of drury lane theatre, . master betty, the young roscius . norwich theatre . milward's benefit ticket--drawn by hogarth . burning of drury lane theatre, . covent garden theatre . mr. kean as sir giles overreach . j. b. booth list of tailpieces on wood. volume iii. page . mr. foote as the devil upon two sticks . mr. beard as hawthorne . mr. dunstall as hodge . mr. moody as simon . mr. foote as mrs. cole . mr. dibdin as mungo . mr. weston as dr. last . mr. foote as sir thomas lofty [illustration: mr. parsons and miss pope in "the drummer."] chapter i. of authors, and particularly of condemned authors. a glance at the foregoing list[ ] will serve to show that, from the retirement of garrick to the close of the eighteenth century, tragic literature made no progress. it retrograded. it did not even reach the height of fenton and hughes, in whom walpole discerned some faint sparkling of the merit of the older masters. after shakspeare's time, "theatric genius," says walpole, "lay dormant;" but he adds, that "it waked with some bold and glorious, but irregular and often ridiculous flights, in dryden; revived in otway; maintained a placid, pleasing kind of dignity in rowe, and even shone in 'jane shore.' it trod in sublime and classic fetters in 'cato;' but was void of nature, or the power of affecting the passions. in southerne it seemed a genuine ray of nature and shakspeare, but falling on an age still more hottentot, was stifled in those gross and barbarous productions, tragi-comedies. it turned to tuneful nonsense in the 'mourning bride;' grew stark mad in lee, whose cloak, a little the worse for wear, fell on young, yet in both was still a poet's cloak. it recovered its senses in hughes and fenton, who were afraid it should relapse, and accordingly kept it down with a timid, but amiable, hand; and then it languished." and continued to languish; i cannot more fully show to what extent, than by remarking that the century which opened with rowe concluded with pye--both poets laureate, but of different qualities. "tamerlane" and "jane shore" have not yet dropped from the list of acting plays; but who knows anything more of "adelaide" than that it was insipid, possessed not even a "tuneful nonsense," and was only distinguished for having made mrs. siddons and john kemble appear almost as insipid as the play. godwin's "antonio," played in , was as complete a failure as pye's "adelaide." for the tragic poets who occupy the period between garrick's retirement and the coming of pye and godwin, a few words will suffice. mason's "caractacus" was a noble effort, but it produced less effect than d'egville's ballet on the same subject in the succeeding century. cumberland's "battle of hastings" was as near shakspeare as ireland's "vortigern" was; and home's "alfred" died, three days old. jephson was, after all, the favourite playwright of walpole, who says of his "law of lombardy," that it was even "too rich" in language! but then jephson always improved the passages to which walpole objected. walpole gave orders for alterations in jephson's plays, as he might for the repairs of a cabinet. sometimes his criticism is excellent, and at others, it involves a social illustration, as in that on the "count of narbonne." raymond, in the last scene, says, "show me thy wound; oh, hell! 'tis through her heart!" "this line," says walpole, "is quite unnecessary, and infers an obedience in displaying her wound, which would be shocking; besides, as there is often a buffoon in an audience, at a new tragedy, it might be received dangerously. the word 'jehovah!' will certainly not be suffered on the stage." walpole praises miss younge's acting, and says, "the applause to one of her speeches lasted a minute, and recommenced twice before the play could go on." jephson, however, wrote fair acting pieces, which is more than can be said for bentley's "philodamus," which, in spite of being pronounced by gray the best dramatic poem in the language,[ ] was hilariously laughed off the stage. it was at least original, which can hardly be said of any of cumberland's plays, except the "carmelite," a tragedy that terminates merrily! cumberland was as much out of his line in tragedy as reynolds, whose "werter" and "eloisa" brought him eight pounds! "and very good pay too, sir!" said macklin, "so go home, and write two more tragedies, and if you gain £ by each of them, why, young man! the author of _paradise lost_ will be a fool to you!" hayley, of whom walpole said, "that sot boswell is a classic in comparison;" and murphy, with undeniable powers, failed in their attempts at tragedy during this period. boaden may be said to have been below the level of pye himself. on the former's "aurelio and miranda" some criticism was made before it was acted. the author was reading his play to the actors, when he remarked, that he knew nothing so terrible as having to read it before so critical an audience. "oh, yes!" exclaimed mrs. powell, "there is something much more terrible." "what can that be?" asked boaden foolishly. "to be obliged to sit and hear it," was the reply of lady emma hamilton's old fellow-servant. but if tragedy languished miserably, comedy was vivacious and triumphant. this period gave us the "school for scandal," perhaps the most faultless comedy of the whole century. it gave us murphy's "know your own mind;" the "critic," that admirable offspring of the "rehearsal;" macklin's "man of the world," the most muscular of comedies, which contrasts so forcibly with the sketchy sentimental, yet not nerveless comedies of holcroft; general burgoyne's "heiress," which is not only superior to general conway's "false appearances" (a translation from a comedy by boissy), but is, perhaps, the second best comedy of the period; cumberland's "jew" and "wheel of fortune;" colman's serio-comic "mountaineers," and the rattling "five-act farces" of reynolds. at the head of all these, and of many others, stood sheridan's immortal comedy. he may, as he said, have spoiled vanbrugh's "relapse," in converting it into the "trip to scarborough;" but the "school for scandal"[ ] has been accepted as the best comedy of the english stage. in its dazzling brilliancy, the labour expended to effect it is all forgotten. garrick took the greatest interest in its success, and when a flatterer remarked to him that its popularity would only be ephemeral, and that with garrick himself the atlas of the stage had departed, the latter calmly replied that, in mr. sheridan, his successor in the management, the stage had a hercules equal to any labour it might require at his hands. i turn, less to newspapers than to private contemporary sources, to see what was thought of this comedy on its first appearance. walpole was present at the acting, and he says: "to my great astonishment, there were more parts performed admirably in the 'school for scandal,' than i almost ever saw in any play. mrs. abington was equal to the first of her profession; yates, parsons, miss pope and palmer, all shone. it seemed a marvellous resurrection of the stage. indeed, the play had as much merit as the actors. i have seen no comedy that comes near it, since the 'provoked husband.'" the chief characters were thus represented: sir peter, king; sir oliver, yates; backbite, dodd; charles surface, smith; joseph surface, palmer; crabtree, parsons; lady teazle, mrs. abington; mrs. candour, miss pope; and maria, by miss p. hopkins, daughter of the prompter,--soon to be the wife of brereton, and subsequently that of john kemble. walpole objected, that the comedy was too long, despite great wit and good situations; and that there were two or three bad scenes that might be easily omitted, and which, to his thinking, wanted truth of character. he does not specify the scenes, and he acknowledges that he had not read the play, and that he "sat too high to hear it well." when he had read it, he came to the conclusion that it was "rapid and lively, but far from containing the wit he had expected, on seeing it acted." to walpole, the "heiress," by burgoyne, was "the _genteelest_ comedy" in the english language. of macklin's "man of the world," the same writer says:--"boswell pretended to like it, which would almost make one suspect that he knows a dose of poison had already been administered; though, by the way, i hear there is little good in the piece, except the likeness of sir pertinax to twenty thousand scots." it was the great merit of nearly all these writers, that while they caricatured folly, they scourged vice; and not only showed society what it was, but instructed it in what it should be. cumberland wrote his "jew" expressly to create a feeling of sympathy for a despised people. howard, the philanthropist, walked, under fictitious names, through more than one piece,--inculcating the duties of love and charity; and the too fashionable or foolish people of the day, by being rendered ridiculous, served to demonstrate, merrily, their own defects. in this application of dramatic literature, the ladies, whom i have not yet mentioned, were as busily engaged as the gentlemen. if we glance at the ladies who wrote for the stage during the latter half of the last century, and some of them before, we shall find a marked contrast between them and their sisters of the preceding century. there is hannah more, who introduces into "percy" a sermon, of which the first part denounces war, and the second draws a character of the saviour. of mrs. cowley, kinswoman to gay--the unknown anna matilda who corresponded with della crusca (merry), the fastidious walpole unjustly declared that she was as freely spoken as aphra behn. she was the first lady who held an "at home day," on which to receive her friends. she affected, like congreve, to despise being an "author," and showed skill in shaping old characters into new, in comedies which still survive; as well as in defending herself against the acute people who had "a good nose for inuendo." in tragedy, she was not so successful; and she winced at the epigram of parsons, on her "fate of sparta," which said:-- "ingenious cowley! while we view'd of sparta's sons the lot severe, we caught the spartan fortitude, and saw their woes, without a tear." of mrs. griffith's plays not one is now remembered; but the author and actress is remarkable for having published, as guides to young people, the correspondence of herself and husband, before marriage, under the title of _the letters of harry and frances_; and if they describe all the love making, the lady was not likely to have resembled the platonic wife, in her own play so called, who laments, throughout, that her husband will not be exactly what he was when he was her lover. an incident, connected with this play, will show how ungallant players could be to female poets, and how free they could be with their audience. in the third act, when powell and holland were on the stage, the hissing was universal; and at the end of it the two actors thrust their heads out from behind the drop curtain, and implored the house to damn the piece at once, and release them from having to utter any more nonsense! [illustration: (mrs. inchbald)] the gentle frances brooke's novels are better than her dramas,--save the pretty musical farce, "rosina," in which she has so cleverly secularised the scriptural story of ruth and boaz. unlike mrs. brooke, elizabeth inchbald's plays are as good as her novels;--in both, the romantic daughter of a suffolk farmer exhibited a skill and refinement, the latter of which she must have acquired after the period when, a wayward and beautiful girl of sixteen, she ran away from home, and manifested wonderful ability in framing stories of her own, to mislead the curious. after the death of her husband,--the "garrick of norwich,"--whose marriage with her was as romantically begun as it singularly ended, she took to writing for the stage, on which she was a respectable actress. in her plays, the virtues are set in action; and there is much elegance in her style. she was so successful, that a friend accused her of inculcating sedition in "every one has his fault." sometimes, her success was owing more to the actors than herself. king and mrs. jordan, as sir adam and lady contest, in the "wedding day," were such a pair as have never been _quite_ approached by their successors. petulant sophia lee, daughter of a country actor, excelled all the foregoing ladies in one point,--the skill with which she mingled broad comedy with natural pathos,--as in her "chapter of accidents." the lady wallace was a thousand times more petulant than miss lee, without even a thousandth part of her ability. she resembled the female writers of the last century only in her vulgarity, and not in their poor wit. then, there was hannah brand, school-mistress, like hannah more; poet and actress, mad with much learning,--or with very little, of which she thought very much; and proud as an _artchangel_, as she pronounced the word! the great feat of imperious miss brand was in her "huniades," which, on its failure, she altered, by leaving the whole part of huniades out! she called the incomprehensible fragment "agmunda," and heard it hissed (she playing the heroine), to her great disgust. the century was within a year of its close, when miss de camp taught parents not to cross the first love of their children, in "first faults." then joanna baillie finished one and began another century, with her series of plays of the passions; none of which was intended for the stage, or succeeded when it was represented. the old scots, who shuddered at "douglas" being written by a minister, must have been stricken with awe, at the idea of the daughter of the divinity professor at glasgow composing three profane tragedies in a single year. in the supplement to the last chapter, indications will be found of the progress of opera on the english stage. music and singing were not uncommonly introduced into our early plays, and they ranked among the chief attractions of our masques, down to the reign of charles i. under the commonwealth, and in the reign of charles ii., we had pieces sung in recitative, till locke awoke melodious echoes by his music for the operas of "psyche," "macbeth," and the "tempest;" and purcell excelled lawes in vigour and in harmony, and composed music to the words of dryden. our first english male stage-singers were simply actors, with good, but not musically trained voices. walker, the original macheath, could "sing a good song," but he was a tragedian; and some of our songstresses might be similarly described. mrs. tofts, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, and miss campion, were trained vocalists. in beard and miss brent--he, living to marry an earl's daughter, and realise a large fortune; _she_, to want bread, and (as mrs. pinto) to thank the elder fawcett for a shilling--garrick found his most dangerous opponents. the "beggar's opera" and "artaxerxes," mark epochs; and after arne arose linley, jackson, arnold, dibdin, and shield, as composers; and leoni and miss browne--the former sweeter than vernon, and the lady rich in expression, secured rare laurels for themselves and the "duenna," in which opera they played the principal characters. jackson's music in "the lord of the manor," brought mrs. crouch, then miss phillips, into notice; but it was not till stephen storace began his career, that concerted pieces and grand finales were introduced by him, and english opera rendered more complete. with his operas are most associated the names of crouch, kelly, and braham--which last name, and that of mrs. billington, are the brightest in the operatic annals of the close of the eighteenth, and opening of the nineteenth century. with operas and musical entertainments, the romantic drama greatly flourished for awhile. indeed, the beautiful and hapless mrs. cargill made a romantic hero of macheath; her tremor, when the bell sounded for execution, was a bit of natural tragedy which excited tears. but of real romantic drama, the most successful was the sensational "castle spectre," the merit of which was pointed out by a joke of sheridan's. in a dispute with lewis, the author, the latter offered, in support of his opinion, to bet all the money which that drama had brought into the treasury. "no," said sheridan, "i'll not do that; but i don't mind betting all it's worth!" so few of the plays in the preceding list have survived even in memory, that there must necessarily have been much suffering among disappointed authors. but it was not merely those of this half century who incurred disappointment. i have incidentally mentioned some of these before. i may add one more sample of the condemned in flecnoe, who was among the worst of the writers of the seventeenth century, and was also the most independent, or the most truculent, in denouncing his critics. when the managers rejected his "demoiselles à la mode," he printed the piece with a preface, in which he remarked that:--"for the acting this comedy, those who have the government of the stage, have their humour, and would be entreated; and i have mine, and won't entreat them; and were all dramatic writers of my mind, the masters should wear their old plays threadbare ere they should have any new, till they better understood their own interest, and how to distinguish between good and bad." but poets better skilled than this ex-jesuit had to endure disappointment. rowe ranks among the condemned (the hilarious condemned), by his failure in comedy. his idea was good. in the early part of the century, society was beset by the "biters." these were the would-be jokers of the day, who, on hoaxing their friends, exclaimed "bite!" and exposed the trick they had played. an instance is afforded in the _spectator_, of a condemned felon, who sold his body to a surgeon, but who, on receiving the purchase-money, called out "bite! i'm to be hung in chains!" rowe took one of these humorists for the hero of his bustling three-act comedy or farce, entitled the "biter." this part, pinch, was played by pack, at lincoln's inn fields, in ; but that clever actor rattled through it in vain. the jokes fell lifeless, to the great disgust of rowe, who was in the pit. as the audience would not, or could not laugh, but rather yawned or hissed, the author set them the example he would have them follow, and at every jest he led the way with an explosion of laughter, which must have become the more lugubrious on every repetition. a good man struggling against evil destiny is said to be a sublime spectacle to gods and men; but a dramatic author, known to half the audience, upholding his own piece, and striving to rescue it from ruin by a convulsive hilarity, must have been a sight as astonishing to his foes as to his friends. the poor fellow laughed vehemently; but the house could not be tempted to sympathise with him, and the "biter" was condemned under the applause and laughter of its hysterical author. aaron hill took his failures more calmly. the public of , at drury lane, would not tolerate his "elfrid." aaron shared the public opinion, and devoted _twenty years_ to re-writing his tragedy, which was subsequently produced under the title of "athelwold." mrs. centlivre was not equally patient with _her_ public; from whom, a month earlier, she withdrew in pique her coolly-received comedy, "the man's bewitched." elkanah settle was so systematically visited with damnation, that he was at last compelled to bring out his plays under fictitious names, and during the long vacation, lest when the town was full, some enemy should discover him. pope was as sensitive as settle, if the story be true that he was one of the authors of "three hours after marriage," and that the cool reception of this piece caused him to express dislike for the players. dennis, however, was perhaps the most irritable of his race. when his adaptation of "coriolanus" ("the invader of his country") failed, in , to draw £ to the house, and was consequently shelved by the management, dennis thundered against the insolence, incapacity, and disloyalty of cibber and his colleagues, and invoked against them the vengeance of the duke of newcastle, the lord chamberlain! theobald took another course; and when the pit hissed his pieces, he abused the "little critics," in a preface, scorned their "ill nature," and appealed to "better judges." gay, considering his dramatic failures in tragedy, found more consolation than most damned authors. the public of had no sympathy for his "captives;" which, despite booth, wilks, and mrs. oldfield, soon disappeared from the stage. to console the author, the princess of wales requested him to read this play in presence of herself and little court. on being ushered into the august company, gay, nervous from long waiting, tragedy in hand, bashful and blundering, fell over a stool, thereby threw down a screen, and set his illustrious audience in a comical sort of confusion, which, notwithstanding the kindness of the princess, marred the self-possession of the poet. the piece, however, went off more merrily at leicester house than it had done at drury lane. more touching than this was the way in which the aged southerne, in , took the condemnation of his "money, the mistress," at lincoln's inn fields. the audience refused the request made in the prologue to protect the man who had filled their mothers' eyes with tears. they had no particular reverence for "the last of charles's bards;" nor especial regard for "great otway's peer and greater dryden's friend." the audience hissed mercilessly. the old man was standing at a wing with rich, who asked him, if "he heard what they were doing." "no, sir," said southerne, calmly, "i am very deaf!" so quietly did he see fall from his grey head, the wreath "for half a century with honour worn." but "money" was not more unequivocally damned on the first night than was the "provoked husband," in , at drury lane. the difference was that the last piece suffered shipwreck, on political grounds, but survived the storm. all the jacobites in town united to condemn a play, by the author of the "nonjuror," with vanbrugh for colleague. cibber played sir francis wronghead, in the face of the hurricane, and never forgot his part, though he gave up all as lost when, in the fourth act, the play was brought to a "stand-still," by the fierce antagonism of the house. nevertheless, colley persevered, and the comedy went on to the end. the critics acknowledged or boasted that it had been a miserable failure, but cibber would not confess himself beaten. the "provoked husband" ran for eight-and-twenty successive nights, and on the last of those nights drew £ , "which happened," says the naturally-exulting cibber, "to be more than in fifty years before could be said of any play whatsoever." gay read his tragedy, after it had been consigned to the limbo of such pieces, to a court circle; tracy read his heavy "periander" before it was damned at lincoln's inn fields, in , to a circle of friends, who were regaled on the occasion with a magnificent supper. dr. ridley spoke on behalf of himself and brother critics, and assured the author that they had been exceedingly well-pleased with the entertainment provided; he alluded particularly, he said, to the supper. this was held for wit, but it was not so neat, so happy, or so friendly as carl vernet's reply to the author of the _maison à vendre_. as the curtain fell, carl remarked, "j'ai cru voir une maison à vendre, et je ne vois qu'une pièce à louer!" fielding took disapprobation with infinite indifference. in , his "wedding day" was produced at drury lane, with garrick as millamour, and macklin as stedfast. garrick had asked the author to suppress a scene which, he thought, would imperil the piece. fielding refused. "if the scene is not a good one," said he, "let 'em find it out." this scene _did_ excite violent hissing; and garrick left the stage for the green-room, as violently disturbed. "there," says murphy, "the author was indulging his genius, and solacing himself with a bottle of champagne. he had, at this time, drunk pretty plentifully; and cocking his eye at the actor, while streams of tobacco trickled down from the corner of his mouth, 'what's the matter, garrick?' said he; 'what are they hissing now?' 'why, the scene i begged you to retrench. i knew it wouldn't do; and they have so frightened me, that i shall not be able to collect myself the whole night.' 'oh! d---- 'em!' replies the author, 'they _have_ found it out, have they?'" fielding suffered as severely as most authors at the hands of the critics, but he was bold enough to publish one unlucky play, not "as it was acted," but "as it was damned at the theatre royal." he accounted, however, for such failures, in himself and others, through fustian, his tragic poet, in "pasquin." "one man," says fustian, "hisses out of resentment to the author; a second, out of dislike to the house; a third, out of dislike to the actor; a fourth, out of dislike to the play; a fifth, for the joke's sake; a sixth, to keep the rest in company;--enemies abuse him; friends give him up; the play is damned; and the author goes to the devil." fielding might have given another illustration,--such as that of the frenchman who clapped and hissed at the same moment, and explained his apparent inconsistency, by stating that he had received a free ticket from the author, and that he clapped out of gratitude to the donor, but that he hissed for the satisfaction of his own conscience. again, there was one french critic who took a more singular way still of expressing his opinion. in the tragedy of "antony and cleopatra," a mechanical asp was introduced, which hissed as "dusky egypt" took it up to apply to her bosom. the parisian critic, on hearing the sound, arose and said to the pit--"gentlemen, i am of the same opinion as the asp!" fielding published his play, "as it was damned," but he did not add, "as it deserved to be." he was less candid than bernard saurin, a french dramatist of the last century. saurin's comedy, the "trois rivaux," was pitilessly hissed. the author printed it, not to shame the critics, but to confess the justice of their verdict. "authors who have been humiliated," he says, "are not always the more humble on that account. self-love supports itself." after enumerating many instances, he adds: "there are few unlucky playwrights who do not look beyond their piece for the cause of an effect which their play alone has produced. after wearying the public by their insipidity, they disgust it by their pride, displayed in some haughty preface to their drama. perhaps there is a refinement of self-love in what i am myself now doing, when i candidly confess, that my comedy of the 'three rivals' thoroughly merited its fate." less reasonable than saurin was anthony brown, the templar, who produced his "fatal retirement," at drury lane, in . this conversational tragedy, in which nobody is excited much above the level of every-day talk, fell at the first representation. anthony brown attributed the failure to quin, who, after selecting one part, chose another, and finally threw up both. this conduct, according to brown, rendered the other players indifferent, and brought on a catastrophe, which the condemned poet, of course, held to be unmerited. accordingly, down went templars and the templars' friends, night after night, to hiss the offending quin. he was commanded to make an apology, and he did so in his characteristic way. addressing the audience, he said, blandly, that he had read "fatal retirement," at the author's request, and, under like impulse, had given him his sincere opinion of the tragedy, namely, that it was the very worst he had ever read, and that he could not possibly take a part in it. the audience were amused at the apparent frankness of this communication, and the templars, allowing anthony brown to be non-suited, satisfied their indignation by visiting it upon poor parson miller, who had been so ungallant to mistress yarrow and her daughter. the "hospital for fools" was not brought out in miller's name, but the templar champions of the fair knew it to be his, and hissed it from the stage accordingly, despite the acting of yates, woodward, and mrs. clive, and that part of the audience who would fain have listened, if the noisy templars would only have allowed them. out of miller's fiasco, garrick subsequently made a success, and on the "hospital for fools" founded his "lethe," in which he was famous in the character of lord chalkstone. there is one anonymous author who exhibited a strange humour in his protest against the condemnation of his tragedy, the plot of which had been pronounced improbable. "you (critics)," says the dolorous author, "harp eternally on my improbabilities. you deal rigorously with inferior dramatists, on the score of their delinquencies as to the probable; but when the same fault is found in some great master, like shakspeare, oh! then you give the word probability quite a liberal and kindly latitude of interpretation. and is not improbability as great a sin in the richest as it is in the poorest dramatic genius?" campbell's just reply is, "no: we forgive the fault, in proportion as it is redeemed by wit and genius." this author, so angry at being damned, should not have ventured his plays on the stage. he would have done well to imitate thomas powell, who wrote dramas, but did not wish the public to know it. so fearful of condemnation was he, that when a friend, who thought well of a tragedy he had written, called "edgar," on the same subject as ravenscroft's and rymer's, offered to present it to garrick, in order to its being acted,--"no, no!" exclaimed sensitive powell, "by no means would i wish even to be known as an author, attackable by all." the mere pleasure of writing was enough for him. he fancied his triumphs; and they were thus never marred by hiss from the pit, or howl from adverse critic. some have taken their fate swaggeringly, with a protestation that the public were not so enlightened as they might be. others have whistled, some have sung, a few have reasoned over it, one or two have acknowledged the condemnation; not one, except bentley, has confessed that it was just. when the best scenes in the "good-natured man" were bringing down hisses and imperilling the comedy, goldsmith fell into a tremor, from which the bare success of the play could not relieve him. but he concealed his torture, and went to the club and talked loud and sang his favourite songs, but neither ate nor drank, though he affected to do both. he sate out the whole of the company save johnson, and when the two were alone, the disappointed author burst into tears, and swore, something irreverently, that he would never write again. johnson behaved like a true man, for he comforted goldsmith, and never betrayed his friend's weakness. _that_, of course, goldsmith was sure to do for himself. long after, when they were dining with percy, at the chaplain's table at st. james's, goldsmith referred to the dreadful night, the hisses, his sufferings, and his feigned extravagance. johnson listened in astonishment. "i thought it had all been a secret between you and me, doctor," said he, "and i am sure i would not have said anything about it for the world." some poets thought the players had the better time of the two; but if poets incurred one peril, the players of this period incurred another. for instance, in , the edinburgh company going to aberdeen by sea, were snapped up by an american privateer, and carried off captives to nantz. how they were ransomed, i am unable to show. walpole may be registered, if not among the damned, yet among the discontented authors of this half century. chute might be pleased, and even gray approve; but garrick seems to have had small esteem for horace as a dramatic poet. hence was garrick, in walpole's eyes, but a poor writer of prologues and epilogues, a worse writer of farces, and a patron of fools who wrote bad comedies, which they allowed garrick to make worthless; but yet worthy of the town which had a taste for them! walpole wished to see his "mysterious mother" acted, although he well knew that the story, and the inefficient way in which he had treated it, would have insured its failure. indisposed to be numbered among the condemned, he ascribed his reluctance to venture, to two causes: mrs. pritchard was about to retire, and she alone could have played his countess; "nor am i disposed," he says, "to expose myself to the impertinences of that jackanapes, garrick, who lets nothing appear but his own wretched stuff, or that of creatures still duller, who suffer him to alter their pieces as he pleases." in this strain walpole was never weary of writing. of garrick's "cymon" the disappointed horace was especially jealous, and he sneered at its pleasing "the mob in the boxes as well as the footman's gallery," which privileged locality was not yet abolished in . garrick might be the best actor, but, said walpole, he is "the worst author in the world!" i have noticed the mirthful _dénouement_ of cumberland's tragedy, the "carmelite." such _dénouements_ were approved by some part of the french public. when the "gamester" was adapted to the french stage, under the title of "beverley, a tragedy of private life," the adapter was the saurin of whom i have spoken, and his attempt excited the critics, and divided the town. the poisoning fascinated some and revolted others. one french poet protested against the "horrible" in tragedy, and exclaimed:-- "laissons à nos voisins ces excès sanguinaires, malheur aux nations que le sang divertie, ces exemples outrés, ces farces mortuaires ne satisfont ni l'âme ni l'esprit. les français ne sont point des tigres, des feroces qu'on ne peut amouvoir que par des traits atroces." the ladies united with the poet, and saurin found himself compelled to give two fifth acts, and, as the piece was attractive, the public were informed whether the _dénouement_ on that particular night would be deathless, or otherwise! in the former case, as beverley was about to take the poison, his wife, friend, and old servant rushed in just in time to save him, and, in common phrase, to assure him that things were "made comfortable," in spite of his follies, his weakness, and rascality. grimm jokes over plots admitting of double _dénouements_, and alludes to the norman vicar of montchauvet, who wrote a tragedy on the subject of belshazzar. the vicar thought that dramatic catastrophes depended on how the poet started. in his tragedy everything turned upon whether belshazzar should sup or not, in the fifth act. if he does not sup, there can be no hand on the wall, and so "good-night" to the piece. accordingly, the poet says, in the first act, that the king will sup; in the second, that he will not; in the third, that he will; in the fourth, that he will not; and, consequently, in the fifth, that he must, and will. had the vicar intended otherwise, he would have begun, he says, in different order! ducis adapted shakspeare's "othello" to the french stage, for which he furnished two versions. in the first, he killed desdemona according to tradition. at this, ladies fainted away, and gentlemen protestingly vociferated. ducis altered the catastrophe, whereat paris became divided into two parties, who supported the happy or the tragic conclusion, as their feelings prompted them. talma played the moor; and, bred as he had been in the shadow and the sunlight of the english stage, he was disgusted with the liberty taken with shakspeare. one night, when the piece was to end as merrily as a comedy, and the last act was about to begin, ducis heard talma muttering at the wing, "i will kill her. the pit will not suffer it, i am sure; well, i will make them endure, and enjoy it. she shall be killed!" ducis tremblingly acquiesced, and talma restored the old catastrophe. there was some opposition, and a little fainting on the part of the susceptible, but, in presence of the marvellous talent of the actor, all antagonism gave way, and talma, with reasonable pride, notified to his friends on the english stage the successful effort he had made in support of the integrity of the shakspeare catastrophe. some authors have altogether refused to despair of the success of their piece, however adverse or indifferent the audience may have been. take, as a sample, the case of joseph mitchell, the scottish stonemason, but "university-bred." towards the middle of the last century, the public sat, night after night, quite incapable of comprehending the mysteries and allusions of his "highland fair, or the union of the clans." at length, on the fourth night, the audience took to laughing at the nonsense served up to them, and as the last act proceeded, the louder did the hilarity become. poor mitchell took it all for approval, and going up to wilks, with an air of triumph, he exclaimed, "de'il o' my saul, sare, they begin to taak the humour at last!" hoole, another of the stage-damned, was less self-deluding. when his "cleonice" was about to be played, a publisher gave him a liberal sum for the copyright, hoole's reputation, as a poetical translator from the italian, being then very great. the play, however, was condemned, and hoole was the first to acknowledge the unwelcome truth. he accordingly returned a portion of the sum he had received to the publisher. he had intended, he said, that the tragedy should be equally profitable to both, and now that it had failed, he would not allow the chief loss to fall on him who had bought the copyright. the watchmaker's son was a gentleman. hoole was as indifferent to condemnation as the french dramatist, hardy, with less greed for money than influenced the latter, who, however, was moved by the proper sense of the value of labour. this french author, hardy, who died about the year , saw his plays damned with as much indifference as he wrote them. he composed between six and eight hundred, published forty of them, and did not see one live a fortnight. a couple of thousand lines a day were nothing to this ready dramatist, who furnished the players for whom he composed, with a new drama every third day. and it was a day when french dramas were full of incident. we hear of princesses who are married in the first act; the particular heroine is mother of a son in the second, whose education occupies the third; in the fourth he is a warrior and a lover; and in the fifth he marries a nymph who was not in existence when the play began. hardy was the best of these inferior poets, and was original in this; he was the first who introduced the custom of getting paid for his pieces, a thing unknown till then, and which the poets, his successors, have not failed, says a french writer, "to observe very regularly ever since." mrs. siddons's bath friend, dr. whalley, was not so indifferent to the success of his muse as monsieur hardy; but he ranks among damned authors who have accepted condemnation or neglect with a joke. his "castle of montval" was yawned at rather than hissed; but as it was acted beyond the third night, the doctor went down to mr. peake, the treasurer, to know what benefit might have accrued to him. it amounted to nothing. "i have been," said the author, an old picquet player, to an inquiring friend, "i have been piqued and re-piqued;" and therewith he went quietly back to bath, where he lived upon a private fortune, and the rich stipend from an unwholesome lincolnshire living, which a kind-hearted bishop had given him on condition he never resided on it! the tragedy of the other friend of mrs. siddons, mr. greatheed (the "regent"), was not much, if any, more successful, than dr. whalley's; but the author was so satisfied with his escape, that he gave a supper--that famous banquet, which was followed by a drinking bout at the brown bear, in bow street, at which a subordinate actor, named phillimore, was sufficiently tipsy to have courage to fight his lord and master, john kemble; who was elevated enough to defend himself, and generous enough to forget the affair next morning. sheridan kept his self-possession under merrier control than this. his "rivals" was at first a failure. cumberland, the most sensitive author in the world, under condemnation, declared that he could not laugh at sheridan's comedy. "that is ungrateful of him," said sheridan, to whom the comment was reported by a particular friend--"for i have laughed at a tragedy of his from beginning to end!" but this not having been said in cumberland's hearing, was less severe than a remark made by lord shelburne, who could say the most provoking things, and yet appear quite unconscious of their being so. in the house of lords he referred to the authorship of lord carlisle. "the noble lord," said he, "has written a comedy." "no, no!" interrupted lord carlisle, "a tragedy! a tragedy!" "oh! i beg pardon," resumed lord shelburne, "i thought it was a comedy!" the piece thus adjudged of was the "father's revenge," an adaptation from boccaccio, of "tancred and sigismunda," never played and seldom read. cumberland, who bore his own reverses with impatience, and was ever resolute in blaming the lack of taste on the part of the public, rather than ready to acknowledge his own shortcomings, endured the triumphs of his fellow-dramatists with little equanimity. during the first run of the "school for scandal," he was present, with his children, in a stage-box, sitting behind them. each time they laughed at what was going on, on the stage, he pinched them playfully, and asked them at what they were laughing. "there is nothing to laugh at, my angels," he was heard to say; and if the juvenile critics laughed on, he less playfully bade them be silent--the "little dunces!" the dramatists whom he "adapted," declined to be involved in his reverses. after his "joanna," an adaptation from kotzebue, had been damned, the german author took care to record in the public papers that the passages hissed by the english public were not his, but additions made by cumberland. sir fretful found consolation. "if i did not succeed," says this frequently damned author, "in entertaining the audience, i continued to amuse myself.... i never disgraced my colours by abandoning _legitimate comedy_, to whose service i am sworn, and in whose defence i have kept the field for nearly half a century--till at last i have survived all true national taste, and lived to see buffoonery, spectacle, and puerility so effectually triumph, that now to be repulsed from the stage is to be recommended to the closet; and to be applauded by the theatre is little less than a passport to the puppet-show." this spirit of self-satisfaction, and depreciation of the public taste, was nothing new. the author or adapter of "richard ii." (nahum tate), finding his piece prohibited by authority, published it with a self-congratulatory preface; but he had already done more in the epilogue; mindful of past reverses, and anticipatory of present condemnation, he made mrs. cook say:-- "and ere of you, my sparks, my leave i take, for your unkindness past these prayers i make-- into such dulness may your poets tire, till they shall write such plays as you admire!" this was thoroughly in the old spirit of flecknoe; but of samples of the spirit of "damn-ed authors," having given enough, let us pass among the audiences of the last half of the eighteenth century, whose "censure," in the old signification of the term, was challenged by the playwrights. footnotes: [ ] vol. ii., pp. - . [ ] "one of the most capital poems in the english language" is what gray is reported to have said. [ ] produced th may . [illustration: mr. king in "rule a wife."] chapter ii. the audiences of the last half of the eighteenth century. in the first half of the above century, if a quiet man in the pit ventured on making a remark to his neighbour, who happened to be a "nose-puller," and who disagreed with the remark, the speaker's nose was sure to be painfully wrung by the "puller." in the same period, those very nose-pullers sat quietly, merely grimacing, when the great people in the boxes found it convenient to spit into the pit! but, sometimes the house, pit and all, was full of great people. thus, on the night of the th march , drury presented a strange appearance. the theatre had been hired by some noble amateurs, who acted the tragedy of "othello," thus cast in the principal characters. othello, sir francis delaval; iago, by john, subsequently ( ) lord delaval; cassio, e. delaval; roderigo, captain stephens; desdemona, mrs. quon (sister of sir francis, and later, the wife of lord mexborough); emilia, mrs. stephens. macklin superintended the rehearsals, and walpole was present; for he says of the amateurs, in his characteristic way: "they really acted so well, that it is astonishing they should not have had sense enough not to act at all!... the chief were a family of delavals, the eldest of which was married by one foote, a player, to lady nassau poulett, who had kept the latter. the rage was so great to see this performance, that the house of commons literally adjourned at three o'clock on purpose. the footman's gallery was strung with blue ribands. what a wise people! what an august senate! yet my lord granville once told the prince, i forget on occasion of what folly: 'sir, indeed your royal highness is in the wrong to act thus; the english are a grave nation.'" the prince, and other members of the royal family, were present in the stage-box on this occasion; and the presence of blue ribands, in place of livery tags, in the footman's gallery, was owing to the circumstance that tickets were issued numerously enough to completely fill the house, but without indicating to what part of the house the bearers would be admitted. the first who arrived took the best places; and tardy peers, knights of the garter, their wives and ladies, were content to occupy the gallery, for once, rather than have no places at all. such an audience was never seen there before, and has never been seen there since. at this time swords were still worn, and evil results followed, to others, as well as to the wearers. on the night of saturday, september , , as the "way of the world" was being played at drury, a quarrel, and then a fight with swords took place, between two gallants in the box-lobby. from some cries which arose, the audience thought the house was on fire, and fearful confusion, with fierce struggling, and terrible injury ensued. many women attempted in their terror to drop from the gallery to the pit. this was not so frightful as it might at present seem, for in those days the front of the lower gallery came down to the roof of the lower boxes. the occupants were a recognised power in the house, often appealed to, and were of very great intelligence and respectability, in one especially favourite locality, the old haymarket, as long as the house lasted. professional men, and poets, and merchants and their wives, sat there to see, hear, and enjoy, whose grand-daughters now sail into stalls, unconscious that there is a gallery in the house, and ignorant that they are of a race who once condescended to sit in it. in those days royalty's presence formed a great attraction at the theatre; and royalty enjoyed a "row" as heartily as the most riotous there. when garrick, in , found that he could not fill drury lane,--notwithstanding the ability of his company of actors, unless he played himself, and that his own strength was not equal to the task of playing without intermission,--he brought forward a magnificent ballet-pantomime, called the "chinese festival." it was composed by noverre,--who had treated of his art, dancing, as a branch of philosophy! as many competent english dancers as could be found, were engaged; and there was a supplementary, but prominent and able body of foreign dancers. little would have been thought of this but for the circumstance, that when the gorgeous show was set before the public, in the autumn of ,[ ] war had recently broken out between england and france. thereupon, john bull was aroused in a double sense,--his patriotism would not allow of his tolerating the enemy on the english stage; and his sense of religious propriety, not otherwise very remarkable at that time, was shocked at the idea of his condescending to be amused by papists. his offended sense was further irritated by the circumstance, that george ii., by his presence, on the first night, seemed to sanction favouritism of the enemy and the hostile church. aggravated by that presence, which they did not at all respect, the pit heaved into a perfect storm, which raged the more as the old king sat and enjoyed,--nay, laughing at the tempest! the brunswick dynasty was included within the aim of the hisses and execrations which prevailed. had garrick followed lacy's counsel, he would have withdrawn the piece; but davy was reluctant to lose his outlay, striving to save which, he lost hundreds more. as the "spectacle" was repeated, so was the insurrection against it; but the "quality" interfering,--as they deemed it the _ton_ to uphold what great brunswick approved,--a new element of bitterness was superadded. the boxes pronounced pit and galleries "vulgar;" and those powers waged war the more intensely, because of the arrogance of the boxes, whose occupants were assailed with epithets as unsavoury as any flung at the dancers. then ensued strange scenes and encounters. gentlemen in the boxes drew their swords, leaped down into the pit, pricked about them in behalf of "gentility," and got terribly mauled for their pains. the galleries looked on, shouting approbation, and indiscriminately pelting both parties. not so the fair, who occupied the boxes. they, on seeing the champions of propriety and of themselves, being menaced or overpowered in the pit, pointed the offenders out to the less eager beaux who tarried in their vicinity, and who, for their very honour's sake, felt themselves compelled to out with their bodkins, drop into the surging pit, and lay about them, stoutly or faintly, according to their constitutions. the stronger arms of the plebeians carried the day; and when these had smitten their aristocratic opponents, they celebrated their victory with the accustomed vandalism. they broke up benches, tore down hangings, smashed mirrors, crashed the harpsichords (always the first of the victims in the orchestra); and finally, charging on to the stage, cut and slashed the scenery in all directions. some evidence of the improved civilisation of the audiences of this half of the century is afforded by the circumstance that no one suggested that the house should be set on fire. but, the pious and patriotic rioters rushed out to mr. garrick's house, in southampton street (now eastey's hotel), and broke every window they could reach with missile, from basement to garret. the hired soldiery could not protect him; nor on their bayonets could he prop up the "chinese festival," wooden shoes and popery. this affair cost him a sum of money, the loss of which made his heart ache for many a day. on our side of the channel, royal personages have been more amusingly rude than the inferior folk. a good instance of this presents itself to my memory, in the person of the young king of denmark, who married the sister of george iii., and who frequently visited the theatres in london, in . at the play of the "provoked husband," it was observed that he applauded every passage in which matrimony was derided; which was commented on as an uncivil proceeding, as his wife was an english princess. this wayward lad offended audience and actors on another occasion, in quite a different way. in october, he commanded the edifying tragedy of "jane shore," during the performance of which he fell fast asleep, and remained so to the amusement of the audience and the annoyance of mrs. bellamy, who played alicia. that haughty and hapless beauty was not likely to let the wearied king sleep on; and accordingly, having to pronounce the words, "o thou false lord!" she approached the royal box, and uttered them expressly in such a piercing tone, that the king awoke in sudden amazement, but with perception enough to enable him to protest that he would not be married to a woman with such a voice though she had the whole world for a dowry. two nights later[ ] he went to see "zara," garrick being the lusignan; and it is to his credit that he sat through that soporific sadness without winking. the greatest excitement prevailed among the audience when the king went to see garrick act ranger, in the "suspicious husband." the pit was so crowded and so hot, that every man (and there were few or no women there) took off his coat and sat in his shirt or waistcoat sleeves, in presence of the king. the various hues formed a queer sight; but many of the men fainted. at the thunder of the cheers which greeted his coming, denmark looked frightened, but bowed repeatedly; and when at garrick's appearance, the roar of applause was renewed, his majesty appropriated it to himself, and again bowed to all sides of the house, while ranger waited to congratulate himself on "having got safe to the temple." [illustration: (john bannister)] there was little indecorum in mrs. bellamy's act of rousing the sleepy king of denmark with a scream, but greater, and what would now seem gross and unpardonable liberties, were taken by the actors, with their patron george iii. for instance, in the "siege of calais," there is a scene between two carpenters who erect the scaffold for the execution of the patriots. parsons played chief carpenter, in which character it was put down for him to say, "so, the king is coming! an the king like not my scaffold, i am no true man." george iii. and family were present, one night, at the haymarket, when this piece was played by command, and parsons gave this unseemly turn to the set phrase. advancing close to the royal box, he exclaimed: "an the king were here and did not admire my scaffold, i would say, d--n him! he has no taste!" at this sally the king laughed louder and longer than even the hilarious audience! sir robert walpole was readier to take offence than king george. he could smile at the inuendoes of the "beggar's opera;" but when he was deeply interested in the success of his excise bill, and an actor sneeringly alluded to it, in his presence, the minister went behind the scenes, and asked if the words uttered were in the part. it was confessed that they were not; and thereupon sir robert raised his cane, and gave the offending player a sound thrashing. in parsons' case, monarch and audience alike, knew that no offence was intended, in detection of which loyalty rendered the audience over acute; as in the case when jack bannister got into disgrace with the house. "god save the king" was being sung, and jack, dressed for lenitive in the "prize," stood among an undistinguished group of choristers at the back of the stage. gentlemen in the boxes called upon him vociferously to come into the front rank, and sing so as to be heard. there was great disapprobation, in which the press joined, and poor jack, as loyal a briton as any in those days, had to explain, that being dressed in an extravagant costume, he had kept in the background, out of respect, as his caricatured garb seemed to him to be out of keeping with the words of the national anthem, which, to his thinking, were as something sacred. indeed, the loyalty of the actors to "king and country" could not be doubted. when the emperor of the french was collecting a host for the invasion of this country, the actors were among the first to enrol themselves as volunteers; and it was not an unusual thing to find the theatre closed, on account of the unavoidable absence of the principal performers, summoned to drill, or other military service then rigidly enforced. on the other hand, there were what was then called disloyal factions among the audiences, and these drove "venice preserved" from the stage for a time by the furious applause which they gave to passages in favour of liberty, and which applause was supposed to indicate hostility to the british constitution! yet many of these factious people, who did not dislike the king because they loved liberty, were delighted to mark the unrestrained enjoyment of the royal family at the theatre. if george iii. roared at the oft-repeated tricks of the clown, little queen charlotte shook with silent laughter at the intelligible action of the great comic performers. once, when foote, caricaturing an over-dressed lady, with a head-tire a yard in height, and nearly that in breadth, accidentally let fall the whole scaffolding of finery, and stood bare-polled upon the stage, the queen's laughter was then audible through the house. perhaps it was all the higher as she herself wore a modest and becoming adornment for the head. indeed, she was proud only of her beautiful arms, and these the plain-featured lady contrived to display to the lieges assembled, with a dexterity worthy of the most finished coquette. there was great homeliness, so to speak, in this intercourse between royal and lay folk, in those days, and much familiarity. the young princes were often behind the scenes. on one of these occasions, the "sailor-prince," the duke of clarence, saw bannister approach, dressed for ben, in "love for love." the actor wore a coloured kerchief round his neck. "that will never do for a man-of-war's man," said the prince; who, forthwith, ordered a black kerchief to be sent for, which, putting round the pseudo-sailor's neck, he tied the ends into the nautical slip-knot, and pronounced the thing complete. the royal patronage and presence did not always give rise to hilarity. tragedy sometimes attended it. i can remember nothing more painful in its way than a scene, at the haymarket, on the third of february . the king and queen had commanded three pieces, by prince hoare--"my grandmother," "no song, no supper," and the "prize." fifteen lives were lost that night in the precipitate plunge down the old pit-stairs, as the little green doors were opened to the loyal and eager crowd. whether those who rushed over the fallen bodies were conscious of the extent of the catastrophe, cannot be determined; but the royal family were kept in ignorance of it, from their arrival till the moment they were about to depart. while they had been laughing to the utmost, many a tear had been flowing for the dead, many a groan uttered by the wounded who had struggled so frightfully to share in the joyousness of that evening, and the king's own two heralds, york and somerset, were lying crushed to death among the slain. on another occasion, tragic enough in the character of a chief incident, the conduct of the simple-minded king rose to the dignity of heroism. i allude to the night of the th of may[ ] , at drury lane, when george iii. had commanded cibber's comedy, "she would and she would not." he had preceded the other members of the royal family, and was standing alone at the front of the box, when hatfield fired a pistol at him from below. the excitement, the dragging of the assassin over the orchestra, the shouts of the audience, the fear that other would-be regicides might be there, moved everybody but the king, who calmly kept his position, and, as usual, looked round the house through his monocular opera-glass. the marquis of salisbury, very much disconcerted and alarmed, if not for himself, at least for the king, urged the latter to withdraw. "sir," said george iii., "you discompose me as well as yourself; i shall not stir one step." he was a right brave man in this act and observation; and while the comedy was got through confusedly, the avenues to the stage crowded by people eager to see the assailant, the audience breaking spasmodically into cries in behalf of the king, and the queen and princesses in tears throughout the evening, george iii. alone was calm, cheerful, self-possessed, and bravely undemonstrative. before we leave these august personages, let us take one glance at them, as they sit among the audience, "in state."[ ] when their majesties, with the prince of wales, the princess royal, and the princess augusta, went thus, _in state_, on october , , to see mrs. siddons play isabella, there was much quaint grandeur employed to do them honour. the sovereign and his wife sat under a dome covered with crimson velvet and gold; the heir to the throne sat under another of blue velvet and silver; and the young ladies under a third of blue satin and silver fringe. my readers may desire to know how royalty was attired when it went to the play in state some fourscore years ago. there was some singularity about it. george iii. wore "a plain suit of quaker-coloured clothes with gold buttons. the queen a white satin robe, with a head-dress which was ornamented by a great number of diamonds. the princess royal was dressed in a white and blue figured silk, and princess augusta in a rose-coloured and white silk of the same pattern as her sister's, having both their head-dresses richly ornamented with diamonds. his royal highness the prince of wales had a suit of dark blue geneva velvet, richly trimmed with gold lace." the handsome young fellow, as he was then, must have looked superbly, and in strong contrast with his sire,--king in quaker-coloured suit, and prince in blue genoa velvet. george iii. was not always lucky in his thursday-night commands, and people laughed, when, after the solemn funeral of his uncle, the duke of cumberland, he ordered "much ado about nothing" to be played in his presence. for shakspeare he had less regard than his father. prince frederick once suggested that the whole of shakspeare's plays should be represented, under his patronage--at the rate of a play a week, but difficulties supervened, and the suggestion made no progress. let us turn from these royal to less noble folk. we find, on a july night of , mr. walpole at drury lane, to witness the performance of bentley's "wishes." he has left a pleasant sketch of the audience-side of the house, whither he went "actually feeling for mr. bentley, and full of the emotions he must be suffering." but--"what do you think in a house crowded was the first thing i saw? mr. and madame bentley perched up in the front boxes, and acting audience at his own play! no, all the impudences of false patriotism never came up to it! did one ever hear of an author who had courage to see his own first night in public! i don't believe fielding or foote himself ever did. and this was the modest, bashful mr. bentley, that died at the thought of being known for an author, even by his own acquaintance. in the stage-box was lady bute, lord halifax, and lord melcombe. i must say the two last entertained the audience as much as the play. lord halifax was prompter, and called out to the actor every minute to speak louder. the other went backwards and forwards behind the scenes, fetched the actors into the box, and was busier than harlequin. the _curious_ prologue was not spoken, the whole very ill acted. it turned out just what i remembered it; the good parts extremely good, the rest very flat and vulgar; the genteel dialogue, i believe, might be written by mrs. hannah. the audience were extremely fair; the first act they bore with patience, though it promised very ill; the second is admirable, and was much applauded; so was the third; the fourth woeful; the beginning of the fifth it seemed expiring, but was revived by a delightful burlesque of the ancient chorus, which was followed by two dismal scenes, at which people yawned, but were awakened on a sudden, by harlequin's being drawn up to a gibbet, nobody knew why or wherefore,[ ]--at last they were suffered to finish the play, but nobody attended to the conclusion. modesty and his lady sat all the while with the utmost indifference. i suppose lord melcombe had fallen asleep before they came to this scene." the piece was condemned, and the author was the first to recognise the fitness of such a fate. his nephew, cumberland, sat on one side of him, and when harlequin was hanged in the sight of the audience, as the fulfilment of the last of the "three wishes," bentley whispered into his complacent kinsman's ear: "if they don't damn this, they deserve to be damned themselves!" the piece lingered for a few nights, and an unsuccessful attempt was made to revive it in . so ended the (not first) experiment of introducing a witty-speaking harlequin, in place of the dumb hero of pantomime. at the period when this play was first acted, garrick and his fellows laboured under a serious disadvantage, when attempting to give full effect to stage illusions,--i allude to the crowding of the stage by a privileged part of the public. in spite of this, garrick could render perfect and seemingly real, on the same evening, the frantic sorrows of old lear, and the youthful joyousness of master johnny, in the "school boy." in dublin, there was often more annoyance than what resulted from mere crowding. garrick was once playing lear there, to the cordelia of mrs. woffington, when one irish gentleman, who was present, actually advanced, put his arm round cordelia's waist, and thus held her, while she answered with loving words to her father's reproaches. our sparks never went so far as this, in face of the public, but their intrusion annoyed the great actor. such annoyance was not felt by his colleagues, and when garrick resolved once and for ever, in , to keep the public from the stage, there was an outcry on the part of the players, who declared that on benefit nights, when seats and boxes, at advanced prices, were erected on the stage, they should lose the most munificent of their patrons, if these were prohibited from coming behind the curtain. a compromise followed, and garrick agreed to compensate for driving a part of the audience from the stage, by enlarging the house, and thus affording more room, and the old advantages on benefit nights. thus, one evil was followed by another, for the larger houses were less favourable to the actor and less profitable to managers,--but stage spectacle became more splendid and effective than ever. at this time amateur-acting was a fashionable pastime, and it had princely countenance. the blake delavals led the taste in this respect at their neat little theatre in downing street. the duke of york, who had distinguished himself early at the leicester house theatricals, which quin, i believe, superintended, was a very efficient actor, and he especially merited praise for the grace and spirit with which he played lothario to the calista of lady stanhope, a delaval by birth. admission to these performances was not easily obtained. walpole did not lack curiosity, but he would not solicit for a ticket, lest he should be refused. "i did not choose," he says, in his comic-jesuitical way, "to have such a silly matter to take ill!" english and french audiences essentially differed in one pleasant feature, at this time. in france it was not the custom for young unmarried ladies to appear at the great theatres, especially the opera. as soon as they were married they appeared at the latter in full bridal array, and the plaudits of the house indicated to them the measure of their success. with us, it was otherwise. ladies, before marriage, appeared at the opera more frequently than at church; and with much the same feelings, regarding both. "i remember," says lady m. w. montague, writing to her daughter, lady bute, "to have dressed for st. james's chapel with the same thoughts your daughters will have at the opera." at the latter house, one of the most conspicuous young ladies of her day was miss chudleigh, afterwards duchess of kingston. she was constantly challenging the attention of the house. on one occasion, when a chorus-singer happened to fall on his face in a fit, miss chudleigh drew more notice than sympathy to herself, by pretending to fall into hysterics, and accompanying the pretence with a succession of shrieks and wild laughter. walpole characteristically ridicules this affectation: "as if she had never seen a man fall on his face before!" but ordinary confusion was as nothing, compared with that made on benefit nights, when audiences stood, or were seated in a "building on the stage." when quin returned to play falstaff for ryan's benefit, the impatience of the house was great to behold their old favourite; but he was several minutes forcing his way to the front, through the dense crowd which impeded his path. as for mrs. cibber, wilkinson had seen her as juliet, lying on an old couch, in the tomb of the capulets, all solitary, with a couple of hundred of the audience surrounding her. this occurred only on benefit nights, but even garrick was unable to abolish it altogether. it was really high time for this reformation, seeing that on one occasion, when holland was acting hamlet, for his benefit, and all chiswick (his father's _bakery_ still exists close to the churchyard) was there to support their fellow-villager, a young girl, seeing him drop his hat, the three-cornered cock, which hamlet still wore, she ran, picked it up, and clapped it on his head, wrong side before, in such a way that gave the dane a look of tipsiness; but see the respect of audiences for shakspeare; they refrained from laughing, till hamlet and the ghost were off the stage, and then gave way to peal on peal of unextinguishable hilarity. the author of a "letter to mr. garrick," whom the writer treats with very scant courtesy, remarks, in contrasting the french and english audiences of his time, that it was then usual in france, for the audience of a new and well-approved tragedy, to summon the author before them, that he might personally receive the tribute of public approbation due to his talents. "nothing like this," he says, "ever happened in england!" "and i may say, never will!" is the comment of the author of a rejoinder to the above letter, who adds:--"i know not how far a french audience may carry their complaisance, but were i in the author's case, i should be unwilling to trust to the civility of an english pit or gallery. we know it is the privilege of an english audience to indulge in a riot, upon any pretence. benches have been torn up, and even swords drawn, upon slighter occasions than the damning of a play. suppose, therefore, upon your principle, that every play that is offered should be received, and suppose that some one of them should happen to be damned, might not an english audience, on this occasion, call for the author, not to partake of their applause, indeed, but to receive the tokens of their displeasure. maugre the good opinion which i have received of my own talents, i would not run the hazard of having my play acted upon these terms; for i think it less tremendous and much safer to bear at distance the groans and cat-calls of ill-disposed critics, than to stand the brunt against half-eaten apples and sour oranges from the two galleries." these calls, however, are now common enough; but the french were before us in adopting the fashion. truculent as were the fine gentlemen in our theatres, in the days when swords were worn, they were less pugnacious than irish audiences in their wrath. mossop found this, when he was manager at cork, in . on one night of the season the house was unusually thin, but especially in the pit, where sat one little major, determined to see all, though he sat alone. mossop, unwilling to play at a loss, and to save his having to pay the actors whose salaries were regulated by the number of days on which they performed, came forward, announced that there would be no play, and intimated that all the admission money would be returned. the little major insisted that the play should proceed. mossop remonstrated, but kept to his purpose. the major drew his sword and continued to insist. mossop gently put his hand to _his_ and declined to act. in a couple of leaps the major was on the stage, where the soldier and the player's swords were speedily crossed, and the two men fighting as fiercely as for some dear and noble purpose in peril. the actors and the audience seem to have enjoyed the spectacle; at least no attempt was made to part the combatants till the major had run his sword through the fleshy part of mossop's thigh, and mossop had more slightly wounded the major in the arm. both sides claimed a victory; for the manager, unable to act, closed the theatre; and the soldier, too much hurt to be immediately removed, remained _in_ the house, as he had declared his intention to do. since that period the manners of most irish audiences have _unfortunately_ improved, because the old fun and humour have departed with the exercise of the old license. not that the old license was not frequently of a somewhat uncivilised nature, as when the irish footmen in attendance upon masters and mistresses within, being angered by the withdrawal of some privilege, flung their lighted torches into the house, and nearly succeeded in burning both theatre and audience. sometimes the license had an aspect of rough gallantry. when an actress was more than ordinarily pretty, it was the custom of ardent officers and gentlemen to insist upon escorting the lady home after the play. an incident of this sort once put john kemble's life in peril. the father of miss phillips (afterwards mrs. crouch) being, through illness, unable to attend his daughter, procured for her the guardianship of kemble, who was but too happy to afford it. after the play miss phillips's dressing-room door was beset by a crowd of adorers, sword in hand, and hearts burning beneath their waistcoats, sworn to see her home, whether she would or no. the lady was too alarmed to leave her room; but her deputed and faithful squire urged her to do so, and as she appeared, he gave her his arm, announced the commission he held from the young lady's father, and he declared that he would resent any affront offered to her or to him. therewith he moved forwards, with his charge under determined escort, and the riotous champions gave way, in good-natured admiration of his resolute courage. it was the more resolute, as the gentleman is said to have then entertained a tender regard for the lady; though, as with that for mrs. inchbald, it was all in vain. mr. maguire, mayor of cork, and m.p. for dungarvan, has recently stigmatised the cork theatre as being a locality which has preserved all the ferocity, and lost all the accompanying fun of the olden time. but even a cork audience, in the last century, could be shocked. the rev. c. b. gibson, in his _history of the county and city of cork_, tells us of a tailor there who was hanged for robbery, but who was restored to life by an actor named glover, who probably was in his debt, and dreaded the summary demands of executors. the process of restoration was long and difficult; after it had been accomplished, the tailor arose, went forth, and got drunk, in which state he went to the theatre in the evening, told his story, exhibited the mark of the rope, and tendered very tipsy acknowledgments to the actor for the service rendered. the audience did not at all relish this part of the evening's entertainment. at present the cork gallery seems to be as vulgar and witless as that of the sheldonian theatre at oxford, when filled with undergraduates. the liberty of english audiences has never been dealt with so harshly as that of audiences in continental theatres. in , a theatrical riot took place in the copenhagen theatre. in a burlesque piece, a critic, who had dealt severely with the author, was quite as severely satirised, and a fierce tumult ensued. to prevent its recurrence, hissing and all equivalent marks of disapprobation were magisterially prohibited. this prohibition was long in force, and it is still maintained in continental theatres, when crowned heads are present. on these occasions the audience neither applaud nor hiss, but leave all demonstrations of approval or censure to the illustrious visitors, as if they alone were endowed, for the nonce, with critical acumen. charles fox wound up the idler part of his early life by joining in private theatricals. before he seriously commenced his career as a public man, in , he played horatio, in the "fair penitent," to the lothario of his lively friend, fitzpatrick, at winterslow house near salisbury, the seat of the hon. stephen fox. in the after-piece, "high life below stairs," fox played sir harry's servant with immense spirit; and after the curtain fell the house was burnt to the ground. on the th of january, two days later, the duke of gloucester and his duchess, formerly lady waldegrave, were at covent garden, "for the first time, in ceremony." the duchess was confounded with the excessive applause; turned pale, coloured, and won by her modesty, confusion, and beauty the acclamations which the audience were willing to spare her, on account of the apparent condition of her health. the marriage of this pair had offended the king. the piece selected by them was "jane shore," as illustrative, perhaps, of the evils of _dishonourable_ connections between princes and ladies of lower degree. two nights after this visit of ceremony, the king and queen went in state to drury lane, and saw the "school for wives." it is only to be wondered at that numerous applicable passages in both plays were not noticed by the applause or murmurs of the audience. walpole gives a pretty picture of the audience side of drury lane, on the th of may , on which night lady craven's comedy, the "miniature picture," which had been once privately played at her own house, was acted for the first time in public. "the chief singularity was that she went to it herself the second night 'in _form_,' sat in the middle of the front row of the stage-box, much dressed, with a profusion of white bugles and plumes, to receive the public homage due to her sex and loveliness. the duchess of richmond, lady harcourt, lady edgecumbe, lady aylesbury, mrs. damer, lord craven, general conway, colonel o'hara, mr. lennox, and i were with her. it was amazing to see a young woman entirely possess herself; but there is such an integrity and frankness in the consciousness of her own beauty and talents, that she speaks of them with a _naïveté_, as if she had no property in them, but only wore them as the gift of the gods. lord craven, on the contrary, was quite agitated by his fondness for her, and with impatience at the bad performance of the actors, which was wretched indeed; yet the address of the plot, which is the chief merit of the piece, and some lively pencilling, carried it off very well, though parsons murdered the scotch lord (macgrinnon), and mrs. robinson, who is supposed to be the favourite of the prince of wales, thought on nothing but her own charms, or him. there was a very good, though endless, prologue, written by sheridan, and spoken in perfection by king, which was encored (an entire novelty) the first night; and an epilogue that i liked still better, and which was full as well delivered by mrs. abington, written by mr. jekyll." the prologue was called for a second time, at the conclusion of the play, which was acted after the "winter's tale." king had long before left the house, but though it was past midnight, the audience waited till he was sent for from his own residence, whence he returned to speak the address! "the audience," adds walpole, "though very civil, missed a very fair opportunity of being gallant; for in one of those _logues_, i forget which, the noble authoress was mentioned, and they did not applaud as they ought to have done exceedingly, when she condescended to avow her pretty child, and was there looking so very pretty. i could not help thinking to myself, how many deaths lady harcourt would have suffered rather than encounter such an exhibition; yet lady craven's tranquillity had nothing displeasing--it was only the ease that conscious pre-eminence bestows on sovereigns, whether their empire consists in power or beauty. it was the ascendant of millamant, of lady betty modish, and indamore; and it was tempered by her infinite good nature, which made her make excuses for the actors, instead of being provoked at them." nineteen years later, lady craven, then margravine of anspach, "having with unprecedented kindness and liberality lent mr. fawcett the manuscript of her magnificent and interesting opera, the 'princess of georgia,'" that actor announced it for his benefit, april th, , with an assurance that "nothing should be wanting on his part to render it as acceptable to the public as it was to the nobility who had the pleasure of seeing it at brandenburgh house theatre." on this occasion, however, the house was not so splendidly attended as when the "miniature picture" was represented, and in spite of the melody of incledon, the grimaces of munden, the humour of fawcett, the grace of henry johnston, and the energy of his wife, the "princess of georgia" was heard of no more. there is one circumstance which made a striking difference between the aspects of the french and english pit. one of the popular grievances which the french revolution did not redress, was the appearance of an armed guard, with fixed bayonets, within the theatre. when the curtain rises, the menacing figures withdraw a little; but they are at hand. in the last century they remained throughout the performance, and they kept the pit in a purely passive condition, whatever might be its displeasure, disgust, or discomfort. under the gleam of the bayonet, a spectator no more dared to laugh too loudly at a comedy, than to sob too demonstratively at a tragedy. but gaul and frank were not always to be restrained, and they would hiss heartily at times. ah "il est bien des sifflets mais nous avons la garde!" a too prominent dissentient was sure to be seized by the sentinel, who escorted him to the captain of the guard, who judged him militarily, and, after procuring the signature of the commissary of police, a pure matter of form, sent the offender, for the night, to prison. with this restraint, it is not wonderful that the french audiences were coerced into brutality, and that they readily took offence, were it only to show their manhood. with us it was different. the whole house laughed aloud, or smiled contemptuously at sarcasms fired at them from prologue or epilogue, or by implication in the play. it is singular, too, that so late as , though french audiences _would_ express an opinion, the actors themselves cared little for its being unfavourable, and careless players grew accustomed to be hissed, without being the more careful for it. to remedy this, mercier proposed the appointment of a writer who should watch the theatres and register the insults inflicted on the public by incompetent or indifferent actors, and by incapable poets. it was a proposition, in fact, for the establishment of a theatrical critic, whose judgments were to be recorded in the journals. there was public criticism of all other arts, but up to this time the art of acting was exempt from the censure of the french journals. so, at least, says mercier, who seems, however, to have forgotten that when the abbé raynal conducted the _mercure_ some thirty years previously, the merits of actors _were_ occasionally discussed. french sentinels grew careless, or french individuals waxed bolder. our own gallery was once famous for the presence of a trunkmaker, whose loud applause or shrill censure used to settle the destiny of authors. the house followed, according as the trunkmaker howled or hammered. i know nothing in french audiences to compare with this, except the notorious swiss in the days of towering feathers and broad headdresses--a double fashion, which he succeeded in suppressing. when seated in the back row of a box, unable to see the stage for the fashionable impediments in front, it was his custom to produce a pair of shears and cut away all the obstructions between him and the delights for which he had paid, but could not enjoy. it was probably only a demonstration of destruction which he made, but the result was effectual. at first the ladies made way for him to come to the front; but ultimately they took down their feathers, and narrowed their head-gear, and the swiss, shorn of his grievance, was soon forgotten. this intruder must have often marred the efforts of the best actor; but i remember a case in which the best actor of his day was entirely discountenanced by the quietest and most attentive auditor in the house. john kemble was playing mark antony, in dublin, when his eye happened to fall on a sedate old gentleman, who was eagerly listening to him through an ear-trumpet. the first sight caused the actor to smile, and that at an inappropriate moment, for he was surrounded by his wife octavia (mrs. inchbald) and her children, the play being dryden's "all for love," and the situation affecting. the more john kemble endeavoured to suppress his inclination to smile, the less he was able to control himself; as his agitation increased, the ear-trumpet was directed towards him more pertinaciously; seeing which the actor broke forth into a peal of laughter, and rushed in confusion from the stage. the audience had discovered the cause, and laughed with him; while the deaf gentleman, unconscious of his own part in the performance, and marking the hilarious faces around him, dropped his trumpet with the vexed air of a man who had lost a point, and could not account for it. then, if there were infirm, so were there sentimental, auditors. in the _morning post_, of september , , we are told that:--"a gentleman, said to be a captain in the army, was so very much agitated on miss brown's appearance on wednesday night, that it was imagined it would be necessary to convey him out of the house; but a sudden burst of tears relieved him, and he sat out the farce with tolerable calmness and composure. the gentleman is said to have entertained a passion for that lady last winter, and meant to have asked her hand as a man of honour, but--!" there were other curiosities in front, besides this sentimental captain. the famous lady hamilton drew large audiences to drury lane towards the close of the century, when it was announced that the performance would be honoured by the attendance of herself and her husband, sir william, our minister to the neapolitan court. the house gazed upon the beauty, and the beauty was deeply interested in the acting of mrs. powell, who, in her turn, was as deeply interested in my lady. between the two women a connection existed which was little suspected by the audience. the ambassador's wife and the tragedy queen had first met under very different circumstances, in the house of dr. budd, in blackfriars, where jane powell filled the office of housemaid, and emma harte, as she was then called, was employed as under maid in the nursery. at this period i do not know that our galleries at least were more civilised than they were in earlier days--that is, our provincial galleries: that of liverpool, for instance--as the obese, little low comedian, hollingsworth, once experienced. he was looking at the house through the aperture in the curtain, when the twinkle of his eye being detected by a ruffian aloft, the latter, running a penknife through an apple, hurled it, perhaps at random, but so fatally true, that the point of the knife struck the unoffending actor so close to the eye that for some time his sight was despaired of. the gallery patrons of the drama in london were as rude, but less cruel, in their ruffianism. an orange, flung at a lady in court dress, seems to have been a favourite missile for a favourite pastime. i meet with one of these ruffians in presence of a magistrate, who solemnly assures him, that if he is ever guilty of a similar outrage, he will be taken on to the stage and compelled to ask pardon of the house--an honour at which the fellow would, probably, have been exceedingly gratified. we have a sample of the coolness of an irish debutant and the patience of an audience of the last century; the first, in the person of dexter, whom garrick, on the secession of barry from his company, brought over, with ross and mossop, from dublin. dexter, on the night of his first appearance, in "oroonoko", was comfortably seated in the pit, where he remained chatting with his friends and supporters until the "second music" commenced. this music, in the old days, was ordinarily played half an hour before the curtain rose. this was a long period for an audience to be kept further waiting; but it was a short period wherein a tragedian might prepare and deck himself for a sort of solemn ordeal. the _début_ proved successful; and garrick generously expressed great admiration and hopefulness of the young actor, who, nevertheless, soon fell out of estimation of the audience, as might have been expected, from the cool and careless proceeding of his first night, when he walked out of a crowded pit to hastily dress himself for an arduous part. this was a sort of liberty which a french pit would not have tolerated. it bore, however, with other freedoms. when it laughed, as the children were brought in, in "inez de castro," madame duclos, who was the weeping inez, turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, "fools! it is the most touching part of the piece!" and then resumed weeping. again: du fresne, acting sévère, in "polyeucte," speaking low as he was confiding a perilous secret to a friend, was interrupted by cries of "louder! louder!" "and you, sirs, not so loud!" cried the calmly-angry actor, to a pit which took the rebuke meekly;--as meekly as our public took the verdict of foote, who says, in his _treatise on the passions_,--"there are twelve thousand playgoers in london; but not the four and twentieth part of them can judge correctly of the merits of plays or players." then, considering the measure of respect which actors used to profess that they entertained for audiences, the liberties which the former occasionally took with the latter was remarkable. when mrs. griffiths's "wife in the right" was coldly received, she laid the blame on shuter (governor andrews), who had neglected to attend rehearsal. on a succeeding night, accordingly, the audience hissed shuter as soon as he appeared. he defended himself by asserting that illness had kept him from rehearsal; "but, gentlemen," said he, "if there is any one here who wants to know if i had been drunk three days before, i acknowledge that i had, and beg pardon for that." the audience forgave the rude actor and condemned the play. again: a few years subsequently, at york, mrs. montagu was cast for the queen in hull's romantic play, "henry ii." she was a great favourite; and she claimed the more agreeable part of rosamond, which had been taken by mrs. hudson,--the play being acted for her benefit. mrs. montagu refused to study the part of queen eleanor; and under the plea of illness preventing study, she sent an actor forward to state that she would read the part. mrs. hudson's friends insisted on mrs. montagu appearing, to explain her own case; and then the imperious lady swept on to the stage, with the saucy exclamation, "who's afraid?" and the equally saucy intimation that she _would_ read the part, for she had not had time to learn it. this excited the wrath of the house; and some one cried out that the audience would rather hear it read by the cook-wench at the next ale-house than by her. then, dame montagu, as she was called, fired by the remark, and by cries forbidding her to read and commanding her to act, looked scornfully at the pit, flung the book which she held into the centre of the crowd, and with a "there!--curse you all!" swept off the stage, amid the mingled hisses and laughter of the house. but she was not permitted to act again. covent garden audiences were more patient with saucy actresses; and they could even bear with mrs. lesingham, the handsome and too intimate friend of harris, the proprietor, coming on to speak a prologue, in which she was so imperfect, that a man stood close to her with a copy, to prompt her in the words. for less disrespect than this, the same audience had demanded the dismissal of an actor, and condemned him to penury. macklin suffered twice in this way, from the capricious but cruel judgment of the house; and having here mentioned his name, i will proceed to notice the career of a man who belongs to so many eras. footnotes: [ ] should be . the "chinese festival" was produced th november . [ ] probably a misprint for "ten nights later," october and october being the dates in question. [ ] should be th may. [ ] see the _london chronicle_, th october , for the account of this visit. [ ] dr. doran omits "this raised a prodigious and continued hiss, harlequin all the while suspended in the air." [illustration: mr. macklin as shylock.] chapter iii. charles macklin. a little child, about the last year of the reign of william iii.,--a boy who is said to have been born, _anno domini_ , was taken to derry, to kiss the hand of, and wish a happy new year to, the old head of his family, mr. m'laughlin. this ceremony was kept up in the family circle, because the m'laughlins were held to be of royal descent, and the mr. m'laughlin in question to be the representative of some line of ancient kings of ireland! in the summer of , an old actor is dying out in tavistock row, covent garden. hull and munden, and davies and ledger, and friends on and off the stage, occasionally look in and talk of old times with that ancient man, whose memory, however, is weaker than his frame. he has been an eccentric but rare player in his day. he had acted with contemporaries of betterton; had seen, or co-operated with, every celebrity of the stage since; and did not withdraw from that stage till after braham, who was among us but as yesterday, had sung his first song on it. he gave counsel to old charles mathews, and he may have seen little edmund kean being carried in a woman's arms from the neighbourhood of leicester square to drury lane theatre, where the pale little fellow had to act an imp in a pantomime. the old man, carried, in the summer last named, to his grave in the corner of st. paul's, covent garden, was the child who had done homage to a traditional king of ireland, so many years before. if macklin (as charles m'laughlin came to call himself) was born at the date above given, the incidents of his life connect him with very remote periods. he was born two months before king william gained the battle of the boyne;[ ] and he lived to hear of captain nelson's prowess, to read of the departure to india of that lieutenant-colonel wellesley, whose career of martial glory culminated at waterloo, and to have seen, perhaps, a smart young lad, just then in his teens, the hon. henry temple,--now viscount palmerston and prime minister of england! five sovereigns and five-and-twenty administrations, from godolphin to pitt, succeeded each other, while charles macklin was thus progressing on his journey of life. charles macklin represents contradiction, sarcasm, irritability, restlessness. it came of a double source,--his descent and the line of characters which he most affected. his father was a stern presbyterian farmer, in ulster; his mother, a rigid roman catholic. at the siege of derry, three of his uncles were among the besiegers, and three among the besieged; and he had another,--a roman catholic priest, who undertook to educate him, but who consigned the mission to nature. i have somewhere read that at five-and-thirty, macklin could not read, perfectly; but _that_ is a fable; or at eight or nine, he could hardly have played monimia, in private theatricals, at the house of the good ulster lady, who looked after him more carefully than the priest, and more tenderly than nature. in after years, quin said of macklin that he had--not _lines_ in his face, but _cordage_; and again, on seeing macklin dressed and painted for shylock, quin remarked that if ever heaven had written villain on a brow it was on that fellow's! one can hardly fancy that the gentle monimia could ever have found a representative in one who came to be thus spoken of; but he is said to have succeeded in this respect, perfectly, and in voice, feature, and action, to have counterfeited that most interesting of orphans with great success. it was a fatal success, in one sense. it inspired the boy with a desire to act on a wider stage. it created in him a disgust for the vocation to which he was destined,--that of a saddler,--from which he ran away before he was apprentice enough to sew a buckle on a girth; and the lad made off for the natural attraction of all irish lads,--dublin. his ambition could both soar and stoop; and he entered trinity college as a badge-man or porter, which illustrious place and humble office he quitted in . except that he turned stroller, and suffered the sharp pangs which strollers feel,--and enjoyed the roving life led by players on the tramp, little is here known of him. he seems to have served some five years to this rough and rollicking apprenticeship, and then to have succeeded in being allowed to appear at lincoln's inn fields, in , as alcander, in "oedipus." his manner of speaking was found too "familiar," that is, too _natural_. he had none, he said, of the hoity-toity, sing-song delivery then in vogue; and rich recommended him to _go to grass again_; and accordingly to green fields and strolling he returned. i suppose some manager had his eye on macklin at southwark fair, in , for he passed thence immediately to lincoln's inn fields. he played small parts, noticed in another page, and was probably thankful to get them, not improving his cast till he went to drury lane, in , when he played the elder cibber's line of characters, and in created snip in the farce of the "merry cobler," and came thereby in peril of his life. one evening, a fellow actor, hallam, grandfather of merry mrs. mattocks, took from macklin's dressing-room, a wig, which the latter wore in the farce. the players were in the "scene room," some of them seated on the settle in front of the fire, when a quarrel broke out between hallam and macklin, which was carried on so loudly that the actors then concluding the first piece were disturbed by it. hallam, at length, surrendered the "property," but, after doing so, used words of such offence that macklin, equally unguarded in language, and more unguarded in action, struck at him with his cane, in order to thrust him from the room. unhappily the cane penetrated through hallam's eye, to the brain, and killed him. macklin's deep concern could not save him from standing at the bar of the old bailey on a charge of murder. the jury returned him guilty of manslaughter, without malice aforethought, and the contrite actor was permitted to return to his duty. among the friends he possessed was mrs. booth, widow of barton booth, in whose house was domiciled as companion a certain grace purvor, who could dance almost as well as santlow herself, and had otherwise great attractions. colley cibber loved to look in at mrs. booth's to listen to grace's well-told stories; macklin went thither to tell his own to grace; and john, duke of argyle, flitted about the same lady for purposes of his own, which he had the honesty to give up, when macklin informed him of the honourable interest he took in the friend of mrs. booth. macklin married grace, and the latter proved excellent both as wife and actress--of her qualities in the latter respect i have already spoken. for some years macklin himself failed to reap the distinction he coveted. the attainment was made, however, in , when he induced fleetwood to revive shakspeare's "merchant of venice," with macklin for shylock. there was a whisper that he was about to play the jew as a serious character. his comrades laughed, and the manager was nervous. the rehearsals told them nothing, for there macklin did little more than walk through the part, lest the manager should prohibit the playing of the piece, if the nature of the reform macklin was about to introduce should make him fearful of consequences. in some such dress as that we now see worn by shylock, macklin, on the night of the th of february,[ ] , walked down the stage, and looking through the eyelet-hole in the curtain, saw the two ever-formidable front rows of the pit occupied by the most highly-dreaded critics of the period. the house was also densely crowded. he returned from his survey, calm and content, remarking, "good! i shall be tried to-night by a special jury!" there was little applause, to macklin's disappointment, on his entrance, yet people were pleased at the aspect of a jew whom rembrandt might have painted. the opening scene was spoken in familiar, but earnest accents. not a hand yet gave token of approbation, but there occasionally reached macklin's ears, from the two solemn rows of judge and jury in the pit, the sounds of a "good!" and "very good!" "very well, indeed!"--and he passed off more gratified by this than by the slight general applause intended for encouragement. as the play proceeded, so did his triumph grow. in the scene with tubal, which dogget in lansdowne's version had made so comic, he shook the hearts, and not the sides of the audience. there was deep emotion in that critical pit. the sympathies of the house went all for shylock; and at last, a storm of acclamation, a very hurricane of approval, roared pleasantly over macklin. so far all was well; but the trial scene had yet to come. it came; and there the triumph culminated. the actor was not loud, nor grotesque; but shylock was natural, calmly confident, and so terribly malignant, that when he whetted his knife, to cut the forfeit from that bankrupt there, a shudder went round the house, and the profound silence following told macklin that he held his audience by the heart-strings, and that his hearers must have already acknowledged the truth of his interpretation of shakspeare's jew. when the act-drop fell, then the pent-up feelings found vent, and old drury shook again with the tumult of applause. the critics went off to the coffee-houses in a state of pleasurable excitement. as for the other actors, quin (antonio) must have felt the master-mind of that night. mrs. pritchard (nerissa), excellent judge as she was, must have enjoyed the terrible grandeur of that trial-scene; and even kitty clive (portia) could not have dared, on that night, to do what she ordinarily made portia do, in the disguise of young bellario; namely, mimic the peculiarities of some leading lawyer of the day. and macklin?--macklin remarked, as he stood among his fellows, all of whom were, i hope, congratulatory, "i am not worth fifty pounds in the world; nevertheless, on this night am i charles the great!" that pope was in the house on the third night, and that he pronounced macklin to be the jew that shakspeare drew, is not improbable; but the statement that macklin, soon after, dined with pope and bolingbroke at battersea is manifestly untrue, for the latter was then living in retirement, at fontainbleau. it could not have been in such company, at this period, that pope asked the actor, why he dressed shylock in a red hat, and that macklin replied, it was because he had read in an old history that the jews in venice were obliged, by law, to wear a hat of that decided colour;--which was true. macklin was proud and impetuous, and often lost engagements, by offending; and regained them by publicly apologising. he was an actor well established in favour, when, in the season of - , he made his first appearance as an author in an _àpropos_ tragedy for the ' era, "henry vii., or the popish impostor." the anachronism in the title is only to be matched by the violations done to chronology and propriety in the play,--a crude work, six weeks in the doing. it settles, however, in some degree, the time when macklin left the church of rome for that of england. it must have been prior to the period in which he wrote the above-named piece. after it took place, he used to describe himself "as staunch a protestant as the archbishop of canterbury, and on the same principles;"--a compliment, i suppose, to john potter! after playing during four seasons at drury lane, macklin spent from to in dublin, where he and his wife were to receive £ a year. he delighted the public, and helped to ruin the manager, sheridan, who was unable to fulfil his engagement, and got involved in a lawsuit. from to [ ] macklin was at covent garden, where one of his most extraordinary parts was mercutio, to barry's romeo!--a part for which he was utterly unfit, but which he held to be one of his best!--not inferior to woodward's! his view of the rival romeos, too, had something original in it. barry, he said, in the garden scene, came on with a lordly swagger, and talked so loud that the servants ought to have come out and tossed him in a blanket; but garrick sneaked into the garden, like a thief in the night. and at this critical comment the latter did not feel flattered. in [ ] macklin introduced his daughter, with a prologue, and withdrew himself from the stage, to appear in a new character, that of master of a tavern, where dinners might be had at s. a head,[ ] including any sort of wine the guest might choose to ask for! the house was under the piazza, in covent garden; and mr. macklin's "great room in hart street" subsequently became george robins' auction-room. i do not like to contemplate macklin in this character, bringing in the first dish, the napkin over his arm, at the head of an array of waiters, who robbed him daily; that done, he steps backwards to the sideboard, bows, and then directs all proceedings by signs. the cloth drawn, he advances to the head of the table, makes another servile bow, fastens the bell-rope to the chair, and hoping he has made everything agreeable, retires! the lectures on the drama and ancient art, and the debates which followed, in his great room, the "british inquisition," were not in much better taste. the wits of the town found excellent sport in interrupting the debaters, and few were more active in this way than foote. "do you know what i am going to say?" asked macklin. "no," said foote, "_do you?_" on the th of january , charles macklin was in the list of what the _gentleman's magazine_ used to politely call the "b--ts," as failing in the character of vintner, coffee-man, and chapman. his examination only showed that he had failed in prudence. he had been an excellent father, and on his daughter's education alone he had expended £ . he remained disengaged till december th, , when he appeared at drury lane, as shylock, and sir archy macsarcasm, in "love à la mode," a piece of his own. from the profits received on each night of its being acted, macklin stipulated that he should have a share during life. the arrangement was advantageous to him, although this little piece was not at first successful. after a season at drury, he passed the next at the garden, and in [ ] reappeared in dublin, at smock alley, then at crow street, and capel street, under rival managers mossop, sheridan,[ ] or barry, and with more profit to himself than to them. in he returned to covent garden, where he made an attempt at macbeth, which brought on that famous theatrical "row" which macklin laid to the enmity of reddish and sparks, and of which i have spoken, under that year. with intervals of rest, macklin continued to play, without increase of fame, till ,[ ] when he produced his original play, the "man of the world," and created, at the age, probably, of ninety years, sir pertinax macsycophant, one of the most arduous characters in a great actor's repertory. the lord chamberlain licensed this admirable piece with great reluctance, for though the satire was general, it was severe, and susceptible of unpleasant and particular application. shylock, sir pertinax, and sir archy, were often played by the old actor, whose memory did not begin to fail till , when it first tripped, as he was struggling to play shylock. the aged actor tottered to the lights, talked of the inexplicable terror of mind which had come over him, and asked for indulgence to so aged a servant; and then he went on, now brilliantly, now all uncertain and confused. he was to play the same character for his benefit, on may th, , and went into the green-room dressed for the part. whether he was then in his th or his th year, the effort was a great one; and, anticipating it might fail, the manager had requested ryder, an actor of merit, who had been a great favourite and a luckless manager in ireland, to be ready to supply macklin's place. the older performer seeing good miss pope in the green-room, asked her if she was to play that night. "to be sure i am, dear sir," she said; "you see i am dressed for portia." macklin looked vacantly at her, and, in an imbecile tone of voice, remarked, "i had forgotten; who plays shylock?" "who? why you, sir; you are dressed for it!" the aged representative of the jew was affected; he put his hand to his forehead, and in a pathetic tone deplored his waning memory; and then went on the stage; spoke, or tried to speak, two or three speeches, struggled with himself, made one or two fruitless efforts to get clear, and then paused, collected his thoughts, and, in a few mournful words, acknowledged his inability, asked their pardon, and, under the farewell applause of the house, was led off the stage, for ever. as an actor, he was without trick; his enunciation was clear, in every syllable. taken as a whole, he probably excelled every actor who has ever played shylock, say his biographers; but i remember edmund kean, and make that exception. he was not a great tragedian, nor a good light comedian, but in comedy and farce, where rough energy is required, and in parts resembling shylock, in their earnest malignity, he was paramount. he was also an excellent teacher, very impatient with mediocrity, but very careful with the intelligent. easily moved to anger, his pupils, and, indeed, many others stood in awe of him; but he was honourable, generous, and humane; convivial, frank, and not more free in his style than his contemporaries; but naturally irascible, and naturally forgiving. eccentricity was second nature to him, and seems to have been so with other men of his blood. his nephew and godson, the rev. charles macklin, held an incumbency in ireland, which he lost because he would indulge in a particular sort of church discipline. at the close of his sermon he used to administer the benediction, and the bagpipes. with the first he dismissed the congregation, and, taking up the second, he blew his people out with a lusty voluntary. when macklin left the stage, his second wife, the widow of a dublin hosier, and a worthy woman, looked their fortune in the face. it consisted of £ in ready money, and an annuity of £ . friends were ready, but the proud old actor was not made to be wounded in his pride; he was made, in a measure, to help himself. his two pieces, "love à la mode," and the "man of the world," were published by subscription. with nearly £ realised thereby, an annuity was purchased of £ for macklin's life, and £ for his wife, in case of her survival. and this annuity he enjoyed till the th of july , when the descendant of the royal m'laughlins died, after a theatrical life, not reckoning the strolling period, of sixty-four years. if macklin was really of the old school, that school taught what was truth and nature. his acting was essentially manly, there was nothing of trick about it. his delivery was more level than modern speaking, but certainly more weighty, direct, and emphatic. his features were rigid, his eye cold and colourless; yet the earnestness of his manner, and sterling sense of his address, produced an effect in shylock that has remained, with one exception, unrivalled. boaden thought cooke's sir pertinax noisy, compared with macklin's. "he talked of _booing_, but it was evident he took a credit for suppleness that was not in him. macklin could inveigle as well as subdue; and modulated his voice almost to his last year, with amazing skill." in his earlier days, macklin was an acute inquirer into meaning; and always rendered his conceptions with force and beauty. in reading milton's lines-- "of man's first disobedience and the fruit of that for-bid-den tree--whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe," the first word in capitals was uttered with an awful regret, the suitable forerunner, says boaden, "to the great amiss" which follows. macklin's chief objection to garrick was directed against his reckless abundance of action and gesture; all trick, start, and ingenious attitude were to him subjects of scorn. he finely derided the hamlets who were violently horrified and surprised, instead of solemnly awed, on first seeing the ghost. "recollect, sir," he would say, "hamlet came there to see his father's spirit." kirkman gives us a picture of macklin, in his old age, which is illustrative of the man, and his antagonism to quin. the scene is at the rainbow coffee house, king street, covent garden, in , where some one of the company had asked him if he had ever quarrelled with quin. "yes, sir," was the answer. "i was very low in the theatre as an actor, when the surly fellow was the despot of the place. but, sir, i had--had a lift, sir. yes; i was to play the--the--the boy with the red breeches;--you know who i mean, sir;--he, whose mother is always going to law;--you know who i mean!" "_jerry blackacre_, i suppose, sir?" "aye, sir,--_jerry_. well, sir, i began to be a little known to the public; and egad, i began to make them laugh. i was called the _wild irishman_, sir; and was thought to have some fun in me; and i made them laugh heartily at the boy, sir,--in jerry. "when i came off the stage, the surly fellow, who played the scolding captain in the play; captain--captain--you know who i mean!" "_manly_, i believe, sir?" "aye, sir,--the same _manly_. well, sir, the surly fellow began to scold me; told me i was at my tricks, and that there was no having a chaste scene for me. everybody, nay, egad, the manager himself, was afraid of him. i was afraid of the fellow, too; but not much. well, sir, i told him i did not mean to disturb _him_ by my acting, but to _show off a little myself_. well, sir, in the other scenes i did the same, and made the audience laugh incontinently;--and he scolded me again, sir. i made the same apology; but the surly fellow would not be appeased. again, sir, however, i did the same; and when i returned to the green-room, he abused me like a pickpocket, and said i must leave off my _d----d tricks_. i told him i could not play otherwise. he said i _could_, and i _should_. upon which, sir, egad, i said to him flatly,--'you lie.' he was chewing an apple at this moment; and spitting the contents into his hand, he threw them in my face." "indeed!" "it is a fact, sir! well, sir, i went up to him directly (for i was a great _boxing cull_ in those days), and pushed him down into a chair, and pummelled his face d----bly." "you did right, sir." "he strove to resist, but he was no match for me; and i made his face swell so with the blows, that he could hardly speak. when he attempted to go on with his part, sir, he mumbled so, that the audience began to hiss. upon which, he went forward and told them, sir, that something unpleasant had happened, and that he was really very ill. but, sir, the moment i went to strike him, there were many noblemen in the green-room, full dressed, with their swords and large wigs (for the green-room was a sort of state-room then, sir). well, they were all alarmed, and jumped upon the benches, waiting in silent amazement till the affair was over. "at the end of the play, sir, he told me i must give him satisfaction; and that when he changed his dress, he would wait for me at the obelisk, in covent garden. i told him i would be with him;--but, sir, when he was gone, i recollected that i was to play in the pantomime (for i was a great pantomimic boy in those days). so, sir, i said to myself, 'd---- the fellow; let him wait; i won't go to him till my business is all over; let him fume and fret, and be hanged!' well, sir, mr. fleetwood, the manager, who was one of the best men in the world,--all kindness, all mildness, and graciousness and affability,--had heard of the affair; and as quin was his great actor, and in favour with the town, he told me i had had revenge enough; and that i should not meet the surly fellow that night; but that he would make the matter up, somehow or other. "well, sir, mr. fleetwood ordered me a good supper, and some wine, and made me sleep at his house all night, to prevent any meeting. well, sir, in the morning he told me, that i must, for _his sake_, make a little apology to him for what i had done. and so, sir, i, to oblige mr. fleetwood (for i loved the man), did, sir, make some apology to him; and the matter dropped." macklin's character has been described in exactly opposite colours, according to the bias of the friend or foe who affords the description. he is angel or fiend, rough or tender, monster, honest man or knave,--and so forth; but he was, of course, neither so bad as his foes nor so bright as his friends made him out to be. one thing is certain, that his judgment and his execution were excellent. in a very few tragic parts, he acted well; in comedy and farce, where villainy and humour were combined, he was admirable and original. of characters which he played originally (and those were few), he rendered none celebrated, except sir archy, sir pertinax, and murrough o'doherty, in pieces of which he was the author. his other principal characters were iago, sir francis wronghead, trappanti, lovegold, scrub, peachum, polonius, and some others in pieces now not familiar to us. that macklin was a "hard actor" there is no doubt; churchill, who allows him no excellence, says he was affected, constrained, "dealt in half-formed sounds," violated nature, and that his features, which seemed to disdain each other,-- "at variance set, inflexible, and coarse, ne'er know the workings of united force, ne'er kindly soften to each other's aid, nor show the mingled pow'rs of light and shade." but "cits and grave divines his praise proclaimed," and macklin had a large number of admiring friends. in his private life, he had to bear many sorrows, and he bore them generally well, but one, in particular, with the silent anguish of a father who sees his son sinking fast to destruction, and glorying in the way which he is going. ten years before macklin died, he lost his daughter. miss macklin was a pretty and modest person; respectable alike on and off the stage; artificially trained, but yet highly accomplished. macklin had every reason to be proud of her, for everybody loved her for her gentleness and goodness. as a child, in , she had played childish parts, and since , those of the highest walk in tragedy and comedy, but against competition which was too strong for her. she was the original irene, in "barbarossa," and clarissa, in "lionel and clarissa," and was very fond of acting parts in which the lady had to assume male attire. this fondness was the cause, in some measure, of her death; it led to her buckling her garter so tightly that a dangerous tumour formed in the inner part of the leg, near the knee. i do not fancy that miss macklin had ever heard of mary of burgundy, who suffered from a similar infirmity, but the actress was like the duchess in this,--from motives of delicacy she would not allow a leg which she had liberally exhibited on the stage, to be examined by her own doctor. ultimately, a severe operation became necessary. miss macklin bore it with courage, but it compelled her to leave the stage, and her strength gradually failing, she died in ,[ ] at the age of forty-eight, and i wish she had left some portion of her fortune to her celebrated but impoverished father. miss macklin reminds me of miss barsanti, the original lydia languish, whose course on the london stage dates from .[ ] the peculiarity of miss barsanti,--a clever imitator of english and italian singers,--was the opposite of that which distinguished miss macklin. she had registered a vow that she would never assume male attire; nevertheless, she was once cast for signor arionelli, in the "son-in-law," a part originally played by bannister. this was after her retirement from london, and when she was mrs. lisley,--playing in dublin. the time of the play is , but the actress, who might have worn a great coat, if she had been so minded, assumed--for a music-master of that period, in london--the oriental costume of a pre-christian, or of no period, worn by arbaces, in _artaxerxes_! miss barsanti was an honest woman who, on becoming mrs. lisley, wished to assume her husband's name, but that gentleman's family forbade what they had no right to prohibit. her second husband's family was less particular, and in theatrical biographies, she is the mrs. daly, the wife of the active irish manager, of that name; who is for ever memorable as being the _only_ irish manager who ever realised a fortune, and took it with him into retirement. there remain to be noticed, before we pass to the siddons period, several actresses, of higher importance than the above ladies, as well as actors, whose claims are only second to those of macklin. [illustration: mr. foote as the devil upon two sticks.] footnotes: [ ] it is quite apocryphal that macklin was two months old when his father was killed at the battle of the boyne. when he was in full possession of his faculties he said he was born in november . as he died in he had accomplished ninety-seven years, the age stated on his coffin-lid, and was in his ninety-eighth year.--_doran ms._ dr. doran no doubt means that macklin's father was not killed at the battle of the boyne. [ ] th of february ( d edition). [ ] macklin does not seem to have been at covent garden in . he had a farewell benefit at drury lane, th december , after which he opened his tavern. [ ] miss macklin made her first appearance, as a woman, on th april , on the occasion of her father's benefit. [ ] cooke, whose account of this matter is very full, says s. a head. [ ] macklin was at drury lane, - ; covent garden, - ; and was in dublin, at crow street, in - . [ ] sheridan was not manager after . macklin acted under the management of dawson also. [ ] . the "man of the world" was produced th may . [ ] should be . [ ] her english playing ended in , after which year she acted only in ireland. [illustration: mr. smith and mrs. yates in the "provoked husband."] chapter iv. a bevy of ladies;--but chiefly, mrs. bellamy, miss farren, mrs. abington, and "perdita." a dozen more of ladies, all of desert, and some of extraordinary merit, passed away from the stage during the latter portion of the last century. mrs. green, hippisley's daughter, and governor hippisley's sister,--the original mrs. malaprop, and, but for mrs. clive, the first of petulant abigails, finished in [ ] a public career which began in .[ ] in the same year,[ ] but after a brief service of about eight years, mason's elfrida and evelina, the voluptuous mrs. hartley, in her thirtieth year, went into a retirement which she enjoyed till . she was "the most perfect beauty that was ever seen,"--more perfect than "the carrara," who was "the prettiest creature upon earth." her beauty, however, was of feature, lacking expression, and though an impassioned, she was not an intelligent actress, unless her plunging her stage-wooers into mad love for her be a proof of it. no wonder, had smith only not been married, that he grew temporarily insane about this young, graceful, and fair creature. then, from the london stage, at least, fell mrs. baddeley, at the end of the season, - . she was a pretty actress with a good voice, and so little love for mr. baddeley and so much for george garrick that a duel came of it. the parties went out, to hyde park, on a november morning of . baddeley was stirred up to fight davy's brother, by a jewish friend, who, being an admirer of the lady, wanted her husband to shoot her lover! the two pale combatants fired anywhere but at each other, and then the lady rushed in, crying, "spare him!" without indicating the individual! whereupon, husband and friend took the fair one, each by a hand, and went to dinner; and the married couple soon after played together in "it's well it's no worse!" but worse did come, and separation, and exposure, and _memoirs_ to brighten mrs. baddeley, which, like those of mrs. pilkington, only blackened her the more. she passed to country engagements, charming audiences for awhile with her polly, rosetta, clarissa, and imogen, till laudanum, cognac, paralysis, and small sustenance, made an end of her, when she had lost everything she could value, save her beauty. the third departure was of as mad a creature as she, miss catley--the irish songstress, all smiles and dimples, and roguish beauty; who loved, like nell gwyn, to loll about in the boxes, and call to authors that she was glad their play was damned; and to ladies, to stand up that she might look at them, and to display the fashion of her dress, which those ladies eagerly copied. her "tyburn top," which she wore in macheath, set the mode for the hair for many a day; and to be _catley-fied_ was to be decked out becomingly. a more illustrious pair next left the stage more free to mrs. siddons, or her coming rendered it less tenable to them; namely, mrs. yates and george anne bellamy--the former appearing for the last time for the benefit of the latter. more than thirty years before, as mrs. graham, young, fat, and weak-voiced, she failed in dublin. in - , she made almost as unsatisfactory a _début_ at drury lane in a new part, marcia, in "virginia," in which she only showed promise. richard yates then married and instructed her, and she rapidly improved, but could not compete with mrs. cibber, till that lady's illness caused mandane ("orphan of china") to be given to mrs. yates, who, by her careful acting, at once acquired a first-rate reputation. in the classical heroines of the dull old classical tragedies of the last century, she was wonderfully effective, and her medea was so peculiarly her own, that mrs. siddons herself never disturbed the public memory of it by acting the part. when mrs. cibber died in ,[ ] mrs. yates succeeded to the whole of her inheritance, some of which was a burthen too much for her; but she kept her position, with mrs. barry (crawford) for a rival, till mrs. siddons promised at bath to come and dispossess both. mrs. yates recited beautifully, was always dignified, but seems to have wanted variety of expression. with a haughty mien, and a powerful voice, she was well suited to the strong-minded heroines of tragedy; but the more tender ladies, desdemona or monimia, she could not compass. to the pride and violence of calista she was equal, but in pathos she was wanting. her comedy was as poor as that of mrs. siddons; her jane shore as good; her medea so sublime as to be unapproachable. i suspect she was a little haughty; for impudent weston says in his will: "to mrs. yates i leave all my humility!" in one character of comedy she is said, indeed, to have excelled--violante, in the "wonder," to the playfulness, loving, bickering, pouting, and reconciliations, in which her "queen-like majesty" does not seem to have been exactly suitable. her _scorn_ was never equalled but by mrs. siddons, and it would be difficult to determine which lady had the more lofty majesty. in passion mrs. yates swept the stage as with a tempest; yet she was always under control. for instance, in lady constance, after wildly screaming, "i will not keep this form upon my head, when there is much disorder in my wit," she did not cast to the ground the thin white cap which surmounted her headdress, but quietly took it from her head, and placed it on the right side of the circumference of her hoop! mrs. yates died in . george anne bellamy is unfortunate in having a story, which honest women seldom have. that pleasant place, mount sion, at tunbridge wells, was the property of her mother, a quaker farmer's daughter, named seal, who, on _her_ mother falling into distress, was taken by mrs. gregory,[ ] the sister of the duke of marlborough, to be educated. miss seal was placed in an academy in queen's square, westminster, so dull a locality, that the rascally lord tyrawley had no difficulty in persuading her to run away from it, in his company, and to his apartments, in somerset house. when my lord wanted a little change, he left miss seal with her infant son, and crossed to ireland to make an offer to the daughter of the earl of blessington. she was ugly, he said, but had money; and when he got possession of both, he would leave the first, and bring the latter with renewed love, to share with miss seal. the lady was so particularly touched by this letter, that she sent it, with others, to the earl, who, rendered angry thereat, forbade his daughter to marry my lord, but found they were married already. tyrawley hoped thus to secure lady mary stewart's fortune; but discovering she had none at her disposal, he naturally felt he had been deceived, and turned his wife off to her relations. having gone through this amount of villainy, king george thought he was qualified to represent him at lisbon, and thither lord tyrawley proceeded accordingly. he would have taken miss seal with him, but she preferred to go on the stage. ultimately she _did_ consent to go; and was received with open arms; but she was so annoyed by the discovery of a swarthy rival, that she listened to the wooing of a captain bellamy, married him, and presented him with a daughter with such promptitude, that the modest captain ran away from so clever a woman, and never saw her afterwards. lord tyrawley, proud of the implied compliment, acknowledged the little george anne bellamy, born on st. george's day, , as his daughter. he exhibited the greatest care in her education. he kept her at a boulogne convent from her fifth to her eighth year, and then brought her up at his house at bexley, amid noble young scamps, whose society was quite as useful to her as if she had been at a "finishing" school. lord tyrawley having perfected himself in the further study of demi-rippism, went as the representative of england to russia, leaving an allowance for his daughter, which so warmed up her mother's affections for her, that george anne was induced to live with her, and george anne's mother hoped that her annuity would do so too, but my lord, having different ideas, stopped the annuity, and did not care to recover his daughter. the two women were destitute; but the younger one was very youthful, was rarely beautiful, had certain gifts, and, of course, the managers heard of her. she had played miss prue for bridgewater's benefit, in , and gave promise. in , rich heard her recite, and announced her for monimia. quin was angry at having to play chamont to "such a child;" but the little thing manifested such tenderness and ability, that he confessed she was charming. lord byron thought so too, and carried her off in his coach to a house at the corner of north audley street, which looked over the dull oxford road to the desolate fields beyond. much scandal ensued; amid which miss bellamy's half-brother appeared, shook his sister as a pert baggage, and sorely mauled my lord; but lord byron lived to murder mr. chaworth in a duel, to be found guilty of slaughtering the poor man, and consequently, being a peer, to be discharged on paying his fees! then miss bellamy went among some quaker relations who had never previously seen her, and charmed them so by her soft, and winning, and simple quakerish ways, that they would have made an idol of her, if friends ever made an idol of anything, but lucre and themselves. a discovery that she was an actress brought this phase of her life to an end, and it was followed by a triumphant season on the dublin stage, from to , where she made such a sensation, reigned so like a queen, and was altogether so irresistible and rich, that lord tyrawley's family acknowledged her. my lord himself became reconciled to her, through old quin, and would have spent her income for her after she was re-engaged at covent garden, in , if she would only have married his friend, mr. crump. rather than do that, she let a mr. metham carry her off from covent garden, dressed as she was to play lady fanciful, to live with, quarrel with, and refuse to wed with him. what with the loves, caprices, charms, extravagances, and sufferings of mrs. bellamy, she excited the wonder, admiration, pity, and contempt of the town for thirty years. the mr. metham she might have married she would not,--calcraft and digges, whom she would have, and the last of whom she thought she _had_ married, she could not; for both had wives living. to say that she was a syren who lured men to destruction, is to say little, for she went down to ruin with each victim; but she rose from the wreck more exquisitely seductive and terribly fascinating than ever, to find a new prey whom she might ensnare and betray. meanwhile, she kept a position on the stage, in the very front rank, disputing pre-eminence with the best there, and achieving it in some things; for this perilous charmer was unequalled in her day for the expression of unbounded and rapturous love. her looks glowing with the passion to which she gave expression, doubled the effect; and whether she gazed at a lover or rested her head on the bosom of her lord, nothing more tender or subduing was ever seen, save in mrs. cibber. she was so beautiful, had eyes of such soft and loving blue, was so extraordinarily fair, and was altogether so irresistible a sorceress, that mrs. bellamy was universally loved as a charming creature, and admired as an excellent actress; and when she played some poor lady distraught through affection, the stoutest hearts under embroidered or broad-cloth waistcoats, crumbled away, often into inconceivable mountains of gold-dust. she laughed, and scattered as fast as they piled it, and in the gorgeous extravagance of her life began to lose her powers as an actress. she had once almost shared the throne assumed by mrs. cibber, but she wanted the sustained zeal and anxious study of that lady, and cared not, as mrs. cibber did, for one quiet abiding home, by whomsoever shared, but sighed for change, had it, and suffered for it. when her powers began to decay, her admirers of all schools deplored the fact. in tragedy, natural as she was in feeling, she belonged to the old days of intoned cadences; and the old and the rising school mourned over her, yet both were compelled to avow that only in the ecstasy of love was mrs. bellamy equal to the cibber, and in that mrs. cibber, when acting with barry, in the younger days of both, was often george anne's superior. from reigning it like a queen on and off the stage,--imperious and lovely, and betraying everywhere,--to the figure of a poor, bailiff-persecuted, famishing wretch, stealing down the muddy steps of old westminster bridge to drown herself in the thames, how wide are the extremes! but in both positions we find the original volumnia of thomson, the erixine of dr. young, and the cleone, to whom dodsley owed the success of his heart-rending tragedy. to the last, she was as unfortunate as she had been reckless. two old lovers, one of whom was woodward, bequeathed legacies to her, which she never received. those sums seemed as life to her; but, in the days of her pride and her power, and wicked but transcendent beauty, she would have scorned them as mere pin-money; and so she grew acquainted with gaunt misery, till some friends weary, perhaps, of sustaining the burthen she imposed upon them, induced the managers to give her a farewell benefit, in ,[ ] on which occasion mrs. yates returned to the stage to play for her the duchess, in "braganza." more than forty years before, the brilliant little sylph, miss bellamy, had floated on to the same covent garden stage, confident in both intellectual and material charms. now, the middle-aged woman, still older through fierce impatience at her fall, through want, misery, hopelessness, everything but remorse, had not nerve enough to go on and utter a few words of farewell. these were spoken for her by miss farren, before the curtain, which ascended at the words,-- "but see, oppress'd with gratitude and tears, to pay her duteous tribute she appears;" and discovered the once beautiful and happy syren, a terrified, old-looking woman, lying, powerless to rise, in an arm-chair. but the whole house--some out of respect for the erst charmer, others out of curiosity to behold a woman of such fame on and off the stage--rose to greet her. george anne, urged by miss catley, bent forward, murmured a few indistinct words, and, falling back again, the curtain descended, for the last time, between the public and the fallen angel of the stage. half-a-dozen minor lights are extinguished before we come to a name, a desert, and a fortune, more brilliant and lasting than that of george anne bellamy,--the name, merit, and fortune of miss farren. mrs. wilson, the original betty hint, in the "man of the world," is not now remembered either for her genius or her errors. mrs. belfille made but one appearance on the london stage, as belinda, in "all in the wrong." she wanted animation and humour, but was distinguished for the splendour of her stage wardrobe, which was all her own. she joined whitlock and austin's company in the north. whitlock married mrs. siddons' sister elizabeth, and took her to america, where her acting drew rather the admiration than the tears of the indians. mrs. belfille and mrs. whitlock were together in the company named above. on the back of one of their bills i find a ms. note made by austin, in which he says that mrs. belfille was an elegant actress, very fashionable, and genteel in dress and manner; and, he adds, "mrs. whitlock could not keep her temper while mrs. belfille was with me, in newcastle, chester, &c." a year later, in , the charming bacchante, mrs. beresford, goldsmith's miss richland and miss hardcastle, and sheridan's julia, in the "rivals," left the london stage for edinburgh, where, says jackson, "her lady racket will be remembered as long as one of her audience remains alive." pretty mrs. wells, famous for her imitations, now disappears. she was o'keefe's cowslip. she was the jewish gentleman, mr. sumbell's, wife, which he denied; and she so far rivalled mrs. siddons, that, in "isabella," as it was the fashion for the house to shriek when the actress shrieked, so, when mrs. wells shrieked, her friends shrieked louder than those of mrs. siddons', and, _therefore_, thought cowslip was the greater tragedian of the two. then, the first of the miss bruntons, the louisa courtney of reynold's "dramatist," finished her seventh and last season, in london, in , as the wife of della cruscan merry. she began as an expected rival of mrs. siddons, but london did not confirm the testimony of bath. three other actresses passed away before miss farren: mad hannah brand, who was a sort of female mossop; mrs. esten (who tried to disturb mrs. siddons, mrs. jordan, and miss farren, but who, failing, settled in the north, and very much disturbed the heart and the purse of the duke of hamilton), and mrs. webb, the original mrs. cheshire to the above cowslip; than whom actress of more weight never made the boards groan, and who turned her corpulence to account by playing falstaff. the first glimpse to be caught of miss farren is as picturesque as can well be imagined. her father, once a cork surgeon but now manager of a strolling company, is in the lock-up of the town of salisbury; he fell into durance through an unconscious infringement of the borough law. the story is told, at length, in my _knights and their days_. on a wintry morning, a little girl carries him a bowl of hot milk, for breakfast, and she is helped over the ice to the lock-up window by a sympathising lad. the nymph is miss farren, afterwards countess of derby; the boy is the very happy beginning of chief justice burroughs. the incident occurred in . three years later, elizabeth was playing columbine at wakefield. she could sing as well as she could dance, gracefully; and, out of very love for the beautiful girl, younger brought her out, at liverpool, where her maternal grandfather had been a brewer of repute and good fortune, and where his grand-daughter proved such a rosetta, that more than half the young fellows were more deeply in love with her than the paternal younger himself. [illustration: (miss farren, countess of derby)] after five years' training, the now radiant girl, glowing with beauty and intelligence, first charmed a london audience, on june the th, , by appearing at the haymarket, as miss hardcastle; edwin making his appearance on the same night, as old hardcastle. in that first year of london probation, her miss hardcastle was a great success; the town was ecstatic at that and her maria, in the "citizen," was rapt at her rosetta, rendered hilarious by her miss tittup, and rarely charmed by her playfulness and dignity, as rosara (rosina), in the "barber of seville." of this character she was the original representative. colman omitted the scene in which the count was disguised as a tipsy dragoon, on the ground of its being injurious to morality! the same colman thought the fool, in "lear," too gross for a london audience. in the following year, the success of her lady townly transferred her to drury lane, where she divided the principal parts with miss walpole, miss p. hopkins (mrs. kemble, subsequently), and perdita robinson; and not one of the four was twenty years of age. her lady townly was no new triumph. she had produced such an effect in it at liverpool, where, after her father's death, younger had engaged the whole family, that, on the strength of the promise of fortune to come, tradesmen offered them unlimited credit. for about a score of years she maintained a pre-eminence which she did not, however, attain all at once, or without a struggle; her most powerful and graceful opponent being mrs. abington. her early days had been of such stern and humble aspect, such a strolling and starving with her stage-mad and improvident father, that an anonymous biographer says of her: "the early parts of the history of many eminent ladies on the stage must be extremely disagreeable to them in the recital; and to none, we apprehend, more than to miss farren, who, from the lowest histrionic sphere, has raised herself to the most elevated." during the years above-named, she played principally at drury lane and the haymarket, and chiefly the parts of fine ladies, for which she seemed born; though she attempted tragedy, now and then; and assumed low comedy characters, occasionally; but her natural elegance, her tall and delicate figure, her beautiful expression, her superbly modulated voice, her clear and refined pronunciation, made of her fine lady a perfect charm; not merely the lady betty modish, and similar personages, but the sentimental indianas and cecilias. walpole says emphatically of miss farren, that, in his estimation, she was the most perfect actress he had ever seen. adolphus praises "the irresistible graces of her address and manner, the polished beauties of her action and gait, and all the indescribable little charms which give fascination to the woman of birth and fashion," as among the excellences which secured a triumph for burgoyne's "heiress." in that play she acted lady emily gayville. among her original characters were rosara (rosina), in the "barber of seville;" cecilia, in "chapter of accidents;" sophia, in "lord of the manor;" lady emily gayville, in the "heiress;" eliza ratcliffe, in the "jew;" and emily tempest, in the "wheel of fortune." in the "heiress" adolphus again says of her:--"whether high and honourable sentiments, burning and virtuous sensibility, sincere and uncontrollable affection; animated, though sportive reprehension; elegant persiflage, or arch and pointed satire were the aim of the author, miss farren amply filled out his thought, and, by her exquisite representation, made it, even when faint and feeble in itself, striking and forcible." in fewer words, she had feeling, judgment, grace, and discretion. it was when playing rosara that her life became in danger, by her long gauze mantilla taking fire from the side-lights. she was not aware of her peril, till bannister (almaviva) had quietly thrown his spanish cloak around her, and had put out the flames with his hands. during her stage career she was the manageress of the private theatricals at the duke of richmond's,--those most exclusive of dramatic entertainments. she moved, as it is called, in the best society, where she was queen "amang them a'." charles james fox is said to have been more or less seriously attached to her; but long before she withdrew from the stage it was said, and was printed, that when "_one_ certain event should happen, a countess's coronet would fall on her brow." and thereby hangs a tale that has something in it extremely unpleasant; for this one event, waited for during a score of years, was the death of the countess of derby, the only daughter of the duke of hamilton. to the duchess of leinster, who knew something of miss farren's family in ireland, the actress was indebted for introductions to lady ailesbury, mrs. damer, and others, through whom miss farren became acquainted with the earl of derby, who was himself a clever actor, in private theatricals. a platonic affection, at least, was soon established. walpole writing, in , to the miss berrys, says: "i have had no letter from you these ten days, though the east wind has been as constant as lord derby," not to his wife, whom he had married in , but to miss farren, who first came to london three years later. on the th of march , the long-tarrying countess departed this life; on the th of april following, miss farren took final leave of the stage, in lady teazle. after the play, wroughton led her forward, and spoke a few farewell words for her, at the end of which she gracefully curtseyed to all parts of the house; and that once little girl who carried milk to her father in the round house, went home, and was married to the earl, on the may day of the year in which he had lost his first wife! six weeks 'twixt death and bridal! and yet we hear that miss farren's greatest charm consisted in her "delicate, genuine, impressive sensibility, which reached the heart by a process no less certain than that by which her other powers effected their impression on their fancy and judgment." at all events, miss farren never acted so hastily, nor stanley so uncourteously to the memory of a dead lady, as on this occasion, and it was not one for which youthful widowers might find an apology, for the erst strolling actress was considerably past thirty, and her swain within five years of the age at which sir peter teazle married "my lady." of the three children of this union, only one survived, mary, born in , and married, twenty years afterwards, to the earl of wilton. through her, the blood of an actress once more mingles with that of the peerage; with the same result, perhaps, as followed the match of winnifred, the dairymaid, with the head of the bickerstaffes. no marriage of an english actress with a man of title ever had such results as that which followed the union of fleury's beautiful sister with the gallant viscount clairval de passy. when the match was proposed, the parents of the lady were in a fever of delight that their daughter should be a viscountess. doubtless she became so in law and fact; but instead of taking place as such with the viscount, _he_ laid by his title, and out of love for his wife and her profession, turned actor himself! the happy pair played together with success, and when you meet with the names of monsieur and madame sainville in the annals of the french stage, you are reading of that very romantic pair--the happy viscount and viscountess clairval de passy. in ,[ ] after more than a quarter of a century of service, mrs. pope, once garrick's favourite, miss younge, withdrew to die, and leave her younger husband to take a less accomplished actress for his second wife. but the loss which the stage felt as severely as it did that of miss farren was, in , in the person of a lady, with whom we first become acquainted as a vivacious and intelligent little girl selling flowers in st. james's park. she is known as "nosegay fan." her father, a soldier in the guards, mends shoes, when off duty, in windmill street, haymarket, and her brother waters the horses of the hampstead stage, at the corner of hanway yard. who would suppose that this little fanny barton, who sells moss-roses, would one day set the fashions to all the fine ladies in the three kingdoms; that horace walpole would welcome her more warmly to strawberry hill than an ordinary princess, and that "nosegay fan" would be the original and never-equalled lady teazle? [illustration: (mrs. abington)] humble, however, as the position of the flower-girl is, there is good blood in her very blue veins. she comes of the bartons of derbyshire, and not longer ago than the accession of king william, sons of that family held honourable office in the church, the army, and in government offices. fanny barton ran on errands for a french milliner, and occasionally encountered baddeley, when the latter was apprenticed to a confectioner, and was not dreaming of the twelfth cake he was to bequeath to the actors of drury lane. then ensued some passages in her life that remind one of the training and experience of nell gwyn. the fascinating fanny, in one way or another, made her way in the world, and, for the sake of a smile, lovers courted ruin. this excessively brilliant, though not edifying, career did not last long. among the many friends she had acquired was that prince of scamps and bardolphs, theophilus cibber, who had just procured a licence to open the theatre in the haymarket. he had marked the capabilities of the "vivacious" fanny, and he tempted her to appear under his management, as _miranda_, in the "busy body," to his marplot. this was on the st of august , when the _débutante_ was only seventeen years of age. she immediately excited attention as an actress of extraordinary promise; and, in the short summer season, she exhibited her versatility by playing miss jenny, in the "provoked husband;" desdemona, sylvia, in the "recruiting officer," and finally enchanted her audience as prince prettyman, in the "rehearsal." from the haymarket this clever girl went to bath and fascinated king, the manager; thence to richmond, where lacey, the manager there, fell equally in love with her, and engaged her for drury lane ( - ), where, however, the presence, success, and claims of miss pritchard, miss macklin, and mrs. clive, kept her out of the line of characters for which she was specially qualified. she was, moreover, ill-educated, and she forthwith placed herself under tuition. fanny took for music-master mr. abington, who, of course, became desperately in love with her, and married his pupil. the young couple established a splendid home in the then fashionable quarter, st. martin's lane; but soon after, the convenient apollo disappears, and even the musical dictionaries fail to tell us of the being and whereabout of a man whose wife made his name famous. after four seasons at drury, she went on a triumphant career to dublin. there she acquired all she had hitherto lacked, and when, in the season of - , she reappeared at drury lane, as cherry,[ ] upon terms granted by garrick, which were no longer considered extravagant, so conspicuous was her talent, the playgoing world was in a fever of delight. her career, from to , lasted forty-three years, and, though like betterton, time touched her person, it never weakened her talent. critics praise her elegant form, her graceful address, the animation and expression of her looks, her quick intelligence, her perfect taste. expression served her more than beauty, and her voice, once hardly better than peg woffington's, became perfectly musical by her power of modulation. every word was pronounced with a clearness that made her audible in the remotest parts of the theatre, and this was a charm of itself in such parts as beatrice, and lady teazle, where "every word stabbed," as king was wont to remark. in short, she was one of the most natural, easy, impressive, and enchanting actresses that ever appeared on the stage. reynolds took her for his comic muse, and it is worth a pilgrimage to knowle park to look on that wonderful impersonation, and realise something of the grace and perfection of mrs. abington. in , walpole wrote to her, "i do impartial justice to your merit, and fairly allow it not only equal to that of any actress i have seen, but believe the present age will not be in the wrong if they hereafter prefer it to those they may live to see." on one occasion, he describes her, in lady teazle, as "equal to the first of her profession." she "seemed the very person," an "admiration of mrs. abington's genius made him long desire the honour of her acquaintance." he goes to sup with her, hoping "that mrs. clive will not hear of it;" and he throws strawberry open to her, and as many friends as she chooses to bring with her. when the fever of his enthusiasm had somewhat abated, and he remembered the "nosegay fan" of early days, his admiration was more discriminating. mrs. abington, then, "can never go beyond lady teazle, which is a second-rate character, and that rank of women are always aping women of fashion without arriving at the style." out of the line of the affected fine lady, says lady g. spencer, "mrs. abington should never go. in that she succeeds, because it is not unnatural to her." this criticism is just, for lady teazle is a _parvenu_. the country-bred girl apes successfully enough the woman of fashion, but in her early home, as we are told, she wore a plain linen gown, a bunch of keys at her side, her hair combed smooth over a roll; and her apartment was hung round with fruits in worsted, of her own working. her girlish occupation was to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, comb her aunt deborah's lap-dog, draw patterns for ruffles, play pope joan with the curate, read a sermon aloud, and strum her fox-hunting father to sleep at the spinnet. this "fine lady," by accident and not by birth, mrs. abington could play admirably; better than she could lady modish, who was a lady by birth and education. but even in the latter character she is described as having been the accomplished and well-bred woman of fashion. her intercourse with ladies of rank, an intimacy which made her somewhat vain, was of use to her in such impersonations; but she was not received so unreservedly as mrs. oldfield, for many remembered her early wild course, and saw no compensation for it in the later and better regulated life. she turned such schooling as she could obtain in drawing-rooms to the best account; but mrs. oldfield, in the university of fashion, took first-class honours. coquettes, chambermaids, hoydens, country girls, and the women of the lady teazle, lady fancyful, and lady racket cast, she played without fear of a rival. her chambermaids seem to have been over-dressed, and this superfluity attended some of her other characters, in which she was as much beplumed as the helmet in the _castle of otranto_. for more than a quarter of a century, her widow belmour, in the "way to keep him," was a never-failing delight to the public. murphy says that her graces of action gave to this part brilliancy, and even novelty, every time she repeated it. she was the original representative of thirty characters, among which we find,--lady bab, in "high life below stairs;" betty, in the "clandestine marriage;" charlotte, in the "hypocrite;" charlotte rusport, in the "west indian;" roxalana, in the "sultan;" miss hoyden, in the "trip to scarborough;" and her crowning triumph, lady teazle. like other clever players, she committed a fault,--hers was in acting scrub, for a wager,--at her benefit, in . genest says, "in point of profit, it no doubt answered; but she is said to have disgraced herself in scrub, and to have acted the part with her hair dressed for lady racket," which she played in the after-piece! her portrait, as scrub, with her hair thus dressed, gives her an absurd appearance. she figured in the private theatricals, at brandenburgh house, of the margravine of anspach. in one of the plays represented--the "provoked wife"--the piece was cut down, in order that no female character should have equal prominence with that of lady brute, played by the margravine herself; but mrs. abington asserted her professional right, and played her once famous scene of lady fancyful, straight through, to the united delight of herself and audience. in her later years she lost her old grace and fine figure; and she, who had snatched the mantle from kitty clive, found it taken from her, in her turn, by the gentle yet all-conquering miss farren, whom, however, she survived on the stage. from to , mrs. abington lived in retirement, active only in works of charity; and when she died in the latter year, few remembered in the deceased wealthy lady, the vivacious "nosegay fan" of three-quarters of a century before. there remains to be noticed one who, in the annals of the stage, appears like a brief but charming episode,--a fair promise, hastily made, and not realised; an actress of whom garrick augured well, and whom he gave to the stage, from which she was snatched by a prince. miss darby was a native of bristol, and a pupil of hannah more. she was the heiress of a fair fortune, which her philanthropic father dissipated in attempts to civilise the esquimaux indians. having thereby beggared his wife and child, the man, with a heart for all mankind, but not for his home, left the latter; and the mother then was supported by what miss darby could earn as a governess. what she could then spare, she devoted to acquiring "the usual accomplishments." among the latter was dancing; and her master (a covent garden ballet-master) introduced her to garrick. after some training, she recited cordelia, like a pretty and clever child, as she was; and then disappeared. she was not sixteen when she married mr. robinson,--a young man of good fortune, apprenticed to the law. the happy couple ran through their fortune in splendid haste; and mrs. robinson spent more than a year with him in prison. misery drove her again to garrick, who, though now withdrawn from the stage, rehearsed romeo to her juliet; and sat in the orchestra on the night of the th of december , when she played the latter part to the romeo of brereton. she was then only eighteen; and her success was all that could be expected from her talent and beauty, and a voice which reminded garrick of his darling, mrs. cibber. thus commenced the brief stage career which ended in may with the "winter's tale," and her own farce, the "miniature picture,"[ ] on which occasion she played perdita and eliza camply.[ ] in the interval, she had played the tender or proudly loving ladies in tragedy, and the refined and sprightly nymphs in comedy; and she was the original amanda, in the "trip to scarborough." since mrs. woffington and the first blush of mrs. bellamy, such peculiar grace and charms had not been seen on the stage. the critics extolled both, the fine gentlemen besieged her with billets-doux, and the artists protested that they had never beheld better taste than hers in costume. on the d of december their majesties' servants played, by command, at drury lane, the "winter's tale," for the sixth time. gentleman smith was leontes; bensley, polixenes; brereton, florizel; miss farren, hermione; and mrs. robinson, perdita. the king, queen, and royal family were in their box, when perdita entered the green-room, dressed more exquisitely and looking more bewitching than ever. "you will make a conquest of the prince, to-night," said smith laughingly; "i never saw you look so handsome as you do now!" he was a true prophet. the prince was subdued by her beauty, and subsequently wrote letters to her, which were signed "florizel," and were carried by no less noble a go-between than william anne capel, earl of essex; but others ascribe this messengership of love to his son viscount malden, who subsequently married miss stephens, the vocalist, and present dowager-countess.[ ] the messenger of love wooed her for the prince, while he adored her himself,--at least he said so. he gave her the prince's portrait, and a heart,--not in precious metal, but in paper,--a symbol of the worth and tenacity of the prince's. on this token was a double motto, in french, for the air of the thing: "je ne change qu'en mourant;" and in english, for the emphasis of it: "unalterable to my perdita through life." this young creature's husband was living in profligacy on her salary, which he received at the treasury, and she was wooed by a young prince, with a magic of wooing which, she said, she should never forget. the first step she made towards the latter was, by meeting him in a boat, moored off kew. the second, was by meeting him by moonlight, in kew gardens. but then, the "bishop of osnaburgh" was present! and the lady herself was a furbelowed egeria to a powdered numa. "during many months of confidential correspondence," she says, "i always offered his royal highness the best advice in my power." deathless was to be the young prince's love, and his munificence was to be equal to his truth. in proof of the latter, he gave her a bond for £ , , to be paid to her on his coming of age. in a few months he attained his majority, refused to pay the money, and made no secret to the lady of his deathless love having altogether died out. he passed her in the park, affecting not to know her; and the spirited young woman, who had given up a lucrative profession for his sake, flung a remark at him, in her indignation, that ought to have made him blush, had he been to that manner born. however, she was not altogether abandoned. the patriotic whig statesman, charles fox, obtained for the prince's cast-off favourite an annuity of £ ,--out of the pockets of a tax-paying people! perdita would fain have returned to the stage, but her friends dissuaded her. no one could tell how a moral people would receive the abandoned of "florizel!" so, restless, she dwelt, now here, now there; now in france, where marie antoinette gave a purse, knitted by her luckless fingers, to "la belle anglaise;" now in brighton, where also resided, in the brightest of her beauty and the highest of her splendour, mrs. fitzherbert;--the married polly and the royal macheath's neglected lucy? perdita was not idle; she wrote poems and novels; the former, tender in sentiment and expression; the latter, not without power and good sense. she had undertaken to supply the _morning post_ with poetry, when she died, after cruel suffering, in the last year of the last century ( ); and she herself the last of the pupils of david garrick. there was good in this hapless creature. throughout life she was the loving and helping child of her mother; the loving and helping mother of her child, for both of whom she laboured ungrudgingly to the last. hannah more, herself, would not harshly construe the conduct of her pupil. "i make the greatest allowance for inexperience and novel passions," was the comment of horace walpole. "poor perdita!" said mrs. siddons, "i pity her from my very heart!" she fell into bad hands--beginning with those of her father. in her husband's she was still less cared for, though she spent nearly a year with him in a sponging-house, to leave which she was importuned by worthless peers and equally worthless commoners--from ancient dukes down to young city merchants. there was a public admiration for her which scarcely any other actress so practically experienced. thus, on the night in , when the "trip to scarborough" was undergoing temporary but loud condemnation, mrs. yates, yielding to the storm, suddenly withdrew, and left mrs. robinson, as amanda, standing alone on the stage, where she was so bewildered by the continued hissing, that the duke of cumberland stood up in his box, requested her not to be alarmed, and cheered her by calling out, "it is not you, but the piece, they are hissing." she gave rather the promise than the actuality of a fine actress; she had good taste, and manifested it in an attention to costume, when propriety therein was not much cared for. she describes the outward presentment of her statira ("alexander the great"), by saying, "my dress was white and blue, made after the persian costume; and, though it was then singular on the stage, i wore neither a hoop nor powder. my feet were bound with sandals, richly ornamented; and the whole dress was picturesque and characteristic." between this period and the time when she lay stricken by paralysis, the interval was not long; and then the forsaken creature, if vanity abided with her, was obliged to content herself with reminiscences of the past--when she was the laura maria of della crusca, and when merry declared that future poets and ages would join "to pour in laura's praise their melodies divine." during that same time peter pindar called her, "_the_ nymph of my heart;" burgoyne pronounced her "perfect as woman and artist;" tickle proclaimed her "the british sappho;" john taylor hailed her, "pensive songstress;" boaden recorded her, "mentally perfect;" the hon. john st. john asserted that "nature had formed her queen of song;" kerr porter saluted her in thundering heroics; and two theatrical parsons, will tasker and paul columbine, flung heaps of flowers at her feet, with the zeal of heathen priests before an incarnation of flora. and so passes by this vision of fair last-century women to make way for a group of actors of the garrick school--standing a little apart from whom is john henderson, whom the town was willing to take for david's successor. [illustration: mr. beard as hawthorn.] footnotes: [ ] her last appearance was th may . [ ] i cannot find any mention of her earlier than . [ ] . [ ] mrs. cibber died on th january . [ ] mrs. bellamy calls this lady godfrey. [ ] the benefit took place on th may . [ ] mrs. pope's name is in the bills for the last time on th january . [ ] mrs. abington played the widow belmour, in "the way to keep him," at drury lane, on th november , being "her first appearance there for five years." [ ] "the miniature picture" is not by mrs. robinson, but by the margravine of anspach. [ ] her last appearance was no doubt on st may , when "rule a wife," and the "miniature picture" were played. [ ] miss stephens died february , . [illustration: mr. palmer as tag.] chapter v. a group of gentlemen. the players of the garrick period and the years immediately succeeding it, followed in due time their great master. of these, samuel reddish was a player of that great epoch, who, for some especial parts, stood in the foremost rank. we first hear of him in the season of - , strengthening mossop's company in smock alley, dublin, by his performance of etan, in the "orphan of china." of his origin, no one knows more than what he published of himself in the irish papers,--that he was "a gentleman of easy fortune." this description was turned against him by his old enemy, macklin, on one occasion, when reddish in a part he was acting, threw away an elegantly-bound book, which he was supposed to have been reading. macklin's comment was that, however unnatural in the character he was representing, it was quite consistent in mr. reddish himself, who, "you know, has advertised himself as a gentleman of easy fortune." in september , reddish first appeared in london, at drury lane, as lord townly, to mrs. abington's "my lady." a few nights after, he played posthumus to the imogen of mrs. baddeley. it was in this last character that he took his melancholy leave of the stage at covent garden, shaken in mind and memory, on the d of may[ ] ; mrs. bulkley was then the imogen. his career in london was but of twelve years, and it might have been longer and more brilliant but for that _fast_ life which consumed him,--and for one illustration of which, when he was rendered incapable of acting, he made humble apology on the succeeding evening. within those dozen years, sam reddish played an infinite variety of characters, from tragedy to farce. among those he originated were darnley ("hypocrite,") young fashion ("trip to scarborough"), and philotas ("grecian daughter"). as an actor, his voice and figure were highly esteemed in dublin, but the latter was not considered so striking in london. i gather from his critics, that reddish was easy and spirited; that he spoke well in mere declamatory parts, but, for want of feeling and variety in the play of his features, failed in parts of passion. his most attractive character was edgar, in "king lear;" posthumus stood next; he thought romeo was one of his happiest impersonations, but the public preferred his macduff and shylock. as alonzo ("revenge") he made a favourable impression; his castalio, lothario, and orlando were indifferent, and his alexander bad. reddish was, however, an impulsive actor, often feeling more than the immobility of his features would permit him to show; and he endeavoured to make up for it by violence and impetuosity of action. he was once acting castalio, when the part of his brother polydore was played by smith. in the last act of the "orphan," polydore gives his brother the lie, calls him "coward!" adds "villain!" and at length so exasperates castalio that the latter, drawing his sword, exclaims, "this to thy heart, then, though my mother bore thee!" and before smith was well ready for the fight, reddish thrust his sword into him and stretched him bleeding on the stage. the next words castalio should have uttered were, "what have i done? my sword is in thy breast!" but the poor fellow could only exclaim, "my sword _was_ in thy breast!" and the play came to an end. smith, however, did not die (as in the play) with a "how my head swims! 'tis very dark! good night!" he recovered of his wounds, and lived to die again. when churchill said, "with transient gleam of grace hart sweeps along," he was praising the lady whom reddish married soon after he came to london, and who lost the "transient gleam" in ungracefully growing fat. his second wife was a woman of very different quality,--a respectable, but impoverished, widow in mary-le-bone, named canning, whose first husband had, in , published a translation of the first book of cardinal polignac's _anti-lucretius_. the widow canning's son, george, subsequently became prime minister of england, "for giving birth to whom," says genest, "she was in due time rewarded with a handsome pension," which she enjoyed as mrs. hunn, down to . reddish, i suppose, met with her on the stage of drury lane, where the lady made her first public appearance ( th of november ) in "jane shore," reddish playing her husband; while garrick acted hastings, at the request of several ladies of rank who patronised mrs. canning. she repeated jane shore, and subsequently played perdita to the florizel of "gentle" cautherley,--who was said to be a natural son, certainly a well-trained pupil of garrick. her next part was mrs. beverley to garrick's beverley; her fourth, octavia (in "all for love") to the antony of reddish, whose wife she became, or at least is said to have become, at an unlucky season. as early as the year , reddish exhibited one symptom of the malady which compelled him ultimately to retire, namely the want of memory, which indicates weakness of the brain. in march of that year, he played alonzo, in home's tragedy so called; he was the original representative of the part. although alonzo is the hero, he does not appear till the play is half over, and when the piece came to nearly that point on the particular night, reddish was missing; a riot ensued, and his part was read by one of the aikins. just before the curtain fell, the truant appeared, declaring that he had only just remembered that it was not an oratorio night. his comrades believed him, and for fear the public should be less credulous he ran from the theatre to bow street office, and there, in presence of sir sampson wright, made oath to that effect. the affidavit was published the next day, and he thereto adds, "that this unhappy mistake may not be misconstrued into a wilful neglect of his duty, he most humbly begs pardon of the public for the disappointment." the public forgave him, and received him kindly on his next appearance. his wife, who was a favourite in the provinces, was ultimately hissed from the stage of old drury. gradually, his memory grew more disturbed, till it could no longer be at all relied on. during the season - , he was incapable of acting, and was supported by the fund. in the following season, he essayed hamlet, but it was almost as painful as the ophelia of poor, mad susan mountfort. later in the season, in may , the managers gave him a benefit, when "cymbeline" was acted, and reddish was announced for posthumus. an hour or two before the play began, he called at a friend's house, vacant, restless, and wandering. some one congratulated him on being well enough to play. "aye, sir! and i shall astonish you in the garden scene!" he thought he was to act romeo. he could neither be persuaded nor convinced to the contrary, for a long time, and then only to fall into the old delusion. "am i to play posthumus? i'm sorry for it, but what must be, must be!" and then he walked to the theatre, his friend accompanying him, and pitying the poor fellow, who went on rehearsing romeo, by the way. he was so impressed by his false idea, that his colleagues of the green-room, who had vainly striven to keep him to posthumus, saw him go to the wing, with the expectation on their part that he would look for benvolio's cue, "good morrow, cousin!" and would be prepared to answer, "is the day so young?" with that expectation, they pushed him on the stage,--where the old situation wrought a temporary cure in him. to the welcoming applause he returned a bow of modest respect, and by the time the queen had uttered the words-- "'twere good you leaned unto his sentence with what patience your wisdom may inform you,--" his eye had lighted up, and he answered with calm dignity-- "please your highness, i will from hence to-day," and went through the scene with more than his usual ability. but he had no sooner passed the wing than the old delusion returned; he was all romeo, waiting for and longing to begin the garden scene with-- "soft! what light from yonder window breaks? it is the east, and juliet is the sun!" and many were the fears that at his second going on, he would be disturbed. he stood dreamingly waiting at the side, but when philotas had exclaimed, "here comes the briton! let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing, to strangers of his quality,"--reddish was posthumus again, and to the remark of the frenchman,--"sir, we have known together in orleans," he replied in the clear, level tone which distinguished him,--"since when i have been debtor to you for courtesies, which i will be ever to pay and yet pay still." thenceforward, his mind became healthy, and he played to the close with a burst of inspiration and talent, such as he had not shown, even in his best days. his mind, however, was healthy only for the night; fitful seasons there were in which he tried to act in the country; but he soon became diseased again, and, shut up in a madhouse, poor reddish might be seen on visitors' days at st. luke's, a sad and humiliating spectacle, herding among the lunatics in that once popular place of cruel exhibition. two old feelings survived the otherwise complete wreck--his love of good living, and his dislike of inferior company. he drank greedily his draught of milk, out of a wooden bowl, but the "gentleman of easy fortune" complained bitterly of his forced association with the low people who thronged the gallery. poor reddish! he was moved to better air, improved diet, and less plebeian society,--in the asylum at york. the outside world had been by him long forgotten, and he forgotten by the world, when he happily died there, not one hour too soon, in the last month of the year . little more than eight years later his stepson, george canning, made his maiden-speech in the commons, as tory member for newport, and _failed_; but like noble actors in another house, he gained ultimate success, by turning his experience to advantage. about the same time disappeared from the london stage, ross, who, like barton booth, was a westminister boy, and the son of a gentleman. less fortunate than booth, his father discarded him, for going on the stage. ross, the actor, had for school-fellow churchill, the poet--john nicoll then being master; and booth had for condiscipulus the poet rowe, under the famous mastership of busby. like booth, ross first tried his fortune on the dublin stage in , when he came to london to be of the school of garrick, as booth came to be a follower of betterton. both men had pleasing and powerful voices and fine figures, but ross's countenance lacked expression. ross, like booth, played young bevil with great ability, and, as the ghost of banquo, produced almost as much effect as booth in the ghost of hamlet's father. here, however, all parallel ends. wanting booth's industry, ross never raised himself to booth's level; he originated very few characters, wasted his powers, grew fat and indolent, and lost what barry kept to the last,-- "a voice as musically clear as ever pour'd, perhaps, upon the ear." with a passion for the stage, and every qualification but industry, he marred his prospects by letting "mere chance conduct him every night," till the town wearied of him. he had been at drury lane, from , when he first appeared as young bevil, to ; and at covent garden, where he commenced with hamlet,[ ] from that year to , when he became manager of the new theatre in the canongate, edinburgh.[ ] in edinburgh, ross is remembered, however, as the founder of the legal stage. that is, he was the patentee of the first theatre that had the sanction of the law. when the new town of edinburgh was projected, in , care was taken for the lawful establishment of the scottish stage, and ross built that pleasant house which, till , occupied the site where now stands the new post office. it says something for ross's prudence, despite his defects, that he had saved £ , which he expended on the construction and completion of this house.[ ] it was opened in december . "strange," says mr. robert chambers, "to recall the circumstances of its opening. no princes street then, for the belles and beaux--no new town whatever, only one or two houses building at wide intervals. the north bridge unfinished and broken down; ladies and gentlemen obliged to come to these mimic scenes through leith wynd, and other and still narrower alleys." thence came failure; and ross let the house to foote, and subsequently to digges, "a spendthrift gentleman of good connexions," for £ a year. at the end of four years, ross was back at covent garden; but he had ceased to attract, and he ultimately fell into distress (the edinburgh theatre failing to be profitable to him), from which he was relieved by receiving annually from an anonymous donor the sum of £ . it was by mere accident that ross discovered the gallant seaman, barrington, to be his munificent friend; but what connection existed between the two men, i am not aware. such is the record of a player who entirely threw his chance away by his neglect. possessing power, he wanted will, and was always looking to others for help; and, indeed, he often got it. he played george barnwell with such effect that dissipated and felonious apprentices were turned from their evil ways; and young men given to philandering with milwoods and to thoughts of killing their uncles, were frightened into a better state of things. one who was thus rescued used to send, anonymously, ten guineas yearly to ross, with a suitable acknowledgment on his benefit night. "you have done more good by your acting," said dr. barrowby to him, "than many a parson by his preaching." the fact is, that ross's barnwell was a sermon which went home to the bosoms of the athenians.[ ] the next to disappear from our group is yates ( - ),[ ] the only actor of his day who had a just notion how to play shakspeare's fools; he was ever natural, but frequently imperfect; in low comedy, not to be surpassed; but in fine gentlemen, he "looked like tom errand in beau clincher's clothes." philip in "high life below stairs," sir bashful constant, major oakley, and sir oliver surface, were among his original characters. his forte was old men; but in stolid clowns, he was inimitable. yates did not act so well off the stage as on, for he declined to subscribe to the theatrical fund, on the ground that he was not likely ever to need its assistance! next passes from the stage to private life, gentleman smith, son of a city grocer, and one of the few players who have been pupils at eton. cambridge he left in some disgrace, to avoid being compelled to leave. in , as the pupil of barry he first appeared as theodosius. in [ ] he retired, after playing his original character, charles surface. meanwhile, he had earned the honourable addition to his name. if the stage had no greater clown and old man than yates, it had no more perfect gentleman than smith; who, besides charles surface, originally represented (in london) glenalvon, mason's athelwold, and edwin. in gay comedy lay his strength, but he was the most refined of light tragedians, and played richard with effect even in garrick's days. his qualifications for both comedy and tragedy were without a single drawback, save a monotony of voice, the enunciation of which, in other respects, was perfect. his faulconbridge was not surpassed till charles kemble made the part his own. smith made two remarkable marriages. his first was with a daughter of that viscount hinchinbroke, who did not live to succeed his father, the third earl of sandwich. this lady was the young widow of a courtenay of devon, and her union with an actor was described as a disgrace to her family. smith offered to withdraw from the stage, if the family would secure to him an annuity equal to his salary; but this was refused, and the player continued his vocation, in order that he might make suitable provision for his wife. the union was dissolved by her death in . smith was indefatigable in his profession, and proud of his own position in it, congratulating himself on never having had to act in a farce, or sink through a trap. on his retirement, he married a widow with a fortune ample enough, when added to his own, to enable him to live like a country gentleman at bury st. edmunds, whence he came, in , to play charles surface, at sixty-six, with some fat, and legs a little shaky, but with youthful spirit, for the farewell benefit of king.[ ] then there is tate wilkinson, whose reverend father of the savoy chapel, garrick had contributed to transport, by informing against him for illegally performing the ceremony of marriage. garrick, in return, helped forward the son--an _exotic_, as he said, rather than an actor; but as an imitator never equalled, for he represented not only the voice and manner of other persons, but could put on their features, even those of beautiful women! he played in tragedy and comedy well; but only when he mimicked some other actor throughout the piece. he used also to reproduce foote's imitations of the older actors, and i remember mathews's imitations of the imitations of wilkinson. he had been long connected with york, and very little with london, if at all, at the period of smith's retirement. wilkinson, who has added to the literature of the drama, is further to be remembered for having prohibited his york actors from soliciting, bill in hand--the latter ready to grasp the usual fee of half a crown--patronage for their benefits; a custom which, i think, did not survive , though wilkinson lived till . from to --beginning at dublin, and ending at covent garden[ ]--indicates the career of poor edwin. he was execrable when he began, in sir philip modelove; but two years of practice in dublin, and nine in bath, fashioned him into a perfect actor for the metropolis. when a stage-struck youth there, and vexing his friends, and about to lose his clerkship in the pension office, ned shuter used to say to him, "you'll be a great actor when i am laid low." the town, at first, did not relish his humour; but, at last, relished it so much, that they allowed him any liberty. he might go out of his part, and make appeals to them, or forget his words through "the drink, dear hamlet"--his pardon was sure to follow. when young, he played old men; when old, young; and to his humour and ability o'keeffe owed such obligation, that it was said whenever edwin died, o'keeffe would be d----d! his fault was his remembrance of the audience. he was always playing _to_ them, not _with_ his fellows; but it was so exquisitely done, that the audience least of all objected. "he was sure of applause, whether he had to utter the humour of shakspeare, the wit of congreve or sheridan, or merely to sing 'tag-rag-merry-derry;'" says adolphus. henderson pronounced his bye-play as unequalled. in sir hugh evans, when preparing for the duel, henderson had seen him, we are told, for many minutes together, keep the house in an ecstasy of merriment, without uttering a single word. edwin was the original lingo, darby, peeping tom, sheepface, ennui ("dramatist"), and a hundred other light parts, in which he wore that peculiar smile which had not passed away when his comrades, in october , looked on his shrouded face before they escorted him to the grave. the two aikins, belonging to the last century, demand no further notice than that one brother was distinguished as "tyrant aikin;" the other for having fought a bloodless duel with john kemble, on some stage-management dispute, in which bannister acted as second to both parties. west digges, proud of the blood of the sackvilles, not less than of being home's original norval, and of being called the "gentleman actor," was a player, who, like brereton, was always struggling to reach the highest eminence, only to fall short of it. digges died of paralysis, and garrick's pupil, brereton, of madness. lee lewes, a sort of counterfeit woodward, also struggled and failed, though not without merits, either in harlequin or flutter, of which latter he was the original representative. his self-estimation could not maintain him before a london audience, and he travelled to india, in search of others which cared even less for him; and, after all, came back to read, lecture, live straitly, and die. in contrast with this erst deputy-postman, passes grave and dignified bensley, whom not even the idea that he was poisoned, could induce to forget his identity with this part. sensitive in other respects, this scholarly actor, with a glare in his eye, a prominence in his gait, and a peculiar tone in his voice, earnestly implored bannister to omit him from his imitations in dick ("apprentice"). bensley's great part was eustace de st. pierre, in colman's "surrender of calais," in which he was remarkable for his mingling of churlish humour with the most tender sympathy. his career extended from to ; and there was no actor with so many natural defects who so ably surmounted them. his pierre, his ghost (in "hamlet"), his iago, clytus, and malvolio were excellent. the ex-lieutenant bensley may be said to have made his first appearance in the drama, in richmond park, where he unconsciously had the park-keeper for his admiring audience. the part was pierre, for some instructions in which he was indebted to colman, and which he used to rehearse in the park at early morn, with the "six tubs," or trees, planted on queen caroline's mount, for scene and senate. the park-keeper, who had often seen him wending that way, full of thought, once lay hidden near, and watched his proceedings. bensley was rehearsing the scene before his judges, and the listener must have been sorely puzzled, as he heard allusions made to chains and conquests, and the centre tub addressed as a "great duke," who "shrunk, trembling, in his palace;" and references to the duchess adriatic, in terms that must have perplexed his judgment. he simply set the poor gentleman down as mad, and left him to teach the loose venetians "the task of honour, and the way to greatness," without farther molestation. about the same time that bensley left the stage to become barrack-master at knightsbridge, moody retired from the public scene. lady morgan, when contrasting her father with moody, does great injustice to the latter. she cites cumberland as saying to mr. owenson, after seeing the latter play cumberland's major o'flaherty:--"mr. owenson, i am the first author who has brought an irish gentleman on the stage, and you are the first who ever played it _like_ a gentleman." moody was the original major; and lady morgan remarks, that he "knew as much of ireland as he did of new zealand. english audiences, however," she adds, "were satisfied, for they had not yet got beyond the conventional delineation of teague and father foigard, types of irish savagery and catholic jesuitism. cumberland and sheridan both thanked my father for redeeming their creations from caricature." hereby does moody suffer retribution. the best actor of irishmen of his time, he was ashamed of being taken for one. his name was cochrane; he was a native of cork, where he had been apprenticed to his father, a hairdresser; but he chose to call himself moody, and to declare that he was not born in cork, but somewhere near clare market. foolish ambition! taking him at his word, sydney owenson rejoins that he knew as much of ireland as he did of new zealand! nevertheless, moody knew a good deal of ireland, and something at least of jamaica, to which island he ran away from his own, and played the leading tragic characters there for several years. he made no effect at covent garden, till he was cast for captain o'cutter, in colman's "jealous wife"--an irish gentleman before cumberland's major o'flaherty. his fine humour and correct judgment gained for him the universal applause. hitherto all stage irishmen had been funny ruffians. churchill has recorded the merit of moody:-- "long, from a nation ever hardly used, at random censured, wantonly abused, have britons drawn their sport, with partial view form'd general notions from the rascal few; condemn'd a people as for vices known, which from their country banish'd, seek our own. at length, howe'er, the slavish chain is broke, and sense, awaken'd, scorns her ancient yoke; taught by thee, moody, we now learn to raise mirth from their foibles, from their virtue, praise." the _dramatic censor_ speaks of moody as the best teague the stage ever knew, but the crown of his reputation was set by his representation of major o'flaherty, for which he reaped as golden a harvest of fame as the author did by his piece. indeed, he was the first who brought the stage irishman into repute, and rendered the character one of a distinct line whereby a performer might acquire reputation. the thespian dictionary says of owenson, for whose sake lady morgan disparaged moody, "he chiefly supported irish character, in which he was a favourite, particularly with the galleries; but his representation of them (as it was in the country itself) was _high coloured_, and would therefore have been too coarse for an english audience. he has now ( ) quitted the stage for business, which is still in the _public_ line." more careful moody combined stage _and_ business. like many of his profession, he had his suburban villa; and in his garden by the side of barnes common, he not only raised vegetables, but carted them, and carried them thence to market. the original lord burleigh selling cabbages! moody, however, could very well support the dignity of his character as man and actor. in the half-price riots of , he supported garrick. moody stood between him and the angry audience with a good humour which so exasperated the latter, that they insisted on his begging pardon on his knees, a humiliation to which he refused to submit, though the refusal might drive him from his profession. honest john moody, however, kept his own, and had no rival till johnstone appeared in ,[ ] without any idea of rivalry, for the latter began his career as an operatic singer. moody created sir callaghan o'brallaghan, in "love à la mode;" captain o'cutter, in the "jealous wife;" the irishman, in the "register office;" major o'flaherty, in the "west indian;" sir patrick o'neale, in the "irish widow," and other irish characters of less note. his range of character beyond this was indefinite, for he played iago and sir tunbelly clumsey; henry viii. and dogberry; shylock, peachum, and a hundred other opposites, between the years and . towards the end of that period, he grew torpid with good luck. his sir lucius was without humour and his major lacked spirit, but johnstone was at hand to supply a place from which moody retired a few years too late. in , another of the players, who dated from the garrick days, passed away from the stage,--and from life;--i mean little dodd. like moody and the kembles, he had a sire who was connected with hair-dressing, but who gave his boy a very excellent education. at a london school, he played davus, in the "andria," to such purpose, that at sixteen, he was off to sheffield, where he commenced his histrionic course as roderigo, in "othello." he served the hard apprenticeship of itinerancy, and then so distinguished himself on the bath stage, by his comic acting, although he had been engaged for general business, that garrick beckoned him up to london, and by consigning to him the part of faddle, in the "foundling," showed that he took perfect measure of his ability. from that year to , dodd was the darling of the public in his peculiar line. for fops of the old school, or old men who would pass for young fops, for simpletons and cunning knaves, for wearing a now obsolete modish costume, for "the nice conduct of a clouded cane," for carrying a china snuff-box, and, above all, for his unsurpassable style of taking a pinch, dodd was really a wonderful actor. he wore his sword, cocked or carried his hat, displayed his ruffle, and moved about in a poising, tottering sort of way which was all his own, and always perfect. his abel drugger stood next to weston's, if not to garrick's,--but garrick said weston's was the finest the stage had ever seen; and his sir andrew aguecheek was as truly shakspearian as the author could have desired. master slender, master stephen, watty cockney, were among the parts which were said to die with him; and in his original characters of lord foppington ("trip to scarborough"), sir benjamin backbite, dangle, le nippe, and adam winterton[ ] ("iron chest"), he has never been "touched," probably by the most able of his successors. of dodd dying no one dreamt till it was done. i can only think of him as going forward on the tips of his toes, mincingly, hat in one hand, cane in the other, a smile on his face, and with a bow to the summoner, sinking contentedly back on a convenient sofa,--one little sigh perhaps of weariness, and little, fresh, cheery, gentleman-like dodd is gone, sir! that he once loved mrs. bulkley, the miss wilford of earlier days, does not surprise me; for had the fiercest of the stage-hating presbyterians in edinburgh, where her lady racket was talked of by old men, at the beginning of this century, with their hand on their heart and over their waistcoat-pocket,--had one of the severer stock only seen her, he would have loved her too. dodd and mrs. bulkley went into house-keeping together, like booth and susan mountfort, but the nymph was faithless, and there was a scandal, and a separation. the public condemned the lady, as she one night learnt by their hissing, but the saucy beauty stepped unabashed to the front, and told her censurers that if she failed in her duty or powers as an actress, they were right in their reproof; "but," she added with an air of woffington about her, "as for my private affairs, i beg to be excused!" the audience condoned the erring beauty; they could not be angry with a lady grace of peculiar elegance; and the original miss hardcastle, and julia in the "rivals," was allowed to have her pretty way unreproved. she was on the london stage from [ ] to , and at the time of her death had been known for two years as mrs. barresford. about the same time as bensley, moody, and dodd, the stage of the last century lost baddeley. he is said to have been a confectioner, to have even acted as cook to foote, and to have travelled in some humble capacity abroad, where he learnt french, and the way to play french valets and similar characters. baddeley was the original canton ("clandestine marriage"), and moses ("school for scandal"), and he was dressed for this part when, in , he was taken ill and shortly after expired. baddeley, before dying, thought of his old comrades, and of his successors, in his own good-natured way. he bequeathed his cottage at moulsey to the drury lane fund, desiring that four poor comedians, not disinclined to live sociably together, might therein have a joint home. there was ample accommodation for such a company, in four bed-chambers and two sitting-rooms. he assigned to them a little bit of acting also;--that they might not appear dependents, he bequeathed a trifle to each, which each was to give away in charity, with an air of its being his own! mindful, too, of their ease, habits, and sentiment, he left funds for the building of a "smoking summer-house," out of wood from old drury, and in sight of the temple to shakspeare in garrick's garden at hampton. in remembrance of his own old vocation as a pastry-cook, and in token of love for brothers and sisters of his later calling, he left £ three per cents. for the purchase of a twelfth cake and wine, to be partaken of annually, "for ever," by the company of drury lane, in green-room assembled. kelly says, the trustees of the theatrical fund sold baddeley's house at moulsey. adolphus thinks that the deviser infringed the statute of mortmain, and that the property, for want of heir, escheated to the crown. strange, that of property left by players for the use of players, the poor actors should be cheated, at moulsey as elsewhere. baddeley is said to have challenged foote to a duel with swords, as he did george garrick to one with pistols:--"here's a pretty fellow!" cried foote; "i allowed him to take my spit from the rack and stick it by his side, and now he wants to stick me with it!" baddeley is reported to have been cook, not only to foote, but to lord north. a greater artist than baddeley left the stage soon after him, in , after three and thirty years of service; namely, parsons, the original crabtree, and sir fretful plagiary, sir christopher curry, snarl to edwin's sheepface; and lope tocho, in the "mountaineers." parsons was a kentish man,[ ] who might have been an apothecary, or an excellent artist, but that he preferred the stage. he was a merry, honest fellow, who kept the house in a roar by his looks as well as words, and loved to make the actors laugh, who were on the stage with him, by some droll remark, uttered in an undertone. his forte lay in old men, his picture of whom, in all their characteristics, passions, infirmities, cunning, or imbecility, was perfect. when sir sampson legend says to foresight, "look up, old star-gazer! now is he poring on the ground for a crooked pin, or an old horse-nail, with the head towards him!" we are told "there could not be a finer illustration of the character which congreve meant to represent, than parsons showed at that time in his face and attitude." he was finely discriminating, too. his skirmish in the "deserter" presented, says adolphus, "a shrewd, quick-witted fellow, whose original powers were merged, but not absolutely drowned, in drink." in his own estimation, corbaccio was his best played character; but, said he, generously, "all the merit i have in it i owe to shuter." the last character he acted was elbow, on the th of december ,[ ] when kemble revived "measure for measure;" but asthma had then reduced him to a shadow, and he had to yield the part to waldron. he died soon after, and then ensued a singular domestic incident. his second wife was dorothy stewart, niece to the earl of galloway, whom he had married after the lively young lady had run away from a convent at lille. of this marriage there was a little son, who had for tutor a reverend young clergyman; and this tutor dorothy parsons married, four days after her husband's decease. so that she had two husbands in the house; one dead and the other living![ ] the first had left her a fortune. the second spent it, and left herself and son destitute. the town had not an old comic actor it esteemed more highly, except, perhaps, palmer. the early life of john palmer was full of disappointment; the latter end of trials; the middle, of some follies; but nothing more. when he was in hopes of employment in the theatre, he had been told to go for a soldier. garrick would not have him; foote pronounced his tragedy bad; but thought his comedy would do. he "strolled," struggled, starved; and then was engaged first by garrick, then by foote, to do anything he was told to do, at a salary which barely found him in bread. again he went to the country; married, or was married by a lady of expectations, which came to nothing, as she had mated with an actor. when again in london, palmer was too frightened at barry, to play iago to his othello; garrick eventually engaged him, but ridiculed his alleged powers of study, on which point, however, davy soon changed his mind. palmer slowly made his way, but it was very nearly stopped for ever, by mrs. barry, in the "grecian daughter," stabbing him (dionysius) with a real dagger. he subsequently built and opened the royalty theatre, in wellclose square, but was compelled to close it, by the patentees. from the difficulties in which this involved him he never relieved himself, and his life became a struggle between bailiffs eager to catch him, and palmer eager to escape from bailiffs. sometimes he passed a week together in the theatre; at others, he was carried out of it in some mysterious bit of theatrical property. from [ ] to he was on the london stage, one of the best general actors it ever had, except in singing parts and old men, and some tragic characters. his fine figure, nevertheless, was always a help to him. his young wilding was pronounced "perfect;" and among the best of his characters were face, captain flash, dick, stukely, sir toby belch, captain absolute, young fashion, joseph surface, prince of wales, sneer, don john, volpone, sir frederick fashion, henry viii., father philip, villeroy, brush, &c. among those he originated were joseph surface, count almaviva, sneer, lord gayville, cohenberg, sydenham, and dick dowlas. he was often careless, and would go on the stage very imperfect, trusting to his wits, his impudence, and the "usual indulgence" of the audience. on one occasion he delivered a prologue without knowing a line of it. the prompter was beneath a toilet table, and to palmer standing near, he gave line for line, which palmer repeated, with abounding smile and action to make up for dropped words. on another occasion, this actor took advantage of an uproar in front, to seem to deliver a prologue of which he knew nothing. he moved his lips, extended his arms, touched his heart, and said nothing. suddenly came a lull, and then palmer looked reproachfully as if the noise had embarrassed him; whereupon one half of the house stormed at the other, for not keeping silence, and, under cover of the storm, palmer seemed to conclude the prologue, and made a grateful bow, as if pleased with the fact of having been enabled to perform a pleasant task. after playing father philip and comus at drury lane, on the th of june , palmer proceeded to liverpool. he had finished at drury as radiant with gaiety, on the stage, as if his heart were not breaking. death had taken from his family circle his wife and the most dearly loved of his sons. sorrow for those who had departed, and anxiety for the remaining children who depended on him, affected him deeply, and, despite all effort, even when acting, he could not keep the dead or the living for a moment out of his memory. at length the night came when he was to repeat the character of the "stranger," and then there was no simulation in his mournful aspect. he had got through his part to the middle of the opening scene of the fourth act. he had answered "i love her still," to the query of baron steinfort (whitfield) respecting his wife; and then to the question as to his children, he gave the reply, "i left them at a small town hard by;" but the words, falteringly uttered, had scarcely passed his lips, when he fell, dead, at whitfield's feet! the sensation which this caused was most painful; and it was not allayed by those pious persons who saw in this sudden death an especial judgment launched by heaven on the head of a man who exercised an unrighteous calling. to support their theory, they invented the story that palmer was stricken after uttering the quotation, in the first scene of the third act, "there is another and a better world!" these words suited the inferences they wished to draw. they did not agree with the facts: but it was the old story, "so much the worse for the facts!" the lie yet lives. poor palmer! one cannot help having a kindly feeling for "plausible jack." can you not see him coming up to sheridan, when reconciliation had followed quarrel, with his head bent blandly forward, his eyes turned up, his hand on his heart, and a phrase after the manner, if not of the very matter, of joseph surface, of which he was the original representative? "if you could but see my heart, mr. sheridan!" and sheridan's pleasantly remonstrating remark, "why, jack, you forget i wrote it!" and then he was so modest. "plausible, am i?" he once asked; "you really rate me too highly. the utmost i ever did in that way was, on once being arrested by a bailiff; when i persuaded the fellow to bail me!" after many of these actors had commenced their career, and long before some of them concluded it, a great player came, charmed, and departed, leaving a name and a reputation which render him worthy of a chapter to himself. i allude to henderson. [illustration: mr. dunstall as hodge.] footnotes: [ ] should be th of may. [ ] he commenced with essex--"earl of essex"-- d october . he played hamlet on the th. [ ] ross left covent garden at the end of - . he appeared at the edinburgh theatre, in the canongate, on th december . [ ] the money was partly subscribed by shareholders, and ross seems to have owed most of the balance. [ ] ross died suddenly in ( d edition). [ ] . [ ] ( d edition). [ ] not king's _farewell_ benefit. [ ] should be haymarket. [ ] johnstone's first appearance in england took place on d october . [ ] this is more than doubtful. the immoderate length of this part contributed largely to the condemnation of the play. [ ] her first appearance as an actress was made d april . [ ] according to thomas bellamy's life of parsons, he was a londoner. [ ] bellamy gives sir fretful plagiary as his last part-- th january . [ ] bellamy mentions that there was such a story as this current, but characterises it as false. [ ] first appearance on any stage, th may . [illustration: mr. henderson as rolla.] chapter vi. john henderson. in the bill of the bath theatre for october the th, , the part of hamlet is announced to be performed "by a young gentleman." on the st of the month,[ ] we read, "richard iii., by mr. courtney, the young gentleman who acted hamlet." mr. courtney repeated those characters, and subsequently played benedick, macbeth, bobadil, bayes, don felix, and essex; and on the th of december, having thus felt his way and become satisfied of his safety, we have "henry iv.," with "hotspur by mr. henderson." after being anonymous and pseudonymous, he added, under his last and proper designation, the following characters to those he had previously acted: fribble, lear, and hastings, alonzo and alzuma; and mr. henderson was an established bath favourite. at this time, henderson was five-and-twenty years of age. descended from scottish presbyterians and english quakers, with a father who was an irish factor, henderson is the sole celebrity of the street in which he was born, in march ,[ ] goldsmith street, cheapside. the father died too soon for his two sons to remember him in after life; but the boys had an excellent mother, who unconsciously trained one of her sons to the stage, by making him familiar with the beauties of shakspeare. having succeeded so far in art as to obtain a prize when he was fournier's pupil, for a drawing exhibited at the society of arts; and having been as reluctant as spranger barry to be bound apprentice to a silversmith, henderson longed to win honour by the sock and buskin. this desire was probably fostered by the sight of garrick in the shop of mr. becket the bookseller, a friend of henderson's. garrick seldom went to coffee-houses, and never to taverns, but at becket's shop he held a little court, and henderson sighed to be as great as he. the weakly-voiced lad, with no marked presence, and a consumptive look, could obtain audience or favour from no one; least of all from roscius. he went up to remote islington, and, in the long room of an inn there, delivered garrick's _ode on the shakspeare jubilee_. after this, and, perhaps, in consequence, garrick received him, heard him recite, shook his head at a voice which was more woolly than silvery, and, after some counsel, procured for him an engagement at bath, and at a trifling salary. for five seasons he was a rising, improving, and then cherished actor at bath. but his fame did not influence the london managers. at length, _exeunt_ garrick, barry, woodward, and foote! and colman, lacking novelty at the haymarket, invites, somewhat unwillingly, young henderson from bath. he appeared at the little theatre in , and, in a little more than a month of acting nights, put £ into the manager's pocket. he played shylock, hamlet, leon, falstaff (in "henry iv.," and in the "merry wives,"), richard iii., don john, and bayes.[ ] [illustration: (john henderson)] in this first season he played three of his greatest parts--shylock, hamlet, and falstaff. the first was selected for his _début_, contrary to his own inclination. macklin's shylock was the shylock of all playgoers; but the difference between it and henderson's attracted attention and audiences. old macklin himself praised his young rival's conception of the part with energetic liberality. "and yet, sir," said henderson, "i have never had the advantage of seeing you in the character." "it is not necessary to tell me that, sir," said macklin, with no conceited modesty. "i knew you had not, or you would have played it differently." garrick also saw henderson in the part, and remarked that tubal was very creditably played indeed! it is said that henderson, after delighting garrick, when breakfasting with him in , by imitations of barry, woodward, love (whose single character of note was falstaff), and some others, offended him by a close imitation of garrick himself. colman is reported to have been equally offended by an imitation of himself, at his own table, by henderson, who did not, as foote would have done, watch his host, and mimic him at other tables. henderson seems to have been so little willing to offend, that in playing bayes, he omitted the imitations of contemporary performers, by which all other actors of the parts had been wont to reap rich harvests of applause. macklin said of him that the young man had learned a great deal; but what remained for him was to unlearn much of it, in order that he might learn to be an actor. in this oracular manner there was more kindness than henderson met with from foote, previous to his first season in london, and of which genest has compiled this account:-- "henderson, accompanied by two friends, waited on foote, and was received with great civility. foote's imagination was so lively, his conceptions were so rapid as well as so exuberant, that by a torrent of wit, humour, pleasantry, and satire, he kept the company for a considerable time in convulsions of laughter; however, henderson's friends thought it, at last, time to stop the current of foote's vivacities, by informing him of the reason of their visit, and henderson was permitted to begin a speech in 'hamlet;' but before he could finish it, foote continually interrupted him by some unlucky joke or droll thought.... at the conclusion henderson was, without interruption, allowed to speak garrick's prologue on his return from the continent. this being no caricature, but a fair representation of garrick's manner, did not make any impression on foote; however, he paid the speaker a compliment on the goodness of his ear--dinner was now announced, and when henderson took his leave, foote whispered one of the company, _he would not do_. "henderson once requested palmer 'not to bring him forward in too many parts;' observing that it must be for the manager's interest, as well as his own credit, to have him studied in the parts he was to appear in: he added, 'to learn words, indeed, is no great labour, and to pour them out no very difficult matter; it is done on our stage almost every night, but with what success i leave you to judge--_the generality of performers think it enough to learn the words_; and thence all that vile uniformity which disgraces the theatre.'" this was rather proud criticism, as it referred to his early bath colleagues; but henderson's standard of propriety would not allow him to speak otherwise. in his second character in london, hamlet, he came into more direct contrast with garrick, whose greatest idolaters found heavy fault in henderson's young dane for flinging away his uncle's picture--subsequent to the famous speech in which he compares the portraits of his father and uncle. on a following night he retained the picture in his hand, and the same party ridiculed him, on the ground that if he was right the first night, he must necessarily have been wrong on the second! he was said, too, not to have managed his hat properly on first seeing the ghost; and similar carpings were made against the new actor, only to hear whose words, "the fair ophelia!" people went as to the most exquisite music. but what was that to the garrick faction who pronounced him disqualified, because in the closet scene he did not, in his agitation, upset the chair. "mr. garrick, sir, always overthrew the chair." during his short, but brilliant and honourable career, he originated no new character that may be found in any acting play of the present day. i think he was the first actor who, with sheridan, gave public readings. they filled freemason's hall, and their own pockets, by their talents in this way, and henderson could as easily excite tears by his pathos, as he could stir laughter by a droll way of reciting johnny gilpin, which gave wild impetus to the sale of that picturesque narrative. his own temperament, however, was naturally grave, derived from that mother whose occasional melancholy was nearly allied to insanity. yet he was not without humour, or he could not have played falstaff with a success only inferior to quin, nor have founded the shandean club in maiden lane, nor have written so quaint a pastoral love-song as his damon and phyllis. in acting Æsop, he delivered the fables with great significance. the chief characteristic of the part lay in its grim splenetic humour, such as he himself showed when he, the high-spirited pupil of fournier, had to drive his master when he gave drawing-lessons, and to clean the horse and chaise after reaching home again! he loved praise, honestly owned his love, and worked hard to win public favour. when he was cast for a new character he read the entire play, learned his own part, read the play again, and troubled himself no more about it, although a fortnight might elapse between the last rehearsal and the first performance. previous to which latter occasion, it was his custom to dine well, and sit at his wine till summoned to rise and go forth. a garrick-worshipper told him he was wrong.[ ] mr. garrick, on such occasions, shut himself up for the day, and dined lightly. henderson was the last of the school of garrick, and once imitated his master in his diet. the result was a cold and vapid performance of bireno, in the "law of lombardy;" and henderson registered a vow, to be original and dine generously on like occasions, in future. henderson was, in every respect a gentleman; his social position was as good as that of any gentleman of his time. in dublin, as in london, he was a welcome guest in the best society, even in that for which the stage had few attractions. personally, he had natural obstacles to surmount. he was short, not gracefully moulded, lacked intelligent expression of the eye, and had a voice too weak for rage and not silvery soft enough for love. but he had clear judgment, quick feeling, ready comprehension, and accurate elocution. cumberland names shylock, falstaff, and sir giles as his best characters, but there were portions of others in which he could not be excelled; "in the variety of shakspeare's soliloquies, where more is meant than meets the ear, he had no equal," and this is high praise, for the difficulty of the task is work for a genius. never strong, his poor health failed him early, and on the th of november he acted for the last time. the part was horatius, in the "roman father." in less than three weeks, and at the early age of thirty-eight, troops of friends escorted the body of the man they had esteemed to westminster abbey,--one more addition to the silent company of the great of all degrees and qualities, from actors to kings. professionally, henderson did not die prematurely. kemble had already been two years at drury lane, and the new school of acting was supplanting the old. let me add a word of henderson's brother. he, too, belonged to art, and promised to be a great engraver, but consumption struck him down early. he was residing, for his health, on the sunny side of a house in then fashionable hampstead, when death came suddenly upon him. among the company in the same house was the most beautiful and gay of gay women,--kitty fisher. but she was true woman too, and hearing of a lonely stranger menaced with death, she went straightway to tend him, and henderson's brother died in kitty's arms. his readings were attended frequently by mrs. siddons and john kemble; his voice was so flexible that his tones conveyed every phase of meaning. even his way of reading the words, "they order this matter," said i, "better in france," had a world of significance in it, not to be found when uttered by others; and the letter of mrs. ford to falstaff, when he read it on the stage, shook the house with such laughter as was seldom heard, save indeed when he imitated garrick and dr. johnson, the former reciting his ode, and the latter interrupting him by critical objections. i do not wonder that both munden and john kemble who, all their lives, had a longing to play falstaff, abandoned the idea when they remembered henderson's excellence. at the period of henderson's death, his early prophecy had been fulfilled with regard to mrs. siddons;--to whose career we will now direct our notice. footnotes: [ ] should be th. [ ] ireland, henderson's biographer, states that he was born in february . he is said to have been baptized on th march. [ ] "walpole availed himself of henderson's triumph to say something malicious of garrick: 'garrick is dying of yellow jaundice on the success of henderson, a young actor from bath,' which was not true" ( d edition). [ ] i think this garrick-worshipper was tom davies. [illustration: mrs. siddons as mrs. haller.] chapter vii. sarah siddons. on the th of june ,[ ] when garrick and mrs. cibber, yates and mrs. pritchard, woodward and mrs. clive, were the leaders in the drury lane company,--while barry and mrs. bellamy, ryan and mrs. woffington, were among the "chiefs" of covent garden, sarah kemble was born, the first of twelve children, at a public-house, in brecon, in which town, exactly a score of years later, was born her youngest brother, charles. by both parents she belonged to the stage. her mother's maiden name was ward. this lady's father had been a respectable actor[ ] under betterton, and was a strolling manager, when the hairdresser of the company, a handsome fellow, poor, of course, and a roman catholic, eloped with and married the manager's daughter. his name was roger kemble. he was an actor too; love, at first, had helped to make him a very bad one. fanny furnival, of the canterbury company, drilled him into the worst captain plume[ ] that ever danced over the stage; but mrs. roger kemble, a woman who illustrated the truth that beauty is of every age, used in her latter days to look at the grand old man, and assert that he was the only gentleman-like falstaff she had ever seen. mr. and mrs. kemble were "itinerants" when the first child of their marriage was born,--a child who made her _début_ on the london stage long before her father;--the latter playing, and playing very well, the miller of mansfield, at the haymarket, in , for the benefit of the wife of his second son, stephen. when roger carried off miss ward, her father with difficulty forgave her,--and only on the ground that she had, at all events, obeyed his injunction,--not to marry an actor. "he will never be that," said the old player of the betterton era. with which remark, his discontent was exhausted. her grandsire acted under betterton and booth; her parents had played with quin;--she herself fulfilling a professional career which commenced with garrick, and ended with her performing lady randolph to mr. macready's glenalvon;--when i add to this record that she saw the brilliant but chequered course of edmund kean to nearly its close, and witnessed the _début_ of miss fanny kemble,--the whole history of the stage since the restoration seems resumed therein. roger kemble's itinerant company, as his children were born, received them as members. they played,--sarah, john, stephen, elizabeth,--almost as soon as they could speak. sarah's first audience compassionately hissed her, as too young to be listened to; but she won their applause by reciting a fable. at thirteen, she played in the great room of the king's head, worcester,--among other parts, ariel, in the "tempest," her father, mother, sister elizabeth, and brother john acting in the same piece. for the next four or five years, there was much of itinerant life, till we find her at wolverhampton, in , acting in a wide range of characters, from lee's heroines to rosetta, in "love in a village." in the latter case, the young meadows was a mr. siddons, who had acted hippolito in dryden's "tempest," when she played ariel. in her father's company she was always the first and greatest. she played all that the accomplished daughter of a manager chose to play, among her father's strollers,--and she attracted admirers both before and behind the curtain. the earl of coventry[ ] and sundry squires were among the former. among the latter was that poor player, an ex-apprentice from birmingham, named siddons, between whom and sarah kemble there was true love, for which, however, there was lacking parental sanction. the country audiences sympathised with the young people, and applauded the lover, who introduced his sad story into a comic song, on his benefit night. as he left the stage, the stately manageress received him at the wing, and there greeted him with a ringing box of the ears. this led to the secession of both actors from the company. mr. siddons went,--the world before him where to choose; sarah kemble,--to the family of mr. greatheed, of guy's cliff, warwickshire. "she hired herself," says the _secret history of the green room_, published in the very zenith of her fame,--"as lady's maid to mrs. greatheed, at £ per annum." "her station," says campbell, "was humble, but not servile, and her _principal_ employment was to read to the elder mr. greatheed." she probably fulfilled the double duty,--no disparagement at a time when the maids of ladies were often decayed ladies themselves. [illustration: (mrs siddons)] old roger kemble is said to have been very unwilling that any of his children should follow that profession, in exercising which he had wandered far, suffered much, and profited sparingly. the unwillingness was natural, but he seems to have put it in practice when too late;--after he had allowed his attractive young people to enjoy some of the perilous delights of the stage. there are bills extant which show that some of them, at least, were playing in his company, when they were of tender years. when sarah kemble went to guy's cliff, it was with no idea of permanently leaving the stage; and if it be true, as alleged in the series of dramatic biographies, published by symonds at the beginning of the present century, that roger kemble apprenticed his daughter elizabeth to a mantua-maker in leominster, and frances to a milliner in worcester, he narrowly missed marring their good fortunes. a similar vocation could not keep anne oldfield from the stage, and though elizabeth and frances kemble were not actresses of extraordinary merit, they had not to regret that they abandoned the vocations chosen for them by their parents, for that which was followed by their parents themselves. from guy's cliff, sarah kemble was ultimately taken by her persevering wooer, to whom her father reluctantly gave her at trinity church, coventry, on the th of november . the bride was in her nineteenth year. the married couple continued but for a brief period in the kemble company. a month after the marriage, the name of "mrs. siddons" was, for the first time, in the playbill, at worcester,[ ] to charlotte rusport, in the "west indian," and leonora, in the "padlock." shortly after, roger kemble saw mr. and mrs. siddons depart for chamberlain and crump's company, in cheltenham. here mrs. siddons at once took her place. her belvidera excited universal admiration. lord ailesbury, the cousin of the pretender's wife, the countess of albany, mentioned her to garrick; and lord dungarvon's daughter, miss boyle, directed her wardrobe, lent her many of her own dresses, and helped to make others for her with her own hands. the cheltenham "properties" were of the poorest; but there were some that even the honourable miss boyle could not supply. thus, for the male disguise of the widow brady, mrs. siddons found, on the night of performance, that no provision had been made; but we are told that a gentleman in the boxes lent her his coat, while he stood at the side-scenes, with a petticoat over his shoulders, and ready to receive his property when done with! garrick, on lord ailesbury's report, sent king down to see this actress of promise, and on king's warrant, engaged her for drury lane, at £ per week. others say that it was on the warrant of parson bate, of the _morning post_, who greatly praised her rosalind.[ ] her first appearance was on the th of december , as portia, "by a young lady," to king's shylock. on january d, , she repeated portia, "by mrs. siddons." on the th,[ ] she played epicoene, but the part was subsequently assigned to another. on the d of february she acted julia, in a new and poor farce, the "blackamoor washed white," and on the th, emily, in mrs. cowley's new comedy, the "runaway," which part she had to surrender to mrs. king. she was not more fortunate in maria, her third original character, in "love's metamorphoses;" nor in a subsequent part, that of mrs. strictland to garrick's ranger, did she excite any further remark save that it was played in a pathetic manner. her second appearance with garrick was as lady anne to his richard, which she repeated twice, the last time on june , in presence of the royal family. five nights later, garrick took his farewell of the stage, and mrs. siddons's engagement was at an end. in belvidera, for which she had been praised by king, she was not permitted to appear. bate had commended her rosalind, but she had to see it played by miss younge. even miss hopkins, who became her sister-in-law, had better parts than she; and there was mrs. yates keeping calista and isabella, and mrs. king playing lady macbeth, and mrs. canning (mother of the future statesman) allowed on the benefit of reddish, whom she married, to play monimia. mrs. siddons concluded that the other actresses who plagued garrick's life out, hated her, because garrick was polite and even kind to her. sheridan alleged, as a reason for not re-engaging her, that garrick did not recognise in her a first-rate actress (which she was far from being at that time). woodfall thought her sensible, but too weak for london. "you are all fools!" said buxom mrs. abington. the fragile, timid, faltering actress acquired strength in the country. henderson, himself rising to excellence, acted with, and spoke well of, her. york pronounced her perfect, and bath took her with the warrant, and retained her, its most cherished tragic actress, object of public applause and private esteem, till the year . it was here, in truth, that the great actress was perfected, and _that_ amid as many matronly as professional duties. on leaving the bath stage, she pointed to her children as so many reasons for the step; and therewith went up, with no faint heart, this time to the metropolis. "she is an actress," said henderson, "who has never had an equal, and will never have a superior." "my good reception in london," writes mrs. siddons, "i cannot but partly attribute to the enthusiastic accounts of me which the amiable duchess of devonshire had brought thither, and spread before my arrival." poor henderson! with broken voice, the old nervousness, and a world of fears, she rehearsed isabella, in southerne's tragedy. when the night of the th of october arrived, she dressed with a desperate tranquillity, and many sighs, and then faced the public, her son henry, then eight years of age, holding her by the hand, and her father, roger, looking on with a dismay that was soon converted into delight. smith played biron, and palmer, villeroy,--but siddons alone was heeded on that night, in which she gave herself up so thoroughly to the requirements of the part, that her young son, who had often rehearsed with her, was so overcome by the reality of the dying scene, that he burst into tears.[ ] "i never heard," she writes, "such peals of applause in all my life. i thought they would not have suffered mr. packer to end the play." with the echoes of the shouting audience ringing in her ears, she went home solemnly and silently. "my father, my husband, and myself," she says, "sat down to a frugal, neat supper, in a silence uninterrupted, except by exclamations of gladness from mr. siddons." with succeeding nights, the triumph went on increasing. the management gave her garrick's dressing-room, and gentlemen learned in the law presented her with a purse of a hundred guineas. after the tender isabella came the heroic loveliness of euphrasia, with bensley for evander, her success in which shook the laurels on the brows of mrs. yates, and the widow of spranger barry. having given new life to murphy's dull lines in a play which, nevertheless, does not lack incident, she appeared as jane shore to smith's hastings, and with such effect that not only were sobs and shrieks heard from the ladies, but men wept like children, and "fainting fits," says campbell, "were long and frequent in the house." to the lothario of palmer and horatio of bensley, mrs. siddons next played calista, in another of rowe's tragedies, the "fair penitent,"--that impersonation of pride, anguish, anger, shame, and sorrow, and with undiminished success. but in belvidera (to the jaffier of brereton, and pierre of bensley) she seems to have surpassed all she had hitherto accomplished over the minds and feelings of the audience, whom she fairly electrified. her belvidera, with its honest, passionate, overwhelming love and truth, was well contrasted with her scorn and magnificence of demeanour in zara. the whole season was one of triumph,--the only dark spot in which was the failure of hull's "fatal interview," in which she played mrs. montague, but with so little effect, where, indeed, no opportunity was given her of creating any, as to injure for a moment a prestige which grew all bright again by her performance of calista. it is singular that she liked her part in hull's play--"a new tragedy, in prose," she writes; "a most affecting play, in which i have a part that i like very much;" but she adds, from her house, strand, "the 'fatal interview' has been played three times, and is quite done with. it was the dullest of all representations." of mrs. crawford (barry) the new actress entertained some small fears, which are not too generously expressed in a letter to dr. whalley. "i should suppose she has a very good fortune, and i should be vastly obliged if she would go and live very comfortably upon it ... let her retire as soon as she pleases!" at this time, when her second benefit brought her nearly £ , her ideas of supreme bliss were limited to a cottage in the country, and a capital of £ , . her success brought her many an enemy, the most virulent and unmanly of whom was an anonymous paragraph-writer in the newspapers, who slandered her daily, and for a brief moment excited against her the ill will of the public. "he loaded her with opprobrium," says an anonymous contemporary, "for not alleviating the distresses of her (alleged) sister,"[ ] mrs. curtis, a vicious woman, who, according to the quaintly circumstantial writer, "would not conform to modesty, though offered a genteel annuity on that condition." mrs. curtis read lectures at dr. graham's temple of health, and the wayward woman attempted to poison herself in westminster abbey. the enemies of mrs. siddons somehow connected her with both circumstances, as they subsequently did with that of old roger kemble applying, humbly, for relief from some charitable fund, in the hands of a banker. probably the ex-hairdresser was proud, and may have preferred to apply for aid to a fund which he had helped to sustain than to take it from his children. the story is detailed by genest, who seems inclined to place some faith in it! ireland eagerly invited the new actress, and she crossed from holyhead to dublin in a storm, which she looked on or endured with a "pleasing terror." landing in the middle of a wet night in june, no tavern even would then receive a woman and a stranger, and it was with difficulty that her companion brereton, a promising irish actor, whom she had instructed in jaffier, procured accommodation for her, in the house where he himself lodged. she played with equal success at cork as at dublin, particularly in zara. from the former place she writes to dr. whalley:--"i have sat to a young man in this place who has made a small full length of me in isabella, upon the first entrance of biron ... he has succeeded to admiration. i think it more like me than any i have ever yet seen." who was this unnamed artist? where is this young isabella? mrs. siddons returned to england, richer by £ by her irish summer excursion, and with an antipathy against the people, which could only be momentary in the daughter of a lady born in clonmel. her season of - at drury was doubly marked: she played two shakspearian characters--isabella, in "measure for measure," to smith's duke; and constance, in "king john," to the king of her own brother, john kemble. the first was a greater success than the second; but constance became ultimately one of the most perfect of her portraitures. to see her isabella, in the "fatal marriage," the whole royal family went in quaint state. to her brother's beverley, she played the wife, in a way which affected the actors as much as it did the audience. in the countess of salisbury, one of mrs. crawford's great parts, and sigismunda, she comparatively failed; but she achieved a double triumph in lady randolph. it will be remembered how she had desired the retreat of mrs. crawford. the old actress had been famous for her performance of lady randolph, which she played on her reappearance at covent garden in november . her oldest admirers (some critics excepted) confessed that her powers were shaken. a month afterwards mrs. siddons played the same character, for her benefit, to the young norval of brereton, when the old actress succumbed at once, by comparison; but it is doubtful if mrs. siddons excelled her, if the comparison be confined to the period when each actress was in youth, strength, and beauty. "mrs. siddons," says campbell, "omitted mrs. crawford's scream, in the far-famed question, 'was he alive?'" in , the year when mrs. crawford was laid by the side of her husband, barry, in westminster abbey, mr. simons, says genest, "in a small party at bath, went through the scene between old norval and lady randolph,--his imitation of mrs. crawford was most perfect, particularly in 'was he alive?' mrs. piozzi, who was present, said to him,--'do not do that before mrs. siddons; she would not be pleased.'" the king shed tears, however, at her acting; and the queen, turning her back to the stage, styled it in her broken english "too _dis_agreeable;" but she appointed mrs. siddons preceptress in english reading to the princesses, without any emolument, and kept her standing in stiff and stately dress, including a hoop, which mrs. siddons especially detested, till she was ready to faint! the king, too, praised her correct emphasis, mimicked the false ones of other actors, and set her above garrick on one point, that of repose, whereas, he said, "garrick could never stand still. he was a great fidget." the countesses entrapped her into parties where crowds of well-bred people stood on the chairs to stare at her. one invalid scotch lady, whose doctor had forbidden her going to the theatre, went unintroduced to mrs. siddons's residence, then in gower street, and calmly sat down, gazed at her for some minutes, and then walked silently away. sir joshua reynolds painted his name on the _hem of her garment_, in his portrait of her as the tragic muse, and dr. johnson kissed her hand, and called her "my dear madam," on his own staircase. statesmen were glad, when she played, to sit among the fiddlers; and the fine gentlemen of the day, including him of "wales," visited her in her dressing-room, after the play, "to make their bows." and then she rode home in "her own carriage!" edinburgh was impatient to see her, but slow in making up its mind about her. one supreme effort alone, in lady randolph, elicited from a generous critic in the pit, the comment, uttered aloud, "that's nae bad;" after that sanction the house shook with applause. glasgow, not to be behindhand, gave her not only applause but a service of plate. in dublin, where, probably, her expressed dislike of the irish people had been reported, there was great opposition to her. her engagements stood in the way of charitable benefits, and no sacrifices she made to further the latter, whether for societies or individuals, were allowed to her credit. i think, too, that the irish actors little relished her stage arrangements made for proper effect, and irish managers were not delighted with her terms of half the receipts; altogether mrs. siddons returned to london in saddened temper. in dublin she had raised a storm; in edinburgh, where crowds of unwashed people were crammed nightly to see her, in an unventilated theatre, a fever, such as used to be in crowded gaols, broke out, and spread over the city. as once in the case of garrick, so now with the great actress; it was called the _siddons' fever_, as if she were responsible for it! the anecdote of "that's nae bad!" then, is not to be quoted to the disadvantage of scottish audiences.[ ] the edinburgh people, moreover, had been told that mrs. siddons was unwilling to be interrupted by applause, which, however, was not true; as she herself alleged that the more applause the less fatigue, as she had more breathing time. indeed, the edinburgh enthusiasm anent the great actress surpassed all such manifestations elsewhere. fancy the general assembly of the kirk being obliged to arrange their meetings with reference to mrs. siddons's acting, as the younger members followed the artist, as bossuet used to follow contemporary actors, to study elocution. people, during her first engagement of three weeks, assembled in crowds, hours before the doors were opened, sometimes as early as noon. as soon as admission was given, there ensued a fierce struggle which disregarded even the points of bayonets, whose bearers were called in to quell disorder; and, as soon as the play was over, and the doors were closed, porters and servants took up a position, standing, lying, sleeping, but all ready to secure places on the opening of the box-offices on the following day. on one occasion there were applications for places, of which the house numbered but ; and when, at night, the struggle was renewed for these, the loss of property, in costume and its attendant luxuries of jewellery and the like, was enormous. one night, as mrs. siddons was playing isabella, and had uttered the words by which she used to pierce all hearts, words uttered on discovering her first husband, in whose absence she had remarried, "oh, my biron! my biron!" a young aberdeenshire heiress, miss gordon of gight, sent forth a scream as wild as that of isabella, and, taking up the words in a hysterical frenzy, was carried out still uttering them. next year this impressible lady was wooed and won by a byron, the honourable john of that name, by whom she became the mother of one more famous than the rest, lord byron, the "lord of himself, that heritage of woe." lady gray, of gask, told my friend, mr. robert chambers, that she "never could forget those ominous sounds of, 'oh, my biron!'" notwithstanding all this success, i find contemporary critics expressing an opinion that she played too frequently. "if she hopes," says one, "to have the gratification of being followed by crowds, she should never perform more than once a week, or twelve times in a season." the arithmetical computation seems defective; but it is singular that mrs. delaney made a similar remark with respect to garrick. mrs. siddons was, however, equal to more fatigue than some of her admirers would have had her undergo. i find it recorded, with admiration, in a paper three-quarters of a century old, that in four days she had achieved the (then) incredible task of acting in three theatres, so wide apart as london, reading, and bath! walpole thus speaks of her in isabella, "i have seen mrs. siddons; she pleased me beyond my expectation, but not up to the admiration of the _ton_, two or three of whom were in the same box with me, particularly mr. boothby, who, as if to disclaim the stoic apathy of mr. meadows in "cecilia," was all bravissimo. mr. crawfurd, too, asked me if i did not think her the best actress i ever saw? i said, 'by no means; we old folks were apt to be prejudiced in favour of our first impressions.' she is a good figure, handsome enough, though neither nose nor chin according to the greek standard, beyond which both advance a good deal. her hair is rather red, or she has no objection to its being thought so, and had used red powder. her voice is clear and good; but i thought she did not vary its modulations enough, nor ever approach enough to the familiar; but this may come when more habituated to the awe of the audience of the capital. her action is proper, but with little variety; when without motion her arms are not genteel. thus you see, madam, all my objections are very trifling; but what i really wanted, but did not find, was originality, which announces genius, and without both which i am never intrinsically pleased. all mrs. siddons did, good sense or good instruction might give. i dare to say that, were i one-and-twenty, i should have thought her marvellous; but, alas! i remember mrs. porter and the dumesnil; and remember every accent of the former in the very same part." subsequently, he says:--"i cannot think mrs. siddons the greatest prodigy that ever appeared, nor go to see her act the same part every week, and cry my eyes out every time; were i five-and-twenty, i suppose i should weep myself blind, for she is a fine actress, and fashion would make me think a brilliant what now seems to me only a very good rose-diamond." that mrs. siddons abandoned the reddish-brown powder then in fashion, we shall see in the chapter on costume. meanwhile, let us keep to her career on the london stage. on her return thither from ireland, she found the town possessed by reports of her pride, arrogance, and lack of kindness to her poorer colleagues. a cabal interrupted her performance during several nights; but even when she triumphed over it, by proving the injustice of her accusers, she did not entirely recover her peace of mind. she felt that she had chosen a humiliating vocation. there were, however, bright moments in it. in franklin's absurd tragedy, the "earl of warwick," her superb margaret of anjou caused the playgoers who had applauded mrs. yates to acknowledge that, great as the original representative was, a greater had arisen in mrs. siddons. but when the latter played zara, the supremacy of mrs. cibber was only divided. in cumberland's "carmelite," in which she played matilda to the montgomeri of kemble, she produced little effect.[ ] the great actress had no such poets as the great mrs. barry had, to fit her with parts; and, lacking such, fell back upon the old. her camiola, in massinger's "maid of honour," was, however, only a passing success. she made ample amends for all by her triumph in lady macbeth, in . with this character her name and fame are always most closely associated. walpole himself could hardly have questioned the grand originality of her conception of the part. mrs. siddons imagined the heroine of this most tragic of tragedies to be a delicate blonde, who ruled by her intellect, and subdued by her beauty, but with whom no one feeling of common general nature was congenial; a woman prompt for wickedness, but swiftly possessed by remorse; one who is horror-stricken for herself and for the precious husband, who, more robust and less sensitive, plunges deeper into crime, and is less moved by any sense of compassion or sorrow. from this night, mrs. pritchard, the lady macbeth of past days, was unseated from her throne in the hearts of many old admirers. mrs. siddons certainly never had a superior in this part, the night of her first success in which formed an epoch in dramatic history. sheridan, the manager, had dreaded a fiasco, for no other reason than that in the sleep-walking scene mrs. siddons would not carry the candlestick about with her! mrs. pritchard had always done so, and any omission in this respect--so he thought--would be treated by the audience as a mark of disrespect to the memory and to the observances of the older actress. the audience were too enthralled by the younger player to think of such stage trifles. mason, the poet, hated mrs. siddons for surpassing his idol, pritchard, and friends abstained from pronouncing her name in his presence. she subdued him, of course, and they played duets together at lord harcourt's; but she could make nothing of the old poet's elfrida, played to the athelwold of smith--and mrs. pritchard was never displaced from the shrine she occupied in his memory. lord harcourt's judgment of mrs. siddons, in lady macbeth, is thus expressed:--"to say that mrs. siddons, in one word, is superior to mrs. pritchard in lady macbeth, would be talking nonsense, because i don't think that it is possible; but, on the other hand, i will not say with those _impartial_ judges, mr. whitehead and miss farquhar, that she does not play near as well. but there are others too, and in the parts for mrs. siddons, that are of this opinion; that she has much more expression of countenance, and can assume parts with a spirit, cannot be denied; but that she wants the dignity, and above all, the unequalled compass and melody of mrs. pritchard. i thought her wonderful and very fine in the rest of that scene. she throws a degree of proud and filial tenderness into this speech, 'had he not resembled,' &c., which is new and of great effect. her 'are you a man!' in the banquet scene, i thought inferior to mrs. pritchard's; and for the parts spoken at a great distance her voice wanted power. her countenance, aided by a studious and judicious choice of head-dress, was a true picture of a mind diseased in the sleeping scene, and made one shudder; and the effect, as a picture, was better in that than it had ever been with the taper, because it allows of variety in the actress of washing her hands; but the sigh was not so horrid, nor was the voice so sleepy, nor yet quite so articulate as mrs. pritchard's." this is a less summary criticism than that of the calais landlady, on whom mrs. siddons had made an impression. "she looks like a frenchwoman; _but_ it will be a long time before she gets the grace and dignity of a frenchwoman!" if walpole may be trusted, mrs. siddons's ideas of lady macbeth had not always been identical. i find this in a pretty picture painted by walpole, in :[ ]--"mrs. siddons continues to be the mode, and to be modest and sensible. she declines great dinners, and says her business and the cares of her family take her whole time. when lord carlisle carried her the tribute money from brooks's, he said she was not _maniérée_ enough. 'i suppose she was grateful,' said my niece, lady maria. mrs. siddons was desired to play medea and lady macbeth. 'no,' she replied, 'she did not look on them as female characters.'" at that time she had not made up her mind to attempt a part in which mrs. pritchard had been unrivalled. as far as medea was concerned, mrs. siddons left the laurels of mrs. yates unshaken, and declined to play that supremely tragic part. one of her chief desires was that walpole should see her in portia, in which she had failed; walpole preferred witnessing her athenais. in the passionate scenes of so poor a play as "percy," walpole greatly admired her; but he found her voice hollow and defective in cool declamation. of course, there were various individuals who were said to be--who affected to be--or who really were in love with the great actress. among these was brereton, son of the major of that name, and who was a poor actor till rehearsing jaffier to mrs. siddons's belvidera she inspired him, as malibran did templeton, into something like excellence. mrs. siddons having thus effected for him what garrick had failed to do, brereton was exceedingly grateful, and his good-natured friends not only conduced to mrs. brereton's peace of mind, by reporting that he was in love with the great actress, but when "a malady not easily accounted for," as the theatrical biographies call the insanity which impeded his performances with mrs. siddons in dublin, compelled him to leave the stage, the madness was set down to over much regard for, and a little difference with "a great tragic actress, of whom he is said to be very fond." to this matter mrs. siddons doubtless alludes in a curious letter to dr. whalley, dated march , . "i have been very unhappy; now 'tis over, i will venture to tell you so, that you may not lose the dues of rejoicing. envy, malice, detraction, all the fiends of hell have compassed me round about to destroy me; 'but blessed be god who hath given me the victory,' &c. i have been charged with almost everything bad, except incontinence; and it is attributed to me as thinking a woman may be guilty of every crime, provided she retain her chastity. god help them, and forgive them; they know but little of me." poor brereton died in confinement, in ; and if his wife had ever been rendered unhappy by the report of his love for mrs. siddons, his widow was rendered happy by the love of mrs. siddons's brother for herself; and mrs. brereton, the lively priscilla hopkins of the old days when her father was prompter, became mrs. john kemble. meanwhile, at other adorers of her own, mrs. siddons only laughed. "if you should meet a mr. seton," she writes to dr. whalley, "who lived in leicester square, you must not be surprised to hear him boast of being very well with my sister and myself, for since i have been here i have heard the old fright has been giving it out in town. you will find him rather an unlikely person to be so great a favourite with women." but her desdemona certainly increased the number of her lovers, old and young. the character is in such strong contrast with that of lady macbeth, that the public were not prepared for the new and more delicate fascination. "you have no idea," she writes, "how the innocence and playful simplicity of my desdemona have laid hold on the hearts of the people. i am very much flattered by this, as nobody has ever done anything with that character before." nevertheless, the sense of humiliation does not seem to have left her. she announces the marriage of her sister elizabeth with mr. whitelock, a "worthy man," though an actor; but that of another sister, frances, has a more jubilant tone in the proclaiming: "yes, my sister is married, and i have lost one of the sweetest companions in the world. she has married a most respectable man, though of small fortune; and i _thank god, that she is off the stage_." this was mrs. twiss. of another sister, we only remember her as the old-fashioned novelist, "anne" (hatton) "of swansea."[ ] of theatrical gossip, mrs. siddons's letters do not contain much, but it is generally epigrammatic; "miss younge," she writes to dr. whalley, "is married to mr. pope, a very boy, and the only one she will have by her marriage." in , she says, "we have a great comic actress now, called mrs. jordan. she has a vast deal of merit, but, in my mind, is not perfection." what mrs. siddons had acquired already by the stage, we learn from her own words: "i have at last, my friend, attained the ten thousand pounds which i set my heart upon, and am now perfectly at ease with respect to fortune." from lodgings, at strand, she had gone to a house of her own, in gower street, bedford square, "the back of it is most effectually in the country, and delightfully pleasant." there, in then suburban gower street, was established a happy and flourishing household, the master of which had friends who borrowed four hundred pounds at a time, and the mistress others to whom she lent smaller sums, and who thought her exceedingly ungrateful when she asked, as she did without scruple, for her money. mrs. jordan, "to my mind, is not perfection," wrote mrs. siddons, but the former was more perfect than the latter in rosalind, which mrs. siddons played for her benefit in april , to the orlando of brereton; king played touchstone; palmer, jacques. mrs. siddons dressed the character ill, as the disguised rosalind; her costume was severely handled by the critics. as miss seward magniloquently put it, "the scrupulous prudery of decency produced an ambiguous vestment, that seemed neither male nor female." the character was "totally without archness," said young; "how _could_ such a countenance be arch?" campbell, like walpole, says that in comedy she gathered no laurels. miss farren and mrs. jordan excelled her there; and her mrs. lovemore, in the "way to keep him," must be reckoned amongst her failures. that some of her heroines, in dull and defunct tragedies, rank only next to failures, must be laid to the account of the poets. throughout the kingdom she was recognised as queen of tragedy. in scotland, a sensitive man in the glasgow gallery exclaimed, "she's a fallen angel!" and edinburgh fishwives looked with interest on the lady who had "gar'd them greet, yestreen!" "i am going to undertake your adored hermione this winter," writes mrs. siddons to dr. whalley. "you know i was always afraid of her, and i am not a bit more bold than i was." this timidity was not justified; her hermione, indeed, was not equal to that of a later actress, rachel, but it had grand points. the simple words, "why, _pyrrhus_!" when orestes (smith) asked her whom she would have him murder, thrilled the remotest auditor by their emphasis. but she could thrill actors as well as auditors; playing ophelia for her second benefit, , in the mad scene, she spoke some words in so strange a manner, as she touched the arm of the queen, that the memory of so practised a player as mrs. hopkins was disturbed, and she stood awed and silent. [illustration: (mrs. jordan)] though ophelia was not a triumph, nor the lady in "comus," nor cleone, to which nobody went on the second night, for the strange reason, that mrs. siddons was too affecting!--her position was unassailably established. mrs. jordan she put out of all competition with her in certain parts, by playing imogen; for which she asked of the artist hamilton to sketch for her "a boy's dress to conceal the person as much as possible." whether she desired to set aside mrs. jordan altogether as a rival in comedy, is doubtful; but she certainly continued to try comic parts, but the laugh excited was not hearty; her lady townly had no airiness; her smiles are spoken of as glorious condescensions; when bannister was asked if her comic acting had ever pleased him, he "shook his head, and remarked," says campbell, "that the burthen of her inspiration was too heavy for comedy," in which, according to colman, she was only "a frisking gog." miss baillie, on the other hand, insists that but for unfair discouragement she would have been a great comic actress. in private life, she had great relish for humour, and told laughable stories in her slow way, as well as read scenes in comedy with great effect. and yet katharine, with its passionate expression, was as little thought of as rosalind. one would have thought this character would have fitted her; her own judgment as to what suited her is not satisfactorily exhibited in her preference of tate's cordelia and of dryden's cleopatra to those of shakspeare. but she distrusted her own judgment in some things. "mr. siddons," she remarks to dr. whalley, "is a much better judge of the conduct of a tragedy than myself." this remark occurs in a letter written in september under perplexing circumstances. young mr. greatheed, of guy's cliff, was the author of a tragedy, the "regent," the heroine in which he designed for her acting. she liked neither the play nor her own part in it; but how could she disoblige the present head of a family where she had found an asylum, when love had disturbed the tenor of her life. therefore, she wrote this letter to her friend dr. whalley, who did _not_ burn it, as he ought to have done:--"september , .--mrs. piozzi may be an excellent judge of a poem possibly, but it is certain that she is not of a tragedy, if she has really an opinion of this. it certainly has some beautiful poetry, but it strikes me that the plot is very lame, and the characters very, very ill-sustained in general, but more particularly the lady, for whom the author had me in his eye. this woman is one of those monsters (i think them) of perfection, who is an angel before her time, and is so entirely resigned to the will of heaven, that (to a very mortal like myself) she appears to be the most provoking piece of still life one ever had the misfortune to meet. her struggles and conflicts are so weakly expressed, that we conclude they do not cost her much pain, and she is so pious that we are satisfied she looks upon her afflictions as so many convoys to heaven, and wish her there, or anywhere else but in the tragedy.... mr. g. says that it would give him too great trouble to alter it, so that he seems determined to endeavour to bring it on the stage, provided i will undertake this milksop lady.... mr. siddons says it will not do at all for the stage in its present state, for the poetry seems to be all its merit; and if it is to be stripped of that--which it must be, for all the people in it forget their feelings to talk metaphor instead of passion--what is there to support it? i wish, for his own sake, poor young man, that he would publish it as it is.... "your truly affectionate s. siddons." the event justified her sentiments, and the "regent" did not live. she continued, however, to reap her harvest of laurels, gathering them most profusely by her acting in that queen katharine, which had been recommended to her by dr. johnson. we continue to associate her name with this part, in which she was more queenly and dignified, i suspect, than katharine herself; certainly more imposing, if it be true that by simply saying, "you were the duke's surveyor, and lost your office on the complaint o' the tenants," she put the surveyor, to whom the words were addressed, into such perspiring agony, that as he came off, crushed by her earnestness, he declared he would not for the world meet her black eyes on the stage again! i doubt, however, if the poor fellow could afford to give up his engagement; and i know that some of these "affectations" are assumed by inferior actors. i have heard of a lady so audibly affected, as she stood at the wing, by the acting of her manager, then on the stage, that she was invited to his room to partake of cake and wine. but mrs. siddons undoubtedly possessed power above all other actresses of attracting and subduing. in the procession scene, in her brother's barbarous mutilation of shakspeare's coriolanus, which he played so inimitably, her dumb show, as volumnia, triumphing in the triumph of her son, attracted every eye, touched every heart, and caused the pageant itself to be as nothing, except as she used it for her purpose. it is strange that one so gifted should have ventured, at four-and-thirty, to act juliet, who "even or odd, of all days in the year, come lammas-eve at night, shall be fourteen!" and to lammas-eve it wanted "a fortnight and odd days." but authors, of course, make as many mistakes as actresses. when the king, in miss burney's tragedy, "edwy and elgiva," cried, "bring in the bishop," the audience, thinking of the pleasant mixture so called, broke into laughter, which was only exceeded by that which broke forth when mrs. siddons died, under a hedge and on a superb couch! i do not believe, with genest, that anybody ever laughed at her dying zara; but when, in "edward and eleanora," the two babes were brought in, in imperial frocks and long coating, and were handed into the bed of their dying mother, the audience did break forth into loud hilarity. indeed, babies in arms were stumbling-blocks to mrs. siddon's dignity. at a later period than that above-mentioned, when acting in sotheby's "julian and agnes," she had to make her exit, carrying an infant. the exit was made precipitately, and in the doing of it she so violently struck the passive baby's head against a door-post as to discover that the said head was made of wood. the audience laughed again, and agnes, countess of tortona, all taken aback as she was, laughed heartily too. once also, when mrs. siddons was playing agnes in lillo's "fatal curiosity," and the flesh of the audience crept at her suggestion of murdering the stranger, who is her son,--as the scene proceeded towards the murder, one gentleman in the pit laughed aloud; he would have been roughly treated by the audience, but for the discovery that he was in hysterics at her acting. at other times, the actress was overcome by herself. in the pretended fainting scene of arpasia, in "tamerlane," after the wild cry, "love! death! moneses!" mrs. siddons fell back violently, clutching her drapery, and her dress all disordered,--a swoon in earnest, which caused a rush, from the pit and boxes, of part of the excited and sympathising audience. the agitation of the actress was almost perilous to her life! there were occasions, however, on which that audience refused to be sympathetic. when she and her brother acted in jephson's dull "conspiracy," we are told that they "acted to vacancy: the hollow sound of their voices was the most dreary thing in the world." this was among the least of her troubles; at the moment of her greatest exertions, family cares and sorrows pressed on her. mr. siddons's speculations alarmed her prudent mind. mr. sheridan's money, when he held the purse at drury lane, flowed but slowly and intermittently into her banker's coffers; and if this, or even illness, drove her into temporary retirement, she had enemies who reported that her brain was not as well as it might be. at the beginning of the present century mrs. siddons more than once expressed a desire "to be at rest." the labours of her life, and the troubles of it, too, were equal in magnitude to her triumphs. could she but realise £ a year above that she had already acquired for her family by her sole and brilliant exertions, she would begin to be "lazy, saucy, and happy." nevertheless, when the period of arrived, and she had determined on retirement, she was less bold in spirit. it was like taking the first step of the ladder, she said, which led to the next world. once she was in peril of taking that first step less agreeably. while standing as the statue in the "winter's tale," the flowing white drapery of her dress caught fire from behind, but it was extinguished by the courage and prudence of a poor scene-shifter, before she knew the whole of her danger. he saved her life; and she not only rewarded him liberally, but saved his son, a deserter from the army, from the horrible punishment which was then inflicted on such offenders. she upheld the dignity of her vocation, by refusing to act with the "young roscius," while to act inferior parts in the same piece with her, actresses of reputation esteemed it an honour. miss pope, on having the part of lucy, in "george barnwell," sent to her, returned it with some anger; but when she was told that mrs. siddons was about to play milwood to charles kemble's barnwell, miss pope resumed the character with eagerness. on the stage, and even in the green-room, she seldom departed from the humour of the part she sustained on that particular evening; but she had no sooner concluded it than she was herself again. miss seward records with particular delight, after seeing the great actress in beatrice, at birmingham, that mrs. siddons having made a curtesy generally to the house, made one in particular, with an especial smile of benignity, to miss seward and her friends in the stage-box. she began and ended her london theatrical life with shakspeare,--commencing in with portia, and terminating in june with lady macbeth. some few subsequent appearances, indeed, there were. when her son, henry siddons, was the somewhat unlucky proprietor of the edinburgh theatre, he thought that if his mother and uncle would but play for him in the same pieces, on the same night, he should retrieve his fortunes. he wrote separately to both, and received respective answers. that from mrs. siddons intimated that she would act, for half the receipts and a free benefit. the reply from john kemble expressed his readiness to act,--for a free benefit and half the receipts! henry siddons, much perplexed, had to look elsewhere for less expensive aid. after his death, and subsequent to his mother's farewell to the london stage, she played several nights, in edinburgh, _gratis_, for the benefit of his family; and critics saw no other change in her, than that she looked older. her "last" appearance in public was in june , when she played lady randolph, for the benefit of charles kemble. the shakspearian characters for which she enjoyed the greatest fame, are lady macbeth and queen katharine; and these were included in the readings which she continued to give during a few years. these last were especially relished by queen charlotte and her family;--the guerdon for many of which, including othello, read aloud at windsor one sunday evening, was a gold chain with a cross of many-coloured jewels. her beauty, personal and mental, she retained to the last,--the former only slightly touched by time. _that_ was marked, in the gallery of the louvre, even amid the finest examples of mortal and godlike beauty from the hands of greek sculptors. her sense of the beautiful was also fresh to the last. standing rapt at the sublimity of the scenery in the neighbourhood of penmanmawr, she heard a lady remark, "this awful scenery makes me feel as if i were only a worm, or a grain of dust, on the face of the earth!" mrs. siddons turned round and said: "_i_ feel very differently." she had the misery to outlive all her children, except her daughter cecilia, but in successive visitations she was so well-tempered as to create the means of consolation, and in modelling statuary, often found at least temporary relief from sorrow. hannah more as heartily applauded her in private life as the warmest of her admirers ever did in public; and in truth her religion was cheerful, and her rule of life honest. she was not only a great artist, but a thoroughly english lady, a true, honest, exquisite woman; one of the bravest and most willing of the noble army of workers. proud, she may have been, and justly so. simple she was, and simple-minded, in many respects. the _viola amoena_ was her favourite flower; and, from the purple borders of her garden in spring time up at then secluded westbourne, her managing hand-maid acquired the name of miss heartsease. those who knew her best have recorded her beauty and her grace, her noble carriage, divine elocution, and solemn earnestness; her grandeur and her pathos, her correct judgment, her identification of whatever she assumed, and her abnegation of self. erskine studied her cadences and intonations, and avowed that he owed his best displays to the harmony of her periods and pronunciation. according to campbell, she increased the heart's capacity for tender, intense, and lofty feelings, and seemed something above humanity, in presence of which, humanity was moved, exalted, or depressed, according as she willed. her countenance was the interpreter of her mind, and that mind was of the loftiest, never stooping to trickery, but depending on nature to produce effect. she may have borne her professional habits into private life and "stabbed the potatoes," or awed a draper's assistant by asking, "will it wash?" but there was no affectation in this;--as she said, still in her tragic way, "witness truth, i did not wish to be tragical!" i have alluded to the apparent lack of judgment in her assuming, at thirty-four, the character of juliet, a girl not yet fourteen. miss weston, however, writes, "a finer performance was never seen. she contrived to make her appearance light, youthful, and airy, beyond imagination, and more beautiful than anything one ever saw. her figure, she tells me, was very well fitted by previous indisposition." in carrying into private life her stately stage manner, mrs. siddons undesignedly imitated clairon, the "queen of carthage," as the french called her, from her marvellous acting as dido. "if," said clairon, "i am only a vulgar and ordinary woman during twenty hours of the day, i shall continue to be a vulgar and ordinary woman, whatever efforts i may make, in agrippina or semiramis, during the other four." there remains but to be said that this "lofty-minded actress," as young called mrs. siddons, died on the th of june --leaving a name in theatrical history second to none, and deep regret that the honoured owner of it had departed from among the living. of the latter was the elder brother, who owed much of his greatness to her, and who is noticed in the next chapter. footnotes: [ ] i can find no authority for this date. the birth of mrs. siddons is always stated to have taken place on th july . [ ] as a child.--_doran ms._ [ ] sergeant kite is the character which lee lewes, who tells the story, says that mrs. furnival taught roger to play. both characters are in the same play, the "recruiting officer." [ ] the earl of coventry was said to be an admirer of her mother. [ ] this seems to have been at wolverhampton. [ ] two interesting letters were published in the _courier_ many years ago, which proved that sir henry bate dudley (then mr. bate) was garrick's ambassador on this occasion. garrick's letter contains some remarks on mrs. siddons's condition which are more expressive than elegant. [ ] should be the th. [ ] this incident is said to have occurred at a rehearsal. [ ] i do not know why dr. doran says "alleged" sister. [ ] campbell's account of this incident makes its meaning quite clear. he says that when, after a supreme effort, the silence was broken by the solitary "that's no' bad!" the audience was convulsed at the "ludicrous parsimony of praise." but the laughter was followed by such thunders of applause that it seemed as if the galleries would come down. [ ] this is inaccurate. the play was a success, and mrs. siddons was said to have been seldom more admired than in it. [ ] walpole's letter is dated christmas . [ ] this was the notorious mrs. curtis, previously mentioned. mr. percy fitzgerald (_kembles_, ii. ) gives an admirable account of her life. [illustration: john p. kemble.] chapter viii. john kemble. on the st of february , john philip kemble was born at prescot, in lancashire. his father's itinerant life not only led to his appearance on the stage when a child, but to his being placed at school at worcester, whence he passed through sedgley to douay, where he was remarkable for his elocution. he had for college fellow miller, or milner, as he chose to call himself--and who, when a roman catholic prelate, used to affirm that, in point of elocution, he was considered equal to kemble! in , the year in which garrick retired, kemble may be said to have made his first public appearance as an actor at wolverhampton, and boaden thinks he was too good for his audience. in various northern towns he endured a stern probation, and made sundry mistakes. he played plume, ranger, and archer, which were totally unsuited to him; and he was actually laughed at in tragedy--by some persons of distinction in the boxes at york. he resented this with such dignity, that the york fine people, who could not understand the latter feeling, insisted on an apology; and when the rest of the house declared he should make none, he thanked them with such a weight of heavy argument to show they and he were right, that those bewildered yorkists demanded of him to beg pardon immediately.[ ] subsequently, john kemble published fugitive poems, which he was afterwards glad to burn; wrote a tragedy, "belisarius," and a comedy, the "female officer;" composed a latin ode, _ad somnium_, and a latin epitaph for his dead comrade, inchbald; laid the foundations of friendship with the percys; gave lectures on oratory; and, at twenty-three, made an attempt to improve shakspeare's "comedy of errors," by turning it into a farce, called "oh, it's impossible!" the chief point in which was that the audience should be as puzzled about the two dromios, of whom he made a couple of niggers, as their masters themselves. if, at york, the admirers of the now forgotten cummins contended that he was superior to kemble, so in ireland those who remembered their old favourite barry, were slow to admit kemble's equality. but, though he nearly made shipwreck of his fame by playing comedy, he rose in irish estimation by his acting in tragedy; and he won all hearts by his finished performance of jephson's "count of narbonne," in which he represented the count, to the adelaide of miss francis--the mrs. jordan of later years. jephson was an irishman, and dublin was grateful to the actor who helped him to a triumph. black rock, i dare say, is to this day proud of the author. on the th of september , john kemble first appeared in london, at drury lane, as hamlet. the fierceness and variety of the criticism denote that a new and a great actor had come before the critics. his novel readings were severally commented on--some of them were admirable, but bold. the utmost one critic could urge was that the player was "too scrupulously graceful;" and objection was fairly made to his pronouncing the word "lisp," to ophelia, as "_lithp_." boaden calls this "a refinement;" but he is forced to allow that it was "below the actor." just previous to this successful _début_ at drury lane, john kemble's brother stephen had very moderately succeeded in othello, at covent garden, where the management had secured the _big_, instead of the _great_, mr. kemble. just subsequent to the former first appearance, two sisters of these players, elizabeth and frances kemble (afterwards mrs. whitelock and mrs. twiss), made an attempt to share in a theatrical and family glory, in which, however, they had no abiding part.[ ] these ladies passed away, and left that glory to be divided by john kemble, and his sister, mrs. siddons. but some time elapsed before the latter were permitted to play in the same piece. smith had possession of parts of which custom forbade his being deprived; and it was not till each had played singly in various stock pieces, that they came together in "king john," and subsequently in the "gamester."[ ] previous to kemble's undertaking the former character, the old actor, sheridan, read the part to him as sheridan was used to play it; but grandly as the king was played, the constance in the hands of mrs. siddons was the magic by which the audience was most potentially moved. it was the same in the "gamester;" the sufferings of mrs. beverley touched all hearts; but the instability, selfishness, cowardice, and maudlin of the wretched husband, excited both contempt and execration--but that was precisely what the author, as well as the actor, intended. this union of genius was not, however, permanent; when mrs. siddons played lady macbeth, smith acted, with graceful indifference, the thane; and it was not till march , that brother and sister appeared together in another play,[ ] and then in "othello"--the moor and desdemona being assigned to them. neither player was ever identified with the character respectively acted; but what could even john kemble do, who performed the moor in the uniform of a british general of the actor's own time? he made a more certain flight by selecting "macbeth" for his benefit, and playing the chief part to his sister's lady; but it was only for one night. the thane belonged by prescriptive right to smith, and as long as he remained a member of the company, the original charles surface was entitled to one of the sublimest parts in all the range of tragedy. even when mrs. siddons selected the "merchant of venice" for her benefit, and played portia, shylock fell, as by right, to king, and john kemble had to be content with bassanio![ ] he had his revenge; not in playing the insipid heroes of the new tragedies, which were then more or less in fashion, but in acting lear to his sister's cordelia, on occasion of her benefit in january . the greatest admirers of garrick confessed that kemble's lear was nearly equal to that of their idol; but boaden records that he never played it so grandly and so touchingly as on that night. kemble is said to have been so much attached to miss phillips (afterwards mrs. crouch), that he was exceedingly moved on reading the epitaph on her tomb, by boaden. he is reported also to have been tenderly affected by mrs. inchbald--for he composed a latin epitaph for the tomb of her defunct husband. i find further mentioned "a young lady of family and fortune at york," whose cruel brother interfered menacingly in the matter, and also that "the daughter of a noble lord, once high in office, was strongly attached to him, and that the father bought off the match with £ . it is certain that mrs. siddons was highly offended at the alliance (subsequently with mrs. brereton)--perhaps she looked with anxious hope to a consanguinity with the noble house of g----." so sneers old legend, and here follows truth. the lady he _did_ marry was a very excellent lady indeed. her own parents had fought their way well through life, for mr. hopkins was a strolling player when he married the daughter of a somersetshire boniface; but the bridegroom became prompter, and mrs. hopkins a respectable actress at drury lane. one of their daughters, priscilla, subsequently belonged to the company, when young brereton persuaded her to take his name, and share his fortunes. whether excess of admiration for mrs. siddons, with whom he frequently acted, drove brereton mad or not, his widow kept her senses under cool control, and about a year after the death of her first husband, one of garrick's ineffective pupils, she said to mrs. hopkins, "my dear mother, i cannot guess what mr. kemble means: he passed me just now, going up to his dressing-room, and chucking me under the chin, said, 'ha, pop! i shouldn't wonder if you were soon to hear something very much to your advantage!' what could he mean?" "mean!" the sensible mother answered--adolphus so styles her--"why he means to propose marriage; and if he does, i advise you not to refuse him." the wedding was dramatic enough. mrs. hopkins, her daughter, jack bannister and his wife, walked from jack's house in frith street, to john's in caroline street, bedford square, to breakfast with the bridegroom, who did not seem to expect them. thence, on a december morning, , in two hackney coaches, the party went to church and were married by "the well-known parson este." the bride--no dinner having been thought of by any one else--dined early, the bridegroom late, at the bannisters'; at whose house kemble remained with mrs. bannister, or rather taking his wine without her, while mr. bannister and mrs. kemble went to drury lane, where they had to act in the "west indian." the lady's former name was in the bill. on her return to frith street, kemble took his good wife home, and the next acting day, monday, lady anne was acted by mrs. kemble to the richard of mr. smith. on the th, man and wife played together, sir giles and his daughter margaret; the delicate audience seizing on a marked passage in the play, and laughing as they applauded, to indicate they knew all about it. sir giles remained grave and self-possessed. subsequently, kemble attained the management of drury lane, succeeding king, who had been merely the servant of the proprietor, in - . he could now play what parts he chose,--and his first character was lord townly; his second, macbeth.[ ] in the first, he was second only to barry; in macbeth, from the weakness of his voice, he failed to rise to an equality with garrick. leon followed, with some state; sciolto, in which he rendered the stern paternal principle sublime; mirabel, in which he was to be altogether distanced by his brother, charles; and romeo, in which he never approached the height of barry. on his first revival of "henry viii.," he left bensley in possession of his old part, wolsey, and for the sake, it is said, of giving a "duteous and intelligent observance" to his sister in the heavier scenes, doubled the parts of cromwell and griffith, in his own person. his great wolsey triumph was a glory of a later time; so was the triumph of his coriolanus,--not yet matured; but in which he was not only never surpassed, but never equalled. his first season as manager was a decided success, as regards the acting of himself and sister, and also the novelties produced. his second was marked by some revivals, such as "henry v." and the "tempest," and adaptations of the "false friend" of vanbrugh, and the "rover" of aphra behn. in the first piece, in which kemble played the king better than he did his other kings,--richard and john, he made a fine point in starting up from prayer and expression of penitence, at the sound of the trumpet. in lighter pieces he was less successful. his don john, the libertine, was as far beyond his powers as were the songs of coeur-de-lion in burgoyne's pretty recasting of "sedaine". how he cared to attempt such a feat as the last is inexplicable--but did not droll little quick, george iii.'s favourite actor, and almost personal friend, once play the hunchback richard? and did not kemble play charles surface? and also take as a compliment sheridan's assurance that he had "entirely _executed_ his design?" nevertheless fortune attended the kemble management, although george iii.'s especial patronage was bestowed on the rival house. it had its perils, and once brought him to a _duello_ with james aikin, a spirited actor, who had caused the destruction of the edinburgh theatre through his refusal to beg pardon of the audience on his knees. his only offence was in having succeeded a favourite, but discharged actor, named stayley. in this duel, fought in marylebone fields, with jack bannister as sole second to both combatants, aikin's fire was not returned by his manager, and the adversaries were soon reconciled. with a short interval john kemble was manager of drury lane till .[ ] in the following year he went abroad, the affairs of drury having fallen into confusion; and in , having purchased a sixth share of covent garden, he succeeded lewis in the management of that theatre, and remained there till his retirement in , at the close of the season in which mr. macready made his first appearance in london, as orestes; and lucius junius booth, as richard, flashed promise for a moment and straightway died out. with kemble's departure from drury lane closes the first part of his career. he had begun it with £ per week, and ended it with a weekly salary strangely reckoned of £ , s. he had borne himself well throughout. he had a lofty scorn of anonymous assailants; was solemn enough in his manners not to give a guinea, for drink, to the theatrical guard, without stupendous phrases; but he could stoop to "knuckle down" at marbles with young players on the highway; and to utter jokes to them with a cervantic sort of gravity. he addressed noisy and unappreciative audiences with such neat satire that they thought he was apologising, when he was really exposing their stupidity. i do not know if he were generous in criticism of his fellow actors; he said of cooke's sir pertinax, that comedy had nothing like it. this had been called "liberal;" but it looks to me satirical; and he certainly never praised cooke's tragedy. the utmost, indeed, he ever said of kean was, that "the gentleman was terribly in earnest." on the other hand, his own worshippers nearly choked him with incense. boaden may not have been far wrong when he said that kemble was at the head of the academics, but he certainly was so in describing cooke as merely at the head of the vulgar; and he approached blasphemy when he tells us that kemble's features and figure as the monk in "aurelio and miranda" reminded him, and could only be compared with, those of one, to name whom would be irreverent! kemble's secret of success lay in his indefatigable assiduity. in studying the part of the stranger he neglected for weeks, that for which he was particularly distinguished,--neatness of costume. whatever the part he had to play, he acted it as if it were the most important in the piece; and, like betterton, booth, quin, barry, and garrick, he made his impersonation of the ghost[ ] as distinct a piece of art as hamlet, when that character fell to him, in its turn. even in earl percy, in the "castle spectre," an inferior character, he took such pains as nearly to break his neck, and in the scene of the attempted escape, fell back, from the high window to which he had climbed, to the sofa below, from which he had painfully ascended, with the agility and precision of a harlequin. rolla would have seemed to me unworthy of him, but that i remember pitt, on seeing him in that character, said, "there is the noblest actor i ever beheld!" sheridan had almost despaired of kemble's success in rolla; but kemble felt that everything was in his favour, and gave all his own admiration to his sister, who, in elvira, rendered so picturesque "a soldier's trull." i have heard eyewitnesses describe his octavian, not as a heart-rending, but a heart-dissolving display, the feelings of the spectators being all expressed by tears; and yet he could win a laugh from the same spectators in young marlow, and shake their very hearts again in that mournful penruddock, his finest effort in comedy; but in comedy full of tragic echoes. next to penruddock, boaden classes his manly, for perfection; i have heard that parts of his lord townly surpassed them both. there the dignity and gravity were of a quality quite natural to him. [illustration: (john kemble)] in henry v. he was so much the king that an earl, guilford, wrote an essay by way of eulogy on it; and his hotspur had but one fault, that of being incorrectly dressed. in roman parts, and in the roman costume, he seemed native and to the manner born. his coriolanus and hamlet are the characters the most associated with his name. nevertheless, i do not discern any great respect, on kemble's part, for shakspeare, in his revival of coriolanus or of any other of the plays of the national poet. the revival of coriolanus was a mixture of thomson and shakspeare's tragedies, with five of the best scenes in the latter omitted, and what was judicious in the former, marred. i cannot help thinking that kemble had only that sort of regard for shakspeare which people have for the picturesque, who tear away ivy from a church tower in order to whitewash its walls. then, again, in that matter of ireland's forgery of "vortigern," as shakspeare's, it is not clear what opinion kemble held of it previous to the night of its performance. mrs. siddons declined to play edmunda; but kemble's consenting, or rather resolving, to play the principal character in the tragedy, would seem to indicate that, at the best, he had no opinion, and was willing to leave the verdict to be pronounced by the public. i take from a communication to _notes and queries_, by an eyewitness, an account of what took place on that eventful night when an alleged new piece, by william shakspeare, was presented to the judgment of a public tribunal. "the representation of ireland's tragedy took place on saturday, april , . being one of those who were fortunate in gaining admittance and a seat on the second row in the pit, i am anxious, while my life is spared, to state what i saw and heard on this memorable occasion. the crowd and the rush for admittance were almost unprecedented. i do not think that twenty females were in the pit, such was the eagerness of gentlemen to gain admittance. mr. ireland's father, i remember, sat in the front box on the lower tier, with some friends around him. his son was behind the scenes. there was little or no disapprobation apparently shown by the audience until the commencement of the fifth act, when mr. kemble, it was probable, thought the deception had gone on long enough." such, i think, was ireland's own opinion; for in his _confessions_, published in , i find the following account of the disapproval of the audience given by himself. "the conduct of mr. kemble was too obvious to the whole audience to need much comment. i must, however, remark, that the particular line on which mr. kemble laid such a peculiar stress was, in my humble opinion, the _watchword_ agreed upon by the malone faction for the general howl. the speech alluded to ran as follows; the line in italics being that so particularly noticed by mr. kemble:-- "'time was, alas! i needed not this spur. but here's a secret and a stinging thorn, that wounds my troubled nerves. o conscience! conscience! when thou didst cry, i strove to stop thy mouth, by boldly thrusting on thee dire ambition: then did i think myself, indeed, a god! but i was sore deceived; for as i pass'd, and traversed in proud triumph the basse-court, there i saw death, clad in most hideous colours: a sight it was, that did appal my soul; yea, curdled thick this mass of blood within me. full fifty breathless bodies struck my sight; and some, with gaping mouths, did seem to mock me; while others, smiling in cold death itself, scoffingly bade me look on that, which soon would wrench from off my brow this sacred crown, and make me, too, a subject like themselves: subject! to whom? to thee, o sovereign death! who hast for thy domain this world immense: churchyards and charnel-houses are thy haunts, and hospitals thy sumptuous palaces; and, when thou wouldst be merry, thou dost choose the gaudy chamber of a dying king. o! then thou dost ope wide thy bony jaws, and, with rude laughter and fantastic tricks, thou clapp'st thy rattling fingers to thy sides: _and when this solemn mockery is o'er_, with icy hand thou tak'st him by the feet, and upward so; till thou dost reach the heart, and wrap him in the cloak of 'lasting night.' "no sooner was the above line uttered in the most sepulchral tone of voice possible, and accompanied with that peculiar emphasis which, on a subsequent occasion, so justly rendered mr. kemble the object of criticism (viz., on the first representation of mr. colman's 'iron chest'), than the most discordant howl echoed from the pit that ever assailed the organs of hearing. after the lapse of ten minutes the clamour subsided, when mr. kemble, having again obtained a hearing, instead of proceeding with the speech at the ensuing line, very politely, and in order to amuse the audience still more, redelivered the very line above quoted with even more solemn grimace than he had in the first instance displayed." during john kemble's fourteen years' connection with covent garden, he created no new character that added to his fame, except, perhaps, reuben glenroy, in morton's "town and country." his other original parts were in poor pieces, more or less forgotten. in old characters which he assumed for the first time during his proprietorship in covent garden, the most successful was gloucester, in "jane shore," to which he gave a force and prominency which it had never previously received. his prospero was a marvel of dignity and beautiful elocution, and his brutus perfect in conception and execution. of other parts his pierre was good, but his iago was below the level of more than one fellow-actor; his eustace de st. pierre was, perhaps, as fine as bensley's, but his valentine, in the "two gentlemen of verona," could have been better played, even then, by his brother charles. in judgment, he sometimes erred as garrick did. he peremptorily rejected tobin's "honeymoon," which, with elliston as the duke aranza and miss duncan as juliana, became one of the most popular comedies of the day. he acknowledged his mistake; and he was as ready to acknowledge the sources of some of his best inspirations. his wolsey, for instance, was one of his finest parts, but he confessed that his idea of the cardinal was taken from west digges. he was sensitive enough as to public criticism, and when about to try charles surface, he wrote to topham, "i hope you will have the goodness to _give orders to your people_ to speak favourably of the charles, as more depends on that than you can possibly be aware of." the act was facetiously characterised as "charles's martyrdom," rather than "charles's restoration," and kemble himself used to tell a story how, when offering to make reparation to a gentleman, for some offence, committed "after dinner," the gentleman answered that a promise on mr. kemble's part never to play charles surface again, would be considered ample satisfaction. wine is said to have always made kemble dull, but not offensive. naturally dull he was not, though he was styled so by people who would have called torrismond dull, because he said, "nor can i think; or i am lost in thought!" kemble was lively enough to make a good repartee, when occasion offered. he was once rehearsing the song in "coeur-de-lion,"--which he used to sing to the blaring accompaniment of french horns, that his voice might be the less audible,--when shaw, the leader, exclaimed, "mr. kemble, mr. kemble, you really murder the time!" "mr. shaw," rejoined the actor, taking coolly a pinch of snuff, "it is better to murder time than to be always beating him, as you are." he bore misfortune manfully. when covent garden, rich's old house, with the royal arms in the centre of the curtain, which had hung on the old curtain at lincoln's inn fields, was burnt down after the performance of "pizarro," on the night of the th of september , he was "not _much_ moved," though, in the fire, perished a large amount of valuable property. mrs. kemble mourned over the supposed fact that they had to begin life again, but kemble, after long silence, burst into a rhapsody over the ancient edifice, and straightway addressed himself to the rearing of that new building which has since gone the way of most theatres. in the completion of that second playhouse on this spot, he was nobly aided by his patron, the duke of northumberland, who lent him £ , , and at the dinner by which the opening was celebrated, sent the actor his bond, that he might, as a crowning effect, commit it to the flames. it was a princely act, and he who was thought worthy of being the object of it, must have been emphatically a gentleman. in earlier days, kemble was accustomed to be with the first of gentlemen. one of the finest of the few left makes some record of him. walpole notices kemble twice; and we find that he held him superior to garrick in benedick, and to quin in maskwell. in september , walpole writes from strawberry hill to the miss berrys: "kemble, and lysons the clergyman, passed all wednesday here, with me. the former is melting the three parts of 'henry vi.' into one piece. i doubt it will be difficult to make a tolerable play out of them." the only other notice is dated april ; when the writer says to miss berry: "_apropos_ to catherine and petruchio, i supped with their representatives, kemble and mrs. siddons, t'other night, at miss farren's ...," at the bow-window house in green street, grosvenor square. "mrs. siddons is leaner, but looks well. she has played jane shore and desdemona, and is to play in the 'gamester,' all the parts she will act this year. kemble, they say, shone in othello." othello was one of kemble's effective, yet not his most successful character; but his figure was well formed for it. he bore drapery with infinite grace, and expressed every feeling well, by voice, feature, and glance of the eye--though in the first, as with his brother charles, lay his chief defect. it wanted strength. we are accustomed, perhaps, to associate him most with hamlet, and old playgoers have told me of a grand delivery of the soliloquies; a mingled romance and philosophy in the whole character; an eloquent bye-play, a sweet reverence for his father, a remembrance of the _prince_, with whatever companion he might be for the moment, of a beautiful filial affection for his mother, and of one more tender which he could _not_ conceal for ophelia. when kemble first appeared in hamlet, the town could not say that henderson was excelled, but many confessed that he was equalled. that confession stirred no ill-blood between them. "i never had an opportunity," said kemble, later, "to study any actor better than myself, except mr. henderson." of the grandeur and sublimity of the passion-tossed orestes he gave so complete a picture that it was said--by that single character alone he might have reaped immortal fame. on the other hand, his biron was only a respectable performance; his macbeth on a level with his othello; his richard and sir giles very inferior to cooke's, still more so to those of edmund kean; and in comedy, generally, he was a very poor actor indeed, except in parts where he had to exercise dignity, express pathos, or pronounce a sentiment of moral tendency. "whene'er he tries the airy or the gay, judgment, not genius, marks the cold essay." the judgment was not always sensibly exercised, for kemble was undoubtedly "for meaning too precise inclined to pore, and labour for a point unknown before." i think, in the old roman habit he was most at his ease; there art, i am told, seemed less, nature more. in this respect he was exactly the reverse of garrick, who could no more have competed with him in delineating the noble aim of the stern coriolanus, than kemble could have striven successfully against garrick's richard, or abel drugger. and yet all the characters originally played by him, and successfully established on the stage, are of a romantic and not a classical cast. the prating patriot rolla, the stricken, murmuring, lost octavian, by which he sprung as many fountains of tears as his sister in the most heart-rending of her tragic parts; his chivalrous coeur-de-lion, his unapproachable penruddock, his percy ("castle spectre"), his stranger, his de l'epée, his reuben glenroy (the colloquial dialogue of which character, however, was always a burthen to him), and his de montfort, are all romantic parts, to many of which he has given permanent life; while more classical parts for which he seemed more fitted, and in plays of equal merit at least, such as cleombrotus ("fate of sparta"), huniades (which certainly is not _romantic_),--his pirithous, and his sextus ("conspiracy"), are all forgotten. that his sympathies were classical, may in some sort be accepted from the fact, that he began his public life in (the year of garrick's farewell), at wolverhampton, with theodosius, and closed it, at covent garden, in , with coriolanus. that kemble's own departure from the stage did not, as was once expected, prove its destruction, is to be gathered from the circumstance that while his farewell performances were in progress, sheil's tragedy of the "apostate" was produced at the same theatre, with a cast including the names of young, macready, c. kemble, and miss o'neill!--and kean was then filling drury lane with his richard, shylock, and sir giles. kemble's nearest approach to a _fiasco_ was on his playing sir edward mortimer. the "iron chest" had been ill-rehearsed, and kemble himself was in such a suffering condition on the first night that he was taking opium pills as the curtain was rising. the piece failed, till elliston essayed the principal part; and, on its failure, colman published the most insulting of prefaces to the play, in which he remarked that "frogs in a marsh, flies in a bottle, wind in a crevice, a preacher in a field, the drone of a bagpipe, all--all yielded to the inimitable and soporific monotony of mr. kemble!" in one class of character kemble was pre-eminent. he was "the noblest roman of them all." his name is closely associated with coriolanus, and next with cato. he was not a "general" actor, like some of his predecessors, yet he excelled in parts which garrick declined to touch. a contemporary says of him, "he is not a garrick in richard, a macklin in shylock, a barry in othello, or a mossop in zanga," and adds, that "there is more _art_ than _nature_ in his performance; but let it be observed that our best actors have always found _stage trick_ a necessary practice, and mr. kemble's _methodical_ powers are so peculiar to himself, that every imitator (for there have been some who have endeavoured to copy his manners) has been ridiculous in the attempt." nevertheless, there was a kemble school, the last of whose members is mr. cooper, who made his first appearance in london, at the haymarket, in , and has not yet, after more than half a century of service, formally retired from the stage. not the least merit of actors formed on the kemble model, was distinct enunciation, and this alone, in our large theatres, was a great boon to a listening audience. as a dramatic author, kemble has achieved no great reputation; he was, for the most part, only an adapter or a translator, but in both he manifested taste and ability, save when he tampered with shakspeare. his solemn farewell, on the d of june , in coriolanus, was made not too soon; his great powers had begun, after more than forty years assiduous service, to fail, and he becomingly wished, "like the great roman i' the capitol," that he might adjust his mantle ere he fell. the memory of that night lives in the heart of many a survivor, and it lived in that of its hero till he calmly died, after less than six years of retirement at lausanne, in february . the old student of douay never formally withdrew from the church, of which his father once destined him to be a priest, but he remained a true catholic christian, with a protestant pastor for friend and counsellor, who was at his side, with a nearer and dearer friend, when the supreme moment was at hand. such was the man. as an actor, he lacked the versatility and perfection of garrick and barry; and, says leigh hunt, "injured what he made you feel, by the want of feeling himself." of john kemble's brothers, stephen and charles, the former was the less celebrated, but he was not without merit. the fame of his sister induced him to leave a chemist's, or an apothecary's counter, for the stage, as, later in life, the reputation of the eldest brother tempted charles kemble to abandon an appointment in the post office, in order to try his fortune as a player. in these respective trials stephen was less fortunate than charles. born in , on the night his mother played anne boleyn, he was by seventeen years the elder of the latter. his theatrical life commenced in dublin, after an itinerant training; but there john extinguished stephen; and when, in , he appeared at covent garden, as othello, to the desdemona of miss satchell, afterwards his wife, whatever impression he may have made, stephen was speedily swept from public favour by the greater merit of john. after subsequently playing old men at the haymarket, stephen opened a house in edinburgh, against mrs. esten at the established theatre. the opposition led to, in some sense, a dignified strife. the duke of hamilton loved mrs. esten, and the duke of northumberland was a friend to the kembles. in the law proceedings which followed, each duke gave material support to his favourite, and here was the old feud of douglas and percy again raging in the north! ultimately stephen left edinburgh with no great amount of luck to boast of, and, after a wandering life, appeared, in ,[ ] at drury lane, as falstaff, after the delivery by bannister of a heavy set of jocular verses, making allusion to his obesity, which enabled him to act falstaff without stuffing! he did not act it ill; but henderson had not yet faded from the memory of playgoers, and stephen kemble could not attain higher rank than a place among the best of the second class of actors. again he disappeared from the metropolis, but returned, and played a few of the parts to which he was suited, rather by his size than his merits; and in , at drury lane, where he assumed the office of manager, opened the season by introducing his son henry, from bath, as romeo. in he played orozembo; and "therewith an end." the theatre was then let to elliston; henry kemble sank from drury to the coburg,[ ] and stephen withdrawing to a private life, not altogether ill provided, died in . [illustration: (charles kemble)] in that last year his younger brother charles had attained, had perhaps rather passed, the zenith of a reputation of which his early attempts gave no promise whatever. hard work alone made a player of him. he could not have been a post-office clerk long after he left the roman catholic college at douay, for he was but seventeen when he first acted, at sheffield, in , orlando, in "as you like it." he began with shakspeare, and he ended with him; his farewell being in benedick, at covent garden, in . on both occasions he played the part of a lover, and at the end of forty years he probably played it with more grace, tenderness, ardour, and spirit, than when he began. there was much judgment in selecting malcolm for his first appearance in london on the st of april , on the opening of new drury lane theatre, the house built by holland, and burnt in ,--to the macbeth and lady macbeth of john kemble and mrs. siddons. he had little in his favour but good intentions. he was awkward in action, weak in voice, and ungraceful in deportment. all these defects he corrected, except the weakness of voice, which he never got over. it did not arise from the asthmatic cough which so often distressed his brother, but from simple debility of the organ, and this weakness always marred parts in which he was called upon for the expression of energetic passion. gradually, charles kemble became one of the most graceful and refined of actors. he was enabled to seize on a domain of comedy which his brother and sister could never enter with safety to their fame. in his hands, secondary parts soon assumed a more than ordinary importance from the finish with which he acted them. his laertes was as carefully played as hamlet, and there was no other cassio but his while he lived, nor any faulconbridge then, or since, that could compare with his; and in macduff, charles kemble had no rival. rae's edgar was considered one of that gentleman's most effective parts, but charles kemble may be said to have superseded him in it. in the tender or witty lover, the heroic soldier, and the rake, who is nevertheless a gentleman, he was the most distinguished player of his time. of all the characters he originated, that of guido, in barry cornwall's "mirandola," was, perhaps, his most successful essay: it was certainly among the most popular of his performances during the run of that play. i find his jaffier, indeed, praised as being superior to that of any contemporary; but whatever be the character he represented, i also find critics occasionally complaining of a certain languor, and now and then a partial loss of voice, after it had been much exercised, which interfered with the completeness of the representation. sheridan always thought well of him, particularly after his performance of alonzo in "pizarro;" the grateful author used to address him as "my alonzo!" charles kemble's hamlet was as fine in conception but inferior in execution to his brother's. such, at least, as i am credibly informed, was the judgment delivered by mrs. siddons. that it was finely conceived, yet weaker in every point than young's, i can well remember. in tragic parts there was a certain measured, however musical enunciation, of which charles kemble never got rid, and in the play of the features, the actor, and not the man represented, was ever present. this was particularly the case in hamlet, in which his assumed seriousness rendered his long face so much longer in appearance than ordinary, that in the rebuke to his mother his eyebrows seemed to go up into his hair, and his chin down into his waistcoat. that his voice ill-fitted him for passionate, tragic heroes they will recollect who can recall to mind his pierre and that of young! charles kemble looked the part to perfection, and dressed it with the taste of a gentleman and an artist. nothing could be finer, more gallant, more easy and graceful, than his entry; but he had scarcely got through "how fares the honest partner of my heart?" than the _pipe_ raised a smile; it was so unlike the full, round, hearty, resonant tone in which young put the query, and indeed played the part. nor was charles kemble invariably successful in all the comic parts he assumed. his falstaff i would willingly forget. it was a mistake. when ward, as the prince, exclaimed "peace, chewet, peace!" the command seemed very well timed. but his mercutio! in that he walked, spoke, looked, fought, and died like a gentleman. some of his predecessors dressed and acted it as if this kinsman to the prince and friend to romeo had been a low-bred, yet humorous fellow, cousin to the lacqueys, abraham and peter; but charles kemble was as truly shakspeare's mercutio as ever macklin was shakspeare's jew. in comedy of another degree; in young mirabel, for instance, in the "inconstant," he was unequalled by any living actor. indeed his spirits here sometimes overcame his judgment; as in the last scene, when he is saved by the arrival of the "red burgundy," he leaped into the air like a man who is shot, and snapping his fingers, danced about the stage in a very ecstasy of delirium, too great, i thought, for a brave young fellow extricated from an awful scrape. but, whatever may be the worth of such thought, it is certain that in his mirabel the delighted audience saw no fault; and who ever did in his benedick? happy in his successes, he was thrice happy in his pretty and accomplished wife. maria theresa decamp was one year his junior; and, like himself, was born in the purple. miss decamp's real name is said to have been de fleury. she was a viennese by birth. her family belonged to the ballet and the orchestra, and she herself, at six years of age, was dancing cupid in noverre's ballets at the london opera house; and, ultimately, was a leading, very young lady in those at the circus, now the royal surrey. from the sawdust of the transpontine theatre she was transferred, on the recommendation of the prince of wales, it is said, to figure in similar pieces, at colman's house in the haymarket. she was reserved, however, for better things than this: but miss de camp was not to attain them without study; she had to learn english--to speak and to read it; music, and other accomplishments. by a genius all this may be speedily effected; and miss de camp, in the season of - , appeared at drury lane as julie, in "richard coeur de lion," her future brother-in-law playing the king. at this time she was scarcely in her teens; but she was full of such promise, that she bade adieu for ever to ballet and the sawdust of the royal circus, and henceforth, and for upwards of thirty years, belonged to the regular drama. a score of years was to elapse before she was to change her name; but long previously she had made that first name distinguished in theatrical annals. she had exhibited unusual merit in singing and acting macheath to the polly of charles bannister, and the lucy of johnstone; and she created characters with which her name is closely associated in the memory of playgoers or playreaders. she was the original floranthe in the "mountaineers," judith in the "iron chest," irene in "bluebeard," maria in "of age to-morrow," theodore in "deaf and dumb," lady julia in "personation," arinette in "youth, love, and folly," variella in the "weathercock," and morgiana in the "forty thieves." and while the glory she derived from this last performance was still at its brightest, miss de camp in married mr. charles kemble--some rather tempestuous wooing, for so tender and gallant a stage-lover, but for which he rendered public apology, not impeding the match.[ ] in the year of her marriage mrs. c. kemble joined the covent garden company, and on making her appearance as maria in the "citizen," she was congratulated, on the part of the audience, by three distinct rounds of applause. between this period and , when she withdrew from the stage, she created two parts in which she has had no successor, edmund in the "blind boy," and lady elizabeth freelove in "a day after the wedding;" and, in the last year of her acting, madge wildfire in the "heart of mid-lothian." ten years later, mrs. charles kemble returned to the stage (october , ), to do for her daughter what mrs. pritchard, on a like occasion, had done for her's--namely, as lady capulet, introduce the young _débutante_ as juliet. this one service rendered, mrs. charles kemble finally withdrew. she had a pleasant voice; charming, but not powerful in her early days, as a vocalist. in sprightly parts, in genteel comedy, in all chambermaids, in melodramatic characters, especially where pantomimic action was needed, she was excellent. genest, who must have known her well, remarks, that "no person understood the business of the stage better; no person had more industry; at one time she almost lived in drury lane theatre. the reason of her not being engaged after is said to have been that she wanted to play the young parts, for which her time of life, and her figure (for she had grown fat), had disqualified her; whereas if she would have been contented to have played mrs. oakly, mrs. candour, flippanta, and many other characters of importance, which were not unsuitable to her personal appearance, it would have been greatly to her own advantage, and to the satisfaction of the public." [illustration: (fanny kemble)] charles remained on the stage till december , but he returned for a few nights, a year or two later, when he went through a series of his most celebrated parts, for the especial gratification of the duchess of kent and the princess victoria, and for the gratification of the public generally. occasionally he reappeared as a "reader," in which vocation, his refined taste, his judgment, and his graceful, though not powerful elocution, were manifest to the last. mr. and mrs. charles kemble added something to our dramatic literature; the lady's contribution to which, "a day after the wedding," still affords entertainment whenever it is performed. her other piece, "first faults," is now forgotten. charles kemble's additions to the literature of the stage, comprise the "point of honour," "plot and counterplot," and the "wanderer;" the first two being translations from the french, and the third from the german. in his later days charles kemble was afflicted with deafness, so complete that he could not hear the pealing thunder, but could fancy it was in the air; for, as he once remarked amid the crash, "i feel it in my knees!" it was, perhaps, this affliction which occasionally gave him that look of fixed melancholy which he occasionally wore. of anecdotes of his later time, there are few known to me of any interest, except the following, which i cull from the _athenæum_. it is in reference to his son, mr. j. m. kemble's lectures at cambridge, _on the history of the english language_, which were unsuccessful. "after making a good deal to do about them," says the correspondent of the _athenæum_, "he obtained the use of the divinity school to lecture in, and it was pretty well crowded at the first lecture; but the lecture itself was such a sickener, and so unintelligible, that at the second, myself, and i think two others, formed the whole audience. the appearance was so absurdly ridiculous in the large room, that kemble gave notice, in announcing the day of his third lecture, that in future he should deliver them at his own private apartments. meanwhile his father, charles kemble, the actor, came to see him, and on the day fixed for the third lecture, nobody was there to hear him but his said father and i; upon which, when we had waited in vain nearly an hour for an increase of audience, i moved, and his father seconded the proposal, that instead of inflicting the lecture upon us two, the lecturer should send into trinity college buttery, as it was then the hour it was open, and procure a quantity of ale and cheese, for the excellence of both which trinity college was celebrated, and with the aid of these we passed the afternoon. such was the end of kemble's lectures." rogers has left in his _table talk_ some record of the kembles, which, as coming from an eye and ear witness, may find admission here. from this we learn that mrs. siddons, to whom he had been telling an anecdote showing that, when lawrence gained a medal at the society of arts, his brothers and sisters were jealous of him, remarked:--"alas! after _i_ became celebrated, none of my sisters loved me as they did before!" and then, when a grand public dinner was given to john kemble on his quitting the stage, the great actress said to the poet, "well, perhaps, in the next world women will be more valued than they are in this." "she alluded," says rogers, "to the comparatively little sensation which had been produced by her own retirement from the boards; and, doubtless, she was a far, far greater performer than john kemble." when young, she had superseded mrs. crawford (barry), then in her old age, and she rejoiced in being rid of so able a rival; but when other competitors crossed her own path, mrs. siddons rather unfairly remarked that the public were fond of setting up new idols, in order to mortify their old favourites. she had herself, she said, been three times threatened with eclipse; first, by means of miss brunton (afterwards lady craven); next, by means of miss smith (mrs. bartley); and, lastly, by means of miss o'neill--"nevertheless," she is reported to have said, "i am not yet extinguished." she then stood, however, with regard to miss o'neill exactly as mrs. crawford (barry) had stood with respect to herself--the younger actress carried away the hearts, the older lived respected in the memories of the audience. but over audiences, mrs. siddons had, in her day, deservedly reigned supreme; and that should have been enough of greatness achieved by one whom combe remembered to have seen, "when a very young woman, standing by the side of her father's stage, and knocking a pair of snuffers against a candlestick, to imitate the sound of a windmill during the representation of some harlequinade." when she had departed from the scene of her glory, the remembrance of that glory did not suffice her. when rogers was sitting with her, of an afternoon, she would say, "oh, dear! this is the time i used to be thinking of going to the theatre; first came the pleasure of dressing for my part; and then the pleasure of acting it; but that is all over now." this was not vanity, but the natural wail of an active spirit forced to be at rest. there was less dignity in the retirement of john kemble, if what rogers tells us be true, that "when kemble was living at lausanne, he was jealous of mont blanc; and he disliked to hear people always asking, 'how does mont blanc look this morning?'" the two greatest rivalries that john kemble had to endure, before the final one, in which kean triumphed, emanated from two very different persons--george frederick cooke and master betty. the success of both marks periods in stage history, and demands brief notice here. footnotes: [ ] if this means that his supporters changed about and asked him to apologise, it is a strange perversion of the story. [ ] these ladies appeared in the beginning of , previous to both brothers' appearances. [ ] the "gamester" preceded "king john," being played on d november, while "king john" was not played till th december. [ ] they almost certainly played in the "countess of salisbury" together on th april ; they undoubtedly were both in "tancred and sigismunda" on th april , in the "carmelite" on d december , and in the "maid of honour" on th january . [ ] this must refer to kemble's benefit, th april . [ ] dr. doran evidently considers that kemble became manager about th october --the date of his address to the public on the subject of his new position. on the th september he had acted hamlet; on th october he played macbeth; on th october lord townly. [ ] kemble and mrs. siddons retired from drury lane in . [ ] i can find no record of his having played this part. [ ] th october . [ ] henry kemble sank into abject distress; he and his wife were glad to be allowed to take care of unoccupied houses.--_doran ms._ [ ] is dr. doran not thinking of john kemble's public apology? [illustration: interior of drury lane theatre.] chapter ix. george frederick cooke. about the time when garrick was reluctantly bidding farewell to his home on the stage, at drury lane, a hopeful youth, of twenty years of age, born no one can well tell where, but it is said, in a barrack, of an english sergeant and a scottish mother, was making his first grasp at the dramatic laurel, in the little town of brentford. with the exception of a passing appearance at the haymarket, for a benefit, in , as castalio,--when london was recognising in henderson the true successor of garrick--the town knew nothing of this ambitious youth for more than twenty years; then he came to covent garden to dethrone john kemble; and he disquieted that actor for awhile. in ten years more, his english race was done, and while kemble was beginning the splendid evening of his career, cooke passed over to america, prematurely ending his course, in disgrace and ruin, and occupying a grave which a civilised yankee speedily dishonoured. if cooke was an irishman, it was by accident. he was certainly educated in england; and he early acquired, by reading otway and seeing vanbrugh, a taste for the drama. in school theatricals, he made his horatio outshine the hamlet of the night; and his lucia,--though the boy cried at having to play a part in petticoats,[ ]--win more applause than his schoolfellow's cato. school-time over, the wayward boy went to sea, and came back with small liking for the vocation; turned to "business," only to turn from it in disgust; inherited some property, and swiftly spent it; and then we find him in that inn-yard at brentford, enrolled among strollers, and playing dumont in "jane shore," to the great delight of the upper servants from kew, gunnersbury, and parts adjacent, sent thither to represent their masters, who had not the "particular desire" to see the play, for which the bills gave them credit. the murmur of london approval, awarded to his castalio, was the delicious magic which drew him for ever within the charmed circle of the actors, and george frederick passed through all the heavy trials through which most of the vocation have to pass. he strolled through villages, thence to provincial towns, and i think, when in , he played baldwin to the isabella of mrs. siddons, that lady must have been compelled, perhaps was willing, to confess, that there was a dramatic genius who, at least, approached the excellence of her brother. from york, after much more probation, cooke went over to dublin, where he acted well, drank hard, and lost himself, in one of his wild fits, by enlisting. fancy the proud and maddened george frederick doing barrack scullery-work, and worse!--he who had played the moor in presence of a vice-regal court! if his friends had not purchased his discharge, miss campion would certainly soon have heard that her othello had hanged himself. the genius who would not be a soldier, though born in a barrack, found an asylum in the manchester theatre; and subsequently dublin welcomed him back to its well-trod stage. there, he and john kemble met for the first time. john took the lead, george frederick played,--i can hardly call them secondary parts, for booth had acted some of them to betterton, garrick to sheridan, and one great performer to another,--such parts, in fact, as ghost to kemble's hamlet, henry to his richard, edmund to his lear, and a similar disposition of characters. what kemble then thought of his acting, i cannot say, but he complained of being disturbed by mr. cooke's tipsily defective memory. george frederick was stirred to anger and prophecy. "i won't have your faults fathered upon me," he cried; "and hark ye, black jack,--hang me if i don't make you tremble in your pumps one day yet." he kept his word. on the st of october ,[ ] he acted richard, at covent garden, to the henry of murray, the richmond of pope, the queen of miss chapman, and the lady anne of mrs. litchfield;--and kemble was present to see how cooke would realise his promise. kemble had played richard himself that season at drury lane, to the richmond of his brother charles,--henry, wroughton; queen, mrs. powell; lady anne, miss biggs. i fancy he was satisfied that in the new and well-trained actor there was a dangerous rival. kemble acted shylock and one or two other characters against him. they stood opposed in some degree as quin and garrick were, at covent garden and drury lane, in - . in that season, garrick played richard eleven times.[ ] in cooke's first season at the garden, he acted the same part double the number of times. shylock, iago, and kitely, he acted each ten times. macbeth, seven; sir giles overreach, five; the stranger, twice; and sir archy macsarcasm, several times. of his first reception in richard, cooke speaks, as being flattering, encouraging, indulgent, and warm, throughout the play and at the conclusion. cooke was not blinded by this triumphant season. long after he said, when referring to having played with and also against john kemble: "he is an _actor_. he is my superior, though they did not think so in london. i acknowledge it!" having made black jack "tremble in his pumps," cooke honestly acknowledged, in homely phrase, that he could not stand in kemble's shoes. kemble, however, was not superior to cooke in all his range of characters. in the very first season of their opposition, after an obstinate struggle, kemble gave up richard, but in macbeth he remained unapproachable by cooke, who, in his turn, set all competition at defiance in his iago, in which, says dunlap, "the quickness of his action, and the strong natural expression of feeling, which were so peculiarly his own, identified him with the character." in kitely, his remembrance of garrick confessedly served him well. in sir giles, he excelled kemble; but the stranger was speedily given up by cooke, and it remained one of his rival's glories to the last. cooke's general success, the position he had attained, and the prospect before him, steadied his mind, strengthened his good purposes, made him master of himself under a healthy stimulus, careful of his reputation, and strict in performing his duties. i record this, as his previous biographers have registered the character. consequently, on the night he was announced to appear, to open his second season of anticipated triumph--september th, --as richard, a crowded audience had collected about the doors, to welcome him, as early as four o'clock. at that hour no one could tell where he was, and a bill was issued, stating that it was apprehended some accident had happened to mr. cooke; and the play was changed to "lovers' vows." in five weeks the truant turned up, played magnificently, and was forgiven. during his truant time, young henry siddons made his first appearance at covent garden. he played herman in a dull new comedy, "integrity," and hamlet; but the charter-house student would have done better if he had accepted the vocation to which his mother would have called him--the church. henry siddons acted alonzo to cooke's zanga, hotspur to cooke's falstaff, and ford to the other's sir john, in the "merry wives." cooke's criticism on his own performance was, that having acted all the falstaffs, he had never been able to please himself, or to come up to his own ideas in any of them. his great failure was hamlet, in which even young siddons excelled him, but a triumph which compensated for any such failures, and for numerous offences given to the audience--made victims of his "sudden indispositions"--was found in sir pertinax, in which, even by those who remembered macklin, he was held to have fully equalled the great and venerable original. in the season of , cooke's indispositions became more frequently sudden, and lasted longer. on the days of his acting nights, his manager was accustomed to entertain him, supervise his supply of liquor, and carry him to the theatre; but george frederick often escaped, and could not be traced. in many old characters he sustained his high reputation, but his hamlet and cato only added to that of kemble. perhaps his peregrine, in "john bull," of which he was the original representative, would have been a more finished performance but for--not the actor, but the author's indiscretion. "we got 'john bull' from colman," said cooke to dunlap, "act by act, as he wanted money, but the last act did not come, and harris refused to make any further advances. at last necessity drove colman to make a finish, and he wrote the fifth act, in one night, on separate pieces of paper. as he filled one piece after the other, he threw them on the floor, and, finishing his liquor, went to bed. harris, who impatiently expected the _dénouement_ of the play, according to promise, sent fawcett to colman, whom he found in bed. by his direction fawcett picked up the scraps, and brought them to the theatre." in the season of - , when kemble became part proprietor and acting manager at covent garden, he played in several pieces with cooke. they were thus brought into direct contrast. kemble acted richmond to cooke's richard; old norval to his glenalvon; rolla to his pizarro; beverley to his stukely; horatio to his sciolto--charles kemble playing lothario, and mrs. siddons, calista,--such a cast as the "fair penitent" had not had for many years! john kemble further played jaffier to cooke's pierre; antonio to his shylock; the duke, in "measure for measure," to his angelo; macbeth, with george frederick for macduff; henry iv. to cooke's falstaff; othello to his iago; king john, with cooke as hubert, and charles kemble as faulconbridge--mrs. siddons being, of course, the constance; kemble also played ford to cooke's falstaff, and hamlet to cooke's ghost; and, in a subsequent season, posthumus to his iachimo, with some other parts, which must have recalled the old excitement of the times of garrick and quin, but that audiences were going mad about master betty, to the rolla of which little and, no doubt, clever gentleman, george frederick, needy and careless, was compelled to play pizarro! for a few seasons more he kept his ground with difficulty. he did not play many parts well, it has been said, but those he did play well, he played better than anybody else. but dissipation marred his vast powers even in these; and recklessness reduced this genius to penury. after receiving £ in banknotes, the proceeds of a benefit at manchester, in one of his summer tours, he thrust the whole into the fire, in order to put himself on a level to fight a man, in a pothouse row, who had said that cooke provoked him to battle, only because he was a rich man, and the other poor! it is not surprising that prison locks kept such a man from his duties in the playhouse; but the public always welcomed the prodigal on his return. when he reappeared at covent garden, as sir pertinax, in march , after a long confinement, it was to "the greatest money-house, one excepted, ever known at that theatre. never was a performer received in a more flattering or gratifying manner." [illustration: (george f. cooke)] but he slipped back into bad habits, was often forgetful of his parts, and was sometimes speechless; yet he was generally able to keep up the scottish dialect, if he could speak at all, and his part require it. once, when playing sir archy macsarcasm, he forgot his name, called himself _sir pertinax macsycophant_, and was corrected by a purist in the gallery. cooke looked up, and happily enough remarked, "_eet's aw ane blude_!" he was hardly less happy, when, for some offence given by him, on the stage, at liverpool, he was called on to offer an apology to the audience. liverpool merchants had much fattened, then, by a fortunate pushing of the trade in human flesh. "apology! from george frederick cooke!" he cried; "take it from this remark: there's not a brick in your infernal town which is not cemented by the blood of a slave!" the american cooper found him in the lowest of the slums of liverpool, and tempted, or kidnapped him to america, whence this compound of genius and blackguard never returned. on one of his early appearances, in new york, he is said, being elated, to have refused to act till the orchestra had played "god save the king;" and then he insisted, with tipsy gravity, that the audience should be "upstanding." in seventeen nights following the st of november , when he first appeared in new york, as richard, the treasury was the richer by twenty-one thousand five hundred and seventy-eight dollars. he felt and expressed, however, such a contempt for the yankee character, that new york soon deserted him, and philadelphia paid him little or no homage. once he was informed that mr. madison was coming from washington, expressly to see him in a favourite character. "then, if he does, i'll be ---- if i play before him. what, i, george frederick cooke, who have acted before the majesty of britain, play before your yankee president! no! i'll go forward to the audience, and i'll say, ladies and gentlemen,-- "the king of the yankee-doodles has come to see me act; _me_, george frederick cooke, who have stood before my royal master, george iii., and received his imperial approbation ... it is degradation enough to play before rebels; but i'll not go on for the amusement of a king of rebels, the contemptible king of the yankee-doodles!" from among the "yankee-doodles" cooke found, however, a lady with the old dramatic name of behn, who became his second wife; but his condition was little improved thereby. dr. francis, in his _old new york_, gives the following picture of him at this time:-- "after one of those catastrophes to which i have alluded, i paid him a visit at early afternoon, the better to secure his attendance at the theatre. he was seated at his table, with many decanters, all exhausted, save two or three appropriated for candlesticks, the lights in full blaze. he had not rested for some thirty hours or more. with much ado, aided by price the manager, he was persuaded to enter the carriage waiting at the door to take him to the playhouse. it was a stormy night. he repaired to the green-room, and was soon ready. price saw he was the worse from excess, but the public were not to be disappointed. 'let him,' says the manager, 'only get before the lights and the receipts are secure.' within the wonted time cooke entered on his part, the duke of gloster. the public were unanimous in their decision, that he never performed with greater satisfaction. as he left the house he whispered, 'have i not pleased the yankee-doodles?' hardly twenty-four hours after this memorable night, he scattered some dollars among the needy and the solicitous, and took refreshment in a sound sleep. a striking peculiarity often marked the conduct of cooke: he was the most indifferent of mortals to the results which might be attendant on his folly and his recklessness. when his society was solicited by the highest in literature and the arts, he might determine to while away a limited leisure among the illiterate and the vulgar, and yet none was so fastidious in the demands of courtesy. when the painter stuart was engaged with the delineation of his noble features, he chose to select those hours for sleeping; yet the great artist triumphed and satisfied his liberal patron, price. stuart proved a match for him, by occasionally raising the lid of his eye. on the night of his benefit, the most memorable of his career in new york, with a house crowded to suffocation, he abused public confidence, and had nothing to say but that cato had full right to take liberty with his senate." in this strange being, there are two phases of character that are beyond ordinary singularity. the first was his "mental intoxication," of which he thus speaks in one of his journals: "to use a strange expression, i am sometimes in a kind of mental intoxication; some, i believe, would call it insanity. i believe it is allied to it. i then can imagine myself in strange situations and strange places. this humour, whatever it is, comes uninvited, but it is nevertheless easily dispelled,--at least, generally so. when it _cannot_ be dispelled, it must, of course, become madness." here was a decided perception of the way he might be going,--from physical, through mental, intoxication, to the madhouse! his common sense is another phase in the character of this great actor, who manifested so little for his own profit. he was the guardian of female morals against the perils of contemporary literature! "in my humble opinion," he says, "a licencer is as necessary for a circulating library, as for dramatic productions intended for representation; especially when it is considered how young people, particularly girls, often procure, and sometimes in a secret manner, books of so evil a tendency, that not only their time is most shamefully wasted, but their morals and manners tainted and warped for the remainder of their lives. i am firmly of opinion that many females owe the loss of reputation to the pernicious publications too often found in those dangerous seminaries." cooke may be said to have been dying, from the day he landed in the, then, united states. his vigorous constitution only slowly gave way. it was difficult for him to destroy that; for in occasional rests he gave it, when he sat down to write on religion, philosophy, ideas for improving society, and diatribes against drinking, in his diary, his constitution recovered all its vigour, and started refreshed for a new struggle against drunkenness and death. the former, however, gave it a mortal fall, in july , when death grasped his victim, for ever. cooke was taken ill, while playing sir giles overreach, at boston, on the st of the above month.[ ] he went home, irrecoverably stricken, met his fate with decency, and calmly breathed his last in the following september, in full possession of his mental faculties to the supreme moment. he was buried in the "strangers' vault," of st. paul's church, new york, with much respectful ceremony, on the part of friends who admired his genius and mutilated his body, as i shall presently show. meanwhile, let me record here, that cooke was of the middle size, strongly and stoutly built, with a face capable of every expression, and an eye which was as grand an interpreter of the poets, as the tongue. he was free from gesticulation and all trickery, but he lacked the grace and refinement of less accomplished actors. in soliloquies, he recognised no audience; and his hearers seemed to detect his thoughts by some other process than listening to his words. kemble excelled cooke in nobleness of presence, but cooke surpassed the other in power and compass of voice, which was sometimes as harsh as kemble's; and indeed i may say _the_ kemble voice was invariably feeble. in statuesque parts, and in picturesque characters,--in the roman coriolanus, and in hamlet the dane,--kemble's scholarly and artistic feeling gave him the precedence; but in iago, and especially in richard, cooke has been adjudged very superior in voice, expression, and style; "his manner being more quick, abrupt, and impetuous, and his attitudes better, as having less the appearance of study." off the stage, during the progress of a play, he did not, like betterton, preserve the character he was acting; nor like young, tell gay stories, and even sing gay songs; but he loved to have the strictest order and decorum,--he, the most drunken player that had glorified the stage, since the days of george powell! could he have carried into real life the scrupulousness which, at one time, he carried into the mimicry of it, he would have been a better actor and a better man. when edmund kean was in america, bishop hobart gave permission for the removal of cooke's body, from the "strangers' vault," to the public burial-ground of the parish, where kean was about to erect a monument to the memory of his ill-fated predecessor. on that occasion, "tears fell from kean's eyes in abundance," says dr. francis; but those eyes would have flashed lightning, had kean been aware that there was a headless trunk beneath the monument; and that, whoever may have been the savage who mutilated the body and stole the head,--that head was in the possession of dr. francis! to what purposes it has been turned, this gentleman may tell in his own words. "a theatrical benefit had been announced at the park, and 'hamlet,' the play. a subordinate of the theatre hurried at a late hour to my office, for a skull. i was compelled to loan the head of my old friend, george frederick cooke. 'alas, poor yorick!' it was returned in the morning; but on the ensuing evening, at a meeting of the cooper club, the circumstance becoming known to several of the members, and a general desire being expressed to investigate, phrenologically, the head of the great tragedian, the article was again released from its privacy, when daniel webster, henry wheaton, and many others who enriched the meeting of that night, applied the principles of craniological science to the interesting specimen before them.... cooper felt as a coadjutor of albinus, and cooke enacted a great part that night." if cooke could have spoken his great part, he would assuredly have added something strong to his comments on what he used to call the civilisation of yankee-doodle. the monument, erected by edmund kean, consists of a pedestal, surmounted by an urn, with this inscription:--"erected to the memory of george frederick cooke, by edmund kean, of the theatre royal, drury lane, ;" and, beneath, this not very choice, nor very accurate distich:-- "three kingdoms claim his birth. both hemispheres pronounce his worth!" and below this superscription lies all that has not been stolen of what was mortal of one among the greatest and the least of british actors. during his career, flourished and passed into private life a boy, who still survives, rich with the fortune rapidly acquired in those old playgoing days,--master betty.[ ] [illustration: mr. moody as simon.] footnotes: [ ] his appearance as lucia was after his becoming bound to a printer, and his crying is apocryphal. [ ] should be st october . [ ] should be fourteen times. see note in vol. ii. page . [ ] cooke was playing at providence, with the boston company. dunlap does not say, or imply, that he was taken ill specially on that night, which finished his engagement at providence. [ ] died th august , aged eighty-two. [illustration: master betty.] chapter x. master betty. william henry west betty was born at shrewsbury, in ,--a shropshire boy, but of irish descent. his father, a man of independent means, taught him fencing and elocution, and was unreasonably surprised to find that a histrionic affection came of this double instruction. "i shall certainly die, if i do not become an actor!" said the boy, when residing near belfast, and after seeing mrs. siddons in the ungrateful part of elvira, in "pizarro." ho was then ten years old; was a boy with a will and decision of character; and, in his twelfth year, he made his first appearance at belfast, on the th of august , as osmyn, in "zara." the judgment of the irish manager, atkins, was that he was an "infant garrick." master betty also played douglas, rolla, and romeo; and he went up to dublin, in november, with the testimony of the belfast ladies that he was "a darling." in the irish capital, he acted douglas, frederick, prince arthur, romeo, tancred, and hamlet. as he is said to have learned and played the last part within three days, i have small respect for his precocious cleverness and do not wonder that the dublin wits showered epigrams upon him. "the public are respectfully informed that no person coming from the theatre will be stopt till after eleven o'clock." such was the curious announcement on the irish playbill which invited the public to go and see master betty, and advised them to get home early, if they would not be taken for traitors. those days were the days of united irishmen, when ireland was divided into factions, and dublin not quite at unity as to master betty's merits. the majority, however, worshipped the idol, before which cork, waterford, londonderry, and other cities, bowed the knee. the popular acclaim wafted him to scotland. in glasgow, there was one individual who was not mad, and would criticise; but in return for "a severe philippic" administered by him, the wretch "was compelled to leave the city!" if he went to edinburgh, he found more excess of dotage than he had left in glasgow. it was not merely that duchesses and countesses caressed the boy, but there was home himself, at the representation of his own "douglas," blubbering in the boxes,[ ] and protesting that never till then had young norval been acted as he had conceived it! and he had seen west digges, the original, in edinburgh; and spranger barry, the original, in london. critics said the infant roscius excelled kemble; and lords of the court of session presented him with books, and gave him old men's blessings! birmingham next took him up, and the english town confirmed the verdicts of ireland and scotland. miss smith (afterwards mrs. bartley) played mother to him one night, and maid beloved the next; and at the close of a dozen performances, the infant roscius was celebrated by a bromwicham poet as having crushed the pride of all his predecessors, and being "cooke, kemble, holman, garrick, all in one!" "theatrical coach to carry six insides, to see the young roscius," was the placard on many a vehicle which carried an impatient public from doncaster races to sheffield, where crowds of amateurs from london fought with the country-folk for admission to the theatre, and a poetic templar, rather loose in his italian, remarked in a long poem in his praise:-- "would sculpture form apollo belvidere, she need not roam to france, the model's here!" liverpool, chester, manchester, stockport, all caught the frenzy, and adored the boy,--to whom charles young played subordinate parts! occasionally, master betty played twice in the same day, and netted about £ a week! royal dukes expressed their delight in him, grateful managers loaded him with silver cups, and john kemble wrote to mr. betty _père_, to express the happiness he and mr. harris would have in welcoming the tenth wonder to covent garden theatre,--at £ per night and half a clear benefit.[ ] [illustration: (master betty and his various characters)] accordingly, on saturday, the st of december , at ten in the morning, gentlemen were "parading" under the piazza. by two o'clock serried crowds possessed every avenue, and when the doors were opened, there was a rush which ultimately cost some persons their lives. "the pit was two-thirds filled from the boxes. gentlemen who knew that there were no places untaken in the boxes, and who could not get up the pit avenues, paid for admission into the lower boxes, and poured from them into the pit, in twenties and thirties at a time." contemporary accounts speak in detail of the terrible sufferings not only of women, but men. "the ladies in one or two boxes were occupied almost the whole night in fanning the gentlemen who were beneath them in the pit.... upwards of twenty gentlemen, who had fainted, were dragged up into the boxes.... several more raised their hands as if in the act of supplication for mercy and pity." as for the play, "barbarossa," the sensible public would have none of it before the scene in the second act, in which selim (master betty) first makes his appearance. when that arrived, he was not disturbed by the uproar of applause which welcomed him; and he answered the universal expectation. "whenever he wished to produce a great effect he never failed." he was found to be "a perfect master." his whisper was "heard in every part of the house," says a newspaper critic; "there is something in it like the undernotes of the kembles; but it has nothing sepulchral in it.... the oldest actor is not equal to him, he never loses sight of the scene.... his judgment seems to be extremely correct.... nature has endowed him with genius which we shall vainly attempt to find in any of the actors of the present day;"--after which last sweeping judgment comes the qualifying line, "if he be not even now the first, he is in the very first line; and he will soon leave every other actor of the present day, at an immeasurable distance behind him." the critics evidently had small confidence in their own judgments, but princes led the applause; their majesties were charmed with their new "servant;" royalty received him in its london palace, and to the count d'artois (future king of france) and an august party at lady percival's, the small-eyed and plump-faced boy shook his luxuriant auburn curls, and acted zaphna, in french. the philosophers went as mad as the "quality" and critics. _quid noster roscius egit_ was given by cambridge university as the subject for sir william brown's prize-medal. old "gentleman smith," the original charles surface, came up from bury st. edmunds, and presented him with a seal bearing the likeness of garrick, and which garrick, in his last illness, had charged him to keep only till he should "meet with a player who acted from nature and from feeling." having found such actor, smith consigned to him the keeping of the precious relic. then, if the overtaxed boy fell ill, as he did more than once, the public forgot the general social distress, the threats of invasion, war abroad and sedition at home, and evinced such painful anxiety, that bulletins were daily issued, as though the lad were king-regnant or heir-apparent. subsequently, drury lane and covent garden shared him between them. in twenty-three nights,[ ] at the former house, he drew above £ , , and this double work so doubled his popularity, that on one night, having to play hamlet, the house of commons, on a motion by pitt, adjourned, and went down to the theatre to see him! this flattery from the whole senate was capped by that of a single legislator; charles fox read zanga to the little actor, and commented on young's tragedy, with such effect, that the young gentleman never undertook the principal character.[ ] except john kemble and mrs. siddons, there was scarcely an actor of celebrity who did not play in the same piece with him, including suett and joey grimaldi, who were the gravediggers to his hamlet. at the close of the season he passed through the provinces, triumphant, and returned to drury lane in , to find "garlick amid the flowers," and a strong sibilant opposition, which he, however, surmounted, and again played the usual round of tragic heroes, carrying heaps of gold away with him to the country, where he easily earned large additions to the heap.[ ] but the london furore henceforth subsided. the provinces continued their allegiance for a year or two, but the metropolis no longer asked for, or thought of him. his last season was at bath, in ; in the july of which year he entered christ's college, cambridge, as a fellow commoner; subsequently hunted in the vicinity of the shropshire estate, purchased for him by his father, and became captain betty of the north shropshire yeomanry cavalry. so ended master betty! but, in , his father being dead, mr. betty longed again for the incense of the lamps and the dear homage of applause, and he went through a course of provincial theatres, ending with a month at covent garden, with questionable success. his old admirers would have it that he was the english, as he had been the infant, roscius; but the treasury account told another tale, and mr. betty could only take rank as a respectable actor. his name, however, was still a tower of strength beyond the metropolis; and, in country towns, the intelligent young man drew audiences still. in edinburgh, mr. macready played edward to mr. betty's warwick; in which last character, after fitful appearances in the country, and acting for a single night now and then in london, as an additional attraction for a benefit, mr. betty took his final farewell of the stage, at southampton, on august the th, , being then but thirty-two years of age. there can be no doubt of master betty having been the most "promising" young actor that ever delighted his contemporaries, and disappointed those that were to be so hereafter. his wonderful memory, his self-possession, his elegance of manner, his natural and feeling style of acting--all but his habit of dropping his _h's_, were parts of a promise of excellence. but his early audiences took these for a whole and complete performance. he was master of words but not of ideas, and in his boyhood was imperfectly educated. he could learn hamlet in three or four days, and, no doubt, he played it prettily; but to play prettily and to act masterly, are different things. hamlet is no matter for a boy to handle. betterton acted it for fifty years, and, to his own mind, had not thoroughly fathomed the profoundest depths of its philosophy even then. master betty commenced too early to learn by rote; and the habits he then formed never permitted him to study as well as learn, by heart. the feeling and the nature, for which he was once praised, were those of a boy; they kept by him, and they were found weak and nerveless in the man. but therewith he reaped a large fortune, and he has prudently kept that too. may the old man long enjoy what the young boy, between natural abilities and the madness of "fashion," earned with happy facility. there remains but one name more of exceeding greatness to be mentioned,--that of edmund kean; but, ere we let our curtain fall on him, i have to notice something of the manners, customs, sayings, and doings of a past time, which differed greatly from that in which kean was reared, flourished, and fell. let us glance at that olden period before we summon him to occupy our final scene. [illustration: mr. foote as mrs. cole.] footnotes: [ ] this is somewhat fanciful. jackson says nothing about home, who was seated at the wing, "blubbering." [ ] it is generally stated that the terms were fifty guineas and a clear benefit. [ ] should be twenty-eight nights. [ ] this is wrong. betty did play zanga. [ ] he again played at both houses, but his attraction was already waning. [illustration: norwich theatre.] chapter xi. stage costume and stage tricks. in the journals of i find various complaints of the deficiencies in the theatrical wardrobe. the shabbiness of the regal robes is especially dwelt upon, though those were splendid enough which were worn by a leading actor. duncan and julius cæsar, at the above date, had worn the same robes _for a century_; and it was suggested that monarchy was brought into contempt by poorly-clad representatives. it is said of betterton, in hamlet, that when he first beheld his father's spirit, he turned as white as his own neckcloth. betterton wore the laced kerchief then in fashion. there was a worse fashion in part of garrick's time. that actor dressed the young dane in a court suit of black,--coat, waistcoat, and kneebreeches, short wig with queue and bag, buckles in the shoes, ruffles at the wrists, and flowing ends of an ample cravat hanging over his chest. then, woodward as mercutio! this young nobleman of verona, kinsman to a prince, and friend to the love-sick montagu, did not walk his native city capped, plumed, and bemantled, according to the period, but in the dress of a rakish squire of woodward's own days. on the top of a jaunty peruke was cocked one of those three-cornered hats, popularly known as an "egham, staines, and windsor," from the figure of the finger-post on hounslow heath pointing to those three towns. the hat was profusely gold-laced at the borders. round the neck of the veronese gentleman was negligently wound a steinkirk cravat of muslin with _point of flanders_ ends. the rest of the attire was that of a modern state coachman on a drawing-room day, save that the material was chiefly of velvet, and that woodward wore high heels to his gold-buckled shoes. the waistcoat descended over the thighs, and into its pocket woodward thrust one hand, as, with a finger of the other knowingly laid to his nose, he began the famous lines, "oh! then, i see queen mab hath been with you!" booth's dress for cato was not more or less absurd than betterton's in "hamlet." the cato of queen anne's days wore a flowered gown and an ample wig! garrick's macbeth was a modern scottish serjeant-major,[ ] his romeo "a beau in a new birthday embroidery." his richard, fancifully but more correctly decked, is preserved to us in hogarth's picture; but when the king was thus attired, all the other persons of the drama wore court suits, powdered wigs, bags, cocked hats, and drawing-room swords! and yet the grandeur of the performance seems to have been in no way marred. when we smile at these things, we should remember that all managers who allow our old comedies to be played in modern costume, offend equally against good sense. i would have ranger acted in a wig, as garrick, and not in the dress of the actor's time, as elliston played it. the chronology of costume is worthy of every manager's notice, however accustomed the eye may become to anachronisms,--as with the dress worn in , by matthews, as old foresight, in "love for love," which was the very famous and fashionable suit, worn for many a season by the graceful wilks in that most airy of his parts, the youthful rake and gentleman, sir harry wildair. in macklin's macbeth, there was nothing of antiquity about the costume, which was a semi-military uniform of no, or of several periods, with a masquerade look about a good portion of it. his hamlet was a modern gentleman in a black suit, such as might have been seen any day in the mall. john kemble dressed the sad young dane, whose father had just been murdered by hamlet's worst enemy, one who stood between him and his inheritance, in a fancy suit defying chronology, a carefully curled and powdered wig, such as never sat on scandinavian head, and a blaze of jewelled orders--on the breast of him who courted seclusion! altogether, there were strange things done on the stage in those days, not the least, perhaps, were comic solo dances, or compound hornpipes of a score of "merry sailors," with highland reels, danced _between the acts_ of the most solemn of shakspeare's tragedies! reddish played hamlet in a bag-wig, which whitfield, as laertes, once carried off on the point of his sword! henderson, who acted the dane so well, dressed him ill,--in a three-cornered cock and flap hat, like my uncle toby! why not? since lewis as hippolitus, attired that hapless young man, of the era of neptune and sea-calves, in knee breeches, a jaunty silk jacket, tight-fitting boots, and a little court bodkin on his thigh--the thigh of the son of theseus! as for the ladies, they were as careless on the subject as the men, whether it was mrs. pritchard in lady macbeth, or miss younge as zara, or mrs. yates as cleopatra, they were all decked alike, court skirts over huge hoops, and trains tucked up to the waist, with powdered hair surmounted by a forest of feathers. mrs. siddons, when she made her first appearance in , in portia, played the part in a salmon-coloured sack and coat; and her euphrasia, to judge from her portrait, more nearly resembled an english than a grecian matron, in the costume. but she soon improved in taste, or was able to exercise her own without interference; and sir joshua approved of her innovation of appearing in her natural hair, without _marischal_ powder--of a reddish brown tint, then in fashion, and worn with abundance of pomatum in the tubular curls of the ladies' head-dresses. she braided her locks into a small compass, in accordance with the size and shape of the head; and when long stiff stays and hoop petticoats were universally worn by stage heroines, as well as ladies in general, mrs. siddons had the courage to appear in a dress far from ample, with a waist of the very shortest; and king george iii. himself warned mrs. siddons against using white paint (_blanc d'espagne_, i suppose) on her neck, as dangerous to health. mrs. esten depended for effect almost entirely on her dresses, and a languishing manner. her success, when she first appeared in belvidera, was attributed to "the picturesque and elegant manner" in which she dressed the character. this lady was the daughter of mrs. bennett, the author of _juvenile indiscretions_, and could have afforded her mother with matter for a dozen more volumes, had not the older lady been indiscreet enough to possess abundant material in her own experiences. i think that the custom of noblemen presenting their cast-off court-suits to great players (betterton played alexander the great in one), went out before the middle of the last century. a better custom prevailed in france. not only princes of the house of bourbon, but noblemen at court, sent theatrical costumes to lekain--according to the stage fashion of the period--but the actor never wore any other. there was as little variety in this actor's wardrobe as in the style of his acting, which was very circumscribed. with two or three tunics and a turban, one expression and a single attitude, he carried about with him "french tragedy." in france, not only hamlet, as once with us, but orestes, wore powder! but in this there was nothing more absurd than was to be found in quin's chamont, a young bohemian nobleman of a remote romantic era. at the age of sixty, quin played this youthful lover "in a long, grisly, half-powdered wig, hanging low down on each side the breast, and down the back; a heavy scarlet coat and waistcoat, trimmed with broad gold lace, black velvet breeches, a black silk neckcloth, black stockings, a pair of square-toed shoes, with an old-fashioned pair of stone buckles, and a pair of stiff, high-topped white gloves, with a broad, old scolloped hat. were the youthful, fiery chamont," adds the anonymous biographer, "to appear on the stage in such a dress now, the tragedy would cause more laughter than tears." absurd as this may seem in quin, it was not more absurd than the dress worn by hale, an actor of garrick's time, who, playing charles i. in havard's tragedy, wore a full-bottomed wig of the reign of queen anne--of the lightest colour, and flowing over back and shoulders; in short, a perfect "cataract peruke!" hale always fancied himself fascinating in this head-piece, as mrs. hamilton thought herself irresistible in jewels, with which she used so to load her dark hair, that they were compared to glow-worms in a furze-bush. that there _is_ much in a wig beyond the head it covers is, however, certain. no actor ever had such a wonderful collection of them as suett, or looked so comic in them; though his horrible depression, and his terrific and painful dreams, nearly drove him mad. such importance was attached to these wigs, that when the entire collection was burnt in the fire that destroyed the birmingham theatre, a friendly writer expressed a hope, that "until mr. suett can replace them,--the public will make an allowance for the great drawback their loss must be upon his comic abilities." in some theatres, one coat has served successive generations of actors. it was not so with the dress which garrick wore when he first appeared at goodman's fields, as richard. this fell into the keeping of a man named carr, who, when a strolling manager, used to act in it--let the character he had to represent be what it might! greater actors than carr were as negligent with respect to costume. gentleman smith, for instance, i meet with, complaining of the shabbiness of his richard iii.'s hat, and asking if he cannot have that which powell wore as king john! [illustration: (richard suett)] the _morning chronicle_ for november , , after extolling mrs. crawford's lady randolph as a triumph of acting which no competitor could reach, assails the costumes. "lord randolph and glenalvon were as fine as if they were designed for the soft service of venus, and meant to be present in an eastern ballroom; and yet the whole scene of the play lies in the hardy region of the north, &c., &c. old norval's dress," it is added, "had not the most distant semblance of the ordinary habit of a scotch shepherd." of john kemble's anachronisms in hamlet, i may add to the record, that in that play, the period of which is before the norman conquest, he wore the order of the elephant, which was not instituted till the middle of the fifteenth century! in hotspur, too, he always wore the order of the garter, even after proof was laid before him that young harry percy had never been a member of the order. elliston imitated kemble; but when he heard that hotspur did not belong to that chivalrous fraternity, he took the garter from his knee, as he was one night at the wing, ready to go on. originally, kemble even acted hamlet with the order of the garter beneath his knee! he also wore the riband and star, with a black velvet court-dress, diamond buckles; and his powdered hair dishevelled, in the mad scene. the vandyke dress, with black bugles, and dark, curled wig,--a dress which knew but little change till mr. fechter introduced a portrait-costume more appropriate from albert durer,--was first worn by john kemble during his own management of drury lane. in one respect, the latter actor was the exact reverse of henderson, who was so careless in the matter of costume, that he once boasted of having played ten different characters, in one season, in the same dress! lewis was nearly as negligent as henderson. his earl percy, for instance, was a marvel of anachronism and indifference. the noble northumbrian was attired in a light summer attire of no possible age, and suited to no possible people. his hair was flowing, but profusely powdered; and these pendant locks were prettily tied up in a cluster of light blue streamers, which his airiness made flutter in the breeze. but those were days in which everything was borne with and nothing questioned. the beautiful mrs. crouch, for example, acted one of the witches in "macbeth," in a killing, fancy hat, her hair superbly powdered, rouge laid on with delicate effect, and her whole exquisite person enveloped in a cloud of point lace and fine linen. in bensley acted mortimer in the hon. frank north's jumble of tragedy, comedy, and opera, at the haymarket,--the "kentish barons." the date of the piece was of the period of richard ii., but the costume was of an earlier time; and the figure which solemn bensley cut, when skating through a scene in shoes with the peaks so long that they were turned up and fastened to his girdle, must have been one provocative of fun. other players have been as incorrect, and infinitely more absurd. take, for example, edmund kean himself in orestes. he had seen talma in that part, in paris, and the excellence of the french actor fired kean to attempt the same character. but edmund imitated him neither in correctness of costume, nor in having the part correct, by heart. kean played orestes only in bath and edinburgh. his dress, and that of his faithful pylades (ward) at the first place, were covered with ribbons. neither of the ancient heroes had seen such silken manufacture in his life; but both of the actors had frequently seen ribbons, and that was enough. defective in costume, kean was also deficient in memory. at bath he stumbled through the character; at edinburgh he improvised a good deal of it; and in the mad scene substituted fragments from any other mad character he had in his mind for the moment, particularly sir giles overreach! all this flustered the pyrrhus especially, and his embarrassment was so marked that the edinburgh critics took care to tell him that he ought to have exercised more industry in mastering the words of his part, when he had to play with so great a master as mr. kean! a taste for mere finery in costume was long prevalent; and i have seen young's dress for macbeth, and that for hamlet, censured as "too finical." in the latter part, not contented with the order of the elephant, he sometimes wore a thick golden cord round his waist, with heavy bullion tassels. in coriolanus and brutus, young introduced the toga, for the first time, in a perfect form on the english stage. but it was found that a perfect toga was not always the most proper dress, and talma's senatorial robes were adopted by charles young, who, taught to wear them by the great french player, instructed in his turn, the ever-willing-to-learn charles kemble. the latter dressed charles surface in the costume of his own day. it looked well enough, no doubt, but _now_, in deighton's portrait, its absurdity is striking. in my younger days of playgoing there was a certain action of the hand and wrist on the part, especially, of actresses playing chambermaids, and rather lively young ladies, which was a trick of mrs. abington's, and had become, perhaps still is, a tradition. o'keeffe says: "mrs. abington's manner was charmingly fascinating, and her speaking voice melodious. she had peculiar tricks in acting, one was turning her wrist, and seeming to stick a pin in the side of her waist. she was also very adroit in the exercise of her fan; and though equally capital in fine ladies and hoydens, was never seen _in low or vulgar characters_! on her benefit night the pit was always railed into the boxes; her acting shone brightest when doing estifania to brown's copper captain." this refers to the season - , when she was in dublin, and before she had received "the stamp of a london audience." her kitty in "high life below stairs" created a sort of infatuation for her at the smock alley theatre. her name was, so to speak, on the public lip, "and in ten days her cap was so much the fashion that there was not a milliner's shop but what was adorned with it, and 'abington' appeared in large letters to attract the passers-by." the men "toasted" and adored her, the women paid her the highest homage by imitating her style in dress and carriage. with old costumes, the actors of bygone days had quaint tricks and ideas,--as strange to us now as their dresses. i may class with the former one circumstance of quin's falstaff in his later days. after the fight, when falstaff, somewhat wearied and disposed to moralise, used to seat himself on the stump of a tree and give way to philosophising, quin calmly sank down into a crimson velvet chair with gold claws and blue fringe, conveniently pitched on the field of battle! there used to be an old stage-trick for effect, employed in "venice preserved." pierre, railing at the conspirators in defence of jaffier, addresses himself, among the rest, to a pale, lean, haggard fellow, who, in such a picture, should be kept in the shade. but in the old days this fellow,--all exaggerated ghastliness and horror, used to stand forth and exhibit his caricature of fright and famine, by sundry actions, the applause for which was even less reasonably given than that to the gravedigger in "hamlet," when he deliberately doffed some score of waistcoats before he took to digging. mossop, too, had his trick in tragedy, which was sometimes akin to pantomime. in macbeth, when with his truncheon he smote that white-livered loon of a messenger, he invariably broke in two the symbol of authority over the unlucky envoy's skull. people applauded the earnestness of the tragedian as thus displayed; but the fact was, that mossop always carried a truncheon made to fly in two when dealt on a victim's head. the absurdity of the act never struck himself. more unmeaning, but much more costly; more pantomimic, and much more improbable, was barry's great trick in alexander. he never, indeed, tried it in london; and i cannot account for its toleration by so refined and critical an audience as that of dublin a century ago. in the triumphal entry into babylon he was drawn down the stage in his car by unarmed soldiers. when he alighted to address them, each man placed his hand on some portion of the chariot, the machinery of which broke up into war accoutrements; the wheels into bucklers, the axles into sheaves of spears, the body of the vehicle into swords, javelins, lances, standards, and so forth. all which likely work having been accomplished, and the soldiers having arranged themselves in battle array, alexander addressed his easily provided army amid a hurricane of applause; and o'keeffe protests that it was not only beautiful, but that he "never saw anything to equal it, for simplicity!" _oh_, sancta simplicitas! and this "simplicity" reminds me of the three separate ways in which cibber, john kemble, and young, used to suit, or not suit, the action to the word in a passage of wolsey:-- "this candle burns not clear. 'tis i must snuff it; then, out it goes." cibber's trick, to gain applause, was to fairly snuff the candle out. john kemble, taking this in the light of an accomplished fact, was wont to look as one offended by the stink. young, finding nothing more to do, always crossed his arms at this passage, smiled, and _did_ nothing. o'keeffe remarks, that it is a method with an old stager, who knows the advantageous points of his art, "to stand back out of the level with the actor who is on with him, and thus he displays his own full figure and face to the audience; but when two knowing ones are on together, each plays the trick upon the other. i was much diverted," he adds, "with seeing macklin and sheridan, in othello and iago, at this work; both endeavouring to keep back; they at last got together, up against the back scene. barry was too much impassioned to attend to such devices." edmund kean is said to have practised this trick when playing with actors or actresses taller than himself; but in so doing he was only putting himself on an equality with his taller colleague. i remember when, in my boyish days, the actors of the théâtre français used to take me behind the scenes, observing that when talma was seated on the stage by the side of mademoiselle duchesnois, the seat of his chair was gradually raised towards the back, like a driving-box, and thus enabled him to appear as tall as that ugly and able lady. garrick, too, had his chair-trick in "hamlet." when the ghost appeared between the young dane and his mother, garrick, starting from his chair, used always to overturn the latter,--which was differently constructed from that used by the queen. the legs of the actor's chair were, in fact, tapered to a point, and placed so far under the seat, that it fell with a touch. dr. burney seems to think that "the elocution of garrick and mrs. cibber was but exquisite trickery, and that a notation of their tones for a sort of musical declamation would be a good practical lesson for inferior actors, and would be the means of conveying it" (the notation) "to posterity, who will so frequently meet with their names and eulogiums in the history of the stage, and be curious to know in what manner they acquired such universal admiration." very young children on the stage are sometimes as difficult to manage as "sagacious dogs," and other animals. the tricks resorted to, in order to preserve propriety, are amusing. when mrs. siddons was selected to play venus, in garrick's revived "jubilee" (for which she was sneeringly called "garrick's venus"), she had little tom dibdin for cupid. they were seated in the front of the stage; and it was necessary that the son of the goddess should smile in his mother's face,--but tom was too much cowed to take any liberty of that sort. whereupon venus looked fondly on him and asked, in a stage whisper, if he loved sugar-plumbs?--and what sort? and wouldn't he like some of the best quality when the piece was over? at all which, cupid's face expanded into wreathed smiles, and he gazed on venus with a laughing admiration,--in mental anticipation of the sweets in the hereafter. in , mrs. siddons was the tragic muse in the "jubilee," in which the venus was represented by mrs. crouch, who might have smitten with jealousy anadyomene herself. some actors have made audiences merry by a mistake; others, by spontaneous wit. when quin, in coriolanus, bade his soldiers lower their _fasces_ (in which he pronounced the _a_ long), down went their faces in the lowest of bows,--and up went the laughing shout of the audience. a similar effect was once produced by charles kemble, by transposing, unconsciously, two letters in the phrase, "shall i lay perjury upon my soul?" and making of it, "shall i lay surgery upon my poll? no, not for all venice!" more intentionally did lewis once raise a foolish laugh, when playing with little cherry, who, as drugget, exclaimed, "he looks as if he were going to eat me!" "eat you!" exclaimed sir charles racket (lewis), and out of his character, "i could swallow you; i needn't make two bites of a cherry!" on the other hand, one individual, at least, raised fun, and made money out of his own deformity; namely, coffey, who was monstrously hunchbacked, and who, for his own benefit, acted Æsop. there was more method in a whim like this than in the madness of cassans, a promising actor of the last century, who lost his chance on the stage by preferring to sing ballads in the streets, or acting as waiter at a tavern, both of which offices he undertook seriously, and acted to perfection. off the stage, there were performers whose fame was extended, by the second skill of a brother player, as was the case with deighton, of drury lane, who (like emery) was a clever painter, and was the first who exhibited slightly-caricatured likenesses of his colleagues,--enough to indicate some queer peculiarity, but not enough to give offence. these used to attract the public round his shop-window, in charing cross, till deighton (or dighton, as the sadler's wells bills used to record) had to make his _exit_. the "hundred guilder print," by rembrandt, was missing from the british museum; and to that print access had been given by beloe, the keeper of the prints, to deighton. there was a scandal which sent the actor into exile, and cost the translator of herodotus his place. from an incident between actor and audience, the more gorgeously dressed than elegantly spoken mrs. hamilton acquired the name of _tripe hamilton_. she had been hissed by the pit, for refusing to play for mrs. bellamy's benefit; and she explained wherefore. the language of the poets she could learn quickly, and deliver with dignity; but her own was of that sort which sponsors are supposed to be bound to teach. mrs. hamilton said: "gentlemen and ladies,--i suppose as how you hiss 'cause i didn't play for mrs. bellamy. well, i wouldn't, 'cause she said as how my audience, on my benefit night, were nothing but tripe people, and made the house smell!" yet this woman _could_ play lady graveairs admirably. there was another actress of the last century who had great power and much grace in addressing an audience, namely, mrs. fitzhenry. she is better remembered in dublin than here; but i notice her on account of a curious circumstance, when she finally left the stage, there. on that occasion, she not only thanked the audience for past indulgence, but asked for future favour,--not for herself,--but for mr. john kemble, who had played several characters with her, but without being appreciated! mrs. fitzhenry gave assurance that there was sterling stuff in that young man, and hoped he would be encouraged! this reminds me of another benefit night in dublin, that of mrs. melmoth, wife of courtenay melmoth, whose real name was pratt. to fill the house, the actress gave out that she was about being converted to the roman catholic religion, and she went daily and ostentatiously to mass. the house, however, was but a poor one, and mrs. melmoth became thereby convinced that the romish church had not that efficacy she had hoped to find in it; and she remained in her original belief,--the chief point of which was, that courtenay was by no means so wise as he looked, nor so great as he thought himself. i know of no other case of conversion on the part of an actress, except that of mrs. wells, who, being confined in the fleet, met there with mr. sumbell, of the hebrew faith, and, on her enlargement, which she physically did not need, declared that she had married him, and had turned jewess. this she had, indeed, done, at a splendid barbarico-comic marriage ceremony; but the ancient people doubted its validity, and so did mr. sumbell. there was an actor of the last century, named wignell, who was so doubly-refined that he could not deliver an ordinary message without trying to make blank verse of it. "wignell," said garrick, "why can't you say, 'mr. strickland, your coach is ready,' as an ordinary man would say it, and not with the declamatory pomp of mr. quin, or mr. booth, when playing tyrants!" "sir," said poor wignell, "i thought in that passage i _had_ kept down the sentiment!" _that_, he never could do; his doctor, in "macbeth," was so wonderfully solemn, that his audience was always in fits of laughter at it. if this was rather taking a liberty with an actor, the actors often took liberties with the audience. just after mrs. bland was confined for the first time, her husband, in arionelli ("son-in-law"), had to say, "marriage! oh, that is quite out of my way." the actor of cranky immediately responded with a speech, for which he ought to have been fined,--to the effect,--if that were the case, what about the little incident at home. but emery once went further than this and, when acting the sentinel, in "pizarro," contrived to let rolla and the whole house know that mrs. emery had increased the number of his family circle. this freedom would be found to have no "fun" in it now. no one better supported the dignity of the profession than charles murray, a son of sir john murray, of broughton, and originally intended for the medical profession. in his younger days, before he fell into the line of old men, at covent garden, he was playing at wakefield, where he so spiritedly resented an insult flung at him as an actor, that the party he thereby offended made a public quarrel of it, and the town was divided into two factions. murray refused to ask pardon on the stage, and on a night he was to play in the "beaux' stratagem," knowing the intentions of his enemy in front, he entered booted and spurred, and announced that, aware of the opposition, he was about to set out for doncaster. whereupon, his friends leaped from the boxes to the stage, declared he should not be driven from the theatre, and guarding the wings, they compelled murray, dressed or undressed, as he was, to go through his part, and to remain on the stage throughout the piece, lest he should profit by an _exit_, to make his escape. on the other hand, poor jack owen, the "successor" of henry mossop, and the "real zanga," as he used to call himself, was always able to defend his own cause. he was one night hissed while playing polydore, in the "orphan," when under the influence of the grape. he had just dismissed the page, with "run quickly, then, and prosperous be thy wishes," when his imperfect utterance raised a storm of hisses. but he turned the first words of the succeeding soliloquy to good account,--and advancing to the footlights, growled to the house, "here i am alone and fit for mischief,"--putting himself in a fighting attitude, and moving the house to laughter by his new reading. the discipline of preparation for the stage in the older days was greater than it is now. it included strolling, slaving at country theatres, a course of probation at norwich, bath, york, and such towns,--after which there was an assured trial for an ambitious player, at every fresh season in london. but ere this point was reached, there was much to be endured. blisset and dimond, for instance, walked from london to bath, with half-a-crown between them, and the former ever after kept the shoes in which he had done it, as a memento of his hard days. some strolling managers have flourished much better than their actors. smith, proprietor of the margate theatre, had been a hostler; copeland, of the dover theatre, a groom. at the former house, it was customary for the company to parade in front in full dress, on a balcony, while the house was filling, or was not filling. the birmingham company used to send round a bellman or a drummer to announce and praise the coming performances, and dick yates is said to have filled one or other office more than once. to these managers, candidates came with an ignorance that was only to be exceeded by that of their employers. "how ought i to look when i see the ghost?" said a sucking hamlet to the margate manager. "look!" said the latter; "well; oh!--look? why as much as to say, 'confound it, here's a rig!'" humble enough were some of these houses. the old margate was over a stable, whence came all sorts of unpleasant reminiscences. the tunbridge wells house was of such dimensions that the audience part was in kent, the stage in sussex, and between the two ran a ditch, which players in debt found convenient, when bailiffs were after them, as they speedily evaded jurisdiction by escaping into another county. it was here that the ubiquitous, yet stationary, mrs. baker, the proprietress, stood at three pay places and took money at all! in matters of costume, affairs were in a primitive condition. in a garrison town, cato and the senators were generally decked out in old regimentals, lent by the fort-major; and there and in ordinary towns ladies who commanded plays provided the wardrobe for the actresses. benefits, however, were seldom so to those for whom they were technically "given." tate wilkinson himself once, at maidstone, netted only two pieces of candle and eighteenpence. this theatre was so near the river that the tide overflowed the pit, and threatened to float away the house. i do not know that "hamlet" was really ever played without the principal character, but it is recorded of waldron, at windsor, that his company acted the "suspicious husband," without a mr. strickland, and "she stoops to conquer," without a miss hardcastle. windsor, nevertheless, was patronised by the old king, who went thither in much less state than the margravine of anspach to the little theatre at newbury. in the hurry, anxiety, and disappointments in which the old strollers lived, study was imperfect, and i have heard of a play acted almost entirely from the prompting supplied from a book borrowed from one of the audience, the actors neither knowing the piece nor having a copy to learn it from! that such a life should have any attraction may seem surprising, but incledon left the musical band of a man-of-war to sing ballads, on country stages, and to get little more than bread to keep him in voice. occasionally, the strollers played in very good company,--as at plymouth, where sir charles bampfylde would play captain brazen, or any other part, "by particular desire of sir charles," as the bills had it! the plymouth house is the only house, except the old dublin, in which performances took place before the roof was on! on one night of shuter's benefit, the gallery was so crowded that the beam visibly bent, and two uprights were placed under it, to prevent the people, who came to be amused, from being killed. it must have been a cheerful night, free from anxiety! between country actors and audiences, there was an easy freedom. miller, of birmingham, played frenchmen well and hamlet abominably, for which last he was hissed, and thereupon he told the audience that since they wouldn't have his hamlet, they shouldn't have his frenchman! mrs. charke records that one night, as she was playing pyrrhus, she was called upon to deliver some speeches of scrub, in which she had distinguished herself the night before. in like manner, when incledon was singing the most pathetic ballad, his rude hearers would demand some coarse popular song, nor let him off till he had sung it! "oh! take more pity in thine eyes!" said a portsmouth richard to lady anne. "would they were _battle-axe_," said miss white (instead of "_basilisks_") "to strike thee dead!" this, however, was probably only a slip.[ ] at all events, it was not so shocking as brereton's first indications of his insanity when, at a country theatre, and playing with his wife (afterwards mrs. kemble), he made her dance a _minuet_ with him, when she ought to have been weeping; and when she died in character, the poor fellow (a _star_ in the country) would, if not watched, walk up to her and seriously bewail the sad condition of his darling wife. brereton, in his day, had seen as much misery while strolling as bensley,--a gentleman as well-born as himself. the latter once tramping it with robinson, they found that they had but a penny between them. they tossed as to who should have the mutton pie which it could purchase, and bensley burst into tears while the winner devoured the prize. their next dinner was purchased by their cutting off their hair, then worn long, and selling it. and this incident of the hair reminds me of fox, the manager's son at brighton, who, when hair-powder was worn by some and denounced by others, because of the tax upon it, appeared, in some fine gentleman's part, with his head half in powder and half without. to allay the uproar that ensued, he explained that he did it to please both parties, and of course gratified neither. some old strolling companies, on the tramp, walked very many hundreds of miles during the year. even the richer brethren of the craft sometimes suffered tribulation. as once happened with the bath company, when their scenery, machinery, dresses, and "property" of every theatrical sort, were burnt in their caravans, as they were crossing salisbury plain. i return again to the old houses, for a moment, to consider three subjects not yet touched upon,--the old rage for prologues and epilogues,--the "dedications" of plays, and the "benefits" of the actors. [illustration: mr. dibdin as mungo.] footnotes: [ ] garrick dressed macbeth in a suit of scarlet and gold. macklin, in , was the first to introduce any scottish character into the costume. [ ] judging from tate wilkinson's account of this lady and her mother, this was not a slip. [illustration: milward's "benefit ticket." (hogarth)] chapter xii. prologue, epilogue; dedications and benefits. in looking over the poetical addresses made to audiences in former days, our regret is that such abundant illustration, as they give, of life in and out of the theatre, is rendered unavailable by a licentiousness which runs through every line. from those of aphra behn, and her contemporaries and immediate successors, filthy missiles, as it were, were flung at morals generally, and at the audience in particular. nevertheless, and down to a later period, the british appetite for prologue and epilogue was for many years insatiable. the public, though often insulted in both, with that sort of licence which belonged to the old jester, whose master, however, could as readily chastise as laugh at him, listened eagerly; and only with reluctance saw the time arrive when the play was considered safe enough to go on without the introduction. even when old plays were revived, the audience expected the prologue to enjoy resuscitation also. so, when "cato" was reproduced at covent garden, for sheridan, and the play commenced without the famous introductory lines by pope, there was a vociferous shout from the house of "prologue! prologue!" that eccentric actor, wignell, was then on the stage as portius, and in his fantastically pompous way had pronounced the opening passage of his part, "the dawn is overcast, the morning lowers, and heavily, with clouds, brings on the day,"-- when he was interrupted by renewed vociferations for the prologue. wignell would neither depart from his character, nor leave the house without satisfactory explanation; and accordingly, after the word "day," without changing feature or tone, he solemnly went on, with this interpolation:-- "(ladies and gentlemen: there has not been for years a prologue spoken to this play--). the great, the important day, big with the fate of cato and of rome." sometimes the prologue, in preceding the piece, did so in mournful verse, "as undertaker walks before the hearse;" and in the case of tragedy, it was etiquette for the speaker to be attired in solemn black, generally a court suit. occasionally, the prologue to an historical tragedy was a brief lecture, for the enlightenment of an ignorant audience. at all times it was held to be a better means of instruction than that followed by french writers of tragedy, through confidants,-- "who might instruct the pit, by asking questions of the leading few, and hearing secrets, which before they knew." few men wrote more of them than garrick, though in that to "virginia" he says that-- "prologues, like compliments, are loss of time, 'tis penning bows and making legs in rhyme. 'tis cringing at the door, with simp'ring grin, when we should show the company within." but he subsequently wrote in the epilogue to the "fathers," that-- "prologue and epilogues--to speak the phrase-- which suits the warlike spirit of these days-- are cannons charged, or should be charged, with wit, which, pointed well, each rising folly hit." garrick, however, only wrote according to the humour of the hour, for elsewhere he describes prologues as "the mere ghosts of wit;" and proposes their abolition. their alleged falseness of promise he illustrates, in a "prologue upon prologues," spoken when none at all was needed, by a story:-- "to turn a penny, once, a wit, upon a curious fancy hit, hung out a board on which he boasted, 'dinner for threepence, boiled and roasted! the hungry read, and in they trip with eager eye and smacking lip: 'here bring this boiled and roasted, pray!' enter potatoes, _drest each way_! all stared and rose, the house forsook, cursed the dinner, and kicked the cook." it is a singular thing that authors had little or no control over the prologues or epilogues attached to their plays. in this respect, the manager acted as he pleased, licensed such sentiments as _he_ approved of, and was irresponsible. thus, the refined dr. young was insulted by an unclean epilogue attached to his "brothers," which was played for the benefit of the society for the propagation of the gospel, and dr. browne, one of the vainest of authors, was horrified by hearing garrick, in the epilogue to "barbarossa," make woodward ask the public--referring to the doctor, to "let the poor devil eat! allow him that!" home, however, seems to have exercised, in some respect, his own judgment, when "douglas" was played. that is, he refused to tag a satirical address to so solemn a tragedy; but another poet laughed at him, through barry, who came on exclaiming-- "an epilogue i asked! but not one word our bard would write! he vows 'tis most absurd with comic wit, to contradict the strain of tragedy, and make your sorrows vain." but shenstone, in his epilogue to dodsley's "cleone," a few years later, followed a double course. after that tragedy of anguish, the address began with, "well, ladies, so much for the tragic style-- and now the custom is--to make you smile." then came hints that had the absent husband lefroy lived in modern times, his cleone would have proved a different damsel to her depicted by the poet; but shenstone adds, in his moral strain:-- "'tis yours, ye fair, to bring those days again, and form anew the hearts of thoughtless men. make beauty's lustre amiable as bright, and give the soul, as well as sense, delight; reclaim from folly a fantastic age, that scorns the press, the pulpit, and the stage." this was a good attempt to raise the character of women by pointing to a duty which they might perform; and a similar moral strain was adopted long after by sheridan. in the epilogue to his "rivals," spoken by mrs. bulkley, he says:-- "our moral's plain, without more fuss, man's social happiness all rests on us; through all the drama, whether damned or not, love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot." among the curiosities of prologues and epilogues, may be reckoned the boasts, promises, and little confidences, in those delivered on the occasion when "cato" was played at leicester house, by the children of frederick, prince of wales, and some of the young nobility. the prologue, indeed (spoken by prince george, afterwards george iii.), was not especially remarkable. it lauded the wisdom of men who declared that-- "to speak with freedom, dignity, and ease, to learn those arts which may hereafter please,"-- nothing was required, but that "youth in earliest age" should "rehearse the poet's labours on the stage." as for patriotism, said prince george,--"know,--'twas the first great lesson i was taught!" and, of course, he gloried that he was "a boy, in england born, in england bred!" artists, who may hereafter paint the scene, will do well to remember what pictures were suspended on the walls: "before my eyes those heroes stand, whom the great william brought to bless this land;-- to guard, with pious care, that gen'rous plan of power well bounded, which he first began." the epilogue was spoken by lady augusta (as prince frederick called his daughter) and prince edward, afterwards duke of york. it was mere doggerel; but augusta flouted at the fine phrases of the prologue, and edward--entrusted with a sly hit at george's boast of being english born--declared that george had-- "vouchsafed to mention his future gracious intention, in such heroic strains, that no man will e'er deny his _soul a roman_." there was an allusion to the imperial sway the elder brother was to enjoy, and the obedience the younger was to observe; after which, the latter, addressing the little sister, to whom he had been a suitor (juba) in the play said-- "but, sister, now the play is over, i wish you'd get a better lover." to which the already destined bride of brunswick, and future mother of that caroline, who was so luckless and unlovely a queen of england, made reply, wherein we see something of the training for high duties, then adopted in high places: "why--not to under-rate your merit, others would court with diff'rent spirit; and i, perhaps, might like another a little better than a brother, could i have one of england's breeding. but 'tis a point they're all agreed on, that i must wed a foreigner, across the seas--the lord knows where!" whereupon, prince edward congratulated himself on being "wedded to the nation;" and, alluding to his mimic command in the tragedy, he hoped that future times would see him "general in reality," adding,-- "indeed, i wish to serve this land;-- it is my father's strict command." and so forth, in like strain, wherein great purpose took the guise of low impertinence. this address is said to have been extremely well delivered. on the regular stage, woodward and king were remarkable as prologue speakers. a biographer of the latter says: "as a prologue speaker, in the comic style, he is undoubtedly unapproachable. there is a happy distinction in his ease, manner, familiarity, and acting those dramatic exordiums, so as to render them, in his possession, entertainments of the first kind. indeed, the audience are so sensible of this, that they never omit calling for them on those nights the pieces are represented, with an avidity and impatience that strongly indicate their pleasure." from the earliest times, indeed, it was the ambition of an actor to be considered an efficient speaker of prologues. wilks was never so angry as when the office was entrusted to another; cibber never so proud as when dryden made selection of _him_. if the audience were almost invariably insulted in these old addresses, individual patrons were grossly flattered by authors in the dedication of their plays. mrs. behn leads the way decently enough with her "good, sweet, honied, sugar-candied reader," prefixed to her "rover;" but she speedily turns from abstract to actual personages, and then the address out-herods herod. passing from her, to select another sample from the hundreds about me, i come to dryden's horrible farce of "amboyna," with its unsavoury jokes, bacchanalian chaunts, hymn from the basia, and unspeakable atrocities. it is dedicated to the first lord clifford, of chudleigh. this patron of the poet was the grandson of a protestant clergyman, but he became a romanist before the restoration. he was one of the defamers of clarendon. in the commons he was as bold as he had ever been in any of his volunteer actions at sea. pepys speaks of him as "a very fine gentleman, and one much set by at court, for his activity in going to sea, and strictness everywhere, and stirring up and down." evelyn alludes to him in unrestrained terms of admiration and affection; and as far as lord clifford's private character is concerned, he was worthy of such praise. but he betrayed his country's liberties; and he vehemently desired to establish popery. clifford was a magnificent lord high treasurer, and one of the cabal. dryden's dedication to him, of his anti-dutch farcical tragedy, probably rests on clifford's deeds in sea-fights against the dutch. but here we have an english poet lauding to the skies an un-english peer, who is said to have avowed, that he would rather see our king dependent on the french monarch than on five hundred kings in parliament. dryden says, that despairing of "repaying his obligements" to my lord, he is driven to "receive only with a profound submission the effects of that virtue which is never to be comprehended but by admiration;" and he receives my lord's "favours as the jews of old received their law,--with a mute wonder." perhaps there is a little satire in this, as there seems to be in the reference to his lordship's doings at the treasury, where "no man attended to be denied." "had that treasure been your own," says dryden, "your inclination to bounty must have ruined you!" which sounds very much like complimenting a man for robbing his master in order to distribute charity. in the dedication of his plays, dryden twice approaches royalty,--legitimate royalty,--in the persons of james, duke of york, and mary of modena, his duchess. to the former, he dedicates his _conquest of granada_; and the poet runs mad in praising the prince's valour. to the duchess, he dedicates his _state of innocence_; and the bard runs wild in lauding the princess's beauty! the almanzor of the play is a faint image of james himself! whose youth of bright deeds left his manhood nothing to perform, but to outdo himself! he was an honour to england, when england was a reproach to itself!--"and when the fortunate usurper sent his arms to flanders, many of that adverse party were vanquished by your fame, ere they tried your valour. the report of it drew over to your ensigns whole troops and companies of converted rebels, and made them forsake successful wickedness to follow an oppressed and exiled virtue!" armies, beaten by the duke, learned from him to conquer! when he was not present, the guardian angel of the nation was careless as to how inferior generals got bruised! if james and charles were concerned more with one thing than with another, it was in watching over the honour of england! in the former, the poet had found his model for the extraordinarily heroic almanzor. he adds, with a spice of satire, which is to be found in most of dryden's dedications, that there is, to be sure, in almanzor, "a roughness of character, impatience of injuries, and a confidence of himself, almost approaching to an arrogance!" "but these errors," says the crafty bard, "are incident only to great spirits!" there is more of insanity and insolence in the adulation with which dryden deluges the duchess. her beauty is a deity, her grandeur a guardian angel! of her beauty, he _will_ rave. "i would not, without extreme reluctance, resign the theme to any other hand!" he is proud that he cannot flatter, and then pelts her with flattery as with missiles. the creator had placed her near the crown that her beauty might give lustre to it! there would have been no contest for the apple, had _she_ been alive when the prize was to be awarded! as it is, he cannot describe her wondrous excellence. "like those who have surveyed the moon by glasses, i can only talk of a new and shining world above us, but not relate the riches and the glories of the place!" so resplendent is she, that she makes men false to other ladies, and then scorns the homage of the traitors. and, having libelled the men, he defames the women, by saying: "your conjugal virtues have deserved to be set as an example to a less degenerate, less tainted age. they approach so near to singularity in ours, that i can scarcely make a panegyric to your royal highness, without a satyr on many others!" finally, having outraged all propriety, he can still go further, by the addition of a little blasphemy; and her royal highness is informed by her most obedient, most humble, and most devoted servant, john dryden, that her "person is so admirable, it can scarce receive addition when it shall be glorified!" therefore, the duchess is to dwell for ever in elysium, in her mundane body, unchanged, "for your soul, which shines through it," says the vile adulator, "finds it of a substance so near her own, that she will be pleased to pass an age within it, and to be confined to such a palace." such was the incense which the greatest living poet of his day expected even a shrewd princess like mary of modena to inhale! otway crawls at the feet of the king's concubine, the rapacious duchess of portsmouth, in his dedication of "venice preserved," and almost invites her to void her rheum upon his head. however generous the woman may have been to him, the man is abject. the play he presents is but as the poor apple offered by a clown to an emperor! "next to heaven," all his gratitude is due to her grace! it was she who dragged him from the mire, and set him to bask in "those royal beams whose warmth is all i have, or hope, to live by." then, after asserting his loyalty and his scorn of republicanism, the poet thus tumbles for the amusement of, or by way of homage to, this handsome and painted jezebel!--"nature and fortune were certainly in league when you were born, and as the first took care to give you beauty enough to enslave the hearts of all the world, so the other resolved to do its merit justice that none but a monarch fit to rule that world should e'er possess it; and in it he had an empire. the young prince you have given him, by his blooming virtues early declared the mighty stock he came from;" and so forth. that this prince, the first duke of richmond of the present line, will always aid the cause of the stuarts and smite all rebels, is part prayer, part prophecy, on the side of the poet, who in this case was no vates, for the duke served as aide-de-camp to william in flanders, and died a lord of the bedchamber to king george i. in course of time, as the little duke grows to manhood, the poets keep him in view, and in their dedications oppress him with praise of his parents' qualities and his own. southern is among the foremost and the most flattering of these eulogists. he dedicates his first venture, the "loyal brother" ( ), to the duke. "could my vanity," says the author, when dedications were paid for at a rate varying from five to twenty guineas, "carry me to the hopes of succeeding in things of this kind, i am confident my surest way would be to draw my characters from you, in whom the fairest images in nature are shown in little. your royal father's greatness, majestic awfulness, wit, and goodness, are promised all in you. your mother's conquering beauty triumphs again in you. nothing is wanting to crown our hopes, but time, to make you in england what titus was in rome,--the delight of mankind." the russian admiral, livsoski, claims that title now for the czar,--the holy master of the mouravieffs and de bergs,--whose shedding of human blood is gratefully acknowledged by the new titus,--athirst for vengeance. etherege, ordinarily so impudent, pretends, in dedicating his "man of mode" to the duchess of york, that his patroness's virtues and perfections are things not to be treated of in humble prose, and that he will address himself to the sublime subject some day in poetry! wycherley presents his "love in a wood" ( ), to the duchess of cleveland, who had gone two successive nights to see it acted. it is his first attempt, he says, at dedication; and he cannot lie, like other dramatists, who wreathe garlands for their patron's brow only to enjoy the perfume of them, themselves! and then he sings a long song of praise for his guineas, or in whatever other way his guerdon may have come, in which he tells the lady, among other fine things, that she has that perfection of beauty which others of her sex only think they have; "that generosity in your actions which others of your quality have only in their promises, with a spirit, wit, and judgment which fit heroes for command, and which fail to make _her_ proud." it is not to be supposed that wycherley believed this, for when he dedicated his "plain dealer" ( ) "to my lady b----," or mother bennet, the most infamous woman in london, he especially praises her for her modesty, in keeping away from the representation of his play, even on the first day,--a play which he pretends to believe ought not to be witnessed by modest people! congreve sometimes insinuates praise, at others he flings it. in the dedication of his "old batchelor," to lord clifford (lanesborough), afterwards earl of burlington, he says, "i cannot give your lordship your due, without tacking a bill of my own privileges." his "double dealer" goes to charles, lord montague, with an assurance that poetry is my lord's mistress, and the mother by him of a "most beautiful issue." he addresses his "love for love" to the earl of dorset, and hails him as the undisputed monarch of poetry! dorset, whose best claim to being considered a poet, rests on the song, "to all ye ladies now on land," of his being the author of which there is no positive assurance! in the eighteenth century a man was killed in the streets of morpeth, for maintaining that the blood of the dacres was as good as that of the ogles. of the excellence of the latter, shadwell entertained very exalted ideas. in there was living, and in the same year died, the earl of ogle, to whom was contracted in her infancy the famous lady elizabeth, sole heiress of the last of the earls of northumberland. her subsequent contract with tom thynne led to the murder of the latter by count königsmark. in the year above-mentioned, shadwell produced at dorset gardens, and published, his "woman captain," in dedicating which to the earl of ogle, the marquis of newcastle's son, shadwell says, "one virtue of your lordship's i am too much pleased with not to mention, which is, that in this age, when learning is grown contemptible to those who ought most to advance it, and greek and latin sense is despised, and french and english nonsense applauded, when the ancient nobility and gentry of england, who not long since were famous for their learning, have now sent into the world a certain kind of spurious brood of illiterate and degenerate youth, your lordship dares love books, and labours to have learning." this is fine testimony and not flattery to one of the most promising young gentlemen of the day. his child-wife subsequently married the proudest of dukes, and swift has immortalised the red-haired beauty as "the d----d duchess of somerset!" in one of the greatest of moral writers,--the rev. dr. young, we meet with one of the most fulsome of adulators. this divine dedicated his "revenge" to his friend philip, duke of wharton, the most profligate and unprincipled, but one of the most accomplished men of his age. young assures us that his grace leads a virtuous pastoral life, such as your town rakes know nothing of; that his is given to study, and that he is a perfect master of all history, as well as of many languages; that he is as well skilled in men as in books, and that he "can carry from his studies such a life into conversation, that wine seems only an interruption to wit." the duke has, we are told, "so sweet a disposition that no one ever wished his abilities less, but such as flattered themselves with the hope of shining when near him." the poet even makes the peer his _collaborateur_ in the piece, and acknowledges that he not only "suggested the most beautiful incident, but made all possible provision for the success of the whole." but, although authors may have been ready enough to flatter their patrons, the appetite of the latter was sometimes stronger than could be met by the supply. peter motteux, of whom i have already spoken, had a patron of this quality, whose name was heveningham, and who, having accepted the dedication of one of peter's dramatic trifles, was so little satisfied with the copy which was sent to him for approval, that he wrote one to himself, subscribed it with motteux's name, and sent it to the press! unluckily, heveningham had mentioned therein an incident which could have been known only to himself; and the epigrammatic wits found their account in the oversight. there is something more touching in the dedication of "merope" to bolingbroke, by poor aaron hill, when "hard up," through speculation, indiscreet generosity, and a profuse hospitality, in which there was no discretion at all! aaron felt his position, and was conscious of an end approaching, to which the sad poet thus alludes:-- "covered in fortune's shade, i rest reclined, my griefs all silent and my joys resigned. with patient eye life's ev'ning gleam survey, nor shake th' out-hasting sands, nor bid them stay; yet while from life my setting prospects fly, fain would my mind's weak off'ring shun to die; fain would their hope, some time through light explore, the _name's_ kind passport, when the _man's_ no more." i fear bolingbroke had few means to materially help the writer, beyond the dedication fee. even the profits of the author's three nights brought to his family little more than a hundred and odd pounds. murphy and fielding were the first dramatic poets who departed from the old beaten track. murphy dedicated his "zenobia," not to an earl, but to an actress,--mrs. barry, who had saved his tragedy by her glorious acting. this dedication is gracefully worded, and is a faithful testimony to the ability of a great artist. unfortunately, flattery could creep into such homage as this. for fulsomeness of praise, soane's dedication of the "dwarf of naples," to edmund kean; and sheil's, of his "adelaide," to miss o'neill, equal any similar offence of the olden time. i could cite more, but will only add that, of all the writers of dedications, by far the most amusing is the man who wrote none! this ingenious person called himself adam moses emanuel cooke, but his sole christian name was simply thomas. he was a northumbrian by birth, an oxonian by education, and a beneficed clergyman who drove all his parishioners mad by his superstitious practices, his mystical enthusiasm, and his turn for unintelligible mysteries. he took all the loving promises to the jews so much to heart as to believe that the more nearly he approached them in all their old observances, the more true he should be to the christian dispensation. accordingly, he practised them all, did not hesitate at the most painful and characteristic, and was very much astonished that other men declined to follow his example. cooke was mad, in this one matter, no doubt; but considering that episcopal patience bore with the theatre-haunting rev. dr. dodd, i think cooke's bishop treated him a little harshly by procuring his deprivation, and driving him out to starve. to starvation, however, the poor man had reasonable objections; and to obviate such an end, he turned dramatic author, as if to justify those who called him mad. it was then that he showed that there was method in his madness. having nothing, he denounced the rights of property. possessing nothing he could throw in to the common lot, he preached communism. at will's, or tom's, or button's, at the grecian, or any other well-frequented coffee-house, the hungry author of two unrepresented and unrepresentable plays who might have thanked heaven that he was not worth a ducat, would coolly enter and seat himself at the first table which he saw ready furnished with a meal for which he longed, and thought not of paying. the rightful owner, if ignorant of the ways of adam moses emanuel, would blandly smile at the absent man, thinking sighingly of the mighty labours which had brought him to such a pass, and quietly move off. if the gentleman whose chocolate, toast, and eggs cooke appropriated, knew of the mystic's ways, he would smilingly submit to them, and await the moment which should bring the _gastronome sans argent_ and mine host into collision. however this might be, the breakfast concluded, cooke returned thanks, rose, shook his faded suit of sables, and made, calmly satisfied, for the door. between that and himself ever stood the landlord, or head waiter, and then ensued a controversy, to hear which, old beaux, middle-aged bucks, and younger bloods crowded with more eagerness than would have marked their going to a sermon. cooke's theory was not "base is the slave that pays," but that, payment lacking on his part, it would be base to deprive him of breakfast. to the simple and conclusive reasoning of the master he opposed texts from the talmud, maxims from the rabbis, and a clincher from moses, according to whose legislation even a thief was not to be punished, if his so-called offence originated in the natural necessity of satisfying his stomach. of course, when the audience grew tired of the argument, they clubbed the amount required, and sent the cunning author rejoicingly on his way. that way took him from the landlord, who was quite "agreeable" to have him for a customer,--he drew so many others--to the patron from whom cooke hoped to extract sufficient whereon to dine, have his claret, and spin out his evening, like a gentleman. he was always about to publish one of, perhaps both, the mad plays he had written: "the king cannot err," and the "hermit converted, or the maid of bath married." or he was on the point of giving to the public some treatise on mystical divinity. for suitable patrons he had as fine a scent as for breakfast. he selected them among wealthy old creoles, or rich young lords just returned from the grand tour; or peers who would be glad to give a guinea to get rid of him; or baronets who would think the fun got out of him well worth the fee; or simple 'squires and gentlemen honestly ready to contribute to the support of literature and distressed authors. with the guinea for subscription in his pocket, cooke withdrew on that day, to call on the same or some other patron the next, for permission to dedicate his drama to one of whose virtues, talents, magnanimity, divine endowments, and the like, the town was giving hourly assurance. the fish thus tickled generally proved a gold-fish, and with a dedication fee of, at least, five guineas, cooke disappeared as solemnly as the ghost in "hamlet." like that shadowy majesty of denmark, our dramatic author was a "revenant." he always returned. a happy thought had struck him. a copper-plate engraving of his patron's shield of arms, at the head of the dedication, would magnify every party concerned, and especially him of whose house it was the blazon! there were little incidental expenses, no doubt; but what were they to one so munificent and so disposed to promote the best interests of learning! and, accordingly, cooke withdrew, all the richer by ten guineas,--for the engraver! when cooke's goose ceased to lay golden eggs--when no other was to be found, and managers cruelly refused to have anything to do with his dramas, the reverend gentleman let his beard grow, turned street preacher, and, as the bearded priest, railed against sin generally, and those connected with plays and players, in particular. that drama having been played out, cooke became a peripatetic, traversing the three kingdoms on foot, and meeting more examples and incidents for the _history of a vagabond_ than ever entered into the experience or the imagination of goldsmith. he contrived to fall into the way of scholars and universities,--and from these, whether they were in oxford, dublin, or edinburgh, he never turned hungry. it is hardly necessary to say that his eccentricities brought him, by the way, to "bedlam," that hell upon earth, where men were driven fiendishly mad, who were only harmlessly so before. cooke, recovering his liberty, never recovered method with his madness. the latter was intensified by an aggravation in its old mystic element, and this poor fellow, who is said to have realised more money in fees for dedications, which he never wrote, to plays which were never acted, died, characteristically enough, according to report, of the consequences of following an example set in heathen days, by atys, and in a christian period by origen,--without, however, having had the cause pleaded by the one, or the reason alleged by the other. to conclude this chapter with a word on benefits. these are of royal invention, and the first, already recorded, was awarded by king james to elizabeth barry,--a tribute to her genius.[ ] the fashion has not died out, but that of announcing them, as of yore, _has_. for example, the _spectator_ often put in a good word for george powell. sometimes there was an intimation that george, well qualified, but ever and anon careless, would distinguish himself, if the public would only patronise the "conquest of mexico," to be acted, for his benefit. when, in april , he was, on a like occasion, to play falstaff, in the first part of "henry iv.," it was after this fashion that the _spectator_ did a good turn for its particular friend. "the haughty george powell hopes all the good-natured part of the town will favour him whom they applauded in alexander, timon, lear, and orestes, with their company this night, when he hazards all his heroic glory in the humbler condition of honest jack falstaff." it is pleasant, too, to observe that though actors lost their engagements and endured much privation in consequence, they were not forgotten. i frequently meet with announcements of benefits "for some distressed actors, lately of this house;"--and, occasionally, if circumstances rendered the benefit less productive than was expected, a second is gratuitously given to make up for the deficit. again, "for the benefit of a gentleman who has written for the stage," shows a delicate feeling for a modest, or a damned, author. and as "for sufferers from fire," "wards in middlesex hospital," or "for the building of churches and chapels," or for "lying-in hospitals," the stage was never weary of lending itself to such good purposes of relief. it was not till may that the profession began to think of doing something for itself, and i find a benefit announced "towards raising a fund for the relief of those who, from their infirmities, shall be obliged to retire from the stage." garrick played kitely on this occasion. in ,[ ] spiller advertised a performance at lincoln's inn fields, "for the benefit of himself and creditors." the announcement, in the shape of a letter, is a curious document. "i think," says this one-eyed comedian, "i have found out what will please the multitude.... i have tolerable good luck, and tickets rise apace, which makes mankind very civil to me, for i get up every morning to a levee of at least a dozen people, who pay their compliments and ask the same question, 'when shall we be paid?' all i can say is, that wicked good company has brought me into this imitation of grandeur. i loved my friend and my jest too well to grow rich: in short, wit," says the comedian, sporting with his own infirmity, "is my blind side." theophilus cibber was often as candid, sometimes more impertinent. in may he announces "richard iii." for his benefit, "for the entertainment of those who will come." he sometimes advertised his benefit as being for himself and creditors conjointly, and in april we find him, a comedian of the first rank, thus appealing to the consideration of the public,--"as i have, in justice to my creditors, assigned over so much of my salary as reduces the remainder to a very small pittance, i very much depend on the indulgence and encouragement of the town at my benefit, whose favours shall be gratefully remembered, by their very humble servant,--theophilus cibber." such an announcement would sound curiously in these days, but it was, perhaps, exceeded in singularity by lillo's advertisement, in , of the performance, on the third, or author's night, of his "elmeric," "for the benefit of my poor relations." the frankness of the avowal and the liberality suggested are social traits worth preserving. one of the observances which _beneficiaires_ were expected to follow, has long gone out of usage,--namely, that of personally calling on those whose patronage was hoped for. apologies for the omission are very common. in , bickerstaffe announces the "mourning bride" and "stage coach," with this appendix to his bill,--"n.b. bickerstaffe being confined to his bed by his lameness, and his wife lying now dead, has nobody to wait on the quality and his friends for him; but hopes they'll favour him with their appearance." again, bullock, in , advertises the "spanish friar," with himself as dominic. the once lively fellow thus pleads _his_ excuse:--"bullock hopes his great age, upwards of threescore years and twelve, will plead his excuse that he cannot pay his duty to his acquaintance and friends, whose good nature may engage them to assist him in his decline of life, in order to make the remainder of his days easy and comfortable to him. in his younger days he had the pleasure and happiness of entertaining the town, and sir richard steele, in his _tatler_, has been pleased to perpetuate his memory in honouring him with a memorial there. as this is the last time he may possibly beg the favour of the town, he hopes to receive their indulgence, which, for the few remaining days, shall be gratefully acknowledged by him." in like half friendly, half humble, style, and with something, too, of the same reflective element, chapman of covent garden, about to play modely, in the "country lasses," adds the apologetic "n.b." to his advertisement:--"i, being in danger of losing one of my eyes, am advised to keep it from the air, therefore stir not out to attend my business at the theatre,--on this melancholy occasion, i hope my friends will be so indulgent as to send for tickets to my house, the corner of bow street, covent garden, which favour will be gratefully acknowledged by their obedient humble servant, thomas chapman." chapman was only under misfortune, he was not like the younger cibber, who was as extravagant and as deeply in debt in as in . at the foot of the advertisement for his benefit in the first-named year are some singular but not altogether unsatisfactory words;--whereby his creditors are requested to meet and receive a fourth dividend of his salary! his creditors were interested in all his benefits. in the following year, at the goodman's fields theatre, blakes and miss hippisley had a joint benefit, which was curiously announced as "for the entertainment of several of the ancient and honourable society of free and accepted masons." the pieces were the "miser," and "lethe," blakes playing clerimont and the frenchman, and miss hippisley, lappet and miss lucy. the patronising brethren met at the fleece tavern, and walked processionally and "cloathed," to that part of the pit which was especially railed in for them. when woodward advertised his benefit in , at covent garden, on which occasion he played sir amorous la foole, in the "silent woman," and harlequin, in the "rape of proserpine," he made no especial appeal to the public. but merchant tailors did not forget their old schoolfellow, and a letter in the _general advertiser_ called upon merchant tailors, generally, to rally round their condiscipulus, for,--"the original design of forming ourselves into a society was, as i take it, to serve and promote the interest of our schoolfellows," &c. the benefits of the greater actors, however profitable to themselves, must have afforded but few pleasant stage illusions to the public. on these occasions, the stage itself was converted into an amphitheatre, or was built round with boxes for the convenience of ladies, while the pit, if necessary, was turned into ground tiers of boxes, at increased prices. remembering how fierce the spirit and unscrupulous the actions of that pit could be, when offended, the patience with which it endured being turned out was especially remarkable. the public of that day seems to have been treated with alternate contempt and servility. when yates took his benefit at goodman's fields, he advertised the impossibility of his calling personally on theatrical patrons in the neighbourhood, on the ground that he had got into such a strange part of the town, he could not find his way about the streets! sometimes an appeal was made to the compassion of the public, as by generally hilarious hippisley, who, about to play scrub for his benefit, at covent garden, in , announces in the _general advertiser_, "he is so far recovered from his late illness, that though considerably altered in his physiognomy, and lowered in spirits, he persuades himself a crowded house on thursday next, at the 'stratagem,' for his benefit, will create a smile on his countenance, raise his spirits, and make him appear as much a scrub as ever." in the same year there was an ambitious young actor at goodman's fields, named goodfellow, who played hamlet and fribble, two of garrick's best characters, for his benefit; for taking which he gave the singular reason, that "my friends having expressed a great dislike to my being on the stage, i have resolved upon taking this benefit to enable me to return to my former employment." the public accordingly patronised him in order to get rid of him, and the young fellow was so grateful that he remained on the stage! these examples are cited as they occur to me, and i will not add to them; but rather turn away, to mark some eminent actors flitting from the stage, and some samples of the public opinion connected with it, before the coming of edmund kean. footnotes: [ ] poets' beneficiary nights were of much earlier date.--_doran ms._ [ ] this benefit took place on st march . [illustration: burning of drury lane theatre, .] chapter xiii. old stagers departing. of the old actors who entered on the nineteenth century, king was the first to depart. he is remembered now, chiefly, as the original representative of sir peter teazle, lord ogleby, puff, and dr. cantwell. he began his london career at the age of eighteen, in , on drury lane stage, as the herald in "king lear," and made such progress, that in the next year[ ] whitehead selected him to play valerius in his "roman father." by he was an established favourite, and he remained on the london stage, with hard summer work during the holidays, till the th of may , when he took his leave in sir peter, to the lady teazle of mrs. jordan. at the end of upwards of half a century he withdrew, to linger four years more, a man of straitened means--one whom fondness for "play" would not at first allow to grow rich; nor, after that was accomplished, to remain so. i have noticed a few of his principal original characters; of others, his touchstone has not been equalled, nor his ranger, save by garrick and elliston. he was a conscientious actor, and a prime favourite during the greater part of his career--but the once rapid, clear, arch, easy, versatile tom king, remained on the stage somewhat too long. suett was to "low," what king was to "genteel," comedy; and the stage lost dicky in , in which year he died. dicky suett was the successor, but not the equal of parsons. for a comic actor he had a very tragical method of life--indicated by a bottle of rum and another of brandy being among the furniture of his breakfast table. from to he was a favourite low comedian; he killed his audiences with laughter, and then went home (the tavern intervening) to bed, where his sleep was merely a night of horror caused by hideous dreams, and mental and bodily agony. john kemble appreciated him, in weazle particularly, which he played to the tragedian's penruddock, and by his impertinent and persevering inquiries, peering into penruddock's face, used to work him up into a condition of irritability required by the part. he was tall, thin, and ungainly; addicted to grimace and interpolations; given to practical jokes on his brother actors on the stage; and original in everything, even to encountering death with a pun excited by a sign of its dread approach. suett was one of those perversely conscientious actors, that when he had to represent a drunkard, he took care, as tony lumpkin says, to be in "a concatenation accordingly." in lewis withdrew, in his sixty-third year. he was a lancashire man, well descended, though a draper's son, and was educated at armagh. he left linen-drapery for the stage,[ ] played with success in dublin and edinburgh, and came to covent garden in , where, however, he did not displace barry, as in dublin he had vanquished mossop.[ ] he remained at covent garden from , when he appeared in belcour (a compliment to cumberland, who had helped to bring him thither), till the th of may , when he took his farewell in the copper captain, the best of all his parts. he died in , and out of part of his fortune bequeathed to his sister, the beautiful new church at ealing was chiefly erected. his various styles are indicated by some of the parts he created. pharnaces and sir charles racket; arviragus (caractacus) and millamour; percy and doricourt; sir thomas overbury and count almaviva; herodian and lackland; aurungzebe ("prince of agra") and young rapid; faulkland and jeremy diddler: he played carlos in the "revenge," and created the hon. tom shuffleton in "john bull;" acted posthumus, and originated vapid; began his course of original parts with witmore, in dr. kenrick's "duellist;" and ended them with modern, in reynolds's "begone dull care"--both of which plays were failures. in morton and reynolds's comedies, his breathless and restless style told well; but lewis's reputation is connected with the authors of an older period. his copper captain was a masterpiece; and cooke recorded of him, that during the last thirty years of his life, he was "the unrivalled favourite of the comic muse, in all that was frolic, gay, humorous, whimsical, eccentric, and at the same time elegant." during twenty-one years he was manager of covent garden; and the same writer testifies that lewis was "a model for making every one do his duty, by kindness and good treatment." as early as he had been warned by an epileptic fit, while rehearsing sapling, in reynolds's "delays and blunders;" but he recovered, played two years longer, and in less than two years more died, leaving a handsome fortune to his wife, children, and other members of his family. [illustration: (william lewis)] the greatest loss to the stage, in the early years of the present century, was in the person of miss pope, the only real successor of kitty clive. she withdrew on the th of may , after playing deborah dowlas in the "heir-at-law," for the first and last time. she had played as a child when garrick was in the fullest of his powers; won his regard, and the friendly counsel of mrs. clive; played hoydens, chambermaids, and half-bred ladies, with a life, dash, and manner, free from all vulgarity; laughed with free hilarity that begot hilarious laughing; and the only question about her was not if she were an excellent actress or not, but as an actress, in what she most excelled. she gave up young parts for old as age came on, and would have done it sooner, but that managers found her still attractive in the younger characters. in them she had been without a rival; and when she took to the duennas and mrs. heidelbergs, she became equally without a rival. she was the original polly honeycombe, miss stirling, mrs. candour, tilburina, and of two or threescore other parts less known. miss pope was as good a woman, and as well bred a lady, as she was a finished actress, and was none the less a friend of garrick for having little theatrical controversies with him touching costume, salary, or other stage matters. in the year she played cherry, polly honeycombe, jacinta, phædra, beatrice, miss prue, miss biddy, and other buoyant ladies and lasses, a poet said of her:-- "with all the native vigour of sixteen, among the merry groups conspicuous seen, see lively pope advance to jig and trip, corinna, cherry, honeycombe, and snip! not without art, but yet to nature true, she charms the town with humour, just, yet new, cheered by her promise, we the less deplore, the fatal time when clive shall be no more." such was she in churchill's eyes, in . the fairy of that day; but, in , the fairy had expanded into "a bulky person, with a duplicity of chin." such was she in the eyes of james smith, to whom she told her love for handsome but fickle holland, losing--or casting off whom--she never after heeded suit of mortal man. in the drawing-room of her and her brother's house in queen street, lincoln's inn fields, two doors east of the freemasons' tavern, in that richly-furnished apartment, where, for forty years, miss pope lived--among choice portraits of mrs. oldfield and her little son, afterwards general churchill; of lord nuneham, who, as earl of harcourt, visited miss pope with as much ceremonious courtesy as if she had been a princess; of garrick and of holland--the old lady told the tale of her young love, her hopes and her disappointment, to james smith. garrick, or "mr. garrick," as miss pope, with the old habit of reverence, used to call him, had observed the intimacy and growing attachment between the young actor and actress, and, guardian of the happiness of those whom he regarded, he warned the lady of the waywardness, instability, and recklessness of the swain. but holland could persuade in his own cause more successfully than garrick could urge against him; and miss pope, trusting the man she loved, looked confidently forward to the day when she would become his wife. ere that day arrived, she went in the old richmond coach, on her way to pay a visit to mrs. clive at twickenham; and on the road she passed a postchaise, in which were holland and a lady. the perplexed miss pope rode thoughtfully on, and, alighting at richmond bridge, walked meditatively along the meadows to strawberry hill. her jealous attention was attracted by a boat on the river, opposite eel pie island, the rower of which could not so hurriedly but confusedly pull through the weeds to the richmond side, before she saw that he was her faithless swain, holland, making a day of it with that seductive piece of mischief, mrs. baddeley. poor miss pope might fairly confess to the "pang of jealousy," which she then endured. shortly after they met at rehearsal. he, being conscious of wrong and incapable of confessing it, assumed a haughty bearing, but the injured woman was as proud as he; and from that time they never exchanged a word, except in acting. the foolish, weak, and ungrateful fellow went philandering on; "but i have reason to know," said miss pope, "that he never was really happy." and forty years after this rude waking from a happy illusion, and in presence of the counterfeit presentment of her faithless lover, the lady, whose heart at least never grew old, shed tears as she told the one love passage of her life, and thought of the dream of the bygone time. out of life she faded gradually away; and one of the merriest and most vivacious actresses of her day lost, mutely, sense after sense ere she expired. previous to this, she had left her old familiar house in queen street; much as she was attached to it, she found the freemasons too lively neighbours. "from the tavern, on a summer's evening, when windows are perforce kept open, the sounds of 'prosperity to the deaf and dumb charity!' sent forth a corresponding clatter of glasses, which made everybody in miss pope's back drawing-room, for the moment, fit objects of that benevolent institution." mr. james smith alludes to the pleasant parties she gave at the house in newman street, in which she died. she was attacked by "stupor of the brain;" and gradually passed away. "she sat quietly and calmly in an arm-chair by the fireside, patting the head of her poodle dog, and smiling at what passed in conversation, without being at all conscious of the meaning of what was uttered." miss pope had a sort of _doublure_ in mrs. mattocks, granddaughter of the hallam unhappily killed by macklin. her father was the founder of the english drama in america. under his management, the first play ever regularly performed beyond the atlantic, was at williamsburg, in virginia, on the th of september , namely, the "merchant of venice," in which malone acted shylock; hallam, launcelot gobbo; and mrs. hallam, portia.[ ] during mrs. mattocks's long career, from , when a child, to , she played a variety of characters, commencing with tragedy; but, as she used to say, in her old age, "so long ago, i have almost forgotten it." she thence passed through light, young, comic characters, to old women; and played the latter very happily. in her widowhood, she bestowed a rich marriage dowry on her daughter, reserving for herself the interest of £ in the five per cents., on which to live, at kensington. her son-in-law held her general power of attorney, and received her dividends; but he one day made away with both interest and principal, and the old actress was left penniless. a free benefit, however, produced upwards of £ , with which a life annuity was purchased, on which the aged player lived till . if human art could have prolonged her life, it would have been done by her friend and medical adviser, the late mr. merriman, to whom, in testimony of her respect, mrs. mattocks bequeathed her portrait. i add a passing word to record the passing away of mrs. litchfield, in , after a brief career in london of nine years. she came at a time when competition with mrs. siddons was impossible; but mrs. litchfield was pre-eminent in having the finest voice that was ever heard on the stage,--from an actress. bannister, charles or john, father or son,--the name had a pleasant sound in our fathers' ears. the elder was a bass singer, with a voice that would crack a window-pane. "a _pewtiful foice_! your father had," said a german jew to the son; "so deep, so deep! he could go so low as a bull!" handsome jack played, in his salad days, with garrick; in his glowing maturity, with edmund kean,--in whose brilliancy, as he said, he almost forgot his old master, david. john bannister might have been a painter, but he chose to be a player; and, in his line, he was one of the best. he felt, and made feel; could exact tears as easily as laughter; and was never out of temper but once, when a critic denounced him for acting ill, on a night when he was too ill to act. for this malicious deed, the player recovered damages from his assailant. there was nothing he could not do _well_. there were many things he did inimitably. his hamlet belonged to the first--a host of comic parts to the second category. his author was never dissatisfied with him, however exigent; and he engaged the immediate attention of the audience, by seeming to care nothing about it. applause interrupted his speech--never his action. in depicting heartiness, ludicrous distress, grave or affected indifference, honest bravery, insurmountable cowardice, a spirited, young, or an enfeebled old fellow, yet impatient; mischievous boyishness, good-humoured vulgarity,--there was no one of his time who could equal him. in everything he acted he was natural, except in mercutio, which, strangely enough, did not suit him;--he made of that elegant and vivacious gentleman, simply an honest, jolly fellow. in parts, combining tragedy and comedy, he was supreme. such was his walter; such, too, his sheva,--though in some parts of the latter he was, perhaps, surpassed by dowton. his features were highly expressive and flexible, and he had them in supreme command. in , he played calippus, in the "grecian daughter," and then had a time of probation; but, from , when he played zaphna, in "mahomet," to , when the curtain finally descended on him, as walter,--a part which he created in ,--there was no more pleasant actor before an audience. walpole thus speaks of the last-named part in the year just named:-- "i went on monday evening, with mrs. damer, to the little haymarket, to see the 'children in the wood,' having heard so much of my favourite, young bannister, in that new piece, which, by the way, is well arranged and near being fine. he more than answered my expectation, and all i had heard of him. it was one of the most admirable performances i ever saw. his transports of despair and joy are incomparable; and his various countenances would be adapted to the pencil of salvator rosa. he made me shed as many tears as i suppose the old original ballad did, when i was six years old. bannister's merit was the more striking, as, before the 'children in the wood,' he had been playing the sailor, in 'no song, no supper,' with equal nature. i wish i could hope to be as much pleased to-morrow night, when i am to go to jerningham's play, the 'siege of berwick;' but there is no bannister at covent garden." he left the stage with a handsome fortune, the fruits of his labour; and younger actors visited him and called him "father!" among the very long list of characters he created at drury lane or the haymarket, were don ferolo whiskerandos, inkle, sir david dunder, robin ("no song, no supper"), leopold ("siege of belgrade,"), lenitive ("prize"), walter ("children in the wood"), will steady, sheva, michael ("adopted child"), sylvester daggerwood, three singles, wilford ("iron chest"), sponge, frank heartall, rolando ("honey moon"), ali baba, storm, and sam squib, in "past ten o'clock." a print, from a miniature, by edridge, shows how goodly was his presence in young manhood off the stage; his well-known portrait, as colonel feignwell, reveals a handsome presence on the stage; and in his features, which leslie borrowed for his "uncle toby," we may see (in the picture at kensington) a presence fine, frank, and simple, which was that of his older age. mrs. jordan was another of the players whose youth belonged to the last century, but who did not retire till after edmund kean had given new life to the stage. she came of a lively mother, who was one of the many olive branches of a poor welsh clergyman, from whose humble home she more undutifully than unnaturally eloped with, and married, a gallant captain, named bland. the new home was set up in waterford, where dorothy bland was born in ; and nine children were there living when the captain's friends procured the annulling of the marriage, and caused the hearth to become desolate. dorothy was the most self-reliant of the family, for at an early age she made her way to dublin, and under the name of miss francis, played everything, from sprightly girls to tragedy queens. as she produced little or no effect, she crossed the channel to tate wilkinson, who inquired what she played,--tragedy, comedy, high or low, opera or farce? "i play them all," said the young lady,--and accordingly she came out as calista, in the "fair penitent;" and lucy, in the "virgin unmasked."[ ] previously to this, wilkinson, addressing her as miss francis, was interrupted by her,--"my name," she said, "is mrs. jordan,"--her irish manager had called her flight over the channel "crossing _jordan_," and she took the name with the matronly prefix. wilkinson looked at her, and saw no reason why she should not.[ ] three years after, she was acting some solemn part, at york, when gentleman smith saw her, and forthwith recommended her to the managers of drury, as a good _second_ to mrs. siddons; and in that character she was engaged. but dorothy jordan was not going to play second to anybody; she resolved to be first in comedy, and came out in , as the heroine of the "country girl." her success raised her from four to eight, and then twelve pounds a week. her next character was among her best; namely, viola; in which the buoyant spirit oppressed by love and grief was finally rendered. equal to it was her hypolita. rosalind, also one of her great achievements, she did not play till the next season; and lady contest ("wedding day"), which was born with, and which died with her, she did not create till the season of - .[ ] when she first appeared in london, she was in her twenty-fourth year. just previous to the commencement of the drury lane season of - , the season in which she added polly honeycombe, laetitia hardy, and lydia languish, to her parts; and created little pickle, in the "spoiled child," i find indications of another condition which she had reached. on the th of september , walpole writes from strawberry hill to the miss berrys:--"the duke of clarence has taken mr. henry hobart's house (richmond), point blank over against mr. cambridge's, which will make the good woman of that mansion cross herself piteously, and stretch the throat of the blatant beast at sudbrook (lady greenwich) and of all the other pious matrons _à la ronde_; for his royal highness, to divert lonesomeness, has brought with him ----, who being still more averse to solitude, declares that any tempter would make even paradise more agreeable than a constant _tête à tête_." the duke's companion is not named; but mrs. jordan is supposed to be alluded to. but in september walpole writes to the same ladies: "do you know that mrs. jordan is acknowledged to be mrs. ford?" they could not know it, for ford (the magistrate) never married her, though he kept household with her, where all the signs of matrimony at least were abundant. in the previous march of that year mrs. jordan played coelia, in an adaptation of the "humourous lieutenant," called the "greek slave," for her benefit. coelia is the mistress to a king's son; and this, coupled with a prophetic allusion in the modern epilogue, to a future condition in her life, which was not then, in the remotest degree, contemplated, is noted in mr. boaden's life of the actress, as a coincidence. at whatever period she first became the intimate friend of the duke, she certainly was never married to ford. "her husband," the wits used to say, "was killed in the battle of nubibus." when she said that "laughing agreed with her better than crying," and gave up tragedy, she both said and did well. john bannister declared that "no woman ever uttered comedy like her;" and added, that "she was perfectly good-tempered, and possessed the best of hearts." she partook of the fascination of mrs. woffington, having a better voice, with less beauty. she surpassed mrs. clive and miss farren in some parts, but fell short of the former in termagants, and of the latter in fine, well-bred ladies. her voice was sweet and distinct, and she played rakes with the airiest grace and the handsomest leg that had been seen on the stage for a long time. simple, arch, buoyant girls,--with sensibility in them; or spirited, buxom, lovable women,--in these she excelled. she liked to act handsome hoydens, but not vulgar hussies. in later days she grew fat, but still dressed as when she was young. the hints of critics were unheeded by her, as were those of her friends, that "she should assume an older line." mr. charlton, the bath manager, once proposed to her to play the "old maid." "no," she answered: "i played it in a frolic, for my benefit, but do not mean to play such parts in a common way." after a london career of little less than thirty years,--long after her home with the duke had been broken up, she suddenly left london, without any leave-taking. her finances, once so flourishing, had become embarrassed,--and the old actress with whom "laughing used to agree," withdrew without friend or child or ample means, to st. cloud, in france, where she assumed her third pseudonym, mrs. james. she was neglected, but she was not destitute; for, at the time of her death, in , she had a balance of £ at her bankers. she was buried without a familiar friend to follow her, and the police seized and sold her effects,--"even her body-linen," says genest, who wrote her epitaph, "was sold amidst the coarse remarks of low frenchwomen." her wealth had been largely lavished on the duke of clarence and their family; and she had calls upon it from other children. in the days when she was mistress of the house at bushey she was often, with more or less ill humour, saluted as "duchess." when the duke became king, he ennobled all their children, raising the eldest of mrs. jordan's sons to the rank of earl of munster, and giving precedence to the remaining sons and daughters. thus the blood of this actress, too, runs in the english peerage,--in the line of the earls of munster, and by her daughter sophia, whom the king raised to the rank of a marquis's daughter, in that of the lords de l'isle and dudley. if the portrait of the monarch hangs from the walls of their mansions, that of dora or dorothea bland should not be absent; for, despite appearances, the worth, the virtue, and the endowments of the mother were, in many respects, greater than those of the sire. robert william elliston, like mrs. jordan and some others, belongs to two centuries. born in bloomsbury, in , he had, in due time, the choice of two callings,--that of his father, a watchmaker; or of his uncle, the rev. dr. elliston, master of sidney sussex college, cambridge,--"the church." he declined both; and having been applauded in his delivery of a thesis, at st. paul's school, on the subject: "nemo confidat nimium secundis," he threw up his own happy prospects, and ran away to bath, at sixteen, to seek an engagement on the stage. while waiting for it, he engaged himself as clerk in a lottery-office; but he eagerly changed his character, when opportunity was afforded him to act tressel, in "richard iii." between that and the duke aranza, the greatest of his parts, he had far to go; but his energies were equal to the task. the first success was small, and elliston resorted to tate wilkinson, at york; where he had few opportunities of playing leading characters; and in disgust and want he came up to london.[ ] kemble advised him to study romeo, and in that character he charmed a bath audience, and laid the foundations of a future prosperity. subsequently, after playing a few nights at covent garden, he appeared at the haymarket, in ,[ ] as octavian and vapour. in the first part, a rival to the throne of kemble was recognised; in the latter, one who had gifts which were wanting even in bannister. a few nights later, he played sir edward mortimer, and obtained a triumph in the character in which kemble had signally failed. from that time, the "greatness" of elliston was an accepted matter in his lofty mind. but it suffered much mutation between that time and , when, at the end of nearly thirty years, after being proprietor of the olympic, the surrey, and drury lane, disregarding the prudence of kemble in refraining from such an attempt, he tried falstaff, failed thereby to recover his ruined fortunes, and sank again to the surrey. famous for putting the best face on everything, he comforted himself, by observing, that he had "quite an opera pit!" for a brief period after his first appearance, elliston was held to have excelled kemble in truth and inspiration. elliston's hamlet was accounted superior in two points, the humour of the dane, and his princely youth;--but in the deep philosophy of the character robert william was not above respectability. and yet, by his universality of imitation, he was pronounced to be the only genius that had appeared since the days of garrick. perhaps he never manifested this more clearly than when, on the same night, he played macbeth and macheath! his soliloquies were too declamatory! he forgot that a soliloquy is not an address to the audience, but simply a vehicle to enable them to be familiar with the speaker's thoughts. his voice was here too pompously deep, and a certain catching of his breath, at the end of energetic words, sounded like sobbing. nevertheless, it was said that elliston was not less than kemble in genius;--but only in manner. with study and a more heroic countenance he would have been on the same level. as it was, _in general excellence_, he may be said, when in his prime, to have been one of the greatest actors of the day. a more complete stage "gentleman," our fathers and some of ourselves never knew. he was well made; had a smile more winning and natural than any other actor; and perhaps a lover so impassioned never made suit to a lady; one so tender never watched over her; one so courteous never did her offices of courtesy; the _gentleman_ was never forgotten. he was never a restless gentleman, like lewis, nor a reserved or languid one, like charles kemble. all the qualities that go to the making of one were conspicuous in his duke aranza,--self-command, kindness, dignity, good humour, a dash of satire, and true amatory fire. the only fault of elliston's low comedy was that he could not get rid of his gentility. the only fault of his real gentlemen was that he dressed them uniformly. summer or winter, day or night, they were always in blue coats, white waistcoats, and white knee-breeches. leigh hunt loved the actor; charles lamb reverenced the man,--that is the actor also: for robert william, wherever he might be, was in presence of an audience; it was his nature to be artificial; or he was so great an artist that all things in his bearing seemed natural; that is natural to him, robert william elliston. when he seemed to be enacting the "humbug," he was perfectly consistent, without being the thing at all. young douglas jerrold saved the surrey with his "black-eyed susan," and elliston thought such service worthy of being acknowledged by the presentation of a piece of plate. the anxious author wondered in what form mr. elliston would make the gift; but mr. elliston only asked him, if he, the author, could not get his friends to do him this service? he was not joking. he thought the young fellow's friends ought to be proud of him, and ought to manifest their pride by endowing him with testimonial plate,--towards which he, robert william, had largely contributed by starting the idea. [illustration: (r. w. elliston)] of his lofty remonstrances with audiences, his magnificence of matter and of manner, the awe with which he inspired the humbler actors of his company by believing in his own lofty manner,--there are samples enough to fill a volume. the "bless you, my people!" which he uttered as george iv., in the coronation procession, sprung, it was said, from a vinous excitement; but it was thoroughly in his manner. he would have believed in the efficacy of a sober benediction of the pit! he outlived his fame, as he did his fortune; his powers to act well failed, but not his acting. he was imposing to the last; and, perhaps beyond that limit, if we might accept that gracefully fantastic sketch which charles lamb has addressed to his shade,--the "joyousest of once embodied spirits!" there were few actors on the stage for whom elliston had more regard than he had for the veteran, hull. in , worn out with a career which dated from , heavy, useful, and intelligent hull played his last character, the uncle, in "george barnwell," and he died soon after. mason had a good opinion of him, for in consigning the chief bard, in "caractacus," to be played by him, the poet remarked:--"any instruction from me will be unnecessary; your own taste and judgment will direct you." to hull is owing the establishment of the covent garden fund for the benefit of decayed actors. he proposed that sixpence in the pound should be contributed weekly from each actor's salary, and that such contributors only should have claim upon the fund. from this proposal issued the two "funds,"--once so useful, and now so rich. hull never acted so well as during the lord george gordon riots, when a mob assembled in front of his house, roared for beer, and threatened dire results, if the roar was unheeded. hull appeared on the balcony, bowed thrice, assured the "ladies and gentlemen" that the beverage should be immediately forthcoming, and in the meantime asked them for "their usual indulgence." to the last century, too, and to this, belong holman, munden, and dowton. all began their careers as tragedians. holman was graceful, but in striving to be original fell into exaggeration, and excited laughter. his london course only lasted from to , when he wandered abroad with his daughter, whose mother was a grand-daughter of the famous lady archibald hamilton, the daughter of the sixth earl of abercorn. thus a family, into which had married the daughter of miss santlow, "famed for dance," gave to the stage the miss holman, who soon ceased to figure there. munden was the most wonderful of grimaciers. he created laughter on the london stage, from , when he appeared at covent garden, as sir francis gripe, to ,[ ] when he quitted it, in good condition, financially, as sir robert bramble and dozey. it was said of him that he lost half his proper effect, by the very strength of his powers. the breadth of his acting is now hardly conceivable, so farcical was its character. of another trait of his disposition, an incident, on his farewell night, affords an illustration. as he was bowing, and retiring backwards, from the audience, and wishing to avoid coming into collision with the wings, he once or twice asked in a whisper, of those standing there:--"am i near?" "very!" answered liston, "nobody more so!" dowton, who came to us in , as sheva, backed by a recommendation from cumberland, retired less richly endowed than munden. he was most felicitous in representing testy old age, but especially where extreme rage was combined with extreme kindness of heart; and he acted the opposite of this just as felicitously--as they will acknowledge who can remember both his sir anthony absolute and his dr. cantwell, the composure and rascality of which last are exasperating in the very memory of them. willy blanchard, who opens the period commencing with the year , was as natural as dowton; but he was a mannerist, always walking the stage with his right arm bent, as if he held it in a sling. i find him often preferred to fawcett, whom i remember as a superior actor, to whom some stern critics denied all feeling--but they had not seen his job thornberry; and of whose famous caleb quotem they could say no more than that the actor of it was a speaking harlequin. mathews, who first appeared in london, at the haymarket, in , as jabal to elliston's sheva, was as superior to dowton in many parts as he was to bannister in a few. as a mimic he has never been excelled in my remembrance. through the whole range of lower comedy he was supreme; and his _m. malet_ showed what power this great artist could exercise over the most tender feelings. no comedian ever compelled more hearty laughter, or, when opportunity offered, as in _m. malet_, more abundant tears. liston, who followed him at the haymarket, in , making his _début_ as sheepface, belonged rather to farce than comedy. like suett he excited more laughter than he ever enjoyed himself. he suffered from attacks of the nerves, and, in his most humorous representations, was the more humorous from his humour always partaking of a melancholy tone. he seemed to be comic under some great calamity, and was only upheld by the hilarity of those who witnessed his sufferings, and enjoyed his comedy under difficulties. perhaps he had a settled disappointment in not having succeeded in tragedy; or some remorse, as though he had killed a boy when, under the name of williams, he was usher at the rev. dr. burney's, at gosport; as he subsequently was at the old school in st. martin's. however this may be, he ever and anon wooed the tragic muse, with a comically serious air, and on three several occasions i trace him playing, for his benefit, romeo, octavian, and baron wildenheim! it was more absurd than mrs. powell's mania for acting hamlet. two years later, in , appeared young, as hamlet, at the haymarket, and jones, as goldfinch, at covent garden. if the word "respectable" might be used in a not disparaging sense, i would apply it to young, who was always worthy of respect--whether he played hamlet, rienzi, which he originated, falstaff, or captain macheath. he belonged to the kemble school, but he never delivered soliloquies in that ludicrous, self-approving style which i find laughingly noticed by the critics, as a great blot in john kemble's acting. young had more natural feeling, and he liked to play with those who could feel in like manner--whereas i have read of john kemble that, in a love scene, he was not only coldly proper himself, but insisted on the same coldness of propriety in the lady who played his mistress. as for airy jones, i have only space to remark, that he acted rakes, at night, and taught clergymen to read their prayers decently, by day! jones was a naturally serious man; but his combination of callings was something incongruous. of other actors, mention will be made incidentally in other places. there are some ladies of the time before edmund kean who will receive, or have received, like notice--my eye falls but upon three others, of whom i need make record here. one is that beautiful louisa brunton--member of a gifted family, who, in the bud of her brilliant promise, was "erept the stage" by honourable love, and died but the other day--countess of craven. the other lady is miss duncan, subsequently mrs. davison, the original juliana to elliston's duke aranza; and who, when she came upon the town as lady teazle, satisfied her audiences that miss farren had a worthy successor, and that mrs. jordan's possession of certain characters must thenceforth be surrendered. the dramatic life of this admirable actress commenced as soon as she could walk, and lasted almost with her natural life. i have a margate bill before me, of the year , where the bright and gifted young actress, the "little wonder," as miss farren called her, was playing high comedy. the music there was led by frederic venua, who, at the distance of threescore years, still delights his friends with the memories of that period, and with its music, in the rendering of which, time has strengthened and improved the hand of the artist. with a passing notice of a survivor of all these--coming on the stage near fourscore years ago, with the honoured name of betterton, and leaving it, or dying on it, but the other day, as mrs. glover, i close this section of my labour. from youth to old age she acted appropriate parts, and acted all in a way that would require cibber, hazlitt, and leigh hunt to describe, analyse, and grow pleasantly fanciful upon. her life was one of self-denial, unmerited suffering, and of continual gratification to others. she was the support of three generations, the evidences of which she bore in her face,--in its beautiful expression of a felicity it knew not wherefore. with a pleasanter name, a more finished actress, or a truer woman, i could not bring this chapter to a close. the list which follows by way of supplement, will enable the reader to trace what the poets were doing for the drama, and who the actors were that carried out their intentions,--between the commencement of the century and the night when edmund kean flashed upon the town. list of the principal new pieces produced by their majesties' servants, from the beginning of the century till the appearance of edmund kean. .--_drury lane._ "deaf and dumb" (holcroft; from the french). de l'epée, kemble; theodore, miss de camp; st. alme, c. kemble; mdme. franval, miss pope. "julian and agnes" (sotheby). julian, kemble; agnes, mrs. siddons. "adelmorn" (_monk_ lewis). adelmorn, c. kemble; innogen, mrs. jordan. .--_covent garden._ "poor gentleman" (colman, jun.). sir robert bramble, munden; ollapod, fawcett; emily, mrs. gibbs. "pérouse" (fawcett). kanko, farley; umba, mrs. mills. "blind girl" (morton). sligo, johnstone; clara, mrs. h. johnstone. - .--_drury lane._ "lovers' resolutions" (cumberland). worthiman, j. bannister; mapletoft, suett; mrs. mapletoft, miss tidswell. - .--_covent garden._ "integrity" (anonymous). herman, h. siddons his first appearance; albert voss, brunton; julia, miss murray. "folly as it flies" (reynolds). peter post obit, munden; georgiana, mrs. gibbs. "alfonzo" (_monk_ lewis). orsino, cooke; ottilia, mrs. litchfield. "cabinet" (t. dibdin). prince orlando, braham; lorenzo, incledon; curvoso, emery; floretta, signora storace. - .--_drury lane._ "hear both sides" (holcroft). fairfax, dowton; eliza, mrs. jordan. "hero of the north" (dimond). gustavus, pope; frederica, mrs. mountain. "marriage promise" (allingham). merton, c. kemble; emma, mrs. jordan. - .--_covent garden._ "delays and blunders" (reynolds). henry sapling, lewis; lauretta, mrs. h. siddons. "tale of mystery" (holcroft). romaldi, h. johnston; francisco, farley; fiametta, mrs. mattocks. "family quarrels" (t. dibdin). charles, braham; foxglove, incledon; mrs. supplejack, mrs. davenport. "john bull" (colman, jun.). job thornberry, fawcett; peregrine, cooke; hon. tom shuffleton, lewis; mary, mrs. gibbs. - .--_drury lane._ "wife of two husbands" (cobb). carronade, bannister, jun.; montenero, kelly; eugenia, mrs. mountain. "hearts of oak" (allingham). ardent, dowton; fanny, mrs. harlowe. "caravan" (reynolds). arabbo, dignum; rosa, miss de camp. "soldier's daughter" (cherry). governor heartall, dowton; widow cheerly, mrs. jordan. "sailor's daughter" (cumberland). varnish, russell; julia, mrs. h. johnston. - .--_covent garden._ "raising the wind" (kenney). diddler, lewis; sam, emery. "english fleet in " (dibdin). valentine, braham; fitzwalter, incledon; katherine, signora storace. "valentine and orson" (t. dibdin). valentine, farley; orson, dubois; eglantine, mrs. st. leger. - .--_drury lane._ "matrimony" (kenney, from the french). delaval, elliston; clara, mrs. jordan; lisetta, mrs. bland. "land we live in" (holt). melville, elliston; robert, mathews; lady lovelace, mrs. jordan. "honeymoon" (tobin). duke aranza, elliston; juliana, miss duncan; volante, miss mellon. - .--_covent garden._ "blind bargain" (reynolds). giles, emery; mrs. villars, mrs. gibbs. "school of reform" (morton). tyke, emery; general tarragon, munden; ferment, lewis; julia, miss brunton. "to marry or not to marry" (mrs. inchbald). sir oswin, kemble; lord danberry, munden; lady susan, mrs. glover. "who wants a guinea" (colman, jun.). solomon gundy, fawcett; oldskirt, simmons; mrs. glastonbury, mrs. mattocks. - .--_drury lane._ "weathercock" (allingham). tristram fickle, bannister. "school for friends" (miss chambers). matthew daw, mathews; lady courtland, miss pope. "travellers" (cherry). koyan, braham; celinda, mrs. mountain. "forty thieves" (colman, jun.). ali baba, bannister; morgiana, miss de camp; cogia, mrs. bland. - .--_covent garden._ "rugantino" (_monk_ lewis). rugantino, h. johnston. "delinquent" (reynolds). delinquent, kemble; nicholas, liston. "we fly by night" (colman, jun.). bastion, munden. "hints to husbands" (cumberland). lord transit, c. kemble. "edgar" (manners). edgar, miss smith; emma, miss brunton. - .--_drury lane._ "vindictive man" (holcroft). goldfinch (from the "road to ruin"), de camp; charles, bartley. "tekeli" (theodore hook). tekeli, elliston; christine, mrs. bland. "mr. h----" (charles lamb). mr. h----, elliston. "false alarms" (kenney). sir damon, wroughton. "curfew" (tobin). fitzharding, elliston; florence, miss duncan. "adelgitha" (_monk_ lewis). lothair, elliston; adelgitha, mrs. powell. - .--_covent garden._ "town and country" (morton). reuben glenroy, kemble; rosalie somers, miss brunton. - .--_drury lane._ "faulkener" (goodwin). faulkener, elliston; countess orsini, mrs. powell. "world" (kenney). index, mathews; lady bloomfield, mrs. jordan. "jew of mogadore" (cumberland). nadab, dowton; zelma, mrs. mountain. - .--_covent garden._ "blind boy" (hewetson). edmund, mrs. c. kemble; kalig, farley. "wanderer" (c. kemble, from kotzebue). sigismond, c. kemble. "begone dull care" (reynolds). modern, lewis. - .--_drury lane._ "venoni" (_monk_ lewis, from monvel). venoni, elliston. "man and wife" (arnold). sir willoughby and lady worrett, dowton and mrs. harlowe. theatre burnt down th february . the company played at the opera house and the lyceum during the remainder of the season. - .--_covent garden._ theatre burnt down th september , after the play of "pizarro." the company acted at the opera house, where the only new piece of any merit that was produced was the "exile" (reynolds). daran, by young, from the haymarket. - . the drury lane company continued at the lyceum without producing any novelty of mark. - . covent garden opened at increased prices for admission on the th of september. no new piece deserving of record was produced throughout the season. - . the drury lane company played at the lyceum, but without bringing forward any piece of particular merit. the same may be said of covent garden, where, however, the season was rendered memorable and profitable by the run of "blue beard" and "timour the tartar," with horses. before these shakspeare, and all other of the tuneful brethren, gave way. - . the drury lane company were still at the lyceum, where they produced moore's "m.p.," the more successful "devil's bridge," by arnold, with braham as count belino, and mrs. dickens as the countess rosalvina.[ ] the greatest success was with a piece called "quadrupeds," altered from the "tailors, or a tragedy for warm weather," and intended to ridicule the equestrian performances at covent garden. the corresponding season at covent garden saw no new piece which is now remembered; but it is remarkable as the one in which an elephant made its first appearance as an actor--after which mrs. siddons withdrew, but not on that account, from the stage. - .--_drury lane._ the season opened on the th of october , in the present house, built by wyatt. mr. whitbread and a committee erected the house, and purchased the old patent rights, by means of a subscription of £ , . of this, £ , was paid to sheridan, and a like sum to the other holders of the patent. the creditors of the old house took a quarter of what they claimed, in full payment; and the duke of bedford abandoned a claim of £ , . with the remainder of the sum subscribed, the house was established--elliston, dowton, bannister, rae, wallack, wewitzer, miss smith, mrs. davison, mrs. glover, miss kelly, and miss mellon, leading. except coleridge's "remorse," which was acted about a score of times, they brought out no new piece.[ ] covent garden was equally unproductive, its most profitable drama being "aladdin, or the wonderful lamp" (aladdin, mrs. c. kemble; kazrac, grimaldi). in the next season, as in this, covent garden had a stronger company, with john and charles kemble, conway, terry, mathews,[ ] and a troop of vocalists, than drury lane possessed. at the latter house, neither new pieces nor new players succeeded, till, on the th of january , the playbills announced the first appearance of an actor from exeter--whose coming changed the evil fortunes of the house, scared the old, correct, dignified, and classical school of actors, and brought back to the memories of those who could look back as far as garrick the fire, nature, impulse, and terrible earnestness--all, in short, but the versatility of that great master in his art. while kean is dressing for shylock, i will briefly notice a few incidents connected with both sides of the curtain, and which chiefly belong to that part of the century when he was not yet known in london. footnotes: [ ] that is, the next season; the "roman father" was produced th february . [ ] it was lewis's father who quited business for the stage. [ ] his success over mossop was only in one part, a comedy character utterly unfitted for the latter. [ ] some valuable remarks on this subject will be found in the article "lewis hallam, the second," by edward eggleston in brander matthews' and laurence hutton's "actors and actresses of great britain and the united states": new york, . [ ] tate wilkinson says she played calista, and sang a song after the tragedy. [ ] it is generally held that wilkinson himself gave her the name of jordan. [ ] should be - . [ ] i do not know any reason for saying that he was in want. [ ] should be . the date was th june. [ ] , st may. [ ] mrs. lefanu's "prejudice" may be added. [ ] that is, no new piece of any importance. [ ] there were at covent garden also young, and mrs. jordan. [illustration: covent garden theatre.] chapter xiv. new ideas; new theatres; new authors; and the new actors. early in the present century, mr. twiss published his _verbal index to shakspeare_; and this led to an attack upon the poet and the stage, as fierce, if not so formidable, as the onslaught of prynne and the invective of collier. the assailant, in the present case, was an anonymous writer, in the _eclectic review_, for january . as an illustration of the feeling of dissenters towards the bard and players generally, this attack deserves a word of notice. the writer, after denouncing mr. twiss as a man who had no sense of the value of time, in its reference to his eternal state; sneering at him as one who would have been more innocently employed in arranging masses of pebbles on the sea shore; and bewailing "the blind devotion which fashion requires to be paid at the shrine of shakspeare," professes to recognise "the inimitable excellences of the productions of shakspeare's genius;" and then proceeds to illustrate the sense of the recognition, and to pour out the vials of his wrath, after this fashion:-- "he has been called, and justly, too, the 'poet of nature.' a slight acquaintance with the religion of the bible will show, however, that it is of human nature in its worst shape, deformed by the basest passions, and agitated by the most vicious propensities, that the poet became the priest; and the incense offered at the altar of his goddess will continue to spread its poisonous fumes over the hearts of his countrymen till the memory of his works is extinct. thousands of unhappy spirits, and thousands yet to increase their number, will everlastingly look back with unutterable anguish, on the nights and days in which the plays of shakspeare ministered to their guilty delights. and yet these are the writings which men, _consecrated_ to the service of him who styles himself the holy one, have prostituted their pens to illustrate! such this writer, to immortalise whose name, the resources of the most precious arts have been profusely lavished! epithets amounting to blasphemy, and honours approaching to idolatry, have been and are shamelessly heaped upon his memory, in a country professing itself christian, and for which it would have been happy, on moral considerations, if he had never been born. and, strange to say, even our religious edifices are not free from the pollution of his praise. what christian can pass through the most venerable pile of sacred architecture which our metropolis can boast, without having his best feelings insulted, by observing, within a few yards of the spot from which prayers and praises are daily offered to the most high, the absurd and impious epitaph upon the tablet raised to one of the miserable retailers of his impurities? our readers who are acquainted with london, will discover that it is the inscription upon david garrick, in westminster abbey, to which we refer. we commiserate the heart of the man who can read the following lines, without indignation:-- 'and till eternity, with power sublime, shall mark the mortal hour of hoary time, shakspeare and garrick like twin stars shall shine and earth irradiate with a beam divine.' "'_par nobile fratrum!_' your fame _shall_ last during the empire of vice and misery, in the extension of which you have _acted_ so great a part!" there is much more in this style, and it seems rather over-strained, however well meant. i must confess, too, that the writer had some provocation to express himself strongly, not in the writings of shakspeare, nor in twiss's concordance, but in the meanness and blasphemy which mr. pratt, or courtenay melmoth, infused into his wretched epitaph on garrick's monument. charles lamb has hardly gone further in attacking the monument itself. "taking a turn the other day, in the abbey," he says, "i was struck with the affected attitude of a figure which i do not remember to have seen before, and which, upon examination, proved to be a whole length of the celebrated mr. garrick. though i would not go so far, with some good catholics abroad, as to shut players altogether out of consecrated ground, yet i own i was not a little scandalised at the introduction of theatrical airs and gestures into a place set apart to remind us of the saddest realities. going nearer, i found inscribed, under this harlequin figure, a farrago of false thoughts and nonsense." such falsehood and nonsense helped to bring the stage into disrepute; and the pulpits, for seven or eight years, often echoed with disparaging sentiments on the drama--and quotations from shakspeare. nevertheless, those who never worked, as well as those who were over-worked, needed amusement; and what was to be done? "the devil tempts the industrious; idle people tempt the devil," was a saying of good richard baxter. good men took it up in . well-intentioned preachers denounced the stage, and recommended rather an unexceptionable relaxation; the sea side, pure air, and all enjoyments thereon attending. but, while audiences were preached down to the coast, and especially to brighton, there were zealous pastors at the latter place, who preached them back again. one of these, the rev. dr. styles, of union street, brighton, did his best to stop the progress of london-on-sea. he left the question of the stage for others to deal with; but, in his published sermons, he strictly enjoined all virtuously-minded people to avoid watering-places generally, and brighton in particular, unless they wished to play into the devil's hands. he denounced the breaking up of homes, the mischief of minds at rest, and the consequences of flirting and philandering. he looked upon a brief holiday as a long sin,--at the sea side; and, with prophecy of dire results attending on neglect of his counsel, he drove, or sought to drive, all the hard workers, in search of health and in the enjoyment of that idle repose which helps them in their search, _back_ to london! then, as now, england stood shamefully distinguished for the indecorum of its sea-coast bathers; but, with certain religious principles, whereby to hold firmly, the good doctor does not think that much ill may befall therefrom; and he sends all erring sheep with their faces towards london, and with a reference to solomon's song, above all things!--bidding them to wait for the south wind of the holy spirit to blow over their spices! on the other hand, good men in france were then seeking to render theatrical amusements universally beneficial; and a pamphlet, by delpla, suggested a few reforms which evoked notice in this country. in some respects, the project was a development of that proposed in england, in , when the idea of turning exeter change into a theatre and college was first started. m. delpla held, that the public required stage exhibitions, but that they did not always know what was good for them. he thought that in every country there ought to exist a theatrical board, or censorship, composed, not of government officials, but of poets, reviewers, retired actors, and men of letters generally. there would then be, he thought (poor man!), a reconstruction of theatrical literature: the beautiful, preserved; the exceptionable, omitted; and the instructive, imported. historic truth was never to be departed from; local costume was to be strictly observed; _dénouements_, in which virtue looked ridiculous, or vice seemed triumphant, were to be severely prohibited; and poets, critics, and ex-actors were to be charged with this responsibility! m. delpla considered that, by such means, the theatre and the pulpit would be on a level, as public instructors; or, if any difference could be between them, the greater efficiency of instruction would rest with the stage. if they were simply equal, the writer concluded that bishops themselves would show their exemplary presence in the side boxes! the french government only adopted that part of m. delpla's project which spoke of a censorship; but as the censors were not competent persons,--poets, critics, actors, literary men,--but "officials," they often came to grief. their greatest calamity i may notice here, though it befell them at a later period, when a new law rendered the old censorship more stringent. to the authorised officials two well-known dramatic writers sent a new tragedy for examination and approval. it was returned in a few days, with erasures. the authors were required to modify lines, replace words, shorten scenes, and change a score of names, all of which, in the original, was considered obnoxious to public tranquillity, political order, and dramatic propriety. on receiving the corrected manuscript, the rebuked authors addressed the following note to the censors:--"gentlemen, we have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of our censured manuscript, with an accompanying letter. we agree with you in thinking that the passages marked for erasure may be of that perturbative character which you suppose; but as we do not dare to cut or modify the verses of pierre corneille, we prefer foregoing the representation of 'nicomède' at the 'théâtre français.'" but let us get back to our own theatres, and to the manners of audiences, between the commencement of this century and the coming of edmund kean. such manners are most strikingly illustrated by the o. p., or _old price_ riots of . in ten months a new covent garden theatre had risen, at an expense of £ , . smirke had taken for his model the acropolis of athens, and in a narrow, flat street, had built, or hidden, his imitation of the mountain fortress of the greeks. the house was unnecessarily large, and attendant costs so heavy, that the proprietors raised the price of admission to the boxes from s. to s., and to the pit, from s. d. to s. they had also converted space, usually allotted to the public--the third tier, in fact--into private boxes, at a rental of £ a year for each. the pit and box public resolved to resist, and the gallery public having a grievance in its defective construction,--the view being impeded by solid divisions, and the _run_ of the seats being so steep that the occupants could see only the legs of the actors at the back of the stage,--joined the insurrection. the house opened on the th of september , with "macbeth," and the "quaker." the audience was dense and furious. they sat with their backs to the stage, or stood on the seats, their hats on, to hiss and hoot the kemble family especially; not a word of the performance was heard, for when the audience were not denouncing the kembles, they were singing and shouting at the very top of their then fresh voices. the upper gallery was so noisy, that soldiers, of whom were in the house, rushed in to capture the rioters, who let themselves down to the lower gallery, where they were hospitably received. the sight of the soldiers increased the general exasperation. "it was a noble sight," said the _times_, "to see so much just indignation in the public mind;" and that paper scorned the idea that the prices were to be raised, to pay such vanities as were exhibited by mrs. siddons and john kemble, who were on the stage "with clothes on their backs worth £ ." such was the first of nearly seventy nights of riot, out of which the public issued with a cry of "victory," but under a substantial defeat. in alluding to this matter, it is only necessary to notice the additions to, or the variations in, the riot--in the conduct of which the proceedings of the first night were imitated, with this exception, that the insurrectionists did not enter the theatre till half-price. first came the introduction of placards and banners, for furnishing pins to affix one of which, in front of the boxes, a lady received an ovation; then speeches were made against the exorbitant salaries of the kembles, and prisoners were made of the speakers; magistrates appeared on the stage to read the riot act, and the public, preparing to rush on the stage itself, were deterred by the sudden opening of all the traps. the proprietors then assembled partisans by distributing _orders_, and this introduced fighting. between the combats, post-horns confounded the confusion. pigeons were let loose--symbols that the public were pigeoned, and kemble, compelled at last to come forward, only gave double fury to the storm, by asking "what they wanted," and, on being told, by replying that such demand was not reasonable, and they would think better of it! lawyers addressed the house from the boxes, encouraging the rioters, and, in allusion to the expensive engagements of catalani and others, declared that "the british stage should not be contaminated by italian depravity and french duplicity"--at which declaration the modest and candid public flung some highly-seasoned aspersions at the immoral private-boxes, and retired, cheering. watchmen's rattles and "artillery whistles" next added to the storm which tore the public ear. placards increased. cheers were given for the british mrs. dickons, and groans for madame catalani. the very name seemed to give birth to cat-calls. the actors in no way interrupted the uproar. the _times_ remarked that this was kind, as the public had so often sat without interrupting them. kemble made stiff-necked speeches, and the house called him "fellow" and "vagrant," said his head was "full of _a-ches_," declared they would obey king george and not king john, and protested that they would be sung to by "native nightingales, not foreign screech-owls." the boxes looked like booths, so hung were they with placards and banners--the most loudly cheered of which former was one which announced that the salaries of the kembles and madame catalani amounted, for the season, to £ , . "mountain and dickons, no cats, no kittens!" such is a sample of the o. p. row--the first series of which ended by kemble announcing, on the sixth night, that catalani's engagement had been cancelled, and that the house would be closed until the accounts of the proprietors had been examined by competent gentlemen. "britons who have humbled a prince will not be conquered by a manager!"--in that form was reply made by huge placard; and, next day, the _times_ told the public that they would not be bound by the report of the examiners of the accounts, as the people had no voice in the choice of arbitrators. the report appeared in a fortnight. in few words, it amounted to this:--if the present prices were reduced, the proprietors would lose three-fourths per cent. on their capital; but as the reporters could not even guess at the possible profits, the award was null. meanwhile, the _times_ suggested that it would be better to reduce the exorbitant salaries. there was mrs. siddons with £ per night! why, the lord chief justice sat every day in westminster hall, from to , for half the sum. the house re-opened on the th of october, with the "beggar's opera," and "is he a prince?" the war was resumed with increase of bitterness in feeling, and of fury in action. jewish pugilists, under the conduct of dutch sam, were hired to awe and attack the dissentients. the boxer, mendoza, distributed orders, by dozens, to people who would support the pugilists. the speech-makers were dragged away in custody, and bow street magistrates sat, during the performances, ready to commit them to prison-companionship with the worst class of thieves; and they lent bow street runners to the managers, and these runners, armed with bludgeons, charged and overwhelmed the dauntless rioters in the pit. dauntless, i say; for, on a succeeding night, they fell upon the jews in great number, and celebrated their triumph in a bloody fray, by hoisting a placard with the words, "and it came to pass that john bull smote the israelites sore!" the incidents present themselves in such crowds, that it is hardly possible to marshal them. among them i hear the audience called a "mob," from the stage; and i see lord yarmouth and berkley craven fighting in the pit, on the part of the managers; and there are "middies" and "gallant tars," or people so attired, addressing the house, in nautical and nonsensical, and rather blackguard style, from upper boxes and galleries; and brandon is rushing in to point out rioters, and rushing out to escape them; and gentlemen, with "o. p.," in gold, on their waistcoats, laugh at him; and there is up above an encounter between two boxes, the beaten party in which slide down the pillars to the tier below; and, suddenly, there is a roar of laughter at an accident on the stage. charles kemble, in richmond, has stumbled in the fight, with mr. cooke as richard, and fallen on his nose, and the house is as delighted as if he had been their personal enemy! then the ear is gratefully sensible of a sudden _hush!_ and the voices of the actors, for once, are heard; but it is not to listen to them the house is silent. a gentleman in the boxes has begun playing "_colleen_" on the flute; the piece goes on the while, but it is only the instrumentalist who is listened to and cheered. then, there is an especially noisy night, when rows of standing pittites are impelled one row over the other, in dire confusion. anon, we have a night or two of empty houses; the rioters seem weary, and the managers' friends do not care to attend to see a jubilee procession in honour of george iii., in which the cars of the individualised four quarters of the globe are drawn by scene-shifters and lamplighters, in their own clothes! because the public were thus kept away, the proprietors thought they had gained a victory, and on the first appearance of a mrs. clark, in the "grecian daughter," cooke alluded, in a prologue, to the late "hostile rage." this little scrap of exultation stirred the house to fury again; and when charles kemble died as dionysius, the half-price rioters shouted as if one of their most detested oppressors had perished. then came the races up and down the pit benches, while the play was in progress; and the appearance of men with huge false noses, making carnival, and of others dressed like women, who swaggered and straddled about the house, and assailed the few bold occupants of private boxes in terms of more coarseness than wit. then, too, was introduced the famous o. p. war dance in the pit, to see which alone,--its calm beginning, its swelling into noise and rapidity, and its finale of demoniacal uproar and confusion, even princes of the blood visited the boxes; and having beheld the spectacle, and heard the babel of roaring throats, laughed, and went home. not so the rioters; these sat or danced till they chose to withdraw, and then they went in procession through the streets, howling before the offices of newspapers which advocated the managerial side, and reserving their final and infernal serenade for john kemble himself, in front of his house, no. great russell street, bloomsbury. the lack of wisdom on the part of the management was remarkable. the introduction of jewish pugilists into the pit had been fruitless in good; and now i find them and other questionable-looking people admitted to the boxes. of course, increase of exasperation followed. the rioters celebrated the jubilee of their row on its fiftieth night. ladies who came wearing o. p. medals were cheered as if they had been goddesses, and gentlemen who had lost hats in the previous night's fray came in cotton night-caps, or with kerchiefs round their heads. the pit was in a frenzy, and so was the indefatigable brandon, who captured two offenders that night, one of whom he charged with calling "silence!" and the other with "unnaturally coughing!" the bow street runners also carried off many a prisoner, half-stripped and profusely bleeding, to the neighbouring tribunal; and altogether the uproar culminated on the jubilee night. the acquittal of leading rioters gave a little spirit to some after displays; but it led to a settlement. audiences continued the affray, flung peas on the stage to bring down the dancers, and celebrated their own o. p. dance before leaving; but, at a banquet to celebrate the triumph of the cause in the acquittal of the leaders, mr. kemble himself appeared. terms were there agreed upon; and on the sixty-seventh night, a banner in the house, with "we are satisfied" inscribed on it, proclaimed that all was over. after such a fray the satisfaction was dearly bought. the _s._ rate of admission to the pit was diminished by _d._, but the half-price remained at _s._ the private boxes were decreased in number, but the new price of admission to the boxes was maintained. thus, the managers, after all, had more of the victory than the people; but it was bought dearly. in a few years the prices were lowered, but the audiences, except on particular occasions, were not numerous enough to be profitable. in fact the house was too large. the public could not hear with ease what was uttered on the stage, and spectacle was more suited to it than shakspeare or old english comedy;--and huge houses, high prices, and exorbitant salaries, soon brought the british drama to grief in the patented houses. into this melancholy question i do not wish, however, to enter. i have only noticed the o. p. affair, as it marks an improvement in the manners and customs of our audiences. in the preceding century, at lincoln's inn fields and old drury, rioters on less provocation went more desperate lengths. destruction even by fire was often resorted to by them. in the o. p. matter, the insurrectionists did not even break a bench. mixed with the fury of fight there was an under-current of fun. the combatants declared that they would attain their end by perseverance. they persevered, and did _not_ attain it! i have previously shown that the second george did not dislike to witness an insurrection of a theatrical audience. the third george was of a more placid temperament, and not only laughed at clowns who swallowed sausages, but at allusions to his own agricultural tendencies, which he accepted with a half-delighted: "i! i! good; they mean _my_ sheep!" or some equally bright exclamation. as _guests_, he did not invite actors to his house; but his eldest son was more, and unnecessarily, condescending. when prince of wales, and subsequently as prince regent, actors and managers were not unfrequently invited to carlton house. the former seem to have appreciated their position better than the latter, at least as far as we may learn from instances afforded by the elder bannister and the younger colman. charles bannister told mr. adolphus, who had questioned him as to the prince's bearing, whether it resembled that of prince hal, amid his boon companions? "the prince never assumed familiarity with us, though his demeanour was always most gracious. we public performers sat all together, as all guests took their places, according to their rank; our conversation was to ourselves, and we never mixed in that of the general party, further than to answer questions. at proper moments, with inimitable politeness, he would suggest that he should be pleased with a song, and the individual selected received his highest reward in praises which his royal highness bestowed with an excellent judgment, and expressed with a taste peculiar to himself." when the younger colman obtained a day-rule from the king's bench, in , to dine at carlton house, whither he was conveyed by the duke of york, dramatic literature was not so pleasantly represented as the stage had previously been in the persons of charles bannister and his comrades. the guest behaved like a boor, the host still like a gentleman. among the offensive queries put by the former to the duke, was--"who is that fine-looking fellow at the head of the table?" the duke urged him to be silent, lest he get into a scrape. colman would not be anything but ruffianly, and raising his voice, he exclaimed,--"no! no! i want to know who that fine square-shouldered magnificent-looking, agreeable fellow is, at the end of the table!" the duke remonstrated; saying, "you know it is the prince." "why, then," said george, "he is your elder brother! i declare he doesn't look half your age. well! i remember the time when he sang a good song, and as i'm out for a lark, for one day only, he will not refuse an old playfellow, if he is the same good fellow that he used to be." the prince, with more condescension than was warrantable, laughed, and then sang a song, which, being done, colman roared out applause at the magnificent voice, and with a round oath, expressed his determination to engage the singer for the next season at his own theatre! peake, who tells the story in fuller detail, in his _memoirs of the colman family_, adds that the prince was not offended, and that colman was, subsequently, his guest. if so, the former had forgotten, since charles bannister's days, that propriety which the actor so justly admired. to the list of pieces by which this chapter is preceded, i direct the attention of those who desire to know the character of our stage literature half a century ago. i will not go so far as gifford, who, on contemplating a similar list, remarked: "all the fools in the kingdom seem to have risen up and exclaimed, with one voice,--let us write for the theatres!" but the censure of leigh hunt is almost as strong, when he says, that being present at the comedies of reynolds and dibdin, he laughed heartily at the actors; but, somehow or other, never recollected a word of the dialogue! the truth is, that the actors, tragic as well as comic, were superior to the authors, especially to those who wrote parts expressly for them, and composed tipsy grimacers for munden, and chatterers for fawcett, and voluble gentlemen for lewis; and, let the scene of the play be in what remote part of the world it might, always introduced an irishman, because johnstone was there, ready and richly able, to play it. the authors thus depended on the actors, and not on themselves; and this was so much the case that leigh hunt remarked, that the loss of lewis would be as rheumatism to reynolds; and the loss of munden, "who gives such agreeable variety of grin, would affect him little less than lock-jaw!" the old sentimental comedy was bad enough, and we rejoice to this day that goldsmith overthrew it; but he was followed by writers who mingled sentiment and farce together, who extorted tears, exacted rude laughter, and violated nature in every sense. with all this, however,--vapid in the reading, as some of these productions now appear, they reflected, with great distortion, no doubt, the manners of the times, and suggested, with some awkwardness, how those manners might be improved. the more obtrusively loyal such writers affected to be, the more loudly their _clap-traps_ were applauded. the absence of servile sentiment, and the suspicion of the author being led by liberal principles in politics, could only bring down upon him condemnation. poor holcroft, who went through so many painful varieties of life, and who was a radical before the radical era, was one of the ablest writers of what was then called comedy, but he often failed, because of his politics, and was then taunted for his failure, and that by brother dramatists. "holcroft has done nothing for literature," says charles dibdin; "because, perhaps, he has done little for morality, less for truth, and nothing for social order!" holcroft belongs, indeed, to two centuries; but if the administration had hanged him, as they wished to do, in , when he took his trial for high treason, the author of the _road to ruin_ would not have added his adaptation of "deaf and dumb," and the very first of melodramas, the "tale of mystery," to the list of his deserved successes. the younger colman justified the writing of nonsense, by metrically asking:-- "if we give trash, as some poor critics say, why flocks an audience nightly to our play?" nevertheless, there were authors who, in the french phrase, had frequently to "sup at the 'bagpipes,'" like the minor french playwright, dancourt, who was accustomed to failure, but who used to find solace under the catastrophe by supping joyously with his friends, at an inn with the above sign. one night, his candid daughter was present at the first representation of one of dancourt's little comedies. at the close of the second scene, the sibilations commenced, and mademoiselle thereupon turned gaily to her sire, with the pleasant remark, "papa, you are going to sup to-night at the 'bagpipes!'" the regent duke of orleans was less tender towards a dramatist who bitterly complained to him, not merely that his piece had been hissed, but that he had been horsewhipped by some of the audience, who disliked the coarse raillery of his satire. "well," said the duke, having listened to the complaint, "what is it you now want?" "justice," answered the author. "i think," replied his highness, coolly, "i think you have had that already!" english managers found authors quite as unreasonable. early in the present century, there existed a writer of tragedies, named masterton. failing to get any of them represented, he printed one, the "seducer," in ;--promising to publish all his rejected pieces, if his specimen tragedy obtained approval. his object, of course, was to shame the managers. like most of the authors of this century, mr. masterton took otway for his model,--but he did it after this wise-- "beware, olivia, of the wiles of man!-- you've seen one suck an orange in the street; and when he's feasted, fling the rind away? so will a man, who has despoiled a woman,-- when all's ta'en from her, cast her in the dirt." hayley was angry enough when the public damned his "eudora," which act he thought, manifested only the bad taste of the public, seeing that his play had received the sanction of lieutenant-general burgoyne; but if hayley knew little of practical triumphs of temper, and exhibited small discretion in printing his rejected tragedy, he at least showed that his tragedy was free from such nonsense as we find in mr. masterton's. the two authors who most strongly contrast with each other as to their feelings under a disagreeable verdict, were charles lamb and godwin. the former was present on the night that his farce, "mr. h.," was played, and he heartily joined in the shower of hisses with which it was assailed by the audience. this was in juster taste than the conduct of godwin, who sat in the pit, stoically indifferent, in all appearance, to the indifference of the audience to his tragedy--"antonio." as the act-drop descended, without applause or disapprobation, the author grimly observed that such was exactly the effect he had laboured to produce. and as the piece proceeded amid similar demonstrations of contemptuous indifference, "i would not for the world," said poor godwin, "have the excitement set in too early." i question, however, if anything superior to "antonio" was produced between and the first appearance of edmund kean. soon after that event came sheil, maturin, proctor, and a greater than any of them, sheridan knowles. sheil wrote his tragedy, "adelaide," expressly for miss o'neill; everything was sacrificed to one character,--and "adelaide" proved a failure. the poem, however, contained promise of a poet. there was originality, at least there was no servile imitation, in the style, which was not indeed without inflation, and thundering phrases and conceits,--but there was, withal, a weakness, from which, if the writer ever extricated himself, it was only to fall into greater defect. the story is romantic, and something after the fashion of the day, in which there was an apotheosis for every romantic villain. such a villain is lunenberg, who, as he remarks in an early part of the play, had lured adelaide's unsuspecting innocence,-- "and with a semblance of religious rites, abused thy trust, and plunged thee into shame." this sorry rascal treats the lady so ill that she is driven to take poison, and lunenberg, after fighting her brother albert, and heroically running on his sword, dies with sentimental phrases in his mouth of pure and hallowed happiness to come, and with the prophecy that "when the sound of heaven shall raise the dead," he and adelaide would "awake in one another's arms," which is a very bold image, to say the least of it. adelaide herself is so feeble a personage, in nothing superior to the heroines of the leadenhall street romances of the time, that she fails to win or to exact sympathy. how very silly a young lady she is, may be seen by her dying speech to the villain who had deceived her by a false marriage-- "when i am dead, as speedily i shall be, let my grave be very humble in that mournful spot. i pray thee, sometimes visit it at eve, and when you look upon the fading rose that grows beside a pillar down the aisle, and watch it drooping in the twilight dews, then think of one who bloomed a little while, e'en as that sickly rose, and bloomed to die." there is more here of the small sweets of anna matilda than of the pathos and harmony of otway, or the vigour of lee. whatever promise this first tragedy gave, there was nothing of realisation in the author's next tragedy, the "apostate." in this piece, hermeya, the moslem hero, renounces his faith, for love of the christian lady florinda, who is so perplexed between love and duty, even more than he between love and patriotism, that she at length finds expression for her condition in the unusually majestic line--"this is too much for any mortal creature!"--a line which was echoed by more than one critic. "adelaide" was feeble; the "apostate," in place of being stronger, was only furious. there was the bombast of lee, but none of his brilliancy; the hideousness of his images without anything of their grand picturesqueness. florinda, looking on at the execution of hermeya, exclaims-- "lo! they wrench his heart away: they drink his gushing blood!" --and when a compassionate gentleman requests that the lady may be removed, she sets forth this series of screaming remarks:-- "you shall not tear me hence; no!--never! never! he is my lord!--my husband!--death!--'twas death! death married us together!--here i will dig a bridal bed, and we'll lie there for ever! i will not go!--ha! you may pluck my heart out, i will never go!--help!--help!--hermeya! they drag me to pescara's cursed bed! they rend the chains of fire that bind me to thee! help!--help!" --and so, screaming, she dies. not thus, despite some raving, was belvidera frantic, calling on jaffier;--and the audience failed to see a second otway in lalor sheil. it has hardly fared better with maturin, who wrote especially for edmund kean. the year produced this new dramatic writer, and also a new actress of great promise, in miss somerville, who made her first appearance at drury lane, in maturin's tragedy of "bertram, or the castle of st. aldobrand," which was played for the first time on may the th. the plot is of the romantic school. imogine, loving and loved by an exiled ruffian (bertram), marries, in his absence, bertram's enemy, st. aldobrand, in order to save her sire from ruin. bertram, the outcast, is wrecked near the castle of the wedded pair; and of course the old lovers encounter each other. from this time, with some hesitations of decency, all goes wrong. imogine forgets her duty to her husband, whom bertram kills, after seducing his wife. he, moreover, treats the lady very ungallantly; and imogine, gaining nothing by her lapse from righteousness of life, goes mad, and dies; whereupon, bertram, finding the world emphatically unpleasant, kills himself, with considerable self-exultation that he, captain of a robber band, who had lived with desperate men in desperate ways,-- "died no felon's death; a warrior's weapon freed a warrior's soul!" there is no moral to this piece; but there is some beauty of language, with a load of bombast, and an old-world amount of fierce sentiment and grotesque horrors. among the last may be enumerated, bertram sitting with the body of the murdered aldobrand; and imogine sitting with that of her child,--who had been a good angel, of the best intentions, but never in time to save his mother from mischief. the german element--in story, style, speech, and minute stage-directions--prevails throughout the piece, which had a greater success than it deserved. if maturin, in this tragedy, followed the german model rather than strove to imitate the touching melody of rowe, and the unaffected but energetic tenderness of otway,--he brought back to the stage some of the grosser features of the dramas of the preceding centuries, which lowered the standard of woman, and made her not less eager to be won than dishonest lovers were to woo. the same villainous spirit marked the epilogue, furnished by the hon. george lamb (afterwards viscount melbourne). in it, the villainous bertram was covered with the dignity of a hero; and of woman, generally, it was said by the writer, that--"vice, on her bosom, lulls remorseful care." as in the case of sheil, maturin's second tragedy, "manuel," did not fulfil even the small promise of his first; and, after "bertram," "manuel" was found insipid,--but more pretentious, roaring, and bombastic. the interest of the play hangs on one incident. manuel's son is reported as slain in battle; but manuel accuses his kinsman, and once heir, before that son was born (de zelos), of having murdered him. trial by battle ensues, between torrismond, son of de zelos, and a stranger, who offers himself as champion of manuel. this champion (murad) is vanquished: and he confesses to have been the murderer, at the instigation of de zelos; but, having been uneasy in his mind ever since, he had come to risk and render his own life, by way of expiation. the instigator stabs himself; manuel dies; and of course there is no wedding for victoria, the daughter of the latter, and her lover (torrismond), the son of de zelos. a droll, minor incident, in this tragedy, is that in which de zelos, when hiring the assassin, and very much desiring to be unknown, gives him a dagger, with the owner's name upon the haft. thereby, of course, he is ultimately known and betrayed; and it was suggested, that the incident might have authorised the writer to call his tragedy a comedy, and to give it the name of the "absent man." for violation of nature, common sense, and i may add, sound, this tragedy of maturin's equals anything of the kind produced in the earliest ages of the drama. to edmund kean, in the very bloom of his fame and best of his strength, was raving, like the following, consigned. de zelos has just died,--hiding his face,--probably ashamed of the whole business, whereupon manuel exclaims, spasmodically:-- "false!--false!--ye cursed judges!--do ye hide him? i'll grasp the thunderbolt! rain storms of fire! there!--there!--i strike! the whizzing bolt hath struck him. he shrieks! his heart's blood hisses in the flames! fiends rend him! lightnings sear him! hell gapes for him! oh! i am sick with death! (_staggering among the bodies._) alonzo! victoria!--i call, and none answer me! i stagger up and down, an old man, and none to guide me: not one! (_takes victoria's hand._) cold! cold! that was an ice-bolt! i shiver! it grows very dark! alonzo! victoria!--very--very dark! (_dies._)" there is no such nonsense as this in the tragedies of proctor, milman, or sheridan knowles. "mirandola," "fazio," and "virginius," will never want readers; and "virginius," especially, will never want an audience, if it be but fittingly represented. the principal character in "virginius" was written expressly for edmund kean; but mere and lucky accident conveyed it to mr. macready, who found therein golden opportunity, and knew how to avail himself of it. to the former, with a sketch of whose career i close my contributions towards a history of the english stage, may be happily applied the lines of the french poet:-- "ce glorieux acteur, des plus fameux héros fameux imitateur; du théâtre anglais, la splendeur et la gloire, mais si mauvais acteur dedans sa propre histoire." [illustration: kean as sir giles overreach.] chapter xv. edmund kean. "it is, perhaps, not generally known," says macaulay, when closing his narrative of the death of the great lord halifax, in , "that some adventurers who, without advantages of fortune or position, made themselves conspicuous by the mere force of ability, inherited the blood of halifax. he left a natural son, henry carey, whose dramas once drew crowded audiences to the theatres, and some of whose gay and spirited verses still live in the memory of hundreds of thousands. from henry carey descended that edmund kean who, in our own time, transformed himself so marvellously into shylock, iago, and othello." this reminds me of an anecdote of louis philippe, when duke of orleans, who happened one day to speak of louis xiv. as "my august ancestor." the remark was made to a young clerk in his household,--a future novelist and dramatist, alexandre dumas. this gentleman opened his eyes in amazement, knowing that the duke was legitimately descended from the brother of the "grand monarque." the duke, however, was thinking of the inter-marriages between members of his family and the illegitimate descendants of louis xiv.; but he noticed the surprise of dumas, and then calmly added:--"yes, dumas; _my august ancestor, louis xiv.!_ to descend from him, only through his bastards, is, in my eyes at least, an honour sufficiently great to be worth boasting of!" in like manner edmund kean might have boasted of his descent from george saville, marquis of halifax; but i think he was prouder of what he had achieved for himself through his genius, than of any oblique splendour derived to him from the author of the _maxims_ and the great chief of the trimmers,--if, indeed, he knew anything about him. a posthumous son of henry carey, well known as george saville carey, inherited much of his father's talents. after declining to learn the mystery of printing, he tried that of playing; produced little effect, but by singing, reciting, and above all by his imitations, lived a vagabond life, and managed to keep his head above water, with now and then a fearful dip into the mud below, for forty years; when paralysis depriving him of the means to earn his bread, he contrived to escape further misery here by strangling himself.[ ] he was a man of great genius not unmixed with a tendency to insanity. he was cursed in one fair and worthless daughter, "nance carey," whose intimacy with aaron kean,--a tailor,--or as some say, edmund kean, a builder, but at all events brother to moses kean, a tailor, and as admirable a mimic as george carey himself,[ ]--resulted in her becoming the mother of a boy, her pitiless neglect of whom seems to have begun even before his birth. [illustration: (edmund kean)] whether that event took place in an otherwise unoccupied chamber in gray's inn, which had been lent to her vagabond father, or in a poor room in castle street, leicester square, or in a miserable garret in ewer street, southwark,--for all of which there are respective claimants, miss carey's son had a narrow escape from being born in the street. but for miss tidswell, the actress, and another womanly gossip or two, this would have happened. it seemed all one to "nance carey," who having performed _her_ part in this portion of the play, deserted her child, and left him to the cruelty, caprice, or humanity of strangers. little edmund kean, born in , or in the following year,[ ] for the date is uncertain, had a hard life of it from the first. in a loving arm he never was held,--a loving eye never looked down upon him. had he not been a beautiful child, perhaps the charity of miss tidswell and of whomsoever else extended it to him, would have failed. it is certain that they took the earliest opportunity of deriving profit from him; and before he was three years old, edmund kean figured as a cupid in one of noverre's ballets at the opera house. he owed his election to this dignity to his rare personal beauty, an endowment which went for nothing in his subsequent appointment, when four or five years of age, to act as one of the imps attendant on the witches in "macbeth." john kemble was then supreme at drury lane, and, of course, little conscious that among the noisy and untractable young imps, the wildest by far would prove to be, what mrs. siddons would have called, one of those new idols which the public delight to set up, in order to mortify their old favourites! one night the goblins fell over one another in the cavern-scene, edmund going down first, out of weakness, or of mischief. this led to the dismissal of the whole troop; and some good samaritan then sent young kean to school. in orange court, leicester square, was the fountain whence he drew his first and almost only draught of learning. in that dirty locality may be found the shrine of three geniuses. there, holcroft was born, opie was housed, and edmund kean instructed. thereafter comes chaos; and it is only by glimpses that the whereabout of the naturally-gifted but most unhappy lad can be detected. a little outcast, with his weak legs in "irons," day and night, he sleeps between a poor married couple whose sides are hurt by his fetters. miss tidswell takes him, ties him to a bedpost, to secure his attention, teaches him elocution, and corrects him a little too harshly, though out of love. he dances and tumbles at fairs and in taverns, performs wonderful feats, is kicked and starved, thrives nevertheless,--and conceives that there is something within him which should set him above his fellows in hard work and lean fare. and then, when he is becoming a bread-winner, he is claimed by his evil genius, nance carey. his mother has been a stroller; she is a vagabond still; tramps the country with pomatums, and perfumes, and falballas, and her son is her pack-horse;--and the bird, to boot, that shall lay golden eggs for her. he is savage at having to plod through mud and dust, but he has a world of his own beyond it all; and he not only learns soliloquies from plays, but recites them in gentlemen's houses. to the audiences there, he goes confident but sensitive; proud and defiant, even when wounded by many a humiliation. by reciting, selling the wares in which nance carey dealt, and exhibiting in every possible and impossible play and posture, at fairs, he earned and received some small but well-merited wage. "she took it _all_ from me!" cried the boy, in his anguish and indignation.[ ] a london arab leads an easier life. it was a dark and hard life to edmund,--miss tidswell occasionally appeared to do him a kindness, to give him bread, and more instruction for the stage. of his father, we hear nothing save his rascal gallantry with miss carey; of his mother, nothing but her rapacity; of his uncle, moses kean, only that miss tidswell turned his wooden leg to account. when her young pupil, studying hamlet, had to pronounce the words, "alas, poor yorick!" she first made him say, "alas, poor uncle!" that the memory of the calamity the latter had suffered might dispose edmund's face to seriousness! and then he is abroad again; not easily to be followed. his sensitive pride renders him hasty to take offence, and then he rushes from some friendly roof, and disappears, sinks down some horrible gulf, issues not purified, nor softened, nor inclined to give account of himself. a more sober flight took him to madeira as a cabin-boy, whence he returned, disgusted with thalatta. finally, he runs the round of fairs again, and starves and has flashes of wild jollity, as such runners have; and pauses in his running at windsor. he was just then the property of crafty old richardson, and at windsor fair made such a local reputation by his elocution, that king george sent for him, and so enjoyed a taste of his quality that the young player carried away with him the bright guerdon of two guineas,--either to his manager or his mother, i forget which. i think, however, this speaking in presence of royalty was the getting the foot on the first round of the slippery ladder which he was so desirous to ascend. he spoke a speech or two at some london theatres, when benefit nights admitted of extraordinary performances; and he now went the round of country theatres, and not of country fairs. it was not a less weary life; he starved as miserably as before, and he began to find a means of reinvigoration in "drink." had his labour been paid according to its worth, the devil could not have flung this temptation in his way. "a better time will come by and by," said the poor stroller, who was always promising to himself, or to others, a happy period in which all would be right. in the course of his wanderings he played at belfast. mrs. siddons passed that way too, and acted zara and lady randolph. edmund kean, not then, i believe, nineteen, played osmyn and young norval. in the first part i think he was imperfect, and the siddons shook her majestic head at the apparent cause. nevertheless, her judgment was, that he played "well, _very_ well; but there was too little of him wherewith to make a great actor!" if painstaking could do it, he was resolved to be one. no amount of labour to this end daunted him. however poor the task entrusted to him, he did his utmost for it. when playing some worthless fifth-rate character at the haymarket, a generous colleague remarked:--"look at the little man, he is trying to make a part of it." i find by the bills of the haymarket theatre, which mr. buckstone kindly placed at my disposal, that dubbs, in the "review" to fawcett's caleb quotem, was about the best character he played. considering that he was at this time under twenty, his position was not a very bad one; but it seemed to him to promise no amendment--and he again passed to the country, to play first business, and to be hungry three or four days out of the seven. he could not earn enough to enable him to travel from one place of engagement to another. he journeyed on foot, and when he came to a river, swam it (particularly when a press-gang was near), as readily as an indian would have done. in some towns his hamlet was not relished, but his harlequin filled the house. the guernsey critics censured his acting, on the ground that he would rudely turn his back on the audience, and make no more account of them than if they were the fourth side of a room in which he was meditating! when the guernsey pit hissed him in richard iii., his cry, pointedly addressed to them:--"unmannered dogs! stand ye, when i command!" rendered them silent. he tried the same trick, and not without effect, when the pit of drury lane was hissing him, not for being a bad actor, but an immoral man. "who is that shabby little man?" said mary chambers, a young waterford girl, who had been a governess, and who was going through her probationary time as an actress in gloucester. "who the devil is she?" asked kean, after being soundly rated by her, for spoiling her performance through his unsettled memory. she was what kean never thoroughly knew her to be--his good genius--worth more than all the kinsfolk he had ever possessed, including miss tidswell, who once gave him a home and the stick. the imprudent young couple, however, fell in love; they married; and the manager paid his congratulations to them, by turning them out of his company.[ ] they loved, slaved, and starved. the misery of their lives is unparelleled, except by the heroic uncomplainingness with which it was endured by mrs. kean. _his_ industry was really intense; his study of every character he had to play careful, earnest, conscientious; and after acting with as much anxiety as if he had been performing before a jury of critics, he would return to his miserable home, saddened, furious, and unsober. "i played the part finely; and yet they did not applaud me!" gleams of good fortune occasionally lit up their path. an engagement at birmingham, at a guinea a week to each, was comparative wealth to them; and there kean found the applause for which he sighed. his octavian was preferred to elliston's; and stephen kemble told him that his hotspur and henry iv. were superior to those of his brother, john kemble. kean thought of london. "if i could only get there, and succeed! if i _succeed_, i shall go mad!" there was much to be suffered by kean and his wife before that triumph came. for lack of means, they have to walk from birmingham to swansea. two hundred miles, and that poor lady may be a mother before she accomplishes half of them! they wend painfully on, pale, hungry, and silent; twelve miles a day; not asking alms, but not above receiving that hospitality of the poor which is true, because self-denying, charity. needing many things, and obtaining none of those she most needed, mrs. kean reached bristol more dead than alive. a cast in a boat, more weary suffering, a son born, and an audience at swansea who preferred bengough, an elephantine simpleton, with large unmeaning eyes, to edmund--tells the outline of his tale before they crossed from wales to waterford. soon in this troop, under cherry, at waterford, there were two men, destined to be at the very head of their respective vocations, as player and dramatic poet--edmund kean and sheridan knowles. at present they are only strolling players. the training of the two men had been totally different. kean was "nobody's son," and had passed through the misery, degradation, and blackguardism attendant on such a parentage--his genius not slumbering, but ready to flash, like the diamond, when light and opportunity should present themselves. knowles, on the other hand, was the son of a scholar and a trainer of scholars. he came of a literary race. his sire compiled a dictionary; sheridan, the lexicographer, was his uncle; richard brinsley, his cousin. at an early age he was removed from his native city, cork, to london, where the boy wrote boyish plays, and the youth grew up in friendship with hazlitt, coleridge, and lamb. then he went into the world, to fight his fight, and at four and twenty, that is, in , i find him a tolerable actor, on the old dublin stage in crow street, and a very acceptable guest at firesides where merit, wit, and a harmonious voice were appreciated. subsequently he joined the troop of vivacious cherry, in waterford. there he met with the little, bright-eyed, swarthy young man, who was richard in the play, and harlequin in the pantomime, on the same evening; who, in short, could do anything and did everything well. for him, edmund kean, knowles wrote his first serious play, a melo-dramatic tragedy, "leo, the gipsey;" and in that piece kean achieved so notable a triumph, that he would have chosen it for his first appearance in london, but that, luckily for him, he had lost the copy. edmund seems to have worked steadily in the ancient irish city. of the general business i can say nothing, except that mrs. kean played a virgin of the sun, at a time when the character least suited her; but for a reminiscence of a benefit night, i take half a page from mr. grattan. "the last thing i recollect of kean in waterford, was the performance for his benefit. the play was hannah more's tragedy of "percy," in which he of course played the hero. edwina was played by mrs. kean, who was applauded to her heart's content. kean was so popular, both as an actor, and from the excellent character he bore, that the audience thought less of the actor's demerits than of the husband's feelings; and besides this, the _débutante_ had many personal friends in her native city, and among the gentry of the neighbourhood, for she had been governess to the children of a lady of good fortune, who used all her influence at this benefit. after the tragedy, kean gave a specimen of tight-rope dancing, and another of sparring with a professional pugilist. he then played the leading part in a musical interlude, and finished with chimpanzee, the monkey, in the melo-dramatic pantomime of la pérouse, and in this _character_ he showed agility scarcely since surpassed by mazurier or gouffe, and touches of deep tragedy in the monkey's death scene, which made the audience shed tears." what cause broke the connection of the keans with cherry, i do not know; but the former were one day without an engagement, and among the separations that ensued was that of kean and knowles. they were both to find what they thirsted for in london; but for the former many were the trials, and terrific the ascent, before he was to reach that pinnacle which he occupied so gloriously and so briefly. from waterford, edmund and his wife took with them no more than they had brought, except an additional son, the day of whose birth was a happy day in the mother's calendar of sorrows. they suffered, and the children with them, all that humanity could suffer and yet live. i find them at dumfries, depending for food and shelter upon the receipts at an "entertainment," given by kean, in a room at a tavern. there was _one_ auditor, and he paid sixpence! there were even worse disappointments than these; and, under their accumulation, i do not wonder that kean broke into curses at his perverse destiny; or that mrs. kean, looking at her children, prayed to god that he would remove them and her! and so from town to town they pursued their hapless pilgrimage. _he_ sometimes driven to fury and to drink; she only asking for death to her and the two younger sufferers. now and then a divine charity enabled them to rest and refresh; and _once_, a divine by profession, in a country town, forbade them the use of a school-room, because they were actors! the reverend gentleman himself, probably, thought it very good amusement to listen to his own boys enacting the "eunuchus" of terence. famine, rage, drink, and tears, mark the way of the wanderers. brief engagements enabled them to exist, just to keep themselves out of the grave; and then came vacation and want to let them slip back again to the very brink of that grave. amid it all, kean _did_ succeed in making a reputation. passing through london he saw john kemble and mrs. siddons, in wolsey and constance--and he registered a vow that _he would_ be there a great actor, too! and so again to the country, to work hard, gain little, and wait; but also to enjoy some antepast of metropolitan triumph at exeter, where his success was great, but not remunerative; where, with a greatcoat flung over his stage-dress, he might too often be seen at the bar of the tavern near the theatre, and where he enlarged his means by teaching dancing and fencing, elocution and boxing--or "a word and a blow," as some wag styled the latter two accomplishments. exeter foretold that he would not have to wait long, but all the prophetic patronage of exeter did not furnish him with means to get to dorchester by any other process than on foot, and with his son charles on his back. the poor sick little howard, the elder son, had to be conveyed thither by his mother. howard had shown some promise of histrionic talent already, and he helped to win a little bread for the family before he died. for this, perhaps, the father loved him; and toiled on till the tide came in his affairs which promised to raise him at its flood to highest fortune. that tide began to flow, after dr. drury had seen him act, and reported well to the drury lane committee of his acting; it was running fast in the same direction when kean saw a gentleman, in the boxes at dorchester, so attentive to his playing, that edmund acted to him alone, as booth had done in his day, but under other influences, to mr. stanyan, the judicious gentleman from oxford. kean's gentleman was arnold, stage-manager from drury lane, and he commenced negotiations with kean for an engagement, before they parted for the night. the poor player rushed home, hysterical with agitation and delight, and all his good impulses uppermost. he announced the glad intelligence to his wife, with the touching comment--"if howard only get well, we shall be all happy yet!" howard died, and kean played, danced, sorrowed, and hoped--for the time at which he was to go up to london was at hand; and thither they went at the close of the year . when that season of - opened, drury was in a condition from which it could be relieved only by a genius;--and there he stood, in that cold hall, a little, pale, restless, dark-eyed man, in a coat with two or three capes, and nobody noticed him. in cecil street, his family was living on little more than air; and he was daily growing sick, as he stood, waiting in that hall, for an audience with the manager; and subject to the sneers of passing actors. even rae, handsome and a fool, affected not to know him, though they had played together, when rae's mother was matron at st. george's hospital, and they had acted together at the haymarket, in , when rae led the business, and kean was but a supernumerary. arnold treated him superciliously, with a "_young man!_"--as he condescended to speak, and put him off. other new actors obtained trial parts, but there was none for that chafed, hungry, restless little man in the capes. even drunken tokely, like himself, from exeter, could obtain a "first appearance," but kean was put off. stephen kemble played shylock, and failed! why not try a new actor? the committee did so, and mr. huddart, from dublin, went on as shylock, and was never heard of more. and the poor stroller looked through the darkness of that miserable passage the while, and murmured, "let me but get my foot before the floats, and _i'll_ show them--!" the permission came. would he,--no, he _must_ play richard. "shylock, or nothing!" was his bold reply. he was afraid of the littleness of his figure,--which he had heard scoffed at, being exposed in the "trunks" of glo'ster. he hoped to hide it under the gown of shylock. the jew, or nothing! the young fellow, he was not yet six and twenty, was allowed to have his way. at the one morning rehearsal he fluttered his fellow-actors, and scared the manager, by his independence and originality. "sir, this will never do!" cried raymond, the acting manager. "it is quite an innovation; it cannot be permitted." "sir," said the poor, proud man, "i wish it to be so;" and the players smiled, and kean went home, that is, to his lodgings, in cecil street, on that snowy, foggy, th of february ,[ ] calm, hopeful, and hungry. "to-day," said he, "i must _dine_." having accomplished that rare feat, he went forth alone, and on foot. "i wish," he remarked, "i was going to be shot!" he had with him a few properties which he was bound to procure for himself, tied up in a poor handkerchief, under his arm. his wife remained, with their child, at home. kean tramped on beneath the falling snow, and over that which thickly encumbered the ground,--solid here; there in slush; and, by and by, pale, quiet, but fearless, he dressed in a room shared by two or three others, and went down to the wing by which he was to enter. hitherto no one had spoken to him, save jack bannister, who said a cheering word; and oxberry, who had tended to him a glass, and wished him good fortune. "by jove!" exclaimed a first-rater, looking at him, "shylock in a black wig! well!!" the house could hold, as it is called, £ ; there was not more than a sixth of that sum in front. winter without, his comrades within;--all was against him. at length, he went on, with rae, as bassanio, in ill-humour; and groups of actors at the wings, to witness the first scene of a new candidate. all that edmund kean ever did, was gracefully done; and the bow which he made, in return to the usual welcoming applause, was eminently graceful. dr. drury, the head-master of harrow, who took great interest in him, looked fixedly at him as he came forward. shylock leant over his crutched stick, with both hands; and, looking askance at bassanio, said: "three thousand ducats?" paused, bethought himself, and then added: "well?" _he is safe_, said dr. drury. [illustration: (edmund kean as shylock)] the groups of actors soon after dispersed to the green-room. as they reached it, there reached there, too, an echo of the loud applause given to shylock's reply to bassanio's assurance that he may take the bond. "i _will be_ assured i may!"--later came the sounds of the increased approbation bestowed on the delivery of the passage ending with, "and for these courtesies, i'll lend you thus much moneys." the act came to an end gloriously; and the players in the green-room looked for the coming among them of the new shylock. he proudly kept aloof; knew he was friendless, but felt that he was, in himself, sufficient. he wandered about the back of the stage, thinking, perhaps, of the mother and child at home; and sure, now, of having at least made a step towards triumph. he wanted no congratulations; and he walked cheerfully down to the wing when the scene was about to take place between him and his daughter, jessica, in his very calling to whom:--"why, jessica! i say"--there was, as some of us may remember, from an after night's experience, a charm, as of music. the whole scene was played with rare merit; but the absolute triumph was not won till the scene (which was marvellous in his hands) in the third act, between shylock, solanio, and salarino,--ending with the dialogue between the first and tubal. shylock's anguish at his daughter's flight; his wrath at the two christians who make sport of his anguish; his hatred of all christians, generally, and of antonio in particular; and then his alternations of rage, grief, and ecstasy, as tubal relates the losses incurred in the search of that naughty jessica, her extravagances, and then the ill luck that had fallen upon antonio;--in all this, there was such originality, such terrible force, such assurance of a new and mighty master,--that the house burst forth into a very whirlwind of approbation. "what now?" was the cry in the green-room. the answer was, that the presence and the power of the genius were acknowledged with an enthusiasm which shook the very roof. how so select an audience contrived to raise such a roar of exultation, was a permanent perplexity to billy oxberry. they who had seen stephen kemble's shylock, and that of huddart, this season, must have by this time confessed that the new actor had superseded both. he must himself have felt, that if he had not yet surpassed cooke, and henderson, and macklin, he was tending that way; and was already their equal. whatever he felt, he remained reserved and solitary; but he was now sought after. raymond, the acting manager, who had haughtily told him his innovations "would not do," came to offer him oranges. arnold, the stage manager, who had _young-manned_ him, came to present him, "sir!" with some negus. kean cared for nothing more now, than for his fourth and last act; and in that his triumph culminated. his calm demeanour at first; his confident appeal to justice; his deafness, when appeal is made to him for mercy; his steady joyousness, when the young lawyer recognises the validity of the bond; his burst of exultation, when his right is confessed; his fiendish eagerness, when whetting the knife:--and then, the sudden collapse of disappointment and terror, with the words,--"is _that_--the law?"--in all was made manifest, that a noble successor to the noblest of the actors of old had arisen. then, his trembling anxiety to recover what he had before refused; his sordid abjectness, as he finds himself foiled, at every turn; his subdued fury; and, at the last (and it was always the crowning glory of his acting in this play), the withering sneer, hardly concealing the crushed heart, with which he replied to the jibes of gratiano, as he left the court,--all raised a new sensation in an audience, who acknowledged it in a perfect tumult of acclamation. as he passed to his dressing-room, raymond saluted him with the confession, that he had made a hit; pope, more generous, avowed that he had saved the house from ruin. and then, while bannister was dashing through dick, in the "apprentice," i seem to see the hero of the night staggering home through the snow, drunk with delicious ecstasy, all his brightest dreams realised, and all his good impulses surging within him. he may be in a sort of frenzy, as he tells of his proud achievement; but, at its very wildest, he exclaims: "mary, you shall ride in your carriage yet!" and, taking his son charles from the cradle, swears he "shall go to eton;" but therewith something overshadows his joy, and he murmurs, "if howard had but lived to see it!" that poor wife and mother must have enjoyed, on that eventful night, the very brightest of the few gleams of sunshine that fell upon her early, hapless life. thenceforth, there was never to be misery or sorrow in that household again! poor lady! she did not, perhaps, remember that edmund had said, "_if_ i succeed,--it will drive me mad!" but not yet: all was triumph for awhile; and worthily it was won. his audiences rose, from one of a £ to audiences of £ ; and £ a week rewarded efforts, for far less than which he subsequently received £ a night. he was advanced to the dignity of having a dressing-room to himself. legislators, poets, nobles, thronged his tiring-room, where arnold took as much care of him, as if on his life hung more than the well-being of the theatre. friends flocked to him, as they are wont to do, where there is an opportunity of basking in pleasant sunshine, imparted by genius. and old nance carey turned up, to exact £ a year from her not too delighted son, and to introduce a henry darnley, who _would_ call edmund, "dear brother!" some years later, in , moore was talking with mrs. kean of this critical period in edmund's career. the poet suggested, that some memorial of his first appearance should be preserved. "oh!" exclaimed mrs. kean; "will you write his life? you shall have half the profits;" adding, as she probably remembered the dark time which had come upon her since the sunshine,--"if you will only give me a little." but success was not to be considered as achieved, by playing one character supremely well. kean had, in the general memory, shaken macklin from his supremacy in shylock. he was now summoned to show himself worthy of being the successor of garrick,--by acting richard iii. a few nights before he played that part, it was performed at covent garden, by john kemble; and a short time after kean had triumphed, it was personated by young; but kemble could not prevent, nor young impede, the triumph of the new actor, who now made richard his own, as he had previously done with shylock. his richard settled his position with the critics; and the criticism to which he was subjected was, for the most part, admirably and impartially written. he is sometimes spoken of as "this young man;" at others, "this young gentleman." "even cooke's performance," says one, "was left at an immeasurable distance." a second adds, "it was the most perfect performance of any that has been witnessed since the days of garrick." of the grand effects followed by a storm of applause, a third writes that "electricity itself was never more instantaneous in its operation." they are, however, occasionally hypercritical. the able critic of the _morning chronicle_ objected that in the young man's richard "too great reliance was placed on the expression of the countenance, which is a language intelligible only to a part of the house;" and a contemporary thought that when the young gentleman, as richard, crossed his hands behind his back, during his familiar colloquy with buckingham, the action was altogether _too natural_! others point to attitudes which titian might have painted. such use of eye, and lip, and muscle, had never had anything comparable to it since the best days of garrick. even sylvanus urban aroused himself, and declared, that mr. kean's success had given new interest to the biography of richard iii. indeed, this second glory was greater than the first, for the difficulties were greater, and they were all surmounted. joyous and sarcastic in the opening soliloquy; devilish, as he passed his bright sword through the still breathing body of lancaster; audaciously hypocritical, and almost too exulting, in the wooing of lady anne; cruelly kind to the young princes, his eye smiling while his foot seemed restless to crush the two spiders that so vexed his heart;--in representing all this there was an originality and a nature which were entirely new to the delighted audience. then they seemed to behold altogether a new man revealed to them, in the first words uttered by him from the throne.--"stand all apart!" from which period to the last struggle with richmond, there was an uninterrupted succession of beauties; even in the bye-play he found means to extort applause, and a graceful attitude, an almost silent chuckle, a significant glance,--even so commonplace a phrase as "good night, my lords," uttered before the battle of the morrow, were responded to by acclamations such as are awarded to none but the great masters of the art. the triumph was accumulative, and it was crowned by the tent-scene, the battle, and the death. probably no actor ever even approached kean in the last two incidents. he fenced with consummate grace and skill; and fought with an energy that seemed a fierce reality. rae had sneered at the "little man," but rae now felt bound to be civil to the great tragedian, and referring to the passage of arms in "richard iii.," he, having to play richmond, asked, "where shall i hit you, sir, to-night?" "where you can, sir," answered kean; and he kept richmond off, in that famous struggle, till rae's sword-arm was weary with making passes. his attempt to "collar" richmond when his own sword had fallen from him was so doubtful in taste that he subsequently abandoned it;[ ] but in the faint, yet deadly-meant passes, which he made with his swordless arm, after he had received his death-blow, there was the conception of a great artist; and there died with him a malignity which mortal man had never before so terribly pourtrayed. young, in his dying scene of richard used to fling his sword at richmond, a trick which the critics very properly denounced. they who said that mr. kean's figure and voice were against him, unconsciously exalted the genius which had triumphed over the difficulties of shakspeare and cibber's richard. they who accepted rather than rejoiced in his triumph, called him "the fortunate actor!" they did not know that under slavery, starvation, and every disadvantage but despair, kean had silently and solitarily studied these characters, and had come to conclusions which he hoped would enable him to achieve a success which, _if_ accomplished, he was, after all, afraid would drive him mad. at this time, , moore speaks of "poor mr. kean," as being "in the honeymoon of criticism;" and then the bard speaks disrespectfully of the critics. "next to the pleasure," he says, "of crying a man down, your critics enjoy the vanity of writing him up; but when once up, and fixed there, he is a mark for their arrows ever after." his other characters this season were hamlet, when to john bannister was assigned the first of the two grave-diggers, whom he had restored to the stage from which they had been abolished by garrick; othello, to the iago of pope; and iago, to the othello of sowerby, pope, rae, and elliston; miss smith, who refused to play the queen, in "richard," being his desdemona. he also acted luke, in "riches" ("city madam"), to the lacy of wallack; and the lady traffic of mrs. edwin. of these, he was always inclined to think hamlet his best character. he had, perhaps, studied it more deeply than the others, and mrs. garrick took such especial interest in his representation of it, that on comparing it with her husband's, she saw only one great defect,--in the closet scene. garrick was severer with the queen of denmark than kean, and mrs. garrick persuaded him, though unconvinced by her, to throw more sternness into this celebrated scene. the good old lady merited _some_, yet not _such_ concession; but then she invited kean to adelphi terrace, and sent him fruit from hampton, and made him a present of garrick's stage-jewels. the young man was in a fair way of being spoiled, as pope said of garrick, when thinking of the laborious, but splendid time of his friend and favourite, betterton. tenderness to ophelia, affection for his mother, reverential awe of his father, and a fixed resolution to fulfil the mission confided to him by that father, were the distinct "motives," so to speak, of his hamlet. the critics especially dwell on the tender vibration of his voice when uttering the word "father" to the ghost; they approve of his sinking on one knee before the solemn spirit, and they are lost in admiration of his original action when, instead of keeping the ghost off with his sword, when he bids it, "go on," he pointed it back at his friends to deter them from preventing his following the visionary figure. this, and another original point, have become stage-property. i allude to the scene in which he seems to deal so harshly with ophelia. at the close of it, kean used to return from the very extremity of the stage, take ophelia's hand, kiss it with a tender rapture, look mournfully loving upon her, with eyes full of beautiful significance, and then rush off. the effect never failed, and the approbation was tumultuous. gracefully and earnestly as his hamlet[ ] was played, it yielded in attractiveness to his othello, which despite some little exaggeration of action, when told to beware of jealousy, was, perhaps, the greatest of his achievements. in the tender scenes, and love for desdemona was above all other passion, even when for love he jealously slew her, he had as much power over his "bad voice," as his adversaries called it, as john kemble over his asthmatic cough, and attuned it to the tenderness to which he had to give expression. in the fiercer scenes he was unsurpassable, and in the great third act none who remember him will, i think, be prepared to allow that he ever had, or is ever likely to have, an equal. john kemble himself said of kean's othello:--"if the justness of its conception had been but equal to the brilliancy of execution it would have been perfect; but," added the older actor, with some sense, perhaps, of being disturbed by the younger player, "the whole thing is a mistake; the fact being that othello was a slow man,"--to be moved, he was; but being moved, swift and terrible in moving to consequent purpose. iago, curiously enough, was not so welcome a part to kean as othello. its characteristic was the concealment of his hypocrisy, and in the delineation of such a part kean was usually unrivalled. some of his admirers considered his iago as fine as his richard, but he never played the two with equal care and equal success. on the other hand, he was pleased with the strong _oppositions_ in the character of luke, but his audiences were not satisfied in the same degree, and it fell out of his repertory. he of course thought them in the wrong; lamented on the few competent judges of acting, and limited these to lawyers, doctors, artists, critics, and literary men. he was then the (often unwilling) guest of noblemen who, i doubt not, were excellent judges too; but kean thought otherwise: "they talk a great deal," he said, "of what i don't understand,"--politics, and equally abstruse matters; "but when it comes to plays, they talk such nonsense!" i am not about to follow this actor through his score of seasons, but as a sample of his value to the treasury of drury lane, at this time, and therefore to the stage, i may just make record of the fact that in this first season, he played shylock fifteen times, richard twenty-five, hamlet eight, othello ten, iago eight, and luke four; and that in those seventy nights, the delighted treasurer of drury lane struck a balance of profit to the theatre, amounting in round numbers to £ , .[ ] previous to the appearance granted to him so tardily, there had been one hundred and thirty-nine nights of continual loss. mr. whitbread, a proprietor, might well say of him that "he was one of those prodigies that occur only once or twice in a century." in this same season, kemble stood his ground against kean in the one character played by both--hamlet; but two new actors--tall, earnest, handsome, but ungainly conway, from dublin, and terry, from edinburgh--only took a respectable position. the othello of the first, and the shylock of the second, were never heard of after kean had played and made them his own. in kean's second season, he added to his other characters, macbeth, which had some magnificent points, but in which kemble had personal advantages over him: romeo, which continues the traditional glory of barry; reuben glenroy and penruddock, in neither of which he equalled kemble; zanga, played in a style which made the fame of mossop pale, and shook young and kemble from an old possession; richard ii., in an adaptation by merivale,[ ] acted with a new grace to the expression of melancholy; abel drugger, concerning which he answered the legendary--"i know it," to the "you can't play it," of mrs. garrick; leon, performed with moderate success, and octavian, with rare sweetness, but not with such rare ability as to make john kemble uneasy. kean also acted his first original character, egbert, in the tragedy of that name,[ ] by mrs. wilmot. his prestige suffered a little in consequence, for egbert was condemned on the first night. he had compensation enough in zanga. as one who stood among the crowd in the pit passage heard a shout and clamour of approbation within, he asked if zanga had not just previously said, "then lose her!" for that phrase, in the country, when uttered by kean, used to make the walls shake; and he was answered that it was so. i remember having read that some one was with southey, when the "revenge" was played, and that when zanga consummated his vengeance in the words, "know then 'twas i"--lifting up his arms, as he spoke, over the fainting alonzo, and seeming to fill the theatre--the same image was simultaneously presented to the minds of the two friends. "he looks like michael angelo's rebellious archangel!" thought one. "he looks like the arch-fiend himself," said the other.[ ] covent garden struggled nobly, with its old and strong company, against the single power of kean at the other house; but found its best ally in a new actress. on the th of october ,[ ] miss o'neill made her first appearance in belvidera. it is not my intention to do more than record the names of the players who made their _début_ after the coming of edmund kean, but there is something so singular in the lucky chance which led to miss o'neill's well-merited fortune, that i venture to tell it in the words of michael kelly.[ ] let me first remark that, no doubt, some of us are old enough to have seen, as many of us have heard, of miss walstein, that "sort of crow street bonaparte," who struggled so bravely, though so briefly, at drury lane against miss o'neill, when the latter carried the town by her superior charms and talents. miss o'neill was furnished by her undoubtedly great rival with the means of supplanting her. had not walstein been arrogant, the famous juliet of our infantine days might never have sighed on the covent garden balcony. her first step, however, was made on the stage at crow street, and miss walstein unwittingly helped her to obtain a secure footing. the story is thus told by garrulous mike kelly:--"miss walstein, who was the heroine of the dublin stage, and a great and deserved favourite, was to open the theatre in the character of juliet. mr. jones received an intimation from miss walstein that without a certain increase of salary, and other privileges, she would not come to the house. mr. jones had arrived at the determination to shut up his theatre sooner than submit to what he thought an unwarrantable demand, when mac nally, the box-keeper, who had been the bearer of miss walstein's message, told mr. jones that it would be a pity to shut up the house; that there was a remedy if mr. jones chose to avail himself of it. 'the girl, sir,' said he, 'who has been so often recommended to you as a promising actress, is now at an hotel in dublin with her father and brother, where they have just arrived, and is proceeding to drogheda, to act at her father's theatre there. i have heard it said by persons who have seen her, that she plays juliet extremely well, and is very young and very pretty. i am sure that she would be delighted to have the opportunity of appearing before a dublin audience, and if you please i will make her the proposal.' the proposal was made, and accepted; and on the following saturday, 'the girl,' who was miss o'neill, made her _début_ on the dublin stage as juliet.[ ] the audience was delighted; she acted the part several nights, and mr. jones offered her father and brother engagements on very liberal terms, which were thankfully accepted. in dublin," adds kelly, "she was not only a great favourite in tragedy, but also in many parts of genteel comedy. i have there seen her play letitia hardy; she danced very gracefully, and introduced my song, 'in the rough blast heave the billows,' originally sung by mrs. jordan, at drury lane, which she sang so well as to produce a general call for its repetition from the audience. she was in private life highly esteemed for her many good qualities. her engagement in dublin wafted miss walstein from dublin, where she had been for many years the heroine of crow street, to drury lane, where she made her appearance as calista, in 'the fair penitent,' on the th november , but only remained one season." it would seem as if drury lane were weary by this time of its success, for early in - that excellent actor, dowton, who disliked seeing kean's name in large type, tried to extinguish him by playing shylock! the kentish baker's son could play sheva and cantwell, and many other parts admirably; but shylock!--no, let us pass to more equal adversaries; in a contest between whom, kean did fairly extinguish his antagonist. in this season kean acted all his old and many new parts, among the latter, shakspeare's richard ii.,[ ] bajazet, duke aranza (in which elliston had the better of him), goswin ("beggars' bush"), sir giles overreach, and sforza. among these, sir giles stands pre-eminent for its perfectness, from the first words, "still cloistered up," to the last convulsive breath drawn by him in that famous _one_ scene of the fifth act, in which, through his terrible intensity, he once made so experienced an actress as mrs. glover faint away,--not at all out of flattery, but from emotion. now, sir giles had been one of kemble's weaknesses; and he affected it as he might have done coriolanus. he had played it since mr. kean had come to london, but as no comparison could be drawn, his performance was accepted, as even an indifferent but honest effort by a great artist deserves to be. but after edmund kean had added another rose to his chaplet, by his marvellous impersonation of sir giles, kemble played it again, as if to challenge comparison. i am sorry to say it, but john kemble was hissed! no! it was his sir giles that was hissed. two nights later he acted coriolanus, the merits of which were acknowledged with enthusiasm by his audience. but he never ventured on sir giles again! in this last character, all the qualities of kean's voice came out to wonderful purpose, especially in the scene where lovel asks him, "are you not moved with the sad imprecations and curses of whole families, made wretched by your sinister practices?" to which sir giles replies:-- "yes, as rocks are when foamy billows split themselves against their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved when wolves with hunger pined, howl at her brightness." i seem still to hear the words and the voice as i pen this passage; now composed, now grand as the foamy billows; so flute-like on the word "moon," creating a scene with the sound; and anon sharp, harsh, fierce in the last line, with a look upward from those matchless eyes, that rendered the troop visible, and their howl perceptible to the ear;--the whole serenity of the man, and the solidity of his temper, being illustrated less by the assurance in the succeeding words than by the exquisite music in the tone with which he uttered the word "brightness." it was on the night he played sir giles for the first time in london, that mrs. kean, who seems to have been too nervous to witness his new essays, asked him what that hanger-on at the theatres, lord essex, had thought of it. you know the jubilant reply:--"d---- lord essex, mary! the pit rose at me!" but to sir giles were not confined kean's triumphs of this year. he created the part of bertram, in maturin's tragedy of that name; and he alone stands associated with the part. it suited him admirably,--for it is full of passion, pathos, wild love, and tenderness. one great point made by the actor (whose imogine was miss somerville, afterwards mrs. bunn) was in the exquisite delivery of the words, "god bless the child!" they have made many a tear to flow, and he acquired the necessary pathos and power by first repeating them at home, while he looked on his sleeping boy; and i do not know a prettier incident in the life of this impulsive actor. would there were more of them! in the season of - john kemble withdrew, full of honours, though his laurels had been a little shaken. as opponents to the now well-established actor at drury lane, two gentlemen were brought forward, mr. macready, from dublin, and mr. junius booth, from worthing. the former is the son of the respectable actor and dramatic author, whose abandonment of upholstery, in dublin, did something towards giving to the stage the son who long refined and adorned it. mr. macready made all the more progress by not coming in contrast, or comparison with kean. he was of the kemble school, but with ideas of his own, and he made his way to fame, independently. but booth was so perfectly of the kean school that his richard appeared to be as good as his master's. indeed, some thought it better. whereupon, kean counselled the drury lane management to bring him over to that theatre. it was done. they played in othello,--the moor, by kean; iago, by booth. the contact was fatal to the latter. he fell ingloriously, even as a mr. cobham had done before him in an audacious attempt on richard; but both gentlemen became heroes to transpontine audiences. kean's other achievements this season were his fine interpretation of timon, after shakspeare's text, "with no other omissions than such as the refinement of manners has rendered necessary;" his creation of maturin's "manuel," and his last triumph over kemble, in doing what the latter had failed to do, stirring the souls, raising the terror, and winning the sympathy of his audience by one of the most finished of his impersonations,--sir edward mortimer. oroonoko, selim, and paul were the other characters newly essayed by him during this season. the last two were for his benefit,[ ] and therewith he closed a season,--the last very fruitful in great triumphs, but not the first in the chronicle of his decline. he was now the oft-invited guest of people with whom he did not particularly care to associate. moore chronicles his name as one of the guests with lord petersham, lord nugent, the hon. william spencer, colonel berkeley, and moore, at an "odd dinner," given by horace twiss, in chancery lane, in , in "a borrowed room, with champagne, pewter spoons, and old lady cork." lord byron was reluctant to believe in him, but after seeing him in richard, he presented the actor with a sword, and a box adorned by a richly-chased boar-hunt; when lord byron had seen his sir giles, he sent to the player a valuable damascus blade. his compliments, at kean's benefit, took the shape of a fifty-pound note; and he once invited him to dinner, which kean left early, that he might take the chair at some pugilistic supper! [illustration: mr. weston as dr. last.] footnotes: [ ] henry carey hanged himself. i am not aware that his son committed suicide. [ ] "i was born in the year , and if anybody asks you who was my mother, say miss tidswell, the actress; my father was the late duke of norfolk, whom they called _jockey_. i am not the son of moses kean, the mimic, nor of his brother, as some people are pleased to assert, though i bear the same name. i had the honour of being brought up at arundel castle till i was seven years old, and there they sometimes, i do not know why, called me _duncan_! after i quitted arundel castle, i was soon put upon the stage by my mother. the very first part in which i appeared was the robber's boy in the 'iron chest,' when it was originally brought out at drury lane in .... i was at arundel castle a few years ago, and, as i showed to the people who had charge of it, i knew every room, passage, winding and turning in it. in one of the large apartments hung a portrait of the old duke of norfolk, and the man who was with me said, 'you are very like the old duke, sir.' and well he might. i am his son!" the above is said to have been taken down from kean's words by a gentleman who showed it to payne collier. kean named his first boy _howard_, in support of the norfolk legend.--_doran ms._ [ ] miss tidswell gives the date as th march ; but there can be little doubt that is the correct year. [ ] in _notes and queries_, th series, iii. ; kean's real name is said to have been carter.--_doran ms._ [ ] at stroud, in gloucestershire, july , . the bride and her sister susan, witness, wrote their names chambres.--_doran ms._ [ ] th of january (second edition). [ ] dyce called him "a pot-house richard."--_doran ms._ [ ] when rae played hamlet in , at the haymarket, kean was his rosencrantz.--_doran ms._ [ ] there is a cipher too many here. in the d edition the sum is given as £ , . barry cornwall says, "upwards of £ , ." [ ] the adaptation was by wroughton. [ ] the name of the tragedy was "ina." [ ] barry cornwall relates a precisely similar circumstance, to which dr. doran probably refers. [ ] miss o'neill played juliet on the th october (corrected in d edition). [ ] miss o'neill (lady becher) died th october , aged . [ ] after miss o'neill married becher and left the stage, she affected not even to know at what time the play began, and once, when some one quoted a line from one of her popular parts, she pretended not to know from whence it came. so says payne collier, but i know she went to see kate terry's juliet, and that she sent to her the praise of "one who had played juliet."--_doran ms._ [ ] i see no reason to suppose that it was not wroughton's alteration that was performed this season also. [ ] he played achmet and paul for his benefit. he played eustace de st. pierre ("surrender of calais") for the first time during this season. [illustration: j. b. booth.] chapter xvi. edmund kean--continued. between the last-named period, and the time when edmund kean played virginius, there is but one character in which he produced any extraordinary effect, namely king lear. this sustained, but i do not think it increased, his glory. his other characters only seem to glide past, and disappear. such are richard, duke of york, in a compilation from several of shakspeare's plays; barabas, in marlowe's "jew of malta," the heaviness of which he relieved by a song, sweetly warbled; selim, in dimond's melodramatic "bride of abydos;" young norval, in which he was graceful and affecting; king john, which did not disturb the repose of kemble; and alexander the great, which could as little stir the dead sleep of verbruggen. something more effective was his brutus, in payne's compilation. the scene of his simulated folly was skilfully played; that with the son whom he condemns to death, full of tenderness and gravity. he could not sustain miss porter's "switzerland," and he would not support mr. bucke's "italians." soane literally measured him for malvesi, in the "dwarf of naples," and misfitted him grievously. mr. twiss had no better success with the "carib chief," in which kean played omreah; and my recollections of his rolla are not so agreeable as those which i have of young, and even wallack. well do i remember his coriolanus, for which he was physically unfitted; but only a great actor could have played the scene of the candidateship, and that of the death, as kean did--who, however, gave more pleasure to the followers of the kemble school by this performance, than he did to his own. he made up for all, by the grandeur, the touchingness, and the sublimity of his king lear. it was throughout thoroughly original in conception and in execution, and by it he maintained his pre-eminency, and sustained, as i have said, without increasing his old glory. he did not quite realise his own assertion: "i will make the audience as mad as i shall be." his laurels were menaced. frederick yates came from the camp, and flashed a promise in tragedy which moved the hearts of playgoers, who saw his later devotion to comedy with early regret, but an ultimate delight. mr. macready was steadily rising from melodrama to the highest walks of tragedy, and his golden opportunity came in virginius. hitherto, kean had been shaking the secondary actors of the old kemble type into fits of jealousy, fear, disgust, and admiration. expressly for him did knowles write the "virginius," which gave a lasting celebrity to mr. macready. already, however, had a play on the subject, by soane, been accepted at drury lane, and in the roman father kean was for the first time designedly opposed to the younger actor, he utterly failed; while mr. macready, in the part written expressly, and by an able hand, for kean, won a noble victory. kean might have said as the captured french marshal said to marlborough:--"change sides with me, and i'll fight it out again, to a very different issue." a range through his principal parts, and a running salute of thundering puffs on the part of elliston, heralded his visit to america in . he played at liverpool before embarking, and like george frederick cooke, had a hit at the audience before he left them. they were the coldest people, he said, in whose presence he had ever acted. that was true: but though liverpool was chary of approbation, it had applauded ungrateful edmund more cordially than any other actor. from his first trip to america he brought back much solid gold, a detestation of the boston people, who would not patronise the theatre at an unfashionable season of the year, and one of the toe-bones of cooke, over whose translated and mutilated remains he raised the monument of which i have already spoken. some ill-health he brought back with him too; but he rallied, drank, relapsed, and struggled into strength again. it was wasted on miss baillie's "de montfort;" though parts of this were played in his grandest style. he seemed conscious that something was expected of him by the public, and he flung himself, as it were, at everything. he played hastings to the jane shore of a miss edmiston--whose success was predicted by aristocratic poets, and who is now, i believe, painfully "strolling." with sir pertinax he did not move the dead macklin as his shylock may have done; though it was better played, save in the accent, than any living actor could have played it. his osmond gave some dignity to the "castle spectre," and his wolsey but little to "henry viii." for miss tidswell's farewell benefit, after forty years of useful subalternship, he attempted don felix. he would have done more for her had he been asked; for in his breadless, boyish days, she had beaten, taught, fed, and clothed him--till nance carey claimed him for her own, and stole _all_ his earnings. edmund's good impulses made him fail in affection to this parent. thinking of miss tidswell, he used to say--"if she wasn't my mother, why was she kind to me?" for his own benefit, in this season of - , he played the roman actor, octavian, and tom tug--the songs in which last part he sang with great feeling. the whole proceeds of this benefit he gave to the fund for the starving irish. it was not exactly like mrs. haller's charity, who gives her master's wine to the sick poor; but, that virtue, which is said to begin at home, might have sent the amount in a different direction.[ ] in november he played out the first of his two great struggles with young at drury lane. since quin and garrick, or garrick and barry, no conjunction of great names moved the theatrical world like this. both men put out all their powers, and the public profited by the magnificent display. kean and young acted together othello and iago, lothair and guiscard, jaffier and pierre, alexander and clytus, posthumus and iachimo, eliciting enthusiasm by all, but by none so much as by othello and iago. the two great wrestlers won equal honour; but that was not enough for one of them. "how long, sir," said kean to elliston, the manager, "how long am i to play with that--_jesuit_, young?" certainly, if he feared competition with experienced actors, kean was very encouraging to beginners. "you are the best iago i ever played to," he once remarked to an earnest, youthful gentleman at edinburgh. the latter smiled; and kean asked him _wherefore_? "because, sir," was the answer, "i know of seven poor iagos, to whom you have kindly said the same thing!" in a revival of _shakspeare's_ "king lear," kean showed good taste, sublime acting, and an appreciation of opportunity for self-distinction. he was not always equally in the vein, but on some nights he excelled all he had done before. genest says, that "his personal appearance was better than kemble's or young's, and his manner more natural. in the mad scenes he seemed to copy murphy's account of garrick." the only drawback i have heard of to this noble, and last of his noble and complete performances was, that he was neither tall enough nor strong enough to carry off the body of cordelia (mrs. w. west). he might have begun a fresh career, however, from this new starting-point, had he been so minded. but this success did not brace him to new effort, except a quietly ineffectual one to make the world forget the stranger of john kemble. his failing strength was probably the chief cause of his avoiding or refusing to appear in the same piece with mr. macready, of whom he rather rudely remarked--"he is no actor, sir; he is a player!" but the satirist himself was fast ceasing to be either. he had never recovered from the madness which he prophesied would follow his success in london. gradually he lost all self-control, plunged into terrible excesses, courted rather than fell into evil company, took tribute, indeed, most willingly of the noble and intellectual who heaped rich gifts upon him, but he scorned or feared their society. he affected to feel that they invited him simply to stare at him, and that they would have despised him as a poor actor. he had not common sense enough to see that when the noble and intellectual opened their doors to him they rendered graceful homage to his genius,--and i have heard that where he _did_ accept such homage, and was himself subdued to the refinements of the society where it was liberally, yet delicately rendered, his easy bearing was that of a man who had not lost his self-respect, and his manners and conversation emphatically "charming." but this was under restraint, and to be thus "charming" was irksome to edmund kean; by this time it had become almost impossible, and he could charm only those on whom the magic was not worth expending. he had not broken his word to his wife--that she should ride in her carriage, nor to his son--that he should go to eton,--but he had not made the first happier, nor the second the more attached to him. his home, indeed, was broken up, and in the season of - , after failing in the poor melodramatic part of masaniello, came out the great scandal--that he loved his neighbour's wife better than his own. all its necessary consequences followed,--a fierce, an almost ruffianly hostility on the part of his audiences, damage to his fortune, and irretrievable ruin to his reputation.[ ] reckless and defiant as he was, he was glad to endure exile, for such was his voyage to, and sojourn in, america during this and the following year. let me notice that he bore himself in presence of a cruel audience, with an almost ferocious courage. his pride was greater than his humiliation. as at drury, he applied every strong epithet in his part to the howling pit, so, when running his erratic course through the minor theatres, he could treat audiences that were ignorant, as well as insolent, with strong terms and lofty contempt. he had one night played othello to a "coburg" public. iago was acted by cobham, the performer who had once vainly attempted to dethrone him, by acting richard at covent garden, to a house, however, which would not listen to him to the end. the new-cut costermongers adopted him; they applauded him, on this particular night, more than they did the great kean, who received £ for condescending to exhibit himself in othello. nevertheless, at the fall of the curtain, there was such an uproar in front, apparently a call for kean, that he came slowly forward, and bluntly asked, "what do you want?" a thousand voices answered, "you! you!" well, said kean, after a slight peroration, "i have played in every civilised country where english is the language of the people; but i never acted to an audience of such unmitigated brutes as you are!" he walked slowly off as cobham, to a shout for him from the sweet voices of his lambeth-marsh patrons, rushed on the stage, proud and radiant, to tell edmund's "unmitigated brutes" that they were the most enlightened and liberal audience that had ever sat as judges of acting, and that the happiest night of his life was that on which he had the opportunity of telling his friends and admirers that incontrovertible truth. a cry that might have been heard across st. george's fields proclaimed him to be "a trump!"--and cobham won the honours of the night! kean, as before recorded, betook himself again to america. since his previous visit to the northern states he was greatly changed; but that the seeds of insanity were in him at the earlier period, a passage from dr. francis's _old new york_ will mournfully show. some hospitable friends exerted themselves to render his earlier stay agreeable, and this is an incident of the time--one out of many:-- "a few days after, we made the desired visit at bloomingdale. kean, with an additional friend and myself, occupied the carriage for a sort of philosophical exploration of the city on our way there. on the excursion he remarked, he should like to see our vauxhall; we stopped, he entered the gate, asked the doorkeeper if he might survey the place, gave a double somerset through the air, and in the twinkling of an eye stood at the remote part of the garden. the wonder of the superintendent can be better imagined than described. arriving at the asylum, with suitable gravity he was introduced to the officials, invited to an inspection of the afflicted inmates, and then told if he would ascend to the roof of the building a delightful prospect would be presented to his contemplation; many counties, and an area of sea, rivers, and lands, mountains, and valleys, embracing a circuit of forty miles in circumference. his admiration was expressed in delirious accents:--'i'll walk the ridge of the roof of the asylum,' he exclaimed, 'and take a leap! it's the best end i can make to my life;' and forthwith started for the western gable end of the building. my associate and myself as he hurried forward seized him by the arms, and he submissively returned. i have ever been at a loss to account for this sudden freak in his feelings; he was buoyant at the onset of the journey; he astonished the vauxhall doorkeeper by his harlequin trick, and took an interest in the various forms of insanity which came before him. he might have become too sublimated in his feelings, or had his senses unsettled (for he was an electrical apparatus) in contemplating the mysterious influences acting on the minds of the deranged, for there is an attractive principle, as well as an adhesive principle, in madness; or a crowd of thoughts might have oppressed him, arising from the disaster which had occurred to him a few days before with the boston audience, and the irreparable loss he had sustained in the plunder of his trunk and valuable papers, while journeying hither and thither on his return to new york. we rejoiced together, however, when we found him again safely at home at his old lodgings at the city hotel." that the fit had not decreased by lapse of time, another extract from the same volume will amply demonstrate. kean was not so satisfied with the success he achieved professionally, as he was of a visit to an indian tribe who had enrolled him among their chiefs. it was a freak which he took seriously, as will be seen by what follows:-- "towards the close of his second visit to america, kean made a tour through the northern part of the state, and visited canada; he fell in with the indians, with whom he became delighted, and was chosen a chief of a tribe. some time after, not aware of his return to the city, i received at a late hour of the evening a call to wait upon an indian chief, by the name of alantenaida, as the highly finished card left at my house had it. kean's ordinary card was _edmund kean_, engraved; he generally wrote beneath, '_integer vitæ scelerisque purus._' i repaired to the hotel, and was conducted upstairs to the folding-doors of the hall, where the servant left me. i entered, aided by the feeble light of the room; but at the remote end i soon perceived something like a forest of evergreens, lighted up by many rays from floor-lamps, and surrounded by a stage or throne; and seated in great state was the chief. i advanced, and a more terrific warrior i never surveyed. red jacket or black hawk was an unadorned simple personage in comparison. full dressed, with skins tagged loosely about his person, a broad collar of bear-skin over his shoulders, his leggings with many stripes, garnished with porcupine quills; his moccasins decorated with beads, his head decked with the war-eagle's plumes, behind which flowed massive black locks of dishevelled horse-hair, golden-coloured rings pendant from the nose and ears, streaks of yellow paint over the face, massive red daubings about the eyes, with various lines in streaks about the forehead, not very artistically drawn. a broad belt surrounded his waist, with tomahawk; his arms with shining bracelets, stretched out with bow and arrow, as if ready for a mark. he descended his throne, and rapidly approached me. his eye was meteoric and fearful, like the furnace of the cyclops. he vociferously exclaimed, alantenaida, the vowels strong enough. i was relieved, he betrayed something of his raucous voice in imprecation. it was kean. an explanation took place. he wished to know the merits of the representation. the hurons had honoured him by admission into their tribe, and he could not now determine whether to seek his final earthly abode with them, for real happiness, or return to london and add renown to his name by performing the son of the forest. i never heard that he ever after attempted in his own country the character. he was wrought up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm at the indian honour he had received, and declared that even old drury had never conferred so proud a distinction on him as he had received from the hurons." i shall not soon forget that january night of , on which he reappeared at drury lane, in shylock. a rush so fearful, an audience so packed, a reconciliation so complete, acting so faultless, and a dramatic enjoyment so exquisite, i never experienced. nothing was heeded,--indeed, the scenes were passed over, till shylock was to appear; and i have heard no such shout since, as that which greeted him. fire, strength, beauty;--every quality of the actor seemed to have acquired fresh life. it was all deceptive, however. the actor was all but extinguished, after this convulsive, but seemingly natural effort. he lay in bed at the hummums' hotel, all day, amusing himself melancholily with his indian gewgaws, and striving to find a healthy tonic in "cognac." while immolating himself, he still clung to a hope of rescue; and he strove to create one more new character, ben nazir, in mr. colley grattan's tragedy of that name. his power of memory was gone; but he had a fatuitous idea that he had mastered his part, and this is how he figured in it, as told by the author of that hapless drama, himself. the picture has been often exhibited; but it must needs be looked upon once more:-- "he did at length appear. the intention of the author, and the keeping of the character, required him to rush rapidly on the stage, giving utterance to a burst of joyous soliloquy. what was my astonishment, to see him, as the scene opened, standing in the centre of the stage, his arms crossed, and his whole attitude one of thoughtful solemnity. his dress was splendid; and thunders of applause greeted him from all parts of the house. to display the one, and give time for the other, were the objects for which he stood fixed for several minutes, and sacrificed the sense of the situation. he spoke; but what a speech! the one i wrote, consisted of eight or nine lines; _his_, was of two or three _sentences_,--but not six consecutive words of the text. his look, his manner, his tone, were to _me_ quite appalling; to any other observer, they must have been incomprehensible. he stood fixed; drawled out his incoherent words, and gave the notion of a man that had been half hanged and then dragged through a horse pond. my heart, i confess it, sank deep in my breast. i was utterly shocked. and as the business of the play went on, and as _he_ stood by, with moveless muscle and glazed eye, throughout the scene which should have been one of violent, perhaps too violent exertion,--a cold shower of perspiration poured from my forehead, and i endured a revulsion of feeling which i cannot describe, and which i would not for worlds one eye had witnessed. i had all along felt that this scene would be the touchstone of the play. kean went through it like a man in the last stage of exhaustion and decay. the act closed; a dead silence followed the fall of the curtain; and i felt, though i could not hear, the voiceless verdict of 'damnation.' ... when the curtain fell, mr. wallack, the stage manager, came forward, and made an apology for kean's imperfection in his part, and an appeal in behalf of the play. neither excited much sympathy; the audience was quite disgusted. i now, for the first time during the night, went behind the scenes. on crossing the stage towards the green-room, i met kean, supported by his servant and another person, going in the direction of his dressing room. when he saw me, he hung down his head, and waved his hand, and uttered some expressions of deep sorrow, and even remorse. 'i have ruined a fine play, and myself; i cannot look you in the face,' were the first words i caught. i said something in return, as cheering and consolatory as i could. i may say, that all sense of my own disappointment was forgotten, in the compassion i felt for him." the descent now was rapid, but it was not made at one leap. penniless, though he might have been lord of "thousands," he caught at an offer to provide for his son by a cadetship; but the son refused to accept the offer--as such acceptation would have exposed his mother to worse than the destitution of her earlier days--before hope of a bright, though closing future, had died away. to lose her son was to lose the best friend she had; for she had none now in her faithless and suicidal husband. edmund kean heard of his son's determination to go on the stage, in order to support his mother, with grim dissatisfaction, and, i should hope, some sense of reproach and abasement. they parted in anger, it is said, as far as the father was concerned; the more angry, perhaps, that in his temporary wrath he cast off the son whom he, in his heart, must have respected. consequently, the season of - , at drury lane and covent garden, had a singular incident to mark them;--the struggle of the son to rise, at the former; the struggle of the father not to fall, at the latter. mr. charles kean opened the season, in norval. mr. cole, in his biography of the son, quotes a letter, written by a friend of the father, to the latter, in which the writer, who watched the attempt, remarks:--"the speech, 'my name is norval,' he hurried, and spoke as though he had a cold, or was pressing a finger against his nose." the attempt, in short, was unsuccessful; so had that of many an aspirant been who subsequently reaped triumphs at his will; and mr. charles kean might find consolation. the attempt, at all events, enabled him to fix his foot on the first step of the giddy ascent; and, let it be said, he owed the possibility of doing so entirely to his father's name. so young a man, without a great name, would have found no access to drury open to him; and i like to think, that if he missed the fortune which his half mad, yet kindly impulsive father had promised him, he owed to that father the foundations on which he raised another. he inherited a great name and a great warning. while the son was anxiously and painfully laying those foundations, the sire was absolutely electrifying audiences at covent garden by old flashes of his might, or disappointing them by his incapacity, or his capricious absence. he reminded me of don juan, who, though he went with open eyes recklessly to destruction, flung off the fiends who at last grasped him, with a fearful, but vainly expended energy. on one night, when he played othello to young's iago, the cassio of charles kemble, the roderigo of farley, and the desdemona of miss jarman, i saw strong men clamber from the pit, over the lower boxes, to escape suffocation, and weak men, in a fainting condition, passed by friendly hands towards the air, in the same way. i remember charles kemble, in his lofty, bland way, trying to persuade a too-closely packed audience to fancy themselves comfortable, and to be silent, which they would not be till _he_ appeared, who, on that, and some after nights, could subdue them to silence or stir them into ecstasy, at his will. to those who saw him from the front, there was not a trace of weakening of any power in him. but, oh ye few who stood between the wings where a chair was placed for him, do you not remember the saddening spectacle of that wrecked genius--a man in his very prime, with not merely the attributes of age about him, but with some of the infirmities of it, which are wont to try the heart of love itself. have you forgotten that helpless, speechless, fainting mass bent up in that chair; or the very unsavoury odour of that very brown, very hot, and very strong brandy-and-water, which alone kept alive the once noble moor? aye, and _still_ noble moor; for when his time came, he looked about as from a dream, and sighed, and painfully got to his feet, swayed like a column in an earthquake, and in not more time than is required for the telling of it, was before the audience, as strong and as intellectually beautiful as of old;--but only happy in the applause which gave him a little breathing space, and saved him from falling dead upon the stage. during a few nights of another year or two, he acted under the exacting conditions of a nature that had been violated. he gained a little strength from his island home in bute, and even acted in glasgow, cork, and dublin with his son, in whose success he took a father's part. thrice he essayed fresh study, and once he nearly conquered; his virginius, in knowles's play, was superbly affecting, in fragmentary passages, but he tried it at too late a period, not of his natural life, but of his professional career. richard ii. was magnificently got up for him, but as the curtain was about to rise, it was discovered that he was not in the house--and days passed before he emerged into the world and decency. his last essay in a new part was in "henry v.;" but he broke down, addressed the audience deprecatorily, muttered something about being the representative of shakspeare's heroes, and lamented, at little more than forty, what macklin did not plead till he was past ninety--his decaying memory. now and then the town saw him, but his hold on it was nearly gone. he was now at the haymarket; and then, uncertainly, at drury lane; and again at the haymarket in , where i saw him for the last of many times, in richard. the sight was pitiable. genius was not traceable in that bloated face; intellect was all but quenched in those once matchless eyes; and the power seemed gone, despite the will that would recall it. i noted in a diary, that night, the above facts, and, in addition, that by bursts he was as grand as he had ever been,--that though he looked well as long as he was still, he moved only with difficulty, using his sword as a stick. i find, and perfectly remember, that there was a murmur of approbation at the pause and action of his extended arm, as he said--"in the deep bosom of the ocean,--buried!"--as if he consigned all lowering clouds to the sea. at--"the dogs bark at me, as i halt by them;" the action was so expressive as to elicit a round of applause; and in the last of the lines-- "why what a peevish fool was he of crete, who taught his son the office of a fowl, and yet for all his wings, the fool was drowned," the playful yet fiendish sarcasm was delivered with marvellous effect. his words, after "die, prophet, in thy speech,"--"for this among the rest was i _ordained_," seemed like a devilish joke after a burst of fury. in-- "villains, set down the corse, or by st. paul, i'll make a corse of him that disobeys,"-- his voice was scarcely distinguishable; but his old attitude of leaning at the side scene, as he contemplated lady anne, was as full of grace as ever,--save that the contemplator had now a swollen and unkingly face. then-- "shine out, fair sun, till i have bought a glass, that i may see my shadow as i pass,"-- was sportive in accent as in the very action of saluting; and there was a world of argument and resolution in the delivery of the simple words--"the tower?--_aye_; the tower!" the chuckle at "so much for _buck_ingham!" i always considered wanting in dignity, but it brought a roar of applause. in the scene with the mayor and buckingham, he displayed talent unsurpassable;--the scarcely-subdued triumph that lurked in his eyes, as he refused the crown; his tone in "call him again;" his acceptance of the throne, and his burst of joy, when he had dismissed the petitioners, were perfect in their several ways; but he was exhausted before the fifth act, and when, after a short fight, richmond (cooper) gave him his death-wound in bosworth field, as he seemed to deal the blow, he grasped kean by the hand, and let him gently down, lest he should be injured by a fall. the end was at hand. he could no longer even venture, after the play, to offley's symposium, in henrietta street, covent garden, that lively singing-room, with a window looking into the mouldiest of churchyards,--where, however, slept some noble actors. to and from richmond he occasionally travelled,--a feeble bundle of humanity, that seemed to lie unconsciously in one corner of his carriage. but, i think, conscience was there, too, and rage, and remorse,--that a life had been so wasted, and mighty powers, almost as divine as the poet's, so irretrievably abused. he aroused himself to make his last appearance, as it proved, on the stage, in conjunction with his son, in othello, mr. charles kean playing iago. the night was the th of march . edmund kean was so shattered in frame, that he had scarcely strength to pass over him the dress of the moor; so shattered in nerve, that he dreaded some disaster. brandy gave some little heart to the greatly fallen actor, but he anxiously enjoined his son to be ever near him, in case of some mischance, and he went through the part, dying as he went, till after giving the sweet utterance, as of old, to the celebrated "farewell," ending with "othello's occupation's gone!" he attempted to utter the next speech, and in the attempt fell on his son's shoulder, with a whispered moan, "i am dying,--speak to them for me!" the curtain here descended on him for ever, and the rest was only slow death, with intervals of hope. he, the faithless, and now helpless, husband sent a note, which sounds as a cry of anguish, to that good mary chambers of old, who had had the ill-luck to listen to his wooing. but, having so listened, she would not now be deaf to the wail of the man who said that he had gone wrong in judgment, not in feeling; in head, not in heart, and who cried, "come home; forget and forgive!" she went, and forgave; an angel could not, however, have forgotten all; but she acted as if she had, and the true-hearted young partner of his early miseries was the gentle alleviator of his last sufferings. she stood by him till, on the th of may, death came upon the unconscious man after some old tag of octavian had passed his restless lips, of "_farewell, flo--, floranthe!_" _come home!_ was the dying actor's cry to his wife. dead; there was no home for the widow; for creditors took possession of it, and its contents. to such end had come the humble and hapless wedding of mary chambers and edmund kean at gloucester, the brief glory after long suffering,--sorrow and want at the end as at the beginning; with him, an added shame; with her, uncomplainingness. yes, and consolation. the happiness she lacked with her husband was vouchsafed to her through her son, and the union of the two strolling players at gloucester was thus not altogether barren of good and happy fruits. and over the grave of one of the greatest of actors something may be said in extenuation of his faults. such curse as there can be in a mother's indifference hung about him before his birth. a young huron, of whose tribe he subsequently became a member, could not have lived a more savage,--but certainly enjoyed a more comfortable and better-tended boyhood. edmund kean, from that very time of boyhood, had genius, industry, and ambition,--but, with companionship enough to extinguish the first, lack of reward sufficient to dull the second, and repeated visitations of disappointment that might have warranted the exchange of high hopes for brutal despair,--he nourished his genius, maintained his industry, and kept an undying ambition under circumstances when to do so was a part of heroism. compare his young and hard and blackguard life with the disciplined boyhood of betterton, the early associations of booth, the school career of quin, the decent but modest childhood of macklin, the gentlemanly home of the youth garrick, the bringing up of cooke, and the douay college life of the kembles. kean was trained upon blows, and curses, and starvation, and the charity of strangers. it was enough to make all his temper convert to fury, and any idea of such a young, unnurtured savage ever becoming an inheritor of the mantle worn by the actors i have named, would have seemed a madness even to that mother who soon followed him in death, nance carey. but edmund kean cherished the idea, warm in his bosom, never ceased to qualify himself for the attempt, studied for it while he starved,--and when about to make it, felt and said that success would drive him mad. i believe it did; but whether or not, i can part from _the_ great actor of my young days only with a tender respect. i do not forget the many hours of bright intellectual enjoyment for which i, in common with thousands, was indebted to him, and, in the contemplation of this actor's incomparable genius, i desire to forget the errors of the man. over his remains, in richmond churchyard, a plain tablet arrests the eye. i never look at it without a crowd of memories of the old and brilliant scene he for awhile adorned, nor without thinking of the words of lesingham, in the elizabethan drama:-- "oh! what our wills will do, with over-rash and headlong peevishness, to bring our calm discretion to repentance!" epilogue. i leave the history of the great players who rivalled or succeeded edmund kean, to other chroniclers. they belong--the _great_ players--to a vocation which is next in dignity to that of the poet. in the far off ionian islands, demodocus first inspired his countrymen with that taste for dramatic representation which has overrun the world. five centuries later, thespis invented tragedy; and after seven centuries more had elapsed, and there was a new dispensation upon earth, and heathenism was fiercely fighting out its last struggle with christianity, the stage yielded two of the noblest martyrs to the faith, in the persons of the then renowned actors,--genesius of rome, and gelasinus of heliopolis. looking, recently, at the old patent granted by charles ii. to killigrew and davenant (now in drury lane theatre), i could not help remarking, that the parchment for which so many hundreds of thousands of pounds had been given, was now virtually worthless, save for the superb portrait of charles, within the gigantic initial letter of his name. when that patent for two theatres was granted, london was less populous than manchester is now; and as the population increased, theatres (beginning with that in goodman's fields) sprung up in spite of the patent or lord chamberlain. the latter granted licenses to a few, with great restrictions. at the lyceum, for instance, not even a tragedy could be produced unless there were at least five songs or concerted pieces in each act; and the tragedy even then must be called a _burletta_. the licenser's powers did not extend to st. george's fields, where political plays forbidden on the middlesex side of the river were attractive merely because they were forbidden. subsequently, at the minor theatres, plays, which could only be legally acted at the patent houses, were performed, without being converted into burlettas. the proprietors of the patents prosecuted the offenders; but the levying of penalties (£ nightly) against englishmen, for producing or acting in shakspeare's plays, seemed so absurd, that after some toying with the question, in , the government brought forward the bill of , which passed both houses, after lord campbell had deprived it of some tyrannic authority it conferred upon the lord chamberlain. a "free trade" principle was thereby introduced. the patent houses lost all their privileges, save that of being exempt from a yearly renewal of license to act; and the legitimate drama could be performed in any licensed theatre. at sadler's wells, for instance, it was long and worthily upheld by mr. phelps, without fear of every actor therein incurring a penalty of £ weekly, as when he played every night, contrary to law. since , then, the term of "their," or "her majesty's servants," is a mere formality, as there is no especial company now privileged to serve or solace royalty. mr. webster, who occupies garrick's chair, in the management of the theatrical fund, tells me, that baddeley was the last actor who wore the uniform of scarlet and gold, prescribed for the "gentlemen of the household," who were patented actors; and that he used to appear in it at rehearsal. he was proud of being one of their "majesties' servants;"--a title once coveted by all nobly-aspiring actors. they were sometimes nearest to the desired end when they seemed farthest off. "have you ever heard," asks garrick, in an unpublished letter to moody, then at liverpool, "of a mrs. siddons, who is strolling about somewhere near you?" four months later, garrick brought her out at drury lane. that space of time intervened, between the periods when edmund kean was starving and triumphing. and now, in the green-room of drury lane theatre, the busts of mrs. siddons and kean face each other; while that of shakspeare, opposite garrick, seems to smile on all three,--_his_ great interpreters, as well as their majesties' servants. [illustration: mr. foote as sir thomas lofty.] footnotes: [ ] buckstone told me that, when young, he starved with a company at hastings, and that kean relieved them by leaving his yacht and playing for them two nights, gratis. mr. york, of penzance, told us that kean came with his yacht into mount's bay, and that he acted superbly richard, othello, and sir giles, at the penzance theatre,--which is now a carpenter's shop. .--_doran ms._ [ ] alderman cox was as much to blame as kean. kean, in , writing to mr. vizell (?) says: "i imagine mrs. cox's age to be about forty-five. when she first flapped her ferret eyes and affections on me, i was about twenty-seven."--_doran ms._ index. abington, mrs., ; account of her career, - ; her _début_, ; her marriage, ; her qualities as an actress, ; reynolds's comic muse, ; and walpole, ; as lady teazle, ; as widow belmour, ; her original characters, ; her death, ; her manner and mannerisms, ; the "abington" cap, . accidents at the theatre, , . actors' loyalty, . aikin, f., . aikin, james, ; his duel with j. p. kemble, . amateurs, noble, , ; at drury lane, , . arnold, s. j., . audience on the stage, . audiences of the last half of the th century, . authorship at a low ebb, . baddeley, robert, ; fights a duel with george garrick, ; his original characters, ; bequeaths a cottage to the drury lane fund, ; his twelfth cake, ; and foote, ; the last actor who wore the uniform of "their majesties' servants," . baddeley, mrs., ; her death, . baillie, joanna, . bannister, charles, . bannister, john, , ; an admirable actor in every line, ; his career, - ; his great part of walter in "the children in the wood," ; his original characters, ; portraits of him, ; as first grave-digger, . barry, mrs., accidentally stabs palmer, . barry, mrs. elizabeth, . barry, spranger, . barsanti, miss (mrs. daly), . barton, fanny (see mrs. abington), . beard, john, . behn, aphra, . belfille, mrs., . bellamy, george anne, and the king of denmark, ; account of her career, - ; her birth, ; her early career, ; her appearance as monimia, ; carried off by lord byron, ; and mr. metham, ; her lovers, , ; her powers as an actress, ; her varying fortunes, ; her farewell to the stage, . benefits, . bensley, william, ; as eustace de st. pierre, ; his excellences, ; his retirement, . bentley, richard, dramatist, ; his "wishes," . beresford, mrs., . betterton, his dress as hamlet, . betty, master william henry west, ; account of his career, - ; his birth, ; appears at belfast when only eleven years of age, ; his popularity in ireland, ; his popularity in scotland, ; praised by home for his norval, ; in the provinces, ; his first appearance in london, ; the frantic excitement caused, ; as selim, ; presented with garrick's seal, ; flattery from the house of commons, ; the mania declines, ; retirement from the stage, ; return to the stage, ; his comparative failure, ; his final retirement, ; critical account of him, . bickerstaffe, . blanchard, william, . bland, dorothy (see jordan, mrs.) boaden, james, ; and mrs. powell, . booth, barton, his dress as cato, . booth, junius brutus, ; his rivalry with kean, . brand, hannah, , . brent, miss, singer, . brereton, william, ; and mrs. siddons, ; his madness, ; his death, . brereton, mrs. (afterwards wife of john kemble), , . brooke, frances, dramatist, . brown, anthony, dramatist, . browne, dr., . brunton, miss, . brunton, louisa (countess of craven), , . bulkley, mrs., ; her self-assertion, ; her career, . bullock, . bunn, mrs., . burgoyne, general, dramatist, . byron, lord, his present to kean, . canning, george, . canning, mrs., wife of s. reddish, . carey, george saville, . carey, henry, . carey, nance, . cargill, mrs., as macheath, . carlisle, lord, his tragedy, . catalani, madame, and the "o. p." riots, . catley, anne, . cautherley, . centlivre, mrs., . chambers, mary (wife of edmund kean), . chapman, . charlotte, queen, at the theatre, . cherry, . cibber, colley, , . cibber, mrs., . cibber, theophilus, and his benefit, . clarence, duke of, . cobham, mr., , . colman, george, the younger, ; his furious attack on kemble in the preface to the "iron chest," ; his "john bull," ; his ruffianly conduct at carlton house, . congreve, . conway, w. a., . cooke, george frederick, ; account of his career, - ; theatricals at school, ; early struggles, ; quarrel with john kemble, ; his first appearance in london, ; rivalry with kemble, , ; as richard iii., ; his irregularities, , , ; his failure in hamlet, ; his success in sir pertinax, ; his apologies to audiences, ; his visit to america, ; his eccentricities there, , ; his success, ; his second marriage, ; his mental intoxication, ; his last appearance, ; his death, ; his excellence as an actor, ; compared with kemble, ; removal of his body, ; his skull, ; his monument, . cooke, thomas, a dishonest dramatist, - . cooper, the last of the kemble school, . cork theatre, the, - . costume, dramatic, . covent garden theatre burnt, , ; rebuilt, ; the "o. p." riots, - . cowley, mrs., . craven, lady, authoress, , . crawford, mrs., , ; her costume as lady randolph, , . crouch, mrs., . cumberland, richard, , ; his "jew," ; and sheridan, , . curtis, mrs. (sister of mrs. siddons), , . daly, richard, dublin manager, . daly, mrs., , . darby, miss (robinson, mrs.), . davison, mrs., . de camp, miss, , ; her youthful experience as a dancer, ; her appearance at drury lane, ; plays macheath, ; her marriage with charles kemble, ; her retirement from the stage, ; returns to the stage for one night, ; her characteristics, ; as an authoress, . deighton, actor, . delpla, . denmark, king of, at the play, . dennis, john, . derby, lord, and miss farren, . dexter, ; his carelessness, . dibdin, tom, , . dickons, mrs., . digges, west, edinburgh manager, ; his death, . dodd, james, ; his great powers as an actor, ; as abel drugger, ; as sir andrew aguecheek, ; his death, . dowton, ; as dr. cantwell, ; as sir anthony absolute, ; as shylock, . drama denounced by the _eclectic_, . drury, dr., . drury lane, opening of new theatre, ; burned down, ; rebuilt, . dryden's prologues, epilogues, and dedications, - . ducis, french author, . duncan, miss (mrs. davison), ; as juliana in the "honeymoon," . _eclectic review_ on the stage, . edinburgh theatre, the, . edmiston, miss, as jane shore, . edwin, john, his popularity, ; o'keeffe's obligations to edwin's acting, ; his original characters, ; his death, . elliston, robert william, ; account of his career, - ; his birth, ; with tate wilkinson at york, ; his success in london, ; as sir edward mortimer, ; his large experience of management, ; his hamlet, - ; his versatility, ; his abilities, ; as duke aranza, ; his loftiness, . epilogues, . esten, mrs., , , . etherege, . farren, miss elizabeth (lady derby), account of her career, - ; her origin, ; her first appearance, ; as lady hardcastle, ; as lady townly, ; her qualities as an actress, ; her original characters, ; her farewell to the stage, ; her marriage to lord derby, ; her children, . fawcett, john, , ; as job thornberry, ; as caleb quotem, . fielding, henry, , ; his nonchalance, . fitzgerald, percy, his "lives of the kembles," _n._ fitzhenry, mrs., . flecnoe and his critics, . foote, samuel, ; in edinburgh, ; and henderson, . francis, dr., , . francis, miss (see mrs. jordan). freemasons at the play, . french audiences, , , . garrick, david, ; and sheridan, ; and "the chinese festival," ; his costume in various parts, ; his tomb, . garrick, mrs., and edmund kean, . garrick, george, . gay, john, . george iii. at the theatre, , , ; fired at by hatfield, . george iv. and actors, . glover, mrs., ; a good actress and a good woman, . godwin, . goldsmith and his "good-natured man," . goodfellow, actor, . grattan, colley, on edmund kean, . greatheed's "regent," . green, mrs., . griffiths, mrs., . grimaldi, joseph, . hale as charles i., . hallam killed by macklin, . hamilton, lady, . hamilton, mrs., actress, . harcourt, lord, on mrs. siddons, , . hardy, french dramatist, . harlequin, a speaking, . hartley, mrs., actress, . hayley, , . haymarket, loss of life at, , . henderson, john, , ; account of his career, - ; his first appearance at bath, ; his descent, ; his first appearance in london, ; his success, ; as shylock, ; waiting on foote, ; his high aims, ; creates a great sensation as hamlet, , ; his public readings, ; as falstaff, , ; as Æsop, ; his carefulness, ; his death, . hill, aaron, , . hippisley, . holcroft, thomas, dramatist, , . holland, charles, ; and miss pope, . hollingsworth, a provincial actor, . holman, . home, john, , . hoole, as a dramatist, . huddart, . hull, thomas, ; establishes the covent garden fund, . hunt, leigh, , . inchbald, mrs. elizabeth, . ireland's forged play of "vortigern," . jephson, r., his plays, ; and horace walpole, . jerrold, douglas, and elliston, . johnstone, john, . jones, richard, , . jordan, mrs., , ; account of her career, - ; her birth, ; her early experiences, ; her versatility, ; her appearance in london, ; her parts, ; as lady contest, ; her connection with the duke of clarence, ; her excellence as a comedian, ; reputed marriage with ford, ; her retirement, ; her sad death, ; her children ennobled, . kean, charles, ; becomes an actor, , ; plays with his father on the last appearance of the latter, ; his goodness to his mother, . kean, edmund, ; his monument to g. f. cooke, ; his carelessness in costume as orestes, ; his origin, ; claimed to be the son of the duke of norfolk, _n._; his birth, ; as a cupid at three years old, ; as an imp in "macbeth," ; his early struggles, ; plays before the king, ; plays with mrs. siddons, ; his marriage, ; his privations, , , ; programme of his benefit at waterford, ; his success at exeter, ; engaged at drury lane, ; his first appearance, ; plays shylock, ; account of his triumph, - ; as richard iii., , ; the critics on his richard, ; description of his richard, - ; characteristics of his hamlet, , ; his othello, perhaps his greatest part, ; his iago, ; his enormous drawings, ; saves drury lane from bankruptcy, ; characters played in his second season, ; as zanga, ; his sir giles overreach, ; as bertram, ; his contest with j. b. booth, ; as timon, ; as king lear, , ; as brutus in "brutus," ; as coriolanus, ; plays at liverpool, ; his visit to america in , ; his struggle with young, ; his dissipation, , ; the scandal of the cox case, ; hooted by his audiences, , ; again visits america, ; dr. francis's account of his eccentricities there, ; admitted a member of the tribe of the hurons, ; alantenaida, ; his return to england, ; his breakdown, ; his hopeless failure in ben nazir, ; his last attempt at a new character, ; his last appearance, , ; his death, ; extenuating circumstances, , . kean, mrs., and moore, . kemble, anne, , . kemble, charles, , , , , ; first appearance in london, as malcolm, ; as laertes, ; as cassio, ; as faulconbridge, ; in macduff, ; as edgar, ; as jaffier, ; as hamlet, ; compared with young, , ; a bad falstaff, ; a perfect mercutio, ; as young mirabel, ; his benedick, ; his wife, ; his departure from the stage, ; he returns for a few nights, ; as a reader, ; an author, ; his deafness, . kemble, mrs. c., , ; her youthful experience as a dancer, ; her appearance at drury lane, ; plays macheath, ; her marriage with charles kemble, ; her retirement from the stage, ; returns to the stage for one night, ; her characteristics, ; as an authoress, . kemble, elizabeth, , , . kemble, fanny, . kemble, frances, , , . kemble, henry, . kemble, john m., . kemble, john philip, , - , ; his defence of miss phillips, ; account of his career, - ; his birth and early life, ; as an author, ; first appearance in london, as hamlet, ; as macbeth, ; as lear, ; married to mrs. brereton, ; becomes manager of drury lane, ; as henry v., ; duel with james aikin, ; becomes part proprietor of covent garden, ; his assiduity, ; in the "castle spectre," ; as rolla, ; pitt's opinion of him, , ; his best characters, , ; his roman parts, , ; and the irelands' forged play of "vortigern," ; his charles surface, ; the princely conduct of the duke of northumberland when covent garden theatre was burned, ; as othello, ; as hamlet, ; his successful parts, ; his failure in colman's "iron chest," ; his farewell to the stage, , ; his death, ; his costume in various parts, , ; specially attacked by the "o. p." rioters, - . kemble, roger, father of john philip kemble, ; plays in london, . kemble, mrs. roger, . kemble, sarah (see mrs. siddons). kemble, stephen, , , , ; manager at edinburgh, ; as othello, ; as falstaff, ; his death, . kemble family specially attacked by the "o. p." rioters, . king, thomas, ; as a speaker of prologues, ; his original characters, , ; his retirement, ; his love of play, . knowles, sheridan, , , ; his training, ; an actor, ; an author, . lamb, charles, , , . lee, sophia, . lessingham, mrs., actress, . lewes, lee, . lewis, "monk," . lewis, william, , , ; his dress as earl percy, ; his original characters, , ; as the copper captain, , ; his death, ; his excellence in morton and reynolds's comedies, . licences, . liston, john, ; the peculiarity of his comic acting, ; his desire to play tragedy, . litchfield, mrs., . liverpool audience, . macklin, charles, ; his "man of the world," ; account of his career, ; his parentage, , ; his great age, ; as monimia at the age of nine, ; his first appearance, ; as snip, ; kills hallam, ; his marriage, ; his shylock, - , ; his "henry vii.," ; pope's opinion of him, ; in dublin, ; as mercutio, ; his opinion of garrick and barry as romeo, ; his retirement from the stage to keep a tavern, ; his "british inquisition," ; his reappearance on the stage, ; as sir archie macsarcasm, ; as macbeth, ; his daughter, , , ; as sir pertinax macsycophant, ; failure of his memory, ; his death, ; his characteristics, ; his objection to garrick, ; antagonism with quin, ; his character, ; his original and principal characters, ; his costume in various parts, . macklin, mrs., . macklin, miss, , ; her death, . macready, w. c., , ; his virginius, , . mason, william, . masterton, dramatist, . mathews, charles, ; his extraordinary ability as a mimic, ; his m. malet, . mattocks, mrs., ; her career, , ; her characters, . maturin, - . melmoth, mrs., actress, . miller, james, dramatist, . milman, . mistakes on the stage, . mitchell and his "highland fair," . montagu, mrs., actress, . moody, john, ; as major o'flaherty, , ; the best irish actor of his time, ; churchill on moody, ; a market gardener, ; his original characters, . moore and mrs. kean, . more, hannah, . mossop, henry, ; and the major, . motteux, p. a., . munden, joseph s., , ; his wonderful powers of grimace, ; the breadth of his acting, ; his parsimony, . murphy, arthur, , . murray, charles, actor, . o'neill, miss, , ; her first opportunity, . "o. p." riots, - . opera, progress of, . otway, . owen, john, actor, . owenson, . palmer, john, ; account of his career, - ; accidentally stabbed by mrs. barry, ; his endeavours to open the royalty theatre, ; his original characters, ; his coolness, ; his death on the stage, , ; the original joseph surface, . parsons, william, ; his impudent "gagging," ; a great comedian, ; as foresight, ; as skirmish, ; as corbaccio, ; his last character, ; his death, ; story about his wife, . patents, . phelps, samuel, his worthy support of the legitimate drama, . phillips, miss (mrs. crouch), . plays, list of, from to , - . pope, alexander, ; on macklin's shylock, . pope, mrs. (miss younge), . pope, miss, , ; account of her career, - ; her retirement, ; her original parts, ; churchill's opinion of her, , ; her love affair with holland, ; her last illness and death, . powell, george, and the _spectator_, . powell, mrs., actress, . powell, thomas, a nervous author, . pritchard, mrs., . proctor, b. w. (barry cornwall), , . prologues, . purvor, grace (mrs. macklin), . pye, poet laureate, . quin, james, , , ; and "fatal retirement," ; antagonism with macklin, ; his carelessness in costume, . rae, , . raymond, . reddish, samuel, ; account of his career, - ; his first appearance, ; his characters, ; as edgar in "king lear," ; as posthumus, ; accidentally stabs smith, ; his marriage, ; his loss of memory, ; his sad mental condition, ; his last appearance, ; in a lunatic asylum, ; his death, . reddish, mrs., . reynolds, frederic, . riot at drury lane, . riots, . robinson, mrs. ("perdita"), ; account of her career, - ; her marriage, ; as juliet, ; her excellences, ; as perdita, ; her amour with the prince of wales (george iv.), , ; her death, ; her character, ; her taste in dressing, . romantic drama, . ross, david, ; his indolence, ; the first patentee in edinburgh, ; as barnwell, ; his death, . rowe, nicholas, and his "biter," . sainville, monsieur and madame, . satchell, miss, as desdemona, . saurin, french dramatist, , . "school for scandal," . settle, elkanah, . shadwell, . sheil, lalor, , . shenstone, . sheridan, r. b., , , ; and "the castle spectre," ; end of his connection with drury lane, . shuter, edward, . siddons, mrs., , - , ; account of her career, - ; her birth, ; her parentage, ; on the stage as a child, ; her strolling experiences, , ; her marriage, ; engaged by garrick, ; her failure in london, ; a great favourite in bath, ; her second appearance in london, ; her triumphant success, , ; as jane shore, ; as calista, ; as belvidera, ; as zara, ; and mrs. crawford, ; her enemies, , , ; in ireland, , ; as isabella in "measure for measure," ; as constance, ; as lady randolph, ; appointed preceptress to princesses, ; her portrait by reynolds, ; in scotland, ; her enthusiastic reception, ; as margaret of anjou, ; as lady macbeth, ; her great triumph, ; as desdemona, ; not successful as rosalind, ; as hermione, ; as ophelia, ; as a comedian, ; her opinion of greatheed's "regent," ; as queen katherine, ; as volumnia, ; in "edwy and elgiva," ; in "edward and eleanora," ; faints while playing arpasia, ; her robe takes fire, ; her retirement, ; her last appearance, ; her high character, ; her death, ; her costume, , ; specially attacked by the "o. p." rioters, - siddons henry, . siddons fever, the, . smith, miss (mrs. bartley), ; a rival to mrs. siddons, . smith, "gentleman," ; stabbed by reddish, ; his career, ; his original characters, ; his remarkable marriages, ; his retirement, . somerville, miss (mrs. bunn), . southerne, , . sowerby, . spiller's benefit for himself and his creditors, . stage costume, - . stage tricks, . strollers, , . strolling managers, . styles, rev. dr., . suett, richard, ; and his collection of wigs, ; his great powers as a comedian, ; his love of drink, . talma, . terry, daniel, . theobald, lewis, . tidswell, miss, , . tokely, . tracy, dramatist, . tricks, stage, . twiss's _verbal index to shakespeare_, . vanbrugh, sir john, . walker, thomas, . wallace, lady, . wallack, . walpole, horace, as a dramatist, ; on theatrical genius, , ; on miss younge's acting, ; on the "school for scandal," ; on the "man of the world," ; on the delavals' amateur performances, ; on the "wishes," ; on the "miniature picture," ; on mrs. abington, ; on mrs. siddons, , , ; on kemble, ; on john bannister, ; on mrs. jordan, . walpole, sir robert, . walstein, miss, ; strikes for higher salary, . webb, mrs., . wells, mrs. (mrs. sumbell), , . whalley. dr., . whitelock, mrs. (sister of mrs. siddons), . wignell, actor, , . wilkinson, tate, ; his extraordinary power as a mimic, ; patentee at york, . wilson, mrs., . woodward, henry, ; his dress as mercutio, . wycherley, . yates, frederick, . yates, richard, ; his characteristics as an actor, ; his parsimony, . yates, mrs., her career, - ; as medea, ; in strong-minded heroines, ; her violante, ; her death, . young, charles mayne, , ; his costume in various parts, ; of the kemble school, ; his great contest with kean, . young, dr. e., , . younge, miss, , ; her withdrawal from the stage, . the end. printed by ballantyne, hanson and co. edinburgh and london. _london, king william street, strand, w.c._ john c. nimmo's autumn list of new books for october . [illustration] a new illustrated work by the author of "=flemish interiors=." in large crown vo. with one hundred illustrations by r. caulfield orpen. cloth elegant, gilt top, price s. d. "de omnibus rebus." an old man's discursive ramblings on the road of everyday life. by the author of "flemish interiors." with one hundred illustrations by r. caulfield orpen. note.--these pages are written in the character of a shrewd, observant, and perhaps satirical, but not ill-natured, old bachelor who knows how to find in his journeyings, by omnibus or otherwise, matter for reflection and comment, and who communicates familiarly his impressions of men and things, turning them about so as to get at their humorous, their practical, and their pathetic aspect. with these he mingles past and present experiences of life, congenial episodes, and representative types of character as they suggest themselves to his memory; but his gossip is always popular in character, bearing on subjects of social economy and contemporary ethics necessarily interesting to our common humanity. _new historical work by f. g. lee, d.d._ large crown vo, cloth, price s. d. reginald pole, cardinal archbishop of canterbury. an historical sketch. with an introductory prologue and practical epilogue by frederick george lee, d.d. _with an etched portrait of cardinal pole._ note.--this volume, besides dealing with the life and character of cardinal pole, will specially set forth the nature of his great work as an ecclesiastical statesman and diplomatist,--unpublished details of which will be provided from the archives of the vatican, his register at lambeth, and various publications and letters of himself and his contemporaries. incidentally, the further policy of queen mary and her great statesman, bishop gardiner, will be dealt with; as also the personal characteristics of the queen herself, and some of the chief englishmen of pole's era. _new volumes of the elizabethan dramatists series._ in two volumes, post vo, cloth, price s. d. per vol. _net_. also fine large paper copies, medium vo, cloth. the works of george peele. edited by a. h. bullen, b.a. note.--a new _library edition_ of peele's works is needed; for pickering's beautiful volumes are rare and costly. in the present edition some interesting facsimiles of title-pages, &c., will be given. _a new volume of elizabethan lyrics._ post vo, hand-made paper, copies, each numbered, price s. d. _net_. also large paper copies, in half german calf, each numbered. more lyrics from the song-books of the elizabethan age. edited by a. h. bullen, b.a. note.--many of the poems in this collection are from unique books preserved in the british museum, the bodleian library, the royal college of music, and mr. halliwell-phillipps' library at hollingbury copse. others are printed, for the first time, from mss. the editor has been careful to include only such songs as are "choicely good." small to, two volumes, handsomely bound in half-german calf, gilt top, price s. _net_. also copies on fine super royal vo paper. the life of benvenuto cellini. newly translated into english. by john addington symonds. with portrait and eight etchings by f. laguillermie. also eighteen reproductions of the works of the master, printed in gold, silver, and bronze. copies of this edition printed for england and for america. note.--a book which the great goethe thought worthy of translating into german with the pen of _faust_ and _wilhelm meister_, a book which auguste comte placed upon his very limited list for the perusal of reformed humanity, is one with which we have the right to be occupied, not once or twice, but over and over again. it cannot lose its freshness. what attracted the encyclopædic minds of men so different as comte and goethe to its pages still remains there. this attractive or compulsive quality, to put the matter briefly, is the flesh and blood reality of cellini's self-delineation. a man stands before us in his _memoirs_ unsophisticated, unimbellished, with all his native faults upon him, and with all his potent energies portrayed in the veracious manner of velasquez, with bold strokes and animated play of light and colour. his autobiography is the record of action and passion. suffering, enjoying, enduring, working with restless activity; hating, loving, hovering from place to place as impulse moves him; the man presents himself dramatically by his deeds and spoken words, never by his pondering or meditative broodings. it is this healthy externality which gives its great charm to cellini's self-portrayal, and renders it an imperishable document for the student of human nature. new illustrated edition of dr. doran's great work. in three volumes, demy vo, roxburghe binding, gilt top, price s. _net_. also large paper copies, royal vo, with portraits in duplicate. "their majesties' servants." annals of the english stage from thomas betterton to edmund kean. by dr. doran, f.s.a. edited and revised by r. w. lowe from author's annotated copy. with fifty copperplate portraits and eighty wood engravings. note.--the following are some of the chief features of this new edited and revised edition of dr. doran's well-known work. it is illustrated for the first time with fifty newly engraved copperplate portraits of the leading and best known actors and actresses, all of which are printed as india proofs. there are also fifty-six illustrations, newly engraved on wood, printed on fine japanese paper, and mounted at the head of each chapter, as well as some twenty or more character illustrations, also newly engraved on wood, and printed with the text at end of the chapters. there are numerous new and original footnotes given, as well as a copious and exhaustive index to each volume. besides the demy vo edition, a limited number will be printed on royal vo, fine deckle-edged paper, with a duplicate set of the fifty portraits, one on japanese paper and the other on plate paper, as india proofs. each of these copies will be numbered. _a bibliography of theatrical literature._ in demy vo, pages, cloth, price s. _net_. also, one hundred copies on fine deckle-edge royal vo paper, each numbered. a bibliographical account of english theatrical literature from _the earliest times to the present day_. by robert w. lowe. note.--there is as yet no bibliography of the general literature of the stage. plays have been catalogued many times, and some of our greatest bibliographers have directed their attention to shakespearian literature; but no attempt has been made to give even the baldest catalogue of the large and curious mass of books relating to the history of the stage, the biography of actors and actresses, the controversy regarding the influence of the stage, the numerous curious theatrical trials, and the many scandalous attacks on the personal character of celebrated performers. in the last two classes especially there are many curious pamphlets dealing with the strangest scandals, and often containing the most disgraceful accusations, of which no account is to be found except in the originals themselves, which, having been in many cases suppressed, are of extreme rarity. the present work is intended to supply in some measure the want which has been felt by all writers on theatrical subjects, as well as by all collectors of theatrical books. it consists of about titles, the great majority of which are taken directly from the works described. these will be arranged alphabetically, with exhaustive cross-references. notes regarding each actor and actress will be given, and also an account of the occurrences to which particular works refer, special attention being paid to the less known and more curious pamphlets. thus, it is hoped, the work will have a historical as well as bibliographical value, and will form a history of the stage, especially in those details of which regular histories take little or no cognisance. plays will be excluded, except where they have prefaces, &c., of historical or controversial interest; and of shakespeariana, only such works will be included as relate to the performance of shakespeare's plays or the representation of his characters by particular actors. quotations of prices at recent famous sales will be given, and the rarity of scarce books will be pointed out. third edition, newly revised and corrected, and greatly enlarged, in vols. medium vo, cloth, three hundred engravings and twelve full-page plates, price s. the rosicrucians: their rights and mysteries. by hargrave jennings. allen's indian mail. "valuable, interesting, and instructive, the work teaches how dangerous it is to condemn what is not understood, or to criticise what is imperfectly realised. liberality of judgment should be the motto of mankind in these days of intelligence and enlightenment, and a study of the mysterious will clear the path in this direction from many of the notions conceived in intolerance and nurtured in hardness of heart. read, gentle reader, and be wise!" _uniform with_ a. h. bullen's "_lyrics from the song-books of the elizabethan age_." post vo, hand-made paper, copies, each numbered, price s. d. _net_. also copies, large paper, in half-german calf, each numbered. england's helicon. a collection of lyrical poems published in . edited by a. h. bullen. the spectator. "with what pleasure would leigh hunt, hazlitt, or charles lamb have taken into their hands this new edition of the elizabethan song-book, 'england's helicon;' and how gladly would they acknowledge the influence of sixty years, the advance in taste, themselves its leaders, which will win for such a book delight and admiration, rather than 'patronage!' the book consists of a collection of lyrical and pastoral poems, and the modern editor, who, one need hardly say, has done his work with perfect care and taste, has prefaced the poems with an introduction telling us all we want to know about almost every one of them." imperial vo, half-bound crushed morocco, price s. reynard the fox. after the german version of goethe. by thomas james arnold, esq. with sixty illustrations from the designs of wilhelm von kaulbach, and twelve india proof steel engravings by joseph wolf. note.--one of the specialities of the present edition consists in the illustrations, faithfully engraved by english artists from the designs of kaulbach, as well as twelve clever full-page steel engravings by augustus fox, from the drawings of joseph wolf. saturday review. "we are more concerned with the engravers' skill, the veracity with which kaulbach's rich fancy and racy humour are reproduced, together with the congenial spirit of mr. wolf's clever drawings, and in these essential particulars the present edition is worthy of warm commendation." the _new edited_ and _complete_ editions of _the elizabethan dramatists_. this is the first instalment towards a collective edition of the dramatists who lived about the time of shakespeare. the type will be distributed after each work is printed. one of the chief features of this new edition of the elizabethan dramatists, besides the handsome and handy size of the volumes, will be the fact that _each work will be carefully edited and new notes given throughout_. algernon charles swinburne (in the _nineteenth century_, january ) on the elizabethan dramatists. "if it be true, as we are told on high authority, that the greatest glory of england is her literature, and the greatest glory of english literature is its poetry, it is not less true that the greatest glory of english poetry lies rather in its dramatic than its epic or its lyric triumphs. the name of shakespeare is above the names even of milton and coleridge and shelley; and the names of his comrades in art and their immediate successors are above all but the highest names in any other province of our song. there is such an overflowing life, such a superb exuberance of abounding and exulting strength, in the dramatic poetry of the half century extending from to , that all other epochs of english literature seem as it were but half awake and half alive by comparison with this generation of giants and of gods. there is more sap in this than in any other branch of the national bay-tree; it has an energy in fertility which reminds us rather of the forest than the garden or the park. it is true that the weeds and briars of the underwood are but too likely to embarrass and offend the feet of the rangers and the gardeners who trim the level flower-plots or preserve the domestic game of enclosed and ordered lowlands in the tamer demesnes of literature. the sun is strong and the wind sharp in the climate which reared the fellows and the followers of shakespeare. the extreme inequality and roughness of the ground must also be taken into account when we are disposed, as i for one have often been disposed, to wonder beyond measure at the apathetic ignorance of average students in regard of the abundant treasure to be gathered from this widest and most fruitful province in the poetic empire of england. and yet, since charles lamb threw open its gates to all comers in the ninth year of the present century, it cannot but seem strange that comparatively so few should have availed themselves of the entry to so rich and royal an estate. mr. bullen has taken up a task than which none more arduous and important, none worthier of thanks and praise, can be undertaken by any english scholar." volumes now ready of the _new edited_ and _complete_ editions of the elizabethan dramatists. post vo, cloth. published price, _ s. d. per volume net_; also large fine-paper edition, medium vo, cloth. _the following are edited by_ a. h. bullen, b.a.:-- =the works of george peele.= two volumes. =the works of john marston.= three volumes. =the works of thomas middleton.= eight volumes. =the works of christopher marlowe.= three volumes. _others in active preparation._ some press notices. =athenæum.=--"mr. bullen's edition deserves warm recognition. it is intelligent, scholarly, adequate. his preface is judicious. the elegant edition of the dramatists of which these volumes are the first is likely to stand high in public estimation.... the completion of the series will be a boon to bibliographers and scholars alike." =saturday review.=--"mr. bullen has discharged his task as editor in all important points satisfactorily, his introduction is well informed and well written, and his notes are well chosen and sufficient.... we hope it may be his good fortune to give and ours to receive every dramatist, from peele to shirley, in this handsome, convenient, and well-edited form." =the spectator.=--"probably one of the boldest literary undertakings of our time, on the part of publisher as well as editor, is the fine edition of the dramatists which has been placed in mr. bullen's careful hands; considering the comprehensiveness of the subject, and the variety of knowledge it demands, the courage of the editor is remarkable." =notes and queries.=--" ... appropriately, then, the series mr. bullen edits and mr. nimmo issues in most attractive guise is headed by marlowe, the leader, and in some respects all but the mightiest spirit, of the great army of english dramatists." =the academy.=--"mr. bullen is known to all those interested in such things as an authority on most matters connected with old plays. we are not surprised, therefore, to find these volumes well edited throughout. they are not overburdened with notes." =scotsman.=--"never in the history of the world has a period been marked by so much of literary power and excellence as the elizabethan period; and never have the difficulties in the way of literature seemed to be greater. the three volumes which mr. nimmo has issued now may be regarded as earnests of more to come, and as proofs of the excellence which will mark this edition of the elizabethan dramatists as essentially the best that has been published. mr. bullen is a competent editor in every respect." =the standard.=--"throughout mr. bullen has done his difficult work remarkably well, and the publisher has produced it in a form which will make the edition of early dramatists of which it is a part an almost indispensable addition to a well-stocked library." =pall mall gazette.=--" ... if the series is continued as it is begun, by one of the most careful editors, this set of the english dramatists will be a coveted literary possession." =daily telegraph.=--"the introduction to this new edition of marston is of exceeding interest, and is honourable to the earnest spirit in which mr. bullen is steadfastly pursuing the object set before him in this notable series." _standard historical works._ _twelve volumes, demy vo, cloth, uncut edges, price £ , s. net; also in tree calf, gilt top, rivière's binding._ _the works of_ the right hon. edmund burke. with engraved portrait from the painting by sir joshua reynolds. carefully revised and collated with the latest editions. note.--the publication of this complete library edition of the writings and speeches of a great writer and orator, whose works have been so frequently quoted of late in the british houses of parliament, the publisher feels may be opportune to many readers and admirers of one of the greatest of the sons of men. viewed in the light of the present age, how great is our admiration of that foresight which foretold, and that wisdom which would have averted, the storms which menaced the peace and well-being of his country! his public labours present a continuous struggle against the stupidity, the obstinacy, and the venality of the politicians of his day. so long as virtue shall be beloved, wisdom revered, or genius admired, so long will the memory of this illustrious exemplar of all be fresh in the world's history; for human nature has too much interest in the preservation of such a character ever to permit the name of edmund burke to perish from the earth. contents. vindication of natural society. the sublime and beautiful. observations on a late publication on "the present state of the nation." thoughts on the cause of the present discontents. reflections on the revolution in france. thoughts on french affairs. thoughts and details on scarcity. hints for an essay on the drama. an essay towards an abridgment of the english history. papers on india. articles of charge against warren hastings. speeches in the impeachment of warren hastings. miscellaneous speeches. letters. index, &c. medium vo, fine paper, with four etched portraits, &c., cloth, s. _net_. the autobiography of edward, lord herbert of cherbury. with introduction, notes, appendices, and a continuation of the life. by sydney l. lee, b.a., balliol college, oxford. notes and queries. "lord herbert's autobiography is an absolute masterpiece, worthy of the place assigned it by mr. swinburne among the best one hundred books. quite fascinating are the records of adventure lord herbert supplies, and the book, when once the preliminary statement of pedigree, &c., is got over, will be read to the last line by every reader of taste. a new lease of popularity is conferred upon it by the handsome and scholarly reprint mr. lee has given to the world. the volume itself belongs to the series of library reprints of mr. nimmo, which are simply the most attractive of the day. mr. lee, meanwhile, has executed in the most scrupulous, careful, and competent manner the task of editing." medium vo, fine paper, with four etched portraits, &c., cloth, s. _net_. the life of william cavendish, duke of newcastle, to which is added the true relation of my birth, breeding, and life. by margaret, duchess of newcastle. edited by c. h. firth, m.a. saturday review. "the book is, without doubt, a pleasant one. in the midst of the stony-hearted restoration, its naive enthusiasm, its quaint and embroidered eloquence, its flavour of a bygone day, give it a curious charm. it is like a shirley flourishing on into the age of shadwell and etherege." the scotsman. "it has a distinct value as a contemporary picture of the life, modes of thought, and habits of a great royalist nobleman, who played a prominent part in some of the most memorable episodes of english history." medium vo, fine paper, with ten etched portraits, &c., cloth, two volumes, s. _net_. memoirs of the life of colonel hutchinson. by his widow, lucy. revised and edited by charles h. firth, m.a. athenæum. "is an excellent edition of a famous book. mr. firth presents the 'memoirs' with a modernised orthography and a revised scheme of punctuation. he retains the notes of julius hutchinson, and supplements them by annotations--corrective and explanatory--of his own. since their publication in , the 'memoirs' have been a kind of classic. to say that this is the best and fullest edition of them in existence is to say everything." medium vo, fine paper, roxburghe binding, gilt top, and two etchings, price s. a chronicle history of the life and work of william shakespeare. player, poet, and playmaker. by f. g. fleay, m.a. from professor a. w. ward's preface to the second edition of marlowe's "dr. faustus." "mr. fleay's new life of shakespeare will, in my opinion, before long be acknowledged as one of the most important works on the history of the elizabethan drama which this age has produced." extract from a letter to the author from dr. h. h. furness. "the man himself was always unreal to me, and i never could bring myself to believe that he ever really existed. but your book has left upon me the impression, as deep as it is strange, that such a man did really live, and that he belonged to the noble army of workers. "i had confidence in you and followed holding your hand, at times lost in wonder and admiration over the miraculous memory and indefatigable research of my guide." copyright edition, with ten etched portraits. in ten vols., demy vo, cloth, £ , s. _net_. lingard's history of england. from the first invasion by the romans to the accession of william and mary in . by john lingard, d.d. this new copyright library edition of "lingard's history of england," besides containing all the latest notes and emendations of the author, with memoir, is enriched with ten portraits, newly etched by damman, of the following personages, viz.:--dr. lingard, edward i., edward iii., cardinal wolsey, cardinal pole, elizabeth, james i., cromwell, charles ii., james ii. the times. "no greater service can be rendered to literature than the republication, in a handsome and attractive form, of works which time and the continued approbation of the world have made classical.... the accuracy of lingard's statements on many points of controversy, as well as the genial sobriety of his view, is now recognised." the tablet. "it is with the greatest satisfaction that we welcome this new edition of dr. lingard's 'history of england.' it has long been a desideratum.... no general history of england has appeared which can at all supply the place of lingard, whose painstaking industry and careful research have dispelled many a popular delusion, whose candour always carries his reader with him, and whose clear and even style is never fatiguing." the spectator. "we are glad to see that the demand for dr. lingard's _england_ still continues. few histories give the reader the same impression of exhaustive study. this new edition is excellently printed, and illustrated with ten portraits of the greatest personages in our history." dublin review. "it is pleasant to notice that the demand for lingard continues to be such that publishers venture on a well-got-up library edition like the one before us. more than sixty years have gone since the first volume of the first edition was published; many equally pretentious histories have appeared during that space, and have more or less disappeared since, yet lingard lives--is still a recognised and respected authority." the scotsman. "there is no need, at this time of day, to say anything in vindication of the importance, as a standard work, of dr. lingard's 'history of england.' ... its intrinsic merits are very great. the style is lucid, pointed, and puts no strain upon the reader; and the printer and publisher have neglected nothing that could make this-what it is likely long to remain--the standard edition of a work of great historical and literary value." daily telegraph. "true learning, untiring research, a philosophic temper, and the possession of a graphic, pleasing style were the qualities which the author brought to his task, and they are displayed in every chapter of his history." two volumes, vo, sixty-four portraits, roxburghe binding, gilt top, price s. _net_. memoirs of count grammont. by anthony hamilton. a new edition, edited, with notes, by sir walter scott. with sixty-four portraits engraved by edward scriven. hallam. "the 'memoirs of grammont,' by anthony hamilton, scarcely challenge a place as historical; but we are now looking more at the style than the intrinsic importance of books. every one is aware of the peculiar felicity and fascinating gaiety which they display." t. b. macaulay. "the artist to whom we owe the most highly finished and vividly coloured picture of the english court in the days when the english court was gayest." medium vo, fine paper, eighty-eight illustrations, cloth, gilt top, price s. _net_. old times: a picture of social life at the end of the eighteenth century. collected and illustrated from the satirical and other sketches of the day. by john ashton. _author of "social life in the reign of queen anne."_ with eighty-eight illustrations. daily telegraph. "that is the best and truest history of the past which comes nearest to the life of the bulk of the people. it is in this spirit that mr. john ashton has composed 'old times,' intended to be a picture of social life at the end of the eighteenth century. the illustrations form a very valuable, and at the same time quaint and amusing, feature of the volume." saturday review. "'old times,' however, is not only valuable as a book to be taken up for a few minutes at a time; a rather careful reading will repay those who wish to brush up their recollections of the period. to some extent it may serve as a book of reference, and even historians may find in it some useful matter concerning the times of which it treats. the book is in every respect suited for a hall or library table in a country house." the monks of the west, from st. benedict to st. bernard. by the count de montalembert, _member of the french academy_. authorised translation. seven volumes vo, cloth, £ , s. _net_. (_published by_ messrs. w. blackwood & sons, _edinburgh_.) contents of the work. introduction. the roman empire after the peace of the church. monastic precursors in the east. monastic precursors in the west. st. benedict. st. gregory the great--monastic italy and spain in the sixth and seventh centuries. the monks under the first merovingians. st. columbanus--the irish in gaul and the colonies of luxeuil. christian origin of the british isles. st. columba, the apostle of caledonia, - . st. augustin of canterbury and the roman missionaries in england, - . the celtic monks and the anglo-saxons. st. wilfrid establishes roman unity and the benedictine order, - . contemporaries and successors of st. wilfrid, - . social and political influence of the monks among the anglo-saxons. the anglo-saxon nuns. the church and the feudal system--the monastic orders and society. st. gregory, monk and pope. the predecessors of calixtus ii. times. "whatever the count touches he of necessity adorns. he has produced a great and most interesting work, full of curious facts, and lit up with most noble eloquence." freeman's journal. "of the translation, we must say it is in every respect worthy the original. the nervous style of the author is admirably preserved. it is at the same time spirited and faithful." standard. "no library of english history will be complete without these glowing pictures of the 'monks of the west.'" note.--very few sets of this important and well-known work are now left for sale. the lives of the queens of scotland, and english princesses connected with the regal succession of great britain. by agnes strickland. with portraits and historical vignettes. eight volumes, post vo, cloth, £ , s. _net_. also in full calf and half calf bindings. (_published by_ messrs. w. blackwood & sons, _edinburgh_.) contents of the work. life of margaret tudor, queen of james iv. life of magdalene of france, first queen of james v. life of mary of lorraine, second queen of james v. life of the lady margaret douglas, countess of lennox. life of mary stuart, queen of scotland. life of elizabeth stuart, first princess royal of great britain. life of sophia, electress of hanover. english review. "miss strickland has not only been fortunate in the selection of her subject, but she has sustained to the full her high reputation for research." the standard. "in 'the queens of scotland' miss strickland prosecutes her original task with as careful research as in her first work, and with undiminished spirit and unaltered delicacy." the guardian. "we discern freedom and ease of manner, a judicious selection of materials, an evenly balanced judgment, and the sobriety and decision which are the fruits of wide historical knowledge." blackwood's magazine. "every step in scotland is historical; the shades of the dead arise on every side; the very rocks breathe. miss strickland's talents as a writer, and turn of mind as an individual, in a peculiar manner fit her for painting a historical gallery of the most illustrious or dignified female characters in that land of chivalry and song." note.--very few sets of this delightful work are now left for sale. octave uzanne's illustrated works. royal vo, cloth, gilt top, illustrations engraved in colours, price s. _net_. the frenchwoman of the century. fashions--manners--usages. by octave uzanne. illustrations in water colours by albert lynch. engraved in colours by eugÈne gaujean. =morning post.=--"graceful and light as is this book by m. octave uzanne, the clever author of 'the fan' and 'the sunshade, muff, and glove,' and other works marked by a rare originality, it affords a more complete insight into the ideas of the women of france of this century and of the influence exercised by them than is apparent on the surface. an idea can be formed of the prodigality and luxury that prevailed at the court of the first empire by 'a serio-comic document' circulated in as 'an account of the annual expense of a female fop of paris.' its different items amount to the sum of , fr., or £ sterling. the women of fashion of a later period are not less well photographed. there are some sparkling pages on those of , at the time when balzac discovered and sang 'la femme de trente ans,' 'whose beauty shines with all the brightness of a perfumed summer.' speaking the truth always, but with native gallantry seeking to conceal its harshness, m. uzanne tells his countrywomen of to-day that 'the woman of this end of the century reigns despotically still in our hearts, but has no longer the same happy influence on our spirits, our manners, our society.' to account for this, as indeed in writing of the moral aspect of all the different social phases that come within his scope, the author reasons of cause and effect with an able lucidity that skilfully avoids dulness. the illustrations are, without exception, artistic and _spirituelle_, and contribute to make of this elegantly bound work, a veritable 'volume de luxe,' which worthily continues the series of productions from m. uzanne's brilliant and facile pen." royal vo, cloth, gilt top, s. d. _net_. the fan. by octave uzanne. illustrations by paul avril. =standard.=--"it gives a complete history of fans of all ages and places; the illustrations are dainty in the extreme. those who wish to make a pretty and appropriate present to a young lady cannot do better than purchase 'the fan.'" =athenæum.=--"the letterpress comprises much amusing 'chit-chat,' and is more solid than it pretends to be. this _brochure_ is worth reading; nay, it is worth keeping." royal vo, cloth, gilt top, s. d. _net_. the sunshade, muff, and glove. by octave uzanne. illustrations by paul avril. =art journal.=--"at first sight it would seem that material could never be found to fill even a volume; but the author, in dealing with his first subject alone, 'the sunshade,' says he could easily have filled a dozen volumes of this emblem of sovereignty. the work is delightfully illustrated in a novel manner by paul avril, the pictures which meander about the work being printed in various colours." _charming editions, illustrated with etchings, of standard works, suitable for presentation. crown vo, handsomely bound, either in cloth or parchment bindings, price s. d. per volume._ = . the tales and poems of edgar allan poe.= with biographical essay by john h. ingram; and fourteen original etchings, three photogravures, and a portrait newly etched from a lifelike daguerrotype of the author. in four volumes. = . weird tales.= by e. t. w. hoffman. a new translation from the german. with biographical memoir by j. t. bealby, formerly scholar of corpus christi college, cambridge. with portrait and ten original etchings by ad. lalauze. in two volumes. = . the life and opinions of tristram shandy,= gentleman. by laurence sterne. in two vols. with eight etchings by damman from original drawings by harry furniss. = . the old english baron:= a gothic story. by clara reeve. the castle of otranto: a gothic story. by horace walpole. in one vol. with two portraits and four original drawings by a. h. tourrier, etched by damman. = . the arabian nights entertainments.= in four vols. carefully revised and corrected from the arabic by jonathan scott, ll.d., oxford. with nineteen original etchings by ad. lalauze. = . the history of the caliph vathek.= by wm. beckford. with notes, critical, and explanatory. rasselas, prince of abyssinia. by samuel johnson. in one vol. with portrait of beckford, and four original etchings, designed by a. h. tourrier, and etched by damman. = . robinson crusoe.= by daniel defoe. in two vols. with biographical memoir, illustrative notes, and eight etchings by m. mouilleron, and portrait by l. flameng. = . gulliver's travels.= by jonathan swift. with five etchings and portrait by ad. lalauze. = . a sentimental journey.= by laurence sterne. =a tale of a tub.= by jonathan swift. in one vol. with five etchings and portrait by ed. hedouin. = . the history of don quixote de la mancha.= translated from the spanish of miguel de cervantes saavedra by motteux. with copious notes (including the spanish ballads), and an essay on the life and writings of cervantes by john g. lockhart. preceded by a short notice of the life and works of peter anthony motteux by henri van laun. illustrated with sixteen original etchings by r. de los rios. four volumes. = . lazarillo de tormes.= by don diego mendoza. translated by thomas roscoe. and =guzman d'alfarache.= by mateo aleman. translated by brady. illustrated with eight original etchings by r. de los rios. two volumes. = . asmodeus.= by le sage. translated from the french. illustrated with four original etchings by r. de los rios. = . the bachelor of salamanca.= by le sage. translated from the french by james townsend. illustrated with four original etchings by r. de los rios. = . vanillo gonzales;= or, the merry bachelor. by le sage. translated from the french. illustrated with four original etchings by r. de los rios. = . the adventures of gil blas of santillane.= translated from the french of le sage by tobias smollett. with biographical and critical notice of le sage by george saintsbury. new edition, carefully revised. illustrated with twelve original etchings by r. de los rios. three volumes. the times. "among the numerous handsome reprints which the publishers of the day vie with each other in producing, we have seen nothing of greater merit than this series of volumes. those who have read these masterpieces of the last century in the homely garb of the old editions may be gratified with the opportunity of perusing them with the advantages of large clear print and illustrations of a quality which is rarely bestowed on such reissues. the series deserves every commendation." royal vo, cloth extra, printed in colours and gilt top, price s. d. _an elegant and choicely illustrated edition of_ goldsmith's vicar of wakefield. with prefatory memoir by george saintsbury, and one hundred and fourteen coloured illustrations by v. a. poirson (illustrator of "gulliver's travels"). saturday review. "goldsmith's immortal tale is here delightfully illustrated in colour, and there is a prefatory memoir by mr. george saintsbury, full of delicate criticism and careful research. the illustrations are sketchy, fresh, merry, and in colours perfectly harmonious. such a book is a boon to the cultivated reader of every age." the guardian. "a new edition of the 'vicar of wakefield' naturally appears with every fresh variety of the arts of priming or illustration. m. poirson showed so keen an appreciation of the peculiar humour of 'gulliver's travels,' that it was only to be expected that he should try his hand at an even more popular book. mr. saintsbury has prefixed an excellent critical memoir, and altogether, if goldsmith could have chosen the garb in which he would best like his vicar to appear, his ideas would probably have jumped with those of the present publisher." the graphic. "they are indeed some of the most excellent specimens of artistic colour-printing now to be seen; and the book is a wonder of cheapness, seeing it is sold at the low sum of s. d." a new and beautiful edition of the imitation of christ. in demy vo, with fifteen etchings, bound in full white parchment, gilt top, price s. _net_. the imitation of christ. four books. translated from the latin by rev. w. benham, b.d., _rector of st. edmund, king and martyr, lombard street, london._ the text and quaint borders printed in brown ink on fine vellum paper, and illustrated with fifteen etchings by l. flameng and ch. waltner, from designs by j. p. laurens and henry levy, printed on japanese paper, make this, for presentation purposes, one of the most beautiful editions at present to be had. scotsman. "we have not seen a more beautiful edition of 'the imitation of christ' than this one for many a day." magazine of art. "this new edition of the 'imitation' may fairly be regarded as a work of art. it is well and clearly printed; the paper is excellent; each page has its peculiar border, and it is illustrated with fifteen etchings. further than that the translation is mr. benham's we need say nothing more." second edition, post vo, cloth elegant, gilt top, price s. carols and poems. from the fifteenth century to the present time. edited by a. h. bullen, b.a. note.-- copies printed on fine medium vo paper, with seven illustrations on japanese paper. each copy numbered. saturday review. "since the publication of mr. sandys's collection there have been many books issued on carols, but the most complete by far that we have met with is mr. bullen's new volume, 'carols and poems from the fifteenth century to the present time.' the preface contains an interesting account of christmas festivities and the use of carols. mr. bullen has exercised great care in verifying and correcting the collections of his predecessors, and he has joined to them two modern poems by hawker, two by mr. william morris, and others by mr. swinburne, mr. symonds, and miss rossetti. altogether this is one of the most welcome books of the season." two very funny and humorously illustrated books by a. b. frost. crown vo, cloth, gilt top, with one hundred illustrations, price s. rudder grange. by frank r. stockton. =the times.=--"many of the smaller drawings are wonderfully spirited; there are sketchy suggestions of scenery, which recall the pregnant touches of bewick; and the figures of animals and of human types are capital, from the row of roosting fowls at the beginning of the chapter to the dilapidated tramp standing hat in hand." =court and society review.=--"after looking at the pictures we found ourselves reading the book again, and enjoying pomona and her reading, and her adventure with the lightning rodder, and her dog-fight as much as ever. and to read it twice over is the greatest compliment you can pay to a book of american humour." =art journal.=--"mr. stockton, the author, and mr. frost, the artist, have here gone hand in hand to produce the most humorous of stories with the best results." =morning post.=--"it will be welcomed in its new dress by many who have already made the acquaintance of euphemia and pomona, as well as by many who will now meet those excellent types of feminine character for the first time." =saturday review.=--"the new edition of 'rudder grange' has a hundred illustrations by mr. a. b. frost; they are extremely good, and worthy of mr. stockton's amusing book." small to, one hundred and twenty illustrations, price s. stuff and nonsense. by a. b. frost. contents. _the fatal mistake--a tale of a cat._ _ye Æsthete, ye boy, and ye bullfrog._ _the balloonists._ _the powers of the human eye._ _the crab-boy and his elephant._ _the old man of moriches._ _the bald-headed man._ _the mule and the crackers._ _the influence of kindness._ _bobby and the little green apples._ _the awful comet._ _the tug of war._ _the ironical flamingo._ _&c. &c. &c._ =standard.=--"this is a book which will please equally people of all ages. the illustrations are not only extremely funny, but they are drawn with wonderful artistic ability, and are full of life and action. "it is far and away the best book of 'stuff and nonsense' which has appeared for a long time." =press.=--"the most facetious bit of wit that has been penned for many a day, both in design and text, is mr. a. b. frost's 'stuff and nonsense.' 'a tale of a cat' is funny, 'the balloonists' is perhaps rather extravagant, but nothing can outdo the wit of 'the powers of the human eye,' whilst 'ye Æsthete, ye boy, and ye bullfrog' may be described as a 'roarer.' mr. frost's pen and pencil know how to chronicle fun, and their outcomes should not be overlooked." =graphic.=--"grotesque in the extreme. his jokes will rouse many a laugh." imaginary conversations. by walter savage landor. in five vols. crown vo, cloth, s. first series--classical dialogues, greek and roman. second series--dialogues of sovereigns and statesmen. third series--dialogues of literary men. fourth series--dialogues of famous women. fifth series--miscellaneous dialogues. note.--_this new edition is printed from the last edition of his works, revised and edited by john forster, and is published by arrangement with the proprietors of the copyright of walter savage landor's works._ the times. "the abiding character of the interest excited by the writings of walter savage landor, and the existence of a numerous band of votaries at the shrine of his refined genius, have been lately evidenced by the appearance of the most remarkable of landor's productions, his 'imaginary conversations,' taken from the last edition of his works. to have them in a separate publication will be convenient to a great number of readers." the athenæum. "the appearance of this tasteful reprint would seem to indicate that the present generation is at last waking up to the fact that it has neglected a great writer, and if so, it is well to begin with landor's most adequate work. it is difficult to overpraise the 'imaginary conversations.' the eulogiums bestowed on the 'conversations' by emerson will, it is to be hoped, lead many to buy this book." scotsman. "an excellent service has been done to the reading public by presenting to it, in five compact volumes, these 'conversations.' admirably printed on good paper, the volumes are handy in shape, and indeed the edition is all that could be desired. when this has been said, it will be understood what a boon has been conferred on the reading public; and it should enable many comparatively poor men to enrich their libraries with a work that will have an enduring interest." book-corner protectors. metal tips carefully prepared for placing on the corners of books to preserve them from injury while passing through the post office or being sent by carrier. extract from "the times," april th. "that the publishers and booksellers second the efforts of the post office authorities in endeavouring to convey books without damage happening to them is evident from the tips which they use to protect the corners from injury during transit." s. d. per gross, _net_. the american patent portable book-case. [illustration] for students, barristers, home libraries, &c. this book-case will be found to be made of very solid and durable material, and of a neat and elegant design. the shelves may be adjusted for books of any size, and will hold from to volumes. as it requires neither nails, screws, or glue, it may be taken to pieces in a few minutes, and reset up in another room or house, where it would be inconvenient to carry a large frame. _full height, ft. - / in.; width, ft. inch; depth of shelf, - / in._ black walnut, price £ , s. net. "the accompanying sketch illustrates a handy portable book-case of american manufacture, which mr. nimmo provided. it is quite different from an ordinary article of furniture, such as upholsterers inflict upon the public, as it is designed expressly for holding the largest possible number of books in the smallest possible amount of space. one of the chief advantages which these book-cases possess is the ease with which they may be taken apart and put together again. no nails or metal screws are employed, nothing but the hand is required to dismantle or reconstruct the case. the parts fit together with mathematical precision; and, from a package of boards of very moderate dimensions, a firm and substantial book-case can be erected in the space of a few minutes. appearances have by no means been overlooked; the panelled sides, bevelled edges, and other simple ornaments, give to the cases a very neat and tasteful look. for students, or others whose occupation may involve frequent change of residence, these book-cases will be found most handy and desirable, while, at the same time, they are so substantial, well-made, and convenient, that they will be found equally suitable for the library at home." transcriber's note italic text is denoted by _underscores_. bold text is denoted by =equal signs=. the oe ligature has been replaced by 'oe' or 'oe'. obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. except for those changes noted below, misspelling by the author, and inconsistent or archaic usage, has been retained. for example, gravediggers, grave-diggers; head-dress, headdress; riband, ribbon; ill luck, ill-luck; tragic, tragical; somerset; essay. see the note at the front of the book: this etext is derived from # of the copies printed. the duplicates of the portraits have been removed. p. vii 'counttess' replaced by 'countess'. p. 'eat nor' replaced by 'ate nor'. p. 'oroonoko' replaced by '"oroonoko"'. p. 'to so many' replaced by 'to so many eras.'. p. 'westminister' replaced by 'westminster'. p. 'ex-hairdesser' replaced by 'ex-hairdresser'. p. 'sedaine' replaced by '"sedaine"'. p. 'dénoûment' replaced by 'dénouement'. p. 'dénoûments' replaced by 'dénouements'. [illustration: _clara morris ( )_] _stage confidences_ talks about players and play acting by clara morris author of "life on the stage," "the pasteboard crown," etc. _illustrated_ london charles h. kelly _to mary anderson "the fair the chaste the unexpressive she"_ _greeting to those dear girls who honour me with their liking and their confidences, greetings first, then a statement and a proposition. now i have the advantage over you of years, but you have the advantage over me of numbers. you can ask more questions in an hour than i can answer in a week. you can fly into a hundred "tiffs" of angry disappointment with me while i am struggling to utter the soft answer that turneth away the wrath of one. now, you eager, impatient young damsels, your name is legion, and your addresses are scattered freely between the two oceans. some of you are grave, some gay, some well-off, some very poor, some wise, some very, very foolish,--yet you are all moved by the same desire, you all ask, very nearly, the same questions. no actress can answer all the girls who write to her,--no more can i, and that disturbs me, because i like girls and i hate to disappoint them. but now for my proposition. why not become a lovely composite girl, my friend, miss hope legion, and let me try to speak to her my word of warning, of advice, of remonstrance? if she doubts, let me prove my assertions by incident, and if she grows vexed, let me try to win her to laughter with the absurdities,--that are so funny in their telling, though so painful in their happening. clara morris._ _contents_ chapter i. a word of warning ii. the stage and real life iii. in connection with "divorce" and daly's iv. "miss multon" at the union square v. the "new magdalen" at the union square vi. "odette" in the west. a child's first play vii. a case of "trying it on a dog" viii. the cat in "camille" ix. "alixe." the tragedy of the goose grease x. j.e. owens's "wandering boys." "a hole in the wall" incident xi. stage children. my "little breeches" in "miss multon" xii. the stage as an occupation for women xiii. the bane of the young actress's life xiv. the masher, and why he exists xv. social conditions behind the scenes xvi. the actress and religion xvii. a daily unpleasantness xviii. a belated wedding xix. salvini as man and actor xx. frank sen: a circus episode xxi. stage forfeits and their humour xxii. poor semantha _illustrations_ clara morris ( ) clara morris in "l' article " charles matthews clara morris in "alixe" clara morris as "miss multon" clara morris as "odette" mrs. gilbert, augustin daly, james lewis, and louis james john e. owens "little breeches" clara morris as "jane eyre" clara morris in "the sphinx" clara morris in "evadne" clara morris as "camille" tommaso salvini w.j. le moyne clara morris before coming to daly's theatre in _chapter i a word of warning_ every actress of prominence receives letters from young girls and women who wish to go on the stage, and i have my share. these letters are of all kinds. some are extravagant, some enthusiastic, some foolish, and a few unutterably pathetic; but however their writers may differ otherwise, there is one positive conviction they unconsciously share, and there is one question they each and every one put to me: so it is _that_ question that must be first answered, and that conviction that must be shaken. the question is, "what chance has a girl in private life of getting on the stage?" and to reply at once with brutal truthfulness and straight to the point, i must say, "almost none." but to answer her instant "why?" i must first shake that positive conviction each writer has, that she is the only one that burns with the high ambition to be an actress, who hopes and fears, and secretly studies juliet. it would be difficult to convince her that her own state, her own city, yes, her own block, could each produce a girl who firmly believes that _her_ talent is equally great, and who has just the same strength of hope for the future stage existence. every city in the country is freely sprinkled with stage-loving, or, as they are generally termed, "stage-struck" girls. it is more than probable that at least a half-dozen girls in her own circle secretly cherish a hope for a glorious career on the stage, while her bosom friend most likely knows every line of _pauline_ and has practised the death scene of _camille_ hundreds of times. surely, then, the would-be actresses can see that their own numbers constitute one of the greatest obstacles in their path. but that is by no means all. figures are always hard things to manage, and there is another large body of them, between a girl and her chances, in the number of trained actresses who are out of engagements. there is probably no profession in the world so overcrowded as is the profession of acting. "why, then," the manager asks, "should i engage a girl who does not even know how to walk across the stage, when there are so many trained girls and women to choose from?" "but," says or thinks some girl who reads these words, "you were an outsider, poor and without friends, yet you got your chance." very true; i did. but conditions then were different. the stage did not hold then the place in public estimation which it now does. theatrical people were little known and even less understood. even the people who did not think all actors drunkards and all actresses immoral, did think they were a lot of flighty, silly buffoons, not to be taken seriously for a moment. the profession, by reason of this feeling, was rather a close corporation. the recruits were generally young relatives of the older actors. there was plenty of room, and people began at the bottom quite cheerfully and worked up. when a "ballet" was wanted, the manager advertised for extra girls, and sometimes received as many as three applicants in one day--when twenty were wanted. such an advertisement to-day would call out a veritable mob of eager girls and women. _there_ was my chance. to-day i should have no chance at all. the theatrical ranks were already growing crowded when the "schools of acting" were started, and after that--goodness gracious! actors and actresses started up as suddenly and numerously as mushrooms in an old pasture. and they, even _they_ stand in the way of the beginner. i know, then, of but three powers that can open the stage door to a girl who comes straight from private life,--a fortune, great influence, or superlative beauty. with a large amount of money a girl can unquestionably tempt a manager whose business is not too good, to give her an engagement. if influence is used, it must indeed be of a high social order to be strong enough favourably to affect the box-office receipts, and thus win an opening for the young débutante. as for beauty, it must be something very remarkable that will on its strength alone secure a girl an engagement. mere prettiness will not do. nearly all american girls are pretty. it must be a radiant and compelling beauty, and every one knows that there are not many such beauties, stage-struck or otherwise. the next question is most often put by the parents or friends of the would-be actress; and when with clasped hands and in-drawn breath they ask about the temptations peculiar to the profession of acting, all my share of the "old adam" rises within me. for you see i honour the profession in which i have served, girl and woman, so many years, and it hurts me to have one imply that it is filled with strange and terrible pitfalls for women. i have received the confidences of many working-women,--some in professions, some in trades, and some in service,--and on these confidences i have founded my belief that every woman who works for her living must eat with her bread the bitter salt of insult. not even the plain girl escapes paying this penalty put upon her unprotected state. still, insult does not mean temptation, by any means. but careful inquiry has shown me that temptation assails working-women in any walk of life, and that the profession of acting has nothing weird or novel to offer in the line of danger; to be quite frank, all the possibilities of resisting or yielding lie with the young woman herself. what will tempt one beyond her powers of resistance, will be no temptation at all to another. however, parents wishing to frighten their daughters away from the stage have naturally enough set up several great bugaboos collectively known as "temptations"--individually known as the "manager," the "public," etc. there seems to be a general belief that a manager is a sort of dramatic "moloch," upon whose altar is sacrificed all ambitious femininity. in declaring that to be a mistaken idea, i do not for a moment imply that managers are angels; for such a suggestion would beyond a doubt secure me a quiet summer at some strictly private sanitarium; but i do mean to say that, like the gentleman whom we all know by hearsay, but not by sight, they are not so black as they are painted. indeed, the manager is more often the pursued than the pursuer. women there are, attractive, well-looking, well-dressed, some of whom, alas! in their determination to succeed, cast morality overboard, as an aeronaut casts over ballast, that they may rise more quickly. now while these women bestow their adulation and delicate flattery upon the manager, he is not likely to disturb the modest and retiring newcomer in his company by unwelcome attentions. and should the young stranger prove earnest and bright, she would be doubly safe; for then she would have for the manager a commercial value, and he would be the last man to hurt or anger her by a too warmly expressed admiration, and so drive her into another theatre, taking all her possible future popularity and drawing power with her. one other and better word i wish to add. if the unprotected young beginner finds herself the victim of some odious creature's persistent advances, letters, etc., let her not fret and weep and worry, but let her go quietly to her manager and lay her trouble before him, and, my word for it, he will find a way of freeing her from her tormentor. yes, the manager is, generally speaking, a kindly, cheery, sharp business man, and no moloch at all. as for the "public," no self-respecting girl need be in danger from the "public." admiring young rakes no longer have coaches waiting round the corner, into which they thrust their favourite actress as she leaves the theatre. if a man sends an actress extravagant letters or flowers, anonymously, she can of course do nothing, but equally of course she will not wear his flowers and so encourage him boldly to step up and speak to her some day. if the gentleman sends her jewellery or valuable gifts of any kind, rest assured his name will accompany the offering; then the actress has but one thing to do, send the object back at once. if the infatuated one is a gentleman and worthy of her notice, he will surely find a perfectly correct and honourable way of making her acquaintance, otherwise she is well rid of him. no, i see no danger threatening a young actress from the "public." there is danger in drifting at any time, so it may be well to warn young actresses against drifting into a too strong friendship. no matter how handsome or clever a man may be, if he approaches a modest girl with coarse familiarity, with brutalities on his lips, she is shocked, repelled, certainly not tempted. but let us say that the young actress feels rather strange and uncomfortable in her surroundings, that she is only on a smiling "good morning and good evening" footing with the company, and she has been promised a certain small part, and then at the last moment the part is given to some one else. the disappointment is cruel, and the suspicion that people are laughing in their sleeves over the slight put upon her makes her feel sick and faint with shame, and just then a friendly hand places a chair for her and a kind voice says: "i'm awfully sorry you missed that chance, for i'm quite sure you would do the part far and away better than that milliner's block will. but don't distress yourself, your chance will come, and you will know how to make the most of it--i am sure." and all the time the plain, perhaps the elderly man is speaking, he is shielding her from the eyes of the other people, and from her very soul she is grateful to him, and she holds up her head and smiles bravely. not long after, perhaps, she does get a chance, and with joyous eyes she watches for the coming of the man who comforted her, that she may tell him of her good luck. and his pleasure is plain, and he assures her that she will succeed. and he, an experienced actor, waits in the entrance to see her play her small part, and shakes her hand and congratulates her when she comes off, and even tells her what to do next time at such a point, and her heart warms within her and is filled with gratitude for this "sympathetic friend," who helps her and has faith in her future. the poor child little dreams that temptation may be approaching her, softly, quietly, in the guise of friendship. so, all unconsciously, she grows to rely upon the advice of this quiet, unassuming man. she looks for his praise, for his approval. by and by their companionship reaches beyond the walls of the theatre. she respects him, admires, trusts him. trusts him--he may be worthy, he may not! but it would be well for the young actresses to be on their guard against the "sympathetic friend." since we are speaking about absolute beginners, perhaps a word of warning may be given against _pretended_ critics. the young actress trembles at the bare words "newspaper man." she ought to know that a critic on a respectable paper holds a responsible position. when he serves a prominent and a leading journal, he is frequently recognized as an authority, and has a social as well as a professional position to maintain. further, the professional woman does not strongly attract the critic personally. there is no glamour about stage people to him; but should he desire to make an actress's acquaintance, he would do so in the perfectly correct manner of a gentleman. but this is not known to the young stranger within the theatrical gates, and through her ignorance, which is far from bliss, she may be subjected to a humiliating and even dangerous experience. i am myself one of several women whom i know to have been victimized in early days. the beginner, then, fearing above all things the newspaper, receives one evening a note common in appearance, coarse in expression, requesting her acquaintance, and signed "james flotsam," let us say. of course she pays no attention, and two nights later a card reaches her--a very doubtful one at that--bearing the name "james flotsam," and in the corner, _herald_. she may be about to refuse to see the person, but some one will be sure to exclaim, "for mercy's sake! don't make an enemy on the 'press.'" and trembling at the idea of being attacked or sneered at in print, without one thought of asking what _herald_ this unknown represents, without remembering that miller's pond or somebody-else's corners may have a _herald_ she hastens to grant to this probably ignorant young lout the unchaperoned interview she would instantly refuse to a gentleman whose name was even well known to her; and trembling with fear and hope she will listen to his boastings "of the awful roasting he gave billy this or dick that," referring thus to the most prominent actors of the day, or to his promises of puffs for herself "when old brown or smith are out of the office" (the managing and the city editors both being jealous of him, and blue pencilling him just for spite); and if mr. flotsam does not, without leave, bring up and present his chum, mr. jetsam, the young woman will be fortunate. a little quiet thought will convince her that an editor would not assign such a person to report the burning of a barn or the interruption of a dog fight, and with deep mortification she will discover her mistake. the trick is as old as it is contemptible, and many a great paper has had its name put to the dishonourable use of frightening a young actress into an acquaintance with a self-styled critic. does this seem a small matter to you? then you are mistaken. there are few things more serious for a young woman than an unworthy or undesirable acquaintance. she will be judged, not by her many correct friends, but by her one incorrect one. again, feeling fear of his power to work her injury, she ceases really to be a free agent, and heaven knows what unwise concessions she may be flurried into; and of all the dangers visible or invisible in the path of a good girl, the most terrible is "opportunity." if you wish to avoid danger, if you wish to save yourself some face-reddening memory, give no one the "opportunity" to abuse your confidence, to wound you by word or deed. ought i to point out one other unpleasant possibility? temptation may approach the somewhat advanced young actress through money and power in the guise of the "patron of art"--not a common form of temptation by any means. but what _has_ been may be again, and it is none the easier to resist because it is unusual. when a young girl, with hot impatience, feels she is not advancing as rapidly as she should, the wealthy "patron of art" declares it is folly for her to plod along so slowly, that he will free her from all trammels, he will provide play, wardrobe, company, and show the world that she is already an artist. to her trembling objection that she could only accept such tremendous aid from one of her own family, he would crushingly reply that "art" (with a very big a) should rise above common conventionalities; that he does not think of _her_ personally, but only the advance of professional "art"; and if she must have it so, why-er, she may pay him back in the immediate future, though if she were the passionate lover of "art" he had believed her to be, she would accept the freedom he offered and waste no thought on "ways and means" or "hows and whys." ah, poor child, the freedom he offers would be a more cruel bondage than slavery itself! the sensitive, proud girl would never place herself under such heavy obligations to any one on earth. she would keep her vanity in check, and patiently or impatiently hold on her way,--free, independent,--owing her final success to her own honest work and god's blessing. every girl should learn these hard words by heart, _rien ne se donne, tout se paye ici-bas!_ "everything is paid for in this world!" a number of young girls have asked me to give them some idea of the duties of a beginner in the profession, or what claims the theatre makes upon her time. very well. we will first suppose you a young and attractive girl. you have been carefully reared and have been protected by all the conventionalities of refined social life. now you enter the theatrical profession, depending solely upon your salary for your support, meaning to become a great actress and to keep a spotless reputation, and you will find your work cut out for you. at the stage door you will have to leave quite a parcel of conventional rules. in the first place, you will have to go about _alone_ at night as well as by day. your salary won't pay for a maid or escort of any kind. that is very dreadful at first, but in time you will learn to walk swiftly, with stony face, unseeing eyes, and ears deaf to those hyenas of the city streets, who make life a misery to the unprotected woman. the rules of a theatre are many and very exacting, and you must scrupulously obey them or you will surely be forfeited a stated sum of money. there is no gallantry in the management of a company, and these forfeits are genuine, be you man or woman. you have heard that cleanliness is next to godliness, here you will learn that _punctuality_ is next to godliness. as you hope for fame here and life hereafter, never be late to rehearsal. that is the theatrical unpardonable sin! you will attend rehearsal at any hour of the day the manager chooses to call you, but that is rarely, if ever, before a.m. your legitimate means of attracting the attention of the management are extreme punctuality and quick studying of your part. if you can come to the second rehearsal perfect in your lines, you are bound to attract attention. your fellow-players will not love you for it, because they will seem dull or lazy by comparison; but the stage manager will make a note, and it may lead to better things. your gowns at this stage of your existence may cause you great anguish of mind--i do not refer to their cost, but to their selection. you will not be allowed to say, "i will wear white or i will wear pink," because the etiquette of the theatre gives the leading lady the first choice of colours, and after her the lady next in importance, you wearing what is left. in some new york theatres actresses have no word in the selection of their gowns: they receive plates from the hand of the management, and dress accordingly. this is enough to whiten the hair of a sensitive woman, who feels dress should be a means of expression, an outward hint of the character of the woman she is trying to present. should you not be in a running play, you may be an understudy for one or two of the ladies who are. you will study their parts, be rehearsed in their "business," and will then hold yourself in readiness to take, on an instant's notice, either of their places, in case of sickness, accident, or ill news coming to either of them. if the parts are good ones, you will be astonished at the perfect immunity of actresses from all mishaps; but all the same you may never leave your house without leaving word as to where you are going and how long you expect to stay. you may never go to another theatre without permission of your own manager; indeed, she is a lucky "understudy" who does not have to report at the theatre at o'clock every night to see if she is needed. and it sometimes happens that the only sickness the poor "understudy" knows of during the whole run of the play is that sickness of deferred hope which has come to her own heart. not so very hard a day or night, so far as physical labour goes, is it? but, oh! the sameness, the deadly monotony, of repeating the same words to the same person at the same moment every night, sick or well, sad or happy--the same, same words! a "one-play" company offers the worst possible chance to the beginner. the more plays there are, the more you learn from observation, as well as from personal effort, to make the parts you play seem as unlike one another as possible. a day like this admits of no drives, no calls, no "teas"; you see, then, a theatrical life is not one long picnic. if there is one among my readers to whom the dim and dingy half-light of the theatre is dearer than the god-given radiance of the sunlight; if the burnt-out air with its indescribable odour, seemingly composed of several parts of cellar mould, a great many parts of dry rot or unsunned dust, the whole veined through and through with small streaks of escaped illuminating gas--if this heavy, lifeless air is more welcome to your nostrils than could be the clover-sweetened breath of the greenest pasture; if that great black gulf, yawning beyond the extinguished footlights, makes your heart leap up at your throat; if without noting the quality or length of your part the just plain, bald fact of "acting something" thrills you with nameless joy; if the rattle-to-bang of the ill-treated old overture dances through your blood, and the rolling up of the curtain on the audience at night is to you as the magic blossoming of a mighty flower--if these are the things that you feel, your fate is sealed: nature is imperious; and through brain, heart, and nerve she cries to you, act, act, act! and act you must! yes, i know what i have said of the difficulties in your way, but i have faith to believe that, if god has given you a peculiar talent, god will aid you to find a way properly to exercise that talent. you may receive many rebuffs, but you must keep on trying to get into a stock company if possible, or, next best, to get an engagement with a star who produces many plays. take anything, no matter how small, to begin with. you will learn how to walk, to stand still--a tremendous accomplishment. you will get acquainted with your own hands, and cease to worry about them. you can train your brain by studying shakespeare and the old comedies. study not merely the leading part, but all the female parts; it is not only good training, but you never know when an opportunity may come to you. the element of "chance" enters very largely into the theatrical life. above all, try to remember the lines of every female character in the play you are acting in; it might mean a sudden rise in your position if you could go on, at a moment's notice, and play the part of some one suddenly taken ill. then work, work, and above all observe. never fail to watch the acting of those about you. get at the cause of the effects. avoid the faults, and profit by the good points of the actors before you, but never permit yourself to imitate them. one suggestion i would make is to keep your eyes open for signs of character in the real life about you. the most successful bit of business i had in "camille" i copied from a woman i saw in a broadway car. if a face impresses you, study it, try afterward to recall its expression. note how different people express their anger: some are redly, noisily angry; some are white and cold in their rage. all these things will make precious material for you to draw upon some day, when you have a character to create; and you will not need to say, "let me see, miss so-and-so would stand like this, and speak very fast, or very slow," etc. you will do independent work, good work, and will never be quite satisfied with it, but will eagerly try again, for great artists are so constituted; and the hard life of disappointments, self-sacrifices, and many partings, where strong, sweet friendships are formed only to be broken by travelling orders, will all be forgotten when, the glamour of the footlights upon you, saturated with light, thrilling to music, intoxicated with applause, you find the audience is an instrument for you to play upon at will. and such a moment of conscious, almost divine power is the reward that comes to those who sacrifice many things that they may act. so if you really are one of these, i can only say, "act, act!" and heaven have you in its holy keeping. but, dear gifted woman, pause before you put your hand to the plough that will turn your future into such strange furrows; remember, the life of the theatre is a hard life, a homeless life; that it is a wandering up and down the earth; a life filled full with partings, with sweet, lost friendships; that its triumphs are brilliant but brief. if you do truly love acting, simply and solely for the sake of acting, then all will be well with you, and you will be content; but verily you will be a marvel. for the poor girl or woman who, because she has to earn her own living, longs to become an actress, my heart aches. you will say good-by to mother's petting; you will live in your trunk. the time will come when that poor hotel trunk (so called to distinguish it from the trunk that goes to the theatre, when you are travelling or en route), with its dents and scars, will be the only friendly object to greet you in your desolate boarding-house, with its one wizened, unwilling gas-burner, and its outlook upon back yards and cats, or roofs and sparrows, its sullen, hard-featured bed, its despairing carpet; for you see, you will not have the money that might take you to the front of the house and four burners. rain or shine, you will have to make your lonely, often frightened way to and from the theatre. at rehearsals you will have to stand about, wearily waiting hours while others rehearse over and over again their more important scenes; yet you may not leave for a walk or a chat, for you do not know at what moment your scene may be called. you will not be made much of. you will receive a "good morning" or "good evening" from the company, probably nothing more. if you are travelling, you will literally _live_ in your hat and cloak. you will breakfast in them many and many a time, you will dine in them regularly, that you may rise at once and go to the theatre or car. you will see no one, go nowhere. if you are in earnest, you will simply endure the first year,--endure and study,--and all for what? that, after dressing in the corner farthest from the looking-glass, in a dismal room you would scarcely use for your housemaid's brooms and dusters at home, you may stand for a few moments in the background of some scene, and watch the leading lady making the hit in the foreground. will these few, well-dressed, well-lighted, music-thrilled moments repay you for the loss of home love, home comfort, home stardom? to that bright, energetic girl, just home from school, overeducated, perhaps, with nothing to do, restless,--forgive me,--vain, who wants to go upon the stage, let me say: "pause a moment, my dear, in your comfortable home, and think of the unemployed actresses who are suffering from actual want. is there one among you, who, if you had the chance, would care to strike the bread from the hand of one of these? ask god that the scales of unconscious selfishness may fall from your eyes. look about you and see if there is not some duty, however small, the more irksome the better, that you may take from your mother's daily load, some service you can render for father, brother, sister, aunt; some daily household task, so small you may feel contemptuous of it, yet some one must do it, and it may be a special thorn in that some one's side. so surely as you force yourself to do the small things nearest your hand, so surely will you be called upon for greater service." and oh! my dears, my dears, a loving mother's declaration, "i don't know what i should do without my daughter," is sweeter and more precious than the careless applause of strangers. try, then, to be patient; find some occupation, if it is nothing more than the weekly putting in order of bureau drawers for some unusually careless member of the family; and, having a good home, thank god and your parents, and stay in it. and now, having added the insult of preaching at you to the injury of disappointing you, i suppose you will accuse me of rank hypocrisy; but you will be wrong, because with outstretched hands i stand and proclaim myself your well-wisher and your friend. _chapter ii the stage and real life_ how often we hear people say, "oh, that's only a play!" or "that could only happen in a play!" and yet it's surprising how often actors receive proof positive that their plays are reflecting happenings in real life. when mr. daly had "l'article " on, at the th avenue theatre, for instance, the key-note of the play was the insanity of the heroine. in the second, most important act, before her madness had been openly proclaimed, it had to be indicated simply by manner, tone, and gesture; and the one action of drawing the knee up into her clasping arms, and then swaying the body mechanically from side to side, while muttering rapidly to herself, thrilled the audience with the conviction of her affliction more subtly than words could have done. one night, when that act was on, i had just begun to sway from side to side, when from the auditorium there arose one long, _long_, agonizing wail, and that wail was followed by the heavy falling of a woman's body from her chair into the centre aisle. in an instant all was confusion, every one sprang to his feet; even the musicians, who were playing some creepy, incidental music, as was the fashion then, stopped and half rose from their places. it was a dreadful moment! somehow i kept a desperate hold upon my strained and startled nerves and swayed on from side to side. mr. stoepel, the leader, glanced at me. i caught his eye and said quick and low, "play! play!" [illustration: _clara morris in "l'article "_] he understood; but instead of simply resuming where he had left off, from force of habit he first gave the leader's usual three sharp taps upon his music desk, and then--so queer a thing is an audience--those people, brought to their feet in an agony of terror, of fire, panic, and sudden death by a woman's cry, now at that familiar tap, tap, tap, broke here and there into laughter. by sixes and sevens, then by tens and twenties, they sheepishly seated themselves, only turning their heads with pitying looks while the ushers removed the unconscious woman. when the act was over, mr. daly--a man of few words on such occasions--held my hands hard for a moment, and said, "good girl, good girl!" and i, pleased, deprecatingly remarked, "it was the music, sir, that quieted them," to which he made answer, "and it was you who ordered the music!" verily, no single word could be spoken on his stage without his knowledge. later that evening we learned that the lady who had cried out had been brought to the theatre by friends who hoped to cheer her up (heaven save the mark!) and help her to forget her dreadful and recent experience of placing her own mother in an insane asylum. learned, too, that her very first suspicion of that poor mother's condition had come from finding her one morning sitting up in bed, her arms embracing her knees, while she swayed from side to side unceasingly, muttering low and fast all the time. poor lady! no wonder her worn nerves gave way when all unexpectedly that dread scene was reproduced before her, and worse still before the staring public. then mr. charles matthews, the veteran english comedian, came over to act at mr. daly's. his was a graceful, polished, volatile style of acting, and he had a high opinion of his power as a maker of fun; so that he was considerably annoyed one night when he discovered that one of his auditors would not laugh. laugh? would not even smile at his efforts. mr. matthews, who was past seventy, was nervous, excitable,--and, well, just a wee bit _cranky_; and when the play was about half over, he came "off," angrily talking to himself, and ran against mr. lewis and me, as we were just about "going on." instantly he exclaimed, "look here! look here!" taking from his vest pocket a broad english gold piece and holding it out on his hand, then added, "and look there! look there!" pointing out a gentleman sitting in the opposite box. "do you see that stupid dolt over there? well, i've toiled over him till i sweat like a harvest hand, and laugh--he won't; smile--he won't." i remarked musingly, "he looks like a graven image"; while lewis suggested cheerfully, "perhaps he is one." "no, no!" groaned the unfortunate star, "i'm afraid not! i'm--i'm almost certain i saw him move once. but look here now, you're a deucedly funny pair; just turn yourselves loose in this scene. i'll protect you from daly,--do anything you like,--and the one who makes that wooden man laugh, wins this gold piece." it was not the gold piece that tempted us to our fall, but the hope of succeeding where the star had failed. i seized one moment in which to notify old man davidge of what was going on, as he had a prominent part in the coming scene, and then we were on the stage. the play was "the critic," the scene a burlesque rehearsal of an old-time melodrama. our opportunities were great, and heaven knows we missed none of them. new york audiences are quick, and in less than three minutes they knew the actors had taken the bit between their teeth and were off on a mad race of fun. everything seemed to "go." we three knew one another well. each saw another's idea and caught it, with the certainty of a boy catching a ball. the audience roared with laughter; the carpenters and scene-shifters--against the rule of the theatre--crowded into the entrances with answering laughter; but the man in the box gave no sign. worse and worse we went on. mr. daly, white with anger, came behind the scene, gasping out, "are they utterly mad?" to the little frenchman whom he had made prompter because he could not speak english well enough to prompt us; who, frantically pulling his hair, cried, "oui! oui! zey are all mad--mad like ze dog in ze summer-time!" mr. daly stamped his feet and cleared his throat to attract our attention; but, trusting to mr. matthews's protection, we grinned cheerfully at him and continued on our downward path. at last we reached the "climax," and suddenly i heard mr. matthews say, "she's got him--look--i think she's won!" i could not help it--i turned my head to see if the "graven image" could really laugh. yes, he was moving! his face wore some faint expression; but--but he was turning slowly to the laughing audience, and the expression on his face was one of _wonder!_ matthews groaned aloud, the curtain fell, and daly was upon us. matthews said the cause of the whole business was that man in the box; while mr. daly angrily declared, "the man in the box could have nothing to do with the affair, since he was _deaf_ and _dumb_, and had been all his life." i remember sitting down very hard and very suddenly. i remember that davidge, who was an englishman, "blasted" a good many things under his breath; and then mr. matthews, exclaiming with wonder, told us he had been playing for years in a farce where this very scene was enacted, the whole play consisting in the actors' efforts to win the approbation of a man who was a deaf mute. so once more a play was found to reflect a situation in real life. [illustration: _charles matthews_] _chapter iii in connection with "divorce" and daly's_ "divorce" had just settled down for its long run, when one evening i received a letter whose weight and bulk made me wonder whether the envelope contained a "last will and testament" or a "three-act play." on opening it i found it perfectly correct in appearance, on excellent paper, in the clearest handwriting, and using the most perfect orthography and grammar: a gentleman had nevertheless gently, almost tenderly, reproached me for using _the story of his life_ for the play. he said he knew mr. daly's name was on the bills as author; but as i was an ohio woman, he of course understood perfectly that i had furnished mr. d. with _his_ story for the play. he explained at great length that he forgave me because i had not given mr. daly his real name, and also remarked, in rather an aggrieved way, that _he_ had two children and only one appeared in the play. he also seemed considerably surprised that mr. harkins (who played my husband) did not wear a large red beard, as every one, he said, knew _he_ had not shaved for years. my laughter made its way over the transom, and in a moment my neighbour was at the dressing-room door, asking for something she did not need, that she might find out the why and wherefore of the fun; and when the red beard had started her off, another came for something she knew i didn't own, and she too fell before the beard; while a third writhed over the forgiveness extended to me, and exclaimed:-- "oh, the well-educated idiot, isn't he delicious?" by and by the letter started to make a tour of the gentlemen's rooms, and, unlike the rolling-stone that gathered no moss, it gathered laughter as it moved. it was only mr. daly who astonished me by not laughing. he, instead, seemed quite gratified that his play had so clearly reflected a real life story. in the business world of new york there was known at that time a pair of brothers; they were in dry-goods. the firm was new, and they were naturally anxious to extend their trade. the buyer for a merchant in the far northwest had placed a small order with the brothers b., which had proved so satisfactory that the merchant coming himself to new york the next fall informed the brothers of his intention of dealing heavily with them. of course they were much pleased. they had received him warmly and had offered him some hospitality, which latter he declined; but as it was late in the day, and as he was an utter stranger to the city, he asked if there was anything going on that would help pass an evening for him; and the elder mr. b. had instantly answered, yes; that there was a big success "on" at daly's theatre, right next door to the fifth avenue hotel, at which the stranger was stopping. and so with thanks and bows, and a smiling promise to be at the store at ten o'clock the next morning, ready for business, the brothers and the western merchant parted. i happened to be in the store next morning before ten, and the elder b., who was one of my few acquaintances, was chatting to me of nothing in particular, when i saw such an expression of surprise come into his face, that i turned at once in the direction his glance had taken, and saw a man plunging down the aisle toward us, like an ugly steer. he looked a cross between a sabbath-school superintendent and a cattle dealer. he was six feet tall and very clumsy, and wore the black broadcloth of the church and the cow-hide boots, big hat, and woollen comforter of the cattle man; while his rage was so evident that even organ-grinders and professional beggars fled from his presence. on he came, stamping and shaking his head steerlike. one expected every moment to hear him bellow. when he came up to mr. b., it really did seem that the man must fall in a fit. when he could speak, he burst into vituperation and profanity. he d----d the city, its founders, and its present occupants. he d----d mr. b., his ancestors, his relatives near and distant, by blood and by law; but he was exceptionally florid when he came to tell mr. b. how many kinds of a fool he was. when his breath was literally gone, my unfortunate friend, who had alternately flushed and paled under the attack, said:-- "mr. dash, if you will be good enough to explain what this is all about--" "explain!" howled the enraged man, "explain! in the place where i come from our jokes don't need to be explained. you ring-tail gibbering ape, come out here on the sidewalk, and i'll explain!" then he paused an instant, as a new thought came to him. "oh, yes," he cried, "and if i take you out there, to lick some of the _fun_ out of you, one of your constables will jump on to me! you're a sweet, polite lot, to play jokes on strangers, and then hide behind your constables!" then his voice fell, his eyes narrowed, he looked an ugly customer as he approached mr. b., saying:-- "you thought it d----d funny to send me to that play last night, on purpose to show me you knew i had just got a divorce from my wife! and if i have divorced her, let me tell you she's a finer woman than you ever knew in your whole fool life! it was d----d funny, wasn't it, to send a lonely man--a stranger--into a playhouse to see his own misery acted out before him! well, in new york that may be fun, and call for laughter, but at my home it would call for _bullets_--and get 'em too!" [illustration: _clara morris in "alixe"._] and he turned and strode out. mr. b. had failed to mention the name of the play when he recommended it; and the western man, whose skin seemed as sensitive as it was thick, thought that he was being made fun of, when the play of "divorce" unfolded before him. when "alixe" was produced, there was one feature of the play that aroused great curiosity. mr. daly was called upon again and again to decide wagers, and considerable money changed hands over the question, before people could be convinced that it was i who was carried upon the stage, and not a waxen image of me. many people will remember that in that heart-rending play, alixe, the innocent victim of others' wrong-doing, is carried on dead,--drowned,--and lies for the entire act in full view of the audience. now that was the only play i ever saw before playing in it; and in paris the alixe had been so evidently alive that the play was quite ruined. when i had that difficult scene intrusted to me, i thought long and hard, trying to find some way to conceal my breathing. i knew i could "make-up" my face all right--but that evident breathing. i had always noticed that the tighter a woman laced, the higher she breathed and the greater was the movement of her chest and bust. that gave me a hint. i took off my corset. still when lying down there was movement that an opera glass would betray. then i tried a little trick. alixe wore white of a soft crépy material. i had duplicate dresses made, only one was very loose in the waist. then i had a great big circular cloak of the same white material, quite unlined; and when i was made up for the death scene, with lilies and grasses in hand and hair, i stood upon a chair and held a corner of the great soft cloak against my breast, while my maid carefully wound the rest of it loosely about my body, round and round, right down to my ankles, and fastened it there; result: a long, white-robed figure, without one trace of waist line or bust, and beneath ample room for natural breathing, without even the tremor of a fold to betray it. at once the question rose, was it a wax figure or was it not? one gentleman came to mr. daly and asked him for the artist's address, saying the likeness to miss morris was so perfect it might be herself, and he wanted to get a wax model of his wife. nor would he be convinced until mr. daly finally brought him back to the stage, and he saw me unpin my close drapery, and trot off to my dressing-room. the play was a great success, and often the reading of the suicide's letter was punctuated by actual sobs from the audience, instead of those from the mother. young club-men used to make a point of going to the "saturday funeral," as they called the "alixe" matinee. they would gather afterward, opposite to the theatre, and make fun of the women's faces as they came forth with tear-streaked cheeks, red noses, and swollen eyes, and making frantic efforts to slip powder-puffs under their veils and repair damages. if glances could have killed, there would have been mourning in earnest in the houses of the club-men. one evening, as the audience was nearly out and the lights were being extinguished in the auditorium, a young man came back and said to an usher:-- "there is a gentleman up there in the balcony; you'd better see to him, before the lights are all put out." "a gentleman? what's he doing there, at this time, i'd like to know?" grumbled the usher as he climbed up the stairs. but next moment he was calling for help, for there in a front seat, fallen forward, with his head on the balcony rail, sat an old man whose silvery white hair reflected the faint light that fell upon it. they carried him to the office; and after stimulants had been administered he recovered and apologized for the trouble he had caused. as he seemed weak and shaken, mr. daly thought one of the young men ought to see him safely home, but he said:-- "no, he was only in new york on business--he was at a hotel but a few steps away, and--and--" he hesitated. "you are thinking i had no right to go to a theatre alone," he added, "but i am not a sick man--only--only to-night i received an awful shock." he paused. mr. daly noted the quiver of his firm old lips. he dismissed the usher; then he turned courteously to the old gentleman and said:-- "as it was in my theatre you received that shock, will you explain it to me?" and in a low voice the stranger told him that he had had a daughter, an only child, a little blond, laughing thing, whom he worshipped. she was a mere child when she fell in love. her choice had not pleased him, and looking upon the matter as a fancy merely, he had forbidden further intercourse between the lovers. "and--and it was in the summer, and--dear god, when that yellow-haired girl was carried dead upon the stage to-night, even the grass clutched between her fingers, it was a repetition of what occurred in my country home, sir, three years ago." then mr. daly gave his arm to the old stranger, and in dead silence they walked to the hotel and parted. once more the play had reflected real life. _chapter iv "miss multon" at the union square_ mr. palmer had produced "miss multon" at the union square, and we were fast settling down to our steady, regular gait, having got over the false starts and breaks and nervous shyings of the opening performance, when another missive of portentous bulk reached me. it was one of those letters in which you can find everything except an end; and the writer was one of those men whose subjects, like an unhealthy hair, always split at the end, making at least two subjects out of one. for instance, he started to show me the resemblance between his life and the story of the play; but when he came to mention his wife, the hair split, and instead of continuing, he branched off, to tell me she was the step-daughter of "so-and-so," that her own father, who was "somebody," had died of "something," and had been buried "somewhere"; and then that hair split, and he proceeded to expatiate on the two fathers' qualities, and state their different business occupations, after which, out of breath, and far, far from the original subject, he had to hark back two and a half pages and tackle his life again. truth to tell, it was rather pathetic reading when he kept to the point, for love for his wife cropped out plainly between the lines after years of separation. suddenly he began to adorn me with a variety of fine qualities. he assured me that i had penetration, clear judgment, and a sense of justice, as well as a warm heart. i was staggering under these piled-up traits, when he completely floored me, so to speak, by asking me to take his case under consideration, assuring me he would act upon my advice. if i thought he had been too severe in his conduct toward his wife, to say so, and he would seek her out, and humble himself before her, and ask her to return to him. he also asked me whether, as a woman, i thought she would be influenced wholly by the welfare of her children, or whether she would be likely to retain a trace of affection for himself. that letter was an outrage. the idea of appealing to me, who had not had the experience of a single divorce to rely upon! even my one husband was so recent an acquisition as to be still considered a novelty. and yet i, all unacquainted with divorce proceedings, legal separations, and common law ceremonies, was called upon to make this strange man's troubles my own, to sort out his domestic woes, and say:-- "this sin" is yours, but "that sin" is hers, and "those other sins" belong wholly to the co-respondent. what a useful word that is! it has such a decent sound, almost respectable. we are a refined people, even in our sins, and i know no word in the english language we strive harder to avoid using in any of its forms than that word of brutal vulgarity, but terrific meaning--adultery. the adulterer may be in our midst, but we have refinement enough to refer to him as the "so-and-so's" co-respondent. i was engaged in saying things more earnest and warm than correct and polished--things i fear the writer of the letter could not have approved of--when i was pulled up short by the opening words of another paragraph, which said: "god! if women suffer in real life over the loss of children, husband, and home, as you suffered before my very eyes last night in the play; if my wife is tortured like that, it would have been better for me to have passed out of life, and have left her in peace. but i did not know that women suffered so. help me, advise me." i could not ignore that last appeal. what my answer was you will not care to know; but if it was brief, it was at least not flippant; and before writing it, i, in my turn, appealed for help, only my appeal was made upon my knees to the great authority. * * * * * on election nights it is customary for the manager to read or have read to the audience the returns as fast as they come in from various points, showing how the voting has gone. [illustration: _clara morris and james parselle in d act of "miss multon"_] an election was just over, when one evening a small incident occurred during a performance of "miss multon" that we would gladly have dispensed with. in the quarrel scene between the two women, the first and supposedly dead wife, in her character of governess to her own children, is goaded by the second wife into such a passion that she finally throws off all concealment and declares her true character and name. the scene was a strong one, and was always looked forward to eagerly by the audience. on the evening i speak of the house was packed almost to suffocation. the other characters in the play had withdrawn, and for the first time the two women were alone together. both keyed up almost to the breaking point, we faced each other, and there was a dead, i might almost say a _deadly_ pause before either spoke. it was very effective--that silence before the storm. people would lean forward and fairly hold their breath, feeling there was a death struggle coming. and just at that very moment of tensest feeling, as we two women silently measured each other, a man's voice clearly and exultantly declared:-- "well, _now_, we'll get the returns read, i reckon." in one instant the whole house was in a roar of laughter. under cover of the noise i said to my companion, who was showing her annoyance, "keep still! keep still!" and as we stood there like statues, utterly ignoring the interruption, there was a sudden outbreak of hissing, and the laughter stopped as suddenly as it had burst out, and our scene went on, receiving even more than its usual meed of applause. but when the curtain had fallen, i had my own laugh; for _it was_ funny, very funny. in boston there was an interruption of a different nature. it was at a matinee performance. there were tear-wet faces everywhere you looked. the last act was on. i was slipping to my knees in my vain entreaty to be allowed to see my children as their mother, not merely as their dying governess, when a tall, slim, black-robed woman rose up in the parquet. she flung out her arms in a superb gesture, and in a voice of piercing anguish cried:-- "for god's sake, let her have her children! i've lived through such loss, but she can't; it will kill her!" tears sprang to the eyes of every one on the stage, and there was a perceptible halt in the movement of the play. and when, at the death scene, a lady was carried out in a faint, we were none of us surprised to hear it was _she_ who had so far forgotten where she was as to make that passionate plea for a woman whose suffering was probably but a faint reflection of her own. _chapter v the "new magdalen" at the union square_ one night at the union square theatre, when the "new magdalen" was running, we became aware of the presence of a distinguished visitor--a certain actress from abroad. as i looked at the beautiful woman, magnificently dressed and jewelled, i found it simply impossible to believe the stories i had heard of her frightful poverty, in the days of her lowly youth. her manner was listless, her expression bored; even the conversation which she frequently indulged in seemed a weariness to the flesh; while her applause was so plainly a mere matter of courtesy as almost to miss being a courtesy at all. when, therefore, in the last act, i approached that truly dreadful five-page speech, which after a laconic "go on!" from the young minister is continued through several more pages, i actually trembled with fear, lest her _ennui_ should find some unpleasant outward expression. however, i dared not balk at the jump, so took it as bravely as i could. as i stood in the middle of the stage addressing the minister, and my lover on my left, i faced her box directly. i can see her now. she was almost lying in her chair, her hands hanging limply over its arms, her face, her whole body suggesting a repressed yawn. i began, slowly the words fell, one by one, in low, shamed tones:-- "i was just eight years old, and i was half dead with starvation." her hands closed suddenly on the arms of her chair, and she lifted herself upright. i went on:-- "i was alone--the rain was falling." (she drew her great fur cloak closely about her.) "the night was coming on--and--and--i begged--_openly_--loudly--as only a hungry child can beg." she sat back in her seat with a pale, frowning face; while within the perfumed furry warmth of her cloak she shivered so that the diamonds at her ears sent out innumerable tiny spears of colour. the act went on to its close; her attention never flagged. when i responded to a call before the curtain, she gravely handed me her bunch of roses. a few moments later, by a happy accident, i was presented to her; when with that touch of bitterness that so often crept into her voice she said:-- "you hold your glass too steadily and at too true an angle to quite please me." "i do not understand," i answered. she smiled, her radiantly lovely smile, then with just a suspicion of a sneer replied, "oh, yes, i think you do; at all events, i do not find it amusing to be called upon to look at too perfect a reflection of my own childhood." at which i exclaimed entreatingly, "don't--please don't--" i might have found it hard to explain just what i meant; but she understood, for she gave my hand a quick, hard pressure, and a kind look shone from her splendid eyes. next moment she was sweeping superbly toward her carriage, with her gentlemen in waiting struggling for the opportunity to do her service. so here, again, was the play reflecting real life. but surely i have given instances enough in illustration of my original claim that the most dramatic scenes in plays are generally the mere reflections of happenings in real life; while the recognition of such scenes often causes a serious interruption to the play, though goodness knows there are plenty of interruptions from other causes. one that comes often to my mind occurred at daly's. he once tried to keep the theatre open in the summer-time--that was a failure. two or three plays were tried, then he abandoned the scheme. but while "no name" was on, mr. parks was cast for a part he was utterly unsuited for. he stamped and stammered out his indignation and objection, but he was not listened to, so on he went. during the play he was found seated at a table; and he not answering a question put to him, his housekeeper knelt at his side, lifted his hand, and let it fall, heavily, then in awed tones exclaimed, "he is dead!" now there is no use denying that, clever actor as he was, he was very, _very_ bad in that part; and on the third night, when the housekeeper let his hand fall and said, "he is dead!" in clear and hearty response from the gallery came the surprising words, "thank god!" the laughter that followed was not only long-continued, but it broke out again and again. as one young woman earnestly remarked next day: "you see he so perfectly expressed all our feelings. we were all as thankful as the man in the gallery, but we didn't like to say so." parks, however, was equal to the occasion. he gravely suggested that mr. daly would do well to engage that chap, as he was the only person who had made a hit in the play. parks was, by the way, very droll in his remarks about theatrical matters. one day mr. daly concluded he would "cut" one of the acts we were rehearsing, and it happened that parks's part, which was already short, suffered severely. he, of course, said nothing, but a little later he introduced a bit of business which was very funny, but really did not suit the scene. mr. daly noticed it, and promptly cut that out too. then was parks wroth indeed. after rehearsal, he and mr. lewis were walking silently homeward, when they came upon an italian street musician. the man ground at his movable piano, the wife held the tambourine, while his leggy little daughter danced with surprising grace on the stone walk. as she trotted about gathering her harvest of pennies, parks put his hand on her shoulder and said solemnly:-- "you ought to be devilish glad you're not in daly's company; he'd cut that dance out if you were." one evening in new orleans, when we were playing "camille," a coloured girl, who had served me as dressing-maid, came to see me, and i gave her a "pass," that she might see from the "front" the play she had so often dressed me for. she went to the gallery and found herself next to a young black man, who had brought his sweetheart to see her first play. the girl was greatly impressed and easily moved, and at the fourth act, when armand hurled the money at me, striking me in the face, she turned to her young man, saying savagely, "you, dave, you got ter lay for dat white man ter night, an' lick der life outen him." next moment i had fallen at armand's feet. the curtain was down and the girl was excitedly declaring, i was dead! while dave assured her over and over again, "no, honey, she carn't be dead yit, 'cause, don' yer see, der's anudder act, an' she just nacherly's got ter be in it." when, however, the last act was on, it was dave himself who did the business. the pathetic death scene was almost over, when applause broke from the upper part of the house. instantly a mighty and unmistakable negro voice, said: "hush--hush! she's climin' der golden stair dis time, shure--keep still!" my devoted "nannine" leaned over me to hide my laughing face from the audience, who quickly recovered from the interruption, while for once camille, the heart-broken, died with a laugh in her throat. in the same city i had, one matinee, to come down three steps on to the stage. i was quite gorgeous in one of my best gowns; for one likes to dress for southern girls, they are so candidly pleased with your pretty things. my skirt caught on a nail at the very top step, so that when i reached the stage my train was stretched out full length, and in the effort a scene-hand made to free it, it turned over, so that the rose-pink lining could be plainly seen, when an awed voice exclaimed, "for de lor's sake, dat woman's silk lin'd clear frou!" and the performance began in a gale of laughter. _chapter vi "odette" in the west. a child's first play_ an odd and somewhat touching little incident occurred one evening when we were in the far northwest. there was a blizzard on just then, and the cold was something terrible. i had a severe attack of throat trouble, and my doctor had been with me most of the day. his little boy, hearing him speak of me, was seized with a desire to go to the theatre, and coaxed so well that his father promised to take him. the play was "odette." the doctor and his pretty little son sat in the end seats of the parquet circle, close to the stage and almost facing the whole house. the little fellow watched his first play closely. as the comedy bit went on, he smiled up at his father, saying audibly, "i like her--don't you, papa?" papa silenced him, while a few people who had overheard smiled over the child's unconsciousness of observers. but when i had changed my dress and crept into the darkened room in a _robe de chambre_; when the husband had discovered my wrong-doing and was driving me out of his house, a child's cry of protest came from the audience. at the same moment, the husband raised his hand to strike. i repelled him with a gesture and went staggering off the stage; while that indignant little voice cried, "papa! papa! can't you have that man arrested?" and the curtain fell. one of the actors ran to the peep-hole in the curtain, and saw the doctor leading out the little man, who was then crying bitterly, the audience smiling and applauding him, one might say affectionately. a bit later the doctor came to my dressing-room to apologize and to tell me the rest of it. when the curtain had fallen, the child had begged: "take me out--take me out!" and the doctor, thinking he might be ill, rose and led him out. no sooner had they reached the door, however, than he pulled his hand away, crying: "quick, papa! quick! you go round the block that way, and i'll run round this way, and we'll be sure to find that poor lady that's out in the cold--just in her nighty!" in vain he tried to explain, the child only grew more wildly excited; and finally the doctor promised, if the child would come home at once, only two blocks away, he would return and look for the lady--in the nighty. and he had taken the little fellow home and had seen him fling himself into his mother's arms, and with tears and sobs tell her of the "poor lady whose husband had driven her right out into the blizzard, don't you think, mamma, and only her nighty on; and, mamma, she hadn't done one single bad thing--not one!" poor, warm-hearted, innocent little man; he was assured later on that the lady had been found and taken to a hotel; and i hope his next play was better suited to his tender years. in philadelphia we had a very ludicrous interruption during the last act of "man and wife." the play was as popular as the wilkie collins' story from which it had been taken, and therefore the house was crowded. [illustration: _clara morris as "odette"_] i was lying on the bed in the darkened room, in that profound and swift-coming sleep known, alas! only to the stage hero or heroine. the paper on the wall began to move noiselessly aside, and in the opening thus disclosed at the head of the bed, lamp-illumined, appeared the murderous faces of delamain and hesther detheridge. as the latter raised the wet, suffocating napkin that was to be placed over my face, a short, fat man in the balcony started to his feet, and broke the creepy silence with the shout:-- "mein gott in himmel! vill dey murder her alreaty?" some one tried to pull him down into his seat, but he struck the hand away, crying loudly, "stob it! stob it, i say!" and while the people rocked back and forth with laughter, an usher led the excited german out, declaring all the way that "a blay vas a blay, but somedings might be dangerous even in a blay! unt dat ting vat he saw should be stobbed alreaty!" meantime i had quite a little rest on my bed before quiet could be restored and the play proceed. i have often wondered if any audience in the world can be as quick to see a point as is the new york audience. during my first season in this city there was a play on at mr. daly's that i was not in, but i was looking on at it. in one scene there stood a handsome bronze bust on a tall pedestal. from a careless glance i took it to be an ariadne. at the changing of the scene the pedestal received a blow that toppled it over, and the beautiful "bronze" bust broke into a hundred pieces of white plaster. the laughter that followed was simply caused by the discovery of a stage trick. the next character coming upon the stage was played by miss newton, in private life known as mrs. charles backus, wife of the then famous minstrel. no sooner did she appear upon the stage, not even speaking one line, than the laugh broke forth again, swelled, and grew, until the entire audience joined in one great roar. i expected to see the lady embarrassed, distressed; but not she! after her first startled glance at the house, she looked at the pedestal, and then she, too, laughed, when the audience gave a hearty round of applause, which she acknowledged. a scene-hand, noticing my amazed face, said, "you don't see it, do you?" "no," i answered. "well," said he, "did you know who that bust was?" "yes," i replied, "i think it was ariadne." "oh, no!" he said, "it was a bust of bacchus; then, when mrs. backus appeared--" "oh!" i interrupted. "they all said to themselves: 'poor backus is broken all up! backus has busted!'" and that was why they laughed; and she saw it and laughed with them, and they saw _that_ and applauded her. well, that's a quick-witted audience--an opinion i still retain. people are fond of saying, "a woman can't keep a secret." well, perhaps she doesn't keep her secrets forever; but here's how two women kept a secret for a good many years, and betrayed it through a scene in a play. mr. daly's treasurer had given tickets to some friends for a performance of "divorce." they were ladies--mother and daughter. at first greatly pleased, the elder lady soon began to grow nervous, then tearful as the play went on; and her daughter, watching her closely, was about to propose their retirement, when the mother, with clasped hands and tear-blurred eyes, seeing the stealing of my little son by the order of his father, thrilled the audience and terrified her daughter by flinging up her arms and crying wildly: "don't do it! for god's sake, don't do it! you don't know what agony it means!" and fell fainting against the frightened girl beside her. great confusion followed; the ushers, assisted by those seated near, removed the unconscious woman to mr. daly's private office; but so greatly had her words affected the people, that when the men on the stage escaped through the window with the child in their arms, the curtain fell to a volley of hisses. in the office, as smelling salts, water, and fresh air were brought into requisition, in answer to a question of mr. daly's, the treasurer was saying, "she is mrs. w----, a widow," when a faint voice interrupted, "no--no; i'm no widow!" the treasurer smiled pityingly, and continued, "i have known her intimately for twelve years, sir; she is the widow of--" "no--no!" came the now sobbing voice. "no--no! oh, daisy, dear, tell him! tell him!" and the young girl, very white, and trembling visibly, said: "i hope you will forgive us, mr. w----, but from causeless jealousy my father deserted mother, and--and he stole my little brother, mamma's only son! we have never heard of either of them since. widowhood seemed a sort of protection to poor mamma, and she has hidden behind its veil for sixteen years. she meant no harm. she would have told you before--" she turned crimson and stopped, but that burning blush told its story plainly; and mr. daly busied himself over the pouring of a glass of wine for the robbed mother, while the treasurer in low tones assured daisy there was nothing to forgive, and gratefully accepted the permission granted him to see the poor things safely home. sixteen years' silence is not so bad for a sex who can't keep a secret! _chapter vii a case of "trying it on a dog"_ it was before i came to new york that i one night saw a really fine performance almost ruined by a single interruption. it was a domestic tragedy of english rural life, and one act began with a tableau copied exactly from a popular painting called "waiting for the verdict," which was also the title of the play. the scene gave an exterior view of the building within which the husband and father was being tried for his life on a charge of murder. the trembling old grandsire leaned heavily on his staff; the devoted wife sat wearily by the closed iron gate, with a babe on her breast, tired but vigilant; a faithful dog stretched himself at her feet, while his shaggy shoulders pillowed the head of the sleeping child, who was the accused man's darling. the curtain rose on this picture, which was always heartily greeted, and often, so well it told its pathetic story, a second and a third round of applause greeted it before the dialogue began. the manager's little daughter, who did the sleeping child, contracted a cold and was advised not to venture out of the house for a fortnight, so a substitute had to be found, and a fine lot of trouble the stage-manager had. he declared half the children of columbus had been through his sieve; and there was the trouble--they all went through, there was no one left to act as substitute. but at last he found two promising little girls, sisters they were, and very poor; but the mother vowed her children must be in bed at nine, theatre or no theatre; yes, she would like to have the money, but she'd do without it rather than have a child out of bed at all hours. at first she held out for nine o'clock, but at last yielded the additional half-hour; and to the great disappointment of the younger child, the elder one was accepted, for the odd reason that she looked so much younger than her sister. the company had come from cleveland, and there were the usual slight delays attendant on a first night; but the house was "good"; the star (mr. buchanan) was making a fine impression, and the play was evidently a "go." the big picture was looked forward to eagerly, and when it was arranged, we had to admit that the pale, pinched little face of the strange child was more effective as it rested on the dog's shoulder than had been the plump, smiling face of the manager's little one. the curtain went up, the applause followed; those behind the scenes crowded to the "wings" to look on; no one noted that the hands of the clock stood at . ; no one heard through the second burst of applause the slam of the stage door behind the very, very small person who entered, and silently peering this way and that, found her stern, avenging way to the stage, and that too-favoured sister basking in the sunlight of public approval. the grandsire had just lifted his head and was about to deliver his beautiful speech of trust and hope, when he was stricken helpless by the entrance upon the stage of a boldly advancing small person of most amazing appearance. her thin little legs emerged from the shortest of skirts, while her small body was well pinned up in a great blanket shawl, the point of which trailed fully a quarter of a yard on the floor behind her. she wore a woman's hood on her head, and from its cavernous depth, where there gleamed a pale, malignant small face, a voice issued--the far-reaching voice of a child--that triumphantly commanded:-- "you, mary ann, yu're ter get up out of that an' com' home straight away--an' yu're ter go ter bed, too,--mother says so!" and the small nemesis turned on her heel and trailed off the stage, followed by laughter that seemed fairly to shake the building. nor was that all. no sooner had mary ann grasped the full meaning of this dread message than she turned over on her face, and scrambling up by all fours, she eluded the restraining hands of the actress-mother and made a hasty exit to perfect shrieks of laughter and storms of applause; while the climax was only reached when the dog, trained to lie still so long as the pressure of the child's head was upon his shoulder, finding himself free, rose, shook himself violently, and trotted off, waving his tail pleasantly as he went. that finished it; the curtain had to fall, a short overture was played, and the curtain rose again without the complete tableau, and the action of the play was resumed; but several times the laughter was renewed. it was only necessary for some person to titter over the ludicrous recollection, and instantly the house was laughing with that person. the next night the manager's child, swathed in flannel, with a mouth full of cough-drops, held the well-trained dog in his place until the proper moment for him to rise, and the play went on its way rejoicing. and just to show how long-lasting is the association of ideas, i will state that years, many years afterward, i met a gentleman who had been in the auditorium that night, and he told me he had never since seen a blanket shawl, whether in store for sale or on some broad back, that he had not instantly laughed outright, always seeing poor mary ann's obedient exit after that vengeful small sister with her trailing shawl. _chapter viii the cat in "camille"_ it was in "camille," one friday night, in baltimore, that for the only time in my life i wished to wipe an animal out of existence. i love four-footed creatures with extravagant devotion, not merely the finely bred and beautiful ones, but the poor, the sick, the halt, the maimed, the half-breeds or the no breeds at all; and almost all animals quickly make friends with me, divining my love for them. but on this one night--well! it was this way. in the last act, as camille, i had staggered from the window to the bureau and was nearing that dread moment when in the looking-glass i was to see the reflection of my wrecked and ruined self. the house was giving strained attention, watching dim-eyed the piteous, weak movements of the dying woman; and right there i heard that (----h!) quick indrawing of the breath startled womanhood always indulges in before either a scream or a laugh. my heart gave a plunge, and i thought: what is it? oh, what is wrong? and i glanced down at myself anxiously, for really i wore so very little in that scene that if anything should slip off--gracious! i did not know but what, in the interest of public propriety, the law might interfere. but that one swift glance told me that the few garments i had assumed in the dressing-room still faithfully clung to me. but alas! there was the dreaded titter, and it was unmistakably growing. what was it about? they could only laugh at me, for there was no one else on the stage. was there not, indeed! in an agony of humiliation i turned half about and found myself facing an absolutely monstrous cat. starlike he held the very centre of the stage, his two great topaz eyes were fixed roundly and unflinchingly upon my face. on his body and torn ears he carried the marks of many battles. his brindled tail stood straightly and aggressively in the air, and twitched with short, quick twitches, at its very tip, truly as burly an old buccaneer as i ever saw. no wonder they giggled! but how to save the approaching death scene from total ruin? all was done in a mere moment or two; but several plans were made and rejected during these few moments. naturally my first thought, and the correct one, was to call back "nannine," my faithful maid, and tell her to remove the cat. but alas! my nannine was an unusually dull-witted girl, and she would never be able to do a thing she had not rehearsed. my next impulse was to pick up the creature and carry it off myself; but i was playing a dying girl, and the people had just seen me, after only three steps, reel helplessly into a chair; and this cat might easily weigh twelve pounds or more; and then at last my plan was formed. i had been clinging all the time to the bureau for support, now i slipped to my knees and with a prayer in my heart that this fierce old thomas might not decline my acquaintance, i held out my hand, and in a faint voice, called "puss--puss--puss! come here, puss!" it was an awful moment: if he refused to come, if he turned tail and ran, all was over; the audience would roar. "puss--puss!" i pleaded. thomas looked hard at me, hesitated, stretched out his neck, and working his whiskers nervously, sniffed at my hand. "puss--puss!" i gasped out once more, and lo! he gave a little "meow," and walking over to me, arched his back amicably, and rubbed his dingy old body against my knee. in a moment my arms were about him, my cheek on his wicked old head, and the applause that broke forth from the audience was as balm of gilead to my distress and mortification. then i called for nannine, and when she came on, i said to her, "take him downstairs, nannine, he grows too heavy a pet for me these days," and she lifted and carried sir thomas from the stage, and so i got out of the scrape without sacrificing my character as a sick woman. my manager, mr. john p. smith, who was a wag, and who would willingly give up his dinner, which he loved, for a joke, which he loved better, was the next day questioned about this incident. one gentleman, a music dealer, said to him: "mr. smith, i wish you to settle a question for me. my wife and i are at variance. we saw 'camille' last night, and my wife, who has seen it several times in new york, insisted that that beautiful little cat-scene belongs to the play and is always done; while i am sure i never saw it before, and several of my customers agree with me, one lady declaring it to have been an accident. will you kindly set us right?" "certainly," heartily replied mr. smith; "your wife is quite right, the cat scene is always done. it is a great favourite with miss morris, and she hauls that cat all over the country with her, ugly as he is, just because he's such a good actor." _chapter ix "alixe." the tragedy of the goose grease_ during the run of "alixe," at daly's theatre, i had suffered from a sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, and before i was well the doctor was simply horrified to learn that mr. daly had commanded me to play at the saturday performance, saying that if the work made me worse, the doctor would have all day sunday to treat me in. he really seemed to think that using a carriage did away with all possible danger in passing from a warm room, through icy streets, to a draughty theatre. but certain lesions that i carry about with me are proofs of his error. however, i dared not risk losing my engagement, so i obeyed. my chest, which had been blistered and poulticed during my illness, was excruciatingly tender and very sensitive to cold; and the doctor, desiring to heal, and at the same time to protect it from chill, to my unspeakable mortification anointed me lavishly with goose grease and swathed me in flannel and cotton wadding. that i had no shape left to me was bad enough; but to be a moving abomination was worse, and of all vile, offensive, and vulgar odours commend me to that of goose grease. with cheeks wet from tears of sheer weakness, i reached the theatre resolved to keep as silent as the grave on the subject of my flamboyant armour of grease and flannel. but the first faint muttering of the coming storm reached me even in my dressing-room, when the theatre maid (i had none of my own yet) entered, and frowningly snapped out: "i'd like to know what's the matter with this room? it never smelled like this before. just as soon as you go out, miss morris, i'll hunt it over and see what the trouble is." i had been pale, but at that speech one might have lighted matches at my scarlet face. while in the entrance i had to be wrapped up in a great big shawl, through which the odour could not quite penetrate, so no one suspected me when making kindly inquiries about my health; but when it was thrown off, and in my thin white gown i went on the stage--oh! in the charming little love scene, as henri and i sat close, oh, very close together, on the garden seat, and i had to look up at him with wide-eyed admiration, i saw him turn his face aside, wrinkling up his nose, and heard him whisper: "what an infernal smell! what is it?" i shook my head in seeming ignorance and wondered what was ahead--if this was the beginning. it was a harrowing experience; by the time the second act was on, the whole company was aroused. they were like an angry swarm of bees. miss dietz kept her handkerchief openly to her pretty nose; miss morant, in stately dudgeon, demanded that mr. daly should be sent for, that he might learn the condition of his theatre, and the dangers his people were subjected to in breathing such poisoned air; while right in the very middle of our best scene, mr. louis james, the incorrigible, stopped to whisper, "can't we move further over and get out of this confounded stench?" in that act i had to spend much of my time at the piano, with the result that when the curtain fell, the people excitedly declared that awful smell was worst right there, and i had the misery of seeing the prompter carefully looking into the piano and applying his long, sharp nose to its upright interior. there had been a moment in that act when i thought james lewis suspected me. i had just taken my seat opposite him at the chess table, when he gave a little jerk at his chair, exclaiming under his breath, "blast that smell--there it is again!" [illustration: _mrs. gilbert, augustin daly, james lewis, louis james_] i remained silent, and there i was wrong; for lewis, knowing me well, knew my habit of extravagant speech, and instantly his blue pop eyes were upon my miserable face, with suspicion sticking straight out of them. with trembling hand i made my move at chess, saying, "queen to queens rook four," and he added in aside, "seems to me you're mighty quiet about this scent; i hope you ain't going to tell me you can't smell it?" but the assurance that "i did--oh, i did, indeed! smell a most outrageous odour," came so swiftly, so convincingly from my lips, that his suspicions were lulled to rest. the last act came, and--and--well, as i said, it was the last act. white and rigid and lily-strewn, they bore me on the stage,--louis james at the shoulders and george clarke at the feet. their heads were bent over me. james was nearest to the storm centre. suddenly he gasped, then as we reached the centre of the stage clarke gave vent to "phew!" they gently laid me on the sofa, but through the sobs of the audience and of the characters i heard from james the unfinished, half-doubting sentence, "well, i believe in my soul it's--" but the mother (miss morant) approached me then, took my hand, touched my brow, called for help, for a physician; then with the wild cry, "she is dead! she is dead!" flung herself down beside the sofa with her head upon my goose-grease breast. scarcely had she touched me, however, when with a gasping snort of disgust she sprang back, exclaiming violently, "it's you, you wretch! it's _you_!" and then under cover of other people's speeches, i being dead and helpless, clarke stood at my head and james at my feet and reviled me, calling me divers unseemly names and mocking at me, while references were made every now and then to chloride of lime and such like disinfectants. they would probably have made life a burden for me ever after, had i not after the performance lifted tearful eyes to them and said, "i am so sorry for your discomfort, but you can go out and get fresh air; but, boys, just think of me, i can't get away from myself and my goose-grease smell a single moment, and it's perfectly awful!" "you bet it is!" they all answered, as with one voice, and they were merciful to me, which did not prevent them from sending the prompter (who did not know of the discovery) with a lantern to search back of the scenes for the cause of the offensive odour. perhaps i may add that goose grease does not figure in my list of "household remedies." but the next week i was able, in a measure at least, to heal their wounded feelings. actresses used to receive a good many little gifts from admirers in the audience. they generally took the form of flowers or candy, but sometimes there came instead a book, a piece of music, or an ornament for the dressing-table; but alixe's altar could boast an entirely new votive offering. i received a letter and a box. the letter was an outburst of admiration for alixe, the "lily maid the tender, the poetical," etc. the writer then went on to tell me how she had yearned to express to me her feelings; how she had consulted her husband on the matter, and how he had said certainly to write if she wished, and send some little offering, which seemed appropriate, and "therefore she sent _this_"; and with visions of a copy of keats or shelley or a lace-trimmed pin-cushion, i opened the box and found the biggest mince pie i ever saw. certainly the lady's idea of an appropriate gift was open to criticism, but not so her pie. that was rich perfection. its fruity, spicy interior was evenly warmed with an evident old french brandy,--no savagely burning cooking brandy, mind,--and when the flaky marvel had stood upon the heater for a time, even before its cutting up with a paper-knife, the odour of goose grease was lost in the "araby the blest" scent of mince meat. _chapter x j.e. owens's "wandering boys." "a hole in the wall" incident_ the late john e. owens, while acting in cincinnati, had a severe cold. he was feverish, and fearing for his throat, which was apt to give him trouble, he had his physician, an old friend, come to see him back of the scenes. the doctor brought with him an acquaintance, and mr. owens asked them to wait till the next act was over to see how his throat was going to behave. it's always a dangerous thing to turn outsiders loose behind the scenes; for if they don't fall into traps, or step into paint pots, they are sure to pop on to the stage. mr. owens supposed the gentlemen would stop quietly in his room, but not they. out they wandered on discovery intent. a well-painted scene caught the doctor's eye. he led his friend up to it, to take a better look; then as only part of it was visible from where they stood, they followed it along. mr. owens and i were on the stage. suddenly his eyes distended. "what in the devil?" he whispered. i looked behind me, and at the same moment the audience burst into shouts of laughter; for right into the centre of the stage had walked, with backs toward the audience, two tall gentlemen, each with a shining bald head, each tightly buttoned in a long black overcoat, and each gesticulating with a heavy cane. i whispered to mr. owens, "the two dromios"; but he snapped out, "two blind old bats." when they heard the roar behind them, they turned their heads, and then a funnier, wilder exit i never saw than was made by these two dignified old gentlemen; while owens added to the laughter by taking me by the hand, and when we had assumed their exact attitude, singing "two wandering boys from switzerland." i am reminded that the first performance i ever saw in my life had one of the most grotesque interruptions imaginable. at a sort of country hotel much frequented by driving parties and sleighing parties, a company of players were "strapped,"--to use the theatrical term, stranded,--unable either to pay their bills or to move on. there was a ballroom in the house, and the proprietor allowed them to erect a temporary stage there and give a performance, the guests in the house promising to attend in a body. one of the plays was an old french farce, known to english audiences as "the hole in the wall." the principal comedy part was a clerk to two old misers, who starved him outrageously. i was a little, stiffly starched person, and i remember that i sat on some one's silk lap, and slipped and slipped, and was hitched up and immediately slipped again until i wished i might fall off and be done with it. near me sat a little old maiden lady, who had come in from her village shop to see "the show." she wore two small, sausage curls either side of her wrinkled cheeks, large glasses, a broad lace collar, while three members of her departed family gathered together in one fell group on a mighty pin upon her tired chest. she held a small bag on her knee, and from it she now and then slid a bit of cake which, as she nibbled it, gave off a strong odour of caraway seed. [illustration: _john e. owens_] now the actor was clever in his "make-up," and each time he appeared he looked thinner than he had in the scene before. instead of laughing, however, the old woman took it seriously, and she had to wipe her glasses with her carefully folded handkerchief several times before that last scene, when she was quite overcome. his catch phrase had been, "oh! oh! how hungry i am!" and every time he said it, she gave a little involuntary groan; but as he staggered on at the last, thin as a bit of thread paper, hollow-cheeked, white-faced, she indignantly exclaimed, "well now, _that's_ a shame!" the people laughed aloud; the comedian fixed his eyes upon her face, and with hands pressed against his stomach groaned, "o-h! how hungry i am!" and then she opened that bag and drew forth two long, twisted, fried cakes, rose, stood on her tip-toes, and reaching them up to him tearfully remarked:-- "here, you poor soul, take these. they are awful dry; but it's all i've got with me." the audience fairly screamed; but poor and stranded as that company was, the comedian was an artist, for he accepted the fried cakes, ate them ravenously to the last crumb, and so kept well within the character he was playing, without hurting the feelings of the kind-hearted, little old woman. it's pleasant to know that that clever bit of acting attracted the attention and gained the interest of a well-to-do gentleman, who was present, and who next day helped the actors on their way to the city. a certain foreign actor once smilingly told me "i was a crank about my american public." i took his little gibe in good part; for while he knew foreign audiences, he certainly did _not_ know american ones as well as i, who have faced them from ocean to ocean, from british columbia to florida. two characteristics they all share in common,--intelligence and fairness,--otherwise they vary as widely, have as many marked peculiarities, as would so many individuals. new york and boston are _the_ authorities this side of "the great divide," while san francisco sits in judgment by the blue pacific. one never-to-be-forgotten night i went to a fashionable theatre in new york city to see a certain english actress make her début before an american audience, which at that time was considered quite an interesting event, since there were but one or two of her countrywomen over here then. the house was very full; the people were of the brightest and the "smartest." i sat in a stage box and noted their eagerness, their smiling interest. the curtain was up, there was a little dialogue, and then the stage door opened. i dimly saw the actress spreading out her train ready to "come on," the cue was given, a figure in pale blue and white appeared in the doorway, stood for one single, flashing instant, then lurched forward, and with a crash she measured her full length upon the floor. the shocked "o-h-h" that escaped the audience might have come from one pair of lips, so perfect was its spontaneity, and then dead and perfect silence fell. the actress lay near but one single piece of furniture (she was alone in the scene, unfortunately), and that was one of those frail, useless, gilded trifles known as reception chairs. she reached out her hand, and lifting herself by that, had almost reached her knee, when the chair tipped under her weight, and they both fell together. it was awful. a deep groan burst from the people in the parquet. i saw many women hide their eyes; men, with hands already raised to applaud, kept the attitude rigidly, while their tight-pressed lips and frowning brows showed an agony of sympathy. then suddenly an arm was thrust through the doorway; i knew it for the head carpenter's. though in a shirt sleeve, it was bare to the elbow, and not over clean, but strong as a bough of living oak. she seized upon it and lifting herself, with scarlet face and neck and breast, she stood once more upon her feet. and then the storm broke loose; peal on peal of thunderous applause shook the house. but four times in my life have i risked throwing flowers myself; but that night mine were the first roses that fell at her feet. she seemed dazed; quite distinctly i heard her say "off" to some one in the entrance, "but what's the matter?" at last she came forward. she was plump almost to stoutness, but she moved most gracefully. her bow was greeted with long-continued applause. sympathy, courtesy, encouragement, welcome--all were expressed in that general and enthusiastic outburst. "why," said she after all was over, "at home they would have hissed me, had that happened there." "oh!" exclaimed one who heard, "never; they could not be so cruel." "oh, yes," she answered, "_afterward_ they might have applauded, but not at first. surely they would have hissed me." and with these words ringing in my ears, no wonder that, figuratively speaking, i knelt at the feet of a new york audience and proudly kissed its hand. _chapter xi stage children. my "little breeches" in "miss multon"_ in the play of "miss multon" a number of children are required for the first act. they are fortunately supposed to be the children of the poor, and they come to a christmas party. as i had that play in my _repertoire_ for several years, i naturally came in contact with a great number of little people, and that's just what they generally were, little men and women, with here and there at long intervals a _real_ child. they were of all kinds and qualities,--some well-to-do, some very poor, some gentle and well-mannered, some wild as steers, some brazen-faced and pushing, some sweet and shy and modest. i had one little child--a mere tot--take hold of the ribbon with which i tied my cape and ask me how much it was a yard; she also inquired about the quality of the narrow lace edge on my handkerchief, and being convinced that it was real, sharply told me to look out "it didn't get stoled." one little girl came every night, as i sat waiting for my cue, to rub her fingers up and down over the velvet collar of my cape. touching the soft yielding surface seemed to give her exquisite pleasure, and i caught the same child standing behind me when i wore the rich red dress, holding her hands up to it, as to a fire, for warmth. poor little soul! she had sensibility and imagination both. the play requires that one child should be very small; and as it was no unusual thing for the little one to get frightened behind the scenes, i used to come to the rescue, and as i found a question about "mamma" won their attention the quickest, i fell into the habit of saying, first thing: "where's mamma? is she here? show me, where." and having once won attention, it had gone hard with me indeed had i failed to make friends with the youngster. one monday evening as i came to my place, i saw the new baby standing all forlorn, with apparently no one at all to look after her, not even one of the larger children. she was evidently on the very verge of frightened tears, and from old habit i stooped down and said to her, "where's mamma, dear?" she lifted two startled blue eyes to my face and her lips began to tremble. i went on, "is mamma here?" the whole little face drew up in a distressed pucker, and with gasps she whispered, "she's in er box." i raised my head and glanced across the stage. an old gentleman sat in the box opposite, and i knew a merry young party had the one on our own side, so i answered: "oh, no, dear, mamma's not in the box; she's--" when the poor baby cried, "yes, she is, my mamma's in a box!" and buried her curly head in the folds of my skirt and burst into sobs. at that moment a hard-voiced, hard-faced, self-sufficient girl pushed forward, and explained in a patronizing way: "oh, she's too little to say it right. she ain't got no mother; she's dead, and it's the coffin annie means by the box." oh, poor baby, left behind! poor little scrap of humanity! in another city the child was older, nearly five, but so very small that she did nicely in the tiny trousers (it is a boy's part, as i should have said before), and when the act was over, i kissed the brightly pretty face and offered her a little gift. she put out her hand eagerly, then swiftly drew it back again, saying, "it's money." "yes," i answered. "it's for you, take it." [illustration: _"little breeches"_] she hung her head and murmured, "it's money, i dar'sent." "why not?" i asked. "'cause we're too poor," she replied, which was certainly the oddest reason i ever heard advanced for not accepting offered money. i was compelled to hurry to my dressing-room to prepare for the next act; but i saw with what disappointed eyes she followed me, and as i kept thinking of her and her queer answer i told my maid to go out and see if the pretty, very clean little girl was still there, and, if so, to send her to my room. presently a faint tap, low down on the door, told me my expected visitor had arrived. wide-eyed and smiling she entered, and having some cough drops on my dressing-table, i did the honours. cough drops of strength and potency they were, too, but sweet, and therefore acceptable to a small girl. she looked at them in her wistful way, and then very prettily asked, "please might she eat one right then?" i consented to that seemingly grave breach of etiquette, and then asked if her mother was with her. "oh, no! sam had brought her." (sam was the gas man.) "why," i went on, "did you not take that money, dear?" (her eyes instantly became regretful). "don't you want it?" "oh, yes, ma'am," she eagerly answered. "yes, ma'am, i want it, thank you; but you see i might get smacked again--like i did last week." our conversation at this embarrassing point was interrupted by the appearance of sam, who came for the little one. i sent her out with a message for the maid, and then questioned sam, who, red and apologetic, explained that "the child had never seen no theatre before; but he knew that the fifty cents would be a godsend to them all, and an honest earned fifty cents, too, and he hoped the kid hadn't given me no trouble," and he beamed when i said she was charming and so well-mannered. "yes," he reckoned, "they aimed to bring her up right. yer see," he went on, "her father's my pal, and he married the girl that--a girl--well, the best kind of a girl yer can think of" (poor sam), "and they both worked hard and was gettin' along fine, until sickness come, and then he lost his job, and it's plumb four months now that he's been idle; and that girl, the wife, was thin as a rail, and they would die all together in a heap before they'd let any one help 'em except with work." "what," i asked, "did the child mean by getting a smacking last week?" "oh," he answered, "the kid gets pretty hungry, i suppose, and t'other day when she was playin' with the jones child, there in the same house, mrs. jones asks her to come in and have some dinner; and as she lifted one of the covers from the cooking-stove, the kid says: 'my, you must be awful rich, you make a fire at both ends of your stove at once. my mamma only makes a fire under just one hole, 'cause we don't have anything much to cook now 'cept tea.' the speech reached the mother's ears, and she smacked the child for lettin' on to any one how poor they are. lord, no, miss, she dar'sent take no money, though god knows they need it bad enough." with dim eyes i hurriedly scribbled a line on a bit of wrapping paper, saying:--"this little girl has played her part so nicely that i want her to have something to remember the occasion by, and since i shall not be in the city to-morrow, and cannot select anything myself, i must ask you to act for me." then i folded it about a green note, and calling back the child, i turned her about and pinned both written message and money to the back of her apron. the little creature understood the whole thing in a flash. she danced about joyously: "oh, sam," she cried, "the lady's gived me a present, and i can't help myself, can i?" and sam wiped his hand on his breeches leg, and, clearing his throat hard, asked "if i'd mind shakin' hands?" and i didn't mind it a bit. then, with clumsy care, he wrapped the child in her thin bit of a cape, and led her back to that home which gave lodgement to both poverty and pride. while the play was new, in the very first engagement outside of new york, i had a very little child for that scene. she was flaxen blond, and her mother had dressed her in bright sky-blue, which was in itself an odd colour for a little boy to wear. then the small breeches were so evidently mother-made, the tiny bits of legs surmounted with such an enormous breadth of seat, the wee dutch-looking blue jacket, and the queer blue cap on top of the flaxen curls, gave the little creature the appearance of a dutch doll. the first sight of her, or, perhaps, i should say "him," the first sight of him provoked a ripple of merriment; but when he turned full about on his bits of legs and toddled up stage, giving a full, perfect view of those trousers to a keenly observant public, people laughed the tears into their eyes. and this baby noted the laughter, and resented it with a thrust-out lip and a frowning knit of his level brows that was funnier than even his blue clothing--and after that one parthian glance at the audience, he invariably toddled to me, and hid his face in my dress. from the very first night the child was called "little breeches," and to this day i know her by no other name. time passed by fast--so fast; years came, years went. "miss multon" had been lying by for a number of seasons. "renée de moray," "odette," "raymonde," etc., had been in use; then some one asked for "miss multon," and she rose obediently from her trunk, took her manuscript from the shelf, and presented herself at command. one evening, in a southern california city, as i left my room ready for the first act of this play, the door-man told me a young woman had coaxed so hard to see me, for just one moment, that ignoring orders he had come to ask me if he might bring her in; she was not begging for anything, just a moment's interview. rather wearily i gave permission, and in a few moments i saw him directing her toward me. a very slender, very young bit of a woman, a mere girl, in fact, though she held in her arms a small white bundle. as she came smilingly up to me, i perceived that she was very blond. i bowed and said "good evening" to her, but she kept looking in smiling silence at me for a moment or two, then said eagerly, "don't you know me, miss morris?" i looked hard at her. "no," i said; "and if i have met you before, it's strange, for while i cannot remember names, my memory for faces is remarkable." "oh," she said, in deep disappointment, "can't you remember me at all--not at all?" her face fell, she pushed out her nether lip, she knit her level, flaxen brows. i leaned forward suddenly and touched her hand, saying, "you are not--you can't be--my little--" "yes, i am," she answered delightedly. "i am little breeches." "and this?" i asked, touching the white bundle. "oh," she cried, "this is _my_ little breeches; but i shan't dress him in bright blue." "good heavens!" i exclaimed, "how old are you, and how old am i?" "well," she replied, "i'm almost eighteen, and as you look just exactly as you did when i saw you last, it doesn't matter, so far as i can see, how many years have passed." (oh, clever little breeches!) then, having had little breeches d kissed and honestly admired, she trotted away satisfied; and only as i made my entrance on the stage did it occur to me that i had not asked her name; so she ends as she began, simply little breeches. _chapter xii the stage as an occupation for women_ in looking over my letters from the gentle "unknown," i find that the question, "what advantage has the stage over other occupations for women?" is asked by a mrs. some one more often than by the more impulsive and less thoughtful girl writer, and it is put with frequency and earnestness. of course there is nothing authoritative in these answers of mine, nothing absolute. they are simply the opinion of one woman, founded upon personal experience and observation. we must, of course, to begin with, eliminate the glamour of the stage--that strange, false lustre, as powerful as it is intangible--and consider acting as a practical occupation, like any other. and then i find that in trying to answer the question asked, i am compelled, after all, to turn to a memory. i had been on the stage two years when one day i met a schoolmate. her father had died, and she, too, was working; but she was bitterly envious of my occupation. i earnestly explained the demands stage wardrobe made upon the extra pay i drew; that in actual fact she had more money for herself than i had. again i explained that rehearsals, study, and preparation of costumes required time almost equal to her working hours, with the night work besides; but she would not be convinced. "oh, don't you see," she cried, "i am at service, that means i'm a dependant, i labour for another. you serve, yes, but you labour for yourself," and lo! she had placed her stubby little finger upon the sore spot in the working-woman's very heart, when she had divined that in the independence of an actress lay her great advantage over other workers. of course this independence is not absolute; but then how many men there are already silver-haired at desk or bench or counter who are still under the authority of an employer! like these men, the actress's independence is comparative; but measured by the bondage of other working-women, it is very great. we both have duties to perform for which we receive a given wage, yet there is a difference. the working-girl is expected to be subservient, she is too often regarded as a menial, she is ordered. an actress, even of small characters, is considered a necessary part of the whole. she assists, she attends, she obliges. truly a difference. again, women shrink with passionate repugnance from receiving orders from another woman; witness the rarity of the american domestic. a pity? yes; but what else can you expect? the americans are a dominant race. free education has made all classes too nearly equal for one woman to bend her neck willingly and accept the yoke of servitude offered by another woman. and even this is spared to the actress, since her directions are more often received from the stage manager or manager than from a woman star. true, her life is hard, she has no home comforts; but, then, she has no heavy duties to perform, no housework, bed-making, sweeping, dish-washing, or clothes-washing, and when her work is done, she is her own mistress. she goes and comes at her own will; she has time for self-improvement, but best of all she has something to look forward to. that is a great advantage over girls of other occupations, who have such a small chance of advancement. some impetuous young reader who speaks first and thinks afterward may cry out that i am not doing justice to the profession of acting, even that i discredit it in thus comparing it with humble and somewhat mechanical vocations; so before i go farther, little enthusiasts, let me remind you of the wording of this present query. it does not ask what advantage has acting over other professions, over other arts, but "what advantage has it over other occupations for women?" a very sweeping inquiry, you see; hence this necessary comparison with shop, factory, and office work. as to the other professions, taking, for instance, law or medicine, preparations for practice must be very costly. a girl puts her family to a great strain to pay her college expenses, or if some family friend advances funds, when she finally passes all the dreaded examinations, and has the legal right to hang out her shingle, she starts in the race of life handicapped with crushing debts. the theatre is, i think, the only place where a salary is paid to students during all the time they are learning their profession; surely a great, a wonderful advantage over other professions to be self-sustaining from the first. then the arts, but ah! life is short and art, dear lord, art is long, almost unto eternity. and she who serves it needs help, much help, and then must wait, long and wearily, for the world's response and recognition, that, even if they come, are apt to be somewhat uncertain, unless they can be cut on a marble tomb; then they are quite positive and hearty. but in the art of acting the response and recognition come swift as lightning, sweet as nectar, while you are young enough to enjoy and to make still greater efforts to improve and advance. so it seems to me the great advantage of acting over work is one's independence, one's opportunity to improve oneself. its advantage over the professions is that it is self-sustaining from the start. its advantage over the arts is its swift reward for earnest endeavour. it must be very hard to endure the contempt so often bestowed upon the woman who simply serves. i had a little taste of it once myself; and though it was given me by accident, and apologies and laughter followed, i remember quite well that even that tiny taste was distinctly unpleasant--yes, and bitter. i was abroad with some very intimate friends, and mrs. p----, an invalid, owing to a mishap, was for some days without a maid. we arrived in paris hours behind time, late at night, and went straight to our reserved rooms, seeing no one but some sleepy servants. early next morning, going to my friends' apartments, i came upon this piteous sight: mrs. p----, who had a head of curly hair, was not only without a maid, but also without the use of her right arm. the fame of charcot had brought her to paris. unless she breakfasted alone, which she hated, her hair must be arranged. behold, then, the emergency for which her husband, colonel p----, had, boldly not to say recklessly, offered his services. i can see them now. she, with clenched teeth of physical suffering and uplifted eye of the forgiving martyr, sat in combing jacket before him; and he, with the maid's white apron girt tight about him just beneath his armpits, had on his soldierly face an expression of desperate resolve that suggested the leading of a forlorn hope. a row of hair-pins protruded sharply from between his tightly closed lips; a tortoise-shell back-comb, dangling from one side of his full beard where he placed it for safety, made this amateur hairdresser a disturbing sight both for gods and men. with legs well braced and far apart, his arms high lifted like outspread wings, he wielded the comb after the manner of a man raking hay. for one moment all my sympathy was for the shrinking woman; then, when suddenly, in despite of the delicious morning coolness, a great drop of perspiration splashed from the colonel's corrugated brow, down into the obstreperous curly mass he wrestled with, i pitied him, too, and cried:-- "oh, i'll do that. take care, you'll swallow a pin or two if you contradict me. your spirit is willing, colonel, but your flesh, for all you have such a lot of it, is weak, when you come to hair-dressing!" and regardless of his very earnest protest, i took the tangled, tormented mass in hand and soon had it waving back into a fluffy knot; and just as i was drawing forth some short locks for the forehead, there came a knock and in bounced the mistress of the house, our landlady, mme. f----, who, missing our arrival the night before, came now to bid us welcome and inquire as to our satisfaction with arrangements, etc. she was a short woman, of surprising breadth and more surprising velocity of speech. she could pronounce more words to a single breath than any other person i have ever met. she was german by birth, and spoke french with a strong german accent, while her english was a thing to wring the soul, sprinkled as it was with german "unds," "ufs," and "yousts," and french "zees" and "zats." our french being of the slow and precise kind, and her english of the rattling and at first incomprehensible type, the conversation was somewhat confused. but even so, my friends noticed with surprise, that madame did not address one word of welcome to me. they hastened to introduce me, using my married name. a momentary annoyance came into her face, then she dropped her lids haughtily, swept me from head to foot with one contemptuous glance, and without even the faintest nod in return to my "bon jour, madame," she turned to mrs. p----, who, red with indignation, was trying to sputter out a demand for an explanation, and asked swiftly:-- "und zat ozzer lady? you vas to be t'ree--n'est-ce pas? she hav' not com' yed? to-morrow, perhaps, und--und" (i saw what was coming, but my companions suspected nothing), "und"--she dropped her lids again and indicated me with a contemptuous movement of the head--"she, zat maid, you vant to make arrange for her? you hav' not write for room for zat maid?" i leaned from the window to hide my laughter, for it seemed to me that colonel p---- jumped a foot, while the cry of his wife drowned the sound of the short, warm word that is of great comfort to angry men. before they could advance one word of explanation, an aproned waiter fairly burst into the room, crying for "madame! madame! to come quick, for that jules was at it very bad again!" and she wildly rushed out, saying over her shoulder, "by und by we zee for zat maid, und about zat udder lady, by und by also," and so departed at a run with a great rattling of starch and fluttering of cap ribbons; for jules, the head cook, already in the first stages of delirium tremens, was making himself interesting to the guests by trying to jump into the fountain basin to save the lives of the tiny ducklings, who were happily swimming there, and madame f---- was sorely needed. yes, i laughed--laughed honestly at the helpless wrath of my friends, and pretended to laugh at the mistake; but all the time i was saying to myself, "had i really been acting as maid, how cruelly i should have suffered under that contemptuous glance and from that withheld bow of recognition." she had found me well-dressed, intelligent, and well-mannered; yet she had insulted me, because she believed me to be a lady's maid. no wonder women find service bitter. we had retired from the breakfast room and were arranging our plans for the day, when a sort of whirlwind came rushing through the hall, the door sprang open almost without a pronounced permission, and madame f---- flung herself into the room, caught my hands in hers, pressed them to her heart, to her lips, to her brow, wept in german, in french, in english, and called distractedly upon "himmel!" "ciel!" and "heaven!" but she found her apologies so coldly received by my friends that she was glad to turn the flood of her remorse in my direction, and for very shame of the scene she was making i assured her the mistake was quite pardonable--as it was. it was her manner that was almost unpardonable. then she added to my discomfort by bursting out with fulsome praise of me as an actress; how she had seen me and wept, and so on and on, she being only at last walked and talked gently out of the room. but that was not the end of her remorse. a truly french bouquet with its white paper petticoat arrived in about an hour, "from the so madly mistooken madame f----," the card read, and that act of penance was performed every morning as long as i remained in paris. but one day she appealed to the colonel for pity and sympathy. "ah!" said she, "i hav' zee two tr'ubles, zee two sorrows! i hav' zee grief to vound zee feelin's of zat so fine actrice americaine--zat ees one tr'ubles, und den i hav' zee shame to mak' zat grande fool meestak'--oh, mon dieu! i tak' her for zee maid, und zare my most great tr'uble come in! i hav' no one with zee right to keek me--to keek me hard from zee back for being such a fool. i say mit my husband dat night, 'vill you keek me hard, if you pleas'?' mais, he cannot, he hav' zee gout in zee grande toe, und he can't keek vurth one sou!--und zat is my second tr'uble!" behind her broad back the colonel confessed that had she expressed such a wish on the occasion of the mistake, he would willingly have obliged her, as he was quite free from gout. so any woman who goes forth to win her living as an actress will at least be spared the contemptuous treatment bestowed on me in my short service as an amateur lady's maid. _chapter xiii the bane of the young actress's life_ what is the bane of a young actress's life? under the protection of pretty seals stamped in various tints of wax, i find one question appearing in many slightly different forms. a large number of writers ask, "what is the greatest difficulty a young actress has to surmount?" in another pile of notes the question appears in this guise, "what is the principal obstacle in the way of the young actress?" while two motherly bodies ask, "what one thing worries an actress the most?" after due thought i have cast them all together, boiled them down, and reduced them to this, "what is the bane of a young actress's life?" which question i can answer without going into training, with one hand tied behind me, and both eyes bandaged, answer in one word--_dress_. ever since that far-away season when eve, the beautiful, inquiring, let-me-see-for-myself eve, made fig leaves popular in eden, and invented the apron to fill a newly felt want, dress has been at once the comfort and the torment of woman. acting is a matter of pretence, and she who can best pretend a splendid passion, a tender love, or a murderous hate, is admittedly the finest actress. time was when stage wardrobe was a pretence, too. an actress was expected to please the eye, she was expected to be historically correct as to the shape and style of her costume; but no one expected her queenly robes to be of silk velvet, her imperial ermine to be anything rarer than rabbit-skin. my own earliest ermine was humbler still, being constructed of the very democratic white canton flannel turned wrong side out, while the ermine's characteristic little black tails were formed by short bits of round shoe-lacing. the only advantage i can honestly claim for this domestic ermine is its freedom from the moths, who dearly love imported garments of soft fine cloth and rare lining. i have had and have seen others have, in the old days, really gorgeous brocades made by cutting out great bunches of flowers from chintz and applying them to a cheaper background, and then picking out the high lights with embroidery silk, the effect being not only beautiful, but rich. all these make-believes were necessary then, on a $ or $ a week salary, for a leading lady drew no more. [illustration: _clara morris as "jane eyre"_] but times are changed, stage lighting is better, stronger. the opera glass is almost universally used, deceptions would be more easily discovered; and more, oh, so much more is expected from the actress of to-day. formerly she was required, first of all, to sink her own individuality in that of the woman she pretended to be; and next, if it was a dramatized novel she was acting in, she was to make herself look as nearly like the described heroine as possible; otherwise she had simply to make herself as pretty as she knew how in her own way, that was all. but now the actresses of a great city are supposed to set the fashion for the coming season. they almost literally dress in the style of to-morrow: thus the cult of clothes becomes harmful to the actress. precious time that should be given to the minute study, the final polishing of a difficult character, is used instead in deciding the pitch of a skirt, the width of a collar, or open sleeve-strap, or no sleeve at all. some ladies of my acquaintance who had been to the theatre three times, avowedly to study as models the costumes, when questioned as to the play, looked at one another and then answered vaguely: "the performance? oh, nothing remarkable! it was fair enough; but the dresses! they are really beyond anything in town, and must have cost a mint of money!" so we have got around to the opposite of the old-time aim, when the answer might possibly have been: "the acting was beyond anything in town. the dresses? nothing remarkable! oh, well, fair enough!" i have often been told by famous women of the past that the beautiful mrs. russell, then of wallack's theatre, was the originator in this country of richly elegant realism in stage costuming. when it was known that the mere linings of her gowns cost more than the outside of other dresses; that all her velvet was silk velvet; all her lace to the last inch was real lace; that no wired nor spliced feathers curled about her splendid leghorns, only magnificent single plumes, each worth weeks of salary, this handsome woman, superbly clad, created a sensation, but alas! at the same time, she unconsciously scattered seed behind her that sprang up into a fine crop of dragon's teeth for following young actresses to gather. _qui donne le menu, donne la faim!_ and right here let me say, i am not of those who believe the past holds a monopoly of all good things. i have much satisfaction in the present, and a strong and an abiding faith in the future, and even in this matter of dress, which has become such an anxiety to the young actress, i would not ask to go back to those days of primitive costuming. in shakespere's day there appeared over a "drop," or curtain of green, a legend plainly stating, "this is a street in verona," and every man with an imagination straightway saw the veronese street to his complete satisfaction; but there were those who had no imagination, and to hold their attention and to keep their patronage, scenes had to be painted for them. one would not like to see a woman draped in plain grey with an attached placard saying, "this is a ball gown" or "this is a coronation robe," the imagination would balk at it. but there is a far cry between that and the real coronation robe of velvet, fur, and jewels. what i would ask for is moderation, and above all freedom for the actress from the burden of senseless extravagance which is being bound upon her shoulders--not by the public, not even by the manager, but by the mischievous small hands of sister actresses, who have private means outside of their salaries. how generous they would be if they could be content to dress with grace and elegance while omitting the mad extravagance that those who are dependent upon their salaries alone will surely try to emulate, and sometimes at what a price, dear heaven, at what a price! let us say an actress plays the part of a woman of fashion--of rank. as she makes her first appearance, she is supposed to have returned from the opera. therefore, though she may wear them but one moment, hood and opera cloak are needed because they will help out the illusion. suppose, then, she wears a long cloak of velvet or cloth, with a lining of delicate tinted quilted satin or fur; if the impression of warmth or elegance and comfort is given, its work has been well done. but suppose the actress enters in an opera cloak of such gorgeous material that the elaborate embroidery on it seems an impertinence--a creation lined with the frailest, most expensive fur known to commerce, frothing with real lace, dripping with semi-precious jewels--what happens? the cloak pushes forward and takes precedence of the wearer, a buzz arises, heads bob this way and that, opera-glasses are turned upon the wonderful cloak whose magnificence has destroyed the illusion of the play; and while its beauty and probable price are whispered over, the scene is lost, and ten to one the actress is oftener thought of as miss so-and-so, owner of that wonderful cloak, than as madame such-an-one, heroine of the drama. extravagance is inartistic--so for that reason i could wish for moderation in stage dressing. heavens, what a nightmare dress used to be to me! for months i would be paying so much a week to my dressmaker for the gowns of a play. i thought my heart would break to pieces, when, during the long run of "divorce," just as i had finished paying for five dresses, mr. daly announced that we were all to appear in new costumes for the one hundredth night. i pleaded, argued, too, excitedly, that my gowns were without a spot or stain; that they had been made by the dressmaker he had himself selected, and he had approved of them, etc., and he made answer, "yes, yes, i know all that; but i want to stir up fresh interest, therefore we must have something to draw the people, and they will come to see the new dresses." and then, in helpless wrath, i burst out with: "oh, of course! if we are acting simply as dress and cloak models in the fifth avenue show room, i can't object any longer. you see, i was under the impression people came here to see us act your play, not to study our clothes; forgive me my error." for which i distinctly deserved a forfeit; but we were far past our unfriendly days, and i received nothing worse than a stern, "i am surprised at you, miss morris," and at my rueful response, "yes, so am i surprised at miss morris," he laughed outright and pushed me toward the open door, bidding me hurry over to the dressmaker's. i had a partial revenge, however, for one of the plates he insisted on having copied for me turned out so hideously unbecoming that the dress was retired after one night's wear, and he made himself responsible for the bill. sometimes a girl loses her chance at a small part that it is known she could do nicely, because some other girl can outdress her--that is very bitter. then, again, so many plays now are of the present day, and when the terribly expensive garment is procured it cannot be worn for more than that one play, and next season it is out of date. when the simplest fashionable gown costs $ , what must a ball gown with cloak, gloves, fan, slippers and all, come to? there was a time when the comic artists joked about "the $ best hat for wives." the shop that carried $ best hats to-day would be mobbed; $ and $ are quite ordinary prices now. so the young actress--unless she has some little means, aside from a salary, a father and mother to visit through the idle months and so eke that salary out--is bound to be tormented by the question of clothes; for she is human, and wants to look as well as those about her, and besides she knows the stage manager is not likely to seek out the poorest dresser for advancement when an opening occurs. recently some actresses whose acknowledged ability as artists should, i think, have lifted them above such display, allowed their very charming pictures to appear in a public print, with these headings, "miss b. in her $ dinner dress"; "miss r. in her $ cloak"; "miss j. in her $ tea gown," and then later there appeared elsewhere, "miss m.'s $ parasol." now had these pictures been given to illustrate the surpassing grace or beauty or novelty of the gowns, the act might have appeared a gracious one, a sort of friendly "tip" on the newest things out; but those flaunting price tags lowered it all. in this period of prosperity a spirit of mad extravagance is abroad in the land. luxuries have become necessities, fine feeling is blunted, consideration for others is forgotten. those who published the figures and prices of their clothes were good women, as well as brilliant artists, who would be deeply pained if any act of theirs should fill some sister's heart with bitter envy and fatal emulation, being driven on to competition by the mistaken belief that the fine dresses had made the success of their owners. oh, for a little moderation, a little consideration for the under girl, in the struggle for clothes! in old times of costume plays the manager furnished most of the wardrobe for the men (oh, lucky men!), who provided but their own tights and shoes; and judging from the extreme beauty and richness of the costumes of the new york plays of to-day, and the fact that a lady of exquisite taste designs wholesale, as one might say, all the dresses for production after production, it would seem that the management must share the heavy expenses of such costuming, or else salaries are very much higher than they were a few years ago. in france the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departed court in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with the graceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure success. those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the honour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress, while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often slavishly followed. how many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large, flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman known to the half-world as cora pearl? not pretty, but of a very beautiful figure, and english by birth, she was, one might say, of course, a good horse-woman. she banqueted late one night--so late that dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when they began to take leave. she had indulged in too much wine for comfort; her head was hot. she was seized with one of the wild whims of her lawless class--she would mount then and there and ride in the bois. remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. horses were sent for, her maid aroused. she flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her chapeau. there was none. "mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, had been returned for blocking." "tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!" "oh, mon dieu, il fut donné." a quick blow stopped further explanation. "quelle que cruche, que cette fille," then a moment's silence, a roving about of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an american artist's hand his big soft felt hat. turning the flapping brim up, she fastened it to the crown in three places with jewelled pins, tore a bunch of velvet from her dinner corsage, secured it directly in front, and clapping the hat on the back of her head, dashed downstairs and was in the saddle with a scrabble and a bound, and away like mad, followed by two men, who were her unwilling companions. riding longer than she had intended, she returned in broad daylight. all paris was agog over her odd head gear. her impudent, laughing face caught their fancy yet again, and she trotted down from the arc de triomphe between two rippling little streams of comment and admiration, with, "comme elle est belle!" "quelle aplomb!" "matin, quelle chic!" "elle est forte gentille!" "c'est le coup de grace!" "le chapeau! le chapeau!" "la belle pearl! la belle pearl!" reaching her distinctly at every other moment. and that was the origin of the back-turned, broad-brimmed hat that had such vogue before the arrival of the gainsborough or picture hat. if i were a young actress, i would rather be noted for acting than for originating a new style of garment; but it is a free country, thank god, and a big one, with room for all of us, whatever our preferences. and though the young actress has the clothes question heavy on her mind now, and finds it hard to keep up with others and at the same time out of debt, she has the right to hope that by and by she will be so good an actress, and so valuable to the theatre, that a fat salary will make the clothes matter play second fiddle, as is right and proper it should, to the question of fine acting. _chapter xiv the masher, and why he exists_ thousands of persons who do not themselves use slang understand and even appreciate it. the american brand is generally pithy, compact, and expressive, and not always vulgar. slang is at its worst in contemptuous epithets, and of those the one that is lowest and most offensive seems likely to become a permanent, recognized addition to the language. no more vulgar term exists than "masher," and it is a distinct comfort to find webster ascribing the origin of the word to england's reckless fun-maker,--_punch_. beaux, bucks, lady-killers, johnnies,--all these terms have been applied at different periods to the self-proclaimed fascinator of women, and to-day we will use some one, any of them, rather than that abomination,--masher. nor am i "puttin' on scallops and frills," as the boys say. i know a good thing when i hear it, as when a very much overdressed woman entered a car, and its first sudden jerk broke her gorgeous parasol, while its second flung her into the arms of the ugliest, fattest man present and whirled her pocket-book out of the window, i knew that the voice of conviction that slowly said, "well, she is up against it," slangily expressed the unfortunate woman's exact predicament. oh, no, i'm not "puttin' on frills," i am only objecting with all my might and main to a term, as well as to the contemptible creature indicated by it,--masher. in a certain school, long ago, there was a very gentle, tender-hearted teacher, who was also the comforter and peacemaker of her flock. whenever there was trouble at recess, and some one pushed or some one else had their gathers torn out, or, in actual war, names were called, and "mean thing" and "tattle-tale" brought sobbing little maids to the teacher's arms, or when loss and disaster in the way of missing blocks of rubber, broken slate pencils, or ink-stained reader covers sent floods of tears down small faces, this teacher always came to the rescue and soothed and patted and invariably wound up with these exact words, "there, there, don't let us say anything more about it, and then we'll all be quite happy." i am sure we all thought that it was the eleventh commandment, "not to say anything more about it." now every one of us suffered more or less from our encounters with the multiplication table. of course _fives_ and _tens_ were at a premium--even very stupid little girls could get through them, and _twos_ were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washed daily. _sevens_ were, however, my own especial nightmare--even to this day my fingers instinctively begin to move when i multiply any figure by seven. standing in class on the platform, the _sevens_ one day fell to me. being charged to put my hands before me, that i should not by chance forget and count by their aid, i staggered and reeled through the table so far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, i hoarsely whispered, "forty-nine," and the shock of finding the answer correct destroyed me utterly. seven times eight was anything they liked in figures, and so i recklessly cried out, "oh, sixty-two, i guess," and burst into tears. recess came, and i would not move from my desk; and then the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, and was comforting me as best she could, when suddenly i stole her thunder by pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, "don't let us say anything more about the _sevens_, miss sands, and then we'll all be quite happy." poor little tots! poor multiplication table! and now, oh, how i would like to cry, "don't let us say anything more about the masher, and then we'll all be quite happy;" but to calm the needless fears of many, let me say at once, the creature is a nuisance, but not a danger. the stealthy, crafty, determined pursuer of the young and honest actress is a product of the imagination. these "johnnies" who hang about stage doors and send foolish and impertinent notes to the girlhood of the stage are not in love--they are actuated by vanity, pure and simple. these young "taddies," with hair carefully plastered down, are as like one another as are the peas of one pod,--each wishes to be considered a very devil of a fellow; but how can that be unless he is recognized as a fascinator of women, a masher; and the quickest way to obtain that reputation is to be seen supping or driving with pretty actresses. one of the odd things of the professional life is that in the artistic sense you are not considered an "actress" until you have shown some merit, have done some good, honest work; but for the purposes of gossip or scandal, ballet girls, chorus girls, or figurantes become actresses full fledged. mammas and aunties of would-be young artists seem to have made a veritable bogy-man of this would-be lady-killer. what nonsense! any well-brought-up young woman, respecting the proprieties, can protect herself from the attentions of this walking impertinence. letters are his chief weapon. if they are signed, it is easy to return them, if one cares to take so much trouble. a gift would be returned; if sent without a signature, it need not be shown nor worn. if the creature presumes to hang about the stage door, a word of complaint to the manager will be sufficient; the "masher" will at once "take notice" of some other door and probably of some other actress. but i am asked, why does he exist? and i suppose he could not if he were not encouraged, and there does exist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jolly supper or a ride to the races out of the johnny's pocket-book. wait, now; please don't jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus or ballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens the conventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls. most of them, on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves, will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose one hour of merriment their youth craves. of course this is not as it should be, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicate sensibilities have not been cultivated in them. before we harshly condemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will defend itself, if need be, with a blow. a refined girl would never put herself in a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, i think, to these reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletons who permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence with perfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of the stage-door "masher," who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the _jeunesse dorée_. but the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for another reason. the earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching over is not often attractive to the "masher." the clever and promising artist, miss g----, is not his style. he is not looking for brains, "don't yer know." he fancies no. in the second row, she with the flashing eyes and teeth; or no. in the front row, that has the cutest kick in the whole crowd. and his cheap and common letters of fulsome compliment and invitation go to her accordingly. but the daring little free lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit of supper that is followed by gross impertinences. one would think that the democratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, would taste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a _demi-tasse_. then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enough that a girl should not do evil: she must also avoid the appearance of evil. she will be judged by the character of her companions, and a few half-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressed smile, will place her among the list of his "mashes." oh, hideous word! of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls in love with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no "masher" proceedings are taken in such cases. on the other hand, very determined efforts are made to locate the actress's family or friends, and through them to be properly presented. believing, as i did, that every girl had a perfect right to humiliate a "masher" to the extent of her ability, i once went, it's hard to admit it, but really i did go, too far in reprisal. well, at all events, i was made to feel rather ashamed of myself. we were presenting "alixe" at mr. daly's broadway theatre, just after the fire, and the would-be lady-killer was abroad in the land and unusually active. there was seldom a night that some one was not laughing contemptuously or frowning fiercely over a "drop letter," as we called them. one evening my box held a most inflammable communication. it was not written upon club paper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap. the hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct. the i's were dotted, the t's crossed with painful precision, while toward capitals and punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity than understanding. his sentiment and romance were of the old-time rural type, and i am certain he longed to quote, "the rose is red, the violet's blue." i might have been a little touched but for the signature. i loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply could not bring myself to believe that any man really and truly walked up and down the earth bearing the name of mr. a. fix. yet that was the signature appended to the long, rapturous love-letter. i gave it a pitch into the waste-basket and dressed for the play. of course i spoke of the name, and of course it was laughed at; but three nights later another letter came--oh, well, it was just a letter. the writer was very diffuse, and evidently had plenty of paper and ink and time at his disposal. he dwelt on his sufferings as each day passed without a letter from me. he explained just what efforts he had made, vainly made, to secure sleep each night. he did not live in a large city when at home, and he described how nearly he had come to being run over in trying to cross our biggest street--while thinking of me. oh, mr fix! he bravely admitted he was due at the store out home, but he kept a-thinking i might not have got that first letter, or maybe i wanted to look him over before writing. so he had waited and was coming to the theatre that very night, and his seat was in the balcony,--no. , left side, front row,--and for fear i might not feel quite sure about him, he would hold high to his face, in his left hand, a large white handkerchief. it didn't seem to occur to him that such an attitude would give him a very grief-stricken aspect; he only desired to give me a fair chance "to look him over." without a second thought, i read that portion of the letter in the greenroom, and the laughter had scarcely died away when that admirable actor, but perfectly fiendish player of tricks, louis james, was going quietly from actor to actor arranging for the downfall of a. fix. so it happened that james, clarke, and lewis, instead of entering in a group, came on in indian file, each holding in the left hand a large pocket-handkerchief. i being already on the stage, there was of course a line spread of canvas in the balcony. the audience, ever quick to catch on to a joke, seeing each man glance upward, followed suit, spied the enormous handkerchief held high in the left hand, and realizing the situation, burst into hilarious laughter. uselessly i pleaded; at every possible opportunity the white handkerchief appeared in some left hand, while the stage manager vainly wondered why the audience laughed in such unseemly places that night. the next day that young person, whom i had treated as a common "masher," heaped a whole shovelful of hot, hot coals upon my guilty head by writing me a letter less carefully dotted and crossed, somewhat more confused in metaphor than before, but beginning with: "i am afraid you are cruel. i think you must have betrayed me to your mates, for i do not remember that they did such things before last night with their handkerchiefs." then, after telling me his home address, his business, and his exact standing socially, he laid these specially large hot coals carefully upon my brow, "so, though you make a laughing-stock of me, now don't think i shall be mad about it; but remember if any trouble or sickness comes to you, no matter how far from now, if you will just write me one word, i'll help you to my plumb last cent," and truly mr. fix left me ashamed and sorry. he had suffered for his name, which i believed to be an assumed one. poor young man, i offer an apology to his memory. one scamp wrote so brazenly, so persistently, demanding answers to be sent to a certain prominent club, that i one day laid the letters before mr. daly, and he advertised in the theatre programme that "if mr. b.m.b., of such a club, would call at the box office, he would receive not the answer he expected, but the one he deserved," and mr. daly was highly delighted when he heard that b.m.b., who was a "masher" _par excellence_, had been literally chaffed out of the club rooms. those creatures that, like poisonous toadstools, spring up at street corners to the torment of women, should be taken in hand by the police, since they encumber the streets and are a menace and a mortification to female citizens. let some brazen woman take the place of one of these street "mashers," and proceed to ogle passers-by, and see how quickly the police would gather her in. but so far as the stage "masher" is concerned, dear and anxious mamma, auntie, or sister, don't worry about the safety of your actress to be. the "masher" is an impertinence, a nuisance; but never, dear madam, never a danger. _chapter xv social conditions behind the scenes_ "what social conditions exist behind the scenes?" this fourth question is one that charles dickens would have called an "agriwator," and as it is repeated every now and again, i ask myself where is the curiosity about the theatre, its people, and its life to end? the question is, what social conditions exist behind the scenes? now to be quite frank, the first few times this query appeared, i was distinctly aggravated. i said to myself, do these ladies and gentlemen--yes, three males are in this inquiring group--do they think we are a people so apart from all others that we require a separate and distinctly different social code; that we know nothing of the law governing the size, style, and use of the visiting card; that congratulations, condolences, are unknown rites; that invitations, acceptances, and regrets are ancient hebrew to us, and calls, teas, dinners, and dances are exalted functions far above our comprehension? and then i read the question again, and saw i was making a ninny of myself--an easy thing to do with the thermometer at ninety-nine in the shade. that it said "behind the scenes," and with a laugh i recalled the little child who had delightedly witnessed her first christmas pantomime; and being told afterward i was one of the people of the play, she watched and listened eagerly some time before coming and resting a dimpled hand on mine, to ask disappointedly, "please, does all the actin' people have 'emselves jes' same as any one?" poor blue-eyed tot, she had expected at least a few twirls about the room, a few bounds and hand kisses; and here i was "'having" just like any one. so all my mistaken vexation gone, i'll try to make plain our social condition behind the scenes. in the first place, then, a theatrical company is almost exactly like one large family. our feeling for one another is generally one of warm good-fellowship. in our manners there is an easy familiarity which we would not dream of using outside of our own little company circle. we are a socially inclined people, communicative, fond of friendly conversation, and hopelessly given over to jokes, or, as we put it, "to guying." but don't imagine there's any _socialism_ about a theatre that means community of property and association; on the contrary, we enter into the keenest competition with one another. i dare say an outsider, as the non-professional has been termed time out of mind, watching our conduct for a few days and nights, would conclude that, though quite harmless, we are all a little _mad_. for the actor's funny habit of injecting old, old lines of old, old plays into his everyday conversation must be somewhat bewildering to the uninitiated:-- if an elderly, heavy breathing, portly gentleman, lifting his hat to a gentle, dignified little lady, remarks, "beshrew me, but i do love thee still. isn't it hot this morning; take this chair." or if a very slender pop-eyed young comedian, while wiping his brow, says, "now could i drink hot blood and hold it not a sin," and some one else calmly answers, "you haven't got those words right, and you couldn't drink anything hot to-day without having a fit." or if two big, stalwart men, meeting in the "entrance," fall suddenly into each other's arms, with a cry of "camille!" "armand!" or if a man enters the greenroom with his hat on, and a half-dozen people call, "do you take this for an ale-house, that you can enter with such a swagger?" and the hat comes off with a laughing apology. or if the man with the cane is everlastingly practising "carte and tierce" on somebody, or doing a broadsword fight with any one who has an umbrella. if a woman passes with her eyes cast down, reading a letter, and some one says, "in maiden meditation, fancy free." if she eats a sandwich at a long rehearsal, and some one instantly begins, "a creature not too bright nor good for human nature's daily food." if she appears in a conspicuously new gown and some one cries, "the riches of the ship have come on shore," ten to one she replies, "a poor thing, but mine own." these things will look and sound queer and flighty to the outsider, who, not acquainted with the lines or the plays they are from, cannot of course see how aptly some of them adapt themselves to the situation. but this one is plain to all. a young girl, who was a very careless dresser, was trailing along the "entrance" one evening, when behind her the leading man, quoting juliet, remarked, "'thou knowest the mask of night is on my cheek,' or i would not dare tell you your petticoat is coming off;" a perfect gale of laughter followed, in which the little sloven joined heartily. then one morning, rehearsal being dismissed, i was hurrying away, intending to enjoy a ride on horse-back, when mr. davidge, mr. daly's "old man," lifting his hat politely, and twisting macbeth's words very slightly, remarked, "i wish your horse swift and sure of foot, and so i do commend you to its back," and as i laughed, "macbeth, act iii," we parted in mutual admiration for each other's knowledge of the great play. the gentlemen are attentive to the ladies' small needs, providing seats when possible, bringing a wrap, a glass of water, fanning you if you are warm, carrying your long train if it is heavy; but never, never losing the chance to play a joke on you if they can. there is generally some ringleader of greenroom fun; for most actors are very impatient of "waits" between the scenes, and would rather pass such time in pranks than in quiet conversation. on one occasion some of the actors had made noise enough to reach the managerial ear, and they were forfeited. the actresses laughed at their discomfiture, and revenge was at once in order. next night, then, four young men brought bits of calico and threaded needles with them, and when their "wait" came, they all sat quietly in a row and sewed steadily. the sight was so ludicrous the women went off into unbounded laughter, and were in their turn forfeited. nothing excuses the use of swear words behind the scenes, and even a very mild indulgence is paid for by a heavy forfeit. one actor, not too popular with the company, used always to be late, and coming into the dressing room, he would fling everything about and knock things over, causing any amount of annoyance to his room-mates. he went on in but one act, the third, and the lateness of the hour made his lack of business promptitude the more marked. a joke was, of course, in order, and a practical joke at that. one evening he was extra late, and that was the opportunity of the joking room-mates. they carefully dropped some powerful, strong-holding gum into the heels of his patent leather shoes, and had barely put them in place, when the ever-late actor was heard coming on the run down the passage. in he tore, flinging things right and left, overturning make-ups, and knocking down precious silk hats. he grabbed his shoes, jammed his foot into one, scowled and exclaimed disgustedly, "what the deuce! there's something in this shoe. bah," he went on, "and in this one, too!" "take them off and shake 'em," suggested the dropper of the gum. "no time," growled the victim; "i'll get docked if i'm a second late. but these confounded things feel damp in the heels," and he kicked and stamped viciously. "damp in the heels?" murmured the guilty one, interrogatively. "in the heels, said you? what a very odd place for dampness to accumulate. now, personally, i find my heels are dry and smooth and hard, like--like a china nest-egg, don't you know; but _damp heels_, it doesn't sound right, and it must feel very uncomfortable. i don't wonder you kick!" and another broke in with: "i say, old fellow, that was my india ink you spoiled then. but never mind, i suppose your heels trouble you," then asked earnestly, as the victim hastily patted a grey beard into place, "is that good gum you have there? will it hold that beard securely?" "will it hold? it's the strongest gum ever made, it can hold a horse. i have hard work to get it to dissolve nights with pure alcohol." this while the guilty one was writhing with that malicious joy known in its fulness to the practical joker alone. [illustration: _clara morris in "the sphinx"_] the victim, rushing from the room, reached the stage at the very moment his cue was spoken, and made his entrance so short of breath he could scarcely speak. the act was very long, the gum in his shoes dried nicely, the curtain fell. he went below to his room to dress for the street. he tried to remove and lay aside his patent leathers. alas, alas! he laid aside instead his manners, his temper, his self-restraint, his self-respect. the gum proved itself worthy of his praise; it stuck, it held. the shoes were willing to come off on one condition only,--that they brought both sock and skin with them. three men, with tears in their eyes, had pencils, and kept tally of his remarks as he danced about after each frantic tug at a glued-on shoe. one took down every wounding, malicious word. a second caught and preserved every defamatory word. while the third and busiest one secured every profane word that fell from his enraged lips. finally he poured the contents of the alcohol bottle into his shoes and, swearing like a madman, waited for the gum to soften. and the manager, who was not deaf, proved that his heart was harder than the best gum and could not be softened at all. and to this day no member of the company knows how much of the victim's salary was left to him that week after forfeits for bad words were all paid up. but some good came from the affair, for the actor was never again so late in arriving as not to have time to look into his shoes for any strange substance possibly lurking there. personally, i detest the practical joke, but i have, alas! never been above enjoying my share of the greenroom fun. some members of mr. daly's company were very stately and dignified, and he would have been glad had we all been like them. but there were others who would have had fun with the tombs of the egyptian kings, and who could wring smiles from a graven image. mr. daly forfeited at last so recklessly, that either the brakes had to be put upon our fun or some one would have to do picket duty. the restless element had a wait of an entire long act in one play, and among those who waited was a tiny little bit of an old, old man. he wore rags in his "part," and on the seat of his trousers was an enormous red patch. he had been asked to stand guard in the greenroom door, and nothing loath, he only argued deprecatingly: "you'll all get caught, i'm afraid. you see, mr. daly's so sharp, if i cough, he'll hear me, too, and will understand. if i signal, he'll see me, and we'll all get forfeited together." for a moment we were silently cast down. then i rose to the occasion beautifully. i took the wee little man and placed him in the greenroom doorway, leaning with his back against the door-jamb. when he saw mr. daly in the distance, he simply was to turn his bright red patch _toward_ us--we would do the rest. it was a glorious success. we kept an eye on the picket, and when the red patch danger signal was shown, silence fell upon the room. forfeits ceased for a long time. of course we paid our watchman for his services--paid him in pies. he had a depraved passion for bakers' pies, which he would not cut into portions, because he said it spoiled their flavour--he preferred working his way through them; and that small grey face seen near the centre of a mince pie whose rim was closing gently about his ears was a sight to make a supreme justice smile. but our evil course was almost run: our little pie-eater, who was just a touch odd, or what people call "queer," on thanksgiving day permitted himself to be treated by so many drivers of pie wagons that at night he was tearful and confused, and though he watched faithfully for the coming of mr. daly, while we laughingly listened to a positively criminal parody on "the bells," watched for and saw him in ample time, he, alas! confusedly turned his red patch the wrong way, and we, every one, came to grief and forfeiture in consequence. obliging people, generous, ever ready to give a helping hand. behind the scenes, then, our social condition, i may say, is one of good-mannered informality, of jollity tempered by respect and genuine good-fellowship. _chapter xvi the actress and religion_ nothing in my autobiography seems to have aroused so much comment, so much surprise, as my admission that i prayed in moments of great distress or anxiety, even when in the theatre. one man writes that he never knew before that there was such a thing as a "praying actress." poor fellow, one can't help feeling there's lots of other things he doesn't know; and though i wish to break the news as gently as possible, i have to inform him that i am not a _rara avis_, that many actresses pray; indeed, the woods are full of us, so to speak. one very old gentleman finds this habit of prayer "commendable and sweet," but generally there seems to be a feeling of amazement that i should dare, as it were, to bring the profession of acting to the attention of our lord; and yet we are authorized to pray, "direct us, o lord, in _all our doings_, and further us with thy continual help, that in all our work we may glorify thy holy name." it is not the work, but the motive, the spirit that actuates the work; whether embroidering stoles, sawing wood, washing dishes, or acting, if it is done honestly, for the glory of the holy name, why may one not pray for divine help? one lady, who, poor soul, should have been born two or three hundred years ago, when her narrowness would have been more natural, is shocked, almost indignant; and though she is good enough to say she does not accuse me of "intentional sacrilege," still, addressing a prayer to god from a theatre is nothing less in her eyes than profanation. "for," says she, "you know we must only seek god in his sanctuary, the church." goodness, mercy! in that case some thousands of us would become heathen if we never found god save inside of a church. does this poor lady not read her bible, then? has she not heard the psalmist's cry: "if i ascend up into heaven, thou art there. if i make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there also; whither shall i flee from thy presence?" surely, there are a great many places besides the church between heaven and hell, and even in a theatre we may not flee from his presence. but lest the young girl writers should feel abashed over their expressions of surprise at my conduct, i will show them what good company they have had. a good many years ago a certain famous scholar and preacher of new york city called upon me one day. i was absent, attending rehearsal. the creed of his denomination was particularly objectionable to me, but having wandered into the big stone edifice on fourth avenue one sunday, i was so charmed by his clear reasoning, his eloquence, and, above all, by his evident sincerity, that i continued to go there sunday after sunday. in my absence he held converse with my mother as to his regret at missing me, as to the condition of the weather, as to the age, attainments, and breed of my small dog, who had apparently been seized with a burning desire to get into his lap. we afterward found she only wished to rescue her sweet cracker, which he sat upon. in his absent-minded way he then fell into a long silence, his handsome, scholarly head drooping forward. finally he sighed and remarked:-- "she is an actress, your daughter?" my mother, with lifted brows, made surprised assent. "yes, yes," he went on gently, "an actress, surely, for i see my paper commends her work. i have noted her presence in our congregation, and her intelligence." (i never sleep in the daytime.) "our ladies like her, too; m-m, an actress, and yet takes an interest in her soul's salvation; wonderful! i--i don't understand! no, i don't understand!" a speech which did little to endear its maker to the actress's mother, i'm afraid. see how narrowing are some creeds. this reverend gentleman was personally gentle, kind, considerate, and naturally just; yet, knowing no actor's life, never having seen the inside of a playhouse, he, without hesitation, denounced the theatre and declared it the gate of hell. in the amusing correspondence that followed that call, the great preacher was on the defensive from the first, and in reading over two or three letters that, because of blots or errors, had to be recopied, i am fairly amazed at the temerity of some of my remarks. in one place i charge him with "standing upon his closed bible to lift himself above sinners, instead of going to them with the open volume and teaching them to read its precious message." perhaps he forgave much to my youth and passionate sincerity; at all events, we were friends. i had the benefit of his advice when needed, and, in spite of our being of different church denominations, he it was who performed the marriage service for my husband and myself. so, girl writers, who question me, you see there have been other pebbles on my beach, and some big ones, too. the question, then, that has been put so many times is, "can there be any compatibility between religion and the stage?" now had it been a question of church and stage, i should have been forced to admit that the exclusive spirit of the first, and the unending occupation of the second, kept them uncomfortably far apart. but the question has invariably been as to a compatibility between religion and the stage. now i take it that religion means a belief in god, and the desire and effort to do his will; therefore i see nothing incompatible between religion and acting. i am a church-woman now; but for many years circumstances prevented my entering the great army of christians who have made public confession of their faith, and received baptism as an outward and visible sign of a spiritual change. yet during those long years without a church i was not without religion. i knew naught of "justification," of "predestination," of "transubstantiation." i only knew i must obey the will of god. here was the bible; it was the word of god. there was christ, beautiful, tender, adorable, and he said: "thou shalt love the lord thy god with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. this is the first and great commandment; and the second is like unto it. thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. on these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets." add to these the old mosaic "ten," and you have my religious creed complete. and though it is simple enough for a child to comprehend, it is difficult for the wisest to give perfect obedience, because it is not always easy to love that tormenting neighbour, even a little bit, let alone as well as oneself. how i wish there was some other word to take the place of "religion." it has been so abused, so misconstrued. thousands of people shrink from the very sound of it, believing that to be religious means the solemn, sour-faced setting of one foot before the other in a hard and narrow way--the shutting out of all beauty, the cutting off of all enjoyment. oh, the pity! the pity! can't they read? "let all those that seek thee be joyful and glad in thee, and let such as love thee and thy salvation say always, the lord be praised." again, "the lord loveth a cheerful giver." but it is not always in giving alone that he loves cheerfulness. real love and trust in god--which is religion, mind you--makes the heart feather light, opens the eye to beauty, the heart to sympathy, the ear to harmony, and all the merriment and joy of life is but the sweeter for the reverent gratitude one returns to the divine giver. one evening, in a greenroom chatter, the word "religious" had in some way been applied to me, and a certain actress of "small parts," whose life had been of the bitterness of gall, suddenly broke out with: "what--what's that? religious--you? well, i guess not! why, you've more spirits in a minute than the rest of us have in a week, and you are as full of capers as a puppy. i guess i know religion when i see it. it makes children loathe the bible by forcing them to learn a hundred of its verses for punishment. it pulls down the shades on sundays, eats cold meat and pickles, locks up bookcase and piano, and discharges the girl for walking with her beau. oh, no! my dear, you're not religious." poor abused word; no wonder it terrifies people. how many thousand women, i wonder, are kept from church by their inability to dress up to the standard of extravagance raised by those who are more wealthy than thoughtful. even if the poor woman plucks up her courage and enters the church, the magnificence of her fortunate sisters distracts her attention from the service, and fills her with longing, too often with envy, and surely with humiliation. some years ago a party of ultra-high churchwomen decided to wear only black during lent. one of these ladies condescended to know me, and in speaking of the matter, she said: "oh, i think this black garb is more than a fad, it really operates for good. it is so appropriate, you know, and--and a constant reminder of that first great fast--the origin of lent; and as i walk about in trailing black, i know i look devout, and that makes me feel devout, and so i pray often, and you're always the better for praying, even if your dress is at the bottom of it--and, oh, well, i feel that i am in the picture, when i wear black during lent." but the important thing is that before the lenten season was half over, female new york was walking the streets in gentle, black-robed dignity, and evidently enjoying the keeping of lent because, to use a theatrical expression, "it knew it looked the part." so much influence do these petted, beloved daughters of the rich exercise over the many, that i have often wished that, for the sake of the poorer women, the wealthy ones would set a fashion of extreme simplicity of costume for church-going. every female thing has an inalienable right to make herself as lovely as possible; and these graceful, clever women of fashion would know as well how to make simplicity charming as does the _grande dame_ of france, who is never more _grande dame_ than when, in plain little bonnet, simple gown, and a bit of a fichu, she attends her church. these bright butterflies have all the long week to flutter their magnificence in. their lunches, dinners, teas, dances, games, yachts, links, race-courses--everyone gives occasion for glorious display. will they not, then, be sweetly demure on sunday for the sake of the "picture," spare their sisters the agony of craving for like beautiful apparel? for god has made them so, and they can't help wanting to be lovely, too. perhaps some day a woman of fashion, simply clad, will turn up her pretty nose contemptuously at splendour of dress at church service, and whisper, "what bad form!" then, indeed, as the tide sets her way, she will realize her power, and the church will have many more attendants. the very poor woman will not be so cruelly humiliated, and the wage-earning girl, who puts so much of her money into finery, will have a more artistic and more suitable model to follow. and you are beginning to think that free silver is not the only mad idea that has been put forward by a seemingly sane person. ah, well, it's sixteen to one, you know, that this is both first and last of the church dress-reform. to those two little maids who so anxiously inquire "if i believe prayer is of any real service, and why, since my own could not always have been answered," i can only say, they being in a minority, i have no authority to answer their question here. perhaps, though, they may recall the fact that their loving mothers tenderly refused some of their most passionate demands in babyhood. and we are yet but children, who often pray improperly to our father. _chapter xvii a daily unpleasantness_ what is the most unpleasant experience in the daily life of a young actress? without pause for thought, and most emphatically too, i answer, her passing unattended through the city streets at night; that is made unalloyed misery, through terror and humiliation. the backwoods girl makes her lonely way through the forest by blazed trees, but the way of the lonely girl through the city streets is marked by blazing blushes. it is an infamy that a girl's honesty should not protect her by night as well as by day. those hideous hyenas of the midnight streets are never deceived. by one glance they can distinguish between a good woman and those poor wandering ghosts of dead modesty and honour, who flit restlessly back and forth from alleys dark to bright gas glare; but bring one of these men to book, and he will declare that "decent women have no right to be in the streets after nightfall," as though citizens were to maintain public highways for the sole use one-half the time of all the evil things that hide from light to creep out at dark and meet those companions who are fair by day and foul by night. some girls never learn to face the homeward walk with steady nerves, others grow used to the swift approach, the rapidly spoken word, and receive them with set, stony face and deaf ears; but oh, the terror and the shame of it at first! and this horror of the night takes so many forms that it is hard to say which one is the most revolting--hard to decide between the vile innuendo whispered by a sober brute or the roared ribaldry of a drunken beast. in one respect i differ from most of my companions in misery, since they almost invariably fear most the drunkard; while i ground my greater fear of the sober man upon the simple fact that i can't outrun him as i can a drunken one, at a pinch. one night, in returning home from a performance of "divorce,"--a very long play that brought me into the street extra late,--a shrieking man flew across my path, and as a second rushed after him with knife uplifted for a killing blow, his foot caught in mine, and as he pitched forward the knife sank into his victim's arm instead of his back as he had intended; and with the cries of "murder! police!" ringing in my ears, i ran as if i were the murderess. these things are in themselves a pretty high price to pay for being an actress. i had a friend, an ancient lady, a relative of one of our greatest actors, who, for independence' sake, taught music in her old age. one night she had played at a concert and was returning home. tall and slight and heavily veiled, she walked alone. then suddenly appeared a well-looking young son of belial, undoubtedly a gentleman by daylight. he tipped his hat and twirled his mustache; she turned away her head. he cleared his throat; she seemed quite deaf. he spoke; he called her "girlie" (the scamp!). she walked the faster; so did he. he protested she should not walk home alone; she stopped; she spoke, "will you please allow me to walk home in peace?" but, no, that was just what he would not do, and suddenly she answered, "very well, then, i accept your escort, though under protest." [illustration: _clara morris in "evadne"_] surprised, he walked at her side. the way was long, the silence grew painful. he ventured to suggest supper as they passed a restaurant; she gently declined. at last she stopped directly beneath a gas-lamp, and from her face, with sorrow-hollowed eyes and temples, where everyone of her seventy-six years had been stamped in cruel line and crease and wrinkle, she lifted up the veil and raised her sad old eyes reproachfully to his. he staggered back, turned red, turned white, stammered, took off his hat, attempted to apologize, then turned and fled. "and what," i asked, "did you say to him?" "say, say," she repeated; "justice need not be cruel. why add anything to the sight of this?" and she drew a finger down her withered cheek. 'twas said with laughing bitterness, for she had been very fair, and well guarded, too, in the distant past; while then i could but catch her tired hands and kiss them, in a burst of pity that this ancient gentlewoman might not walk in peace through the city streets because fate had left her without a protector. appeal to the police, i think some one says. of course, if he is about; but recall that famous old recipe of mrs. glass beginning, "first catch your hare and then--" so, just catch your policeman. but believe me, they rarely appear together,--your tormentor of women and your policeman,--unless, indeed, the former is stupidly in liquor; and then what good if he is arrested? shame will prevent you from appearing against him. silence and speed, therefore, are generally the best defensive weapons of the frightened, lonely girl. once through fright, fatigue, and shame i lost all self-control, and turning to the creature whom i could not outwalk, i cried out with a sob, "oh, i am so tired, so frightened, and so ashamed; you make me wish that i were dead!" and to my amazement, he answered gruffly, "it's a pity _i'm_ not," and disappeared in the dark side street. after an actress has married and has a protector to see her safely home nights, she is apt to recall and to tell amusing stories of her past experiences; but i notice those tales are never told by the girls--they only become funny when looked at from the point of perfect safety, though like everything else in the world, the dreaded midnight walk shows a touch of the ludicrous now and then. i recall one snowy january night when i was returning home. it was on a saturday, and i had played a five-act play twice with but a sandwich for my dinner, the weather forbidding my going home after the matinee. so being without change to ride with, hungry and unutterably weary, i started, bag in hand, to walk up sixth avenue. on the east side stood a certain club house (it stands there yet, by the way), whose peculiar feature was a vine-hung veranda across its entire front, from which an unusually long flight of steps led to the sidewalk. quite unmolested, i had walked from the stage door almost to this building, when suddenly, as if he had sprung from the very earth, a man was at my elbow addressing me, and the fact that he was not english, and so not understood, did not in the slightest degree lessen the terror his evil face inspired. i shrank away from him, and he caught at my wrist. it was too much. i gave a cry and started to run, when, tall and broad, a man appeared at the foot of the club-house steps, just ahead of me. ashamed to be seen running, i halted, and dropped into a walk again. then with that exaggerated straightening of back and stiffening of knee adopted by one who tries to walk a floor-crack or chalk-line, the second man approached me. he was very big, he was silvery grey, and his dignity was portentous. at every step he struck the pavement a ringing blow with a splendid malacca cane. old-fashioned and gold-headed, it looked enough like its owner to have been his twin brother. he lifted his high silk hat, and with somewhat florid indignation inquired: "my c-hild, was that in-nfamous cur annoying you shust now? a-a-h!" he broke off, flourishing his cane over his head, "there y-you slink; i w-wish i had hold of you." and i heard the running footsteps of no. as he darted away, across and down the avenue. "an-and the police?" sarcastically resumed the big man, who wavered unsteadily now and then. "h-how useful are the police! how many do y-you see at this moment, pray, eh? and, by the way, m' child, what in the devil's name brings yer on the street alone at this hour, say, tell me that?" and he assumed a most judicial attitude and manner. i replied, "i am going home from my work, sir." "y-your w-what?" he growled. "my work, sir, at the theatre." "good lord!" he groaned, "and t-that crawlin' r-reptile couldn't let you pass, you poor little soul, you!" upon my word, i thought he was going to weep over me. next moment he turned his collar up with a violence that nearly upset him, and exclaimed: "d-don't you be a-fraid. i'll see you safely home. g-go by yourself? not much you won't! i'll take you to your mother. s-say, you've got a mother, haven't you? yes, that's right; every girl's worth anythin's got a mother. i-i'll take you to her, sure; receive maternal thanks, a-and all that. oh, say, boys! look here!" he shouted, and holding out the big cane in front of me to prevent my passing, he called to him two other men, who slowly and with almost superhuman caution were negotiating the snowy steps. "say, colonel! judge! come here and help me p-pr'tect this un-fortunate child." the judge at that moment sat heavily and unintentionally down on the bottom step, and the colonel remarked pleasantly, though a trifle vaguely, "t-that's the time he hit it"; while the fallen man asked calmly from his snowy seat, "p-pr-protect what--f-from who?" "this poor ch-i-ld from raging beasts and in-famous scoundrels, judge," remarked my bombastic friend. "we're gentlemen, my dear; and say, get the judge up, colonel, and start him, and we'll _all_ see her safe home. damn shame, a la-dy can't walk in safety, w-without 'er body of able-bodied cit-zens to protect her! com'er long, now, child." and he grasped my arm and pushed me gently forward. the colonel tipped his hat over one eye, gave a military salute, and wavered back and forth. the judge muttered something about "honest woman against city of new york," and something "and costs," and both fell to the rear. and thus escorted by all these intoxicated old gallants, i made my mortified way up the avenue, they wobbling and sliding and stammering, and he who held my arm, i distinctly remember, recited byron to me, and told me many times that the judge was "a p-perfect gentleman, and so was his wife." this startling statement was delivered just as we reached thirty-second street. like an eel i slipped from his grasp, and whirling about, i said as rapidly as i could speak, "i'm almost home now. i can see the light from here, and i can't take you any farther out of your way," and i darted down the darker street. looking back from my own stoop, i saw the three kindly old sinners making salutations at the corner. my bombastic friend and the judge had their hats off, waving them, and the colonel saluted with such rigid propriety, it seems a pity that he was facing the wrong way. i laugh, oh, yes, i laugh at the memory, until i think how silvery were these three wine-muddled old heads, and then i feel "the pity, oh, the pity of it!" _chapter xviii a belated wedding_ it was in a city in the far west that this small incident took place--a city of the mountains still so young that some of its stateliest business buildings of stone or marble, with plate-glass, fine furniture, and electric lighting, were neighboured not merely by shanties, but actually by tents. but though high up in the mountains, the young city was neither too far nor too high for vice to reach it; and so it came about that a certain woman, whose gold-bought smiles had become a trifle too mocking and satirical to be attractive, had come to the young city and placed herself at the head of an establishment where, at command, every one from sunset laughed and was merry, and held out hungry, grasping little hands for the gold showered upon them--laughed, with weary, pain-filled eyes--laughed, with stiff, tired lips sometimes--but still laughed till sunrise--and then, well, who cared what they did _then_? and this woman had waxed rich, and owned valuable property and much mining stock, and was generous to those who were down on their luck, and was quick with her revolver--as the man who tried to hold her up on a lonely road found out to his sorrow. now to this city there came a certain actress, and the papers and the theatre bills announced a performance of the old french play of "camille." the wealthy madame elize, as she styled herself, had heard and read much of both actress and play, and knew that it was almost a nightly occurrence for men to shed tears over two of the scenes, while women wept deliciously through the whole play. she determined that she would go to that performance, though the manager assured the public, in large letters, that no one of her order could possibly be admitted. and she declared "that she could sit out that or any other play without tears. that no amount of play-acting could move her, unless it was to laughter." and so the night came, and the best seat in the best box in all that crowded theatre was occupied by a woman of forty-five, who looked about thirty-eight, who, but for the fixed, immovable colour in her cheeks and her somewhat too large and too numerous diamonds, might from her black silk, rich dark furs, and her dignified bearing have passed for an honest woman. she watched the first act with a somewhat supercilious manner, but the second act found her wiping her eyes--very cautiously; there was that unvarying colour to think of. the third act found her well back in the shadow of the box curtain, and the last act she watched with a face of such fixed determination as to attract the wondering comment of several of the actors. when the curtain fell, one of them remarked, "i'd like to know what that woman will do in the next few hours?" this is what she did. keeping back till the house was nearly empty, she left the theatre alone. then she engaged a carriage--of which there were very, very few in that city of the mountains, where the people did most of their going and coming on horseback--and had herself conveyed to her home, ablaze with light and full of laughter; and bidding the driver wait, she entered quietly and went swiftly to her own apartment, where a man in slippers and dressing-gown sat in a big armchair, sleeping over the evening paper. she lost no time, but aroused him at once, shaking him by the shoulder, and in cold, curt tones ordered him "to rise and dress for the street, and to go with her." [illustration: _clara morris in the st act of "camille"_] but he objected, asking: "why the deuce he should go out that bitter night? and was she a fool, or did she take him for one?" upon which she had so savagely ordered him "to get on his boots, his coat, and overcoat" that the sleepiness had vanished from his sharp eyes, and he had exclaimed, "what is it, kate? what's happened to you?" and she answered: "i've had a blow--no, don't reach for your gun. i don't mean that--but, jim, it hurts. (here, let me tie that for you.) i've had a blow straight at the heart, and a woman gave it--god bless her! (can't you brush your hair up over that thin place? jim--why, jim, upon my soul, you're grey!) oh, hurry! here, take your fur coat--you'll need it. come now--no, i won't tell till we're outside this house. come--on the quiet, now--come," and taking him by the arm she dragged him down the hall and stairs, and so outside the front door. there she stopped. the man shivered at the cold, but kept his gleaming eyes fastened on her white face, "well?" he said. she stood looking up at the glory of the sky above her, where the stars glittered with extraordinary brilliancy, and in an abstracted tone she observed, "there's the 'dipper.'" he watched her still silently; she went on: "do you remember, jim, when i taught school down in westbury, how we used to look at the 'dipper' together, because you didn't dare speak--of anything else? you got seven dollars a week, then, and i--oh, jim! why in god's name _didn't_ you speak? then i might never have come to this." she struck the lintel of the door passionately, but went right on: "yes--yes, i'm going to tell you, and you've got to make a decision, right here, _now_! you'll think i'm mad, i know; but see here now, i've got that woman's dying eyes looking into mine; i've got that woman's voice in my ears, and her words burnt into my living heart! i'll tell you by and by, perhaps, what those words are, but first, my proposal: you are free to accept it, you are free to refuse it, or you are free to curse me for a drivelling idiot; but look you here, man, if you _laugh_ at it, i swear i'll _kill_ you! now, will you help me out of this awful life? jim, will you get into that carriage and take me to the nearest minister and marry me, or will you take this 'wad' and go down that street and out of my life forever?" in the pause that followed they looked hard into one another's eyes. then the man answered in six words. pushing away the hand that offered him a great tight-rolled mass of paper money, he said, "put that away--now, come on," and they entered the carriage, and drove to the home of a minister. there a curious thing happened. they had answered satisfactorily the reverend gentleman's many questions before he quite realized _who_ the woman was. when he did recognize her, he refused to perform the ceremony, and with words of contemptuous condemnation literally drove them from the house, and with his ecclesiastical hand banged the door after them. they visited another minister, and their second experience differed from their first in two points,--the gentleman was quicker in his recognition and refusal, and refrained from banging the door. and so they drove up and down and across the city, till at last they stood at the carriage door and looked helpless at each other. then the man said, "that's the last one, kate," and the woman answered, "yes, i know--i know." she drew a long, hard breath that was not far from a sob, and added, "yes, they've downed me; but it wasn't a fair game, jim, for they've played with marked cards." she had entered the carriage when the driver with the all-pervading knowledge and unlimited assurance of the western hackman remarked genially: "madame elize, there's another gospel-sharp out on the edge of the town. he's poorer than job's turkey, and his whole dorgon'd little scantlin' church ain't bigger than one of them saratogy trunks, but his people just swear by him. shall i take you out there?" madame elize nodded an assent, and once more they started. it was a long drive. the horses strained up killing grades, sending out on the cold air columns of steam from their dilating nostrils. the driver beat first one hand and then the other upon his knees, and talked amicably if profanely to his horses; but inside the carriage there was utter silence. at last they stopped before a poor, cold-looking little cottage, and entering made their wishes known to a blue-eyed, tall young man, with thin, sensitive lips, who listened with grave attention. he knew precisely who and what she was, and very gently told her he would have to ask one unpleasant question, "was the man at her side acquainted with her past, or was he a stranger who was being deceived--victimized, in fact?" and kate, with shining eyes, turned and said: "tell him, jim, how for six honest, innocent years we were friends. then tell him how for fifteen years we've been partners in life. tell him whether you know me, jim, or whether you're victimized." and then the young minister had told them he was proud and thankful to clasp their hands and start them on their new path, with god's blessing on them. and they were married at last; and as they drove away, they noted the strange outlines of the mountains, where they reared their stupendous bulk against the star-sown sky. a sense of awe came upon them--of smallness, of helplessness. instinctively they clasped hands, and presently the woman said: "oh, jim, the comfort of a wedding ring! it circles us about so closely, and keeps out all the rest of the world." and jim stooped his head and kissed her. _chapter xix salvini as man and actor_ it is not often, i fancy, that one defends one's hero or friend from himself. yet that about describes what i am doing now for the famous salvini. an acquaintance of mine, a man self-contained and dignified, who was reading the other day, startled me by muttering aloud, "oh, that mine enemy would write a book!" and a moment later, flinging the volume from him, he cried: "where were his friends? why did they permit him to write of himself?" "good gracious!" i exclaimed in bewilderment, "where were whose friends? of whom are you speaking, and why are you so excited?" "oh," he answered impatiently, "it's the disappointment! i judged the man by his splendid work; but look at that book--the personal pronoun forms one solid third of it. i know it does!" and he handed me the volume in question. "well," i said, as i glanced at the title,--"autobiography of tommaso salvini,"--"no matter what the book may say, tommaso salvini is a mighty actor." and then i began to read. at first i was a bit taken aback. i had thought mr. macready considered himself pretty favourably, had made a heavy demand on the i's and my's in his book; but the bouquets he presented to himself were modest little nosegays when compared with the gorgeous floral set pieces provided _ad libitum_ for "signor salvini" by signor salvini. then presently i began to smile at the open honesty of this self-appreciation, at the naïve admiration he expresses for his figure, his voice, his power. "after all," i said, "when the whole civilized world has for years and years affirmed and reaffirmed that he is the greatest actor living, is it strange that he should come to believe the world?" "but," growled my friend, "why could he not be content with the world's statement? why had he no reticence? look at these declarations: that no words can describe his power, that everybody wished to know him, that everybody wished to claim his friendship, that everybody made it his boast to be seen in his company, etc." "well," i answered, "you certainly cannot doubt the truth of the assertions. i believe every one of them. you see, you are not making any allowance for temperament or early environment. those who are humbly born in a kingdom are lifted by a monarch's praise to the very pinnacle of pride and joy and superiority. think of the compliments paid this man by royalty. think, too, of his hot blood, his quick imagination. you can't expect calm self-restraint from him; and just let me tell you, for your comfort, that this 'book salvini' is utterly unlike the kindly gentleman who is the real, everyday salvini." my friend looked at me a moment, then shaking hands he added gravely: "thank you. the great actor goes upon his pedestal again, to my own satisfaction; but--but--don't think i care for this book. i'll wait till some one else tells of his triumphs and his gifts," and laying it upon the table he took his departure. it is astonishing what a misleading portrait signor salvini has drawn of himself. i worked with him, and i found him a gentleman of modest, even retiring, disposition and most courtly manners. he was remarkably patient at the long rehearsals which were so trying to him because his company spoke a language he could not understand. the love of acting and the love of saving were veritable passions with him, and many were the amusing stories told of his economies; but, in spite of his personal frugality, he was generous in the extreme to his dear ones. when i had got over my first amazement at receiving a proposal to act with the great italian, mr. chizzola, his manager, stated terms, and hastened to say that a way had been found by which the two names could be presented without either taking preference of the other on the bill, and that the type would of course be the same in both--questions i should never have given a thought to, but over which my manager stood ready to shed his heart's blood. and when i said that i should willingly have gone on the bills as "supporting signor salvini," i thought he was going to rend his garments, and he indignantly declared that such talk was nothing less than heresy when coming from a securely established star. at one of our rehearsals for the "morte civile," a small incident occurred that will show how gracious signor salvini could be. most stars, having the "business" of their play once settled upon, seem to think it veritable sacrilege to alter it, no matter how good the reason for an alteration; and a suggestion offered to a star is generally considered an impertinence. in studying my part of rosalia, the convict's wife, a very pretty bit of "business" occurred to my mind. i was to wear the black cross so commonly seen on the breast of the roman peasant women, and once at an outbreak of conrad's, i thought if i raised that cross without speaking, and he drooped before it, it would be effective and quite appropriate, as he was supposed to be superstitiously devout. i mentioned it to young salvini, who cried eagerly, "did you tell my father--did he see it?" "good heavens!" i answered, "do you suppose i would presume to suggest 'business' to a salvini? besides, could anything new be found for him in a play he has acted for twenty years? no, i have not told your father, nor do i intend to take such a liberty." but next morning, when we came to that scene, signor salvini held up his hand for a halt in the rehearsal, called for alessandro, and, bidding him act as interpreter, said, smiling pleasantly, to me, "now zee i-dee please you, madame?" for young alessandro had betrayed my confidence. there was a mocking sparkle in salvini's blue eyes, but he was politely ready to hear and reject "zee i-dee." i felt hot and embarrassed, but i stood by my guns, and placing alessandro in the chair, i made him represent conrad; and when he came to the furious outburst, i swiftly lifted the cross and held it before his eyes till his head sank upon my breast. but in a twinkling, with the cry, "no--no! i show!" salvini plucked alessandro out of the seat, flung himself into it, resumed the scene, and as i lifted the cross before his convulsed features, his breath halted, slowly he lifted his face, when, divining his meaning, i pressed the cross gently upon his trembling lips, and with a sob his head fell weakly upon my breast. it was beautifully done; even the actors were moved. then he spoke rapidly to his son, who translated to me thus: "how have i missed this 'business' all these years? it is good--we will keep it always--tell madame that." and so, courteously and without offence, this greatest of actors accepted a suggestion from a newcomer in his play. a certain english actor, who had been with him two or three seasons, made a curious little mistake night after night, season after season, and no one seemed to heed it. of course salvini, not speaking english, could not be expected to detect the error. where the venomous priest should humbly bow himself out with the veiled threat, "this may yet end in a trial--and--conviction!" the actor invariably said, "this may yet end in a trial of convictions!" barely three nights had passed when signor salvini said to his son, "why does miss morris smile at that man's exit? it is not funny. ask why she smiles." and he was greatly put out with his actor when he learned the cause of my amusement. a very observant man, you see. he is a thinking actor; he knows _why_ he does a thing, and he used to be very intolerant of some of the old-school "tricks of the trade." mind, when i was acting with him, he had come to understand fairly well the english of our ordinary, everyday vocabulary, and if he was quite calm and not on exhibition in any way, he could speak it a little and quite to the point, as you will see. he particularly disliked the old, old trick called "taking the stage," that is, when a good speech has been made, the actor at its end crosses the stage, changing his position for no reason on earth save to add to his own importance. it seemed salvini had tried through his stage manager to break up the wretched habit; but one morning he saw an actor end his speech at the centre of the stage, and march in front of every one to the extreme right-hand corner. a curl came to the great actor's lip, then he said inquiringly, "what for?" the actor stammered, "i--i--it's my cross, you know--the end of my speech."--"y-e-es," sweetly acquiesced the star. "y-e-es, you cross, i see--but what for?" the actor hesitated. "you do _so_," went on salvini, giving a merciless imitation of the swelling chest and stage stride of the guilty one, as he had crossed from centre down to extreme right. "you do so--but for _why_? a-a-ah!" suddenly he seemed to catch an idea. "a-a-ah! is it that you have zee business with zee people in zee box? a-a-ah! you come spik to zose people? no? not for that you come? you have _no_ reason for come here, you say? then, for god's sake, stay centre till you _have_ a reason!" it was an awful lesson, but what delicious acting. the simple, earnest inquiry, the delighted catching at an idea, the following disappointment, and the final outburst of indignant authority--he never did anything better for the public. during the short time we acted together but one cloud, a tiny, tiny one of misunderstanding, rose between us, but according to reports made by lookers-on a good deal of lightning came out of it. of course not understanding each other's language, we had each to watch the other as a cat would watch a mouse, in order to take our cues correctly. at one point i took for mine his sudden pause in a rapidly delivered speech, and at that pause i was to speak instantly. we got along remarkably well, for his soul was in his work, and i gave every spark of intelligence i had in me to the effort to satisfy him; so by the fifth or sixth performance we both felt less anxiety about the catching of our cues than we had at first. on the night i speak of, some one on salvini's side of the stage greatly disturbed him by loud whispering in the entrance. he was nervous and excitable, the annoyance (of which i was unconscious) threw him out of his stride, so to speak. he glanced off warningly and snapped his fingers. no use; on went the giggling and whispering. at last, in the very middle of a speech, wrath overcame him. he stopped dead. that sudden stop was my cue. instantly i spoke. good heaven! he whirled upon me like a demon. i understood that a mistake had been made, but it was not mine. i knew my cue when i got it. the humble rosalia was forgotten. with hot resentment my head went up and back with a fling, and i glared savagely back at him. a moment we stood in silent rage. then his face softened, he laid the fingers of his left hand on his lips, extending his right with that unspeakably deprecating upturning of the palm known only to the foreign-born. an informing glance of the eye toward the right, followed by a faint "_pardon_!" was enough. i dropped back to meek rosalia, the scene was resumed, the cloud had passed. but one man who had been looking on said: "by jove! you know, you two looked like a pair of blue-eyed devils, just ready to rend each other. talk about black-eyed rage; it's the lightning of the blue eyes that sears every time." i had been quite wild to see signor salvini on his first visit to america, and at last i caught up with him in chicago, and was so happy as to find my opportunity in an extra matinee. the play was "othello," and during the first act he looked not only a veritable moor, but, what was far greater, he seemed to be shakespeare's own "moor of venice." the splendid presence, the bluff, soldierly manner, the open, honest look, as the "round unvarnished tale" was delivered, made one understand, partly at least, how "that maiden never bold, a spirit so still and quiet," had come at last to see "_othello's_ visage _in his mind_, and to his honour and his valiant parts to consecrate her fortune and her soul!" through all the noble scene, through all the soldierly dignity and candid speech, there was that tang of roughness that so naturally clung to the man whose life from his seventh year had been passed in the "tented field," and who himself declared, "rude am i in speech, and little bless'd with the set phrase of peace." in short, salvini was a delight to eye and ear, and satisfied both imagination and judgment in that first act. like many people who are much alone, i have the habit of speaking sometimes to myself--a habit i repented of that day, yes, verily i did; for when, at cyprus, othello entered and fiercely swept into his swarthy arms the pale loveliness of desdemona, 'twas like a tiger's spring upon a lamb. the bluff and honest soldier, the english shakespeare's othello, was lost in an italian othello. passion choked, his gloating eyes burned with the mere lust of the "sooty moor" for that white creature of venice. it was revolting, and with a shiver i exclaimed aloud, "ugh, you splendid brute!" realizing my fault, i drew quickly back into the shadow of the curtain; but a man's rough voice had answered instantly, "make it a _beast_, ma'am, and i'm with you!" i was cruelly mortified. [illustration: _tommaso salvini_] but there was worse to happen that day. the leading lady, signora piamonti, an admirable actress, was the desdemona. she played the part remarkably well, and was a fairly attractive figure to the eye, if one excepted her foot. it was exceptionally long and shapeless, and was most vilely shod. her dresses, too, all tipped up in the front, unduly exposing the faulty members; many were the comments made, and often the query followed, "why doesn't she get some american shoes?" i am sorry to say that some of our daily papers even were ungracious enough to refer to that physical defect, when only her work should have been considered and criticised. the actors had reached the last act. the bed stood in the centre of a shallow alcove, heavily curtained. these hangings were looped up at the beginning of the act, and were supposed to fall to the floor, completely concealing the bed and its occupant after the murder. the actor had long before become again shakespeare's othello. we had seen him tortured, racked, and played upon by the malignant iago; seen him, while perplexed in the extreme, irascible, choleric, sullen, morose; but now, as with tense nerves we waited for the catastrophe, he was truly formidable. the great tragedy moved on. desdemona's piteous entreaties had been choked in her slim throat, the smothering pillow held in place with merciless strength. then at emilia's disconcerting knock and demand for admission, othello had let down and closely drawn the two curtains. but alas and alack a day! though they were thick and rich and wide, they failed to reach the floor by a good foot's breadth--a fact unnoticed by the star. you may not be an actor; but really when you add to that twelve or fourteen-inch space the steep incline of the stage--why, you can readily understand how advisable it was for the dead desdemona that day to stay dead until the play was over. majestically othello was striding down to the door, where emilia was knocking for admittance, when there came that long in-drawn breath--that "a-a-h!" that from the auditorium always means mischief--and a sudden bobbing of heads this way and that in the front seats. in an instant the great actor felt the broken spell, knew he had lost his hold upon the people--but why? he went on steadily, and then, just as you have seen a field of wheat surged in one wave by the wind, i saw the closely packed people in that wide parquet sway forward in a great gust of laughter. with quick, experienced eye i scanned first othello's garb from top to toe, and finding no unseemly rent or flaw of any kind to provoke laughter, i next swept the stage. coming to the close-drawn curtains, i saw--heavens! no wonder the people laughed. the murdered desdemona had risen, was evidently sitting on the side of the bed; for beneath the curtains her dangling feet alone were plainly seen, kicking cheerfully back and forth. such utterly unconscious feet they were that i think the audience would not have laughed again had they kept still; but all at once they began a "heel-and-toe step," and people rocked back and forth, trying to suppress their merriment. and then--oh, piamonti!--swiftly the toe of the right foot went to the back of the left ankle and scratched vigorously. restraint was ended, every one let go and laughed and laughed. from the box i saw in the entrance the outspread fingers, the hoisted shoulders, the despairingly shaken heads of the italian actors, who could find no cause for the uproar. salvini behaved perfectly in that, disturbed, distressed, he showed no sign of anger, but maintained his dignity through all, even when in withdrawing the curtains and disclosing desdemona dead once more the incomprehensible laughter again broke out. but late as it was and short the time left him, he got the house in hand again, again wove his charm, and sent the people away sick and shuddering over his too real self-murder. as i was leaving the box i met one connected with the management of the theatre, who, furious over the _faux pas_, was roughly denouncing the actress, whom he blamed entirely, and i took it upon myself to suggest that he pour a vial or two of his wrath upon the heads of his own property man and the stage manager, who had grossly neglected their duty in failing to provide curtains of the proper length. and i chuckled with satisfaction as i saw him plunge behind the scenes, calling angrily upon some invisible jim to come forth. i had acted as a sort of lightning-rod for a sister actress. salvini's relations with his son were charming, though it sounded a bit odd to hear the stalwart young man calling him "papa." alessandro had dark eyes and black hair, so naturally admired the opposite colouring, and i never heard him speak of his father's english second wife without some reference to her fairness. it would be "my blond mamma," "my little fair mamma," "my father's pretty english wife," or "before my little blond mamma died." he felt the "mamma" and "papa" jarred on american ears, and often corrected himself; but when signor salvini himself once told me a story of his father, he referred to him constantly as "my papa," just as he does in this book of his that makes him seem so egotistical and so determined to find at all costs the vulnerable spot, the weak joint in the armour, of all other actors. certainly he could not have been an egotist in the bosom of his family. a friend in london went to call upon his young wife, his "white lily." she was showing the house to her visitor, when, pausing suddenly before a large portrait of her famous husband, she became silent, her uplifted eyes filled, her lips smiled tremulously, she gave a little gasp, and whispered, "oh, he's almost like god to me!" the friend, startled, even shocked, was about to reprove her, but a glance into the innocent face showed no sacrilege had been meant, only she had never been honoured, protected, happy, before--and some women worship where they love. could an egotist win and keep such affection and gratitude as that? among those who complain of his opinionated book i am amused to find one who fairly exhausted himself in praise, not to say flattery, of this same salvini. it is very diverting to the mere looker-on, when the world first proclaims some man a god, bowing down and worshipping him, and then anathematizes him if he ventures to proclaim his own godship. i have my quarrel with the book, i confess it. i am sorry he does not show how he did his tremendous work, show the nature of those sacrifices he made. how one would enjoy a word-picture of the place where he obtained his humble meals in those earliest days of struggle; who shared them, and in what spirit they were discussed, grave or gay! italian life is apt to be picturesque, and these minor circumstances mean much when one tries to get at the daily life of a man. but salvini has given us merely splendid results, without showing us _how_ he obtained them. yet what a lesson the telling would have been for some of our indolent actors! why, even at the zenith of his career, salvini attended personally to duties most actors leave to their dressers. he used to be in his dressing-room hours before the overture was on, and in an ancient gown he would polish his armour, his precious weapons or ornaments, arrange his wigs, examine every article of dress he would require that night, and consequently he never had mishaps. he used to say: "the man there? oh, yes, he can pack and lock and strap and check, but only an actor can understand the care of these artistic things. what i do myself is well done; this work is part of my profession; there is no shame in doing it. and all the time i work, i think--i think of the part--till i have all forgot--_all_ but just that part's self." and yet, o dear, these are the things he does not put in his book. when he was all dressed and ready for the performance, salvini would go into a dark place and walk and walk and walk; sometimes droopingly, sometimes with martial tread. once, i said, "you walk far, signor?" "_si, signorina_," he made answer, then eagerly, "_i walk me into him!_" and while the great man was "walking into the character," the actors who supported him smoked cigarettes at the stage door until the dash for dressing room and costume. some women scold because he has not given pictures of the great people whom he met. "why," they ask, "did he not describe crown princess victoria" (the late empress frederick) "at least--how she looked, what she wore? such portraits would be interesting." but salvini was not painting portraits, not even his own--truly. he was giving a list of his triumphs; and if he has shown self-appreciation, he was at least perfectly honest. there is no hypocrisy about him. if he knew uriah heep, he did not imitate him; for in no chapter has he proclaimed himself "'umble." if one will read signor salvini's book, remembering that the pæans of a world have been sung in his honour, and that he really had no superior in his artistic life, i think the i's and my's will seem simply natural. however he may have been admired in other characters, i do truly believe that only those who have seen him in "othello" and "morte civile" can fully appreciate the marvellous art of the actor. i carry in my mind two pictures of him,--othello, the perfect animal man, in his splendid prime, where, in a very frenzy of conscious strength, he dashes iago to the earth, man and soldier lost in the ferocity of a jungle male beast, jealously mad--an awful picture of raging passion. the other, conrad, after the escape from prison; a strong man broken in spirit, wasted with disease, a great shell of a man--one who is legally dead, with the prison pallor, the shambling walk, the cringing manner, the furtive eyes. but oh, that piteous salute at that point when the priest dismisses him, and the wrecked giant, timid as a child, humbly, deprecatingly touches the priest's hand with his finger-tips and then kisses them devoutly! i see that picture yet, through tears, just as i saw for the first time that illustration of supreme humility and veneration. oh, never mind a little extravagance with personal pronouns! a beloved father, a very thorough gentleman, but above all else the greatest actor of his day. there is but the one salvini, and how can he help knowing it? so to book and author--ready! _viva salvini!_ _chapter xx frank sen: a circus episode_ the circus season was over, the animals had gone into comfortable winter quarters, while the performers, less fortunate than the beasts, were scattered far and near, "some in rags and some in tags, and some" (a very few) "in velvet gowns." but one small group had found midwinter employment, a party of japanese men and women, who were jugglers, contortionists, and acrobats; and as their work was pretty as well as novel, they found a place on the programme of some of the leading vaudeville theatres. they were in a large western city. behind the curtain their retiring manners, their exquisite cleanliness, their grave and gentle politeness, made them favourites with the working forces of the theatre, while before the curtain the brilliant, graceful precision with which they carried out their difficult, often dangerous, performance won them the high favour of the public. on that special day the matinee was largely attended, the theatre being filled, even to the upper circles, as at night. smilingly the audience had watched the movements of the miniature men and women in their handsome native costumes, and with "ohs!" and "ahs!" had seen them emerge from those robes, already arrayed for acrobatic work, in suits of black silk tights with trunks and shoulder and wrist trimmings of red velvet fairly stiffened with gold embroideries; and then came the act the people liked best, because it contained the element of danger, because in its performance a young girl and a little lad smilingly risked life and limb to entertain them. the two young things had climbed like cats up to the swinging bars, high up, where the heat had risen from a thousand gas lights, and the blood thundered in their ears, and the pulses on their temples beat like hammers. so high, that looking down through the quivering, bluish mist, the upturned faces of the people merged together and became like the waters of a pale, wide pool. their work was well advanced. with clocklike precision they had obeyed, ever-smilingly obeyed, the orders conveyed to them by the sharp tap of the fan their trainer held, though to the audience the two young forms glittering in black and scarlet and gold, poising and fluttering there, were merely playing in midair like a pair of tropical birds. they were beginning their great feat, in which danger was so evident that women often cried out in terror and some covered their eyes and would not look at all--the music even had sunken to a sort of tremor of fear. they were for the moment hanging head downward from their separate bars, when across the stillness came the ominous sound of cracking, splintering wood; afterward it was known that the rung of a chair in an upper private box had broken, but then,--but _then_! the sound was close to the swaying girl's ear! believing it was her bar that was breaking, her strained nerves tore free from all control! driven by fear, she made a mad leap out into space, reaching frantically for the little brown hands that a half second later would have been ready for her, with life and safety in their tenacious grasp. to those who do their work in space and from high places, the distance between life and death, between time and eternity, is often measured by half seconds. little omassa had leaped too soon, the small brown hands with power to save were not extended. she grasped the empty air, gave a despairing cry, and as she whirled downward, had barely time to realize that the sun had gone black out in the sky, and that the world with its shrieking millions was thundering to its end, when the awful crash came. there were shouts and shrieks, tears and groans, and here and there helpless fainting. ushers rushed from place to place, the police appeared suddenly. the japanese, silent, swift, self-controlled, were moving their paraphernalia that the curtain might be lowered, were stretching a small screen about the inert, fallen figure, were bringing a rug to lift her on, and their faces were like so many old, _old_ ivory masks. tom mcdermott, in his blue coat, stood by the silent little figure waiting for the rug and for the coming of the doctor, and groaned, "on her face, too--and she a girl child!" tom had seen three battle-fields and many worse sights, but none of them had misted his eyes as did this little glittering, broken heap, and he turned his face away and muttered, "if she'd only keep quiet!" for truly it was dreadful to see the long shudders that ran over the silent, huddled thing, to see certain red threads broadening into very rivulets. at last the ambulance, then the all-concealing curtain, the reviving music, a song, a pretty dance, and _presto_, all was forgotten! when omassa opened her eyes, her brain took up work just where it had left off; therefore she was astonished to find the sun shining, for had she not seen the sun go out quite black in the sky? yet here it was so bright, and she was--was, where? the room was small and clean, oh, clean! like a japanese house, and almost as empty. could it be? but no, this bed was american, and then why was she so heavy? what great weight was upon her? she could not move one little bit, and oh, my! _what_ was it she could faintly see beyond and below her own nose--was it shadow? surely she could not see her own _lip_? she smiled at that, and the movement wrung a cry of agony from her--when, like magic, a face was bending over her, so kind and gentle, and then a joyous voice cried to some one in the next room, "this little girl, not content with being alive, sir, has her senses--is she not a marvel?" and with light, delicate touch the stranger moistened the distended, immovable lip poor omassa had dimly seen, through which her lower teeth had been driven in her fall, and in answer to her pleading, questioning glances at her own helpless body, told her she was encased in plaster now, but by and by she would be released, and now she was to be very quiet and try to sleep. and then she smoothed a tiny wrinkle out of the white quilt, shut out the sunlight, and, smiling kindly back at her, left omassa, who obediently fell asleep--partly because her life was one of obedience, and partly because there was nothing else to do. and then began the acquaintance between mrs. helen holmes, nurse, and omassa, japanese acrobat. the other nurses teased helen holmes about her pet patient, saying she was only a commonplace, japanese child woman; but mrs. holmes would exclaim, "if you could only see her light up and glow!" and so they came to calling omassa "the lantern," and would jestingly ask "when she was going to be lighted up"; but there came a time when mrs. holmes knew the magic word that would light the flame and make the lantern glow, like ruby, emerald, and sapphire; like opal and tourmaline. the child suffered long and terribly; both arms were broken, and in several places, also her little finger, a number of ribs, her collar-bone, and one leg, while cuts were simply not counted. during her fever-haunted nights she babbled japanese for hours, with one single english name appearing and reappearing almost continually,--the name of frank; and when she called that name it was like the cooing of a pigeon, and the down-drooping corners of her grave mouth curled upward into smiles. she spoke english surprisingly well, as the other members of the troupe only knew a very little broken english; and had she not placed the emphasis on the wrong syllable, her speech, would have been almost perfect. generally she was silent and sad and unsmiling, but grateful, passionately grateful to her "nurse-lady," as she called mrs. holmes; yet when, that kind woman stooped to kiss her once, omassa shrank from the caress with such repugnance as deeply to wound her, until the little japanese had explained to her the national abhorrence of kissing, assuring her over and over again that even "the japan ma'ma not kiss little wee baby she love." mrs. holmes ceased to wonder at the girl's sadness when she found she was absolutely alone in the world: no father, no mother; no, no sister, no brother, "no what you call c-cousine?--no nothing, nobody have i got what belong to me," she said. one morning, as her sick-room toilet was completed, mrs. holmes said lightly:-- "omassa, who is frank?" and then fairly jumped at the change in the ivory-tinted, expressionless face. her long, narrow eyes glowed, a pink stain came on either cheek, she raised herself a little on her best arm, eagerly she cried, "you know him--oh, you know frank?" regretfully mrs. holmes answered, "no, dear, i don't know him." "but," persisted omassa, "you know him, or how could you speak his name?" "i learned the name from you, child, when you talked in the fever. i am very sorry i have caused you a disappointment. i am to blame for my curiosity--forgive me." all the light faded from her face and very quietly she lay down upon her pillow, her lips close-pressed, her eyes closed; but she could not hide the shining of the tears that squeezed between her short, thick lashes and clung to them. 'twas long before his name was mentioned again; but one day something had been said of friends, when omassa with intense pride had exclaimed:--"i have got my own self one friend--he--my friend frank." "what's his other name?" asked the nurse. "oh, he very poor, he got only one name." "but, dear, he must have another name, he is frank somebody or something." "no! no!" persisted omassa with gentle obstinacy, "he tell me always true, he very poor, good man--he got only one name, my frank sen." "there," cried mrs. holmes, triumphantly, "you see he _has_ two names after all, you have just called him by them both--frank sen." at which the invalid sent forth a tinkling laugh of amusement, crying: "oh, that not one man's name, oh, no! that sen that like your mr.--mrs.; you nurse-lady, you holmes sen. ito--big japan fight man, he ito sen, you unnerstand me, nurse-lady?" "yes, child, i understand. sen is a title, a term of respect, and you like to show your friend frank all the honour you can, so you call him frank sen." and omassa with unconscious slanginess gravely answered: "you right _on_ to it at first try. my boss" (her manager kimoto) "find _me_ baby in japan, with very bad old man. he gamble all time. i not know why he have me, he not my old man, but he sell me for seven year to kimoto, and kimoto teach me jump, turn, twist, climb, and he send my money all to old man--_all_. we go mexico--south america--many islands--to german land, and long time here in this most big america--and the world so big--and then i so little japan baby--i no play--i no sing--i know nothing what to do--and just _one_ person in this big lonesome_ness_ make a kindness to me--my frank sen--just one man--just one woman in all world make goodness to me--my frank sen and my nurse-lady," and she stroked with reverent little fingers the white hand resting on the bed beside her. "what was he like, your frank?" asked the nurse. "oh, he one big large american man--he not laugh many times loud, but he laugh in he blue eye. he got brown mustache and he hair all short, thick, wavy--like puppy dog's back. he poor--he not perform in circus, oh, no! he work for put up tents, for wagon, for horses. he ver good man for fight too--he smash man that hurt horse--he smash man that kick dog or push me, japan baby. oh, he best man in all the world" (the exquisite madame butterfly was not known yet, so omassa was not quoting). "he tell me i shall not say some words, 'damn' and 'hell' and others more long, more bad, and he tell me all about that 'hell' and where is--and how you get in for steal, for lie, for hurt things not so big as you--and how you can't get out again where there is cool place for change--and he smooth my hair and pat my shoulder, for he know japan people don't ever be kissed--and he call me one word i cannot know." she shook her head regretfully. "he call me 'poor little wave'--why poor little wave--wave that mean water?" she sighed. "i can't know why frank sen call me that." but quick-witted mrs. holmes guessed the word had been "waif"--poor little waif, and she began dimly to comprehend the big-hearted, rough tent-man, who had tried to guard this little foreign maid from the ignorance and evil about her. "but," resumed omassa, with perfect conviction, "frank sen meaned goodness for me when he called me 'wave'--i know _that_. what you think that big american man do for help me little japan baby--with no sense? well, i will tell you. when daylight circus-show over, he take me by hand and lead me to shady place between tents--he sit down--put me at he knee, and in what you call primer-book with he long brown finger he point out and make me know all those big fat letters--yes, he do _that_. other mens make of him fun--and he only laugh; but when they say he my father and say of me names, he lay down primer and fight. when he lay out the whole deck, he come back and wash he hands and show me some more letters. oh, i very stupid japan baby; but at last i know _all_, and _then_ he harness some together and make d-o-g say dog, and n-o say no, and so it come that one day next week was going to be his fête-day,--what you call birsday,--and i make very big large secret." she lifted herself excitedly in bed, her glowing eyes were on her nurse's face, her lips trembled, the "lantern" was alight and glowing radiantly. "what you think i do for my frank sen's birsday? i have never one penny,--i cannot buy,--but i make one big great try. i go to circus-lady, that ride horse and jump hoops--she read like frank sen. i ask her show me some right letters. oh, i work hard--for i am very stupid japan child; but when that day come, frank sen he lead me to shady place--he open primer--then," her whole face was quivering with fun at the recollection, "then i take he long finger off--i put _my_ finger and i slow spell--not cat--not dog--oh, _what_ you think?--i spell f-r-a-n-k--frank! he look to me, and then he make a big jump--he catch me--toss me, high up in air, and he shout big glad shout, and then i say--'cause for your birsday.' he stop, he put me down, and he eyes come wet, and he take my hand and he say: 'thank you, that's the only birsday gift i ever _re_ceived that was not from my mother. spell it again for me,' he said; and then he was very proud and said, 'there was not any-other birsday gift like that in all the world!' what you think of _that_? "then the end to season of circus come--frank sen he kneel down by me--he very sad--he say, 'i have nothing to give--i am such a fool--and the green-cloth--oh, the curse of the green-cloth!' he took off my japan slippers and smiled at them and said, 'poor little feet'; he stroked my hands and said, 'poor little hands'; he lifted up my face and said, 'poor little wave'; then he look up in air and he say, very troubled-like, 'a few home memories--some small knowledge, all i had, i have given her. to read a little is not much, but maybe it may help her some day, and i have nothing more to give!' "and i feeling something grow very fast, here and here" (touching throat and breast), "and i say, '_you_ have nothing to give me? well'--and then i forget all about i am little japan girl, and i cry, 'well, _i_ have something to give you, frank sen, and that is one kiss!' and i put my arms about he neck and make one big large kiss right on he kind lips." her chin sank upon her night-robed breast. after a moment she smiled deprecatingly at mrs. holmes and whispered: "you forgive me, other day? you see i japan girl--and just once i give big american kiss to my friend, frank sen." _chapter xxi stage forfeits and their humour_ it was during the rehearsals of "l'article " that i enjoyed one single hearty laugh,--a statement that goes far to show my distressed state of mind,--for generally speaking that is an unusual day which does not bring along with its worry, work, and pain some bubble of healing laughter. it was a joke of mr. le moyne's own special brand that found favour in my eyes and a place in my memory. any one who has ever served under mr. daly can recall the astounding list of rules printed in fine type all over the backs of his contracts. the rules touching on _forfeits_ seemed endless: "for being late," "for a stage wait," "for lack of courtesy," "for gossiping," "for wounding a companion's feelings"--each had its separate forfeiture. "for addressing the manager on business outside of his office," i remember, was considered worth one dollar for a first offence and more for a second. most of these rules ended with, "or discharge at the option of the manager." but it was well known that the mortal offence was the breaking that rule whose very first forfeit was five dollars, "or discharge at the option of," etc., that rule forbidding the giving to outsiders of any stage information whatever; touching the plays in rehearsal, their names, scenes, length, strength, or story; and to all these many rules on the backs of our contracts we assented and subscribed our amused or amazed selves. when the new french play "l'article " was announced, the title aroused any amount of curiosity. a reporter after a matinee one day followed me up the avenue, trying hard to get me to explain its meaning; but i was anxious not to be "discharged at the option of the manager," and declined to explain. many of the company received notes asking the meaning of the title. at mr. le moyne's house there boarded a walking interrogation-point of a woman. she wished to know what "l'article " meant; she would know. she tried mr. harkins; mr. harkins said he didn't know. she tossed her head and tried mr. crisp; mr. crisp patiently and elaborately explained just why he could not give any information. she implied that he did not know a lady when he saw one, and fell upon mr. le moyne, tired, hungry, suavely sardonic. "_he_ was," she assured him, "a gentleman of the old school. _he_ would know how to receive a lady's request and honour it." and le moyne rose to the occasion. a large benevolence sat upon his brow, as assuring her that, though he ran the risk of discharge for her fair sake, yet should she have her will. he asked if she had ever seen a daly contract. the bridling, simpering idiot replied, "she had seen several, and such numbers of silly rules she had never seen before, and--" "that's it," blandly broke in le moyne, "there's the explanation of the whole thing--see? 'l' article ' is a five-act dramatization of the th rule of daly's contract." "did you ever?" gasped the woman. "no," said le moyne, reaching for bread, "i never did; but daly's up to anything, and he'd discharge me like a shot if he should ever hear of this." it was almost impossible to get mr. daly to laugh at an actor's joke; he was too generally at war with them, and he was too often the object of the jest. but he did laugh once at one of the solemn frauds perpetrated on me by this same le moyne. on the one hundred and twenty-fifth performance of "divorce" i had "stuck dead," as the saying is. not a word could i find of my speech. i was cold--hot--cold again. i clutched mrs. gilbert's hand. i whispered frantically: "what is it? oh! what is the word?" but horror on horror, in my fall i had dragged her down with me. she, too, was bewildered--lost. "i don't know," she murmured. there we were, all at sea. after an awful wait i walked over and asked captain lynde (louis james) to come on, and the scene continued from that point. i was angry--shamed. i had never stuck in all my life before, not even in my little girl days. mr. daly was, of course, in front. he came rushing back to inquire, to scold. every one joked me about my probable five-dollar forfeit. well, next night came, and at that exact line i did it again. of course that was an expression of worn-out nerves; but it was humiliating in the extreme. mr. daly, it happened, was attending an opening elsewhere, and did not witness my second fall from grace. then came le moyne to me--big and grave and kind, his plump face with the shiny spots on the cheek-bones fairly exuding sympathetic commiseration. he led me aside, he lowered his voice, he addressed me gently:-- [illustration: _w.j. le moyne_] "you stuck again, didn't you, clara? too bad! too bad! and of course you apprehend trouble with daly? i'm awfully sorry. ten dollars is such a haul on one week's salary. but see here, i've got an idea that will help you out, if you care to listen to it." i looked hard at him, but the wretch had a front of brass; his benevolence was touching. i said eagerly: "yes, i do care indeed to listen. what is the idea?" he beamed with affectionate interest, as he said impressively, "well, now you know that a bad 'stick' generally costs five dollars in this theatre?" "yes," i groaned. "and you stuck awfully last night?" "yes," i admitted. "then to-night you go and repeat the offence. but here is where i see hope for you. daly is not here; he does not know yet what you have done. watch then for his coming. this play is so long he will be here before it's over. go to his private office at once. get ahead of every one else; do you understand? approach him affably and frankly. tell him yourself that you have unfortunately stuck again, and then offer him _the two 'sticks' for eight dollars_. if he's a gentleman and not a jew, he'll accept your proposal." just what remarks i made to my sympathetic friend le moyne at the end of that speech i cannot now recall. if any one else can, i can only say i was not a church member then, and let it pass at that. but when i opened my envelope next salary day and saw my full week's earnings there, i went to mr. daly's office and told him of my two "sticks" and of le moyne's proposed offer, and for once he laughed at an actor's joke. _chapter xxii poor semantha_ it has happened to every one of us, i don't know why, but every mother's son or daughter of us can look back to the time when we habitually referred to some acquaintance or friend as "poor so-and-so"; and the curious part of it is that if one pauses to consider the why or wherefore of such naming, one is almost sure to find that, financially at least, "poor so-and-so" is better off than the person who is doing the "pooring." nor is "poor so-and-so" always sick or sorrowful, stupid or ugly; and yet, low be it whispered, is there not always a trace of contempt in that word "poor" when applied to an acquaintance? a very slight trace, of course,--we lightly rub the dish with garlic, we do not slice it into our salad. so when we call a friend "poor so-and-so," consciously or unconsciously, there is beneath all our affection the slight garlic touch of contemptuous pity; how else could i, right to her merry, laughing face, have called this girl poor semantha? i had at first no cause to notice her especially; she was poor, so was i; she was in the ballet, so was i. true, i had already had heads nodded sagely in my direction, and had heard voices solemnly murmur, "that girl's going to do something yet," and all because i had gone on alone and spoken a few lines loudly and clearly, and had gone off again, without leaving the audience impressed with the idea that they had witnessed the last agonized and dying breath of a girl killed by fright. i had that much advantage, but we both drew the same amount of salary per week,--five very torn and very dirty one-dollar bills. of course there could have been no rule nor reason for it, but it had so happened that all the young women of the ballet--there were four--received their salary in one-dollar bills. however, i was saying that we, the ballet, dressed together at that time, and poor semantha first attracted my attention by her almost too great willingness to use my toilet soap, instead of the common brown washing soap she had brought with her. at some past time this soap must have been of the shape and size of a building brick, but now it resembled a small dumb-bell, so worn was its middle, so nobby its ends. then, too, my pins were, to all intents and purposes, her pins; my hair-pins her hair-pins; while worst of all, my precious, real-for-true french rouge was _her_ rouge. at that point i came near speaking, because poor semantha was not artistic in her make-up, and she painted not only her cheeks but her eyes, her temples, her jaws, and quite a good sample of each side of her neck. but just as i would be about to speak, i would bethink me of those nights when, in the interest of art, i had to be hooked up behind, and i would hold my peace. on the artistic occasions alluded to, i hooked semantha up the back, and then semantha hooked up my back. ah, what a comfort was that girl; as a hooker-up of waists she was perfection. no taking hold of the two sides of the waist, planting the feet firmly, and taking a huge breath, as if the vendôme column was about to be overthrown. no hooking of two-thirds of the hooks and eyes, and then suddenly unhooking them, remarking that there was a little mistake at the top hook. no putting of thumbs to the mouth to relieve the awful numbness caused by terrible effort and pinching. ah, no! semantha smiled,--she generally did that,--turned you swiftly to the light, caught your inside belt on the fly, as it were, fastened that, fluttered to the top, exactly matched the top hook to the top eye, and, high presto! a little pull at the bottom, a swift smooth down beneath the arms, and you were finished, and you knew your back was a joy until the act was over. that was all i had known of semantha. probably it was all i ever should have known had not a sharp attack of sickness kept me away from the theatre for a time, during which absence semantha made the discovery which was to bring her nearer to me. finding my dressing place but a barren waste of pine board, semantha with smiling readiness turned to the dressing place on her left for a pin or two, and was stricken with amazement when the milder of her two companions remarked in a grudgingly unwilling tone, "you may take a few of my pins and hair-pins if you are sure to pay them back again." while she was simply stunned for a moment, when the other companion, with that rare, straightforward brutality for which she became so deservedly infamous later on, snorted angrily: "no, you don't! don't you touch anything of mine! you can't sponge on me as you do on clara!" now semantha was a german, as we were apt to find out if ever she grew excited over anything; and whenever she had a strange word used to her, she would repeat that word several times, first to make sure she fully understood its meaning, next to impress it upon her memory; so there she stood staring at her dressing mate, and slowly, questioningly repeated, "spoonge? spoonge? w'at is that spoonge?" and received for answer, "_what is_ it? why, it's stealing." semantha gave a cry. "yes," continued the straightforward one, "it's stealing without secrecy; that's what sponging is." poor semantha--astonished, insulted, frightened--turned her quivering face to the other girl and passionately cried, "und she, my fräulein clara, tink she dat i steal of her?" then for the first time, and i honestly believe the last time in her life, that other pretty blond, but woolly-brained, young woman rose to the occasion--god bless her--and answered stoutly, "no, clara never thought you were stealing." so it happened that when i returned to work, and semantha's excited and very german welcome had been given, i noticed a change in her. when my eyes met hers, instead of smiling instantly and broadly at me, her eyes sank to the ground and her face flushed painfully. at last we were left alone for a few moments. quick as a flash, semantha shut the door and bolted it with the scissors. then she faced me; but what a strange, new semantha it was! her head was down, her eyes were down, her very body seemed to droop. never had i seen a human look so like a beaten dog. she came quite close, both hands hanging heavily at her sides, and in a low, hurried tone she began: "clara, now clara, now see, i've been usen your soap--ach, it smells so goot!--nearly all der time!"--"why," i broke in, "you were welcome!" but she stopped me roughly with one word, "wait," and then she went on. "und der pins--why, i can't no more count. und der hair-pins, und der paint," (her voice was rising now), "oh, der lofely soft pink paint! und i used dem, i used 'em all. und i never t'ought you had to pay for dem all. you see, i be so green, fräulein, i dun know no manners, und i did, i did use dem, i know i did; but, so help me, i didn't mean to spoonge, und by gott i didn't shteal!" i caught her hands, they were wildly beating at the air then, and said, "i know it, semantha, my poor semantha, i know it." she looked me brightly in the eyes and answered: "you do? you _truly_ know dat?" gave a great sigh, and added with a fervour i fear i ill-appreciated, "oh, i hope you vill go to heaven!" then quickly qualified it, "dat is, dat i don't mean right avay, dis minute--only ven you can't keep avay any longer!" then she sprang to her dress hanging on the hook, and after struggling among the roots of her pocket, found the opening, and with triumph breathing from every feature of her face, she brought forth a small white cube, and cried out, "youst you look at dat!" i did; it seemed of a stony structure, white with a chill thin line of pink wandering forlornly through or on it (i am sure nothing could go through it); but the worst thing about it was the strange and evil smell emanating from it. and this evil, white, hard thing had been purchased from a pedler under the name of soap, fine shaving or toilet soap, and now semantha was delightedly offering it to me, to use every night, and i with immense fervour promised i would use it, just as soon as my own was gone; and i mentally registered a solemn vow that the shadow of my soap should never grow less. i soon discovered that poor semantha was very ambitious; yes, in spite of her faint german accent and the amusing abundance of negatives in her conversation, she was ambitious. one night we had been called on to "go on" as peasants and sing a chorus and do a country dance, and poor semantha had sung so freely and danced so gracefully and gayly, that it was a pleasure to look at her. she was such a contrast to the two others. one had sung in a thin nasal tone, and the expression of her face was enough to take all the dance out of one's feet. with frowning brows and thin lips tightly compressed, she attacked the figures with such fell determination to do them right or die, that one could hardly help hoping she _would_ make a mistake and take the consequences. the other,--the woolly-brained young person,--having absolutely no ear for music or time, silently but vigorously worked her jaws through the chorus, and affably ambled about, under everybody's feet, through the dance, displaying all the stiff-kneed grace of a young, well-meaning calf. when we were in our room, i told semantha how well she had sung and danced, and her face was radiant with delight. then becoming very grave, she said: "oh, fräulein, how i vant to be an actor! not a common van, but" and she laid her hand with a childish gesture on her breast--"i vant to be a big actor. don' you tink i can ever be von--eh?" and looking into those bright, intelligent, squirrel-like eyes, i answered, "i think it is very likely," poor semantha! we were to recall those simple remarks, later on. christmas being near, i was very busy working between acts upon something intended for a present to my mother. this work was greatly admired by all the girls; but never shall i forget the astonishment of poor semantha when she learned for whom it was intended. "your mutter lets you love her yet--you would dare?" and as i only gazed dumbly at her, she went on, while slow tears gathered in her eyes, "my mutter hasn't let me love her since--since i vas big enough to be knocked over." through the talkativeness of an extra night-hand or scene-shifter, who knew her family, i learned something of poor semantha's private life. poor child! from the very first she had rested her bright brown eyes upon the wrong side of life,--the seamy side,--and her own personal share of the rough patchwork, composed of dismal drabs and sodden browns and greens, had in it just one small patch of rich and brilliant colour,--the theatre. of the pure tints of sky and field and watery waste and fruit and flower, she knew nothing. but what of that! had she not secured this bit of rosy radiance, and might it not in time be added to, until it should incarnadine the whole fabric of her life? semantha's father was dead; her mother was living--worse luck. for had she been but a memory, semantha would have been free to love and reverence that memory, and it might have been as a very strong staff to support her timid steps in rough and dangerous places. but alas! she lived and was no staff to lean upon; but was, instead, an ever present rod of punishment. she was a harmful woman, a destroyer of young tempers, a hardener of young hearts. many a woman of quick, short temper has a kind heart; while even the sullenly sulky woman generally has a few rich, sweet drops of the milk of human kindness, which she is willing to bestow upon her own immediate belongings. but semantha's mother was not of these. how, one might ask, had this wretch obtained two good husbands? yes, semantha had a stepfather, and the only excuse for the suicidal marriage act as performed by these two victims was that the woman was well enough to look upon--a trim, bright-eyed, brown creature with the mark of the beast well hidden from view. when semantha, who was her first born, too, came home with gifts and money in her hands, her mother received her with frowning brows and sullen, silent lips. when the child came home with empty hands, and gave only cheerfully performed hard manual labour, she was received with fierce eyes, cruel rankling words, and many a cut and heavy blow, and was often thrust from the house itself, because 'twas known the girl was afraid of darkness. [illustration: _clara morris before coming to daly's theatre in _] her stepfather then would secretly let her in, though sometimes she dared go no farther than the shed, and there she would sit the whole night through, in all the helpless agony of fright. but all this was as nothing compared to the cruelty she had yet to meet out to poor semantha, whose greatest fault seemed to be her intense longing for some one to love. her mother _would not_ be loved, her own father had wisely given the whole thing up, her step-father _dared_ not be loved. so, when the second family began to materialize, semantha's joy knew no bounds. what a welcome she gave each newcomer! how she worked and walked and cooed and sang and made herself an humble bond-maiden before them. and they loved her and cried to her, and bit hard upon her needle stabbed forefinger with their first wee, white, triumphant teeth, and for just a little, little time poor semantha was not poor, but very rich indeed. and that strange creature, who had brought them all into the world, looked on and saw the love and smiled a nasty smile; and semantha saw the smile, and her heart quaked, as well it might. for so soon as these little men could stand firmly on their sturdy german legs, their gentle mother taught them, deliberately taught them, to call their sister names, the meaning being as naught to them, but enough to break a sister's heart. to jeer at and disobey her, so that they became a pair of burly little monsters, who laughed loud, affected laughter at the word "love," and swore with many long-syllabled german oaths that they would kick with their copper-toes any one who tried to kiss them. ah! when you find a fiercely violent temper allied to a stone-cold heart, offer you up an earnest prayer to him for the safety of the souls coming under the dominion and the power of that woman. i recall one action of semantha's that goes far, i think, to prove what a brave and loyal heart the untaught german girl possessed. she was very sensitive to ridicule, and when people made fun of her, though she would laugh good-humouredly, many times she had to keep her eyes down to hide the brimming tears. now her stepfathers name was a funny one to american ears, and always provoked a laugh, while her own family name was not funny. yet because the man had shown her a little timid kindness, she faithfully bore his name, and through storms of jeering laughter, clear to the dismal end, she called herself semantha waacker. once we spoke of it, and she exclaimed in her excited way: "yes, i am alvays waacker. why not, ven he is so goot? why, why, dat man, dat vater waacker, he have kissed me two time already. vunce here" (placing her finger on a vicious scar upon her check), "von de mutter cut me bad, und vun odder time, ven i come very sick. und de mutter seen him in de glass, und first she break dat glass, und den she stand and smile a little, und for days und days, when somebody be about, my mutter put out de lips und make sounds like kisses, so as to shame de vater before everybody. oh, yes, let 'em laugh; he kiss me, und i stay semantha waacker." the unfortunate man's occupation was also something that provoked laughter, when one first heard of it; but as semantha herself was my informant, and i had grown to care for her, i managed by a great effort to keep my face serious. how deeply this fact impressed her, i was to learn later on. christmas had come, and i was in high glee. i had many gifts, simple and inexpensive most of them, but they were perfectly satisfactory to me. my dressing-room mates had remembered me, too, in the most characteristic fashion. the pretty, woolly-brained girl had with smiling satisfaction presented me with a curious structure of perforated cardboard and gilt paper, intended to catch flies. its fragility may be imagined from the fact that it broke twice before i got it back into its box; still there was, i am sure, not another girl in cleveland who could have found for sale a fly-trap at christmas time. the straightforward one had presented me with an expensively repellent gift in the form of a brown earthenware jug, a cross between a mexican idol and a pitcher. a hideous thing, calculated to frighten children or sober drunken men. i know i should have nearly died of thirst before i could have forced myself to swallow a drop of liquid coming from that horrible interior. semantha was nervous and silent, and the performance was well on before she caught me alone, out in a dark passageway. then she began as she always did when excited, with: "clara, now clara, you know i told my vater of you, for dat you were goot to me, und he say, vat he alvays say--not'ing. dat day i come tell you vat his work vas, i vent home und i say, 'vater waacker, i told my fräulein you made your livin' in de tombstone yard,' und he say, quvick like, 'vell,'--you know my vater no speak ver goot english" (semantha's own english was weakening fast),--"'vell, i s'pose she make some big fool laugh, den, like everybodies, eh?' und i say, 'no, she don't laugh! de lips curdle a little'" (curdle was semantha's own word for tremble or quiver. if she shivered even with cold, she curdled with cold), "'but she don't laugh, und she say, "it vas the best trade in de vorldt for you, 'cause it must be satisfactions to you to work all day long on somebody's tombstone."'" "oh, semantha!" i cried, "why did you tell him that?" "but vy not?" asked the girl, innocently. "und he look at me hard, und his mouth curdle, und den he trow back his head und he laugh, pig laughs, und stamp de feet und say over und over, 'mein gott! mein gott! satisfackshuns ter vurk on somebody's tombstones--_some_body's. und she don't laugh at my vurk, nieder, eh? vell, vell! dat fräulein she tinks sometings! say, semantha, don't it dat you like a kriss-krihgle present to make to her, eh?' und i say, dat very week, dere have to be new shoes for all de kinder, und not vun penny vill be left. und he shlap me my back, une! say, 'never mindt, i'll make him,' und so he did, und here it is," thrusting some small object into my hand. "und if you laugh, fräulein, i tink i die, 'cause it is so mean und little." then stooping her head, she pressed a kiss on my bare shoulder and rushed headlong down the stairs, leaving me standing there in the dark with "it" in my hand. poor semantha! "it" lies here now, after all these years; but where are you, semantha? are you still dragging heavily through life, or have you reached that happy shore, where hearts are hungry never more, but filled with love divine? "it" is a little bit of white marble, highly polished and perfectly carved to imitate a tiny bible. a pretty toy it is to other eyes; but to mine it is infinitely pathetic, and goes well with another toy in my possession, a far older one, which cost a human life. well, from that christmas-tide semantha was never quite herself again. for a time she was extravagantly gay, laughing at everything or nothing. then she became curiously absent-minded. she would stop sometimes in the midst of what she might be doing, and stand stock-still, with fixed eyes, and thoughts evidently far enough away from her immediate surroundings. sometimes she left unfinished the remark she might be making. once i saw a big, hulking-looking fellow walking away from the theatre door with her. the night was bad, too, but i noticed that she carried her own bundle, while he slouched along with his hands in his pocket, and i felt hurt and offended for her. and then one night semantha was late, and we wondered greatly, since she usually came very early, the theatre being the one bright spot in life to her. we were quite dressed, and were saying how lucky it was there was no dance to-night, or it would be spoiled, when she came in. her face was dreadful; even the straightforward one exclaimed in a shocked tone, "you must be awful sick!" but semantha turned her hot, dry-looking eyes upon her and answered slowly and dully, "i'm not sick." "not sick, with that white face and those poor curdling hands?" "i'm not sick, i'm going avay." just then the act was called, and down the stairs we had to dash to take our places. we wore pages' dresses, and as we went semantha stood in the doorway in her shabby street gown and followed us with wistful eyes--she did so love a page's costume. when we were "off" we hastened back to our dressing room. semantha was still there. she moved stiffly about, packing together her few belongings; but her manner silenced us. she had taken everything else, when her eyes fell upon a remnant of that evil-smelling soap. she paused a bit, then in that same slow way she said, "you never, never used that soap after all, clara?" and when i answered: "oh, yes, i have. i've used it several times," she put her hand out quickly, and took the thing, and slipped it into her pocket, and then she stood a moment and looked about; and if ever anguish grew in human eyes, it slowly grew in hers. her face was pale before; it was white now. at last her eyes met mine, then a sudden tremor crossed her face from brow to chin, a piteous slow smile crept around her lips, and in that dull and hopeless tone she said, "you see, my fräulein, i'll never be a big actor after all," and turned her back upon me, and slowly left the room and the theatre, without one kiss or handshake, even from me. and i, who knew her, did not guess why. she went out of my life forever, stepping down to that lower world of which i had only heard, but by god's mercy did not know. that same sad night a group of men, close-guarded, travelled to columbus, that city of great prisons and asylums, and one of those guarded men was poor semantha's lover, alas! her convicted lover now; and she, having cast from her her proudest hope, her high ambition, trusting a little in his innocence, trusting entirely in his love, now followed him steadily to the prison's very gate. after this came a long silence. one girl had fallen from our ranks, but what of that? another girl had taken her place. we were still four, marching on,--eyes front, step firm and regular,--ready when the quick order came quickly to obey. there could be no halt, no turning back to the help of the figure already growing dim, of one who had fallen by the wayside. after a time rumours came to us, at first faint and vague--uncertain, then more distinct--more dreadful! and the stronger the rumours grew, the lower were the voices with which we discussed them; since we were young, and vice was strange to us, and we were being forced to believe that she who had so recently been our companion was now--was--well, to be brief, she wore her rouge in daylight now upon the public street. poor, poor semantha! they were playing "hamlet," the night of the worst and strongest rumour, and as i heard ophelia assuring one of her noble friends or relatives:-- "you may wear your rue with a difference," i could not help saying to myself that "rue" was not the only thing that could be so treated, since we all had rouge upon our cheeks; yet semantha--ah, god forgive her--wore her rouge with a difference. a little longer and we were all in columbus, where a portion of each season was passed, our manager keeping his company there during the sitting of the legislature. we had secured boarding-houses,--the memory of mine will never die,--and in fact our round bodies were beginning to fit themselves to the square holes they were expected to fill for the next few weeks, when we found ourselves sneezing and coughing our way through that spirit-crushing thing they call a "february thaw." rehearsal had been long, and i was tired. i had quite a distance to walk, and my mind was full of professional woe. here was i, a ballet girl who had taken a cold whose proportions simply towered over that nursed by the leading lady's self; and as i slipped and slid slushily homeward, i asked myself angrily what a fairy was to do with a handkerchief,--and in heaven's name, what was that fairy to do without one. the dresses worn by fairies--theatrical, of course--in those days would seem something like a fairy mother-hubbard now, at all events a home toilet of some sort, so very proper were they; but even so there was no provision made for handkerchiefs, no thought apparently that stage fairies might have colds in their star-crowned heads. so as my wet skirt viciously slapped my icy ankles, i almost tearfully declared to myself i would have to have a handkerchief, even though it wore pinned to my wings, only who on earth could get it off in time for me to use? now if poor semantha were only--and there i stopped, my eyes, my mind, fixed upon a woman a little way ahead of me, who stood staring in a window. her figure drooped as though she were weary or very, very sad, and i said to myself, "i don't know what you are looking at, but i _do_ know it's something you want awfully," and just then she turned and faced me. my heart gave a plunge against my side. i knew her. one woman's glance, lightning-quick, mathematically true, and i had her photograph--the last, the very last i ever took of poor semantha. as her eyes met mine, they opened wide and bright. the rosy colour flushed into her face, her lips smiled. she gave a little forward movement, then before i had completed calling out her name, like a flash she changed, her brows were knit, her lips close-pressed, and all her face, save for the shameful red sign on her cheeks, was very white. i stood quite still--not so, she. she walked stiffly by, till on the very line with me she shot out one swift, sidelong glance and slightly shook her head; yet as she passed i clearly heard that grievous sound that coming from a woman's throat tells of a swallowed sob. still i stood watching her as she moved away, regardless quite of watery pool or deepest mud; she marched straight on and at the first corner disappeared, but never turned her head. as she had left me first without good-by, so she met me now without a greeting, and passed me by without farewell. and i, who knew her, understood at last the reason why. poor wounded, loyal heart, who would deny herself a longed-for pleasure rather than put the tiniest touch of shame upon so small a person as a ballet girl whom one year ago she had so lovingly called friend. at last i turned to go. as i came to the window into which semantha had so lovingly been gazing, i looked in too, and saw a window full of fine, thick underwear for men. two crowded, busy years swept swiftly by before i heard once more, and for the last time, of poor semantha. i was again in columbus for a short time, and was boarding at the home of one of the prison wardens. whenever i could catch this man at home, i took pains to make him talk, and he told me many interesting tales. they were scarcely of a nature to be repeated to young children after they had gone to bed, that is, if you wanted the children to stay in bed; but they were interesting, and one day the talk was of odd names,--his own was funny,--and at last he mentioned semantha's. of course i was alert, of course i questioned him--how often i have wished i had not. for the tale he told was sad. nothing new, nay, it was common even; but so is "battle, murder, and sudden death," from which, nevertheless, we pray each day to be delivered. ah! his tale was sad if common. it seemed that when semantha followed that treacherous young brute, her convicted lover, she had at first obtained a situation as a servant, so she could not come to the prison every visiting day, and what was worse in his eyes, she was most poorly paid, and had but very small sums to spend upon extras for him. he grumbled loudly, and she was torn with loving pity. then quite suddenly she was stricken down with sickness, and her precious brute had to do without her visits for a time and the small comforts she provided for him, until one visiting day he fairly broke down and roared with rage and grief over the absence of his tobacco. the hospital sheltered semantha as long as the rules permitted, but when she left it she was weak and worn and homeless, and as she crept slowly from place to place, a woman old and well-dressed spoke to her, calling her mamie someone, and then apologized for her mistake. next she asked a question or two, and ended by telling semantha she was the very girl she wanted--to come with her. she could rest for a few days at her home, and after that she should have steady employment and better pay, and--oh! did i not tell you it was a common tale? but when on visiting day the child with frightened eyes told what she had discovered about her new home, the soulless monster bade her stay there, and every dollar made in her new accursed trade was lavished upon him. by a little sickness and a great deal of fraud the wretch got himself into the prison hospital for a time, and there my informant learned to know the pair quite well. she not only loved him passionately, but she had for all his faults of selfishness and general ugliness the tender patience of a mother. and he traded upon her loving pity by pretending he could obtain the privilege of this or immunity from that if he had only so many dollars to give to the guard or keeper. and she, poor loving fool, hastened a few steps farther down the road of shame to obtain for him the money, receiving in return perhaps a rough caress or two that brought the sunshine to her heart and joy into her eyes. his term of imprisonment was nearly over, and semantha was preparing for his coming freedom. his demands seemed unending. his hat would be old-fashioned, and his boots and his undergarments were old, etc. then he wanted her to have two tickets for bellefontaine ready, that they might leave columbus at once, and semantha was excited and worried. "one day," said the warden, "she asked to see me for a moment, and i exclaimed at sight of her, 'what is it that's happened?' "her face was fairly radiant with joy, and she shook all over. it seemed as though she could not speak at first, and then she burst forth, 'mr. s----, now mr. s----, you don't much like my poor boy, but joust tink now how goot he is! ach, gott, he tells me ven all der tings are got, und de tickets too, have i some money left i shall buy a ring, und then,'--she clutched my arm with both her hands, and dropped her head forward on them, as she continued in a stifled voice,--und then we go to a minister and straight we get married.' "and," continued mr. s----, "as i looked at her i caught myself wishing she were dead, that she might escape the misery awaiting her. "at last the day came. her lover and a pal of his went out together. faithful semantha was awaiting him, and was not pleased at the pal's presence, and was more distressed still when her lover refused to go to the shelter she had prepared for him, in which he was to don his new finery, but insisted upon going with his friend. semantha yielded, of course, and on the way her lover laughed and jested--asked for the tickets, then the ring, and putting on the latter declared that he was married to _her_ now, and would wear the ring until they saw the 'bible-sharp,' and then she should be married to _him_; and semantha brightened up again and was happy. "they came at last to the house they sought. it was a low kind of neighbourhood, had a deserted look, and was next door to a saloon. the pal said there were no women in the house, and semantha had better not come in. the lover bade her wait, and they went in and closed the door, and left the girl outside. there she waited such a weary time, then at last she rang--quite timidly at first, then louder, faster, too, and a scowling fellow from the saloon told her that the house was empty. she rang wildly then, until he threatened a policeman. then she ceased, but walked round to the back and found its rear connected with a stable yard. she came back again, dazed and white, her hand pressed to her heart, and as she stood there a lad who hung about the prison grounds a good deal, did odd jobs or held a horse now and then, and who knew semantha well, came along and cried out, 'i say, why didn't you go with yer feller and his pal?' "'she didn't say nary a word,' said the boy, 'she didn't say nary a word, but pushed her head out and looked at me till her eyes glared same as a cat's, and i says: "why, i seed 'em ketch the . train to bellefontaine! they had to run and jump to do it, but they didn't scare a darn, they just laughed and laughed." and, boss, something like a tremble, but most like my dog when i beats him, and i have the stick up to hit him again, and not a word did she say, but just stood as still as still after that doglike tremble went away. i got muddled, and at last i says, "semantha, hav' yer got no sponds?" she didn't seem to see me no more, nor hear me, and i goes on louder like, "say, semantha! where yer goin' to? what yer goin' ter do now?" and, boss, she done the toughest thing i ever seen. she jes' slowly lifted up her hands and looked at 'em, looked good and long, like they were strange to her, and then jes' as slow she turns 'em over, they were bare and empty, and the palms was up, and she spreads the fingers wide apart and moves 'em a bit, and then without raisin' up her eyes, she jes' smiles a little slow, slow smile. "'and then she turned 'round and walked away without nary a word at all; but, boss, her shoulders sagged down, and her head kind of trembled, and she dragged her feet along jes' like an old, old woman, what was too tired to live. i was skeered like, and thought i'd come here and tell you, but i looked back to watch her. 'twas almost dark then, and when she came to the crossin', the wind was blowin' so she could hardly stand, but she stopped awhile and looked down one street, then she looked down the other street, and then she lifts up her face right to the sky the longest time of all, and so i looks up ter see was ther' anything there; but ther' wasn't nothin' but them dirty, low-hangin' clouds as looks so rainy and so lonesome. and then right of a suddent she gives a scream; but no, not a scream, a groan and a scream together. it made my blood turn cold, i tell yer; and she trows both her empty hands out from her, and says as plain as i do now, boss, "my god, it is too much! i cannot, cannot bear it!" then she draw'd herself up quite tall, shut her hands tight before her, and walked as fast as feet could carry her straight toward the river.'" and that was the last that he, my friend, had ever heard of poor semantha. i tried to dry my falling tears, but he dried them more effectually by remarking:-- "yes, she was a bright, promising, true-hearted girl; but you see she went wrong, and the sinner has to pay both here and hereafter." "don't," i hotly cried. "don't go on! don't! sin? sin? don't hurl that word at her, the embodiment of self-sacrifice! sin? where there is no law, there can be no sin. and who had taught her anything? she was a heathen. so far as one person can be the cause of another person's wrong-doing, so far was semantha's mother the guilty cause of semantha's loving fall. she was a heathen. she had been taught just one law--that she was always to serve other people. that law she truly kept unto the end. of that great book, the bible, closely packed with all sustaining promises, she knew naught. i tell you the only bible she ever held within her hand was that mimic one of marble her father carved for me. she was a heathen. of that all-enduring one--'chief among ten thousand and altogether lovely,' for whom there was no thing too small to love, no sin too great to pardon--she knew nothing. even that woman who with wide-open, lustrous eyes had boldly broken every law human and divine, yet was forgiven her uncounted sins, because of her loving faith and true repentance, semantha knew not of, nor of repentance nor its necessity, nor its power. "let her alone! i say, she was a heathen. but even so, god made her. god placed her; and if she fell by the wayside in ignorance, she _did not_ fall from the knowledge of her maker." transcriber's note italic text is denoted by _underscores_. the oe ligature has been replaced by 'oe' or 'oe'. obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. more detail can be found at the end of the book. note.--_three hundred copies of this edition printed on fine deckle-edge royal vo paper. the fifty portraits are given in duplicate, one on japanese and the other on plate paper, as india proofs._ _each of these copies is numbered._ _no._ .......... "their majesties' servants" dr. doran, f.s.a. volume the first ballantyne press ballantyne, hanson and co. edinburgh and london [illustration: (frontispiece, dr. doran)] "_their majesties' servants_" annals of the english stage from thomas betterton to edmund kean by dr. doran, f.s.a. _edited and revised by robert w. lowe_ with fifty copperplate portraits and eighty wood engravings _in three volumes_ volume the first london john c. nimmo , king william street, strand mdccclxxxviii preface. it is unnecessary to apologise for a new edition of dr. doran's _annals of the stage_. the two editions already published have been for many years out of print, and the first is so rare that copies of it bring a high price whenever they occur for sale. and this demand is not a mere bibliographical accident, for the book has held for many years a recognised position as the standard popular history of the english stage. the admirable work of genest, indispensable as it is to every writer on theatrical history, and to every serious student of the stage, is in no sense a popular work, and is, indeed, rather a collection of facts towards a history than a history itself. in preparing this new edition every effort has been made to add to its interest by the introduction of portraits and other illustrations, and to its authority as a book of reference, by correcting those errors which are scarcely to be avoided by a writer working among the confused, inaccurate, and contradictory documents of theatrical history. no one who has not ventured into this maze can conceive the difficulty of keeping the true path, and i can imagine nothing better calculated to sap one's self-confidence than the task of noting the false turnings made by such a writer as dr. doran. i can hardly hope that my own work, light as it is in comparison with his, will be found free from sins of omission, and even of commission. my principle has been to pass no error, however trifling; but, at the same time, i have not thought myself entitled to discuss matters of opinion, or to criticise, either directly or indirectly, dr. doran's treatment of his subject. thus it would be easy to supplement the information regarding the ancient theatres and the theatre of shakspeare's time contained in the first and second chapters; but, as dr. doran obviously intended that his real work should begin with the restoration theatres, i have not interfered with his scheme. i trust that, in this, as in other respects, my work has been done in a spirit free from captiousness. the illustrations to this edition have been chosen, not from the book "illustrator's" point of view, but with a serious desire to increase its value as a history. in the case of the portraits, those which dr. doran specially mentions, have, wherever it was possible, been selected, and in every instance i believe the portrait given is an accurate and trustworthy likeness. the headpieces, intended to form a supplement to the full-page illustrations, include portraits of persons whose importance scarcely justified their place among the larger pictures, drawings of theatres, and of actors in character. the tailpieces are reproductions of sayer's beautiful little drawings of garrick and his contemporaries in their best characters; and in their case no chronological arrangement is possible. for many valuable notes i am indebted to the kindness of mr. alban doran, who intrusted to me his father's annotated copy of this work. these notes have in every case been acknowledged and marked "_doran ms._" robert w. lowe. london, _september _. contents. chapter i. page prologue chapter ii. the decline and fall of the players chapter iii. the "boy actresses," and the "young ladies" chapter iv. the gentlemen of the king's company chapter v. thomas betterton chapter vi. "exeunt" and "enter" chapter vii. elizabeth barry chapter viii. "their first appearance on the stage" chapter ix. the dramatic poets chapter x. professional authors chapter xi. the dramatic authoresses chapter xii. the audiences of the seventeenth century chapter xiii. a seven years' rivalry chapter xiv. the united and the disunited companies chapter xv. union, strength, prosperity chapter xvi. competition, and what came of it chapter xvii. the progress of james quin, and decline of barton booth chapter xviii. barton booth list of copperplate portraits. volume i. engraved by messrs. annan & swan, london. page i. dr. doran _frontispiece_ ii. richard burbage iii. nathaniel field { from an original picture in dulwich } { college } iv. edward alleyn do. do. v. john lowen { from an original picture in the } { ashmolean museum, oxford } vi. nell gwyn from the picture by gascar vii. michael mohun { from the original in the dorset } { collection } viii. joseph harris as cardinal wolsey ix. anthony leigh { as dominique in the "spanish } { friar" } x. elizabeth barry { from the original of sir godfrey } { kneller } xi. thomas betterton do. do. xii. colley cibber from the picture by grisoni xiii. mrs. bracegirdle xiv. james quin from the original by hudson xv. lavinia fenton xvi. barton booth list of illustrations on wood. volume i. engraved by del orme & butler, london, and printed on japanese paper by ed. badoureau, london. page . the bear garden--sixteenth century . the swan theatre--as it appeared in . the globe theatre--sixteenth century . the fortune theatre--sixteenth century . theatre royal, lincoln's inn fields-- . the duke's theatre, dorset garden-- . do. do. do. --river view . contest for dogget's coat and badge . colley cibber--from a painting by j. b. van loo . sir william davenant--from a painting by greenhuth . mrs. centlivre . prynne . sir richard steele . thomas dogget--from a rare contemporary print . pope and dr. garth--by hogarth . spiller's benefit ticket--by hogarth . the new and old theatres royal, haymarket-- - . barton booth list of tailpieces on wood. volume i. page . mr. garrick as sir john brute in "the provoked wife" . mr. garrick as king lear--act iii. scene . mrs. barry and mr. garrick as donna violante and don felix in "the wonder" . mr. garrick as hamlet--act i. scene . mr. foote as the doctor in the "devil upon two sticks" . mr. garrick as abel drugger in the "alchymist" [illustration: the bear garden] chapter i. prologue. the period of the origin of the drama is an unsettled question, but it has been fixed at an early date, if we may accept the theory of a recent writer, who suggests that moses described the creation from a visionary pictorial representation, which occupied seven days from the commencement to the close of the spectacle! among the most remote of the chinese traditions, the theatre holds a conspicuous place. in cochin-china there is at this day a most primitive character about actors, authors, and audience. the governor of the district enjoys the least rude seat in the sylvan theatre; he directs the applause by tapping with his fingers on a little drum, and as at this signal his secretaries fling strings full of _cash_ on to the stage, the performance suffers from continual interruption. for the largesse distributed by the patron of the drama, and such of the spectators as choose to follow his example, the actors and actresses furiously scramble, while the poor poet stands by, sees his best situations sacrificed, and is none the richer--by way of compensation. in greece the profession of actor was accounted honourable. in rome it was sometimes a well-requited, but also a despised vocation. during the decade of years when that aristocratic democrat pisistratus held power, the drama first appeared (it is said) at athens. it formed a portion of the religion of the state. the theatre was a temple in which, rudely enough at first, the audience were taught how the will, not only of men but of gods, must necessarily submit to the irresistible force of destiny. this last power, represented by a combination of the lyric and epic elements, formed the drama which had its origin in greece alone. in such a sense the semitic races had no drama at all, while in greece it was almost exclusively of attic growth, its religious character being especially supported on behalf of the audience by the ever-sagacious, morally, and fervently-pious chorus. lyric tragedy existed before the age of thespis and pisistratus; but a spoken tragedy dates from that period alone, above five centuries earlier than the christian era; and the new theatre found at once its prynne and its collier in that hearty hater of actors and acting, the legislative solon. at the great festivals, when the theatres were opened, the expenses of the representations were borne partly by the state and partly by certain wealthy officials. the admission was free, until over-crowding produced fatal accidents. to diminish the latter an entrance-fee of two _oboli_, - / d., was established, but the receipts were made over to the poor.[ ] from morning till dewy eve these roofless buildings, capable of containing on an average twenty thousand persons, were filled from the ground to the topmost seat, in the sweet spring-tide, sole theatrical season of the greeks. disgrace and disfranchisement were the penalties laid upon the professional roman actor. he was accounted infamous, and was excluded from the tribes. nevertheless, the calling in italy had something of a religious quality. livy tells us of a company of etruscan actors, ballet-pantomimists, however, rather than comedians, who were employed to avert the anger of the gods, which was manifested by a raging pestilence. these etruscans were in their way the originators of the drama in italy. that drama was at first a dance, then a dance and song; with them was subsequently interwoven a story. from the period of livius andronicus (b.c. ) is dated the origin of an actual latin theatre, a theatre the glory of which was at its highest in the days of attius and terence, but for which a dramatic literature became extinct when the mimes took the place of the old comedy and tragedy. even in rome the skill of the artist sometimes freed him from the degradation attached to the exercise of his art. roscius, the popular comedian, contemporary with cicero, was elevated by sulla to the equestrian dignity, and with Æsopus, the great tragedian, enjoyed the friendship of tully and of tully's friends, the wisest and the noblest in rome. roscius and Æsopus were what would now be called scholars and gentlemen, as well as unequalled artists, whom no amount of application could appal when they had to achieve a triumph in their art. an austrian emperor once "encored" an entire opera (the _matrimonio segreto_); but, according to cicero, his friend Æsopus so delighted his enthusiastic audience, that in one piece they encored him "millies," a thousand, or perhaps an indefinite number of times. the roman tragedian lived well, and bequeathed a vast fortune to his son. roscius earned £ daily, and he too amassed great wealth. the mimes were satirical burlesques, parts of which were often improvised, and had some affinity to the pasquinades and harlequinades of modern italy. the writers were the intimate friends of emperors; the actors were infamous. cæsar induced decius laberius, an author of knightly rank, to appear on the stage in one of these pieces; and laberius obeyed, not for the sake of the _honorarium_, £ , but from dread of disobeying an order from so powerful a master. the unwilling actor profited by his degradation to satirise the policy of cæsar, who did not resent the liberty, but restored laberius to the rank and equestrian privileges which he had forfeited by appearing on the stage. laberius, however, never recovered the respect of his countrymen, not even of those who had applauded him the most loudly. the licentious pantomimists were so gross in their performances that they even disgusted tiberius, who forbade them from holding any intercourse, as the professional _histriones_ or actors of the drama had done, with romans of equestrian or senatorial dignity. it was against the stage, exclusively given up to their scandalous exhibitions, that the christian fathers levelled their denunciations. they would have approved a "well-trod stage," as milton did, and the object attributed to it by aristotle,--but they had only anathemas for that horrible theatre where danced and postured bathyllus and hylas, and pylades, latinus and nero, and even that graceful paris, whom domitian slew in his jealousy, and of whom martial wrote that he was the great glory and grief of the roman theatre, and that all venuses and cupids were buried for ever in the sepulchre of paris, the darling of old rome. in this our england, minds and hearts had ever been open to dramatic impressions. the druidical rites contained the elements of dramatic spectacle. the pagan saxon era had its dialogue-actors, or buffoons; and when the period of christianity succeeded, its professors and teachers took of the evil epoch what best suited their purposes. in narrative dialogue, or song, they dramatised the incidents of the lives of the saints, and of one greater than saints; and they thus rendered intelligible to listeners what would have been incomprehensible if it had been presented to them as readers. in castle-hall, before farm-house fires, on the bridges, and in the market-places, the men who best performed the united offices of missionary and actor, were, at once, the most popular preachers and players of the day. the greatest of them all, st. adhelm, when he found his audience growing weary of too much serious exposition, would take his small harp from under his robes, and would strike up a narrative song, that would render his hearers hilarious. the mixture of the sacred and profane in the early dialogues and drama prevailed for a lengthened period. the profane sometimes superabounded, and the higher church authorities had to look to it. the monotony of monastic life had caused the wandering glee-men to be too warmly welcomed within the monastery circles, where there were men who cheerfully employed their energies in furnishing new songs and lively "patter" to the strollers. it was, doubtless, all well meant; but more serious men thought it wise to prohibit the indulgence of this peculiar literary pursuit. accordingly, the council of clovershoe, and decrees bearing the king's mark, severally ordained that actors, and other vagabonds therein named, should no longer have access to monasteries, and that no priest should either play the glee-man himself, or encourage the members of that disreputable profession, by turning ale poets, and writing songs for them. it is a singular fact, that one of our earliest theatres had geoffrey, a monk, for its manager, and dunstable--immortalised by silvester daggerwood--for a locality. this early manager, who flourished about ,[ ] rented a house in the town just named, when a drama was represented, which had st. katherine for a heroine, and her whole life for a subject. this proto-theatre was, of course, burnt down; and the managing monk withdrew from the profession, more happy than most ruined managers, in this, that he had his cell at st. albans, to which he could retire, and therein find a home for the remainder of his days. through a course of mysteries, miracle-plays--illustrating scripture, history, legend, and the sufferings of the martyrs,--moralities, in which the vices were in antagonism against the virtues, and chronicle-plays, which were history in dialogue, we finally arrive at legitimate tragedy and comedy. till this last and welcome consummation, the church as regularly employed the stage for religious ends, as the old heathen magistrates did when they made village festivals the means of maintaining a religious feeling among the villagers. professor browne, in his _history of greek classical literature_, remarks:--"the believers in a pure faith can scarcely understand a religious element in dramatic exhibitions. they who knew that god is a spirit, and that they who worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth, feel that his attributes are too awful to permit any ideas connected with deity to be brought into contact with the exhibition of human passions. religious poetry of any kind, except that which has been inspired, has seldom been the work of minds sufficiently heavenly and spiritual, to be perfectly successful in attaining the end of poetry, namely the elevation of the thoughts to a level with the subject. it brings god down to man, instead of raising man to him. it causes that which is most offensive to religious feeling, and even good taste, irreverent familiarity with subjects which cannot be contemplated without awe. but a religious drama would be, to those who realise to their own minds the spirituality of god, nothing less than anthropomorphism and idolatry. christians of a less advanced age, and believers in a more sensuous creed, were able to view with pleasure the mystery-plays in which the gravest truths of the gospel were dramatically represented; nay, more, just as the ancient athenians could look even upon their gross and licentious comedy as forming part of a religious ceremony, so could christians imagine a religious element in profane dramas which represented in a ludicrous light subjects of the most holy character." mysteries kept the stage from the norman to the tudor era. the moralities began to displace them during the reign of henry vi., who was a less beneficial patron of the stage than that richard iii. who has himself retained a so unpleasant possession of the scene. actors and dramatists have been ungrateful to this individual, who was their first practically useful patron. never, previous to richard's time, had an english prince been known to have a company of players of his own. when duke of gloucester, a troop of such servants was attached to his household. richard was unselfish towards these new retainers; whenever he was too "busy," or "not i' the vein" to receive instruction or amusement at their hands, he gave them licence to travel abroad, and forth went the mirthful company, from county to county, mansion to mansion, from one corporation-hall and from one inn-yard to another, playing securely under the sanction of his name, winning favour for themselves, and a great measure of public regard, probably, for their then generous and princely master. the fashion thus set by a prince was followed by the nobility, and it led to a legal recognition of the actor and his craft, in the royal licence of , whereby the players connected with noble houses were empowered to play wherever it seemed good to them, if their master sanctioned their absence, without any let or hindrance from the law. the patronage of actors by the duke of gloucester led to a love of acting by gentlemen amateurs. richard had ennobled the profession, the gentlemen of the inns of court took it up, and they soon had kings and queens leading the applause of approving audiences. to the same example may be traced the custom of having dramatic performances in public schools, the pupils being the performers. these boys, or, in their place, the children of the chapel royal, were frequently summoned to play in presence of the king and court. boatsful of them went down the river to greenwich, or up to hampton court, to enliven the dulness or stimulate the religious enthusiasm of their royal auditors there. at the former place, and when there was not yet any suspicion of the orthodoxy of henry viii., the boys of st. paul's acted a latin play before the sovereign and the representatives of other sovereigns. the object of the play was to exalt the pope, and consequently luther and his wife were the foolish villains of the piece, exposed to the contempt and derision of the delighted and right-thinking hearers. in most cases the playwrights, even when members of the clergy, were actors as well as authors. this is the more singular, as the players were generally of a roystering character, and were but ill-regarded by the church. nevertheless, by their united efforts, though they were not always colleagues, they helped the rude production of the first regularly constructed english comedy, "ralph roister doister," about . the author was a "clerk," named nicholas udall, whom eton boys, whose master he was, hated because of his harshness. the rough and reverend gentleman brought forth the above piece, just one year previous to his losing the mastership, on suspicion of being concerned in a robbery of the college plate. subsequently to this, the cambridge youths had the courage to play a tragedy called "pammachus," which must have been offensive to the government of henry viii. gardiner, bishop of winchester, chancellor of the university, immediately wrote a characteristic letter to the vice-chancellor, dr. matthew parker. it is dated th march . "i have been informed," he says, "that the youth in christ's college, contrary to the mind of the master and president, hath of late played a tragedy called 'pammachus,' a part of which tragedy is so pestiferous as were intolerable. if it be so, i intend to travail, as my duty is, for the reformation of it. i know mine office there, and mind to do in it as much as i may." parker answers on the d of april, that the play had been performed with the concurrence of the college authorities, after means had been taken to strike out "slanderous cavillations and suspicious sentences," and "all such matter whereby offence might greatly have risen. hitherto," adds parker, "have i not seen any man that was present at it to show himself grieved; albeit it was thought their time and labour might be spent in a better-handled matter." gardiner is not satisfied with this, and he will have the subject investigated. accordingly, some of the audience are ordered to be examined to discover if what they applauded was what the king's government had reproved. "i have heard specialities," he writes, "that they" (the actors) "reproved lent fastings, all ceremonies, and albeit the words of sacrament and mass were not named, yet the rest of the matter written in that tragedy, in the reproof of them was expressed." gardiner intimates that if the authorities concurred, after exercising a certain censorship, in licensing the representation, they were responsible for all that was uttered, as it must have had the approval of their judgments. a strict examination followed. nearly the entire audience passed under it, but not a man could or would remember that he had heard anything to which he could make objection. therewith parker transmitted to gardiner the stage-copy of the tragedy, which the irate prelate thus reviews:--"perusing the book of the tragedy which ye sent me, i find much matter not stricken out, all which, by the parties' own confession, was uttered very naught, and on the other part something not well omitted." flagrant lies are said to be mixed up with incontrovertible truths; and it is suggested, that if any of the audience had declared that they had heard nothing at which they could take offence, it must have been because they had forgotten much of what they had heard. ultimately, parker was left to deal with the parties as he thought best; and he wisely seems to have thought it best to do nothing. plays were the favourite recreation of the university men; albeit, as parker writes, "two or three in trinity college think it very unseeming that christians should play or be present at any profane comedies or tragedies." actors and clergy came into direct collision, when, at the accession of edward vi. ( ), the bishop of winchester announced "a solemn dirge _and mass_," in honour of the lately deceased king, henry viii. the indiscreet southwark actors thereupon gave notice that at the time announced for the religious service they would act a "solempne play" to try, as the bishop remarks in a letter to paget, "who shall have most resort, they in game or i in earnest." the prelate urgently requests the interference of the lord protector, but with what effect, the records in the state paper office afford no information. some of these southwark actors were the "servants" of henry grey, marquis of dorset, whose mansion was on the opposite side of the river. in he was promoted to the dukedom of suffolk, but his poor players were then prohibited from playing anywhere, save in their master's presence.[ ] severity led to fraud. in the autumn of the following year richard ogle forwarded to the council a forged licence, taken from the players--a matter which was pronounced to be "worthy of correction." the young king's patronage of his own "servants" was not marked by a princely liberality; the salary of one of his players of interludes, john brown, was five marks yearly as wages, and one pound three shillings and fourpence for his livery. of the party dramatists of this reign, that reverend prelate, "bilious bale," was the most active and the least pleasant-tempered. bale had been a romanist priest, he was now a protestant bishop (of ossory), with a wife to control the episcopal hospitality. bale had "seen the world." he had gone through marvellous adventures, of which his adversaries did not believe a word; and he had converted the most abstruse doctrinal subjects into edifying semi-lively comedies. the bishop did not value his enemies at the worth of a rush in an old king's chamber. he was altogether a boanerges; and when his "john, king of england," was produced, the audience, comprising two factions in the church and state, found the policy of rome towards this country illustrated with such effect, that while one party hotly denounced, the other applauded the coarse and vigorous audacity of the author. so powerful were the influences of the stage, when thus applied, that the government of queen mary made similar application of them in support of their own views. a play, styled "respublica," exhibited to the people the alleged iniquity of the reformation, pointed out the dread excellence of the sovereign herself (personified as queen nemesis), and exemplified her inestimable qualities, by making all the virtues follow in her train as maids of honour. such, now, were the orthodox actors; but the heretical players were to be provided against by stringent measures. a decree of the sovereign and council, in , prohibited all players and pipers from strolling through the kingdom; such strollers--the pipers singularly included--being, as it was said, disseminators of seditions and heresies. the eye of the observant government also watched the resident actors in town. king edward had ordered the removal of the king's revels and masques from warwick inn, holborn, "to the late dissolved house of blackfriars, london," where considerable outlay was made for scenery and machinery--adjuncts to stage effect--which are erroneously supposed to have been first introduced a century later by davenant. there still remained acting a company at the boar's head, without aldgate, on whom the police of mary were ordered to make levy. the actors had been playing in that inn-yard a comedy, entitled a "sack full of news." the order of the privy council to the mayor informs his worship, that it is "a lewd play;" bids him send his officers to the theatre without delay, and not only to apprehend the comedians, but to "take their play-book from them and send it before the privy council." the actors were under arrest for four-and-twenty hours, and were then set free, but under certain stipulations to be observed by them "and all other players throughout the city,"--namely: they were to exercise their vocation of acting "between all saints and shrovetide" only; and they were bound to act no other plays but such as were approved of by the ordinary. this was the most stringent censorship to which the stage has ever been subjected. although edward had commanded the transfer of the company of actors from warwick inn to blackfriars, that dissolved monastery was not legally converted into a theatre till the year , when elizabeth was on the throne. in that year[ ] the earl of leicester's servants were licensed to open their series of seasons in a house, the site of which is occupied by apothecaries' hall and some adjacent buildings. at the head of the company was james, father of richard burbage, the original representative of richard iii. and of hamlet, the author of which tragedies, so named, was, at the time of the opening of the blackfriars' theatre, a lad of twelve years of age, surmounting the elementary difficulties of latin and greek in the free school of stratford-on-avon. in elizabeth the drama possessed a generous patroness and a vindictive censor. her afternoons at windsor castle and richmond were made pleasant to her by the exertions of her players. the cost to her of occasional performances at the above residences during two years amounted to a fraction over £ . there were incidental expenses also, proving that the actors were well cared for. in the year , among the estimates for plays at hampton court, the liberal sum of £ , s. is set down "for the boyling of the brawns against xtmas." [illustration: (richard burbage.)] as at court, so also did the drama flourish at the universities, especially at cambridge. there, in , the coarse dialect comedy, "gammer gurton's needle"--a marvellous production, when considered as the work of a bishop, still, of bath and wells--was represented amid a world of laughter. there, too, was exercised a sharp censorship over both actors and audience. in a letter from vice-chancellor hatcher to burleigh, the conduct of punter, a student of st. john's, at stage-plays at caius and trinity, is complained of as unsteady. in the heads of houses again make application to burleigh, objecting to the players of the great chamberlain, the earl of oxford, poet and courtier, exhibiting certain plays already "practised" by them before the king. the authorities, when scholastic audiences were noisy, or when players brought no novelty with them to cambridge, applied to the great statesman in town, and vexed him with dramatic troubles, as if he had been general stage-manager of all the companies strolling over the kingdom. on one occasion the stage was employed as a vantage ground whereon to raise a battery against the power of the stage's great patroness, the queen. in , the indiscreet followers of essex "filled the pit of the theatre, where rutland and southampton are daily seen, and where shakspeare's company, in the great play of 'richard ii.,' have, for more than a year, been feeding the public eye with pictures of the deposition of kings." in june of the following year, "those scenes of shakspeare's play disturb elizabeth's dreams. the play had had a long and splendid run, not less from its glorious agony of dramatic passion than from the open countenance lent to it by the earl, who, before his voyage, was a constant auditor at the globe, and by his constant companions, rutland and southampton. the great parliamentary scene, the deposition of richard, not in the printed book, was possibly not in the early play; yet the representation of a royal murder and a successful usurpation on the public stage is an event to be applied by the groundlings, in a pernicious and disloyal sense. tongues whisper to the queen that this play is part of a great plot to teach her subjects how to murder kings. they tell her she is richard; essex, bolingbroke. these warnings sink into her mind. when lambard, keeper of the records, waits upon her at the palace, she exclaims to him, 'i am richard! know you not that?'" the performance of this play was, nevertheless, not prohibited. when the final attempt of essex was about to be made, in february --"to fan the courage of their crew," says mr. hepworth dixon, from whose _personal history of lord bacon_ i borrow these details, "and prepare the citizens for news of a royal deposition, the chiefs of the insurrection think good to revive, for a night, their favourite play. they send for augustine phillips, manager of the blackfriars theatre, to essex house; monteagle, percy, and two or three more--among them cuffe and meyrick--gentlemen whose names and faces he does not recognise, receive him; and lord monteagle, speaking for the rest, tells him that they want to have played the next day shakspeare's deposition of richard ii. phillips objects that the play is stale, that a new one is running, and that the company will lose money by a change. monteagle meets his objections. the theatre shall not lose; a host of gentlemen from essex house will fill the galleries; if there is fear of loss, here are s. to make it up. phillips takes the money, and king richard is duly deposed for them, and put to death." meanwhile, the profession of player had been assailed by fierce opponents. in ,[ ] when twenty-three summers lightly sat on shakspeare's brow, gosson, the "parson" of st. botolph's, discharged the first shot against stage plays which had yet been fired by any one not in absolute authority. gosson's book was entitled, _a school of abuse_, and it professed to contain "a pleasant invective against poets, players, jesters, and such like caterpillars of a commonwealth." gosson's pleasantry consists in his illogical employment of invective. domitian favoured plays, _argal_, domitian's domestic felicity was troubled by a player--paris. of caligula, gosson remarks, that he made so much of players and dancers, that "he suffered them openly to kiss his lips, when the senators might scarcely have a lick at his feet;" and the good man of st. botolph's adds, that the murder of domitian, by charea, was "a fit catastrophe," for it was done as the emperor was returning from a play! as a painter of manners, gosson thus gaily limns the audiences of his time. "in our assemblies at plays in london, you shall see such heaving and shouting, such pitching and shouldering to sit by women, such care for their garments that they be not trodden on, such eyes to their laps that no chips light on them, such pillows to their backs that they take no hurt, such masking in their ears, i know not what; such giving them pippins to pass the time; such playing at foot-saunt without cards; such ticking, such toying, such smiling, such winking, and such manning them home when the sports are ended, that it is a right comedy to mark their behaviour." in this picture gosson paints a good-humoured and a gallant people. when he turns from failings to vices, the old rector of st. botolph's dwells upon them as tartuffe does upon the undraped shoulders of dorinne. he likes the subject, and makes attractive what he denounces as pernicious. the playwrights he assails with the virulence of an author, who, having been unsuccessful himself, has no gladness in the success, nor any generosity for the shortcomings of others. yet he cannot deny that some plays are moral, such as "cataline's conspiracy,"--"because," as he elegantly observes, "it is said to be a pig of mine own sow." this, and one or two other plays written by him, he complaisantly designates as "good plays, and sweet plays, and of all plays the best plays, and most to be liked." let us now return to the year of shakspeare's birth. the great poet came into the world when the english portion of it was deafened with the thunder of archbishop grindal, who flung his bolts against the profession which the child in his cradle at stratford was about to ennoble for ever. england had been devastated by the plague of . grindal illogically traced the rise of the pestilence to the theatres; and to check the evil he counselled cecil to suppress the vocation of the idle, infamous, youth-infecting players, as the prelate called them, for one whole year, and--"if it were for ever," adds the primate, "it were not amiss." elizabeth's face shone upon the actors, and rehearsals went actively on before the master of the revels. the numbers of the players, however, so increased and spread over the kingdom, that the government, when shakspeare was eight years of age, enacted that startling statute which is supposed to have branded dramatic art and artists with infamy. but the celebrated statute of does _not_ declare players to be "rogues and vagabonds." it simply threatens to treat as such all acting companies who presume to set up their stage _without_ the license of "two justices of the peace at least." this was rather to protect the art than to insult the artist; and a few years subsequent to the publication of this statute, elizabeth granted the first _royal_ patent conceded in england to actors--that of .[ ] by this authority lord leicester's servants were empowered to produce such plays as seemed good to them, "as well," says the queen, "for the recreation of our loving subjects as _for our solace and pleasure_, when we shall think good to see them." sovereign could scarcely pay a more graceful compliment to poet or to actor. this royal patent sanctioned the acting of plays within the liberties of the city; but against this the city magistrates commenced an active agitation. their brethren of middlesex followed a like course throughout the county. the players were treated as the devil's missionaries; and such unsavoury terms were flung at them and at playwrights, by the city aldermen and the county justices, that thereon was founded that animosity which led dramatic authors to represent citizens and justices as the most egregious of fools, the most arrant of knaves, and the most deluded of husbands. driven from the city, burbage and his gay brotherhood were safe in the shelter of blackfriars, adjacent to the city walls. safe, but neither welcome nor unmolested. the devout and noble ladies who had long resided near the once sacred building, clamoured at the audacity of the actors. divine worship and sermon, so they averred, would be grievously disturbed by the music and rant of the comedians, and by the debauched companions resorting to witness those abominable plays and interludes. this cry was shrill and incessant, but it was unsuccessful. the blackfriars' was patronised by a public whose favours were also solicited by those "sumptuous houses" the "theatre" and the "curtain" in shoreditch. pulpit logicians reasoned, more heedless of connection between premises and conclusion than grindal or gosson. "the cause of plagues is sin," argues one, "and the cause of sin are plays; therefore, the cause of plagues are plays." again: "if these be not suppressed," exclaims a paul's cross preacher, "it will make such a tragedy that all london may well mourn while it is london."[ ] but for the sympathy of the earl of leicester it would have gone ill with these players. he has been as ill-requited by authors and actors as their earlier friend, richard of gloucester. to this day the stage exhibits the great earl, according to the legend contrived by his foes, as the murderer of his wife. sanctioned by the court, befriended by the noble, and followed by the general public, the players stood their ground, but they lacked the discretion which should have distinguished them. they bearded authority, played in despite of legal prohibitions, and introduced forbidden subjects of state and religion upon their stage. thence ensued suspensions for indefinite periods, severe supervision when the suspension was rescinded, and renewed transgression on the part of the reckless companies, even to the playing on a sunday, in any locality where they conjectured there was small likelihood of their being followed by a warrant. but the most costly of the theatrical revels of king james took place at whitehall, at greenwich, or at hampton court, on sunday evenings--an unseemly practice, which embittered the hatred of the puritans against the stage, all belonging to it, and all who patronised it. james was wiser when he licensed kirkham, hawkins, kendall, and payne to train the queen's children of the revels, and to exercise them in playing within the blackfriars' or elsewhere all plays which had the sanction of old samuel danyell. his queen, anne, was both actress and manager in the masques performed at court, the expenses of which often exceeded, indeed were ordered not to be limited to, £ . "excellent comedies" were played before prince charles and the prince palsgrave[ ] at cambridge; and the members of st. john's, clare, and trinity, acted before the king and court in , when the illustrious guests were scattered among the colleges, and twenty-six tuns of wine consumed within five days! the lawyers alone were offended at the visits of the court to the amateurs at cambridge, especially when james went thither to see the comedy of _ignoramus_, in which law and lawyers are treated with small measure of respect. when james was prevented from going to cambridge, he was accustomed to send for the whole scholastic company to appear before him, in one of the choicest of their pieces, at royston. roving troops were licensed by this play-loving king to follow their vocation in stated places in the country, under certain restrictions for their tarrying and wending--a fortnight's residence in one town being the time limited, with injunction not to play "during church hours." then there were unlicensed satirical plays in unlicensed houses. sir john yorke, his wife and brothers, were fined and imprisoned, because of a scandalous play acted in sir john's house, in favour of popery. on another occasion, in , we hear of a play, in some country mansion, in which the king, represented as a huntsman, observed that he had rather hear a dog bark than a cannon roar. two kinsmen, named napleton, discussed this matter, whereupon one of them remarked that it was a pity the king, so well represented, ever came to the crown of england at all, for he loved his dogs better than his subjects. whereupon the listener to this remark went and laid information before the council against the kinsman who had uttered it! the players could, in james's reign, boast that their profession was at least kindly looked upon by the foremost man in the english church. "no man," says hacket, "was more wise or more serious than archbishop bancroft, the atlas of our clergy, in his time; and he that writes this hath seen an interlude well presented before him, at lambeth, by his own gentlemen, when i was one of the youngest spectators." the actors thus had the sanction of the archbishop of canterbury in james's reign, as they had that of williams, archbishop of york, in the next. hacket often alludes to theatrical matters. "the theatres," he says, in one of his discourses made during the reign of charles ii., when the preacher was bishop of lichfield and coventry, "are not large enough nowadays to receive our loose gallants, male and female, but whole fields and parks are thronged with their concourse, where they make a muster of their gay clothes." meanwhile, in , the pulpit once more issued anathemas against the stage. the denouncer, on this occasion, was the preacher of st. mary overy's, named sutton, whose undiscriminating censure was boldly, if not logically, answered by the actor, field. there is a letter from the latter in the state paper office, in which he remonstrates against the sweeping condemnation of all players. the comedian admits that what he calls his trade has its corruptions, like other trades; but he adds, that since it is patronised by the king, there is disloyalty in preaching against it, and he hints that the theology of the preacher must be a little out of gear, seeing that he openly denounces a vocation which is not condemned in scripture! [illustration: (nathaniel field.)] field, the champion of his craft in the early part of the seventeenth century, was one of the dozen actors to whom king james, in , granted a licence to act comedy, tragedy, history, &c., for the solace and pleasure of his majesty and his subjects, at the globe, and at their private house in the precincts of blackfriars. this licence was made out to hemings, burbage, condell, lowen, tooley, underwood, field, benfield, gough, eccleston, robinson, shancks, and their associates. their success rendered them audacious, and, in , they got into trouble, on a complaint of the spanish ambassador. the actors at the globe had produced middleton's "game at chess," in which the action is carried on by black and white pieces, representing the reformed and romanist parties. the latter, being the rogues of the piece, are foiled, and are "put in the bag." the spanish envoy's complaint was founded on the fact that living persons were represented by the actors, such persons being the king of spain, gondomar, and the famous antonio de dominis, who, after being a romish bishop (of spalato), professed protestantism, became dean of windsor, and after all died in his earlier faith, at rome. on the ambassador's complaint, the actors and the author were summoned before the council, but no immediate result followed, for, two days later, nethercole writes to carleton, informing him that "the comedy in which the whole spanish business is taken up, is drawing £ nightly." at that time, a house with £ in it was accounted a "good house," at either the globe or blackfriars. receipts amounting to five times that sum, for nine afternoons successively, may be accepted as a proof of the popularity of this play. the spaniard, however, would not let the matter rest; the play was suppressed, the actors forbidden to represent living personages on the stage, and the author was sent to prison. middleton was not long detained in durance vile. james set him free, instigated by a quip in a poor epigram,-- "use but your royal hand, 'twill set me free! 'tis but removing of a man--that's me." a worse joke never secured for its author a greater boon--that of liberty. with all this, an incident of the following year proves that the players disregarded peril, and found profit in excitement. for shrovetide, , they announced a play founded on the dutch horrors at amboyna, but the performance was stopped, on the application of the east india company, "for fear of disturbances this shrovetide." a watch of men was set to keep all quiet on shrove tuesday; and the subject was not again selected for a piece till , when dryden's "amboyna" was produced in drury lane, and the cruelties of the dutch condemned in a serio-comic fashion, as those of a people--so the epilogue intimated to the public--"who have no more religion faith--than you." in james's days, the greater or less prevalence of the plague regulated the licences for playing. thus, permission was given to the queen's servants to act "in their several houses, the curtain, and the boar's head, middlesex, as soon as the plague decreases to a week, in london." so, in the very first year of charles i., , the "common players" have leave not only to act where they will, but "to come to court, now the plague is reduced to six." accordingly, there was a merry christmas season at hampton court, the actors being there; and, writes rudyard to nethercole, "the _demoiselles_" (maids of honour, doubtless), "mean to present a french pastoral, wherein the queen is a principal actress." thus, the example set by the late queen anne and now adopted by henrietta maria, led to the introduction of actresses on the public stage, and it was the manifestation of a taste for acting exhibited by the french princess, that led to the appearance in london of actresses of that nation. with the reign of charles i. new hopes came to the poor player, but therewith came new adversaries. charles i. was a hearty promoter of all sports and pleasures, provided his people would be merry and wise according to his prescription only. wakes and maypoles were authorised by him, to the infinite disgust of the puritans, who liked the authorisation no more than they did the suppression of lectures. when charles repaired to church, where the _book of sports_ was read, he was exposed to the chance of hearing the minister, after reading the decree as he was ordered, calmly go through the ten commandments, and then tell his hearers, that having listened to the commands of god and those of man, they might now follow which they liked best. when bishop williams, of lincoln, and subsequently archbishop of york, held a living, he pleaded in behalf of the right of his northamptonshire parishioners to dance round the maypole. when ordered to deliver up the great seal by the king, he retired to his episcopal palace at buckden, where, says hacket, "he was the worse thought of by some strict censurers, because he admitted in his public hall a comedy once or twice to be presented before him, exhibited by his own servants, for an evening recreation." being then in disgrace, this simple matter was exaggerated by his enemies into a report, that on an ordination sunday, this arrogant welshman had entertained his newly-ordained clergy with a representation of shakspeare's "midsummer's night's dream," the actors in which had been expressly brought down from london for the purpose! in the troubled days in which king charles and bishop williams lived, the stage suffered with the throne and church. after this time the names of the old houses cease to be familiar. let us take a parting glance of these primitive temples of our drama. the royal theatre, blackfriars, was the most nobly patronised of all the houses opened previous to the restoration. the grown-up actors were the most skilled of their craft; and the boys, or apprentices, were the most fair and effeminate that could be procured, and could profit by instruction. on this stage shakspeare enacted the ghost in "hamlet," old adam, and a similar line of characters, usually intrusted to the ablest of the performers of the second class. blackfriars was a winter house. some idea of its capability and pretension may be formed from the fact, that in its proprietors, the brothers burbage,[ ] let it to the actors for a yearly rent of £ . in it was pulled down,[ ] after a successful career of about three-quarters of a century. upon the strip of shore, between fleet street and the thames, there have been erected three theatres. in the year , the old monastery of whitefriars was given up to a company of players; but the whitefriars' theatre did not enjoy a very lengthened career. in the year , that in which shakspeare died, it had already fallen into disrepute and decay, and was never afterwards used for the representation of dramatic pieces. the other theatres, in dorset gardens, were built subsequently to the restoration. in the parish of st. giles's, cripplegate, and in the street now called playhouse yard, connecting whitecross street with golding lane, stood the old fortune, erected in , for henslowe (the pawnbroker and money-lender to actors) and alleyn, the most unselfish of comedians. it was a wooden tenement, which was burned down in , and replaced by a circular brick edifice. in , two years after the suppression of plays by the puritan act, when the house was closed, a party of soldiers, "the sectaries of those yeasty times," broke into the edifice, destroyed its interior fittings, and pulled down the building.[ ] the site and adjacent ground were soon covered by dwelling-houses. meanwhile, the inn yards, or great rooms at the inns, were not yet quite superseded. the cross keys in gracechurch street, the bull in bishopsgate street, near which lived anthony bacon, to the extreme dislike of his grandmother; and the red bull, in st. john street, clerkenwell, which last existed as late as the period of the great fire, were open, if not for the acting of plays, at least for exhibitions of fencing and wrestling. the surrey side of the thames was a favourite locality for plays, long before the most famous of the regular and royally-sanctioned theatres. the globe was on that old joyous bankside; and the little rose, in , there succeeded to an elder structure of the same name, whose memory is still preserved in rose alley. the globe, the summer-house of shakspeare and his fellows, flourished from to , when it fell a prey to the flames caused by the wadding of a gun, which lodged in and set fire to the thatched roof. the new house, erected by a royal and noble subscription, was of wood, but it was tiled. its career, however, was not very extended, for in , the owner of the freehold, sir matthew brand, pulled the house down; and the name of globe alley is all that is left to point out the whereabouts of the popular summer-house in southwark. on the same bank of the great river stood the hope, a play-house four times a week, and a garden for bear-baiting on the alternate days. in the former was first played jonson's "bartholomew fair." when plays were suppressed, the zealous and orthodox soldiery broke into the hope, horsewhipped the actors, and shot the bears. this place, however, in its character of bear garden, rallied after the restoration, and continued prosperous till nearly the close of the seventeenth century. there remains to be noticed, paris garden, famous for its cruel but well-patronised sports. its popular circus was converted by henslowe and alleyn into a theatre. here, the richest receipts were made on the sunday, till the law interfered, and put down these performances, the dear delight of the southwarkians and their visitors from the opposite shore, of the olden time. the supposed assertion of taylor, the water poet, has often been quoted, namely, that between windsor bridge and gravesend there were not less than , watermen, and that more than half of these found employment in transporting the holiday folks from the middlesex to the southwark shore of the river, where the players were strutting their little hour at the _globe_, the _rose_, and the _swan_, and bruin was being baited in the adjacent gardens. a misprint has decupled what was about the true number, and even of these, many were so unskilful that an act was passed in the very first year of king james, for the protection of persons afloat, whether on pleasure or serious business. in holywell lane, near high street, shoreditch, is the site of an old wooden structure which bore the distinctive name of "the theatre," and was accounted a sumptuous house, probably because of the partial introduction of scenery there. in the early part of shakspeare's career, as author and actor, it was closed, in consequence of proprietary disputes; and with the materials the globe, at bankside, was rebuilt or considerably enlarged. there was a second theatre in this district called "the curtain," a name still retained in curtain road. this house remained open and successful, till the accession of charles i., subsequent to which time stage plays gave way to exhibitions of athletic exercises. this district was especially dramatic; the popular taste was not only there directed towards the stage, but it was a district wherein many actors dwelt, and consequently died. the baptismal register of st. leonard's contains christian names which appear to have been chosen with reference to the heroines of shakspeare; and the record of burials bears the name of many an old actor of mark whose remains now lie within the churchyard. not a vestige, of course, exists of any of these theatres; and yet of a much older house traces may be seen by those who will seek them in remote cornwall. this relic of antiquity is called piran round. it consists of a circular embankment, about ten feet high, sloping backwards, and cut into steps for seats or standing-places. this embankment encloses a level area of grassy ground, and stands in the middle of a flat, wild heath. a couple of thousand spectators could look down from the seats upon the grassy circus which formed a stage of more than a hundred feet in diameter. here, in very early times, sports were played and combats fought out, and rustic councils assembled. the ancient cornish mysteries here drew tears and laughter from the mixed audiences of the day. they were popular as late as the period of shakspeare. of one of them, a five act piece, entitled "the creation of the world, with noah's flood," the learned davies gilbert has given a translation. in this historical piece, played for edification in scripture history, the stage directions speak of varied costumes, variety of scenery, and complicated machinery, all on an open-air stage, whereon the deluge was to roll its billows and the mimic world be lost. this cataclysm achieved, the depressed spectators were rendered merry. the minstrels piped, the audience rose and footed it, and then, having had their full of amusement, they who had converged, from so many starting points, upon piran round, scattered again on their several ways homeward from the ancient theatre, and as the sun went down, thinned away over the heath, the fishermen going seaward, the miners inland, and the agricultural labourers to the cottages and farm-houses which dotted, here and there, the otherwise dreary moor. such is piran round described to have been, and the "old house" is worthy of tender preservation, for it once saved england from invasion! about the year , "some strollers," as they are called in somer's tracts, were playing late at night at piran. at the same time a party of spaniards had landed with the intention of surprising, plundering, and burning the village. as the enemy were silently on their way to this consummation, the players, who were representing a battle, "struck up a loud alarum with drum and trumpet on the stage, which the enemy hearing, thought they were discovered, made some few idle shots, and so in a hurly-burly fled to their boats. and thus the townsmen were apprised of their danger, and delivered from it at the same time." thus the players rescued the kingdom! their sons and successors were not so happy in rescuing their king; but the powerful enemies of each suppressed both real and mimic kings. how they dealt with the monarchs of the stage, our prologue at an end, remains to be told. [illustration: mr. garrick as sir john brute.] footnotes: [ ] professor ward says: "the entrance-money was from the time of pericles provided out of the public treasury." [ ] geoffrey was made abbot of st. albans in . the play, of course, was many years earlier. [ ] it would appear that noblemen's players were prohibited from acting, even before their masters, without leave from the privy council. [ ] the patent was dated , and does not specify any particular building or locality. [ ] ( d edition). [ ] should be . it is dated th may . [ ] these quotations are both from the same sermon. [ ] or, prince palatine. [ ] the owners seem to have been cuthbert and william burbage, uncle and nephew. [ ] the year of its destruction seems uncertain. [ ] it was standing in ; in which year it was advertised for sale, with the ground belonging to it. [illustration: the swan theatre.] chapter ii. the decline and fall of the players. it was in the eventful year ,[ ] while roman catholics were deploring the death of mary stuart; while englishmen were exulting at the destruction dealt by drake to a hundred spanish ships in the port of cadiz; while the puritan party was at angry issue with elizabeth; while john fox was lying dead; and while walsingham was actively impeding the ways and means of armada philip, by getting his bills protested at genoa,--that the little man, gosson, in the parish of st. botolph, of which he was the incumbent, first nibbed his pen,[ ] and made it fly furiously over paper, in wordy war against the stage and stage-players. when the britons ate acorns and drank water, he says, they were giants and heroes; but since plays came in they had dwindled into a puny race, incapable of noble and patriotic achievements! and yet next year, some pretty fellows of that race were sweeping the invincible armada from the surface of our seas! when london was talking admiringly of the coronation of charles i., and parliament was barely according him one pound in twelve of the money-aids of which he was in need, there was another pamphleteer sending up his testimony from cheapside to westminster, against the alleged abomination of plays and players. this writer entitles his work _a short treatise against stage plays_, and he makes it as sharp as it is short. plays were invented by heathens; they must necessarily be prejudicial to christians!--_that_ is the style of his assertion and argument. they were invented in order to appease false gods; consequently, the playing of them must excite to wrath a true deity! they are no recreation, because people come away from them wearied. the argument, in tragedy, he informs us, is murder; in comedy, it is social vice. this he designates as bad instruction; and remembering field's query to sutton, he would very much like to know in what page of holy writ authority is given for the vocation of an actor. he might as well have asked for the suppression of tailors, on the ground of their never being once named in either the old testament or the new! but this author finds condemnation there of "stage effects," rehearsed or unrehearsed. you deal with the judgments of god in tragedy, and laugh over the sins of men in comedy; and thereupon he reminds you, not very appositely, that ham was accursed for deriding his father! players change their apparel and put on women's attire,--as if they had never read a chapter in deuteronomy in their lives! if coming on the stage under false representation of their natural names and persons be not an offence against the epistle to timothy, he would thank you to inform him _what_ it is! as to looking on these pleasant evils and not falling into sin,--you have heard of job and king david, and you are worse than a heathen if you do not remember what _they_ looked upon with innocent intent, or if you have forgotten what came of the looking. he reminds parents, that while _they_ are at the play, there are wooers who are carrying off the hearts of their daughters at home; perhaps, the very daughters themselves _from_ home. this seems to me to be less an argument against resorting to the theatre than in favour of your taking places for your "young ladies," as well as for yourselves. the writer looks too wide abroad to see what lies at his feet. he is in asia, citing the council of laodicea against the theatre. he is in africa, vociferating, as the council of carthage did, against audiences. he is in europe, at arles, where the fathers decided that no actor should be admitted to the sacrament. finally, he unites all these councils together at constantinople, and in a three-piled judgment sends stage, actors, and audiences to gehenna. if you would only remember that many royal and noble men have been slain when in the theatre, on their way thither, or returning thence, you will have a decent horror of risking a similar fate in like localities. he has known actors who have died after the play was over; he would fain have you believe that there is something in _that_. and when he has intimated that theatres have been burnt and audiences suffocated; that stages have been swept down by storms and spectators trodden to death; that less than forty years previous to the time of his writing, eight persons had been killed and many more wounded, by the fall of a london playhouse; and that a similar calamity had lately occurred in the city of lyons--the writer conceives he has advanced sufficient argument, and administered more than enough of admonition, to deter any person from entering a theatre henceforth and for ever. this paper pellet had not long been printed, when the vexed author might have seen four actors sailing joyously along the strand. there they are, master moore (there were no _managers_ then; they were "masters" till the georgian era), master moore, heavy foster, mirthful guilman, and airy townsend. the master carries in his pocket a royal licence to form a company, whose members, in honour of the king's sister, shall be known as "the lady elizabeth's servants;" with permission to act when and where they please, in and about the city of london, unless when the plague shall be more than ordinarily prevalent. there was no present opportunity to touch these licensed companies; and, accordingly, a sect of men who professed to unite loyalty with orthodoxy, looking eagerly about them for offenders, detected an unlicensed fraternity playing a comedy in the old house, before noticed, of sir john yorke. the result of this was the assembling of a nervously-agitated troop of offenders in the star chamber. one christopher mallory was made the scapegoat, for the satisfactory reason that in the comedy alluded to he had represented the devil, and in the last scene descended through the stage, with a figure of king james on his back, remarking the while, that such was the road by which all protestants must necessarily travel! poor mallory, condemned to fine and imprisonment, vainly observed that there were two points, he thought, in his favour--that he had not played in the piece, and had not been even present in the house! meanwhile the public flocked to their favourite houses, and fortune seemed to be most blandly smiling on "masters," when there suddenly appeared the monster mortar manufactured by prynne, and discharged by him over london, with an attendant amount of thunder, which shook every building in the metropolis. prynne had just previously seen the painters busily at work in beautifying the old "fortune," and the decorators gilding the horns of the "red bull." he had been down to whitefriars, and had there beheld a new theatre rising near the old time-honoured site. he was unable to be longer silent, and in out came his _histrio-mastix_, consisting, from title-page to _finis_, of a thousand and several hundred pages. prynne, in some sense, did not lead opinion against the stage, but followed that of individuals who suffered certain discomfort from their vicinity to the chief house in blackfriars. in , the churchwardens and constables petitioned laud, on behalf of the whole parish, for the removal of the players, whose presence was a grievance, it was asserted, to blackfriars generally. the shopkeepers affirm that their goods, exposed for sale, are swept off their stalls by the coaches and people sweeping onward to the playhouse; that the concourse is so great, the inhabitants are unable to take beer or coal into their houses while it continues; that to get through ludgate to the water is just impossible; and if a fire break out heaven help them, how can succour be brought to the sufferers through such mobs of men and vehicles? christenings are disturbed in their joy by them, and the sorrow of burials intruded on. persons of honour dare not go abroad, or if abroad, dare not venture home while the theatre is open. and then there is that other house, edward alleyn's, rebuilding in golden lane, and will not the council look to it? [illustration: (edward alleyn.)] the council answer that queen henrietta maria is well affected towards plays, and that therefore good regulation is more to be provided than suppression decreed. there must not be more than two houses, they say; one on bankside, where the lord chamberlain's servants may act; the other in middlesex, for which license may be given to alleyn, "servant of the lord admiral," in golden lane. each company is to play but twice a week, "forbearing to play on the sabbath day, in lent, and in times of infection." here is a prospect for old blackfriars; but it is doomed to fall. the house had been condemned in , and cannot longer be tolerated. but compensation must be awarded. the players, bold fellows, claim £ , ! the referees award £ , and the delighted inhabitants offer £ towards it, to get rid of the people who resort to the players, rather than of the players themselves. then spake out prynne. he does not tell us how many prayer-books had been recently published, but he notes, with a cry of anguish, the printing of forty thousand plays within the last two years. "there are five devil's chapels," he says, "in london; and yet in more extensive rome, in nero's days, there were but three, and those," he adds, "were three too many!" when the writer gets beyond statistics he grows rude; but he was sincere, and accepted all the responsibility of the course taken by him, advisedly. while the anger excited by this attack on pastimes favoured by the king was yet hot, the assault itself was met by a defiance. the gentlemen of the inns of court closed their law-books, got up a masque, and played it at whitehall, in the presence of a delighted audience, consisting of royal and noble personages. the most play-loving of the lords followed the example afforded by the lawyers, and the king himself assumed the buskin, and turned actor, for the nonce. tom carew was busy with superintending the rehearsals of his "coelum britannicum," and in urging honest and melodious will lawes to progress more rapidly with the music. cavalier will was not to be hurried, but did his work steadily; and prynne might have heard him and his brother harry humming the airs over as they walked together across the park to whitehall. when the day of representation arrived, great was the excitement and intense the delight of some, and the scorn of others. among the noble actors who rode down to the palace was rich, earl of holland. all passed off so pleasantly that no one dreamed it was the inauguration of a struggle in which prynne was to lose his estate, his freedom, and his ears; the king and the earl their heads; while gallant will lawes, as honest a man as any of them, was, a dozen years after, to be found among the valiant dead who fell at the siege of chester. ere this _dénouement_ to a tragedy so mirthfully commenced had been reached, there were other defiances cast in the teeth of audacious, but too harshly-treated prynne. there was a reverend playwright about town, whom eton loved and oxford highly prized; ben jonson called him his "son," and bishop fell, who presumed to give an opinion on subjects of which he was ignorant, pronounced the rev. william cartwright to be "the utmost that man could come to!" for the christ church students at oxford, cartwright wrote the "royal slave," one of three out of his four plays which sleep under a righteous oblivion. the king and queen went down to witness the performance of the scholastic amateurs; and, considering that a main incident of the piece comprises a revolt in order to achieve some reasonable liberty for an oppressed people, the subject may be considered more suggestive than felicitous. the fortunes of many of the audience were about to undergo mutation, but there was an actor there whose prosperity commenced from that day. all the actors played with spirit, but this especial one manifested such self-possession, displayed such judgment, and exhibited such powers of conception and execution, that king, queen, and all the illustrious audience showered down upon him applauses--hearty, loud, and long. his name was busby. he had been so poor that he received £ to enable him to take his degree of b.a. westminster was soon to possess him, for nearly three-score years the most famous of her "masters." "a very great man!" said sir roger de coverley; "he whipped my grandfather!" when prynne, and bastwick, and burton--released from prison by the long parliament--entered london in triumph, with wreaths of ivy and rosemary round their hats, the players who stood on the causeway, or at tavern windows, to witness the passing of the victims, must have felt uneasy at their arch-enemy being loose again. between politics, perverse parties, the plague, and the parliament, the condition of the actors fell from bad to worse. in a dialogue which professedly passed at this time between cane of the "fortune" and reed of the "friers," one of the speakers deplores the going-out of all good old things, and the other, sighingly, remarks that true latin is as little in fashion at inns of court as good clothes are at cambridge. at length arrived the fatal year , when, after some previous attempts to abolish the vocation of the actors, the parliament disbanded the army and suppressed the players. the latter struggled manfully, but not so successfully, as the soldiery. they were treated with less consideration; the decree of february [ ] informed them that they were no better than heathens; that they were intolerable to christians; that they were incorrigible and vicious offenders, who would now be compelled by whip, and stocks, and gyves, and prison fare, to obey ordinances which they had hitherto treated with contempt. had not the glorious elizabeth stigmatised them as "rogues," and the sagacious james as "vagabonds?" mayors and sheriffs, and high and low constables were let loose upon them, and encouraged to be merciless; menace was piled upon menace; money penalties were hinted at in addition to corporeal punishments--and, after all, plays were enacted in spite of this counter-enactment. but these last enactors were not to be trifled with; and the autumn saw accomplished what had not been effected in the spring. the _perfect weekly account_ for "wednesday, oct. , to tuesday, oct. ," informs its readers that on "friday an ordinance passed both houses for suppressing of stage-plays, which of late began to come in use again." the ordinance itself is as uncivil a document as ever proceeded from ruffled authority; and the framers clearly considered that if they had not crushed the stage for ever, they had unquestionably frozen out the actors as long as the existing government should endure. at this juncture, historians inform us that many of the ousted actors took military service--generally, as was to be expected, on the royalist side. but, in , the struggle was virtually over. the great fire was quenched, and there was only a trampling out of sparks and embers. charles hart, the actor--grandson of shakspeare's sister--holds a prominent place among these players turned soldiers as one who rose to be a major in rupert's horse. charles hart, however, was at this period only seventeen years of age, and more than a year and a half had elapsed since rupert had been ordered beyond sea, for his weak defence of bristol. rupert's major was, probably, that very "jolly good fellow" with whom pepys used to take wine and anchovies to such excess as to make it necessary for his "girl" to rise early, and fetch her sick master fresh water, wherewith to slake his thirst, in the morning. the enrolment of actors in either army occurred at an earlier period, and one hart was certainly among them. thus alleyn, erst of the cockpit, filled the part of quartermaster-general to the king's army at oxford. burt became a cornet, shatterel was something less dignified in the same branch of the service--the cavalry. these survived to see the old curtain once more drawn; but record is made of the death of one gallant player, said to be will robinson, whom doughty harrison encountered in fight, and through whom he passed his terrible sword, shouting at the same time: "cursed is he that doeth the work of the lord negligently!" this serious bit of stage business would have been more dramatically arranged had robinson been encountered by swanston, a player of presbyterian tendencies, who served in the parliamentary army. a "terrific broadsword combat" between the two might have been an encounter which both armies might have looked at with interest, and supported by applause. of the military fortunes of the actors none was so favourable as brave little mohun's, who crossed to flanders, returned a major, and was subsequently set down in the "cast" under his military title. old taylor retired, with that original portrait of shakspeare to solace him, which was to pass by the hands of davenant, to that glory of our stage, "incomparable betterton." pollard, too, withdrew, and lusty lowen, after a time, kicked both sock and buskin out of sight, clapped on an apron, and appeared, with well-merited success, as landlord of the three pigeons, at brentford. [illustration: (john lowen.)] the actors could not comprehend why their office was suppressed, while the bear-baiters were putting money in both pockets, and non-edifying puppet-shows were enriching their proprietors. if shakspeare was driven from blackfriars and the cockpit, was it fair to allow bel and the dragon to be enacted by dolls, at the foot of holborn bridge? the players were told that the public would profit by the abolition of their vocation. loose young gentlemen, fast merchant-factors, and wild young apprentices were no longer to be seen, it was said, hanging about the theatres, spending all their spare money, much that they could not spare, and not a little which was not theirs to spend. it was uncivilly suggested that the actors were a merry sort of thieves, who used to attach themselves to the puny gallants who sought their society, and strip them of the gold pieces in their pouches, the bodkin on their thighs, the girdles buckled to give them shape, and the very beavers jauntily plumed to lend them grace and stature. in some of the streets by the river-side a tragedy-king or two found refuge with kinsfolk. the old theatres stood erect and desolate, and the owners, with hands in empty pockets, asked how they were to be expected to pay ground-rent, now that they earned nothing? whereas their afternoon-share used to be twenty--ay, thirty shillings, sir! and see, the flag is still flying above the old house over the water, and a lad who erst played under it, looks up at the banner with a proud sorrow. an elder actor puts his hands on the lad's shoulder, and cries: "before the old scene is on again, boy, thy face will be as battered as the flag there on the roof-top!" and as this elder actor passes on, he has a word with a poor fellow-mime who has been less provident than he, and whose present necessities he relieves according to his means. near them stand a couple of deplorable-looking "door-keepers," or, as we should call them now, "money-takers," and the well-to-do ex-actor has his allusive joke at their old rascality, and affects to condole with them that the time is gone by when they used to scratch their neck where it itched not, and then dropped shilling and half-crown pieces behind their collars! but they were not the only poor rogues who suffered by revolution. that slipshod tapster, whom a guest is cudgelling at a tavern-door, was once the proudest and most extravagantly-dressed of the tobacco-men whose notice the smokers in the pit gingerly entreated, and who used to vend, at a penny the pipeful, tobacco that was not worth a shilling a cart-load. and behold other evidences of the hardness of the times! those shuffling fiddlers who so humbly peer through the low windows into the tavern room, and meekly inquire: "will you have any music, gentlemen?" they are tuneful relics of the band who were wont to shed harmony from the balcony above the stage, and play in fashionable houses, at the rate of ten shillings for each hour. _now_, they shamble about in pairs, and resignedly accept the smallest dole, and think mournfully of the time when they heralded the coming of kings, and softly tuned the dirge at the burying of ophelia! even these have pity to spare for a lower class than themselves,--the journeymen playwrights, whom the managers once retained at an annual stipend and "beneficial second nights." the old playwrights were fain to turn pamphleteers, but their works sold only for a penny, and that is the reason why those two shabby-genteel people, who have just nodded sorrowfully to the fiddlers, are not joyously tippling sack and gascony wine, but are imbibing unorthodox ale and heretical small beer. "_cunctis graviora cothurnis!_" murmurs the old actor, whose father was a schoolmaster; "it's more pitiful than any of your tragedies!" the distress was severe, but the profession had to abide it. much amendment was promised, if only something of the old life might be pursued without peril of the stocks or the whipping-post. the authorities would not heed these promises, but grimly smiled--at the actors, who undertook to promote virtue; the poets, who engaged to be proper of speech; the managers, who bound themselves to prohibit the entrance of all temptations into "the sixpenny rooms;" and the tobacco-men, who swore with earnest irreverence to vend nothing but the pure spanish leaf, even in the threepenny galleries. but the tragedy which ended with the killing of the king gave sad hearts to the comedians, who were in worse plight than before, being now deprived of hope itself. one or two contrived to print and sell old plays for their own benefit; a few authors continued to add a new piece, now and then, to the stock, and that there were readers for them we may conjecture from the fact of the advertisements which began to appear in the papers--sometimes of the publication of a solitary play, at another of the entire dramatic works of that most noble lady the marchioness of newcastle. the actors themselves united boldness with circumspection. richard cox, dropping the words _play_ and _player_, constructed a mixed entertainment, in which he spoke and sang; and on one occasion so aptly mimicked the character of an artisan, that a master in the craft kindly and earnestly offered to engage him. during the suppression, cowley's "guardian" was privately played at cambridge. the authorities would seem to have winked at these private representations, or to have declined noticing them until after the expiration of the period within which the actors were exposed to punishment. too great audacity, however, was promptly and severely visited from the earliest days after the issuing of the prohibitory decree. a first-rate troop obtained possession of the cockpit for a few days, in . they had played unmolested for three days, and were in the very midst of "the bloody brother" on the fourth, when the house was invaded by the puritan soldiery, the actors captured, the audience dispersed, and the seats and the stage righteously smashed into fragments. the players (some of them among the most accomplished of their day) were paraded through the streets in all their stage finery, and clapped into the gate house and other prisons, whence they were too happy to escape, after much unseemly treatment, at the cost of all the theatrical property which they had carried on their backs into durance vile. this severity, visited in other houses as well as the cockpit, caused some actors to despair, while it rendered others only a little more discreet. rhodes, the old prompter at blackfriars, turned bookseller, and opened a shop at charing cross. there he and one betterton, an ex-under-cook in the kitchen of charles i., who lived in tothill street, talked mournfully over the past, and, according to their respective humours, of the future. the cook's sons listened the while, and one of them especially took delight in hearing old stories of players, and in cultivating an acquaintance with the old theatrical bookseller. in the neighbourhood of the ex-prompter's shop, knots of very slenderly-built players used to congregate at certain seasons. a delegate from their number might be seen whispering to the citizen captain in command at whitehall, who, as wicked people reported, consented, for a "consideration," not to bring his red-coats down to the bull or other localities where private stages were erected--especially during the time of bartholomew fair, christmas, and other joyous tides. to his shame, be it recorded, the captain occasionally broke his promise, or the poor actors had fallen short in their purchase-money of his pledge, and in the very middle of the piece, the little theatre would be invaded, and the audience be rendered subject to as much virtuous indignation as the actors. the cause of the latter, however, found supporters in many of the members of the aristocracy. close at hand, near rhodes's shop, lived lord hatton, first of the four peers so styled. his house was in scotland yard. his lands had gone by forfeiture, but the proud old cheshire landowner cared more for the preservation of the deed by which he and his ancestors had held them, than he did for the loss of the acres themselves. hatton was the employer, so to speak, of dugdale, and the patron of literary men and of actors, and, it must be added, of very frivolous company besides. he devoted much time to the preparation of a book of psalms and the ill-treatment of his wife; and was altogether an eccentric personage, for he recommended lambert's daughter as a personally and politically suitable wife for charles ii., and afterwards discarded his own eldest son for marrying that incomparable lady. in hatton, the players had a supreme patron in town; and they found friends as serviceable to them in the noblemen and gentlemen residing a few miles from the capital. these patrons opened their houses to the actors for stage representations; but even this private patronage had to be distributed discreetly. goffe, the light-limbed lad who used to play women's parts at the "blackfriars," was generally employed as messenger to announce individually to the audience when they were to assemble, and to the actors the time and place for the play. one of the mansions, wherein these dramatic entertainments were most frequently given, was holland house, kensington. it was then held and inhabited by the widowed countess of that unstable earl of holland, whose head had fallen on the scaffold in march ; but this granddaughter of old sir walter cope, who lost camden house at cards to a cheapside mercer, sir baptist hicks, was a strong-minded woman, and perhaps found some consolation in patronising the pleasures which the enemies of her defunct lord so stringently prohibited. when the play was over, a collection was made among the noble spectators, whose contributions were divided between the players according to the measure of their merits. this done they wended their way down the avenue to the high road, where probably, on some bright summer afternoon, if a part of them prudently returned afoot to town, a joyous but less prudent few "padded it" to brentford, and made a short but glad night of it with their brother of the "three pigeons." at the most this was but a poor life; but such as it was, the players were obliged to make the best of it. if they were impatient, it was not without some reason, for though oliver despised the stage, he could condescend to laugh at, and with, men of less dignity in their vocation than actors. buffoonery was not entirely expelled from his otherwise grave court. at the marriage festival of his daughter frances and his son-in-law mr. rich, the protector would not tolerate the utterance of a line from shakspeare, expressed from the lips of a player; but there were hired buffoons at that entertainment, which they well-nigh brought to a tragical conclusion. a couple of these saucy fellows seeing sir thomas hillingsley, the old gentleman-usher to the queen of bohemia, gravely dancing, sought to excite a laugh by trying to blacken his face with a burnt cork. the high-bred, solemn old gentleman was so aroused to anger by this unseemly audacity, that he drew his dagger, and, but for swift interference, would have run it beneath the fifth rib of the most active of his rude assailants. on this occasion, cromwell himself was almost as lively as the hired jesters; snatching off the wig of his son richard, he feigned to fling it in the fire, but suddenly passing the wig under him, and seating himself upon it, he pretended that it had been destroyed, amid the servile applause of the edified spectators. the actors might reasonably have argued that "hamlet" in scotland yard or at holland house was a more worthy entertainment than such grown-up follies in the gallery at whitehall. those follies ceased to be; oliver had passed away, and richard had laid down the greatness which had never sat well upon him. important changes were at hand, and the merry rattle of monk's drums coming up gray's inn road, welcomed by thousands of dusty spectators, announced no more cheering prospect to any class than to the actors. the oxford vintner's son, will davenant, might be seen bustling about in happy hurry, eagerly showing young betterton how taylor used to play hamlet, under the instruction of burbage, and announcing bright days to open-mouthed kynaston, ready at a moment's warning to leap over his master's counter, and take his standing at the balcony as the smooth-cheeked juliet. meanwhile, beaming old rhodes, with a head full of memories of the joyous blackfriars' days, and the merry afternoons over the water, at the globe, leaving his once apprentice, betterton, listening to davenant's stage histories, and kynaston, not yet out of his time, longing to flaunt it before an audience, took his own way to hyde park, where monk was encamped, and there obtained, in due time, from that far-seeing individual, licence to once more raise the theatrical flag, enrol the actors, light up the stage, and, in a word, revive the english theatre. in a few days the drama commenced its new career in the cockpit, in drury lane; and this fact seemed so significant, as to the character of general monk's tastes that, subsequently, when he and the council of state dined in the city halls, the companies treated their guests, after dinner, with satirical farces, such as "citizen and soldier," "country tom," and "city dick," with, as the newspapers inform us, "dancing and singing, many shapes and ghosts, and the like; and all to please his excellency the lord general." the english stage owes a debt of gratitude to both monk and rhodes. the former made glorious summer of the actors' winter of discontent; and the latter inaugurated the restoration by introducing young betterton. the son of charles i.'s cook was, for fifty-one years, the pride of the english theatre. his acting was witnessed by more than one old contemporary of shakspeare,--the poet's younger brother being among them,--he surviving till shortly after the accession of charles ii. the destitute actors warmed into life and laughter again beneath the sunshine of his presence. his dignity, his marvellous talent, his versatility, his imperishable fame, are all well known and acknowledged. his industry is indicated by the fact that he created one hundred and thirty new characters! among them were jaffier and valentine, three virginiuses, and sir john brute. he was as mirthful in falstaff as he was majestic in alexander; and the craft of his ulysses, the grace and passion of his hamlet, the terrible force of his othello, were not more remarkable than the low comedy of his old bachelor, the airyness of his woodville, or the cowardly bluster of his thersites. the old actors who had been frozen out, and the new who had much to learn, could not have rallied round a more noble or a worthier chief; for betterton was not a greater actor than he was a true and honourable gentleman. only for him, the old frozen-outs would have fared but badly. he enriched himself and them, and, as long as he lived, gave dignity to his profession. the humble lad, born in tothill street, before monarchy and the stage went down, had a royal funeral in westminster abbey, after dying in harness almost in sight of the lamps. he deserved no less, for he was the king of an art which had well-nigh perished in the commonwealth times, and he was a monarch who probably has never since had, altogether, his equal. off as on the stage, he was exemplary in his bearing; true to every duty; as good a country gentleman on his farm in berkshire as he was perfect actor in town; pursuing with his excellent wife the even tenor of his way; not tempted by the vices of his time, nor disturbed by its politics; not tippling like underhill; not plotting and betraying the plotters against william, like goodman, nor carrying letters for a costly fee between london and st. germains, like scudamore. if there had been a leading player on the stage in , with the qualities, public and private, which distinguished betterton, there perhaps would have been a less severe ordinance than that which inflicted so much misery on the actors, and which, after a long decline, brought about a fall; from which they were, however, as we shall see, destined to rise and flourish. footnotes: [ ] should be . stephen gosson's _schoole of abuse_ was entered at stationers' hall, july , . dr. doran corrects this in the second edition. [ ] gosson was not made rector of st. botolph till . [ ] february - : that is, february . this act succeeded the one mentioned in the next paragraph. [illustration: the globe theatre.] chapter iii. the "boy actresses," and the "young ladies." the theatre royal, drury lane, is the "sacred ground" of the english drama since the restoration of monarchy. at the cockpit (pit street remains a memory of the place), otherwise called the phoenix, in the "lane" above-named, the old english actors had uttered their last words before they were silenced. in a reconstruction of the edifice near, rather than on, the old site, the young english actors, under rhodes, built their new stage, and wooed the willing town. there was some irregularity in the first steps made to re-establish the stage, which, after an uneasy course of about four years, was terminated by charles ii., who, in ,[ ] granted patents for two theatres, and no more, in london. under one patent, killigrew, at the head of the king's company (the cockpit being closed), opened at the new theatre in drury lane, in august[ ] , with a play of the olden time--the "humourous lieutenant" of beaumont and fletcher. under the second patent, davenant and the duke of york's company found a home--first at the old cockpit, then in salisbury court, fleet street, the building of which was commenced in , on the site of the old granary of salisbury house, which had served for a theatre in the early years of the reign of charles i. this little stage was lapped up by the great tongue of fire, by which many a nobler edifice was destroyed, in . but previous to the fire, thence went davenant and the duke's troop to the old tennis court, the first of the three theatres in portugal row, on the south side of lincoln's inn fields, from which the houses took their name. in , davenant being dead, the company, under the nominal management of his widow, migrated to a house designed by wren, and decorated by grinling gibbons. this was the duke's theatre, in dorset gardens. it was in close vicinity to the old salisbury court theatre, and it presented a double face--one towards fleet street, the other overlooking the terrace which gave access to visitors who came by the river. later, this company was housed in lincoln's inn fields again; but it migrated, in , to covent garden, under rich. rich's house was burnt down in , and its successor, built by smirke, was destroyed in . on the site of the latter now stands the royal italian opera, the representative, in its way, of the line of houses wherein the duke's company struggled against their competitors of the king's. the first house of those competitors in drury lane was burnt in , but the king's company took refuge in the "fields" till wren built the new house, opened in . the two troops remained divided, yet not opposed, each keeping to its recognised stock pieces, till , when killigrew, having "shuffled off this mortal coil,"[ ] the two companies, after due weeding, formed into one, and abandoning lincoln's inn to the tennis-players, dorset gardens to the wrestlers, and both to decay, they opened at the new drury, built by sir christopher, on the th of november . wren's theatre was taken down in ; its successor, built by holland, was opened in , and was destroyed in . the present edifice is the fourth which has occupied a site in drury lane. it is the work of wyatt, and was opened in . thus much for the edifice of the theatres of the last half of the seventeenth century. before we come to the "ladies and gentlemen" who met upon the respective stages, and strove for the approval of the town, let me notice that, after the death of oliver,[ ] davenant publicly exhibited a mixed entertainment, chiefly musical, but which was not held to be an infringement of the law against the acting of plays. early in may , evelyn writes:--"i went to see a new opera, after the italian way, in recitative music and scenes, much inferior to the italian composure and magnificence; but it was prodigious, that in a time of such public consternation, such a vanity should be kept up or permitted." that these musical entertainments were something quite apart from "plays," is manifest by another entry in evelyn's diary, in january :--"after divers years since i had seen any play, i went to see acted 'the scornful lady,' at a new theatre in lincoln's inn fields." of shakspeare's brother charles, who lived to this period, oldys says:--"this opportunity made the actors greedily inquisitive into every little circumstance, more especially in shakspeare's dramatic character, which his brother could relate of him. but he, it seems, was so stricken in years, and possibly his memory so weakened by infirmities (which might make him the easier pass for a man of weak intellects), that he could give them but little light into their inquiries; and all that could be recollected from him of his brother _will_ in that station, was the faint, general, and almost lost ideas he had of having once seen him act a part in one of his own comedies, wherein being to personate a decrepit old man, he wore a long beard, and appeared so weak and drooping, and unable to walk, that he was forced to be supported and carried by another person to a table, at which he was seated among some company who were eating, and one of them sung a song." this description applies to old adam, in "as you like it;" and he who feebly shadowed it forth, formed a link which connected the old theatre with the new. the principal actors in killigrew's company, from which that of drury lane is descended, were bateman, baxter, bird (theophilus), blagden, burt, cartwright, clun, duke, hancock, hart, kynaston, lacy, mohun, the shatterels (william and robert), and wintersel. later additions gave to this company beeston, bell, charleton, "scum" goodman, griffin, hains, joe harris, hughes, lyddoll, reeves, and shirley. the "ladies" were mrs. corey, eastland, hughes, knep, the marshalls (anne and rebecca), rutter, uphill, whom sir robert howard too tardily married, and weaver. later engagements included those of mrs. boutel, gwyn (nell), james, reeves, and verjuice. these were sworn at the lord chamberlain's office to serve the king. of the "gentlemen," ten were enrolled on the royal household establishment, and provided with liveries of scarlet cloth and silver lace. in the warrants of the lord chamberlain they were styled "_gentlemen_ of the great chamber;" and they might have pointed to this fact as proof of the dignity of their profession. the company first got together by rhodes, subsequently enlarged by davenant, and sworn to serve the duke of york, at lincoln's inn fields, was in some respects superior to that of drury lane. rhodes's troop included the great betterton, dixon, lilliston, lovel, nokes (robert), and six lads employed to represent female characters--angel, william betterton, a brother of the great actor (drowned early in life, at wallingford), floid, kynaston (for a time), mosely, and nokes (james). later, davenant added blagden, harris, price, and richards; medbourn, norris, sandford, smith, and young. the actresses were mrs. davenport, davies, gibbs, holden, jennings, long, and saunderson, whom betterton shortly after married. this new fashion of actresses was a french fashion, and the mode being imported from france, a french company, with women among them, came over to london. hoping for the sanction of their countrywoman, queen henrietta maria, they established themselves in blackfriars. this essay excited all the fury of prynne, who called these actresses by very unsavoury names; but who, in styling them "unwomanish and graceless," did not mean to imply that they were awkward and unfeminine, but that acting was unworthy of their sex, and unbecoming women born in an era of grace. "glad am i to say," remarks as stout a puritan as prynne, namely, thomas brand, in a comment addressed to laud, "glad am i to say they were hissed, hooted, and pippin-pelted from the stage, so that i do not think they will soon be ready to try the same again." although brand asserts "that all virtuous and well-disposed persons in this town" were "justly offended" at these women "or monsters rather," as prynne calls them, "expelled from their own country," adds brand, yet more sober-thinking people did not fail to see the propriety of juliet being represented by a girl rather than by a boy. accordingly, we hear of english actresses even before the restoration, mingled, however, with boys, who shared with them that "line of business." "the boy's a pretty actor," says lady strangelove, in the "court beggar," played at the cockpit, in , "and his mother can play her part. the women now are in great request." prynne groaned at the "request" becoming general. "they have now," he writes, in , "their female players in italy and other foreign parts." davenant's "siege of rhodes" was privately acted[ ] by amateurs, including matthew locke and henry purcell; the parts of ianthe and roxalana were played by mrs. edward coleman and another lady. the piece is so stuffed with heroic deeds, heroic love, and heroic generosity, that none more suitable could be found for ladies to appear in. nevertheless, when rhodes was permitted to reopen the stage, he could only assemble boys about him for his evadnes, aspasias, and the other heroines of ancient tragedy. now, the resumption of the old practice of "women's parts being represented by men in the habits of women," gave offence, and this is assigned as a reason in the first patents accorded to killigrew and davenant why those managers were authorised to employ actresses to represent all female characters. killigrew was the first to avail himself of the privilege. it was time. some of rhodes's "boys" were men past forty, who frisked it as wenches of fifteen; even real kings were kept waiting because theatrical queens had not yet shaved; when they did appear, they looked like "the guard disguised," and when the prompter called "desdemona"--"enter giant!" _who_ the lady was who first trod the stage as a professional actress is not known; but that she belonged to killigrew's company is certain. the character she assumed was desdemona, and she was introduced by a prologue written for the occasion by thomas jordan. it can hardly be supposed that she was too modest to reveal her name, and that of anne marshal has been suggested, as also that of margaret hughes. on the d of january , beaumont and fletcher's "beggar's bush" was performed at killigrew's theatre, "it being very well done," says pepys, "and here the first time that ever i saw women come upon the stage." davenant did not bring forward _his_ actresses before the end of june , when he produced the second part of the "siege of rhodes," with mrs. davenport as roxalana, and mrs. saunderson as ianthe; both these ladies, with mrs. davies and mrs. long, boarded in davenant's house. killigrew abused his privilege to employ ladies. in , his comedy, the "parson's wedding," wherein the plague is made a comic incident of, connected with unexampled profligacy, was acted, "i am _told_," are pepys's own words, "by nothing but women, at the king's house." by this time the vocation of the "boy-actresses" had altogether passed away; and there only remains for me to briefly trace the career of those old world representatives of the gentle or truculent heroines depicted by our early dramatists. there were three members of killigrew's, or the king's company, who were admirable representatives of female characters before the civil wars. these were hart, burt, and clun--all pupils of luckless robinson, slain in fight, who was himself an accomplished "actress." of the three, hart rose to the greatest eminence. his duchess, in shirley's "cardinal," was the most successful of his youthful parts. after the restoration, he laid down cassio to take othello, from burt, by the king's command, and was as great in the moor as betterton, at the other house, was in hamlet. his alexander, which he _created_, always filled the theatre; and his dignity therein was said to convey a lesson even to kings. his brutus was scarcely inferior, while his catiline was so unapproachable, that when he died, jonson's tragedy died with him.[ ] rymer styles him and mohun the Æsopus and roscius of their time. when they acted together (amintor and melantius) in the "maid's tragedy," the town asked no greater treat. hart was one of pepys's prime favourites. he was a man whose presence delighted the eye, before his accents enchanted the ear. the humblest character intrusted to him was distinguished by his careful study. on the stage he acknowledged no audience; their warmest applause could never draw him into a moment's forgetfulness of his assumed character. in manly, "the plain dealer," as in catiline, he never found a successor who could equal him. his salary was, at the most, three pounds a week, but he is said to have realised £ yearly after he became a shareholder in the theatre. he finally retired in , on a pension amounting to half his salary, which he enjoyed, however, scarcely a year. he died of a painful inward complaint in , and was buried at stanmore magna. there is a tradition that hart, mohun, and betterton fought on the king's side at edgehill, in . the last-named was then a child, and some things are attributed to charles hart which belonged to his father. if charles was but eighteen when his namesake, the king, returned in , it must have been his father who was at edgehill with mohun, and who, perhaps, played female characters in his early days. burt, after he left off the women's gear, acted cicero, with rare ability, in "catiline," for the getting up of which piece charles ii. contributed £ for robes. of clun, in or out of petticoats, the record is brief. his iago was superior to mohun's, but lacy excelled him in the "humourous lieutenant;" but as subtle, in the "alchymist," he was the admiration of all playgoers. after acting this comic part, clun made a tragic end on the night of the d of august . with a lady hanging on his arm, and some liquor lying under his belt, he was gaily passing on his way to his country lodgings in kentish town, when he was assailed, murdered, and flung into a ditch, by rogues, one of whom was captured, "an irish fellow, most cruelly butchered and bound." "the house will have a great miss of him," is the epitaph of pepys upon versatile clun. of the boys belonging to davenant's company, who at first appeared in woman's boddice, but soon found their occupation gone, some were of greater fame than others. one of these, angel, turned from waiting-maids to low comedy, caricatured frenchmen and foolish lords. we hear nothing of him after . the younger betterton, as i have said, was drowned at wallingford. mosely and floid represented a vulgar class of women, and both died before the year ; but kynaston and james nokes long survived to occupy prominent positions on the stage. kynaston made "the loveliest lady," for a boy, ever beheld by pepys. this was in , when kynaston played olympia, the duke's sister, in the "loyal subject;" and went with a young fellow-actor to carouse, after the play, with pepys and captain ferrers. kynaston was a handsome fellow under every guise. on the th of january , says pepys, "tom and i, and my wife, to the theatre, and there saw 'the silent woman.' among other things here, kynaston, the boy, had the good turn to appear in three shapes. first, as a poor woman, in ordinary clothes, to please morose; then, in fine clothes, as a gallant--and in them was clearly the prettiest woman in the whole house; and lastly, as a man--and then likewise did appear the handsomest man in the house." when the play was concluded, and it was not the lad's humour to carouse with the men, the ladies would seize on him, in his theatrical dress, and, carrying him to hyde park in their coaches, be foolishly proud of the precious freight which they bore with them. kynaston was not invariably in such good luck. there was another handsome man, sir charles sedley, whose style of dress the young actor aped; and his presumption was punished by a ruffian, hired by the baronet, who accosted kynaston in st. james's park, as "sir charles," and thrashed him in that character. the actor then mimicked sir charles on the stage. a consequence was, that on the th of january ,[ ] kynaston was waylaid by three or four assailants, and so clubbed by them, that there was no play on the following evening; and the victim, mightily bruised, was forced to keep his bed. he did not recover in less than a week. on the th of february he reappeared, as the king of tidore, in the "island princess," which "he do act very well," says pepys, "after his beating by sir charles sedley's appointment." the boy who used to play evadne, and now enacted the tyrants of the drama, retained a certain beauty to the last. "even at past sixty," cibber tells us, "his teeth were all sound, white, and even as one would wish to see in a reigning toast of twenty." colley attributes the formal gravity of kynaston's mien "to the stately step he had been so early confined to in a female decency." the same writer praises kynaston's leon, in "rule a wife and have a wife," for its determined manliness and honest authority. in the heroic tyrants, his piercing eye, his quick, impetuous tone, and the fierce, lion-like majesty of his bearing and utterance, "gave the spectator a kind of trembling admiration." when cibber played syphax, in "cato," he did it as he thought kynaston would have done, had he been alive to impersonate the character. kynaston roared through the bombast of some of the dramatists with a laughable earnestness; but in shakspeare's monarchs he was every inch a king--dignified and natural. the true majesty of his henry iv. was so manifest, that when he whispered to hotspur, "send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it," he conveyed, says cibber, "a more terrible menace in it than the loudest intemperance of voice could swell to." again, in the interview between the dying king and his son--the dignity, majestic grief, the paternal affection, the injured, kingly feeling, the pathos and the justness of the rebuke--were alike remarkable. the actor was equal to the task assigned him by the author--putting forth "that peculiar and becoming grace which the best writer cannot inspire into any actor that is not born with it." kynaston remained on the stage from to . by this time his memory began to fail and his spirit to leave him. these imperfections, says the generous colley, "were visibly not his own, but the effects of decaying nature." but betterton's nature was not thus decaying; and his labour had been far greater than that of kynaston, who created only a score of original characters, the best known of which are, harcourt, in the "country wife;" freeman, in the "plain dealer;" and count baldwin, in "isabella, or the fatal marriage." his early practice in representing female characters affected his voice in some disagreeable way. "what makes you feel sick?" said kynaston to powell--suffering from a too riotous "last night." "how can i feel otherwise," asked powell, "when i hear your voice?" edward kynaston died in , and lies buried in the churchyard of st. paul's, covent garden. if not the greatest actor of his day, kynaston was the greatest of the "boy-actresses." so exalted was his reputation, "that," says downes, "it has since been disputable among the judicious, whether any woman that succeeded him so sensibly touched the audience as he." in one respect he was more successful than betterton, for he not only made a fortune, but kept what he had made, and left it to his only son. this son improved the bequest by his industry as a mercer in covent garden; and, probably remembering that he was well-descended from the kynastons of oteley, salop, he sent his own son to college, and lived to see him ordained. this reverend mr. kynaston purchased the impropriation of aldgate; and, despite the vocations of his father and grandfather, but in consequence of the prudence and liberality of both, was willingly acknowledged by his shropshire kinsmen. kynaston's contemporary, james nokes, was as prudent and as fortunate as he; but james was not so well-descended. his father (and he himself for a time) was a city toyman--not so well to do, but he allowed his sons to go on the stage, where robert was a respectable actor, and james, after a brief exercise of female characters, was admirable in his peculiar line. the toyman's son became a landholder, and made of his nephew a lord of the soil. thus, even in those days of small salaries, players could build up fortunes; because the more prudent among them nursed the little they could spare with care, and of that little made the very utmost. nokes was, to the last night of his career, famous for his impersonation of the nurse in two plays; first, in that strange adaptation by otway of "romeo and juliet" to a roman tragedy, "caius marius;" and secondly, in nevil payne's fierce, yet not bombastic drama, "fatal jealousy." of the portraits to be found in cibber's gallery, one of the most perfect, drawn by colley's hand, is that of james nokes. cibber attributes his general excellence to "a plain and palpable simplicity of nature, which was so utterly his own, that he was often as accountably diverting in his common speech as on the stage." his very conversation was an unctuous acting; and, in the truest sense of the word, he was "inimitable." cibber himself, accomplished mimic as he was, confessedly failed in every attempt to reproduce the voice and manner of james nokes, who identified himself with every part so easily, as to reap a vast amount of fame at the cost of hardly an hour's study. his range was through the entire realm of broad comedy, and cibber thus photographs him for the entertainment of posterity. "he scarce ever made his first entrance in a play but he was received with an involuntary applause, not of hands only, for those may be, and have often been, partially prostituted and bespoken, but by a general laughter, which the very sight of him provoked, and nature could not resist; yet the louder the laugh the graver was his look upon it; and sure the ridiculous solemnity of his features were enough to have set a whole bench of bishops into a titter, could he have been honoured (may it be no offence to suppose it) with such grave and right reverend auditors. in the ludicrous distresses which by the laws of comedy folly is often involved in, he sunk into such a mixture of piteous pusillanimity, and a consternation so ruefully ridiculous and inconsolable, that when he had shook you to a fatigue of laughter, it became a moot point whether you ought not to have pitied him. when he debated any matter by himself, he would shut up his mouth with a dumb, studious pout, and roll his full eye into such a vacant amazement, such a palpable ignorance of what to think of it, that his silent perplexity (which would sometimes hold him several minutes) gave your imagination as full content as the most absurd thing he could say upon it." this great comic actor was naturally of a grave and sober countenance; "but the moment he spoke, the settled seriousness of his features was utterly discharged, and a dry, drolling, or laughing levity took such full possession of him, that i can only refer the idea of him to your imagination." his clear and audible voice better fitted him for burlesque heroes, like jupiter ammon, than his middle stature; but the pompous inanity of his travestied pagan divinity, was as wonderful as the rich stolidity of his contentedly ignorant fools. there was no actor whom the city so rejoiced in as nokes; there was none whom the court more delighted to honour. in may , charles ii., and troops of courtiers, went down to dover to meet the queen-mother, and took with them the lincoln's-inn-fields comedians. when henrietta maria arrived, with her suite of french ladies and gentlemen, the latter attired, according to the prevailing fashion, in very short blue or scarlet laced coats, with broad sword belts, the english comedians played before the royal host and his guests the play founded on molière's "ecole des femmes," and called "sir solomon." nokes acted sir arthur addel, in dressing for which part he was assisted by the duke of monmouth. in order that he might the better ape the french mode, the duke took off his own sword and belt, and buckled them to the actor's side. at his first entrance on the stage, king and court broke into unextinguishable laughter, so admirably were the foreign guests caricatured; at which outrage on courtesy and hospitality, the guests, naturally enough, "were much chagrined," says downes. nokes retained the duke's sword and belt to his dying day, which fell in the course of the year . he was the original representative of about forty characters, in plays which have long since disappeared from the stage. charles ii. was the first who recognised, on the occasion of his playing the part of norfolk, in "henry viii.," the merit of nokes as an actor.[ ] james nokes left to his nephew something better than the sword and belt of the duke of monmouth, namely, a landed estate at totteridge, near barnet, of the value of £ a year. pepys may have kissed that nephew's mother, on the august day of , when he fell into company near rochester with a lady and gentleman riding singly, and differing as to the merits of a copy of verses, which pepys, by his style of reading aloud, got the husband to confess that they were as excellent as the wife had pronounced them to be. "his name is nokes," writes the diarist, "over against bow church.... we promised to meet, if ever we come both to london again, and at parting, i had a fair salute on horseback, in rochester streets, of the lady." having thus seen the curtain fall upon the once "boy-actresses," i proceed to briefly notice the principal ladies in the respective companies of killigrew and davenant, commencing with those of the king's house, or theatre royal, under killigrew's management, chiefly in drury lane. the first name of importance in this list is that of mrs. hughes, who, on the stage from to , was more remarkable for her beauty than for her great ability. when the former, in , subdued prince rupert, there was more jubilee at the court of charles ii., at tunbridge wells, than if the philosophic prince had fallen upon an invention that should benefit mankind. rupert, whom the plumed gallants of whitehall considered as a rude mechanic, left his laboratory, put aside his reserve, and wooed in due form the proudest, perhaps, of the actresses of her day. only in the may of that year pepys had saluted her with a kiss, in the green-room of the kings house. she was then reputed to be the intimate friend and favourite of sir charles sedley. "a mighty pretty woman," says pepys, "and seems, but is not, modest." the prince enshrined the frail beauty in that home of sir nicholas crispe, at hammersmith, which was subsequently occupied by bubb doddington, the margravine of anspach, and queen caroline of brunswick. she well-nigh ruined her lover, at whose death there was little left beside a collection of jewels, worth £ , , which were disposed of by lottery, in order to pay his debts. mrs. hughes was not unlike her own mrs. moneylove in "tom essence," a very good sort of person till temptation beset her. after his death she squandered much of the estate which rupert had left to her, chiefly by gambling. her contemporary, nell gwyn, purchased a celebrated pearl necklace belonging to the deceased prince for £ , a purchase which must have taken the appearance of an insult, in the eyes of mrs. hughes. the daughter of this union, ruperta, who shared with her mother the modest estate bequeathed by the prince, married general emanuel scrope howe. one of the daughters of this marriage was the beautiful and reckless maid of honour to caroline, princess of wales, whom the treachery of nanty lowther sent broken-hearted to the grave, in . through ruperta, however, the blood of her parents is still continued in the family of sir edward bromley. mrs. knipp (or knep) was a different being from margaret hughes. she was a pretty creature, with a sweet voice, a mad humour, and an ill-looking, moody, jealous husband, who vexed the soul and bruised the body of his sprightly, sweet-toned, and wayward wife. excellent company she was found by pepys and his friends, whatever her horse-jockey of a husband may have thought of her, or mrs. pepys of the philandering of her own husband with the minx, whom she did not hesitate to pronounce a "wench," and whom pepys himself speaks of affectionately as a "jade" he was always glad to see. abroad he walks with her in the new exchange to look for pretty faces; and of the home of an actress, in , we have a sketch in the record of a visit in november, "to knipp's lodgings, whom i find not ready to go home with me; and there staid reading of waller's verses, while she finished dressing, her husband being by. her lodging very mean, and the condition she lives in; yet makes a show without doors, god bless us!" mrs. knipp's characters embraced the rakish fine ladies, the rattling ladies'-maids, one or two tragic parts; and where singing was required, priestesses, nuns, and milkmaids. as one of the latter, pepys was enchanted at her appearance, with her hair simply turned up in a knot, behind. her intelligence was very great, her simple style of dressing much commended; and she could deliver a prologue as deftly as she could either sing or dance, and with as much grace as she was wont to throw into manifestations of touching grief or tenderness. she disappears from the bills in , after a fourteen years' service; and there is no further record of the life of mistress knipp. anne and rebecca marshall are names which one can only reluctantly associate with that of stephen marshall the divine, who is said to have been their father. the long parliament frequently commanded the eloquent incumbent of finchingfield, essex, to preach before them. cambridge university was as proud of him as a distinguished _alumnus_, as huntingdonshire was of having him for a son. in affairs of religion he was the oracle of parliament, and his advice was sought even in political difficulties. he was a mild and conscientious man, of whom baxter remarked, that "if all the bishops had been of the spirit and temper of usher, the presbyterians of the temper of mr. marshall, and the independents like mr. burroughs, the divisions of the church would have been easily compromised." stephen marshall was a man who, in his practice, "preached his sermons o'er again;" and firmin describes him as an "example to the believers in word, in conversation, in charity, in faith, and in purity." he died full of honours and understanding; and westminster abbey afforded him a grave, from which he was ruthlessly ejected at the restoration. it is hardly possible to believe that such a saint was the father of the two beautiful actresses whom nell gwyn taunted with being the erring daughters of a "praying presbyterian." on the other hand, we learn from sir peter leicester's _history of cheshire_, that the _royalist_, lord gerard of bromley, retained this staunch presbyterian in his house as his chaplain. further, we are told, that this chaplain married a certain illegitimate elizabeth, whose father was a dutton of dutton, and that of this marriage came anne and rebecca. as sir peter was himself connected with both the gerards and duttons by marriage, he must be held as speaking with some authority in this matter. pepys says of anne marshall, that her voice was "not so sweet as ianthe's," meaning mrs. betterton's. rebecca had a beautiful hand, was very imposing on the stage, and even off of it was "mighty fine, pretty, and noble." she had the reputation of facilitating the intrigue which lady castlemaine kept up with hart, the actor, to avenge herself on the king because of his admiration for mrs. davies. one of her finest parts was dorothea, in the "virgin martyr;" and her queen of sicily (an "up-hill" part) to nell gwyn's florimel, in dryden's "secret love," was highly appreciated by the playgoing public. [illustration: (nell gwyn.)] with the exception of mrs. corey, the mimic, and pleasing little mrs. boutel, who realised a fortune, with her girlish voice and manner, and her supremely innocent and fascinating ways, justifying the intensity of love with which she inspired youthful heroes, the only other actress of the king's company worth mentioning is nell gwyn; but nell was the crown of them all, winning hearts throughout her jubilant career, beginning in her early girlhood with that of a link-boy, and ending in her womanhood with that of the king. nell gwyn is claimed by the herefordshire people. in hereford city, a mean house in the rear of the oak inn is pointed out as the place of her birth. the gossips there little thought that a child so humbly born would be the mother of a line of dukes, or that her great grandson[ ] should be the bishop of her native town, and occupy for forty years the episcopal palace in close proximity to the poor cottage in which the archest of hussies first saw the light. but the claims of pipe lane, hereford, are disputed by coal yard, drury lane, and also by oxford, where nell's father, james gwyn, a "captain," according to some, a fruiterer according to others, died in prison. the captain with his wife helena,[ ] somewhile a resident in st. martin's lane, had two daughters, nell and rose. the latter married a captain capels, and, secondly, a mr. foster; little else is known of her, save that her less reputable sister left her a small legacy, and that she survived till the year . nelly was born early in ; and tradition states that she very early ran away from her country home to town, and studied for the stage by going every night to the play. i suspect coal yard was her first bower, that thence she issued to cry "fresh herrings!" and captivate the hearts of susceptible link-boys; and passed, from being hander of strong waters to the gentlemen who patronised madame ross's house, to taking her place in the pit, with her back to the orchestra, and selling oranges and pippins, with pertinent wit, gratis, to liberal fops who would buy the first and return the second with interest. as rochester assures us, there was a "wondering pit" in presence of this smartest and most audacious of orange-girls. it was natural enough that she should attract the notice of the actors, that lacy should give her instruction, and that from charles hart she should take that and all the love he could pay her. the latter two were spoken of in prologues, long after both were dead, as "those darlings of the stage." under the auspices of charles hart, nelly made her first appearance at the (king's) theatre, in a serious part, cydaria, in the "indian emperor." she was then not more than fifteen, though some say seventeen years of age. for tragedy she was unfitted: her stature was low, though her figure was graceful; and it was not till she assumed comic characters, stamped the smallest foot in england on the boards, and laughed with that peculiar laugh that, in the excess of it, her eyes almost disappeared, she fairly carried away the town, and enslaved the hearts of city and of court. she spoke prologues and epilogues with wonderful effect, danced to perfection, and in her peculiar but not extensive line was, perhaps, unequalled for the natural feeling which she put into the parts most suited to her. she was so fierce of repartee that no one ventured a second time to allude sneeringly to her antecedents. she was coarse, too, when the humour took her; could curse pretty strongly if the house was not full, and was given, in common with the other ladies of the company, to loll about and talk loudly in the public boxes, when she was not engaged on the stage. she left both stage and boxes for a time, in , to keep mad house at epsom with the clever lord buckhurst--a man who for one youthful vice exhibited a thousand manly virtues. the story, that lord buckhurst separated from mistress gwyn for a money consideration and a title, can be disproved by the testimony of a character which all peru could not have influenced, and of chronology, which sets the story at nought. they who would read buckhurst's true character, will find it in the eloquent and graceful dedication which prior made of his poems to buckhurst's son, lionel. like the first sackville, of the line of the earls of dorset, he was himself a poet; and, "to all you ladies now on land," although not quite the impromptu it is said to have been, is an evidence how gracefully he could strike the lyre on the eve of a great battle. in short, buckhurst, who took nelly from the stage, and who found prior in a coffee-shop and added him to literature, was a "man," brave, truthful, gay, honest, and universally beloved. he was the people's favourite; and pope assures us, when buckhurst had become earl of dorset, that he was "the grace of courts, the muses' pride." after a year's absence,[ ] mistress gwyn returned to the stage. in all nature, there was nothing better than she, in certain parts. pepys never hoped to see anything like her in florimel, with her changes of sex and costume. she was little, pretty, and witty; danced perfectly, and with such applause, that authors would fain have appropriated the approbation bestowed on her "jig," to the play in which it was introduced. a play, without nell, was no play at all to mr. pepys. when, in , she followed buckhurst to epsom, and flung up her parts and an honestly-earned salary for a poor £ a-year, pepys exclaims, "poor girl! i pity her; but more the loss of her at the king's house." the admiralty-clerk's admiration was confined to her merry characters; he speaks of her emperor's daughter, in the "indian emperor," as "a great and serious part, which she does most basely." her own party hailed her return; but she did not light upon a bed of roses. lady castlemaine was no longer her patroness--rather that and more of nelly's old lover, charles hart, who flouted the ex-favourite of buckhurst. that ex-favourite, however, bore with equal indifference the scorn of charles hart and the contempt of charles sackville;--she saw compensation for both, in the royal homage of charles stuart. meanwhile, she continued to enchant the town in comedy, to "spoil" serious parts in sir robert howard's mixed pieces, and yet to act with great success characters, in which natural emotion, bordering on insanity, was to be represented. early in , we find her among the loose companions of king charles; "and i am sorry for it," says pepys, "and can hope for no good to the state, from having a prince so devoted to his pleasure." the writers for the stage were of a like opinion. howard wrote his "duke of lerma," as a vehicle of reproof to the king, who sat, a careless auditor, less troubled than pepys himself, who expected that the play would be interrupted by royal authority. the last of her original characters was that of almahide, in dryden's "conquest of granada," the prologue to which she spoke in a straw hat as broad as a cart wheel, and thereby almost killed the king with laughter. in this piece, her old lover, hart, played almanzor; and his position with respect to king boabdelin (kynaston) and almahide (nelly) corresponds with that in which he stood towards king charles and the actress. the passages reminding the audience of this complex circumstance threw the house into "convulsions." from this time, ellen gwyn disappears from the stage. a similar surname appears in the play-bills from to ; but there is no ground for believing that the "madam gwyn" of the later period was the mrs. ellen of the earlier, poorer, and merrier times. nelly's first son, charles beauclerc, was born in her house, in lincoln's inn fields, in may ; her second, in the following year, at her house in pall mall, the garden terrace of which overlooked the then green walk in the park, from which evelyn saw, with shame, the king talking with the impudent "comedian." this younger son, james, died at paris, . the elder had otway for a tutor. in his sixth year he was created earl of burford, and in his fourteenth was created a duke. his mother had addressed him, in the king's hearing, by an epithet referring to his illegitimacy, on the plea that she did not know by what title to call him. charles made him an earl. accident of death raised him to a dukedom. harry jermyn, earl of st. albans, of whom report made the second husband of henrietta maria, had just died. blind as he had been, he had played cards to the last--some one sitting near him to tell him the points. at an age approaching to ninety years, he had passed away. charles gave the name of st. albans, with the title of duke, to nell gwyn's eldest son, adding thereto the registrarship of the high court of chancery, and the office (rendered hereditary) of master falconer of england. the present and tenth duke of st. albans is the lineal descendant of charles stuart and ellen gwyn. the king had demurred to a request to settle £ a year on this lady, and yet within four years she is known to have exacted from him above £ , . subsequently, £ , annually, were tossed to her from the excise,--that hardest taxation of the poor,--and £ more were added for the expenses of each son. she blazed publicly at whitehall, with diamonds out-flashing those usually worn, as evelyn has it, "by the like cattle." at burford house, windsor, her gorgeous country residence, she could gaily lose £ [ ] in one night at basset, and purchase diamond necklaces the next day, at fabulous prices. negligent dresser as she was, she always looked fascinating; and fascinating as she was, she had a ready fierceness and a bitter sarcasm at hand, when other royal favourites, or sons of favourites, assailed or sneered at her. with the king and his brother she bandied jokes as freely as de pompadour or du barry with louis xv. by impulse, she could be charitable; but by neglecting the claims of her own creditors she could be cruel. charles alluded to her extravagance when, on his deathbed, he recommended those shameless women, cleveland and portsmouth, to his brother's kindness, and hoped he would "not let nelly starve." an apocryphal story attributes the founding of chelsea hospital to nelly's tenderness for a poor old wounded soldier who had been cheated of his pay. the dedications to her of books by such people as aphra behn and duffet are blasphemous in their expressions, making of her, as they do, a sort of divine essence, and becoming satirical by their exaggerated and disgusting eulogy. for such a person, the pure and pious bishop ken was once called upon to yield up an apartment in which he lodged, and the peerage had a narrow escape of having her foisted upon it as countess of greenwich. this clever actress died in november of a fit of apoplexy, by which she had been stricken in the previous march. she was then in her thirty-eighth year. she had been endowed like a princess, but she left debts, and died just in time to allow james to discharge them out of the public purse. finally, she was carried to old st. martin's-in-the-fields to be buried, and tennison preached her funeral sermon. when this was subsequently made the ground of exposing him to the reproof of queen mary, she remarked, that the good doctor, no doubt, had said nothing but what the facts authorised. in the time of nelly's most brilliant fortunes, the people who laughed at her wit and impudence publicly contemned her. in february she visited the duke's theatre, in lincoln's inn fields, on which occasion a person in the pit called her loudly by a name which, to do her justice, she never repudiated. the affront, which she herself could laugh at, was taken up by william herbert, brother of philip, earl of pembroke, who had married the younger sister of another of the king's favourites, henrietta de querouaille. the audience took part, some with the assailant, others with the champion of nelly. many swords were drawn, the sorrows of the "orphan" were suspended, there was a hubbub in the house, and more scratches given than blood spilt. that nelly found a knight in thomas herbert only proves that a hot-headed young gentleman may become a very sage as years grow upon him. this thomas, when earl of pembroke, was "first plenipotentiary" at the making of the treaty of ryswick, and chief commissioner in establishing the union of england and scotland. his excellent taste and liberality laid the foundations of the collection of antiques which yet attracts visitors to wilton. but love for leading play-house factions did not die out in his family. four and forty years after he had drawn sword for the reputation of nell gwyn, his third countess, mary, sister of viscount howe, headed the cuzzoni party at the opera-house against the faustina faction, led by the countess of burlington and lady delawar. whenever faustina opened her mouth to sing, lady pembroke and her friends hissed the singer heartily; and as soon as cuzzoni made a similar attempt, lady burlington and her followers shrieked her into silence. lord pembroke sat by, thinking, perhaps, of the young days when he was the champion of nell gwyn, or of margaret symcott, if an old tradition be true that such was nelly's real name. of the ladies who played at the duke's house, under davenant, the principal were mrs. davenport, mrs. davies, mrs. gibbs, mrs. holden, mrs. jennings, mrs. long, and mrs. norris. chief among these were mistresses davenport, davies, saunderson, and long. mrs. davenport is remembered as the roxalana of davenant's "siege of rhodes," which she played so well that pepys could not forget her in either of her successors, mrs. betterton or mrs. norton. she is still better remembered in connection with a story of which she is the heroine, although that character in it has been ascribed to others. aubrey de vere, the twentieth earl of oxford, was the last of his house who held that title, but the one who held it the longest, namely, seventy years, from to . aubrey de vere despised the old maxim, "noblesse oblige." he lived a roystering life, kept a roystering house, and was addicted to hard drinking, rough words, and unseemly brawling and sword-slashing in his cups. the young earl made love, after the fashion of the day and the man, to mrs. davenport, but he might as well have made love to diana; and it was not till he proposed marriage that the actress condescended to listen to his suit. the lovers were privately married, and the lady was, in the words of old downes, "erept the stage." the honeymoon, however, was speedily obscured; lord oxford grew indifferent and brutal. when the lady talked of her rights, he informed her that she was not countess of oxford at all. the apparent reverend gentleman who had performed the ceremony of marriage was a trumpeter, who served under this very noble lord in the king's own regiment of cavalry. the forlorn fair one, after threatening suicide, sought out the king, fell at his feet, and demanded justice. the award was made in the shape of an annuity of £ a year, with which "lord oxford's miss," as evelyn calls her, seems to have been satisfied and consoled; for pepys, soon after, being at the play, "saw the old roxalana in the chief box, in a velvet gown, as the fashion is, and very handsome, at which i was glad." as for miss mary davies, it is uncertain whether she was the daughter of a wiltshire blacksmith, or the less legitimate offspring of thomas howard, the first earl of berkshire, or of the earl's son--not the poet, but the colonel. however this may be, mary davies was early on the stage, where she danced well, played moderately ill, announced the next afternoon's performance with grace, and won an infamous distinction at the king's hands, by her inimitable singing of the old song, "my lodging is on the cold ground." then there was the publicly furnishing of a house for her, and the presentation of a ring worth £ , and much scandal to good men and honest women. thereupon miss davies grew an "impertinent slut," and my lady castlemaine waxed melancholy, and meditated mischief against her royal and fickle lover. the patient queen herself was moved to anger by the new position of miss davies, and when the latter appeared in a play at whitehall, in which she was about to dance, her majesty rose and left the house. but neither the offended dignity of the queen, nor lady castlemaine "looking fire," nor the bad practical jokes of nell gwyn, could loose the king from the temporary enchantment to which he surrendered himself. their daughter was that mary tudor, who married the second earl of derwentwater, whose son, the third earl, was the gallant young fellow who lost his head for aid afforded to his cousin, the first pretender, in . before his death, a request was made to the duke of richmond, son of charles ii., by madlle. de querouaille, to present a memorial to the lords in order to save the young earl's life. the duke presented the memorial, but he added his earnest hope that their lordships would reject the prayer of it! in such wise did the illegitimate stuarts play brother to each other! through the marriage of the daughter of lord derwentwater with the eighth lord petre, the blood of the stuart and of moll davies still runs in their lineal descendant, the present and twelfth lord. happy are the women who have no histories! such is the case with miss saunderson, better known to us as mrs. betterton. for about thirty years she played the chief female characters, especially in shakspeare's plays, with great success. she created as many new parts as she played years; but they were in old-world pieces, which have been long forgotten. in the home which she kept with her husband, charity, hospitality, and dignity abided. so unexceptionable was mrs. betterton's character, that when crowne's "calisto" was to be played at court in , she was chosen to be instructress to the lady mary and the lady anne. these princesses derived from mrs. betterton's lessons the accomplishment for which both were distinguished when queens, of pronouncing speeches from the throne in a distinct and clear voice, with sweetness of intonation, and grace of enunciation. mrs. betterton subsequently instructed the princess anne in the part of semandra, and her husband did the like office for the young noblemen who also played in lee's rattling tragedy of "mithridates." two individuals, better qualified by their professional skill and their moral character, to instruct the young princesses and courtiers, and to exercise over them a wholesome authority, could not then have been found on or off the stage. after betterton's death, queen anne settled on her old teacher of elocution a pension of £ a year. of the remainder of the actresses who first joined davenant, there is nothing recorded, except their greater or less efficiency. of mrs. holden, betterton's kinswoman, the only incident that i can recall to mind is, that once, by the accidental mispronunciation of a word, when playing in "romeo and juliet," and giving it "a vehement action, it put the house into such a laughter, that london bridge at low water was silence to it!" under its echoes let us pass to the "gentlemen of the king's company." footnotes: [ ] the second and final patents were dated--killigrew's, th april ; davenant's, th january . [ ] april ( d edition). the exact date is th april, as given by downes. [ ] killigrew died after, not before, the union of the two companies. chalmers expressly says that he lived to see them united, and gives march as the time of his death. [ ] davenant performed "the siege of rhodes" two years before cromwell's death, namely, in . [see mr. joseph knight's preface to his recent edition of the "roscius anglicanus."] cromwell also permitted the entertainment named "the cruelty of the spaniards in peru" to be represented, from political motives. [ ] mr. knight, in the preface before mentioned, quotes some lines from the prologue to this performance, showing that it was a public performance for money. this being so settles the question in the next paragraph as to the identity of the first professional actress. [ ] very questionable. langbaine ( ) says, "this play is still in vogue on the stage, and always presented with success." [ ] dr. doran misreads pepys, who gives the date as st january . [ ] i doubt whether _james_ nokes ever played the part. genest evidently approves of davies's suggestion that robert nokes was the actor of it. [ ] this should be grandson. [ ] or eleanor. [ ] she was absent only about six weeks; pepys chronicles her departure under july , , and her return under august , . [ ] peter cunningham says, " guineas, or £ at least of our present money." [illustration: the fortune theatre.] chapter iv. the gentlemen of the king's company. of the king's company, under killigrew--hart, burt, and clun have already been noticed as players who commenced their career by acting female parts. of the other early members of this troop, the first names of importance are those of lacy, and little major mohun, the low comedian, and the high tragedian. of those who precede them alphabetically, but little remains on record. we only know of theophilus bird, that he broke his leg when dancing in suckling's "aglaura," probably when the poet changed his tragedy, in which the characters killed each other, into a sort of comedy, in which they all survived. cartwright, on the other hand, has left a lasting memorial. if you would see how the kind old fellow looked, go down to dulwich college--that grand institution, for which actors have done so much and which has done so little for actors--and gaze on his portrait there. it is the picture of a man who bequeathed his books, pictures, and furniture to the college which alleyn, another actor, had founded. in early life, cartwright had been a bookseller, at the corner of turnstile, holborn; and in his second vocation his great character was falstaff. lacy was a great falstaff, too; and his portrait, a triple one, painted by wright and etched by hopkins, one of the princess elizabeth's pages, is familiarly known to hampton court visitors. lacy had been first a dancing-master, then a lieutenant in the army, before he tried the stage. in his day he had no equal; and his admirers denied that the day to come would ever see his equal. lacy was handsome, both in shape and feature, and is to be remembered as the original performer of teague, in the "committee;" a play of howard's, subsequently cut down to the farce of "the honest thieves." and eight years later ( ), taught by buckingham, and mimicking dryden, he startled the town with that immortal bayes, in the "rehearsal;" a part so full of happy opportunities that it was coveted or essayed for many years, not only by every great actor, whatever his line, but by many an actress, too; and last of all by william farren, in . there was nothing within the bounds of comedy that lacy could not act well. evelyn styles him "roscius." frenchman, or scot, or irishman, fine gentleman or fool, rogue or honest simpleton, tartuffe or drench, old man or loquacious woman,--in all, lacy was the delight of the town for about a score of years. the king ejected the best players from parts, considered almost as their property, and assigned them to lacy. his wardrobe was a spectacle of itself, and gentlemen of leisure and curiosity went to see it. he took a positive enjoyment in parts which enabled him to rail at the rascalities of courtiers. sometimes this aristophanic licence went too far. in howard's "silent woman," the sarcasms reached the king, and moved his majesty to wrath, and to locking up lacy himself in the porter's lodge. after a few days' detention, he was released; whereupon howard, meeting him behind the scenes, congratulated him. lacy, still ill in temper, abused the poet for the nonsense he had put into the part of captain otter, which was the cause of all the mischief. lacy further told howard he was "more a fool than a poet." thereat the honourable edward, raising his glove, smote lacy smartly with it over the face. jack lacy retaliated by lifting his cane and letting it descend quite as smartly on the pate of a man who was cousin to an earl. ordinary men marvelled that the honourable edward did not run jack through the body. on the contrary, without laying hand to hilt, howard hastened to the king, lodged his complaint, and the house was thereupon ordered to be closed. thus, many starved for the indiscretion of one; but the gentry rejoiced at the silencing of the company, as those clever fellows and their fair mates were growing, as that gentry thought, "too insolent." lacy, soon after, was said to be dying, and altogether so ill-disposed, as to have refused ghostly advice at the hands of "a bishop, an old acquaintance of his," says pepys, "who went to see him." who could this bishop have been who was the old acquaintance of the ex-dancing-master and lieutenant? herbert croft, or seth ward?--or, isaac barrow, of sodor-and-man, whose father, the mercer, had lived near the father of betterton? but, whoever he may have been, the king's favour restored the actor to health; and he remained charles's favourite comedian till his death, in . when lacy's posthumous comedy, "sir hercules buffoon," was produced in , the man with the longest and crookedest nose, and the most wayward wit in england--tom durfey--furnished the prologue. in that piece he designated lacy as the standard of true comedy. if the play does not take, said lively tom-- "all that we can say on't is, we've his fiddle, but not his hands to play on't!" genest, a critic not very hard to please, says that lacy's friends should have "buried his fiddle with him." michael mohun is the pleasantest and, perhaps, the greatest name on the roll of the king's company. when the players offended the king, mohun was the peacemaker. one cannot look on mohun's portrait, at knowle, without a certain mingling of pleasure and respect. that long-haired young fellow wears so frank an aspect, and the hand rests on the sword so delicately yet so firmly! he is the very man who might "rage like cethegus, or like cassius die." lee could never willingly write a play without a part for mohun, who, with hart, was accounted among the good actors that procured profitable "third days" for authors. no maximin could defy the gods as he did; and there has been no franker clytus since the day he originally represented the character in "alexander the great." in some parts he contested the palm with betterton, whose versatility he rivalled, creating one year abdelmelich, in another dapperwit, in a third pinchwife, and then a succession of classical heroes and modern rakes or simpletons. such an actor had many imitators, but, in his peculiar line, few could rival a man who was said to speak as shakspeare wrote, and whom nature had formed for a nation's delight. the author of the epilogue to "love in the dark" (that bustling piece of sir francis fane's, from the scrutinio,[ ] in which, played by lacy, mrs. centlivre derived her marplot), illustrates the success of mohun's imitators by an allusion to the gout from which he suffered: "those blades indeed, but cripples in their art,-- mimic his foot, but not his speaking part." of his modesty, i know no better trait than what passed when nat. lee had read to him a part which mohun was to fill in one of lee's tragedies. the major put aside the manuscript, in a sort of despair--"unless i could play the character as beautifully as you read it," said he, "it were vain to try it at all!" [illustration: (michael mohun.)] such is the brief record of a great actor, one who before our civil jars was a young player, during the civil wars was a good soldier, and in the last years of charles ii. was an old and a great actor still. of the other original members of the theatre royal, there is not much to be said. wintershell, who died in , merits, however, a word. he was distinguished, whether wearing the sock or the buskin, majestic in loftily-toned kings, and absurd in sillily-amorous knights. downes has praised him as superior to nokes, in at least one part, and his slender has won eulogy from so stern a critic as dennis. among the men who subsequently joined the theatre royal, there were some good actors, and a few great rogues. of these, the best actor and the greatest rogue was cardell goodman, or _scum_ goodman, as he was designated by his enemies. his career on the stage lasted from , as polyperchon, in lee's "rival queens," to . his most popular parts were julius cæsar and alexander. he came to the theatre hot from a fray at cambridge university, whence he had been expelled for cutting and slashing the portrait of that exemplary chancellor, the duke of monmouth. this rogue's salary must have been small, for he and griffin shared the same bed in their modest lodging, and having but one shirt between them, wore it each in his turn. the only dissension which ever occurred between them was caused by goodman, who, having to pay a visit to a lady, clapped on the shirt when it was clean, and griffin's day for wearing it! for restricted means, however, every gentleman of spirit, in those days, had a resource, if he chose to avail himself of it. the resource was the road, and cardell goodman took to it with alacrity. but he came to grief, and found himself with gyves on in newgate; yet he escaped the cart, the rope, and tyburn. king james gave "his majesty's servant" his life, and cardell returned to the stage--a hero. a middle-aged duchess, fond of heroes, adopted him as a lover, and cardell goodman had fine quarters, rich feeding, and a dainty wardrobe, all at the cost of his mistress, the ex-favourite of a king, barbara, the duchess of cleveland. scum goodman was proud of his splendid degradation, and paid such homage to "_my_ duchess," as the impudent fellow called her, that when he expected her presence in the theatre, he would not go on the stage, though king and queen were kept waiting, till he heard that "his duchess" was in the house. for her he played the mad scene in alexander with double vigour, and cared for no other applause so long as her grace's fan signalled approbation. scum might have had a rare, if a rascally, life, had he been discreet; but he was fool as well as knave. a couple of the duchess's children in the duchess's house annoyed him, and scum suborned a villainous italian quack to dispose of them by poison. a discovery, before the attempt was actually made, brought scum to trial for a misdemeanour. he had the luck of his own father, the devil, that he was not tried for murder. as it was, a heavy fine crippled him for life. he seems, however, to have hung about the stage after he withdrew from it as an actor. he looked in at rehearsals, and seeing a likely lad, named cibber, going through the little part of the chaplain, in the "orphan," one spring morning of , scum loudly wished he might be--what he very much deserved to be, if the young fellow did not turn out a good actor. colley was so delighted with the earnest criticism, that the tears flowed to his eyes. at least, he says so. king james having saved cardell's neck, goodman, out of pure gratitude, perhaps, became a tory, and something more, when william sat in the seat of his father-in-law. after queen mary's death, scum was in the fenwick and charnock plot to kill the king. when the plot was discovered, scum was ready to peach. as fenwick's life was thought by his friends to be safe if goodman could be bought off and got out of the way, the rogue was looked for, at the _fleece_, in covent garden, famous for homicides, and at the robbers' and the revellers' den, the _dog_, in drury lane. fenwick's agent, o'bryan, erst soldier and highwayman, now a jacobite agent, found scum at the _dog_, and would then and there have cut his throat, had not scum consented to the pleasant alternative of accepting £ a year, and a residence abroad. this to a man who was the first forger of bank-notes! scum suddenly disappeared, and lord manchester, our ambassador in paris, inquired after him in vain. it is impossible to say whether the rogue died by an avenging hand, or starvation. we are better acquainted with the fate of the last of scum's fair favourites, the pretty mrs. price of drury lane. this ariadne was not disconsolate for her theseus. she married "charles, lord banbury," who was _not_ lord banbury, for the house of peers denied his claim to the title; and he was not mrs. price's husband, as he was already married to a living lady, mrs. lester. of this confusion in social arrangements the world made small account, although the law did pronounce in favour of mrs. lester, without troubling itself to punish "my lord." the judges pronounced for the latter lady, solely on the ground that she had had children, and the actress none. joseph haines! "joe" with his familiars, "count haines" with those who affected great respect, was a rogue in his way,--a merry rogue, a ready wit, and an admirable low comedian, from to . we first hear of him as a quickwitted lad at a school in st. martin's-in-the-fields, whence he was sent, through the liberality of some gentlemen who had remarked his talents, to queen's college, oxford. there haines met with williamson, the sir joseph of after days, distinguished alike for his scholarship, his abilities as a statesman, the important offices he held, and the liberality with which he dispensed the fortune which he honourably acquired. williamson chose haines for a friend, and made him his latin secretary when williamson was appointed secretary of state. if haines could have kept official and state secrets, his own fortune would now have been founded; but joe gossiped in joyous companies, and in taverns revealed the mysteries of diplomacy. williamson parted with his indiscreet "servant," but sent him to recommence fortune-making at cambridge. here, again, his waywardness ruined him for a professor. a strolling company at stourbridge fair seduced him from the groves of academus,[ ] and in a short time this foolish and clever fellow, light of head, of heart, and of principle, was the delight of the drury lane audiences, and the favoured guest in the noblest society where mirth, humour, and dashing impudence were welcome. in , his sparkish, in the "country wife"--his original character--was accepted as the type of the airy gentleman of the day. his acting on, and his jokes off, the stage were the themes in all coteries and coffee-houses. he was a great practical jester, and once engaged a simple-minded clergyman as "chaplain to the theatre royal," and sent him behind the scenes, ringing a bell, and calling the players to prayers! when romanism was looking up, under james ii., haines had the impudence to announce to the convert sunderland,--unworthy son of waller's sacharissa,--his adoption of the king's religion, being moved thereto by the virgin, who had appeared to him in a dream, saying, "joe, arise!" this was too much even for sunderland, who drily observed that "she would have said 'joseph,' if only out of respect for her husband!" the rogue showed the value of a "profession," which gave rise to as many pamphlets as dryden's, by subsequently recanting,--not in the church, but on the stage; he the while covered with a sheet, holding a taper, and delivering some stupid rhymes,--to the very dullest of which he had the art of giving wonderful expression by his accent, emphasis, modulation, and felicity of application. the audience that could bear this recantation-prologue could easily pardon the speaker, who would have caused even greater errors to have been pardoned, were it only for his wonderful impersonation of captain bluff ( ) in congreve's "old bachelor." the self-complaisant way in which he used to utter "hannibal was a very pretty fellow in his day," was universally imitated, and has made the phrase itself proverbial. his roger, in "Æsop," was another of his successes, the bright roll of which was crowned by his lively, impudent, irresistible tom errand, in farquhar's "constant couple,"--that most triumphant comedy of a whole century. the great fault of haines lay in the liberties which he took with the business of the stage. he cared less to identify himself with the characters he represented than, through them, to keep up a communication with the spectators. when hart, then manager, cast joe for the simple part of a senator, in "catiline," in which hart played the hero, joe, in disgust at his _rôle_, spoiled hart's best point, by sitting behind him, absurdly attired, with pot and pipe in hand, and making grimaces at the grave actor of catiline; which kept the house in a roar of laughter. hart could not be provoked to forget his position, and depart from his character; but as soon as he made his _exit_, he sent joe his dismissal. joe haines then alternated between the stage and the houses of his patrons. "vivitur ingenio"--the stage-motto, was also his own, and he seems to have added to his means by acting the jester's part in noble circles. he was, however, no mere "fool." scholars might respect a "classic," like haines, and travelling lords gladly hire as a companion, a witty fellow, who knew two or three living languages as familiarly as he did his own. with an english peer he once visited paris, where joe is said to have got imprisoned for debt, incurred in the character, assumed by him, of an english lord. after his release, he returned to england, self-invested with the dignity of "count," a title not respected by a couple of bailiffs, who arrested joseph, on holborn hill, for a little matter of £ . "here comes the carriage of my cousin, the bishop of ely," said the unblushing knave; "let me speak to him; i am sure he will satisfy you in this matter." consent was given, and haines, putting his head in at the carriage-door, hastily informed the good simon patrick that "here were two romanists inclined to become protestants, but with yet some scruples of conscience." "my friends," said the eager prelate to them, "if you will presently come to my house, i will satisfy you in this matter!" the scrupulous gentlemen were well content; but when an explanation ensued, the vexed bishop paid the money out of very shame, and joe and the bailiffs spread the story. they who remembered how haines played lord plausible, in the "plain dealer," were not at all surprised at his deceiving a bishop and a brace of bailiffs. sometimes his wit was of a nicer quality. when jeremy collier's book against the stage was occupying the public mind, a critic expressed his surprise, seeing that the stage was a mender of morals. "true," answered joe, "but collier is a mender of morals, too; and two of a trade, you know, never agree!" haines was the best comic actor, in his peculiar line of comedy, during nearly thirty years that he was one of "their majesties' servants." he died at his house in hart street, covent garden, then a fashionable locality, on the th of april , and was buried in the gloomy churchyard of the parish, which has nothing to render it bright but the memory of the poets, artists, and actors whose bodies are there buried in peace. let us now consider the men in davenant's, or the duke's company, who acted occasionally in dorset gardens, but mostly in portugal row, lincoln's inn fields. of these, the greatest actor was good thomas betterton,--and his merits claim a chapter to himself. footnotes: [ ] should be intrigo, which lacy really played. [ ] other accounts say that he commenced his theatrical life early, at the "nursery." [illustration: theatre royal, portugal street, lincoln's inn fields] chapter v. thomas betterton. the diaries, biographies, journals, and traditions of the time will enable us, with some little aid from the imagination, not only to see the actor, but the social aspects amid which he moved. by aid of these, i find that, on a december night, , there is a crowded house at the theatre in lincoln's inn fields. the play is "hamlet," with young mr. betterton, who has been two years on the stage, in the part of the dane. the ophelia is the real object of the young fellow's love, charming mistress saunderson. old ladies and gentlemen, repairing in capacious coaches to this representation, remind one another of the lumbering and crushing of carriages about the old playhouse in the blackfriars, causing noisy tumults which drew indignant appeals from the puritan housekeepers, whose privacy was sadly disturbed. but what was the tumult there to the scene on the south side of the "fields," when "hamlet," with betterton, as now, was offered to the public! the jehus contend for place with the eagerness of ancient britons in a battle of chariots. and see, the mob about the pit-doors have just caught a bailiff attempting to arrest an honest playgoer. they fasten the official up in a tub, and roll the trembling wretch all "round the square." they finish by hurling him against a carriage, which sweeps from a neighbouring street at full gallop. down come the horses over the barrelled bailiff, with sounds of hideous ruin; and the young lady lying back in the coach is screaming like mad. this lady is the dishonest daughter of brave, honest, and luckless viscount grandison. as yet she is only mrs. palmer; next year she will be countess of castlemaine. at length the audience are all safely housed and eager. indifferent enough, however, they are during the opening scenes. the fine gentlemen laugh loudly and comb their periwigs in the "best rooms." the fops stand erect in the boxes to show how folly looks in clean linen; and the orange nymphs, with their costly entertainment of fruit from seville, giggle and chatter, as they stand on the benches below with old and young admirers, proud of being recognised in the boxes. the whole court of denmark is before them; but not till the words, "'tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother," fall from the lips of betterton, is the general ear charmed, or the general tongue arrested. then, indeed, the vainest fops and pertest orange girls look round and listen too. the voice is so low, and sad, and sweet; the modulation so tender, the dignity so natural, the grace so consummate, that all yield themselves silently to the delicious enchantment. "it's beyond imagination," whispers mr. pepys to his neighbour, who only answers with a long and low drawn "_hush!_" i can never look on kneller's masterly portrait of this great player, without envying those who had the good fortune to see the original, especially in hamlet. how grand the head, how lofty the brow, what eloquence and fire in the eyes, how firm the mouth, how manly the sum of all! how is the whole audience subdued almost to tears, at the mingled love and awe which he displays in presence of the spirit of his father! some idea of betterton's acting in this scene may be derived from cibber's description of it, and from that i come to the conclusion, that betterton fulfilled all that overbury laid down with regard to what best graced an actor. "whatsoever is commendable to the grave orator, is most exquisitely perfect in him; for by a full and significant action of body he charms our attention. sit in a full theatre, and you will think you see so many lines drawn from the circumference of so many ears, while the actor is the centre." this was especially the case with betterton; and now, as hamlet's first soliloquy closes, and the charmed but silent audience "feel music's pulse in all their arteries," mr. pepys almost too loudly exclaims in his ecstasy, "it's the best acted part ever done by man." and the audience think so, too; there is a hurricane of applause; after which the fine gentlemen renew their prattle with the fine ladies, and the orange girls beset the sir foplings, and this universal trifling is felt as a relief after the general emotion. meanwhile, a critic objects that young mr. betterton is not "original," and intimates that his hamlet is played by tradition come down through davenant, who had seen the character acted by taylor, and had taught the boy to enact the prince after the fashion set by the man who was said to have been instructed by shakspeare himself; amid which mr. pepys remarks, "i only know that mr. betterton is the best actor in the world." as sir thomas overbury remarked of a great player, his voice was never lower than the prompter's nor higher than the foil and target. but let us be silent, here comes the gentle ophelia. the audience generally took an interest in this lady, and the royal dane, for there was not one in the house who was ignorant of the love-passages there had been between them, or of the coming marriage by which they were to receive additional warrant. mistress saunderson was a lady worthy of all the homage here implied. there was mind in her acting; and she not only possessed personal beauty, but also the richer beauty of a virtuous life. they were a well-matched couple on and off the stage; and their mutual affection was based on a mutual respect and esteem. people thought of them together, as inseparable, and young ladies wondered how mr. betterton could play mercutio, and leave mistress saunderson as juliet, to be adored by the not ineffective mr. harris as romeo! the whole house, as long as the incomparable pair were on the stage, were in a dream of delight. their grace, perfection, good looks, the love they had so cunningly simulated, and that which they were known to mutually entertain, formed the theme of all tongues. in its discussion, the retiring audience forgot the disinterring of the regicides, and the number of men killed the other day on tower hill, servants of the french and spanish ambassadors, in a bloody struggle for precedency, which was ultimately won by the don! fifty years after these early triumphs, an aged couple resided in one of the best houses in russell street, covent garden,--the walls of which were covered with pictures, prints, and drawings, selected with taste and judgment. they were still a handsome pair. the venerable lady, indeed, looks pale and somewhat saddened. the gleam of april sunshine which penetrates the apartment cannot win her from the fire. she is mrs. betterton, and ever and anon she looks with a sort of proud sorrow on her aged husband. his fortune, nobly earned, has been diminished by "speculation," but the means whereby he achieved it are his still, and thomas betterton, in the latter years of queen anne, is the chief glory of the stage, even as he was in the first year of king charles. the lofty column, however, is a little shaken. it is not a ruin, but is beautiful in its decay. yet that it should decay at all is a source of so much tender anxiety to the actor's wife, that her senses suffer disturbance, and there may be seen in her features something of the distraught ophelia of half a century ago. it is the th of april, --his benefit night; and the tears are in the lady's eyes, and a painful sort of smile on her trembling lips, for betterton kisses her as he goes forth that afternoon to take leave, as it proved, of the stage for ever. he is in such pain from gout that he can scarcely walk to his carriage, and how is he to enact the noble and fiery melantius in that ill-named drama of horror, "the maid's tragedy"? hoping for the best, the old player is conveyed to the theatre, built by sir john vanbrugh, in the haymarket, the site of which is now occupied by the "opera-house." through the stage-door he is carried in loving arms to his dressing-room. at the end of an hour wilks is there, and pinkethman, and mrs. barry, all dressed for their parts, and agreeably disappointed to find the melantius of the night robed, armoured, and be-sworded, with one foot in a buskin and the other in a slipper. to enable him even to wear the latter, he had first thrust his inflamed foot into water; but stout as he seemed, trying his strength to and fro in the room, the hand of death was at that moment descending on the grandest of english actors. the house rose to receive him who had delighted themselves, their sires, and their grandsires. the audience were packed "like norfolk biffins." the edifice itself was only five years old, and when it was a-building, people laughed at the folly which reared a new theatre in the country, instead of in london;--for in all beyond the rural haymarket was open field, straight away westward and northward. that such a house could ever be filled was set down as an impossibility; but the achievement was accomplished on this eventful benefit night; when the popular favourite was about to utter his last words, and to belong thenceforward only to the history of the stage he had adorned. there was a shout which shook him, as lysippus uttered the words "noble melantius," which heralded his coming. every word which could be applied to himself was marked by a storm of applause, and when melantius said of amintor-- "his youth did promise much, and his ripe years will see it all performed," a murmuring comment ran round the house, that this had been effected by betterton himself. again, when he bids amintor "hear thy friend, who has more years than thou," there were probably few who did not wish that betterton were as young as wilks: but when he subsequently thundered forth the famous passage, "my heart will never fail me," there was a very tempest of excitement, which was carried to its utmost height, in thundering peal on peal of unbridled approbation, as the great rhodian gazed full on the house, exclaiming-- "my heart and limbs are still the same: my will as great to do you service!" no one doubted more than a fractional part of this assertion, and betterton, acting to the end under a continued fire of "_bravoes!_" may have thrown more than the original meaning into the phrase-- "that little word was worth all the sounds that ever i shall hear again!" few were the words he was destined ever to hear again; and the subsequent prophecy of his own certain and proximate death, on which the curtain slowly descended, was fulfilled eight and forty hours after they were uttered. such was the close of a career which had commenced fifty-one years before! few other actors of eminence have kept the stage, with the public favour, for so extended a period, with the exception of cave underhill, quin, macklin, king, and in later times, bartley and cooper, most of whom at least accomplished their half century. the record of that career affords many a lesson and valuable suggestion to young actors, but i have to say a word previously of the bettertons, before the brothers of that name, thomas and the less known william, assumed the sock and buskin. tothill street, westminster, is not at present a fine or a fragrant locality. it has a crapulous look and a villainous smell, and petty traders now huddle together where nobles once were largely housed. thomas betterton was born here, about the year - .[ ] the street was then in its early decline, or one of king charles's cooks could hardly have had home in it. nevertheless, there still clung to it a considerable share of dignity. even at that time there was a tothill fields house of correction, whither vagabonds were sent, who used to earn scraps by scraping trenchers in the tents pitched in petty france. all else in the immediate neighbourhood retained an air of pristine and very ancient nobility. i therefore take the father of betterton, cook to king charles, to have been a very good gentleman, in his way. he was certainly the sire of one, and the circumstance of the apprenticeship of young thomas to a bookseller was no evidence to the contrary. in those days, it was the custom for greater men than the _chefs_ in the king's kitchen, namely, the bishops in the king's church, to apprentice their younger sons, at least, to trade, or to bequeath sums for that especial purpose. the last instance i can remember of this traditionary custom presents itself in the person, not indeed of a son of a bishop, but of the grandson of an archbishop, namely, of john sharp, archbishop of york from to . he had influence enough with queen anne to prevent swift from obtaining a bishopric. his son was archdeacon of northumberland, and of this archdeacon's sons one was prebendary of durham, while the other, the celebrated granville sharp, the "friend of the negro," was apprenticed to a linen-draper, on tower hill. the early connection of betterton, therefore, with rhodes, the charing cross bookseller, is not to be accepted as a proof that his sire was not in a "respectable" position in society. that sire had had for his neighbour, only half-a-dozen years before thomas was born, the well-known sir henry spelman, who had since removed to more cheerful quarters in barbican. a very few years previously, sir george carew resided here, in caron house, and his manuscripts are not very far from the spot even now. they refer to his experiences as lord deputy in ireland, and are deposited in the library at lambeth palace. these great men were neighbours of the elder betterton, and they had succeeded to men not less remarkable. one of the latter was arthur, lord grey of wilton, the friend of spenser, and the talus of that poet's "iron flail." the greys, indeed, had long kept house in tothill street, as had also the lords dacre of the south. when betterton was born here, the locality was still full of the story of thomas lord dacre, who went thence to be hanged at tyburn, in . he had headed a sort of chevy-chase expedition into the private park of sir nicholas pelham, in sussex. in the fray which ensued, a keeper was killed, of which deed my lord took all the responsibility, and, very much to his surprise, was hanged in consequence. the mansion built by his son, the last lord, had not lost its first freshness when the bettertons resided here, and its name, _stourton_ house, yet survives in the corrupted form of strutton ground. thus, the bettertons undoubtedly resided in a "fashionable" locality, and we may fairly conclude that their title to "respectability" has been so far established. that the street long continued to enjoy a certain dignity is apparent from the fact that, in , when betterton was rousing the town by his acting, as bosola, in webster's "duchess of malfy," sir henry herbert established his office of master of the revels, in tothill street. it was not till the next century that the decline of this street set in. southern, the dramatist, resided and died there, but it was in rooms over an oilman's shop; and edmund burke lived modestly at the east end, before those mysterious thousands were amassed by which he was enabled to establish himself as a country gentleman. galt, and the other biographers of betterton, complain of the paucity of materials for the life of so great an actor. therein is his life told; or rather pepys tells it more correctly in an entry in his diary for october , in which he says--"betterton is a very sober, serious man, and studious, and humble, following of his studies; and is rich already with what he gets and saves." _there_ is the great and modest artist's whole life--earnestness, labour, lack of presumption, and the recompense. at the two ends of his career, two competent judges pronounced him to be the best actor they had ever seen. the two men were pepys, who was born in the reign of charles i., and pope, who died in the reign of george ii. this testimony refers to above a century, during which time the stage knew no such player as he. pope, indeed, notices that old critics used to place hart on an equality with him; this is, probably, an error for harris, who had a party at court among the gay people there who were oppressed by the majesty of betterton.[ ] pepys alludes to this partisanship in . "this fellow" (harris), he remarks, "grew very proud of late, the king and everybody else crying him up so high, and that above betterton, he being a _more aery man_, as he is, indeed." from the day of betterton's bright youth to that of his old age, the sober seriousness of the "artist," for which pepys vouches, never left him. with the dress he assumed, for the night, the nature of the man--be it "hamlet" or "thersites," "valentine" or "sir john brute," of whom he was to be the representative. in the "green-room," as on the stage, he was, for the time being, subdued or raised to the quality of him whose likeness he had put on. in presence of the audience, he was never tempted by applause to forget his part, or himself. once only, pepys registers, with surprise, an incident which took place at the representation of "mustapha," in . it was "bravely acted," he says, "only both betterton and harris could not contain from laughing, in the midst of a most serious part, from the ridiculous mistake of one of the men upon the stage; which i did not like." then for his humility, i find the testimony of pepys sufficiently corroborated. it may have been politic in him, as a young man, to repair to mr. cowley's lodgings in town, and ask from that author his particular views with regard to the colonel jolly in the "cutter of coleman street," which had been intrusted to the young actor; but the politic humility of was, in fact, the practised modesty of his life. in the very meridian of his fame, he, and mrs. barry also, were as ready to take instruction respecting the characters of jaffier and belvidera, from poor battered otway, as they subsequently were from that very fine gentleman, mr. congreve, when they were cast for the hero and heroine of his comedies. even to bombastic rowe, who hardly knew his own reasons for language put on the lips of his characters, they listened with deference; and, at another period, "sir john and lady brute" were not undertaken by them till they had conferred with the author, solid vanbrugh. the mention of these last personages reminds me of a domestic circumstance of interest respecting betterton. he and mrs. barry acted the principal characters in "the provoked wife;" the part of lady fancyfull was played by mrs. bowman. this young lady was the adopted child of the bettertons, and the daughter of a friend (sir frederick watson, bart.) whose indiscretion or ill-luck had scattered that fortune the laying of the foundation of which is recorded by pepys. to the sire betterton had intrusted the bulk of his little wealth as a commercial venture to the east indies. a ruinous failure ensued, and i know of nothing which puts the private life of the actor in so pleasing a light, as the fact of his adopting the child of the wholly ruined man who had nearly ruined _him_. he gave her all he had to bestow, careful instruction in his art; and the lady became an actress of merit. this merit, added to considerable personal charms, won for her the homage of bowman, a player who became, in course of time, the father of the stage, though he never grew, confessedly, old. in after years, he would converse freely enough of his wife and her second father, betterton; but if you asked the carefully-dressed mr. bowman anything with respect to his age, no other reply was to be had from him than--"sir, it is very well!" from what has been previously stated, it will be readily believed that the earnestness of betterton continued to the last. severely disciplined, as he had been by davenant, he subjected himself to the same discipline to the very close; and he was not pleased to see it disregarded or relaxed by younger actors whom late and gay "last nights" brought ill and incompetent to rehearsal. those actors might have reaped valuable instruction out of the harvest of old thomas's experience and wisdom, had they been so minded. young actors of the present time--time when pieces run for months and years; when authors prescribe the extent of the run of their own dramas, and when nothing is "damned" by a patient public--our young actors have little idea of the labours undergone by the great predecessors who gave glory to the stage and dignity to the profession. not only was betterton's range of characters unlimited, but the number he "created" was never equalled by any subsequent actor of eminence--namely, about one hundred and thirty! in some single seasons he studied and represented no less than eight original parts--an amount of labour which would shake the nerves of the stoutest among us now. his brief relaxation was spent on his little berkshire farm, whence he once took a rustic to bartholomew fair for a holiday. the master of the puppet-show declined to take money for admission--"mr. betterton," he said, "is a brother actor!" roger, the rustic, was slow to believe that the puppets were not alive; and so similar in vitality appeared to him, on the same night, at drury lane, the jupiter and alcmena in "amphitryon," played by betterton and mrs. barry, that on being asked what he thought of them, roger, taking them for puppets, answered, "they did wonderfully well for rags and sticks." provincial engagements were then unknown. travelling companies, like that of watkins, visited bath, a regular company from town going thither only on royal command; but magistrates ejected strollers from newbury; and reading would not tolerate them, even out of respect for mr. betterton. at windsor, however, there was a troop fairly patronised, where, in , a mistress carroll, daughter of an old parliamentarian, was awakening shrill echoes by enacting alexander the great. the lady was a friend of betterton's, who had in the previous year created the part of lovewell in her comedy of the "gamester." the powers of mrs. carroll had such an effect on mr. centlivre, one of the cooks to queen anne, that he straightway married her; and when, a few months later, betterton played sir thomas beaumont, in the lady's comedy, "love at a venture,"[ ] his friend, a royal cook's wife, furnished but an indifferent part for a royal cook's son. in other friendships cultivated by the great actor, and in the influences which he exerted over the most intellectual men who were his friends, we may discover proofs of betterton's moral worth and mental power. glorious thomas not only associated with "glorious john," but became his critic,--one to whom dryden listened with respect, and to whose suggestions he lent a ready acquiescence. in the poet's "spanish friar," there was a passage which spoke of kings' bad titles growing good by time; a supposed fact which was illustrated by the lines-- "so, when clay's burned for a hundred years, it starts forth china!" the player fearlessly pronounced this passage "_mean_," and it was forthwith cancelled by the poet. intimate as this incident shows betterton to have been with dryden, there are others which indicate a closer intimacy of the player with tillotson. the divine was a man who placed charity above rubrics, and discarded bigotry as he did perukes. he could extend a friendly hand to the benevolent arian, firmin, and welcome, even after he entered the archiepiscopal palace at lambeth, such a visitor as the great actor betterton. did objection come from the rigid and ultra-orthodox?--the prelate might have reminded them that it was not so long since a bishop was hanged, and that the player was a far more agreeable and, in every respect, a worthier man than the unlucky diocesan of waterford. however this may be questioned or conceded, it is indisputable that when tillotson and betterton met, the greatest preacher and the greatest player of the day were together. i think, too, that the divine was, in the above respect, somewhat indebted to the actor. we all remember the story how tillotson was puzzled to account for the circumstance that his friend the actor exercised a vaster power over human sympathies and antipathies than he had hitherto done as a preacher. the reason was plain enough to thomas betterton. "you, in the pulpit," said he, "only tell a story: i, on the stage, show facts." observe, too, what a prettier way this was of putting it than that adopted by garrick when one of his clerical friends was similarly perplexed. "i account for it in this way," said the latter roscius: "you deal with facts as if they were fictions; i deal with fictions as if i had faith in them as facts." again, what betterton thus remarked to tillotson was a modest comment, which colley cibber has rendered perfect in its application, in the words which tell us that "the most a vandyke can arrive at is to make his portraits of great persons seem to _think_. a shakspeare goes farther yet, and tells you _what_ his pictures thought. a betterton steps beyond 'em both, and calls them from the grave, to breathe and be themselves again in feature, speech, and motion." that tillotson profited by the comment of betterton--more gracefully than bossuet did by the actors, whom he consigned, as such, to the nethermost gehenna--is the more easily to be believed, from the fact that he introduced into the pulpit the custom of preaching from notes. thenceforth, he left off "telling his story," as from a book, and, having action at command, could the nearer approach to the "acting of facts." "_virgilium tantum vidi!_" pope said this of dryden, whom he once saw when a boy. he was wont to say of betterton, that he had known him from his own boyhood upwards, till the actor died, in , when the poet was twenty-two years of age. the latter listened eagerly to the old traditions which the player narrated of the earlier times. betterton was warrant to him, on the authority of davenant, from whom the actor had it, that there was no foundation for the old legend which told of an ungenerous rivalry between shakspeare and old ben. the player who had been as fearless with dryden as socrates was with his friend euripides--"judiciously lopping" redundant nonsense or false and mean maxims, as dryden himself confesses--was counsellor, rather than critic or censor, with young pope. the latter, at the age of twelve years, had written the greater portion of an imitative epic poem, entitled _alcander, prince of rhodes_. i commend to artists in search of a subject the incident of pope, at fifteen or sixteen, showing this early effort of his muse to betterton. it was a poem which abounded in dashing exaggerations, and fair imitations of the styles of the then greater english poets. there was a dramatic vein about it, however, or the player would not have advised the bard to convert his poem into a play. the lad excused himself. he feared encountering either the law of the drama or the taste of the town; and betterton left him to his own unfettered way. the actor lived to see that the boy was the better judge of his own powers, for young pope produced his _essay on criticism_ the year before betterton died. a few years later the poet rendered any possible fulfilment of the player's counsel impossible, by dropping the manuscript of _alcander_ into the flames. atterbury had less esteem for this work than betterton. "i am not sorry your _alcander_ is burnt," he says; "but had i known your intentions i would have interceded for the first page, and put it, with your leave, among my curiosities." pope remembered the player with affection. for some time after betterton's decease the print-shops abounded with mezzotinto engravings of his portrait by kneller. of this portrait the poet himself executed a copy, which still exists. his friendly intercourse with the half-mad irish artist, jervas, is well known. when alone, pope was the poet; with jervas, and under his instructions, he became an artist--in his way, but yet an artist--if a copier of portraits deserves so lofty a name. in , he writes to gay:--"you may guess in how uneasy state i am, when every day the performances of others appear more beautiful and excellent, and my own more despicable. i have thrown away three dr. swifts, each of which was once my vanity, two lady bridgewaters, a duchess of montague, half-a-dozen earls, and one knight of the garter." he perfected, however, and kept his portrait of betterton, from kneller, which passed into the collection of his friend murray, and which is now in that of murray's descendant, the earl of mansfield. kneller's portrait of betterton is enshrined among goodly company at princely knole--the patrimony of the sackvilles. it is there, with that of his fellow-actor, mohun, his friend dryden, and his great successor garrick--the latter being the work of reynolds. the grand old kentish hall is a fitting place for such a brotherhood. this master of his art had the greatest esteem for a _silent_ and _attentive_ audience. it was easy, he used to say, for any player to rouse the house, but to subdue it, render it rapt and hushed to, at the most, a murmur, was work for an artist; and in such effects no one approached him. and yet the rage of othello was more "in his line" than the tenderness of castalio; but he touched the audience in his rage. harris competed with him for a brief period, but if he ever excelled him it was only in very light comedy. the dignity and earnestness of betterton were so notorious and so attractive, that people flocked only to hear him speak a prologue, while brother actors looked on, admired, and despaired. age, trials, infirmity, never damped his ardour. even angry and unsuccessful authors, who railed against the players who had brought their dramas to grief, made exception of betterton. he was always ready, always perfect, always anxious to effect the utmost within his power. among the foremost of his merits may be noticed his freedom from all jealousy, and his willingness to assist others up the height which he had himself surmounted. that he played bassanio to dogget's shylock is, perhaps, not saying much by way of illustration; but that he acted horatio to powell's lothario; that he gave up jupiter (amphitryon) and valentine, two of his original parts, to wilks, and even yielded othello, one of the most elaborate and exquisite of his "presentments," to thurmond, _are_ fair instances in point. when bowman introduced young barton booth to "old thomas," the latter welcomed him heartily, and after seeing his maximus, in "valentinian," recognised in him his successor. at that moment the town, speculating on the demise of their favourite, had less discernment. they did not know whether verbruggen, with his voice like a cracked drum, or idle powell, with his lazy stage-swing, might aspire to the sovereignty; but they were slow to believe in booth, who was not the only young actor who was shaded in the setting glories of the sun of the english theatre. when colley cibber first appeared before a london audience he was a "volunteer" who went in for practice; and he had the misfortune, on one occasion, to put the great master out by some error on his own part. betterton subsequently inquired the young man's name and the amount of his salary; and hearing that the former was cibber, and that, as yet, he received nothing, "put him down ten shillings a week," said betterton, "and forfeit him five." colley was delighted. it was placing his foot on the first round of the ladder; and his respect for "mr. betterton" was unbounded. indeed there were few who did not pay him some homage. the king himself delighted to honour him. charles, james, queen mary, and queen anne, sent him assurances of their admiration; but king william admitted him to a private audience, and when the patentees of drury lane were, through lack of general patronage, suggesting the expediency of a reduction of salaries, great nassau placed in the hands of betterton the licence which freed him from the thraldom of the drury tyrants, and authorised him to open the second theatre erected in lincoln's inn fields. next to his most sacred majesty, perhaps the most formidable personage in the kingdom, in the eyes of the actors, was the lord chamberlain, who was master of the very lives of the performers, having the absolute control of the stage whereby they lived. this potentate, however, seemed ever to favour betterton. when unstable, yet useful, powell suddenly abandoned drury lane, to join the company in lincoln's inn fields, the chamberlain did not deign to notice the offence; but when, all as suddenly, the capricious and unreliable powell abandoned the house in the fields, and betook himself again to that in the lane--the angry lord chamberlain sent a "messenger" after him to his lodgings, and clapped the unoffending thespian, for a couple of days, in the gate house. while powell was with betterton, the latter produced the "fair penitent," by rowe, mrs. barry being the calista. when the dead body of lothario was lying decently covered on the stage, powell's dresser, warren, lay there for his master, who, requiring the services of the man in his dressing-room, and not remembering where he was, called aloud for him so repeatedly, and at length so angrily, that warren leapt up in a fright, and ran from the stage. his cloak, however, had got hooked to the bier, and this he dragged after him, sweeping down, as he dashed off in his confusion, table, lamps, books, bones, and upsetting the astounded calista herself. irrepressible laughter convulsed the audience, but betterton's reverence for the dignity of tragedy was shocked, and he stopped the piece in its full career of success, until the town had ceased to think of warren's escapade. i know of but one man who has spoken of betterton at all disparagingly--old anthony aston. but even that selfish cynic is constrained so to modify his censure as to convert it into praise. when betterton was approaching threescore years and ten, anthony could have wished that he "would have resigned the part of hamlet to some young actor who might have _personated_, though," mark the distinction, "_not have acted it better_." aston's grounds for his wish are so many justifications of betterton; "for," says anthony, "when he threw himself at ophelia's feet, he appeared a little too grave for a young student just from the university of wittenberg." "his repartees," anthony thinks, "were more those of a philosopher than the sporting flashes of young hamlet;" as if hamlet were not the gravest of students, and the most philosophical of young danes! aston caricatures the aged actor only again to commend him. he depreciates the figure which time had touched, magnifies the defects, registers the lack of power, and the slow sameness of action; hints at a little remains of paralysis, and at gout in the now thick legs, profanely utters the words "fat" and "clumsy," and suggests that the face is "slightly pock-marked." but we are therewith told that his air was serious, venerable, and majestic; and that though his voice was "low and grumbling, he could turn it by an artful climax which enforced an universal attention even from the fops and orange-girls." cibber declares that there was such enchantment in his voice alone, the multitude no more cared for sense in the words he spoke, "than our musical connoisseurs think it essential in the celebrated airs of an italian opera." again, he says, "could _how_ betterton spoke be as easily known as _what_ he spoke, then might you see the muse of shakspeare in her triumph." "i never," says honest colley, "heard a line in tragedy come from _betterton_, wherein my judgment, my ear, and my imagination were not fully satisfied, which, since his time, i cannot equally say of any one actor whatsoever." this was written in , the year before little david took up the rich inheritance of "old thomas"--whose hamlet, however, the latter actor could hardly have equalled. the next great pleasure to seeing betterton's hamlet is to read cibber's masterly analysis of it. a couple of lines reveal to us the leading principle of his brutus. "when the betterton-brutus," says colley, "was provoked in his dispute with cassius, his spirit flew only to his eye; his steady look alone supplied that terror which he disdained an intemperance in his voice should rise to." in his least effective characters, he, with an exception already noted, excelled all other actors; but in characters such as hamlet and othello he excelled himself. cibber never beheld his equal for at least two-and-thirty years after betterton's death, when, in , court and city, with doctors of divinity and enthusiastic bishops, were hurrying to goodman's fields, to witness the richard of the gentleman from ipswich, named garrick. during the long career of betterton he played at drury lane, dorset gardens, lincoln's inn fields (in both theatres), and at the opera-house in the haymarket. the highest salary awarded to this great master of his art was £ per week, which included £ by way of pension to his wife, after her retirement in . in consideration of his merits, he was allowed to take a benefit in the season of - , when the actor had an ovation. in money for admission, he received, indeed, only £ ; but in complimentary guineas, he took home with him to russell street £ more. the terms in which the _tatler_ spoke of him living,--the tender and affectionate, manly and heart-stirring passages in which the same writer bewailed him when dead,--are eloquent and enduring testimonies of the greatness of an actor, who was the glory of our stage, and of the worth of a man whose loss cost his sorrowing widow her reason.[ ] "_decus et dolor._" "the grace and the grief of the theatre." it is well applied to him who laboured incessantly, lived irreproachably, and died in harness, universally esteemed and regretted. he was the jewel of the english stage; and i never think of him, and of some to whom his example was given in vain, without saying, with overbury, "i value a worthy actor by the corruption of some few of the quality, as i would do gold in the ore; i should not mind the dross, but the purity of the metal." the feeling of the english public towards betterton is in strong contrast with that of the french towards their great actor, baron. both men grew old in the public service, but both were not treated with equal respect in the autumn of that service. betterton, at seventy, was upheld by general esteem and crowned by general applause. when baron, at seventy, was playing nero, the paris pit audience, longing for novelty, hissed him as he came down the stage. the fine old player calmly crossed his arms, and looking his rude assailants in the face, exclaimed, "ungrateful pit! 'twas i who taught you!" that was the form of baron's _exit_; and clairon was as cruelly driven from the scene when her dimming eyes failed to stir the audience with the old, strange, and delicious terror. in other guise did the english public part with their old friend and servant, the noble actor, fittingly described in the licence granted to him by king william, as "thomas betterton, gentleman." [illustration: mr. garrick as king lear.] footnotes: [ ] malone gives the date of his baptism as th august . [ ] i see no reason to doubt that hart rather than harris was the rival in question. hart was an older actor than betterton, and he and mohun were the supports of the old school, which its admirers pronounced infinitely superior to that of betterton. see, for instance, the _historia histrionica_. [ ] should be sir thomas beaumont in "the platonic lady." [ ] it is generally implied, if not stated outright, that mrs. betterton never recovered her reason after her husband's death; but this seems an error, because she made a will, which is dated th march - , when she was presumably sane. [illustration: the duke's theatre, dorset garden.] chapter vi. "exeunt" and "enter." after betterton, there was not, in the duke's company, a more accomplished actor than harris. he lived in gayer society than betterton, and cared more for the associates he found there. he had some knowledge of art, danced gracefully, and had that dangerous gift for a young man--a charming voice, with a love for displaying it. his portrait was taken by mr. hailes;--"in his habit of henry v., mighty like a player;" and as cardinal wolsey; which latter portrait may now be seen in the pepysian library at cambridge. [illustration: (joseph harris.)] pepys assigns good grounds for his esteem for harris. "i do find him," says the diarist, "a very excellent person, such as in my whole acquaintance i do not know another better qualified for converse, whether in things of his own trade, or of other kind; a man of great understanding and observation, and very agreeable in the manner of his discourse, and civil, as far as is possible. i was mighty pleased with his company," a company with which were united, now killigrew and the rakes, and anon, cooper the artist, and "cooper's cosen jacke," and "mr. butler, that wrote hudibras," being, says mr. pepys, "all eminent men in their way." indeed, harris was to be found in company even more eminent than the above, and at the great coffee-house in covent garden he listened to or talked with dryden, and held his own against the best wits of the town. the playwrights were there too; but these were to be found in the coffee-houses, generally, often wrapped up in their cloaks, and eagerly heeding all that the critics had to say to each other respecting the last new play. harris was aware that in one or two light characters he was betterton's equal. he was a restless actor, threatening, when discontented, to secede from the duke's to the king's company, and causing equal trouble to his manager davenant, and to his monarch charles--the two officials most vexed in the settling of the little kingdom of the stage. there was a graceful, general actor of the troop to which harris belonged, who drew upon himself the special observation of the government at home and an english ambassador abroad. scudamore was the original garcia of congreve's "mourning bride;" he also played amorous young knights, sparkling young gentlemen, scampish french and english beaux, gay and good-looking kings, and roystering kings' sons; such as harry, prince of wales. off the stage, he enacted another part. when king james was in exile, scudamore was engaged as a jacobite agent, and he carried many a despatch or message between london and st. germains. but our ambassador, the earl of manchester, had his eye upon him. one of the earl's despatches to the english government, written in , concludes with the words:--"one scudamore, a player in lincoln's inn fields, has been here, and was with the late king, and often at st. germains. he is now, i believe, at london. several such sort of fellows go and come very often; but i cannot see how it is to be prevented, for without a positive oath nothing can be done to them." the date of this despatch is august , at which time the player ought to have been engaged in a less perilous character, for an entry in luttrell's diary, th may , records that "mr. scudamore of the play-house is married to a young lady of £ fortune, who fell in love with him." cave underhill was another member of davenant's company. he was not a man for a lady to fall in love with; but in davenant pronounced him the truest comedian of his troop. he was on the stage from to , and during that time the town saw no such gravedigger in "hamlet" as this tall, fat, broad-faced, flat-nosed, wide-mouthed, thick-lipped, rough-voiced, awkwardly-active low comedian. so modest was he also that he never understood his own popularity, and the house was convulsed with his solemn don quixote and his stupid lolpoop in "the squire of alsatia" without cave's being able to account for it.[ ] in the stolid, the booby, the dully malicious, the bluntly vivacious, the perverse humour, combining wit with ill-nature, underhill was the chief of the actors of the half century during which he kept the stage. cibber avers thus much, and adds that he had not seen cave's equal in sir sampson legend in congreve's "love for love." a year before the old actor ceased to linger on the stage he had once made light with laughter, a benefit was awarded him, viz., on the d of june .[ ] the patronage of the public was previously bespoken by mr. bickerstaffe, in the _tatler_, whose father had known "honest cave underhill" when he was a boy. the _tatler_ praises the old comedian for the natural style of his acting, in which he avoided all exaggeration, and never added a word to his author's text, a vice with the younger actors of the time. on this occasion underhill played his old part of the gravedigger, professedly because he was fit for no other. his judgment was not ill founded, if cibber's testimony be true that he was really worn and disabled, and excited pity rather than laughter. the old man died a pensioner of the theatre whose proprietors he had helped to enrich, with the reputation of having, under the pseudonym of elephant smith, composed a mock funeral sermon on titus oates; and with the further repute of being an ultra-tory, addicted in coffee-houses to drink the duke of york's health more heartily than that of his brother, the king. with rare exchange of actors, and exclusive right of representing particular pieces, the two theatres continued in opposition to each other until the two companies were formed into one in the year . meanwhile, fire destroyed the old edifice of the king's company, in drury lane, in january , and till wren's new theatre was ready for them in , the unhoused troop played occasionally at dorset gardens,[ ] or at lincoln's inn fields, as opportunity offered. on the occasion of opening the new house, contemporary accounts state that the prices of admission were raised: to the boxes, from s. d. to s.; pit, from s. d. to s. d.; the first gallery, from s. to s. d.; and the upper gallery, from d. to s. pepys, however, on the th october , paid s. for admittance to the upper boxes, if his record be true.[ ] down to the year , the king's company lost several old and able actors, and acquired only powell, griffin, and beeston. george powell was the son of an obscure actor. his own brilliancy was marred by his devotion to jollity, and this devotion became the more profound as george saw himself surpassed by steadier actors, one of whom, wilks, in his disappointment, he challenged to single combat, and, in the cool air of "next morning," was sorry for his folly. idleness made him defer learning his parts till the last moment; his memory often failed him at the most important crisis of the play; and the public displeasure fell heavily and constantly on this clever but reckless actor. the _tatler_ calls him the "haughty george powell," when referring to his appearance in falstaff for his benefit, in april . "the haughty george powell hopes all the good-natured part of the town will favour him whom they applauded in alexander, timon, lear, and orestes, with their company this night, when he hazards all his heroic glory in the humbler condition of honest jack falstaff." valuable aid, like the above, he obtained from the _spectator_ also, with useful admonition to boot, from which he did not care to profit; and he fell into such degradation that his example was a wholesome terror to young actors willing to follow it, but fearful of the consequences. during his career, from to , in which year he died, he originated about forty new parts, and in some of them, such as brisk, in the "double dealer;" aboan, in "oroonoko;" the gallant, gay lothario; lord morelove, in the "careless husband;" and portius, in "cato," he has rarely been equalled. on the first night of the "relapse," in which he played worthy, he was so fired by his libations, that mrs. rogers, as amanda, was frightened out of her wits by his tempestuous love-making. powell's literary contributions to the drama were such as a man of his quality was likely to make,--chiefly plagiarisms awkwardly appropriated. griffin was an inferior actor to powell; but he was a wiser and a better man. he belonged to that class of actors whom "society" welcomed with alacrity. he was, moreover, of the class which had served in the field as well as on the stage, and when "captain griffin" died in queen anne's reign, the stage lost a respectable actor, and society a clever and a worthy member. the accessions to the duke's company were of more importance than those to the company of the theatre royal. in , the two poets, lee and otway, tempted fortune on the stage: lee, in one or two parts, such as the captain of the watch, in payne's "fatal jealousy," and duncan, in "macbeth;" otway as the king, in mrs. behn's "forced marriage." they both failed. lee, one of the most beautiful of readers, lost his voice through nervousness; otway, audacious enough at the coffee-houses, lost his confidence. there were eight other actors of the period whose success was unquestionable and well deserved. little bowman, who between this period and , the year of his death, never failed to appear when his name was in the bills. he was a noted bell-ringer, had sung songs to charles ii., and, when "father of the stage," he exacted applause from the second george. cademan was another of the company. like betterton and cartwright, he had learnt the mystery of the book-trade before he appeared as a player. he was driven from the latter vocation through an accident. engaged in a fencing-scene with harris, in "the man's the master," he was severely wounded by his adversary's foil, in the hand and eye, and he lost power not only of action but of speech. for nearly forty years the company assigned him a modest pension; and between the benevolence of his brethren and the small profits of his publishing, his life was rendered tolerable, if not altogether happy. his comrade, jevon, an ex-dancing master, was one of the hilarious actors. he was the original jobson in his own little comedy, "a devil of a wife," which has been altered into the farce of "the devil to pay." he took great liberties with authors and audience. he made settle half mad and the house ecstatic, when having, as lycurgus, prince of china, to "_fall on his sword_," he placed it flat on the stage, and falling over it, "_died_," according to the direction of the acting copy.[ ] he took as great liberties at the coffee-house. "you are wiping your dirty boots with my clean napkin," said an offended waiter to him. "never mind, boy," was the reply; "i'm not proud--it will do for me!" the dust of this jester lies in hampstead churchyard. longer known was anthony lee or leigh, that industrious and mirthful player, who, in the score of years he was before the public--from to --originated above thrice that number of characters. his masterpiece was dryden's spanish friar, dominique. how he _looked_ in that once famous part, may be seen by any one who can gain access to knowle, where his portrait, painted for the earl of dorset, still hangs--and all but speaks. but we may see how leigh looked by another portrait, painted in words, by cibber. "in the canting, grave hypocrisy, of the spanish friar, leigh stretched the veil of piety so thinly over him, that in every look, word, and motion, you saw a palpable, wicked slyness shine throughout it. here he kept his vivacity demurely confined, till the pretended duty of his function demanded it: and then he exerted it with a choleric, sacerdotal insolence. i have never yet seen any one that has filled them" (the scenes of broad jests) "with half the truth and spirit of leigh. i do not doubt but the poet's knowledge of leigh's genius helped him to many a pleasant stroke of nature, which, without that knowledge, never might have entered into his conception." leigh had the art of making pieces--dull to the reader, side-splitting mirth to an audience. in such pieces he and nokes kept up the ball between them; but with the players perished also the plays. [illustration: (anthony leigh.)] less happy than leigh was poor matthew medbourne, an actor of merit, and a young man of some learning, whose brief career was cut short by a too fervent zeal for his religion, which led him into a participation in the "popish plot." the testimony of titus oates caused his arrest, on the th of november , and his death;--for poor medbourne died of the newgate rigour in the following march. he is memorable, as being the first who introduced molière's "tartuffe" on the english stage, in a close translation, which was acted in , with remarkable success. cibber's "nonjuror" ( ), and bickerstaffe's "hypocrite" ( ), were only adaptations--the first of "tartuffe," and the second of the "nonjuror." mr. oxenford, however, reproduced the original in a more perfect form than medbourne, in a translation in verse, which was brought out at the haymarket, in , with a success most honestly earned by all, and especially deserving on the part of mr. webster, who played the principal character. sandford and smith were two actors whose names constantly recur together, but whose merits were not all of the same degree. the tall, handsome, manly smith, frequently played banquo; when his ghost, in the same tragedy, was represented by the short, spare, drolly ill-featured, and undignified sandford! the latter was famous for his villains--from those of tragedy to ordinary stage ruffians in broad belt and black wig--permanent type of those wicked people in melodramas to this day. this idiosyncrasy amusingly puzzled charles ii., who, in supposed allusion to shaftesbury, declared that the greatest villain of his time was fair-haired. the public of his period were so accustomed to see sandford represent the malignant heroes, that when they once saw him as an honest man, who did not prove to be a crafty knave before the end of the fifth act, they hissed the piece out of sheer vexation. sandford rendered villainy odious by his forcible representation of it. by a look, he could win the attention of an audience "to whatever he judged worth more than their ordinary notice;" and by attending to the punctuation of a passage, he divested it of the jingle of rhyme, or the measured monotony of blank verse. so misshapen, harsh, fierce, yet craftily gentle and knavishly persuasive could sandford render himself, cibber believes that shakspeare, conscious of other qualities in him, would have chosen him to represent richard, had poet and player been contemporaneous. the generous colley adds, that if there was anything good in his own richard, it was because he had modelled it after the fashion in which he thought sandford would have represented that monarch. sandford withdrew from the stage, after thirty-seven years' service, commencing in and terminating in . the career of his more celebrated colleague, smith, extended only from to , and that with the interruption of several years when his strong toryism made him unacceptable to the prejudiced whig audiences of the early part of the reign of william.[ ] he originally represented sir fopling flutter ( ), and pierre ( ); chamont ( ), in "the orphan," and scandal ( ), in "love for love." in the following year he died in harness. the long part of cyaxares, in "cyrus the great," overtaxed his strength, and on the fourth representation of that wearisome tragedy, smith was taken ill, and died. king james, in the person of smith, vindicated the nobility of his profession. "mr. smith," says cibber, with fine satire, "whose character as a gentleman could have been no way impeached, had he not degraded it by being a celebrated actor, had the misfortune, in a dispute with a gentleman behind the scenes, to receive a blow from him. the same night an account of this action was carried to the king, to whom the gentleman was represented so grossly in the wrong, that the next day his majesty sent to forbid him the court upon it. this indignity cast upon a gentleman only for maltreating a player, was looked upon as the concern of every gentleman! and a party was soon formed to assert and vindicate their honour, by humbling this favoured actor, whose slight injury had been judged equal to so severe a notice. accordingly, the next time smith acted, he was received with a chorus of catcalls, that soon convinced him he should not be suffered to proceed in his part; upon which, without the least discomposure, he ordered the curtain to be dropped, and having a competent fortune of his own, thought the conditions of adding to it, by remaining on the stage, were too dear, and from that day entirely quitted it." _not_ "entirely," for he returned to it in , after a secession of eleven years, under the persuasion, it is believed, of noble friends and ancient comrades. dr. burney states that the audience made a political matter of it. if so, whigs and tories had not long to contend, for the death of this refined player soon supervened. of the two most eminent ladies who joined the duke's company previous to the union of the two houses, lady slingsby (formerly mrs. aldridge, next mrs. lee,) is of note for the social rank she achieved; mrs. barry for a theatrical reputation which placed her on a level with betterton himself. lady slingsby withdrew from the stage in , after a brief course of ten or a dozen years. she died in the spring of , and was interred in old st. pancras churchyard, as "dame mary slingsby, widow." that is the sum of what is known of a lady whom report connects with the yorkshire baronets of scriven. of her colleague, there is more to be said; but the "famous mrs. barry" may claim a chapter to herself. footnotes: [ ] anthony aston, from whom this description is quoted, says that it was not modesty that prevented his understanding why he was admired, but sheer stupidity. [ ] he practically retired from the active work of his profession about . [ ] i can find no authority for this. the king's company appear to have played regularly at lincoln's inn fields. dorset garden was the new theatre of the duke's company. [ ] pepys is no doubt accurate. the higher prices were charged apparently from the opening of the old theatre in . [ ] genest conjectures, i think justly, that this must have happened at a rehearsal. downes says nothing about the house being ecstatic. [ ] very doubtful. the cause of his retirement was no doubt the quarrel afterwards mentioned. if he was off the stage for eleven years, as dr. doran says, he must have retired in , long before william was king. [illustration: river view of duke's theatre.] chapter vii. elizabeth barry. the "great mrs. barry," the _handbook of london_ tells us, lies buried in westminster cloisters. i did not there look for her tomb. to come at the grave of the great actress, i passed through acton vale and into the ugliest of village churches, and, after service, asked to be shown the tablet which recorded the death and burial of elizabeth barry. the pew-opener directed me to a mural monument which, i found, bore the name of one of the family of smith! i remonstrated. the good woman could not account for it. she had always taken that for elizabeth barry's monument. it was in the church somewhere. "there is no stone to any such person in this church," said the clerk, "and i know 'em all!" we walked down the aisle discussing the matter, and paused at the staircase at the west end; and as i looked at the wall, while still conversing, i saw in the shade the tablet which curll says is outside, in god's acre, and thereon i read aloud these words:--"near this place lies the body of elizabeth barry, of the parish of st. mary-le-savoy, who departed this life the th of november, , aged years." "that is she!" said i. the two officials looked puzzled and inquiring. at length the pew-opener ventured to ask: "and who was she, sir?" "the original monimia, belvidera, isabella, calista"---- "lor!" said the good woman, "only a player!" "_only a player!_" this of the daughter of an old cavalier! the seventeenth century gave many ladies to the stage, and elizabeth barry was certainly the most famous of them. she was the daughter of a barrister, who raised a regiment for the king, and thereby was himself raised to the rank of colonel. the effort did not help his majesty, and it ruined the colonel, whose daughter was born in the year . davenant[ ] took the fatherless girl into his house, and trained her for the stage, while the flash of her light eyes beneath her dark hair and brows was as yet mere girlish spirit; it was not intelligence. _that_ was given her by rochester. davenant was in despair at her dulness; but he acknowledged the dignity of her manners. at three separate periods managers rejected her. "she will never be an actress!" they exclaimed. rochester protested that he would make her one in six months. the wicked young earl, who lived in lincoln's inn fields, near the theatre, became her master, and, of course, fell in love with his pupil. the pains he bestowed upon his young mistress were infinite. sentence by sentence he made her understand her author; and the intelligence of the girl leaped into life and splendour under such instruction. to familiarise her with the stage, he superintended thirty rehearsals thereon, of each character in which she was to appear. of these rehearsals twelve were in full costume; and when she was about to enact isabella, the hungarian queen, in "mustapha," the page who bore her train was tutored so to move as to aid in the display of grace and majesty which was to charm the town. for some time, however, the town refused to recognise any magic in the charmer; and managers despaired of the success of a young actress who could not decently thread the mazes of a country dance. hamilton owned her beauty, but denied her talent. nevertheless, she one night burst forth in all her grandeur, and mustapha and zanger were not more ardently in love with the brilliant queen than the audience were. at the head of the latter were charles ii. and the duke and duchess of york. rochester had asked for their presence, and they came to add to the triumph of colonel barry's daughter. crabbed old anthony aston, the actor and prompter, spoke disparagingly of the young lady. according to him, she was no colonel's daughter, but "woman to lady shelton, my godmother." the two conditions were not incompatible. it was no unusual thing to find a lady in straitened circumstances fulfilling the office of "woman," or "maid," to the wives of peers and baronets. we have an instance in the _memoirs of mrs. delaney_, and another in the person of mrs. siddons. successful as elizabeth barry was in parts which she had studied under her preceptor, lord rochester, she cannot be said to have established herself as the greatest actress of her time till the year . up to this period she appeared in few characters suited to her abilities. in tragedies, she enacted the confidants to the great theatrical queens, mrs. lee and mrs. betterton; in comedies, the rattling, reckless, and audacious women, at whose sallies the pit roared approbation, and the box ladies were not much startled. but, in the year just named, otway produced his tragedy of "the orphan, or the unhappy marriage," in which mrs. barry was the monimia to the castalio of betterton. on the same night the part of the page was charmingly played by a future great actress, mrs. bracegirdle, then not six years old. in monimia, mrs. barry exercised some of those attributes which she possessed above all actresses cibber had ever seen, and which those who had not seen her were unable to conceive. "in characters of greatness," says cibber, in his _apology_, "she had a presence of elevated dignity; her mien and motion superb, and gracefully majestic; her voice full, clear, and strong, so that no violence of passion could be too much for her; and when distress or tenderness possessed her, she subsided into the most affecting melody and softness." from the position which she took by acting monimia, mrs. barry was never shaken by any rival, however eminent. her industry was as indefatigable as that of betterton. during the thirty-seven years she was on the stage, beginning at dorset gardens, in , and ending at the haymarket, in , she originated one hundred and twelve characters! monimia was the nineteenth of the characters of which she was the original representative; the first of those which mark the "stations" of her glory. in , she added another leaf to the chaplet of her own and otway's renown, by her performance of belvidera. in the softer passions of this part she manifested herself the "mistress of tears," and night after night the town flocked to weep at her bidding, and to enjoy the luxury of woe. the triumph endured for years. her monimia and belvidera were not even put aside by her cassandra, in the "cleomenes" of dryden, first acted at the theatre royal, in . "mrs. barry," says the author, "always excellent, has, in this tragedy, excelled herself, and gained a reputation, beyond any woman whom i have ever seen on the theatre." the praise is not unduly applied; for mrs. barry could give expression to the rant of dryden, and even to that of lee, without ever verging towards bombast. "in scenes of anger, defiance, or resentment," writes cibber, "while she was impetuous and terrible, she poured out the sentiment with an enchanting harmony." anthony aston describes her in tragedy as "solemn and august;" and she, perhaps, was never more so than in isabella, the heroine of the tragic drama rather than tragedy, by southerne, "the fatal marriage." aston remarks, that "her face ever expressed the passions; it somewhat preceded her action, as her action did her words." her versatility was marvellous, and it is not ill illustrated by the fact that in the same season she created two such opposite characters as lady brute, in vanbrugh's "provoked wife," and zara, in congreve's "mourning bride." the last of her great tragic triumphs, in a part of which she was the original representative, occurred in , when, in her forty-fifth year, she played calista, in "the fair penitent," that wholesale felony of rowe from massinger! though the piece did not answer the expectations of the public, mrs. barry did not fall short of them in the heroine; and she perhaps surpassed expectation, when, in , she elicited the admiration of the town by her creation of the sparkling character of clarissa, in "the confederacy." by this time she was growing rich in wealth as well as in glory. in former days, when the play was over, the attendant boy used to call for "mrs. barry's clogs!" or "mrs. bracegirdle's pattens!" but _now_, "mrs. barry's chair" was as familiar a sound as "mrs. oldfield's." if she was not invariably wise in the stewardship of her money, some portions were expended in a judicious manner creditable to her taste. at the sale of betterton's effects, she purchased the picture of shakspeare which betterton bought from davenant, who had purchased it from some of the players after the theatres had been closed by authority. subsequently, mrs. barry sold this relic, for forty guineas, to a mr. keck, whose daughter carried it with her as part of her dowry, when she married mr. nicoll, of colney hatch. _their_ daughter and heiress, in her turn, took the portrait and a large fortune with her to her husband, the third duke of chandos; and, finally, mrs. barry's effigy of shakspeare passed with another bride into another house, lady anne brydges, the daughter of the duke and duchess, carrying it with her to stowe on her marriage with the marquis of buckingham, subsequently duke of buckingham and chandos. the chandos portrait of the great dramatist is thus descended. mrs. barry, like many other eminent members of her profession, was famous for the way in which she uttered some single expression in the play. the "look there!" of spranger barry, as he passed the body of rutland, always moved the house to tears. so, the "remember twelve!" of mrs. siddon's belvidera; the "well, as you guess!" of edmund kean's richard; the "qu'en dis-tu?" of talma's auguste; the "je crois!" of rachel's pauline; the "je vois!" of mademoiselle mars's valerie, were "points" which never failed to excite an audience to enthusiasm. but there were two phrases with which mrs. barry could still more deeply move an audience. when, in "the orphan," she pronounced the words, "ah, poor castalio!" not only did the audience weep, but the actress herself shed tears abundantly. the other phrase was in a scene of banks's puling tragedy, "the unhappy favourite, or the earl of essex." in that play, mrs. barry represented queen elizabeth, and _that_ with such effect that it was currently said, the people of her day knew more of queen elizabeth from her impersonation of the character than they did from history. the apparently commonplace remark, "what mean my grieving subjects?" was invested by her with such emphatic grace and dignity, as to call up murmurs of approbation which swelled into thunders of applause. mary of modena testified her admiration by bestowing on the mimic queen the wedding-dress mary herself had worn when she was united to james ii., and the mantle borne by her at her coronation. thus attired, the queen of the hour represented the elizabeth, with which enthusiastic crowds became so much more familiar than they were with the elizabeth of history. but this "solemn and august" tragedian could also command laughter, and make a whole house joyous by the exercise of another branch of her vocation. "in free comedy," says aston, "she was alert, easy, and genteel, pleasant in her face and action, filling the stage with variety of gesture." so entirely did she surrender herself to the influences of the characters she represented, that in stage dialogues she often turned pale or flushed red, as varying passions prompted. with the audience she was never for a moment out of favour after she had made her merit apparent. they acknowledged no greater actress,--with the single exception of mrs. betterton in the character of lady macbeth. nevertheless, on and behind the stage mrs. barry's supremacy was sometimes questioned and her commands disobeyed. when she was about to play roxana to the statira of mrs. boutell, in nat. lee's "rival queens, or the death of alexander the great," she selected from the wardrobe a certain veil which was claimed by mrs. boutell as of right belonging to her. the property-man thought so too, and handed the veil to the last-named lady. his award was reasonable, for she was the original statira, having played the part to the matchless alexander of hart, and to the glowing roxana of the fascinating marshall. i fear, however, that the lady was not moderate in her victory, and that by flaunting the trophy too frequently before the eyes of the rival queen, the daughter of darius exasperated too fiercely her persian rival in the heart of alexander. the rage and dissension set down for them in the play were, at all events, not simulated. the quarrel went on increasing in intensity from the first, and culminated in the gardens of semiramis. when roxana seized on her detested enemy there, and the supreme struggle took place, mrs. barry, with the exclamation of "die, sorceress, die! and all my wrongs die with thee!" sent her polished dagger right through the stiff armour of mrs. boutell's stays. the consequences were a scratch and a shriek, but there was no great harm done. an investigation followed, and some mention was made of a real jealousy existing in mrs. barry's breast in reference to an admirer of lower rank than alexander, lured from her feet by the little, flute-voiced boutell. the deed itself was, however, mildly construed, and mrs. barry was believed when she declared that she had been carried away by the illusion and excitement of the scene. we shall see the same scene repeated, with similar stage effects, by mrs. woffington and mrs. bellamy. if there were a lover to add bitterness to the quarrel engendered by the veil, mrs. barry might have well spared one of whom she possessed so many. without being positively a transcendent beauty, her attractions were confessed by many an antony from the country, who thought their world of acres well lost for the sake of a little sunshine from the eyes of this vanquishing, imperious, banquetting, heart and purse destroying cleopatra. there were two classes of men who made epigrams, or caused others to make them against her, namely, the adorers on whom she ceased to smile, and those on whom she refused to smile at all. the coffee-house poetry which these perpetrated against her is the reverse of pleasant to read; but, under the protection of such a wit as etherege, or such a fine gentleman as rochester, mrs. barry cared little for her puny assailants. tom brown taxed her with mercenary feelings; but against that and the humour of writers who affected intimate acquaintance with her affairs of the heart and purse, and as intimate a knowledge of the amount which sir george etherege and lord rochester bequeathed to their respective daughters, of whom mrs. barry was the mother, she was armed. neither of these children survived the "famous actress." she herself hardly survived betterton--at least on the stage. the day after the great tragedian's final appearance, mrs. barry trod the stage for the last time. the place was the old haymarket, the play the "spanish friar," in which she enacted the queen. and i can picture to myself the effect of the famous passage, when the queen impetuously betrays her overwhelming love. "haste, my teresa, haste; and call him back!" "prince bertram?" asks the confidant; and then came the full burst, breaking through all restraint, and revealing a woman who seemed bathed in love. "_torrismond!_ there is no other he!" mrs. barry took no formal leave of the stage, but quietly withdrew from st. mary-le-savoy, in the strand, to the pleasant village of acton. mrs. porter, mrs. rogers, mrs. knight, and mrs. bradshaw, succeeded to her theatrical dominion, by partition of her characters. if tragedy lost its queen, acton gained a wealthy lady. her professional salary had not been large, but her "benefits" were very productive; they who admired the actress or who loved the woman, alike pouring out gold and jewels in her lap. it was especially for her that performers' benefits were first devised. authors alone had hitherto profited by such occasions, but, in recognition of her merit, king james commanded one to be given on her behalf, and what was commenced as a compliment soon passed into a custom. in a little more than three years from the date when the curtain fell before her for the last time, elizabeth barry died. brief resting season after such years of toil; but, perhaps, sufficient for better ends after a career, too, of unbridled pleasure! "this great actress," says cibber, "dy'd of a fever, towards the latter years of queen anne; the year i have forgot, but perhaps you will recollect it, by an expression that fell from her in blank verse, in her last hours, when she was delirious, viz.-- "ha! ha! and so they make us lords, by dozens!" this, however, does not settle the year so easily as colley thought. in december , queen anne, by an unprecedented act, created twelve new peers, to enable the measures of her tory ministers to be carried in the upper house. mrs. barry died two years later, on the th of november , and the utterance of the words quoted above only indicates that her wandering memory was then dealing with incidents full two years old. [illustration: (elizabeth barry.)] they who would see how mrs. barry looked living, have only to consult kneller's grand picture, in which she is represented with her fine hair drawn back from her forehead, the face full, fair, and rippling with intellect. the eyes are inexpressibly beautiful. of all her living beauty, living frailty, and living intelligence, there remains but this presentment. it was customary to compare mrs. barry with french actresses; but it seems to me that the only french actress with whom mrs. barry may be safely compared is mademoiselle, or, as she was called with glorious distinction, "the champmeslé." this french lady was the original hermione, berenice, monimia, and phædra. these were written expressly for her by racine, who trained her exactly as rochester did elizabeth barry,--to some glory on the stage, and to some infamy off it. la champmeslé, however, was more tenderly treated by society at large than the less fortunate daughter of an old royalist colonel. the latter actress was satirised; the former was eulogised by the wits, and she was not even anathematised by french mothers. when la champmeslé was ruining the young marquis de sevigné, his mother wrote proudly of the actress as her "daughter-in-law!" as if to have a son hurried to perdition by so resplendent and destructive a genius, was a matter of exultation! * * * * * having sketched the outline of mrs. barry's career, i proceed to notice some of her able, though less illustrious, colleagues. footnote: [ ] curll, in his history of the stage ( ), says it was lady davenant, a particular friend of sir william davenant. [illustration: contest for dogget's coat and badge.] chapter viii. "their first appearance on this stage." on the th november , the united company, the flower of both houses, opened their season at the theatre royal, in drury lane. the theatre in dorset gardens was only occasionally used; and from to there was but one theatre in london. betterton and mrs. barry were, of course, at the head of this company, to which there came some accessions of note; among others mrs. percival, better known as mrs. mountfort, and finally as mrs. verbruggen. a greater accession was that of the charming mrs. bracegirdle. the third lady was mrs. jordan, a name to be made celebrated by a later and a greater actress, who had no legal claim to it. of the new actors, some only modestly laid the foundations of their glory in this company. chief of these was colley cibber, who, in , played sir gentle's servant in southerne's "sir anthony love," had a part of nine lines in chapman's "bussy d'amboise," and of seventeen, as sigismond in powell's "alphonso." bowen, too, began with coachmen, and similar small parts, while that prince of the droll fellows of his time, pinkethman, commenced his career with a tailor's part, of six lines in length, in shadwell's "volunteers." among the other new actors were mountfort,[ ] norris,[ ] and doggett, with verbruggen (or alexander, as he sometimes called himself, from the character which he loved to play); gillow, carlisle, hodgson, and peer. amid these names, that of mrs. mountfort stands out the most brilliantly. her portrait has been so exquisitely limned by colley cibber, that we see her as she lived, and moved, and spoke. "mrs. mountfort was mistress of more variety of humour than i ever knew in any one actress. this variety, too, was attended with an equal vivacity, which made her excellent in characters extremely different. as she was naturally a pleasant mimic, she had the skill to make that talent useful on the stage. where the elocution is round, distinct, voluble, and various, as mrs. mountfort's was, the mimic there is a great assistance to the actor. nothing, though ever so barren, if within the bounds of nature, could be flat in her hands. she gave many heightening touches to characters but coldly written, and often made an author vain of his work, that, in itself, had but little merit. she was so fond of humour, in what low part soever to be found, that she would make no scruple of defacing her fair form to come heartily into it, for when she was eminent in several desirable characters of wit and humour, in higher life, she would be in as much fancy, when descending into the antiquated abigail of fletcher, as when triumphing in all the airs and vain graces of a fine lady; a merit that few actresses care for. in a play of durfey's, now forgotten, called 'the western lass,' which part she acted, she transformed her whole being--body, shape, voice, language, look and features--into almost another animal, with a strong devonshire dialect, a broad laughing voice, a poking head, round shoulders, an unconceiving eye, and the most bedizening, dowdy dress that ever covered the untrained limbs of a joan trot. to have seen her here, you would have thought it impossible that the same could ever have been recovered to, what was as easy to her, the gay, the lively, and the desirable. nor was her humour limited to her sex, for while her shape permitted, she was a more adroit, pretty fellow than is usually seen upon the stage. her easy air, action, mien, and gesture, quite changed from the coif to the cocked-hat and cavalier in fashion. people were so fond of seeing her a man that when the part of bayes, in 'the rehearsal,' had for some time lain dormant, she was desired to take it up, which i have seen her act with all the true coxcombly spirit and humour that the sufficiency of the character required. "but what found most employment for her whole various excellence at once was the part of melantha, in 'mariage à la mode.' melantha is as finished an impertinent as ever fluttered in a drawing-room, and seems to contain the most complete system of female foppery that could possibly be crowded into the tortured form of a fine lady. her language, dress, motion, manners, soul, and body, are in a continual hurry to be something more than is necessary or commendable. the first ridiculous airs that break from her are upon a gallant, never seen before, who delivers her a letter from her father, recommending him to her good graces as an honourable lover. here, now, one would think that she might naturally show a little of the sex's decent reserve, though never so slightly covered. no, sir! not a tittle of it! modesty is the virtue of a poor-souled country gentlewoman. she is too much a court-lady to be under so vulgar a confusion. she reads the letter, therefore, with a careless, dropping lip, and an erected brow, humming it hastily over, as if she were impatient to outgo her father's commands, by making a complete conquest of him at once; and that the letter might not embarrass her attack, crack! she crumbles it at once into her palm, and pours upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, and motion. down goes her dainty, diving body to the ground, as if she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions; then launches into a flood of fine language and compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and risings, like a swan upon waving water; and, to complete her impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit that she will not give her lover leave to praise it. silent assenting bows, and vain endeavours to speak, are all the share of the conversation he is admitted to, which at last he is relieved from, by her engagement to half a score visits, which she _swims_ from him to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling." happy mrs. mountfort, whom, as actress and woman, cibber has thus made live for ever! as mrs. percival, she was the original representative of nell in the piece now known as "the devil to pay;" as mrs. mountfort,--belinda, in the "old batchelor;" and as mrs. verbruggen,--charlotte welldon, in "oroonoko;"[ ] lady lurewell, in the "constant couple;" and bizarre, in the "inconstant." she died in . in some respects, mrs. bracegirdle, who was on the stage from to , and subsequently lived in easy retirement till , was even superior to mrs. mountfort. mrs. barry saw her early promise, and encouraged her in her first essays. in her peculiar line she was supreme, till the younger and irresistible talent of mrs. oldfield brought about her resignation. unlike either of these brilliant actresses, she was exposed to sarcasm only on account of her excellent private character. platonic friendships she _did_ cultivate; with those, slander dealt severely enough; and writers like gildon were found to declare, that they believed no more in the innocency of such friendships than they believed in john mandeville; while others, like tom brown, only gave her credit for a discreet decorum. cibber, more generous, declares that her virtuous discretion rendered her the delight of the town; that whole audiences were in love with her, because of her youth, her cheerful gaiety, her musical voice, and her happy graces of manner. her form was perfect. cibber says, "she had no greater claims to beauty than what the most desirable brunette might pretend to." other contemporaries notice her dark brown hair and eyebrows, her dark, sparkling eyes, the face from which the blush of emotion spread in a flood of rosy beauty over her neck, and the intelligence and expression which are superior to mere beauty. she so enthralled her audience that, it is quaintly said, she never made an _exit_ without the audience feeling as if they had moulded their faces into an imitation of hers. then she was as good, practically, as she was beautiful; and the poor of the neighbourhood in which she resided looked upon her as a beneficent divinity. her performance of statira was considered a justification of the frantic love of such an alexander as lee's; and "when she acted millamant, all the faults, follies, and affectation of that agreeable tyrant were venially melted down into so many charms and attractions of a conscious beauty." young gentlemen of the town pronounced themselves in tender but unrequited love with her. jack, lord lovelace, sought a return for his ardent homage, and obtained not what he sought. authors wrote characters for her, and poured out their own passion through the medium of her adorers in the comedy. for her, congreve composed his araminta and his cynthia, his angelica, his almeria, and the millamant, in the "way of the world," which cibber praises so efficiently. that this dramatist was the only one whose homage was well-received and presence ever welcome to her, there is no dispute. when a report was abroad that they were about to marry, the minor poets hailed the promised union of wit and beauty; and even congreve, not in the best taste, illustrated her superiority to himself, when he wrote of her-- "pious belinda goes to prayers whene'er i ask the favour, yet the tender fool's in tears when she thinks i'd leave her. would i were free from this restraint, or else had power to win her; would she could make of me a saint, or i of her a sinner." the most singular testimony ever rendered to this virtue occurred on the occasion when dorset, devonshire, halifax, and other peers, were making of that virtue a subject of eulogy over a bottle. halifax remarked, they might do something better than praise her; and thereon he put down two hundred guineas, which the contributions of the company raised to eight hundred,--and this sum was presented to the lady, as a homage to the rectitude of her private character. whether she accepted this tribute, i do not know; but i know that she declined another from lord burlington, who had long loved her in vain. "one day," says walpole, "he sent her a present of some fine old china. she told the servant he had made a mistake; that it was true the letter was for her, but the china for his lady, to whom he must carry it. lord! the countess was so full of gratitude, when her husband came home to dinner." mrs. bracegirdle lived to pass the limit of fourscore, and to the last was visited by much of the wit, the worth, and some of the folly of the town. on one occasion, a group of her visitors were discussing the merits of garrick, whom she had not seen, and cibber spoke disparagingly of his bayes, preferring in that part his own pert and vivacious son, theophilus. the old actress tapped colley with her fan; "come, come, cibber," she remarked; "tell me if there is not something like envy in your character of this young gentleman. the actor who pleases everybody must be a man of merit." colley smiled, tapped his box, took a pinch, and, catching the generosity of the lady, replied: "faith, bracey, i believe you are right; the young fellow _is_ clever!" between and , few actors were of greater note than luckless will mountfort, of whose violent death the beauty of mrs. bracegirdle was the unintentional cause. handsome will was the efficient representative of fops who did not forget that they were gentlemen. so graceful, so ardent, so winning as a lover, actresses enjoyed the sight of him pleading at their feet. in the younger tragic characters he was equally effective. his powers of mimicry won for him the not too valuable patronage of judge jeffries, to gratify whom, and the lord mayor and minor city magnates, in , mountfort pleaded before them in a feigned cause, in which, says jacobs, "he aped all the great lawyers of the age in their tone of voice, and in their action and gesture of body," to the delight of his hearers. on the stage, he was one of the most natural of actors; and even queen mary was constrained to allow, that disgusted as she was with mrs. behn's "rover," she could not but admire the grace, ease, intelligence, and genius of mountfort, who played the dissolute hero, sang as well as he spoke, and danced with stately dignity. but poor will was only the hero of a brief hour; and the inimitable original of sir courtly nice was murdered by two of the most consummate villains of the order of gentlemen then in town. charles, lord mohun, had, a few years previous to this occurrence, been tried with the earl of warwick for a murder, arising out of a coffee-house brawl;[ ] on being acquitted by the house of lords, he solemnly promised never to get into such a difficulty again. but one captain richard hill, being in "love" with mrs. bracegirdle, who heartily despised him, wanted a villain's assistance in carrying off the beautiful actress, and found the man and the aid he needed in lord mohun. in buckingham court, off the strand, where the captain lodged, the conspirators laid their plans; and learning that mrs. bracegirdle, with her mother and brother, was to sup one evening at the house of a friend, mr. page, in princes street, drury lane, they hired six soldiers--emissaries always then to be had for such work--to assist in seizing her and carrying her off in a carriage, stationed near mr. page's house. about ten at night, of the th december , the attempt was made; but what with the lady's screams, the resistance of the friend and brother, and the gathering of an excited mob, it failed; and a strange compromise was made, whereby lord mohun and hill were allowed to unite in escorting her home to her house, in howard street, strand. in that street lived also will mountfort, against whom the captain uttered such threats, in mrs. bracegirdle's hearing, that she, finding that my lord and the captain remained in the street--the latter with a drawn sword in his hand, and both of them occasionally drinking canary--sent to mrs. mountfort, to warn her husband, who was from home, to look to his safety. warned, but not alarmed, honest will, who loved his wife and respected mrs. bracegirdle, came round from norfolk street, saluted lord mohun (who embraced him, according to the then fashion with men), and said a word or two to his lordship, not complimentary to the character of hill. thence, from the latter--words, a blow, and a pass of his sword through mountfort's body--which the poor actor, as he lay dying on the floor of his own dining-room, declared, was given by hill before mountfort could draw his sword. the captain fled from england, but my lord, surrendering to the watchmen of the duchy of lancaster, was tried by his peers, fourteen of whom pronounced him guilty of murder; but as above threescore gave a different verdict, mohun lived on till he and the duke of hamilton hacked one another to death in that savage butchery--the famous duel in hyde park.[ ] mountfort, at the age of thirty-three, and with some reputation as the author of half-a-dozen dramas, was carried to the burying-ground of st. clement's danes, where his remains rest with those of lowen, one of the original actors of shakspeare's plays, tom otway, and nat. lee. his fair and clever widow became soon the wife of verbruggen--a rough diamond--a wild, untaught, yet not an unnatural actor. so natural, indeed, was he, that lord halifax took oroonoko from powell, who was originally cast for it, and gave it to verbruggen. such was the power of lord chamberlains! he could touch tenderly the finer feelings, as well as excite the wilder emotions of the heart. powell, on the other hand, was a less impassioned player, who would appear to have felt more than he made his audience feel, for in the original _spectator_, no. , february , powell begs the public to believe, that if he pauses long in orestes, he has not forgotten his part, but is only overcome at the sentiment. verbruggen died in . among his many original characters were oroonoko, bajazet, altamont, and sullen. he survived his wife about five years. i think if she loved will mountfort, she stood in some awe of fiery jack verbruggen; who, in his turn, seems to have had more of a rough courtesy than a warm affection for her. "for he would often say," remarks anthony aston, "d---- me! though i don't much value my wife, yet nobody shall affront her!" and his sword was drawn on the least occasion, which was much in fashion in the latter end of king william's reign. and let me add here, that an actor's sword was sometimes drawn for the king. james carlisle, a respectable player, whose comedy, "the fortune hunters," was well received in , was not so tempted by success as to prefer authorship to soldiership in behalf of a great cause. when the threatened destruction of the irish protestants was commenced with the siege of londonderry, carlisle entered king william's army, serving in ireland. in , he was in the terrible fray in the morass at aghrim, under ginkell, but immediately led by talmash. in the twilight of that july day, the jacobite general, st. ruth, and the poor player from drury lane, were lying among the dead; and there james carlisle was buried, with the remainder of the six hundred slain on the victor's side, before their surviving companions in arms marched westward. carlisle's fellow-actor, bowen, was a "low comedian" of some talent, and more conceit. a curious paragraph in the _post-boy_, for november th, , shows that he left the stage for a time, and under singular circumstances. the paragraph runs thus:-- "we hear that this day mr. bowen, the late famous comedian at the new play-house, being convinced by mr. collier's book against the stage, and satisfied that a shopkeeper's life was the readiest way to heaven of the two, opens a cane shop, next door to the king's head tavern, in middle row, holborn, where it is not questioned but all manner of canes, toys, and other curiosities, will be obtained at reasonable rates. this sudden change is admired at, as well as the reasons which induced him to leave such a profitable employ; but the most judicious conclude it is the effect of a certain person's good nature, who has more compassion for his soul than for his own." bowen was not absent from the stage more than a year. he was so jealous of his reputation, that when he had been driven to fury by the assertion that johnson played jacomo, in the "libertine," better than he did, and by the emphatic confirmation of the assertion by quin, he fastened a quarrel on the latter, got him in a room in a tavern, alone, set his back to the door, drew his sword, and assailed quin with such blind fury, that he killed himself by falling on quin's weapon. the dying irishman, however, generously acquitted his adversary of all blame, and the greater actor, after trial, returned to his duty, having innocently killed, but not convinced poor bowen, who naturally preferred his jacomo to that of johnson.[ ] peer, later in life, came to grief also, but in a different way. the spare man was famous for two parts; the apothecary, in "romeo and juliet," and the actor who humbly speaks the prologue to the play in "hamlet." these parts he played excellently well. nature had made him for them; but she was not constant to her meek and lean favourite; for peer grew fat, and being unable to act any other character with equal effect, he lost his vocation, and he died lingeringly of grief, in , when he had passed threescore years and ten. he had been property-man also, and in this capacity the theatre owed him, at the time of his decease, among other trifling sums, "threepence, for blood, in 'macbeth.'"[ ] norris, or "jubilee dicky," was a player of an odd, formal, little figure, and a squeaking voice. he was a capital comic actor, and owed his by-name to his success in playing dicky, in the "constant couple." so great was this success, that his sons seemed to derive value from it, and were announced as the sons of jubilee dicky. he is said to have acted cato, and other tragic characters, in a serio-burlesque manner. he was the original scrub, and don lopez in the "wonder," and died about the year . dogget, who was before the public from to , and who died in , was a dublin man--a failure in his native city, but in london a deserved favourite, for his original and natural comic powers. he always acted shylock as a ferociously comic character. congreve discerned his talent, and wrote for him fondlewife in the "old batchelor," sir paul pliant in the "double dealer," and the very different part of ben in "love for love." this little, lively, cheerful fellow, was a conscientious actor. somewhat illiterate--he spelt "whole" phonetically, without the _w_--he was a gentleman in his acts and bearing. he was prudent too, and when he retired from partnership in drury lane theatre, with cibber and wilks (from to ), on the admission of booth, which displeased him, he was considered worth £ a year. the consciousness of his value, and his own independence of character, gave some trouble to managers and lord chamberlains. on one occasion, having left drury lane, at some offence given, he went to norwich, whence he was brought up to london, under my lord's warrant. dogget lived luxuriously on the road, at the chamberlain's expense, and when he came to town, chief justice holt liberated him, on some informality in the procedure. little errors of temper, and extreme carefulness in guarding his own interests, are now forgotten. of his strong political feeling we still possess a trace. dogget was a staunch whig. the accession of the house of brunswick, dated from a first of august. on that day, in , and under george i., dogget gave "an _orange_-coloured livery, with a badge, representing liberty," to be rowed for by six watermen, whose apprenticeship had expired during the preceding year. he left funds for the same race to be rowed for annually, from london bridge to chelsea, "on the same day for ever." the match still takes place, with modifications caused by changes on and about the river; but the winners of the money-prizes, now delivered at fishmongers' hall, have yet to be thankful for that prudence in dogget, which was sneered at by his imprudent contemporaries. dogget never took liberties with an audience; pinkethman was much addicted to that bad habit. he would insert nonsense of his own, appeal to the gallery, and delight in their support, and the confusion into which the other actors on the stage were thrown; but the joke grew stale at last, and the offender was brought to his senses by loud disapprobation. he did not lose his self-possession; but assuming a penitent air, with a submissive glance at the audience, he said in a stage _aside_, "odso, i believe i have been in the wrong here!" this cleverly-made confession brought down a round of applause, and "pinkey" made his exit, corrected, but not disgraced. another trait of his stage life is worthy of notice. he had been remarkable for his reputation as a speaking harlequin, in the "emperor of the moon." his wit, audacity, emphasis, and point, delighted the critics, who thought that "expression" would be more perfect if the actor laid aside the inevitable mask of harlequin. pinkethman did so; but all expression was thereby lost. it was no longer the saucy harlequin that seemed speaking. pinkey, so impudent on all other occasions, was uneasy and feeble on this, and his audacity and vivacity only returned on his again assuming the sable vizard. pinkethman was entirely the architect of his own fortune. he made his way by talent and industry. he established the richmond theatre, and there was no booth at greenwich, richmond, or may-fair, so well patronised as his. "he's the darling of _fortunatus_," says downes, "and has gained more in theatres and fairs in twelve years than those who have tugged at the oar of acting these fifty." after the division of the company into two, in , the following new actors appeared between that period and the close of the century. at drury lane, hildebrand horden, mrs. cibber,[ ] johnson, bullock, mills, wilks; and, as if the century should expire, reckoning a new glory,--mrs. oldfield. at lincoln's inn fields,--thurmond, scudamore, verbruggen, who joined from drury lane, leaving his clever wife there, pack; and, that this house might boast a glory something like that enjoyed by its rival, in mrs. oldfield,--in booth made his first appearance, with a success, the significance of which was recognised and welcomed by the discerning and generous betterton. mrs. oldfield, wilks, and booth, like colley cibber, though they appeared towards the close of the seventeenth, really belong to the eighteenth century, and i shall defer noticing them till my readers and i arrive at that latter period. the rest will require but a few words. young horden was a handsome and promising actor, who died of a brawl at the rose tavern, covent garden. he and two or three comrades were quaffing their wine, and laughing, at the bar, when some fine gentlemen, in an adjacent room, affecting to be disturbed by the gaiety of the players, rudely ordered them to be quiet. the actors returned an answer which brought blood to the cheek, fierce words to the lips, hand to the sword, and a resulting fight, in which the handsome hildebrand was slain by a captain burgess. the captain was carried to the gate-house, from which, says the _protestant mercury_, he was rescued at night, "by a dozen or more of fellows with short clubs and pistols." so ended, in , hildebrand horden, not without the sympathy of loving women, who went in masks, and some without the vizard, to look upon and weep over his handsome, shrouded corpse. a couple of paragraphs in luttrell's diary conclude horden's luckless story: "saturday, th october, mr. john pitts was tried at the session for killing mr. horden, the player, and acquitted, he being no ways accessary thereto, more than being in company when 'twas done." on tuesday, th november , the diarist writes: "captain burgess, _who killed_ mr. horden, the player, has obtained his majesty's pardon." of mrs. cibber, it can only be said that she was the wife of a great, and of bullock, that he was the father of a good, actor. to johnson no more praise can be awarded than to bullock.[ ] william[ ] mills deserves a word or two more of notice than these last. he was on the stage from to ,[ ] and though only a "solid" actor, he excelled cibber, in corvino, in jonson's "volpone;" surpassed smith in the part of pierre, and was only second to quin, in volpone himself. his ventidius, in dryden's tragedy, "all for love," to booth's anthony, is praised for its natural display of the true spirit of a rough and generous soldier. of his original parts, the chief were jack stanmore, in "oroonoko;" aimwell, in the "beaux stratagem;" charles, in the "busy body;" pylades, in the "distressed mother;" colonel briton, in the "wonder;" zanga, in the "revenge;" and manly, in the "provoked husband." that some of these were beyond his powers is certain; but he owed his being cast for them to the friendship of wilks, when the latter was manager. to a like cause may be ascribed the circumstance of his having the same salary as betterton, £ per week, and £ for his wife; but this was not till after betterton's death. at lincoln's inn fields, thurmond, though a respectable actor, failed to shake any of the public confidence in betterton. of scudamore, i have already spoken. pack was a vivacious comic actor, whose "line" is well indicated in the characters of brass, marplot, and lissardo, of which he was the original representative. he withdrew from the stage in , a bachelor; and, in the meridian of life, opened a tavern in charing cross. i have now named the principal actors and actresses who first appeared between the restoration and the year , betterton and mrs. barry being the noblest of the players of that half century; cibber, booth, and mrs. oldfield, the bright promises of the century to come. it is disappointing, however, to find that in the very last year of the seventeenth century "the grand jury of middlesex presented the two play-houses, and also the bear-garden, as nuisances and riotous and disorderly assemblies." so luttrell writes, in december , at which time, as contemporary accounts inform us, the theatres were "pestered with tumblers, rope-dancers, and dancing men and dogs from france." betterton was then in declining health, and appeared only occasionally; the houses, lacking other attraction, were ill attended, and public taste was stimulated by offering the "fun of a fair," where mrs. barry had drowned a whole house in tears. the grand jury of middlesex did not see that with rude amusements the spectators grew rude too. the jury succeeded in preventing play-bills from being posted in the city, and denounced the stage as a pastime which led the way to murder. the last denunciation was grounded on the fact, that sir andrew slanning had been killed just before, on his way _from_ the play-house. when men wore swords and hot tempers these catastrophes were not infrequent. in , a coffee-house was sometimes turned into a shambles by gentlemen calling the actors at the duke's house "papists." what was the cause of the fray in which sir andrew fell i do not know. whatever it was, he was run through the body by mr. cowlan; and that the latter took some unfair advantage is to be supposed, since he was found guilty of murder, and in december was executed at tyburn, with six other malefactors, who, on the same day, in the newgate slang of the period, went _westward hoe!_ on the poor players fell all the disgrace; but i think i shall be able to show, in the next chapter, that the fault lay rather with the poets. these, in their turn, laid blame upon the public; but it is the poet's business to elevate, and not to pander to a low taste. the foremost men of the tuneful brotherhood, of the period from the restoration to the end of the century, have much to answer for in this last respect. footnotes: [ ] mountfort seems to have acted as early as . [ ] norris does not appear in the bills till . [ ] dr. doran spells "oroonoko" wrong throughout. in this he follows genest; but the latter corrects his blunder in his "errata." [ ] the trial of mohun and warwick took place seven years after mountfort's death--that is, in . [ ] it is only fair to hill to say that dr. doran adopts a theory regarding the death of mountfort which is, at least, doubtful. it is quite as possible that he was killed in a fair fight with hill. [ ] dr. doran in his ms. gives the following curious and valuable note regarding quin's trial and punishment, which states a fact absolutely unknown to any of quin's biographers:--" . the papers of the day say that quin and bowen fought on the question which was the honester man. the coroner's inquest found it 'se defendendo;' but an old bailey jury returned a verdict of manslaughter, and at the end of the session i find, among the names of malefactors sent to tyburn, or otherwise punished, 'mr. quin, the comedian, burnt in the hand.'" [ ] this is taken from the _guardian_, no. . genest calls it a humorous account of him. [ ] the elder mrs. cibber (second edition). [ ] this is a most inaccurate statement. benjamin jonson, or johnson, was a comedian of the highest order. davies calls him "that chaste copier of nature," and praises him heartily: victor is enthusiastic in his appreciation of him: and lloyd, in his "actor," specially commends him. he was very great in his more famous namesake's comedies. [ ] should be john mills. william was a much less important actor. [ ] . he died november or december . [illustration: colley cibber.] chapter ix. the dramatic poets. noble, gentle, and humble authors. it is a curious fact, that the number of dramatic writers between the years - , inclusive, exceeds that of the actors. a glance at the following list will show this. sir w. davenant, dryden, porter, mrs. behn, lee, cowley, hon. james howard, shadwell, sir s. tuke, sir r. stapylton, lord broghill (earl of orrery), flecknoe, sir george etherege, sir r. howard, lacy (actor), betterton (actor), earl of bristol, duke of buckingham, dr. rhodes, sir edward howard, settle, caryll (earl of caryll, of james ii.'s creation), henry lucius carey (viscount falkland), duke of newcastle, shirley, sir charles sedley, mrs. boothby, medbourne (actor), corye, revet, crowne, ravenscroft, wycherley, arrowsmith, neville payne, sir w. killigrew, duffet, sir f. fane, otway, durfey, rawlins, leanard, bankes, pordage, rymer, shipman, tate, bancroft, whitaker, maidwell, saunders (a boy-poet), and southerne. here are already nearly threescore authors (some few of whom had commenced their career prior to the restoration) who supplied the two theatres, between and , in which latter year began that "union," under which london had but one theatre till the year . within the thirteen years of the union, appeared as dramatic writers, the earl of rochester;--jevon, mountfort, harris, powell, and carlisle (actors); wilson, brady, congreve, wright, and higden. from the period of the dissolution of the union to the end of the century occur the names of, colley cibber (actor), mrs. trotter (cockburn), gould, mrs. pix, mrs. manley, norton, scott, dogget (actor), dryden, jun., lord lansdowne (granville), dilke, sir john vanbrugh, gildon, drake, filmer, motteux, hopkins, walker, w. phillips, farquhar, boyer, dennis, burnaby, oldmixon, mrs. centlivre (carroll), crauford, and rowe. [illustration: (thomas betterton.)] in the above list there are above a hundred names of authors, none of whose productions can now be called stock-pieces; though of some four or five of these writers a play is occasionally performed, to try an actor's skill or tempt an indifferent audience. of the actors who became authors, cibber alone was eminently successful, and of him i shall speak apart. the remainder were mere adapters. of betterton's eight plays, i find one tragedy borrowed from webster; and of his comedies, one was taken from marston; a second raised on molière's "george dandin"; a third was never printed; his "henry the fourth" was one of those unhallowed outrages on shakspeare, of which the century in which it appeared was prolific; his "bondman" was a poor reconstruction of massinger's play, in which betterton himself was marvellously great; and his "prophetess" was a conversion of beaumont and fletcher's tragedy into an opera, by the efficient aid of henry purcell, who published the music in score, in . there was noble music wedded to noble words, and for the recreation of those who could appreciate neither; there was a dance of quaint figures from whom, when about to sit down, the chairs slipped under them, took up the measure, and concluded by dancing it out. medbourne produced only his translation of the "tartuffe," jevon only one comedy. mountfort, like betterton, was an indifferent author. his "injured lovers" ends almost as tragically as the apocryphal play in which all the characters being killed at the end of the fourth act, the concluding act is brought to a close by their executors. in mountfort's loyal tragedy all the principal personages receive their quietus, and the denouement is left in the hands of a solitary and wicked colonel, with a contented mind. "edward the third" is so much more natural than the above, that it is by some assigned to bancroft, while "zelmane" is only hypothetically attributed to mountfort, on the ground, apparently, of its absurdities. in the preface to his "successful strangers," mountfort modestly remarks, "i have a natural inclination to poetry, which was born and not bred in me." he showed small inventive power in his bustling comedy, "greenwich park," and less respect for a master in minstrelsy, when he turned poor kit marlowe's "doctor faustus" into an impassioned sort of burlesque, with the addition of harlequin and scaramouch to give zest to the buffoonery! carlisle, the actor who fell at aghrim, was the author of the "fortune hunters;" and joseph harris, who was a poor comedian, and the marrer of four adapted and unsuccessful plays, resumed under queen anne his original vocation of engraver to the mint. the age was one of adapters, whose cry was that shakspeare would not attract, and accordingly george powell combined authorship with acting, and borrowed from shirley, from brome, and from middleton. mrs. pix, and the romancers, produced a few plays, from one of which a recent dramatist has stolen as boldly as george himself was wont to steal. i allude to the "imposture defeated," in which artan (a demon) enables hernando, a physician, to foretell the fate of each patient, according as artan takes his stand at the foot or at the head of the bed. one word will suffice for dogget's contribution to stage literature. he was the author of one lively, but not edifying, piece, entitled the "country wake," in which he provided himself with a taking part called hob, and one for mrs. bracegirdle--flora. in a modified form, this piece was known to our grandfathers as "flora;" or, "hob in the well." the actors themselves, then, were not efficient as authors. let us now see what the noble gentlemen, the amateur rather than professional poets, contributed towards the public entertainment, and their own reputation, during the last half of the seventeenth century. they may be reckoned at a dozen and a half, from dukes to knights. of the two dukes, buckingham and newcastle, the former is the more distinguished dramatic writer. he was a man of great wit and no virtue; a member of two universities, but no honour to either. he was one who respected neither his own wife nor his neighbour's, and was faithful to the king only as long as the king would condescend to obey his caprices. from , when he was born, to april , the year of his death, history has placed no generous action of his upon record, but has registered many a crime and meanness. he lived a profligate peer, in a magnificence almost oriental; he died a beggar; bankrupt in everything but impudence. dryden and pope have given him everlasting infamy; the latter not without a touch of pity, felt not at all by the former. historians have justified the severity of the poets; gilbert burnet has dismissed him with a sneer, and baxter has thrown in a word on behalf of his humanity. his play of the "chances" was a mere adaptation of the piece so named, by beaumont and fletcher. plays which were attributed to him, but of which he was not the author, need not be mentioned. the duke's dramatic reputation rests on his great burlesque tragedy, the "rehearsal;" but even in this he is said to have had the assistance of butler, martin clifford, and dr. sprat. written to deride the bombastic tragedies then in vogue, davenant, dryden, and sir robert howard are, by turns, struck at, under the person of the poet bayes; and the irritability of the second, under the allusions, are perhaps warrant that the satire was good. the humour is good, too; the very first exhibition of it excited the mirth which afterwards broke into peal upon peal of laughter. the rehearsed play commences with a scene between the royal usher and the royal physician, in a series of whispers; for, as mr. bayes remarks, the two officials were plotting against the king; but this fact it was necessary, as yet, to keep from the audience! mr. cavendish, whose services in the royal cause deservedly earned for him that progress through the peerage which terminated in his creation as duke of newcastle, was the opposite of buckingham in most things save his taste for magnificence, in which he surpassed villiers. two thousand pounds were as cheerfully spent on feasting charles i., as the duke's blood was vainly shed for the same monarch in the field. he lived like a man who had the purse of fortunatus; but in exile at antwerp, he pawned his best clothes and jewels, that he and his celebrated wife might have the means of existence. he was the author of a few plays, two of which were represented after the restoration. the "country captain," and "variety," were composed in the reign of charles i. the "humourous lovers," and the "triumphant widow," subsequently. these are bustling but immoral comedies, suiting, but not correcting the vices of the times; and singular, in their slip-shod style, as coming from the author of the pompous treatise on horses and horsemanship. pepys ascribes the "humourous lovers" to the duchess. he calls it a "silly play; the most silly thing that ever came upon a stage. i was sick to see it, but yet would not but have seen it, that i might the better understand her." pepys is equally severe against the "country captain." the duke seems to have aimed at the delineation of character, particularly in "variety," and the "triumphant widow, or, the medley of humours." johnson grieves over the oblivion which, in his time, had fallen on these works, and later authors have declared that the duke's comedies ought not to have been forgotten. they have at least been remembered by some of our modern novelists in want of incident. of the three earls, all of whose pieces were produced previous to , there is not much to be said in praise. the eccentric, clever, brave, inconsistent, contradictory george digby, earl of bristol, he who turned romanist at the instigation of don john of austria, and aiming at office himself, conspired against clarendon, was the author of one acted piece, "elvira," one of the two out of which mrs. centlivre built up her own clever bit of mosaic, the "wonder." wilmot, earl of rochester, in whom all the vices of buckingham were exaggerated; to whom virtue and honour seemed disgusting, and even the affectation of them, or of ordinary decency, an egregious folly, found leisure in the least feverish hour of some five years' drunkenness, to give to the stage an adaptation of "valentinian," by beaumont and fletcher, in which he assigned a part to mrs. barry--the very last that any other lover would have thought of for his mistress. the noble poet, little more than thirty years old, lay in a dishonoured grave when his piece was represented, in ;[ ] but the young actress just named, gaily alluded, in a prologue, to the demure nymphs in the house who had succumbed, nothing loath, to the irresistible blandishments of this very prince of blackguards. the earl of caryll was a man of another spirit. he was the head of the family to which pope's carylls belonged, and being a faithful servant of james ii., in adversity as well as in prosperity, the king made him an earl, at that former period, when the law of england did not recognise the creation. caryll was of the party who talked of the unpopularity of shakspeare, and who for the poet's gold offered poor tinsel of their own. his rhymed drama of the "english princess, or the death of richard the third," owed its brief favour to the acting of betterton, who could render even nonsense imposing. his comedy of "sir solomon, or the cautious coxcomb," was "taken from the french." the chief scenes were mere translations of molière's "ecole des femmes;" but life, and fun, and wit were given to them again by betterton, who in the comic old sir solomon shook the sides of the "house," as easily as he could, in other characters, move them to wonder, or melt them to tears. in , another "lance was broken with shakspeare" by lord orrery, the lord broghill of earlier days. there was something dramatic in this lord's life. he was a marvellous boy, younger son of a marvellous father, the "great earl of cork." before he was fifteen, dublin university was proud of him. at that age he went on the "grand tour," at twenty married the earl of suffolk's daughter, and landed in ireland, to keep his wedding, on the very day of the outbreak of the rebellion of . the young bridegroom fought bravely for homestead and king, and went into exile when that king was slain; but he heeded the lure of cromwell, won for him the victory of macroom, rescued him from defeat at clonmel, and crushed muskerry and his numerous papal host. from richard cromwell, broghill kept aloof, and helped forward the restoration, for which service charles made him a peer--earl of orrery. the earl showed his gratitude by deifying kings, and inculcating submissiveness, teaching the impeccability of monarchs, and the extreme naughtiness of their people. pepys comically bewails the fact, that on going to see a new piece by orrery, he sees only an old one under a new name, such wearying sameness is there in the rhymed phrases of them all. orrery's tilt against shakspeare is comprised in his attempt to suppress that poet's "henry v.," by giving one of his own, in which henry and owen tudor are simultaneously in love with katherine of france. the love is carried on in a style of stilted burlesque; and yet the dignity and wit of this piece enraptured pepys--but then he saw it at court in december , lord bellasis having taken him to whitehall, after seeing "macbeth" at the duke's house,--"and there," he says, "after all staying above an hour for the players, the king and all waiting, which was absurd, saw 'henry v.' well done by the duke's people, and in most excellent habits, all new vests, being put on but this night. but i sat so high, and so far off, that i missed most of the words, and sat with a wind coming into my back and neck, which did much trouble me. the play continued till twelve at night, and then up, and a most horrid cold night it was, and frosty, and moonshine;" and it might have been worse. in orrery's "mustapha" and "tryphon," the theme is all love and honour, without variation. orrery's "mr. anthony" is a five-act farce, in ridicule of the manners and morals of the puritans. therein the noble author rolls in the mire for the gratification of the pure-minded cavaliers. over orrery's "black prince," even vigilant mr. pepys himself fell asleep, in spite of the stately dances. perhaps he was confused by the author's illustration of genealogical history; for in this play, joan, the wife of the black prince, is described as the widow of edmund, earl of kent--_her father!_ but what mattered it to the writer whose only teaching to the audience was, that if they did not fear god, they must take care to honour the king? orrery's "altemira" was not produced till long after his death. it is a roar of passion, love (or what passed for it), jealousy, despair, and murder. in the concluding scene the slaughter is terrific. it all takes place in presence of an unobtrusive individual, who carries the doctrine of non-intervention to its extreme limit. when the persons of the drama have made an end of one another, the quietly delighted gentleman steps forward, and blandly remarks, that there was so much virtue, love, and honour in it all, that he could not find it in his heart to interfere, though his own son was one of the victims! a contemporary of orrery, young henry carey, viscount falkland, son of the immortal soldier who fell at newbury, wrote one piece, the "marriage night," of which i know nothing, save that it was played in the lent of ; but i do know that the author had wit, for when some one remarked, as carey took his seat in the house of commons for the first time, that he looked as if he had not sown his wild oats, he replied, that he had come to the place where there were geese enough to pick them up! the last of the dramatic lords of this century was that lord lansdowne whom pope called "granville the polite," and absurdly compared with surrey, by awkwardly calling the latter the "granville of a former age." granville was a statesman, a tory, a stiff-backed gentleman in a stiff-backed period, and a sufferer for his opinions. driven into leisure, he addressed himself to literature, in connection with which he committed a crime against the majesty of shakspeare, which was unpardonable. he reconstructed the "merchant of venice," called it the "jew of venice," and assigned shylock to dogget. lord lansdowne's "she gallants" is a vile comedy for its "morals," but a vivacious one for its manner. old downes, the prompter, sneers at the offence taken at it by some ladies, who, he thinks, affected rather than possessed virtue themselves. but ladies, in , _were_ offended at such outrages on decency as this play contains. they were not the first who had made similar protest. even in this lord's tragedy of "heroic love," achilles and briseis are only a little more decent than ravenscroft's loose rakes and facile nymphs. the only consolation one has in reading the "jew of venice" (produced in ) is, that there are some passages the marrer could not spoil. as for shylock, rowe expressed the opinion of the public when, in spite of the success of the comic edition of the character, he said, modestly enough, "i cannot but think the character was _tragically designed_ by the author." dryden, pope, and johnson have in their turn eulogised granville; but, as a dramatic poet, he reflects no honour either on the century in which he was born, or on that in which he died. indeed, of the dramatist peers of the seventeenth century, there is not a play that has survived to our times. and now, coming to a dozen of baronets, knights, and honourables, let us point to two,--sir samuel tuke and sir william killigrew, who may claim precedence for their comparative purity, if not for decided dramatic talent. to the former, an old colonel of the cavalier times, charles ii. recommended a comedy of calderon's, which sir samuel produced at the lincoln's inn fields theatre, in , under the title of the "adventures of five hours." the public generally, and pepys especially, were unusually delighted with this well-constructed comedy. when it was played at whitehall, mrs. pepys saw it from lady fox's "_pew_;" and, making an odd comparison, the diarist thought "othello" a "mean thing," when weighed against the "adventures;" but his chief praise is, that it is "without one word of ribaldry;" and echard has added thereto his special commendation as a critic. sir robert stapylton says of william killigrew what could not be said of his brother tom (whose plays were written before the restoration), that in him were found-- "---- plots well laid, the language pure and ev'ry sentence weighed." sir william, a soldier of the first charles's fighting time, a courtier, and vice-chamberlain to the queen, in "rowley's" days, was the author of four or five plays, one only of which deserves any notice here,--namely, his comedy of "pandora." the heroine of this drama, resolving to cloister herself up from marriage, allows love to be made to her in jest, and, of course, ends by becoming a wife in happy earnest. the author had, at first, made a tragedy of "pandora." the masters of the stage objected to it in that form; and, it being all the same to the complaisant sir william, he converted his tragedy into a comedy! sir robert stapylton, himself a douay student converted to protestantism; a cavalier, who turned to a hanger-on at court--but who was always a scholar and a gentleman,--has received more censure than praise at the hands of a greater critic and poet than himself. pepys took no interest in stapylton's "slighted maid," even though his own wife's maid, gosnell, had a part in it; and dryden has remarked of it, with too much severity, that "there is nothing in the first act that might not be said or done in the second; nor anything in the middle which might not as well have been at the beginning or the end." stapylton, like the wits of his time, generally wrote more weakly than he spoke. this was the case, too, with tom killigrew, of whom scott remarks truly, in a very awkward simile (_life of dryden_), that "the merit of his good things _evaporated_ as soon as he attempted to _interweave_ them with comedy." but who is this jaunty personage, so noisy at a rehearsal of one of his own indifferent plays? it is "ned howard," one of the three sons of the dirty earl of berkshire, the first howard who bore that title, and whom pepys saw one july day of , serving the king with liquor, "in that dirty pickle i never saw man in, in my life." the daughter of this earl was the wife of dryden. and what does ned howard say at rehearsal? the actors are making some objection to his piece; but he exclaims, "in fine,--it shall read, and write, and act, and print, and pit, box, and gallery it, egad, with any play in europe!" the play fails; and then you may hear ned in any coffee house, or wherever there is a company, proclaiming, by way of excuse, that "mr. so-and-so the actor didn't _top his part, sir_!" it was ned howard's favourite phrase. the old earl of berkshire gave three sons to literature, besides a daughter to dryden; namely, sir robert, james, and this edward. the last-named was the least effective. his characters "talk," but they are engaged in no plot; and they exhibit a dull lack of incident. the most of his six or seven dramas were failures; but from one of them, which was the most original, indecent, and the most decidedly damned, mrs. inchbald condescended to extract matter which she turned to very good purpose in her "every one has his fault." edward howard gratified the court-party in his tragedy of "the usurper," by describing, under the character of damocles the syracusan, the once redoubted oliver cromwell: while hugo de petra but thinly veiled hugh peters; and cleomenes is said to have been the shadow of general monk. lacy said that ned was "more of a fool than a poet;" and buckingham was of the same opinion. james howard came under buckingham's censure too; and an incident in the "english monsieur," which, if pepys's criticism may be accepted, was a mighty, pretty, witty, pleasant, mirthful comedy, furnished the satirical touch in the "rehearsal," where prince volscius falls in love with parthenope, as he is pulling on his boots to go out of town. james howard belonged to the faction which affected to believe that there was no popular love for shakspeare, to render whom palatable, he arranged "romeo and juliet" for the stage, with a double denouement--one serious, the other hilarious. if your heart were too sensitive to bear the deaths of the loving pair, you had only to go on the succeeding afternoon to see them wedded, and set upon the way of a well-assured domestic felicity! this species of humour was not wanting in sir robert howard,--who won his knighthood by valour displayed in saving lord wilmot's life in that hot affair at cropredy bridge. sir robert has been as much pommelled as patted by dryden. buckingham dragged him in effigy across the stage, and shadwell ridiculed the universality of his pretensions by a clever caricature of him, in the "impertinents," as sir positive atall. for the king's purpose, howard cajoled the parliament out of money; for his own purpose, he cajoled the king out of both money and place; and netted several thousands a year by affixing his very legible signature to warrants, issued by him as auditor of the exchequer. the humour which he had in common with his brother james, he exhibited, by giving two opposite catastrophes to his "vestal virgin," between which the public were free to choose. sir robert has generally been looked upon as a servile courtier; but people were astounded at the courage displayed by him in his "great favourite, or the duke of lerma;" in which the naughtiness of the king's ways, and still more that of the women about him, was shown in a light which left no doubt as to the application of the satire. his bombastic periods have died away in the echoes of them which fielding caught in his "tom thumb;" but his comic power is strongly and admirably manifested in his "committee," a transcript of puritan life, which--applied to quakers, for want of better subjects for caricature--may still be witnessed in country theatres, in the farce of "honest thieves." like many other satirists, sir robert could not detect his own weak points. in his "blind lady," he ridicules an old widow in desperate want of a seventh husband; and at threescore and ten, he himself married buxom mistress dives, one of the maids of honour to queen mary. of comedies portraying national or individual follies, perhaps the most successful, and the most laughable, was james howard's "english monsieur," in which the hero-englishman execrates everything that is connected with his country. to him an english meal is poison, and an english coat degradation. the english monsieur once challenged a rash person who had praised an english dinner, and, says he, "i ran him through his mistaken palate, which made me think the hand of justice guided my sword." is there a damp walk, along which the gallo-englishman passes--he can distinguish between the impressions previously left there by english or french ladies,--the footsteps of the latter being of course altogether the more fairy-like. "i have seen such _bonne mine_ in their footsteps, that the king of france's _maître de danse_ could not have found fault with any one tread amongst them all. in these walks," he adds, "i find the toes of english ladies ready to tread upon one another." later in the play, the hero quarrels with a friend who had found fault with a "pair of french tops," worn by the former. these boots made so much noise when the wearer moved in them, that the friend's mistress could not hear a word of the love made to her. the wearer, however, justifies the noise as a fashionable french noise: "for, look you, sir, a french noise is agreeable to the ear, and therefore not unagreeable, not prejudicial to the hearing; that is to say, to a person who has seen the world." the english monsieur, as a matter of course, loves a french lady, who rejects his suit; but to be repulsed by a french dame had something pleasant in it; "'twas a denial with a french tone of voice, so that 'twas agreeable." ultimately, the nymph bids him a final adieu, and the not too dejected lover exclaims to a friend: "do you see, sir, how she leaves us; she walks away with a french step!" one word may be said here for sir ludovick carlell, the old gentleman of the bows to charles i. like shirley, killigrew, and davenant, he had written plays before the time of the commonwealth; and he survived to write more after the restoration. the only one, however, which he offered to the players was a translation of "heraclius," by corneille; and that was returned on his hands. there is another knight, sir francis fane, from whose comedy of "love in the dark," mrs. centlivre, more clever at appropriation than mrs. inchbald, has taken intrigo, the man of business, and turned him into marplot, with considerable improvements; but as fane himself borrowed every incident, and did not trouble himself about his language, his merit is only of the smallest order. he wrote a fair masque, and in his unrepresented "sacrifice" was little courtier enough to make his tamerlane declare that "princes, for the most part, keep the worst company." he and sir robert howard, both tories, could, when it pleased them, tell the truth, like the plainest spoken whig. more successful than sir francis was rollicking tom porter, or major porter, according to his military rank. both were luckless gentlemen; but tom wrote one play, the "villain," which put the town in a flame, and raised sandford's fame, as an actor, to its very highest. tom was also the author of a rattling comedy, called the "carnival," but rioting, and bad company and hot temper marred him. he and sir henry bellasys, dining at sir robert carr's, fell into fierce dispute, out of mutual error; fierce words, then a thoughtless blow from sir henry, then swords crossing, and tipsy people parting the combatants. they were really warm friends; but tom had been struck, and honour forbade that he should be reconciled till blood had flown. so dryden's boy was employed to track bellasys, and the major came upon him in covent garden, where they fought, surrounded by a crowd of admirers. tom's honour was satisfied by passing his sword through the body of his dearest friend. the knight felt the wound was mortal, but he beckoned the less grievously wounded major to him, kissed him, and remained standing, that tom might not be obstructed in his flight. the friend and poet safe, the knight fell back, and soon after died. there was really noble stuff in some of these dissolute fine gentlemen! but there are no two of them who have so faithfully illustrated themselves, and the times in which they lived, as sir george etherege and sir charles sedley; the former, a knight by purchase, in order to please a silly woman, who vowed she would many none but a man of title; the latter, a baronet by inheritance. sir george, born in , was the descendant of a good--sir charles, born three years later, a member of a better--family, reckoning among its sons scholars and patrons of scholars. sir george left cambridge undistinguished, but took his degree in foreign travel, came home to find the study of the law too base a drudgery for so free a spirit, and so took to living like a "gentleman," and to illustrating the devilishness of that career by reproducing it in dramas on the stage. sedley left oxford as etherege left cambridge, ingloriously, bearing no honours with him. unlike sir george, however, he was a home-keeping youth, whereby his wit seems not to have suffered. he nursed the latter in the groves, or at the paternal hearth at aylesford, in kent, till the sun of the restored monarchy enticed him to london. there his wit recommended him to the king, won for him the hatred of small minds, and elicited the praise of noble spirits, who were witty themselves, and loved the manifestation of wit in others. "i have heard," says honest, brilliant, and much-abused shadwell, "i have heard sedley speak more wit at a supper than all my adversaries, putting their heads together, could _write_ in a year." this testimony was rendered by a man whose own reputation as a wit has the stamp and the warrant of rochester. two more atrocious libertines than these two men were not to be found in the apartments at whitehall, or in the streets, taverns, and dens of london. yet both were famed for like external qualities. etherege was easy and graceful, sedley so refinedly seductive of manner that buckingham called it "witchcraft," and wilmot "his prevailing, gentle art." _i_, humbler witness, can only say, after studying their works and their lives, that etherege was a more accomplished comedy-writer than sedley, but that sedley was a greater _beast_ than etherege. these two handsome fellows, made in god's image, marred their manly beauty by their licentiousness, and soon looked more like two battered, wine-soaked demons, than the sons of christian mothers. etherege, however, fierce and vindictive as he could be under passion, was never so utterly brutalised in mind as sedley, nor so cruel in his humours at any time. if sedley got up that groundless quarrel with sheldon, archbishop of canterbury, the alleged cause of which was some painted hussey, it was doubtless out of the very ferocity of his fun, which he thought well spent on exhibiting the prelate as sharing in the vices common at court. etherege, perhaps, had the stronger head of the two; he, at all events, kept it sufficiently free to be able to represent his king on more than one small diplomatic mission abroad. sedley, who was nevertheless the longer liver of the two, indulged in excesses which, from their inexpressible infamy, betray a sort of insanity. when he, with other blackguards of good blood, was brought to trial for public outrages, which disgusted even the hideous wretches that lurked about covent garden, chief justice foster addressed him from the bench with a "sirrah!" and told him, while the reminiscence of the plague and the smoke of the great fire still hung over the court, that it was such wretches as he that brought god's wrath so heavily upon the kingdom. but neither the heavy fine of marks, nor his imprisonment, nor his being bound over to keep the peace for three years, nor his own conscience, nor the rebuke of wise men, could restrain this miscreant. he was not yet free from his bond[ ] when he, and buckhurst and others were carried off to the watch-house by the night-constables for fighting in the streets, drunk, as was their custom, and as naked as their drawn swords. on this occasion, in , the king interfered in their favour, and chief justice keeling, senile betrayer of his trust, let them go scatheless; but he punished the constables by whom they had been arrested! etherege contributed three comedies to the stage:--"the comical revenge, or love in a tub," "she would if she could," and the "man of mode, or sir fopling flutter." sedley wrote the "mulberry garden;" a tragedy, called "antony and cleopatra," wherein a single incident in shakspeare's play is spun out into five acts; "bellamira," in which comedy, partly founded on the "eunuchus" of terence, he exhibited the frailty of lady castlemaine, and the audacity of churchill--a translated drama from the french, called the "grumbler," and a tragedy, entitled the "tyrant king of crete." of all sedley's pieces, the best is the "mulberry garden,"[ ] for portions of which the author is indebted to molière's "ecole des maris," and on which pepys's criticism is not to be gainsayed:--"here and there a pretty saying, and that not very many either." "bellamira" is remembered only as the play, during the first representation of which the roof of the theatre royal fell in, with such just discrimination as to injure no one but the author. sir fleetwood shepherd said that "the wit of the latter had blown the roof from the building." "not so," rejoined sedley, "the heaviness of the play has broke down the house, and buried the author in the ruins!" etherege's comedies were, in their day, the dear delight of the majority of playgoers. i say the majority; for though "love in a tub" brought £ profit to lincoln's inn fields theatre, in a single month of , and was acted before enraptured gallants and appreciating nymphs, at whitehall, some found it a silly play. it gave etherege a name and a position; and when his next comedy appeared, "she would if she could," a thousand anxious people, with leisure enough of an afternoon to see plays (it was only at court that they were acted at night), were turned away from the doors. to me, this piece is very distasteful, and it is not without satisfaction i read that it was on the first night "barbarously treated," according to dennis, and that pepys found "nothing in the world good in it, and few people pleased with it." the plot and denouement he pronounces as "mighty insipid;" yet he says of the piece as a whole, that it was "dull, roguish, and witty." the actors, however, were not perfect on the first night. dennis praised the truth of character, the purity, freedom, and grace of the dialogue; and shadwell declared that it was the best comedy since the restoration, to his own time. all this eulogy is not to be accepted. etherege's third comedy, the "man of mode," has been described as "perhaps the most elegant comedy, and containing more of the real _manners_ of high life than any one the english stage was ever adorned with." in the latter respect alone is this description true; but, though the piece is dedicated to a lady, the duchess of york, it could have afforded pleasure, as the _spectator_ remarks, only to the impure. people, no doubt, were delighted to recognise rochester in dorimant, etherege himself in bellair, and the stupendous ass, beau hewitt, in sir fopling; but it must have been a weary delight; so debased is the nature of these people, however truly they represent, as they unquestionably did, the manners, bearing, and language of the higher classes. how they dressed, talked, and thought; what they did, and how they did it; what they hoped for, and how they pursued it; all this, and many other exemplifications of life as it was then understood, may be found especially in the plays of etherege, in which there is a bustle and a succession of incidents, from the rise to the fall of the curtain. but the fine gentlemen are such unmitigated rascals, and the women--girls and matrons--are such unlovely hussies, in rascality and unseemliness quite a match for the men, that one escapes from their wretched society, and a knowledge of their one object, and the confidences of the abominable creatures engaged therein, with a feeling of a strong want of purification, and of that ounce of civet which sweetens the imagination. of the remaining amateur writers there is not much to be said. rhodes was a gentleman's son without an estate, a doctor without practice, and a dramatist without perseverance. his one comedy, "flora's vagaries" ( ), gave a capital part to nelly, and a reputation to the doctor, which he failed to sustain. corye was another idle gentleman, who, in the same year,[ ] produced his "generous enemies," and that piece was a plagiarism. ned revet also exhausted himself in one comedy, "the town shifts," which the town found insipid. arrowsmith was in like plight, and his sole comedy, "the reformation," was obliged to give way to shakspeare's "macbeth," converted into an opera. nevil payne was the author of three pieces--"fatal jealousy," in which nokes earned his name of _nurse nokes_; the "morning ramble," which was less attractive in , than the "tempest," even in an operatic form, or "hamlet," with betterton for the hero; and the "siege of constantinople," a tragedy, in which shaftesbury and his vices were mercilessly satirised. tom rawlins wrote three poor plays, the last in , and he had as great a contempt for the character of author as congreve himself. he was, like joe harris, "engraver of the mint," kept fellowship with wits and poets, wrote for amusement, and "had no desire to be known by a _thread_bare coat, having a calling that will maintain it _woolly_!" then there was leanard, who stole not more audaciously than he was stolen from, when he chose to be original--colley cibber having taken many a point from the "counterfeits," to enrich "she would and she would not." pordage was about as dull a writer as might be expected of a man who was land-steward to "the memorable simpleton," philip, earl of pembroke. shipman enjoys the fame of having been highly esteemed by cowley--he certainly was not by the public; and bancroft, the surgeon, had the reputation of having been induced to write, as he did, unsuccessfully, for the stage, because he prescribed for, or rather against, the most fashionable malady of the day, when it attacked theatre-haunting fops and actors who stooped to imitate the gentlemen. from these he caught the stage fever, and suffered considerably. whitaker's one play, "the conspiracy," is remarkable for the sensation incident of a ghost appearing, leading death by the hand! maidwell's comedy of "the loving enemies" (the author was an old schoolmaster), was noticeable for being "designedly dull, lest by satirising folly the author might bring upon his skull the bludgeon of fools."[ ] saunders, and his "tamerlane the great," are now forgotten; but dryden spoke of the author, in an indecent epilogue, as "the first boy-poet of our age;" who, however, though he blossomed as early as cowley, did not flourish as long. wilson was another professional writer, but less successful on the stage than in his recordership of londonderry. another lawyer, higden, was one of the jolliest of fellows; and wishing the actors to be so too, he introduced so many drinking scenes into his sole play, "the wary widow," that the players, who tippled their real punch freely, were all drunk by the end of the third act; and the piece was then, there, and thereby, brought to an end! in the last years of the seventeenth century, a humble votary of the muses appeared in duffet, the exchange milliner; and in robert gould, a servant in the household of dorset, where he caught from the wits and gay fellows assembled at knowle or at buckhurst, a desire to write a drama. he was, however, a schoolmaster, when his play of the "rival sisters"--in which, other means of slaughter being exhausted, a thunderbolt is employed for the killing a lady--was but coldly received. gould was not a plagiarist, like scott, the duke of roxburgh's secretary, nor so licentious. the public was scandalised by incidents in scott's "unhappy kindness," in . dr. drake was another plagiarist, who revenged himself in the last-named year, for the condemnation of his "sham lawyer," by stating on the title-page that it had been "damnably acted." that year was fatal, too, to dr. filmer, the champion of the stage against collier. even betterton and mrs. barry failed to give life to the old gentleman's "unnatural brother;" and the doctor ascribed his want of success to the fact, that never at any one time had he placed more than three characters on the stage! the most prolific of what may be termed the amateur writers, was peter motteux, a french huguenot, whom the revocation of the edict of nantes brought, in ,[ ] to england, where he carried on the vocations of a trader in leadenhall street, clerk in the foreign department of the post office, translator, original writer, dramatist, and "fast man," till the too zealous pursuit of the latter calling found peter dead, in very bad company, in st. clements danes, in the year . of his seventeen comedies, farces, and musical interludes, there is nothing to be said, save that one called "novelty" presents a distinct play in each act,--or five different pieces in all. by different men, peter has been diversely rated. dryden said of him, in reference to his one tragedy, "beauty in distress:" "thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown; but too much plenty is thy fault alone: at least but two in that good crime commit;-- thou in design, and wycherly in wit." but an anonymous poet writes, in reference to one of his various poor adaptations, "the island princess:" "motteux and durfey are for nothing fit, but to supply with songs their _want_ of wit." how motteux found time for all his pursuits is not to be explained; but, much as he accomplished in all, he designed still more--one of his projects being an opera, to be called "the loves of europe," in which were to be represented the methods employed in various nations, whereby ladies' hearts are triumphantly won. it was an odd idea; but peter motteux was odd in everything. and it is even oddly said of him, "that he met with his fate in trying a very odd experiment, highly disgraceful to his memory!"[ ] hard-drinking, and what was euphoniously called _gallantry_, killed good-tempered charles hopkins, son of the bishop of londonderry. had he had more discretion and less wit, he might have prospered. his tragedies, "pyrrhus," "boadicea," and "friendship improved," bear traces of what he might have done. he has the merit, however, of not being indecent,--a fact which the epilogue to "boadicea," furnished by a friend and spoken by a lady, rather deplores, and in indecent language, regrets that uncleanness of jest is no longer acceptable to the town! walker merits notice, less for his two pieces, "victorious love," and "marry or do worse," than for the fact that this young barbadian was the first actor whom eton school gave to the stage. he appeared, when only eighteen, in the first-named piece, but quickly passed away to the study of the law and the exercise of the latter as a profession, in his native island. i know nothing worthy of record of the few other gentlemen who wrote plays, rather as a relaxation than a vocation, save that boyer, a refugee huguenot, like motteux, and a learned man, adapted racine's "iphigenia in aulis," for representation; that oldmixon was an old, unscrupulous, party-writer; and that crauford was historiographer for scotland to queen anne, and has left no name of note among dramatic writers. footnotes: [ ] "valentinian" was probably produced in . [ ] the bond was entered into in . [ ] genest says that "bellamira" is by far the best of sedley's plays. [ ] should be . [ ] this is, of course, satirically said by the author. [ ] the edict of nantes was not revoked till . motteux was born in . [ ] _biographia dramatica._ [illustration: sir william davenant.] chapter x. professional authors. the men who took up dramatic authorship seriously as a vocation, during the last half of the seventeenth century, amount to something more than two dozen. they begin with davenant and dryden; include tate and brady,[ ] lee and otway, wycherley, congreve, cibber, and vanbrugh; and conclude with farquhar, and with rowe. i include sir john vanbrugh because he preferred fame as an author to fame as an architect, and i insert congreve, despite the reflection that the ghost of that writer would daintily protest against it if he could. when voltaire called upon him, in london, the frenchman intimated that his visit was to the "author." "i am a _gentleman_," said congreve. "nay," rejoined the former, "had you been only a gentleman, you would never have received a visit from me at all." let me here repeat the names:--_davenant_, _dryden_, shirley, lee, cowley, _shadwell_, flecknoe, settle, crowne, ravenscroft, wycherley, otway, durfey, banks, rymer, _tate_, brady, southerne, congreve, _cibber_, dilke,[ ] vanbrugh, gildon, farquhar, dennis, and _rowe_. the half dozen in italics were poets-laureate. all of them were sons of "gentlemen," save three, davenant, cowley, and dennis, whose sires were, respectively, a vintner, a hatter,[ ] and a saddler. the sons, however, received a collegiate education. cowley distinguished himself at cambridge, but davenant left oxford without a degree, and from the former university dennis was expelled, in march , "for assaulting and wounding sir glenham with a sword." besides cowley and dennis, we are indebted to cambridge for dryden, lee, and rymer. from oxford university came davenant, and settle, degreeless as davenant, with shirley, whose mole on his cheek had rendered him ineligible in laud's eyes, for ordination; wycherley, otway, southerne, and dilke. dublin university yielded tate and brady; and better fruit still, southerne,[ ] congreve, who went to ireland at an early age, and farquhar. douay gave us gildon, and we are not proud of the gift. lee, otway, and tate were sons of clergymen. little crowne's father was an independent minister in nova scotia, and crowne himself laid claim, fruitlessly, to a vast portion of the territory there--unjustly made over by the english government to the french. cibber was an artist, on the side of his father the statuary, and a "gentleman" by his mother. it may be said of a good number of these gentlemen that idleness and love of pleasure made them dramatic poets. shadwell, ravenscroft, wycherley, durfey, bankes, southerne, congreve, and rowe, were all apprenticed to the law; but the study was one too dull for men of their vivacious temperament, and they all turned from it in disgust. according to their success, so were they praised or blamed. the least successful dramatists on the above list were the most presumptuous of critics. rymer, who was wise enough to stick to the law while he endeavoured to turn at least melpomene to good account, tried to persuade the public that shakspeare was even of less merit than it was the fashion to assign to him. in ,[ ] rymer boldly asserted that "in the neighing of a horse as the growling of a mastiff, there is a meaning; there is as lively expression and, may i say, more humanity than many times in the tragical flights of shakspeare." he says, that "no woman bred out of a pigstye could talk so meanly as desdemona," in that tragedy which rymer calls "a bloody farce without salt or savour." of brutus and cæsar, he says shakspeare has depicted them as "jack puddins." to show how much better he understood the art, rymer published, in , the tragedy he could not get represented, "edgar, or the english monarch." he professes to imitate the ancients, and his tragedy is in rhyme; he accuses shakspeare of anachronisms, and his saxon princess is directed to "pull off her patches!" the author was ambitious enough to attempt to supersede shakspeare, and he pooh-poohed john milton by speaking of _paradise lost_ as "a thing which some people were pleased to call a poem." dennis was not quite so audacious as this. he was a better critic than the author of the _foedera_, and a more voluminous writer, or rather adapter, of dramatic pieces. he spoke, however, of tasso as compassionately as the village-painter did of titian; but his usefulness was acknowledged by the commentator, who remarked that men might construct good plays by following his precepts and avoiding his examples. boyer has said something similar of gildon, who was a critic as well as dramatist--namely, "he wrote an _english art of poetry_, which he had practised himself very unsuccessfully in his dramatic performances." cowley, although he is now little remembered as a dramatic writer, was among the first who seized the earliest opportunity after the restoration to set up as playwrights; but cowley failed, and was certainly mortified at his failure. he re-trimmed a play of his early days, the "guardian," and called it the "cutter of coleman street." all there is broad farce, in which the puritan "congregation of the spotless" is coarsely ridiculed, and cavalierism held up to admiration. the audience condemned the former as "profane," and cowley's cavaliers were found to be such scamps that he was suspected of disloyalty. gentle as he was by nature, cowley was irritable under criticism. "i think there was something of faction against it," he says, "by the early appearance of some men's disapprobation before they had seen enough of it to build their dislike upon their judgment." "profane!" exclaims abraham, with a shudder, and declares it is enough to "knock a man down." is it profane, he asks, "to deride the hypocrisy of those men whose skulls are not yet bare upon the gates since the public and just punishment of it," namely, profanity. thus were the skulls of the commonwealth leaders tossed up in comedy. he adds, in a half saucy, half deprecatory sort of way, that "there is no writer but may fail sometimes in point of wit, and it is no less frequent for the auditors to fail in point of judgment." nevertheless, he had humbly asked favour at the hands of the critics when his piece was first played, in these words:-- "gentlemen critics of argier, for your own int'rest, i'd advise ye here to let this little forlorn hope go by safe and untouch'd. 'that must not be!' you'll cry. if ye be wise, it must: i'll tell ye why. there are , , ,--stay, there are behind ten plays at least, which wait but for a wind and the glad news that we the enemy miss; and those are all your own, if you spare this. some are but new-trimm'd up, others quite new, some by known shipwrights built, and others too by that great author made, whoe'er he be, that styles himself 'person of quality.'" the "cutter" rallied a little, and then was laid aside; but some of its spars were carried off by later gentlemen, who have piqued themselves on their originality. colonel jolly's advice to the bully, cutter, if he would not be known, to "take one more disguise at last, and put thyself in the habit of a gentleman," has been quoted as the wit of sheridan, who took his sir anthony absolute from truman, _senior_. and when cowley made aurelia answer to the inquiry, if she had looked in lucia's eye, that she had, and that "there were pretty babies in it," he little thought that there would rise a tom moore to give a turn to the pretty idea, and spoil it, as he has done, in the "impromptu," in _little's poems_. one of the most remarkable circumstances in cowley's character, considering how he distinguished himself at college, is, that he never thoroughly understood the rules of grammar! and that in seriously setting up for a dramatic author, he took, like dryden, the course in which he acquired the least honour. when charles ii., on hearing of cowley's death, declared that he had not left a better man behind him in england, the king was, assuredly, not thinking of the poet as a dramatist. several of cowley's contemporaries who were considered better men by some judges, were guilty of offence from which he was entirely free. that offence consisted in their various attempts to improve shakspeare, by lowering him to what they conceived to be the taste of the times. davenant took "measure for measure," and "much ado about nothing," and manipulated them into one absurd comedy, the "law against lovers." he subsequently _improved_ "macbeth" and "julius cæsar;"[ ] and dryden, who with at least some show of reason, re-arranged "troilus and cressida," united with davenant in a sacrilegious destruction of all that was beautiful in the "tempest." nat lee, who was accounted mad, had at least sense enough to refrain from marring shakspeare. shadwell corrected the great poet's view of "timon of athens," which, as he not too modestly observed, he "made into a play;" but, with more modesty in the epilogue, he asked for forgiveness for his own part, for the sake of the portion that was shakspeare's. crowne, more impudently, remodelled two parts of "henry vi.," with some affectation of reverence for the original author, and a bold assertion of his own original merits with regard to some portions of the play. crowne's originality is shown, in making clifford swear like a drunken tapster, and in affirming that a king is a king--sacred, and not to be even _thought_ ill of, let him be never so hateful a miscreant. ravenscroft, in _his_ "titus andronicus," only piled the agony a little more solidly and comically, and can be hardly said to have thereby molested shakspeare. there was less excuse for otway, who, not caring to do as he pleased with a doubtful play, ruthlessly seized "romeo and juliet," stripped the lovers of their romance, clapped them into a classical costume, and converted the noble but obstinate houses of capulet and montagu into riotous followers of marius and sylla--caius marius the younger wishing he were a glove upon the hand of lavinia metella, and a sententious sulpitius striving in vain to be as light and sparkling as mercutio. tate's double rebuke to shakspeare, in altering his "king lear" and "coriolanus," was a small offence compared with otway's assault. he undertook, as he says, to "rectify what was wanting;" and accordingly, he abolishes the faithful fool, makes a pair of silly lovers of edgar and cordelia, and converts the solemn climax into comedy, by presenting the old king and his matchless daughter, hand in hand, alive and merry, as the curtain descends. tate smirkingly maintained, that he wrought into perfection the rough and costly material left by shakspeare. "in my humble opinion," said addison, "it has lost half its beauty;" and yet tate's version kept its place for many years!--though not so long as cibber's version of "richard iii.," which was constructed out of shakspeare, with more regard for the actor than respect for the author. in the last year of the century, the last attempt to improve that inefficient poet was made by gildon, who produced at lincoln's inn fields _his_ idea of what "measure for measure" should be, by omitting all the comic characters, introducing music and dancing, transposing incidents, adding much nonsense of his own to that of davenant, and sprinkling all with an assortment of blunders, amusing enough to make some compensation for the absence of the comic characters in the original play. it seemed to be the idea of these men, that it were wise to reduce shakspeare to the capacities of those who could appreciate him. there _were_ unhappy persons thus afflicted. even mr. pepys speaks of "henry viii." as "a simple thing, made up of a great many patches." the "tempest," he thinks, "has no great wit--but yet good, above ordinary plays." "othello" was to him "a mean thing," compared with the last new comedy by another author. "twelfth night," "one of the weakest plays i ever saw on the stage." "macbeth," he liked or disliked, according to the humour of the hour; but there was a "divertissement" in it, which struck him as being a droll thing in tragedy, but in this case proper and natural! finally, he records, in , of the "midsummer's night's dream," which he "had never seen before, nor ever shall again," that "it is the most insipid, ridiculous play, that ever i saw in my life." of the characteristics of the chief of these dramatists, it may be said, first of davenant, that, if he was quick of fancy and careful in composition, the result is not answerable to the labour expended on it. one of the pleasantest features about dryden was, that as he grew old he increased in power; but his heart was untouched by his own magic, and he was but a cold reader of the best of his own works. lee, as tender and impassioned as he is often absurd and bombastic, was an exquisite reader of what he wrote, his heart acknowledging the charm. shadwell's characters have the merit of being well conceived, and strongly marked; and shirley (a poet belonging to an earlier period), has only a little above the measure of honour due to him, when he is placed on a level with fletcher. crowne is more justly placed in the third rank of dramatists; but he had originality, lacking the power to give it effect. ravenscroft had neither invention nor expression; yet he was a most prolific writer, a caricaturist, but without truth or refinement; altogether unclean. wycherley, on the other hand, was admirable for the epigrammatic turn of his stage conversations, the aptness of his illustrations, the acuteness of his observation, the richness of his character-painting, and the smartness of his satire; in the indulgence or practice of all which, however, the action of the drama is often impeded, that the audience may enjoy a shower of sky rockets. pope said that wycherley was inspired by the muses, with the wit of plautus. he had, indeed, "plautus' wit," and an obscenity rivalling that of the "curculio;" but he had none of the pathos which is to be found in the "rudens." but wycherley was also described as having the "art of terence and menander's fire." if by the first, pope meant skill in invention of plot, wycherley surpassed the carthaginian; and as to "menander's fire," in wycherley it was no purifying fire; and wesley was not likely to illustrate a sermon by a quotation from wycherley, as st. paul did by citing a line from menander. we are charmed by the humour of wycherley; but after that, posterity disagrees with pope's verdict. we are _not_ instructed by the sense of wycherley, nor swayed by his judgment, nor warmed honestly by his spirit; his unblushing profligacy ruins all. but if his men and women are as coarse as etherege's or sedley's, they are infinitely more clever people; so clever, indeed, that sheridan has not been too proud to borrow "good things" from some of them. wycherley is perhaps more natural and consistent than congreve, whose jeremy speaks like an oracle, and is as learned, though not so nasty as his master. it may be, that for a man to enjoy congreve's wit, he should be as witty as congreve. to me, it seems to shine at best but as a brilliant on a dirty finger. as for his boasted originality, valentine and trapbois are don juan and m. dimanche; and as for valentine, as the type of a gentleman, his similes smack more of the stable-yard than the drawing-room; and there is more of impertinent prattle generally among his characters than among those of wycherley. his ladies are a shade more elegant than those of the latter poet; but they are mere courtezans, brilliant, through being decked with diamonds; but not a jot the more virtuous or attractive on that account. among the comedy-writers of this half century, however, congreve and wycherley stand supreme; they were artists; too many of their rivals or successors were but coarse daubers. in coarseness of sentiment the latter could not go beyond their prototypes; and in the expression of it, they had neither the wit of their greatest, nor the smartness of their less famous masters. this coarseness dates, however, from earlier days than those of the restoration; and dryden, who remembered the immorality of webster's comedies, seems to have thought that the restoration was to give the old grossness to the stage, as well as a new king to the country. it is, nevertheless, certain, that a large portion of the public protested against this return to an evil practice, and hissed his first piece, "the wild gallant," played in the little theatre in vere street, drury lane, in . "it was not indecent enough for them," said the poet, who promised "not to offend in the way of modesty again." his "kind keeper, or mr. limberham," under which name the duke of lauderdale is said to have been satirised, and which dryden held to be his best comedy, was utterly condemned. "ah!" said he, "it was damned by a cabal of keepers!" it never occurred to him that the public might prefer wit to immorality. long before, he had written an unseemly piece, called "the rival ladies;" he seasoned it in what he maintained was the taste of the town, and in a prologue--prologues then were often savagely defiant of the opinions of the audience, asserted his own judgment by saying:-- "he's bound to please, not to write well, and knows there is a mode in plays as well as clothes." i do not know how true it may be that dryden, the coarsest of dramatic writers, was "the modestest of men in conversation;" but i have small trust in the alleged purity of a writer who stooped to gratify the baser feelings of an audience, according to their various degrees; who could compose for one class the filthy dish served up in his "wild gallant," and for another the more dangerous, if more refined, fare for youthful palates, so carefully manipulated in the alexis and cælia song, in his "mariage à la mode." we must not forget, indeed, that the standard of morals was different at that time from what it is now. later in the half century, jeremy collier especially attacked congreve and wycherley, as men who applied their natural gifts to corrupt instead of purify the stage. the public too were scandalised at passages in congreve's "double dealer," a comedy of which the author said "the mechanical part was perfect."[ ] the play was not a success, and the fault was laid to its gross inuendoes, and its plainer indecency. "i declare," says the author, in the preface, "that i took a particular care to avoid it, and if they find any, it is of their own making, for i did not design it to be so understood." this point, on which the author and the public were at issue, proves that on the part of the latter the standard was improving--for congreve is deep in the mire before the first scene is over. he had looked for censure for other offence, and says in his usual lofty manner with the critics:--"i would not have anybody imagine that i think this play without its faults, for i am conscious of several, and ready to own 'em; but it shall be to those who are able to find 'em out." this is not ill said. for the critics there was at least as much contempt as fear. in "the country wife," wycherley speaks of "the most impudent of creatures, an ill poet, or what is yet more impudent, a second-hand critic!" the less distinguished writers were, of course, severer still against the critics. in later years, sheridan expressed the greatest contempt for such part of the public as found that the grossness of congreve was not compensated for by his wit. sheridan avowed that congreve must be played unmutilated or be shelved. he compared his great predecessor to a horse whose vice is cured at the expense of his vigour. sheridan must, nevertheless, have felt that he was in error with regard to these old authors. in his "trip to scarborough," which is an entire recasting of vanbrugh's "relapse," he makes loveless (smith) say, "it would surely be a pity to exclude the productions of some of our best writers for want of a little wholesome pruning, which might be effected by any one who possessed modesty enough to believe that we should preserve all we can of our deceased authors, at least, till they are outdone by the living ones." dryden said of congreve's "double dealer," that though it was censured by the greater part of the town, it was approved of by those best qualified to judge. the people who had a sense of decency were derided by dryden; they were angry, he insinuated, only because the satire touched them nearly. applying the grossest terms to women, in a letter to walsh, he protests that they are incensed because congreve exposes their vices, and that the gallants are equally enraged because their vices, too, are exposed; but even if it were true that congreve copied from nature, it is also true that he laughs _with_ his vicious and brilliant bad men and women, makes a joke of vice, and never attempts to correct it. dryden, as an erst westminster boy and cambridge man, may have felt some annoyance on the exposure of his false quantity in the penultimate of "cleomenes," but to a pert coffee-house fop, who presumed to review his tragedy of that name, he could deliver a crushing reply. in that play cleomenes virtuously resists the blandishments of cassandra. "had i been left alone with a young beauty," said a stripling critic to glorious john, "i would not have spent my time like your spartan." "that, sir," said dryden, "perhaps is true; but give me leave to tell you, you are no hero!" good as this is, lee said even a better thing to the coxcomb who visited him in bedlam, during lee's four years sojourn there. "it is an easy thing," observed this fellow, "to write like a madman." "no," answered lee, "it is not an easy thing to write like a madman; but it is very easy to write like a fool." dryden, however, could criticise himself with justness. he confessed that he was not qualified to write comedies. he saw, too, the defects in his tragedies. he was ashamed of his "tyrannic love," and laughed at the rant and fustian of his maximin. he allowed that in his "conquest of granada" the sublimity burst into burlesque, and he could censure the extravagance of almanzor as freely as he did the bombast of maximin. still he was uneasy under censure; he was disappointed at the reception given to his "assignation," and complained bitterly of the critics, especially of settle. his best defender was charles ii. some courtiers ventured to wonder at the king going so often to see "the spanish friar," as the piece was a wholesale robbery. "odds fish!" exclaimed charles, "select me another such a comedy,[ ] and i'll go and see it as often as i do 'the spanish friar.'" "all for love" is dryden's most carefully written play, and the author repeatedly declared that the scene in act i., between anthony and ventidius, was superior to anything he had ever composed. dryden attributed whatever merit he had as a writer of prose to having studied the works of tillotson, and the prelate, it will be remembered, owed some of his graces of delivery to betterton. in his comedies, dryden was the encourager, not the scourger of vice; and yet he could warmly approve the purity of southerne, when southerne chose to be pure, and acknowledge that it were as politic to silence vicious poets as seditious preachers. if there were few good poets in his day, dryden sees the cause in the turbulence of the times; and if people loved the stilted nonsense of heroic tragedies, it was simply, he says, because "the fashion was set them by the court." to court-protection, he himself owed much, and he states what one may smile at now, that the king's kindness, in calling the "maiden queen" _his_ play,--that singular piece, in which there are eight women and three men, saved the drama from the malice of the poet's enemies. there is no such privilege for poets in our days! had shadwell, who left the law to find a livelihood by literature, not been a whig, we should have heard less of him in parallels or contrasts with dryden. of his dramatic pieces, amounting to about a dozen and a half, there is scarcely one that does not please more in perusal than any by the poet of the greater name,--always excepting dryden's "love for love." shadwell's "squire of alsatia," "bury fair," "epsom wells," and some others, were necessarily favourites with _his_ public, as they are good character comedies, brisk with movement and incident. for attacking dryden's "duke of guise," dryden pilloried the assailant for ever, as "mac flecnoe;" but when he says that "shadwell never deviates into sense," he has as little foundation for his assertion as he has for his contempt of wilmot, when he says in the _essay upon satire_, "rochester i despise for want of wit." rochester may have praised shadwell because he hated dryden; but dryden's aspersions on the other two spring decidedly more from his passion than his judgment. to shadwell was given the laureateship of which dryden was deprived. the latter would have borne the deprivation better if the laurel-crown had fallen on another head, as he sings to congreve: "oh that your brows my laurel had sustained; well had i been depos'd, if you had reigned!" in one respect, dryden was no match at all for shadwell; and, indeed, he has, inadvertently, confessed as much. when speaking of his incapacity for writing comedy, he says, "i want that gaiety of humour which is required in it; my conversation slow and dull; my humour saturnine and reserved. in short, i am none of those who endeavour to break jests in company, and endeavour to make repartees; so that those who decry my comedies do me no injury, except it be in point of profit; reputation in them is the last thing to which i shall pretend." this is the picture of a dull man, of which shadwell, whose comedies, to say the least of them, have as much merit as dryden's, was the exact opposite. he was a most brilliant talker; and rochester remarked of him that even had shadwell burnt all he wrote, and only printed all he spoke, his wit and humour would be found to exceed that of any other poet. we come, however, to a greater than shadwell, in sir john vanbrugh, who belongs to two centuries, and who was a man of many occupations, but a dramatist by predilection. he was architect, poet, wit, herald; he stole some of his plots; and he sold his office of clarencieux, to which he had been appointed, _because_ he was a successful playwright. he had humour, and was exceedingly coarse; but, says schlegel, "under queen anne, manners became again more decorous; and this may be easily traced in the comedies. in the series of english comic poets, wycherley, congreve, farquhar, vanbrugh, steele, cibber, &c., we may perceive something like a gradation from the most unblushing indecency to a tolerable degree of modesty." this, however, is only partly true; and schlegel himself remarks in the same page, "that after all we know of the licentiousness of manners under charles ii., we are still lost in astonishment at the audacious ribaldry of wycherley and congreve." of vanbrugh's ten or eleven plays, that which has longest kept the stage is the "relapse," still acted, in its altered form, by sheridan, as the "trip to scarborough." this piece was produced at the theatre de l'odeon, in paris, in the spring of , as a posthumous comedy of voltaire's! it was called the "comte de boursoufle," and had a "run." the story ran with it that voltaire had composed it in his younger days for private representation, that it had been more than once played in the houses of his noble friends, under various titles, that he had then locked it up, and that the manuscript had only recently been discovered by the lucky individual who persuaded the manager of the odeon to produce it on his stage! the bait took. all the french theatrical world in the capital flocked to the faubourg st. germain to witness a new play by voltaire. critics examined the plot, philosophised on its humour, applauded its absurdities, enjoyed its wit, and congratulated themselves on the circumstance that the voltairean wit especially was as enjoyable then as in the preceding century! of the authorship they had no doubt whatever; for, said they, if voltaire did not write this piece, who _could_ have written it? the reply was given at once from this country; but when the mystification was exposed, the french critics gave no sign of awarding honour where honour was due, and probably this translation of the "relapse" may figure in future french editions as an undoubted work by voltaire! on looking back upon the names of these authors by profession, the brightest still is otway's, of whom his critical biographers have said that, in tragedy, few english poets ever equalled him. his comedies are certainly detestable; but of his tragedies, "venice preserved" alone is ever now played. the "orphan" is read; "alcibiades," "don carlos," "titus and berenice" are all forgotten. successful as he is in touching the passions, and eminently so in dealing with ardent love, otway, i think, is inferior to lee, occasionally, in the latter respect. of lee, mrs. siddons entertained the greatest admiration, notwithstanding his bombast, and she read his "theodosius, or the force of love," with such feeling, as to at once wring sighs from the heart and tears from the eyes. she saw in lee's poetry a very rare quality, or, as campbell remarks, "a much more frequent capability for stage effect than a mere reader would be apt to infer from the superabundance of the poet's extravagance." let it not be forgotten that addison accuses lee _and shakspeare_ of a spurious sublimity; and, he adds, that "in these authors, the affectation of greatness often hurts the perspicuity of style!" the professional authors were not equally successful. davenant achieved a good estate, and was buried in westminster abbey, like a gentleman. dryden, with less to bequeath, was interred in the same place, without organ or ceremony, two choristers walking before the body, candle in hand, and singing an ode of horace--like a poet. his victim, tom shadwell, acquired wealth fairly; he lies in chelsea church, but his son raised a monument to his memory in the abbey that he might be in thus much as great a man as his satirist. congreve, too, is there, after enjoying a greater fortune than the others together had ever built up, and leaving £ , of it to henrietta, duchess of marlborough, who so valued the "honour and pleasure of his company" when living, that, as the next best thing, she sat of an evening with his "wax figure" after he was dead. among the dead there, also, rest cibber, vanbrugh, and rowe, of whom the first, too careless of his money affairs, died the poorest man. better men than either of the last sleep in humbler graves. poor nat lee, tottering homeward from the bull and harrow, on a winter's night, and with more punch under his belt than his brain could bear, falls down in the snow, near duke street, lincoln's inn fields, and is dead when he is picked up. _he_ is shuffled away to st. clement's danes. if lee died tipsy, outside a public-house, otway died half-starved, within one, at the bull, on tower hill. the merits of lee and otway might have carried them to westminster, but their misfortunes barred the way thither. almost as unfortunate, settle died, after hissing in a dragon at bartholomew fair, a recipient of the charity of the charter-house. crowne died in distress, just as he hoped his "sir courtly nice" would have placed him at his ease. wycherley, with less excuse, died more embarrassed than crowne, or would have done so had he not robbed his young wife of her portion, made it over to his creditors, and left her little wherewith to bury him in the churchyard in covent garden. two other poets, who passed away unencumbered by a single splendid shilling, rest in st. james's, westminster--tom durfey and bankes. careless, easy, free, and fuddling tate, died in the sanctuary of the mint; and st. george's, southwark, gave him a few feet of earth; while brady pushed his way at court to preferment, and died a comfortable pluralist and chaplain to caroline, princess of wales. farquhar, with all his wit, died a broken-hearted beggar, at the age of thirty-seven; and dennis, who struggled forty years longer with fortune, came to the same end, utterly destitute of all but the contemptuous pity of his foes, and the insulting charity of pope. i think that, of the whole brotherhood, southerne, after he left the army and had sown his wild oats, was the most prudent, and not the least successful. he was a perfect gentleman; he did not lounge away his days or nights in coffee-houses or taverns, but after labour, cultivated friendship in home circles, where virtue and moderate mirth sat at the hearth. in his bag-wig, his black velvet dress, his sword, powder, brilliant buckles, and self-possession, southerne charmed his company, wherever he visited, even at fourscore. he kept the even tenor of his way, owing no man anything; never allowing his nights to be the marrer of his mornings; and at six and eighty carrying a bright eye, a steady hand, a clear head, and a warm heart--wherewith to calmly meet and make surrender of all to the inevitable angel. as southerne originally wrote "oroonoko," that tragedy could not now be represented. the mixture of comic scenes with tragic is not its worst fault. his comedies are of no worth whatever, except as they illustrate the manners and habits of his times. they more closely resemble those of ravenscroft than of congreve or wycherley. his "sir anthony love" was successful; it is impossible to conjecture wherefore. it has not a wise sentiment or a happy saying in it; and all to be learned from it is, that englishmen, when abroad, in those days, used to herd together in self-defence, against being cheated; that they were too wise to learn anything by travel; and were fond of passing themselves off as having made a campaign. as cowley anticipated moore, in the "cutter," so, in "sir anthony," has southerne anticipated burns. "of the king's creation," says the supposed sir anthony to count verola, "you may be; but he who makes a count, never made a man." there is the same sentiment improved in the well-known lines: "a king may mak' a belted knight, a marquis, duke, an' a' that; but an honest man's aboon his might, gude faith he canna fa' that." southerne was not more famous for the nicety of his costume than "little starched johnny crowne" was for his stiff, long cravat; or dryden for his norwich drugget suit, or his gayer dress in later days, when, with sword and chadrieux wig, he paraded the mulberry garden with his mistress reeve--one of that marvellous company of , which writers with long memories used to subsequently say could never be got together again. otway's thoughtful eye redeemed his slovenly dress and his fatness, and seemed to warrant the story of his repenting after his carousing. lee dressed as ill as otway, but lacked his contemplative eye, yet excelled him in fair looks, and in a peculiar luxuriance of hair. shaftesbury, in his "characteristics," shows us how the play-house authors throned it in coffee-houses, and were worshipped by small wits. there were, however, dramatic authors who never went thither; and of these, the ladies, i have now to speak. [illustration: mrs. barry and mr garrick in "the wonder."] footnotes: [ ] brady was in no sense a professional dramatic author. [ ] i doubt if dilke is correctly included in this category. [ ] a grocer. (johnson's _lives of the poets_.) [ ] southerne is said to have been at oxford and dublin universities. [ ] this is a quotation from rymer's second work, "a short view of tragedy," published in . [ ] whether davenant altered "julius cæsar" is somewhat doubtful. [ ] congreve (ed. ) merely says that it was _regular_. [ ] "_steal_ me another such." [illustration: mrs. centlivre.] chapter xi. the dramatic authoresses. during this half century, there were seven ladies who were more or less distinguished as writers for the stage. these were the virtuous mrs. philips, the audacious aphra behn, the not less notorious mrs. manley, the gentle and learned mrs. cockburn, the rather aristocratic mrs. boothby (of whom nothing is known but that she wrote one play, called "marcatia,"[ ] in ), fat mrs. pix, and that thorough whig, mrs. centlivre. the last four also belong to the beginning of the eighteenth century; and three at least apologised that they, women as they were, should have ventured to become dramatists. the "virtuous mrs. philips," of evelyn, the "matchless orinda," of cowley and other poets, translated the "pompey" and "horace" of corneille. in those grave pieces, represented at court in the early years of the restoration, the poetess endeavoured to direct the popular taste, and to correct it also. had she not died (of small-pox, and in the thirty-third year of her age), she might have set such example to the playwrights as the bettertons did to the actors; but her good intentions were frustrated, and her place was unhappily occupied by the most shameless woman who ever took pen in hand, designedly to corrupt the public. aphra behn was a kentish woman, whose early years were passed at surinam, where her father, johnson, had resided, as lieutenant-general.[ ] after a wild training in that fervid school, she repaired to london, married a dutchman, named behn, who seems to have straightway disappeared,--penetrated, by means of her beauty, to the court of charles ii.,--and obtained, by means of her wit, an irregular employment at antwerp,--that of a spy. the letters of her dutch lovers belong to romance; but there is warrant for the easy freedom of this woman's life. in other respects she was unfortunate. on her return to england, her political reports and prophecies were no more credited than the monitions of old, by cassandra; so she abandoned england to its fate, and herself "to pleasure and the muses." her opportunities for good were great, but she abused them all. she might have been an honour to womanhood;--she was its disgrace. she might have gained glory by her labours;--but she chose to reap infamy. her pleasures were not those which became an honest woman; and as for her "muses," she sat not with them on the slopes of helicon, but dragged them down to her level, where the nine and their unclean votary wallowed together in the mire. there is no one that equals this woman in downright nastiness, save ravenscroft and wycherley; but the latter of these had more originality of invention and grace of expression. to these writers, and to those of their detestable school, she set a revolting example. dryden preceded her, by a little, on the stage; but mrs. behn's trolloping muse appeared there before the other two writers i have mentioned, and was still making unseemly exhibition there after the coming of congreve. with dryden she vied in indecency, and was not overcome. to all other male writers of her day she served as a provocation and an apology. intellectually, she was qualified to have led them through pure and bright ways; but she was a mere harlot, who danced through uncleanness, and dared or lured them to follow. remonstrance was useless with this wanton hussey. as for her private life, it has found a champion in a female friend, whose precious balsam breaks the head it would anoint. according to this friend, mrs. behn had numerous good qualities; but "she was a woman of sense, and consequently loved pleasure;" and she was "more gay and free than the modesty of the precise will allow." of aphra behn's eighteen plays, produced between and ,--before which last year, however, she had died,--but few are original. they are adaptations from marlowe, from wilkins, from killigrew, from brome, from tatham, from shirley, from the italian comedy, from molière, and more legitimately from the old romances. she adapted skilfully; and she was never dull. but then, all her vivacity is wasted on filth. when the public sent forth a cry of horror at some of the scenes in her play of "the lucky chance," she vindicated herself by asking, "was she not loyal?"--"tory to the back bone;"--had she not made the king's enemies ridiculous, in her five-act farces;--and had she not done homage to the king, by dedicating her "feigned courtezans" to nell gwyn, and styling that worthy sister of hers in vice and good nature so perfect a creature as to be something akin to divinity? for mrs. manley there was more excuse. that poor daughter of an old royalist had some reason to depict human nature as bad in man and in woman. the young orphan trusted herself to the guardianship of a seductive kinsman, who married her when he had a wife still living. this first wrong destroyed her, but not her villainous cousin; and unfortunately, the woman upon whom the world looked cool, incurred the capricious compassion of the duchess of cleveland. when the caprice was over, and mrs. manley had only her own resources to rely upon, she scorned the aid offered her by general tidcombe, and made her first venture for the stage in the tragedy of "royal mischief," produced at the lincoln's inn fields theatre, in . it is all desperate love, of a very bad quality, and indiscriminate murder, relieved by variety in the mode of killing; one unfortunate gentleman, named osman, being thrust into a cannon and fired from it, after which his wife, selima, is said to be "gathering the smoking relics of her lord!" the authoress in her next venture, in the same year, a comedy, written in a week, and which perished in a night, "the lost lover," introduced what the public had been taught to appreciate--a virtuous wife. her other pieces, written at intervals of ten years, were, "almyna," founded on the story of the caliph who was addicted to marrying one day, and beheading his wife the next; and "lucius," a semi-sacred play, on the supposed first christian king of britain--both unsuccessful. mrs. manley survived till . when not under the "protection" of a friend, or in decent mourning for the lovers who died mad for her, she was engaged in composing the _memoirs of the new atalantis_,--a satire against the whig ministry, the authorship of which she courageously avowed, rather than that the printer and publisher should suffer for her. the tory ministry which succeeded, employed her pen; and with swift's alderman barber,--he being tory printer, she resided till her death, mistress of the house, and of the alderman. contemporary with mrs. manley was miss trotter, the daughter of a scottish officer, but better known as mrs. cockburn, wife and widow of an english clergyman. she was at first a very learned young lady, whose speculations took her to the church of rome, from which in later years she seceded. she was but seventeen, when, in , her sentimental tragedy, "agnes de castro," was played at drury lane. her career, as writer for the stage, lasted ten years, during which she produced five pieces, all of a sentimental but refined class,--illustrating love, friendship, repentance, and conjugal faith. there is some amount of word-spinning in these plays; and this is well marked by genest's comment on mrs. cockburn's "revolution of sweden,"--namely, that if constantia, in the third act, had been influenced by common sense, she would have spoiled the remainder of the play. nevertheless, mrs. cockburn was a clever woman, and kept no dull household, though she there wrote a defence of locke, while her reverend husband was pursuing an account of the mosaic deluge. as a metaphysical and controversial writer, she gathered laurels and abuse in her day, for the latter of which she found compensation in the friendship and admiration of warburton. she was a valiant woman too; one whom asthma and the ills of life could not deter from labour. but death relieved her from all these in ; and she is remembered in the history of literature as a good and well-accomplished woman--the very opposite of mrs. behn and all her heroines. fat mrs. pix enjoyed a certain sort of vogue from to .[ ] she came from oxfordshire, was the daughter of a clergyman, was married to a mr. pix, and was a woman of genius, and much flesh. she wrote eleven plays, but not one of them has survived to our time. her comedies are, however, full of life; her tragedies more than brimful of loyalty; later dramatists have not disdained to pick up some of mrs. pix's forgotten incidents; and indeed, contemporary playwrights stole her playful lightning, if not her thunder; her plots were not ill conceived, but they were carried out by inexpressive language, some of her tragedies being in level prose, and some mixtures of rhyme and blank verse. she herself occasionally remodelled an old play, but did not improve it; while, when she trusted to herself, at least in a farcical sort of comedy, she was bustling and humorous. mrs. manley, mrs. cockburn, and mrs. pix were ridiculed in a farce called the "female wits," their best endowments satirised, and their peculiarities mimicked. the first and last of those ladies represented some of their dramas as written by men, a subterfuge to which a greater than either of them was also obliged to resort, namely, susanna centlivre. susanna freeman was her maiden name. she was the orphan daughter of a stout but hardly-dealt with parliamentarian, and of a mother who died too early for the daughter's remembrance. anthony hammond is said to have been in love with her, a nephew of sir stephen fox to have married her, and a captain carrol to have left her a widow--all before she was well out of her teens. thus she had passed through a school of experience, and to turn it to account, susanna carrol began writing for the stage. writing for--and acting on it, for we find her in playing "alexander the great" at windsor, where she also married mr. centlivre, queen anne's chief cook. of mrs. centlivre's nineteen plays, three at least are still well known, the "busy body," the "wonder," and "a bold stroke for a wife." when she offered the first to the players--it was her ninth play--the actors unanimously denounced it. wilks, who had hitherto been unaccustomed to the want of straining after wit, the common sense, the unforced sprightliness, the homely nature, for which this piece is distinguished--declared that not only would it be "damned," but that the author of it could hardly expect to avoid a similar destiny;[ ] and yet its triumph was undoubted, though cumulative. hitherto the authoress had written a tragi-comedy or two, the comic scenes in which alone gave evidence of strength, but not always of delicacy. she had, in others, stolen wholesale from molière, and the old english dramatists. she produced a continuation to the "busy body" in "marplot," but we do not care for it; and it is not till her fourteenth piece, the "wonder," appeared in , that she again challenges admiration. this, too, is an adaptation; but it is superior to the "wrangling lovers," from which it is partly taken, and which had no such hero as the don felix of wilks. the "bold stroke for a wife" was first played in , when the tory public had forgiven the author for her satires against them, and the theatrical public her fresh adaptations of old scenes and stories. the "bold stroke for a wife" is entirely her own, and has had a wonderful succession of colonel feignwells, from c. bullock down to mr. braham! this piece, however, was but moderately successful; but it has such vivacity, fun, and quiet humour in it, that it has outlived many a one that began with greater triumph, and in "the real simon pure," first acted by griffin, it has given a proverb to the english language. one other piece, the "artifice," a five-act farce, played in , concludes the list of plays from the pen of this industrious and gifted woman. mrs. centlivre had unobtrusive humour, sayings full of significance rather than wit, wholesome fun in her comic, and earnestness in her serious, characters. mrs. centlivre, in _her_ pictures of life, attracts the spectator. there may be, now and then, something, as in dutch pictures, which had been as well away; but this apart, all the rest is true, and pleasant, and hearty; the grouping perfect, the colour faithful, and enduring too--despite the cruel sneer of pope, who, in the _life of curll_, sarcastically alludes to her as "the cook's wife in buckingham court," in which vicinity to spring gardens, mrs. centlivre died in . such were the characteristics of the principal authors who led, followed, trained, or flattered the public taste of the last half of the seventeenth century, and a few of them of the first part of the century which succeeded. before we pass onward to the stage of the eighteenth century, let us cast a glance back, and look at the quality of the audiences for whom these poets catered. footnotes: [ ] "marcelia." [ ] her father never resided at surinam. he died on the voyage out. [ ] the _biographia dramatica_ gives as the year of mrs. pix's last play; but this is certainly an error, as mrs. bracegirdle, who retired in , is in the cast. [ ] genest states in strong terms his utter disbelief in this story. it is stated in the _biog. dram._ that wilks used this strong expression regarding "a bold stroke for a wife." [illustration: prynne.] chapter xii. the audiences of the seventeenth century. speedily after the restoration, there was no more constant visitor at the theatre than charles ii., with a gay, and what is called a gallant, gathering. thus we are arrested by a crowd at the temple gate. on the th of august , charles and the duke and duchess of york are leaving the apartments of the reader, sir henry finch, with whom they have been dining, and an eager audience is awaiting them in the lincoln's inn fields theatre, where "the wits" is to be represented,--a piece "never yet acted," says pepys, "with scenes." two nights later, the same piece is playing, and the queen of bohemia is there, "brought by my lord craven," whom some do not scruple to speak of as the ex-queen's husband. a week later, charles and "madame palmer" were at the theatre in drury lane, with the duke of york and his wife. "my wife," says pepys, "to her great content had a full sight of them all the while." the king's madame palmer became, in fact, an attraction; seated between charles and his brother, pepys beheld her a few weeks later, when he and his wife escorted lord sandwich's young daughters to the theatre, and obtained places close to madame and her double escort. the play was johnson's "bartholomew fair," with the puppets, and all its virulent satire against the puritans. as pepys listened and remembered that no one had dared to bring forward this slashing play for the last forty years, he wondered at the audacity of managers now, and grieved that the king should countenance it. but what recked the laughing king, when puritanism was in the dust, and troops of cavaliers were singing, "up go we?" occasionally, if pepys witnesses a play ill-acted, he finds compensation in sitting near some "pretty and ingenious lady." at that time oranges were more costly than pines are now, and to offer one of the former, even to an unknown fair neighbour, was an intimation of a readiness on the part of the presenter to open a conversation. to behold his most sacred majesty seated in his box was for ever, with pepys, even a stronger attraction than the eyes or the wit of the fairest and sprightliest of ladies. again and again, he registers a vow to refrain from resorting to the theatre during a certain period, but he no sooner hears of the presence there of his religious and gracious king, than he breaks his vow, rushes to the play, perjures himself out of loyal courtesy, and next morning writes himself down an ass. at the cockpit in drury lane, charles's consort, catherine, was exhibited to the english people for the first time on an autumn afternoon of , when shirley's "cardinal" was represented. pepys, of course, was there too, and reproduces the scene: "by very good fortune, i did follow four or five gentlemen who were carried to a little private door in a wall, and so crept through a narrow place, and came into one of the boxes next the king's, but so as i could not see the king or queen, but many of the fine ladies, who are not really so handsome generally, as i used to take them to be, but that they are finely dressed. the company that come in with me into the box were all frenchmen that could speak no english; but, lord, what sport they made to ask a pretty lady that they got among them, that understood both french and english, to make her tell them what the actors said!" soon after this, in dreary november, there is again a crowded audience to greet the king and queen, with whom now appears the castlemaine, once more, and near her lucy walter's boy, the duke of monmouth, all beauty and pretty assurance; and pepys sees no harm in a company who have come together to witness a comedy whose name might well describe the look and bearing of the outraged queen, namely, the "scornful lady." no wonder that, in december, at the tragedy of "the valiant cid," she did not smile once during the whole play.[ ] but nobody present on that occasion seemed to take any pleasure but what was in the greatness and gallantry of the company. that greatness and that gallantry were the idols of the diarist. with what scorn he talks of the audience at the duke's theatre a few days later, when the "siege of rhodes" was represented. he was ill-pleased. the house was "full of _citizens_!" "there was hardly," says the fastidious son of an honest tailor, "a gallant man or woman in the house!" so, in january , at the same theatre, he records that "it was full of citizens, and so the less pleasant." the duke's house was less "genteel" than the cockpit; but the royal visitors at the latter were not much more refined in their manners than the audience in lincoln's inn fields, or salisbury court. early in january , the duke of york and his wife honoured a play of killigrew's by their presence, and did not much edify the spectators by their conduct. "they did show," writes the immortal journalist, "some impertinent and methought unnatural dalliances there, before the whole world, such as kissing of hands, and leaning upon one another." but there were worse scenes than these conjugal displays at the king's house. when pepys was dying to obtain the only prize in all the world he desired, lady castlemaine's picture, that bold person was beginning to lose, at once, both her beauty and her place of favour with the king. pepys was immensely grieved, for she was always more to him than the play and players to boot. he had reason, however, to be satisfied that she had not lost her boldness. in january, , the "indian queen" was played at the king's house, in drury lane. lady castlemaine was present before the king arrived. when he entered his box, the countess leaned over some ladies who sat between her and the royal box, and whispered to charles. having been thus bold in face of the audience, she arose, left her own box and appeared in the king's, where she deliberately took a place between charles and his brother. it was not the king alone but the whole audience with him who were put out of countenance by this cool audacity, exhibited to prove that she was not so much out of favour as the world believed. what a contrast is presented by the appearance of cromwell's daughter, lady mary, in her box at this same theatre, with her husband, viscount falconbridge! pepys praises her looks and her dress, and suggests a modest embarrassment on her part, as the house began to fill, and the admiring spectators began to gaze too curiously on oliver's loved child; "she put on her vizard, and so kept it on all the play, which of late has become a great fashion among the ladies, which hides their whole face." mary cromwell, modestly masked, was a prettier sight than what pepys on other occasion describes as "all the pleasure of the play;" meaning thereby, the presence of lady castlemaine, or of miss stewart, her rival in royal favour, but not her equal in peerless beauty. with these, but in less exalted company than they, we now meet with nell gwyn, in front of the house. she is seen gossiping with pepys, who is ecstatic at the condescension; or she is blazing in the boxes, prattling with the young and scented fops, and impudently lying across any three of them, that she may converse as she pleases with a fourth. and there is sir charles sedley looking on, smiling with or at the actors of these scenes, among the audience, or sharply and wittily criticising the players on the stage, and the words put into their mouths by the author, or flirting with vizard masks in the pit. altogether, there is much confusion and interruption; but there is also, occasionally, disturbance of another sort, as when, in june , a storm of hail and rain broke through the roof of the kings house, and drove the half-drowned people from the pit in a disorder not at all admired. like evelyn, pepys was often at the court plays, but, except with the spectacle of the queen's ladies, and the king's too, for that matter, he found small delight there,--the house, although fine, being bad for hearing. this court patronage, public and private, increased the popularity of the drama, as the vices of the king increased the fashion of being dissolute; and when charles was sadly in need of a collecting of members of parliament to throw out a bill which very much annoyed him, and was carried against him, he bade the lord chamberlain to scour the play and other houses, where he knew his parliamentary friends were to be found, and to send them down to vote in favour of their graceless master. ladies of quality, and of good character, too, could in those days appear in masks in the boxes, and unattended. the vizard had not yet fallen to the disreputable. such ladies as are above designated entered into struggles of wit with the fine gentlemen, bantering them unmercifully, calling them by their names, and refusing to tell their own. all this was to the disturbance of the stage, but this battle of the wits was so frequently more amusing than what might be passing for the moment on the stage, that the audience near listened to the disputants rather than to the actors. sir charles sedley was remarkable as a disputant with the ladies, and as a critic of the players. that the overhearing of what was said by the most famous of the box visitors was a pleasant pastime of many hearers, is made manifest by pepys, who once took his place on "the upper bench next the boxes," and described it as having "the advantage of seeing and hearing the great people, which may be pleasant when there is good store." to no man then living in england did fellowship with people of quality convey such intense delight as to pepys. "lord!" he exclaims, in may , "how it went against my heart to go away from the very door of the duke's playhouse, and my lady castlemaine's coach, and many great coaches there, to see 'the siege of rhodes.' i was very near making a forfeit," he adds, "but i did command myself." he was happiest with a baronet like sir philip frowd at his side, and behind him a couple of impertinently pretty actresses, like pierce and knipp, pulling his hair, drawing him into gossiping flirtations, and inducing him to treat them with fruit. the constant presence of lively actresses in the front of the house was one of the features of the times, and a dear delight to pepys, who was never weary of admiring their respective beauties. proud as he was of sitting, for the first time in his life, in a box, at four shillings, he still saw the pit occupied by greater men than any around him, particularly on the first night of a new piece. when etherege's comedy, "she would if she could," was first played, in february , to one of the most crowded, critical, and discontented audiences that had ever assembled in the duke's house, the pit was brilliant with peers, gallants, and wits. there, openly, sat buckingham, and buckhurst, and sedley, and the author, with many more; and there went on, as the audience waited till the pelting rain outside had ceased to fall, comment and counter-comment on the merits of the piece and of the actors. etherege found fault with the players, but the public as loudly censured the piece, condemning it as silly and insipid, but allowing it to possess a certain share of wit and roguishness. from an entry in the _diary_ for the st of december , we learn that lady castlemaine had a _double_, who used to appear at the theatre to the annoyance of my lady and the amusement of her royal friend. indeed, here is a group of illustrations of the "front of the stage;" the house is the duke's, the play "macbeth." "the king and court there, and we sat just under them and my lady castlemaine, and close to a woman that comes into the pit, a kind of a loose gossip that pretends to be like her, and is so, something. the king and duke of york minded me, and smiled upon me, at the handsome woman near me, but it vexed me to see moll davies, in a box over the king's and my lady castlemaine's, look down upon the king, and he up to her; and so did my lady castlemaine once, to see who it was; but when she saw moll davies, she looked like fire, which troubled me." to these audiences were presented dramatic pieces of a very reprehensible quality. charles ii. has been more blamed than any other individual because of this licentiousness of the stage. i have before ventured to intimate, that the long-accepted idea that the court of charles ii. corrupted english society, and that it did so especially through patronising the licentiousness of poets and the stage, seems to me to be untenable. from of old there had been a corrupt society, and a society protesting against the corruption. before charles made his first visit to the theatre, there was lying in newgate the ex-royalist, but subsequently puritan poet, george wither. in the dedication of his hallelujah, in , he thus describes the contemporary condition of society:--"so innumerable are the foolish and profane songs now delighted in, to the dishonour of our language and religion, that hallelujahs and pious meditations are almost out of use and fashion; yea, not at private only, but at our public feasts, and civil meetings also, scurrilous and obscene songs are impudently sung, without respecting the reverend presence of matrons, virgins, magistrates or divines. nay, sometimes in their despite they are called for, sung, and acted, with such abominable gesticulations, as are very offensive to all modest hearers and beholders, and fitting only to be exhibited at the diabolical assemblies of bacchus, venus, or priapus." in the collection of hymns, under this title of hallelujah, there is a hymn for every condition in and circumstance of life, from the king to the tailor; from a hymn for the use of two ardent lovers, to a spiritual song of grateful resignation "for a widower or a widow deprived of a troublesome yokefellow!" there is none for the player; but there is this hit at the poets, who supplied him with unseemly phrases, and the flattering friends who crowned such bards:-- "blasphemous fancies are infused, all holy new things are expell'd, he that hath most profanely mused, is famed as having most excelled: such are those poets in these days, who vent the fumes of lust and wine, then crown each others' heads with bays, as if their poems were divine." against the revived fashion of licentious plays, some of the wisest men among theatrical audiences protested loudly. no man raised his voice with greater urgency than evelyn. within six years of the restoration, he, who was in frequency of playgoing only second to pepys, but as sharp an observer and a graver censor than the admiralty clerk, addressed a letter to lord cornbury on this important subject. the letter was written a few weeks previous to the lent season of , and the writer mourns over a scandal less allowed in any city of christendom, than in the metropolis of england, namely--"the frequency of our theatrical pastimes during the indiction of lent. here in london," he says, "there were more wicked and obscene plays permitted than in all the world besides. at paris three days, at rome two weekly, and at the other cities, florence, venice, &c., only at certain jolly periods of the year, and that not without some considerable emolument to the public, while our interludes here are every day alike; so as the ladies and the gallants come reeking from the play _late on saturday night_" (was saturday then a fashionable day for late performances?) "to their sunday devotions; and the ideas of the farce possess their fancies to the infinite prejudice of devotion, besides the advantages it gives to our reproachful blasphemers." evelyn, however, does not pursue his statement to a logical conclusion. he proposes to close the houses on friday and saturday, or to represent plays on these nights only for the benefit of paupers in or out of the workhouses. remembering rather the actresses who disgraced womanhood, than such an exemplary and reproachless pair as betterton and his wife, he recommends robbery of the "debauched comedians," as he calls them, without scruple. what if they be despoiled of a hundred or so a year? they will still enjoy more than they were ever born to; and the sacrifice, he quaintly says, will consecrate their scarce allowable impertinences. he adds, with a seriousness which implies his censure of the royal approval of the bad taste which had brought degradation on the stage--"plays are now with us become a licentious excess, and a vice, and need severe censors, that should look as well to their morality as to their lines and numbers." this grave and earnest censor, however, allowed himself to be present at stage representations which he condemns. he objects but does not refrain. he witnesses masques at court, and says little; enjoys his play, and denounces the enjoyment, in his diary, when he reaches home. he has as acute an eye on the behaviour of the ladies, especially among the audience, as for what is being uttered on the stage. "i saw the tragedy of 'horace,'" he tells us, in february , "written by the _virtuous_ mrs. phillips, acted before their majesties. betwixt each act a masque and antique dance." then speaking of the audience, where the king's "lady" was wont to outblaze the king's "wife," he adds:--"the excessive gallantry of the ladies was infinite: those especially on that ... castlemaine, esteemed at £ , and more, far outshining the queen." later in the year he is at a new play of dryden's, "with several of my relations." he describes the plot as "foolish, and very profane. it afflicted me," he continues, "to see how the stage was degenerated and polluted by the licentious times." when forming part of the audience, by invitation of the lord chamberlain, at the court plays, at whitehall, in september , evelyn uses as freely his right of judgment. he sat ill at ease in the public theatres, because they were abused, he says, "to an atheistical liberty." the invitation to see lord broghill's "mustapha" played before the king and queen, in presence of a splendid court, was a command. evelyn attended; but as he looked around, he bethought him of the london that was lying in charred ruins, and he sorrowingly records his disapproval of "any such pastime in a time of such judgments and calamities." with better times come weaker censures on these amusements; and the representation of the "conquest of granada," at whitehall in , wins his admiration for the "very glorious scenes and perspectives, the work of mr. streeter, who well understands it." in the following year, although not frequenting court plays, he takes a whole bevy of maids of honour _from_ court to the play. among them was one of whom he makes especial mention, on account of her many and extraordinary virtues, which had gained his especial esteem. this grave maid, among the two vivacious ladies whom evelyn 'squired to an afternoon's play, was mistress blagg, better known to us from evelyn's graceful sketch of her life, as mrs. godolphin. mrs. blagg was herself not the less a lovely actress for being a discreet and virtuous young lady. in [ ] evelyn saw her act in crowne's masque-comedy, "calisto, or the chaste nymph." his friend acted in a noble but mixed company--all ladies--namely, the ladies mary and anne, afterwards queens of england, the lady henrietta wentworth, afterwards the evilly-impelled favourite of the duke of monmouth, and miss jennings, subsequently the sharp-witted wife of the great duke of marlborough. there were others of less note, with professional actresses to aid them, while a corps-de-ballet of peers and nymphs of greater or less repute, danced between the acts. for the piece, or for the interludes, evelyn had less admiration than he had for mrs. blagg's splendour. she had about her, he informs us, £ , worth of jewels, of which she had lost one worth about £ , borrowed of the countess of suffolk. "the press was so great," he adds, "that it is a wonder she lost no more;" and the intimation that "the duke" (of york) "made it good," shows that mrs. blagg was fortunate in possessing the esteem of that not too liberal prince. the entire stage arrangements at whitehall were not invariably of a liberal character, and the audiences must have had, on some occasions, an uncourtly aspect; "people giving money to come in," he writes in this same year , "which was very scandalous, and never so before at court-diversions." of the turbulence of audiences in those days, there are many evidences on record. it was sometimes provoked, at others altogether unjustifiable, and always more savage than humorous. in , mrs. corey gratified lady castlemaine, by giving an imitation of lady harvey, throughout the whole of the part of sempronia, in "catiline's conspiracy." lady harvey, much excited, had influence enough with her brother, edward montagu, lord chamberlain, to induce him to lock mrs. corey up, for her impertinence. on the other hand, lady castlemaine had still greater influence with the king; and not only was mrs. corey released, but she was "ordered to act it again, worse than ever." doll common, as the actress was called, for her ability in playing that part in the "alchymist," repeated the imitation, with the required extravagance, but not without opposition; for lady harvey had hired a number of persons, some of whom hissed doll, while others pelted her with fruit, and the king looked on the while, amazed at the contending factions, whose quarrels subsequently brought him much weariness in the settling. then, again, much disturbance often arose from noisy, financial squabbles. it was a custom to return the price of admission to all persons who left the theatre before the close of the first act. consequently, many shabby persons were wont to force their way in without paying, on the plea that they did not intend to remain beyond the time limited. thence much noisy remonstrance on the part of the door-keepers, who followed them into the house; and therewith such derangement of the royal comfort, that a special decree was issued, commanding payment to be made on entering; but still allowing the patron of the drama to recover his money, if he withdrew on or before the close of the first act. but there were greater scandals than these. on the d of february , there is a really awful commotion, and imminent peril to house and audience, at the duke's theatre. the king's french favourite, the duchess of portsmouth, is blazing with rouge, diamonds, and shamelessness, in the most conspicuous seat in the house. some tipsy gentlemen in the street hard by, hear of her wit and handsome presence, and the morality of these drunkards is straightway incensed. the house is panic-stricken at seeing these virtuous goths rushing into the pit, with drawn swords in one hand--flaming, smoking, ill-smelling torches, in the other; and with vituperative cries against "the duchess of portsmouth, and other persons of honour." the rioters, not satisfied with thrusting their rapiers at the arms, sides, and legs of the affrighted people in the pit, hurl their blazing torches among the astounded actors on the stage! a panic and a general flight ensue. the house is saved from destruction; but as it is necessary to punish somebody, the king satisfies his sense of justice by pressing hard upon the innocent actors, and shutting up the house during the royal pleasure! much liquor, sharp swords, and angry tempers, combined to interrupt the enjoyment of many a peaceful audience. an angry word, passed, one april evening of , between charles dering, the son of sir edward, and the hot-blooded young welshman, mr. vaughan, led to recrimination and sword-drawing. the two young fellows, not having elbow-room in the pit, clambered on to the stage, and fought there, to the greater comfort of the audience, and with a more excited fury on the part of the combatants. the stage was that of the duke's company, then playing in dorset gardens. the adversaries fought on, till dering got a thrust from the welshman which stretched him on the boards; whereupon the authorities intervened, as there was no more mischief to be done, and put master vaughan under restraint, till dering's wound was declared not to be mortal. the 'tiring rooms of the actresses were then open to the fine gentlemen who frequented the house. they stood by at the mysteries of dressing, and commented on what they beheld and did not behold, with such breadth and coarseness of wit, that the more modest or least impudent ladies sent away their little handmaidens. the dressing over, the amateurs lounged into the house, talked loudly with the pretty orange girls, listened when it suited them, and at the termination of the piece crowded again into the 'tiring room of the most favourite and least scrupulous of the actresses. among these gallants who thus oscillated between the pit and the dressing bowers of the ladies, was a sir hugh middleton, who is not to be confounded with his namesake of the new river. on the second saturday of february , sir hugh was among the joyous damsels dressing for the play, behind the stage of old drury. the knight was so unpleasantly critical on the nymphs before him, that one of them, sharp-tongued beck marshall, bade him keep among the ladies of the duke's house, since he did not approve of those who served the king. sir hugh burst out with a threat, that he would kick, or what was worse, hire his footman to kick, her. the pretty but angry rebecca nursed her wrath all sunday; but on monday she notified the ungallant outrage to the great champion of insulted dames, the king. nothing immediately came of it; and on tuesday, there was sir hugh, glowering at her from the front of the house, and waylaying her, as she was leaving it with a friend. sir hugh whispers a ruffianly-looking fellow, who follows the actress, and presses upon her so closely, that she is moved by a double fear--that he is about to rob, and perhaps stab her. a little scream scares the bravo for a minute or so. he skulks away, but anon slinks back; and, armed with the first offensive missile he could pick up in a drury lane gutter, he therewith anoints the face and hair of the much-shocked actress, and then, like the valiant fellows of his trade, takes to his heels. the next day, sweet as anadyomene rising from the sea, the actress appeared before the king, and charged sir hugh with being the abettor of this gross outrage. how the knight was punished, the record in the state paper office does not say; but about a fortnight later a royal decree was issued, which prohibited gentlemen from entering the 'tiring rooms of the ladies of the king's theatre. for some nights the gallants sat ill at ease among the audience; but the journals of the period show that the nymphs must have been as little pleased with this arrangement as the fine gentlemen themselves, who soon found their way back to pay the homage of flattery to the most insatiable of goddesses. not that all the homage was paid to the latter. the wits loved to assemble, after the play was done, in the dressing-rooms of the leading actors with whom they most cared to cultivate an intimacy. much company often congregated here, generally with the purpose of assigning meetings, where further enjoyment might be pursued. then, when it was holiday with the legislature, the house was filled with parliament-men. on one of these occasions, pepys records, "how a gentleman of good habit, sitting just before us, eating of some fruit in the midst of the play, did drop down as dead; but with much ado, orange moll did thrust her finger down his throat, and brought him to life again." this was an incident of the year . returning to the front of the stage, we find the ladies in the boxes subjected to the audible criticisms of "the little cockerells of the pit," as ravenscroft calls them, with whom the more daring damsels entered into a smart contest of repartees. as the "play-house" was then the refuge of all idle young people, these wit-combats were listened to with interest, from the town fops to the rustic young squires, who came to the theatre in cordivant gloves, and were quite unconscious of poisoning the affected fine ladies with the smell of them. the poets used to assert that all the wit of the pittites was stolen from the plays which they read or saw acted. it seemed the privilege of the box-loungers to have none, or to perform other services; namely, to sit all the evening by a mistress, or to blaze from "fop's corner," or to mark the modest women, by noting those who did not use their fans through a whole play, nor turn aside their heads, nor, by blushing, discover more guilt than modesty. thrice happy was she who found the greatest number of slaves at the door of her box, waiting obsequiously to hand or escort her to her chair. these beaux were hard to fix, so erratic were they in their habits. they ran, as gatty pertinently has it, "from one play-house to the other play-house; and if they like neither the play nor the women, they seldom stay any longer than the combing of their perriwigs, or a whisper or two with a friend, and then they cock their caps, and out they strut again." with fair and witty strangers these gay fellows, their eyebrows and perriwigs redolent of the essence of orange and jasmine, entered into conversation, till a gentleman's name, called by a door-keeper in the passage, summoned him to impatient companions, waiting for him outside; when he left the "censure" of his appearance to critical observers, like those who ridiculed the man of mode for "his gloves drawn up to his elbows and his perriwig more exactly curled than a lady's head newly dressed for a ball." of the vizard-masks, cibber tells the whole history in a few words: "i remember the ladies were then observed to be decently afraid of venturing bare-faced to a new comedy, till they had been assured they might do it without insult to their modesty; or if their curiosity were too strong for their patience, they took care at least to save appearances, and rarely came in the first days of acting but in masks, which custom, however, had so many ill consequences attending it, that it has been abolished these many years." the poets sometimes accused the ladies of blushing, not because of offence, but from constraint on laughter. farquhar's pindress says to lucinda, "didn't you chide me for not putting a stronger lace in your stays, when you had broke one as strong as a hempen-cord with containing a violent _ti-hee_ at a ---- jest in the last play?" cibber describes the beaux of the seventeenth century as being of quite a different stamp from the more modern sort. the former "had more of the stateliness of the peacock in their mien," whereas the latter seemed to place their highest emulation in imitating "the pert air of a lapwing." the greatest possible compliment was paid to cibber by the handsome, witty, blooming young fop, brett, who was so enchanted with the wig the former wore as sir novelty fashion, in "love's last shift," that fancying the wearing it might ensure him success among the ladies, he went round to cibber's dressing-room, and entered into negotiations for the purchase of that wonderful cataract perriwig. the fine gentlemen among the audience had, indeed, the credit of being less able to judge of a play than of a peruke; and dryden speaks of an individual as being "as invincibly ignorant as a town-sop judging of a new play." [illustration: colley cibber.)] lord foppington, in , did not pretend to be a beau; but he remarks, "a man must endeavour to look wholesome, lest he make so nauseous a figure in the side-box, the ladies should be compelled to turn their eyes upon the play." it was the "thing" to look upon the company, unless some irresistible attraction drew attention to the stage; and the curtain down, the beau became active in the service of the ladies generally. "till nine o'clock," says lord foppington, "i amuse myself by looking on the company, and usually dispose of one hour more in leading them out." some fine gentlemen were unequal to such gallantry. at these, southerne glances in his "sir anthony love," where he describes the hard drinkers who "go to a tavern to swallow a drunkenness, and then to a play, to talk over their liquor." and these had their counterparts in "the youngsters of a noisy pit, whose tongues and mistresses, outran their wit." it was, however, much the same in the boxes, where the beaux' oath was "zauns," it being token of a rustic blasphemer to say "zounds;" and where, though a country squire might say, "bless us!" it was the mark of a man of fashion to cry, "dem me!" with such personages in pit and boxes, we may rest satisfied that there was a public to match in the gallery--a peculiar as well as a general public. a line in a prologue of the year , "the stinking footman's sent to keep your places," alludes to a custom by which the livery profited. towards the close of the century, the upper gallery of drury lane was opened to footmen, _gratis_. they were supposed to be in attendance on their masters, but these rather patronised the other house, and as drury could not attract the nobility, it courted the favour of their not very humble servants. previously, the lacqueys were admitted after the close of the fourth act of the play. they became the most clamorous critics in the house. it was the custom, when these fellows passed the money-taker, to name their master, who was supposed to be in the boxes; but many frauds were practised. a stalwart, gold-laced, thick-calved, irreverent lacquey swaggered past money and check-taker one afternoon, and named "the lord ----," adding the name which the jews of old would never utter, out of fear and reverence. "the lord ----!" said the money-taker to his colleague, after the saucy footman had flung by, "who is he?" "can't say," was the reply; "some poor scotch lord, i suppose!" such is an alleged sample of the ignorance and the blasphemy of the period. returning to the pit, i find, with the critics and other good men there, a sprinkling of clerical gentlemen, especially of chaplains; their patrons, perhaps, being in the boxes. in the papers of the day, in the year , i read of a little incident which illustrates social matters, and which, probably, did not much trouble the theatrical cleric who went to the pit so strangely provided. "there was found," says the paragraph, "in the pit of the playhouse, drury lane, covent garden, on whitsun eve, a qualification, signed by the right honourable the lord dartmouth to the reverend mr. nicholson, to be his chaplain extraordinary; the said qualification being wrapped up in a black taffety cap, together with a bottle-screw, a knotting needle, and a ball of sky-colour and white knotting. if the said mr. nicholson will repair to the pit-keeper's house, in vinegar yard, at the crooked billet, he shall have the moveables restored, giving a reasonable gratitude." probably mr. nicholson did not claim his qualification. his patron was son of the lord dartmouth who corresponded with james ii. while expressing allegiance to william iii., and was subsequently queen anne's secretary of state, and the annotator of burnet's _history of his own times_. the audiences of king william's time were quick at noticing and applying political allusions; and government looked as sharply after the dramatic poets as it did after the jacobite plotters. when much intercourse was going on between the exiled king at st. germains and his adherents in this country, a colonel mottley (of whose son, as a dramatist, i shall have occasion to speak in a future page) was sent over by james with despatches. the earl of nottingham laid watch for him at the blue posts, in the haymarket, but the secretary's officers missed the colonel, seizing in his place a cornish gentleman, named tredenham, who was seated in a room, surrounded by papers, and waiting for the colonel. tredenham and the documents were conveyed in custody before the earl, to whom the former explained that he was a poet, sketching out a play, that the papers seized formed portion of the piece, and that he had nothing to do with plots against his majesty _de facto_. daniel finch, however, was as careful to read the roughly-sketched play, as if it had been the details of a conspiracy; and then the author was summoned before him. "well, mr. tredenham," said he, "i have perused your play, and heard your statement, and as i can find no trace of a plot in either, i think you may go free." the sincerity of the audiences of those days is something doubtful, if that be true which dryden affirms, that he observed, namely, that "in all our tragedies the audience cannot forbear laughing when the actors are to die: 'tis the most comic part of the whole play." he says, _all_ our tragedies; but we know that such was not the case when the heroes of shakspeare, represented by betterton, hart, or harris, suffered mimic dissolution, and it is but a fair suggestion that it was only in the bombast and fustian tragedies, in which death was the climax of a comic situation, and treated bombastically, that the audiences were moved to laughter. sincere or not, the resident londoners were great playgoers, and gadders generally. i have already quoted bishop hackett on this matter. sermons thus testify to a matter of fashion. it appears from a play, dryden's "sir martin marall," that if londoners were the permanent patrons, the country "quality" looked for an annual visit. at the present time it is the visitors and not the residents in london who most frequent the theatre. "i came up, as we country gentlewomen use, at an easter term, to the destruction of tarts and cheesecakes, to see a new play, buy a new gown, take a turn in the park, and so down again to sleep with my forefathers." this resort to the theatres displeased better men than non-juring collier. mirthful-minded south, he who preached to the merchant tailors of the remnant that should be saved, calls theatres "those spiritual pest-houses, where scarce anything is to be heard or seen but what tends to the corruption of good manners, and from whence not one of a thousand returns, but, infected with the love of vice, or at least with the hatred of it very much abated from what it was before. and that, i assure you, is no inconsiderable point gained by the tempter, as those who have any experience of their own hearts sufficiently know. he who has no mind to trade with the devil, should be so wise as to keep away from his shop." south objects to a corrupt, not to a "well-trod stage." yet south, like collier later, laid to the scene much of the sin of the age. if we were to judge of the character of women by the comedies of the last half of the seventeenth century, we might conclude that they were all, without exception, either constantly at the play, or constantly wishing to be there. but the marquis of halifax, in his _advice to a daughter_, shows that they were only a class. "some ladies," he says, "are bespoke for merry meetings, as bessus was for duels. they are engaged in a circle of idleness, where they turn round, for the whole year, without the interruption of a serious hour. they know all the players' names, and are intimately acquainted with all the booths at bartholomew fair. the spring, that bringeth out flies and fools, maketh them inhabitants in hyde park. in the winter, they are an encumbrance to the play-house, and the ballast of the drawing-room." we may learn how the playhouse, encumbered by the fast ladies of bygone years, stood, and what were the prospects of the stage at this time, by looking into a private epistle. a few lines in a letter from "mr. vanbrook" (afterwards sir john vanbrugh) to the earl of manchester, and written on christmas day, , will show the position and hopes of the stage as that century was closing. "miss evans," he writes, "the dancer at the new play-house, is dead; a fever slew her in eight and forty hours. she's much lamented by the town, as well as by the house, who can't well bear her loss; matters running very low with 'em this winter. if congreve's play don't help 'em they are undone. 'tis a comedy, and will be played about six weeks hence. nobody has seen it yet." the same letter informs us that dick leveridge, the bass singer of lincoln's inn fields theatre, was tarrying in ireland, rather than face his creditors in england, and that dogget (of whom there is no account, during the years , , ), had been playing for a week at the above theatre, for the sum of £ ! this is the first instance i know of, of the "starring" system; and it is remarkable that the above sum should have been given for six nights' performances, when betterton's salary did not exceed £ per week. the century closed ill for the stage. congreve's play, "the way of the world," failed to give it any lustre. dancers, tumblers, strong men, and quadrupeds, were called in to attract the town; and the elephant at the _great mogul_, in fleet street, "drew" to such an extent that he would have been brought upon the stage, but for the opinion of a master-carpenter, that he would pull the house down. there was an empty treasury at both the theatres. there was ill-management at one, and ill-health (the declining health of betterton) to mar the other. and so closes the half century. note.--in the second edition, after the words, "this is the first instance of the 'starring' system," dr. doran adds:--if dogget was the first _star_, he was also an early stroller, and head of a strolling company. each member wore a brocaded waistcoat, rode his own horse, and was everywhere respected, as a gentleman. so says aston, reminding one of hamlet's "then came each actor on his ass." steele, in the _tatler_ (no. ), speaks of the manager, macswiney, as "little king oberon," who mortgaged his whole empire (the theatre) to divito (christopher rich), whom steele thus describes: "he has a perfect skill in being unintelligible in discourse, and uncomeatable in business. but he, having no understanding in this polite way, brought in upon us, to get in his money, ladder-dancers, rope-dancers, jugglers, and mountebanks, to strut in the place of shakspeare's heroes and jonson's humorists." footnotes: [ ] pepys certainly means on account of the dulness of the play. [ ] should be th and d december . [illustration: sir richard steele.] chapter xiii. a seven years' rivalry. the great players, by giving action to the poet's words, illustrated the quaintly expressed idea of the sweet singer who says: "what thought can think another thought can mend." nevertheless, the theatres had not proved profitable. the public greeted acrobats with louder acclaim than any poet. king william cared more to see the feats of kentish patagonians than to listen to shakspeare; and, for a time, dogget, by creating laughter, reaped more glittering reward than betterton, by drawing tears. the first season, however, of the eighteenth century was commenced with great spirit. drury lane opened with cibber's "love makes a man," an adaptation from beaumont and fletcher. cibber was the clodio; wilks, carlos; and mrs. verbruggen, louisa. five other new pieces were produced in this brief season. this was followed by the "humour of the age," a dull comedy, by baker, who generally gave his audience something to laugh at, and showed some originality in more than one of his five pieces. he was an attorney's son, and an oxford university man; but he took to writing for the stage, had an ephemeral success, and died early, in worse plight than any author, even in the days when authors occasionally died in evil condition. the third novelty was settle's mad operatic tragedy, the "siege of troy,"[ ] with a procession in which figured six white elephants! griffin returned to the stage from the army, with "captain" attached to his name, and played ulysses. the dulness and grandeur of settle's piece were hardly relieved by farquhar's sequel to his "constant couple," "sir harry wildair." the reputation of the former piece secured for the latter a _run_ of nine nights, so were successes calculated in those early days. wilks laid down sir harry to enact the distresses of lorraine, in mrs. trotter's new play, "the unhappy penitent," which gave way in turn for durfey's intriguing comedy, "the bath, or the western lass," in which mrs. verbruggen's "gillian homebred," made her the darling of the town. in the same season, the company at lincoln's inn fields produced a like number of new pieces. in the first, the "double distress," booth, verbruggen, mrs. barry, and mrs. bracegirdle wasted their talents. mrs. pix, the author, having failed in this mixture of rhyme and blank verse, failed in a greater degree in her next play in prose, the "czar of muscovy." booth and mrs. barry could do nothing with such materials. the masters forthwith enacted the "lady's visiting day," by burnaby. in this comedy, betterton played the gallant lover, courtine, to the lady lovetoy of mrs. barry. the lady here would only marry a prince. courtine wins her as prince alexander of muscovy; and the audience laughed as they recognised therein the incident of the merry lord montagu wooing the mad duchess-dowager of albemarle, as the empress of china, and marrying her under that very magnificent dignity, to any inferior to which the duchess had declared she would not stoop. the hilarity of the public was next challenged by the production of granville (lord lansdowne's) "jew of venice,"--"improved" from shakspeare, who was described as having furnished the rude sketches which had been amended and adorned by granville's new master-strokes![ ] gildon's dull piece of druidism, "love's victim, or the queen of wales," appeared and failed,[ ] notwithstanding its wonderful cast; but corye's "cure for jealousy" brought the list of novelties merrily to a close; for though the audience saw no fun in it, they did in the anger of the author--a little man, with a whistle of a voice, who abandoned the law for the stage, and was as weak an actor as he was an author. he attributed his failure to the absurd admiration of the public for farquhar. he was absurd enough to say so in print, and to speak contemptuously of poor george's "jubilee farce." in those wicked days, literary men loved not each other! in , the drury lane company brought out eight new pieces, and worked indefatigably. they commenced with dennis's "comical gallant,"--an "improved" edition of shakspeare's "merry wives," in which powell made but a sorry falstaff. this piece gave way to one entirely original, and very much duller, the "generous conqueror," of the ex-fugitive jacobite, bevil higgons. in this poor play, bevil illustrated the right divine and impeccability of his late liege sovereign, king james; denounced the revolution, by implication; did in his only play what dr. sacheverell did in the pulpit, and made even his fellow jacobites laugh by his bouncing line, "the gods and god-like kings can do no wrong." laughter more genuine might have been expected from the next novelty, farquhar's "inconstant;" but that clever adaptation of fletcher's "wild-goose chase," with wilks for young mirabel, did not affect the town so hilariously as i have seen it do when charles kemble, gracefully, but somewhat too demonstratively, enacted the part of that gay, silly, but lucky gentleman. still less pleased were the public with the next play, tossed up for them in a month, and condemned in a night, burnaby's "modish husband." of course, this husband, lord promise, is a man who loves his neighbour's wife, and cares not who loves his own. an honest man in this comedy, sir lively cringe, does not think ill of married women, and he is made a buffoon and more, accordingly. when lady cringe, in the dark, holds her lover lionel with one hand, her husband with the other, and declares that her fingers are locked with those of the man she loves best in the world, sir lively believes her. in this wise did the stage hold the mirror up to nature at the beginning of the last century. not more edifying nor much more successful was vanbrugh's "false friend," a _comedy_ in which there is a murder enacted before the audience! what the house lost by it was fully made up by the unequivocal success of the next new piece, the "funeral, or grief à la mode." the author was then six and twenty years of age; this was his first piece, and his name was steele. all that was known of him then was, that he was a native of dublin, had been fellow-pupil at the charter house with addison, had left the university without a degree, and was said to have lost the succession to an estate in wexford by enlisting as "a _private gentleman_ in the horse guards;" a phrase significant enough, as the proper designation of that body, at this day, is "gentlemen of her majesty's royal horse guards." he was the wildest and wittiest young dog about town, when in , he published, with a dedication to lord cutts, to whom he had been private secretary, and through whom he had been appointed to a company in lord lucas's fusiliers, his _christian hero_, a treatise in which he showed what he was not, by showing what a man ought to be. it brought the poor fellow into incessant perplexity, and even peril. some thought him a hypocrite, others provoked him as a coward, all measured his sayings and doings by his maxims in his _christian hero_, and dick steele was suffering in the regard of the town, when he resolved to redeem the character which he could not keep up to the level of his religious hero, by composing a comedy! he thoroughly succeeded, and there were troopers enough in the house to have beat the rest of the audience into shouting approbation, had they not been well inclined to do so spontaneously. the "funeral" is the merriest and the most perfect of steele's comedies. the characters are strongly marked, the wit genial, and not indecent. steele was among the first who set about reforming the licentiousness of the old comedy. his satire in the "funeral" is not against virtue, but vice and silliness. when the two lively ladies in widow's weeds meet, steele's classical memory served him with a good illustration. "i protest, i wonder," says lady brumpton (mrs. verbruggen), "how two of us thus clad can meet with a grave face." the most genuine humour in the piece was that applied against lawyers; but more especially in the satire against undertakers, and all their mockery of woe. take the scene in which sable (johnson) is giving instructions to his men, and reviewing them the while:--"ha, you're a little more upon the dismal. this fellow has a good mortal look--place him near the corpse. that wainscot-face must be a-top o' the stairs. that fellow's almost in a fright, that looks as if he were full of some strange misery, at the end o' the hall! so!--but i'll fix you all myself. let's have no laughing now, on any provocation. look yonder at that hale, well-looking puppy! you ungrateful scoundrel, didn't i pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and show you the pleasure of receiving wages? didn't i give you ten, then fifteen, then twenty shillings a-week, to be sorrowful? and _the more i give you the gladder you are_!" this sort of humour was new, no wonder it made a sensation. steele became the spoiled child of the town. "nothing," said he, "ever makes the town so fond of a man as a successful play." old sunderland and younger halifax patronised steele for his own and for addison's sake; and the author of the new comedy received the appointment of _writer of the gazette_. after a closing of the houses during bartholomew fair, the drury lane company met again, and again won the town by cibber's "she would and she would not." this excellent comedy contrasts well with the same author's also admirable comedy, the "careless husband." in the latter there is much talk of action; in the former there is much action during very good talk. there is much fun, little vulgarity, sharp epigrams on the manners and morals of the times, good-humoured satire against popery, and a succession of incidents which never flags from the rise to the fall of the curtain. the plot may be not altogether original, and there is an occasional incorrectness in the local colour; but taken as a whole, it is a very amusing comedy, and it kept the stage even longer than steele's "funeral." far less successful was drury with the last and eighth new play of this season, farquhar's "twin rivals," for the copyright of which the author received £ , s. from tonson. farquhar, perhaps, took more pains with this than with any of his plays, and has received praise in return; but after steele and cibber's comedies, the "twin rivals" had only what the french call a _succès d'estime_. to the eight pieces of drury, lincoln's inn opposed half a dozen, only one of which has come down to our times, namely, rowe's "tamerlane," with which the company opened the season:--tamerlane, betterton; bajazet, verbruggen; axalla, booth; arpasia, mrs. barry. in this piece, rowe left sacred for profane history, and made his tragedy so politically allusive to louis xiv. in the character of bajazet, and to william iii. in tamerlane, that it was for many years represented at each theatre on every recurring th and th of november, the anniversary of the birth and of the landing of king william. in dublin, the anniversary of the great delivery from "popery and wooden shoes," was marked by a piece of gallantry on the part of the lord lieutenant, or, in his absence, the lords justices--namely, by arrangement with the manager, admission to the boxes was free to every lady disposed to honour the theatre with her presence! rowe has made a virtuous hero of tamerlane, without at all causing him to resemble william of orange; but, irrespective of this, there is life in this tragedy, which, with some of the bluster of the old, had some of the sentiment of a new school. in , when the scottish rebellion had been entirely suppressed, it was acted on the above anniversaries with much attendant enthusiasm, mrs. pritchard speaking an epilogue written for the occasion by horace walpole, and licensed by the chamberlain, the duke of grafton, notwithstanding a compliment to his grace, which walpole thought might induce the duke, out of sheer modesty, to withhold his official sanction. tamerlane has been a favourite part with many actors. lady morgan's father, mr. owenson, made his first appearance in it, under garrick's rule; but a tamerlane with a strong irish brogue and comic redundant action created different sensations from those intended by the author, and though the audience did not hiss, they laughed abundantly. to "tamerlane" succeeded "antiochus the great," a tragedy, full of the old love, bombast, and murder. the author was a mrs. jane wiseman, who was a servant in the family of mr. wright, of oxford, where, having filled her mind with plays and romances, she wrote this hyper-romantic play, and having married a well-to-do westminster vintner, named holt, she succeeded in seeing it fail, as it well deserved to do.[ ] it seemed as if the king-killing in the plebeian lady's tragedy required some counter-action, and accordingly, lord orrery's posthumous play of "altemira" was next brought forward. there is a true king and also an usurper in this roaring yet sentimental tragedy, in whom whigs and tories might recognise the sovereigns whom they respectively adored. one monarch himself complacently remarks:-- "whatever crimes are acted for a crown, the gods forgive, when once that crown's put on." to touch the lord's anointed is an unpardonable sin; but if the whigs were rendered uneasy by this sentiment, they probably found comfort in the speech wherein _clerimont_[ ] (betterton), while owning respect for the deprived monarch, confesses the fitness of being loyal to the one who displaced him. to these three tragedies succeeded three now-forgotten comedies, "the gentleman cully," in which booth fooled it to the top of his bent, in the only english comedy which ends without a marriage. the "beaux' duel," and the "stolen heiress," two of mrs. carroll's (she had not yet become mrs. centlivre) bolder plagiarisms from old dramatists, brought the lincoln's inn season to a close. in the season of , drury lane produced seven, and lincoln's inn fields six, pieces. the first, at drury, was baker's "tunbridge walks," the manners of which smack of the old loose times. then came durfey's "old mode and the new," a long, dull, satirical comedy, on the fashions of elizabeth's days and those of anne. durfey was then at his twenty-eighth comedy, and in the decline of his powers. little flourished about him save that terrific beak which served for a nose, and also for an excuse for his dislike to have his likeness taken. in other respects, the wit, on whose shoulder charles had leaned, to whose songs william had listened, and at them anne even then laughed, was in vogue, but not with the theatrical public. a new author tempted that public, in april, with a comedy, entitled "fair example, or the modish citizens," by estcourt, a strolling player, but soon afterwards a clever actor in this company, a man whom addison praised, and a good fellow, whom steele admired. his career had, hitherto, been a strange one. he ran away from a respectable home at tewkesbury, when fifteen, to play roxalana with some itinerants, and fled from the company, on being pursued thither by his friends, in the dress lent him by a kind-hearted girl of the troop. in this dress, estcourt made his way on foot to chipping norton, at the inn of which place the weary supposed damsel was invited to share the room of the landlord's daughter. then ensued a scene as comic as any ever invented by dramatist, but from which the parties came off with some perplexity, and no loss of honour. the young runaway was caught and sent home, and thence he was despatched to hatton garden, and bound by articles to learn there the apothecary's mystery. it is not known when he broke from these bonds; but it is certain that he again--some say after he had himself failed in the practice of the mystery he had painfully learned, took to the joys and sorrows, trials, triumphs, and temptations of a wandering player's life till , or about that period, when he appeared in dublin, with success. he was between thirty and forty years of age, when he came to london with the "fair example," an adaptation, like the "confederacy," of dancour's "modish citizens," but not destined to an equal success, despite the acting of cibber and norris, and that brilliant triad of ladies, verbruggen, oldfield, and powell. in june, mrs. carroll served up molière's "médecin malgré lui," in the cold dish called "love's contrivance;" and, in the same month, wilkinson and his sole comedy, "vice reclaimed," appeared; and are now forgotten. next, manning tried the judgment of the town with his "all for the better," a comedy, of triple plots--stolen from old writers. manning resembled steele only in leaving the university without a degree. if steele obtained a government appointment after his dramatic success, manning acquired a better after his failure. he was, first, secretary to our legation in switzerland; and, secondly, envoy to the cantons; and was about as respectable in diplomacy as in the drama. gildon's play of the "patriot, or the italian conspiracy," the last produced this year,[ ] with mills as cosmo de medici, and wilks as his son, julio, merits notice only as an instance of the mania for reconstructing accepted stories. gildon, towards the close of his wayward and silly career, transmuted lee's ancient roman "lucius junius brutus," into the modern italian "patriot." the public consigned it to oblivion. during this season, when "macbeth" was the only one of shakspeare's plays performed,[ ] the theatre in dorset gardens was prepared for opera; and in the summer the company followed queen anne to bath, by command; but there went not with them the most brilliant actress of light comedy that the two centuries had hitherto seen, mrs. verbruggen, that sparkling mrs. mountfort whose father, mr. perceval, was condemned to death for treason against king william, on the day her husband was murdered by lord mohun! the jacobite father was, however, pardoned. mrs. mountfort, or verbruggen, left a successor equal, perhaps superior, to herself, in mrs. oldfield. the season of , at lincoln's inn fields, was distinguished by the success of rowe's "fair penitent,"--the one great triumph of the year.[ ] the other novelties require only to be recorded. that most virulent and unscrupulous of whig partizan-writers, oldmixon, opened the season with his third and last dramatic essay, "the governor of cyprus," supported by betterton, booth, powell, and mrs. barry. oldmixon was a poor dramatist, but he made a tolerable excise officer,--a post which he acquired by his party-writings. he would not, however, be remembered now, but for the pre-eminence for dirt and dulness which pope has awarded him in the _dunciad_. the entire strength of the company, betterton excepted, was wasted on the comedies,--"different widows," by a judicious, anonymous author; "love betrayed," burnaby's last of a poor four, and that a marring of shakspeare's "twelfth night;" and "as you find it" (for mrs. porter's benefit, in april). this was the only play written by charles boyle, grandson of the dramatist earl of orrery, to which title he succeeded, four months after his comedy (the dullest in the english language) had failed. boyle may have been a worthy antagonist of bentley, touching the genuineness of the "epistles of phalaris;" but he could not vie with such writers of comedy as cibber, farquhar, and steele. the production of the "fickle shepherdess,"--a ruthless handling of randolph's fine pastoral, "amyntas,"--pleased but for a few nights, though every woman of note in the company, and all beautiful, played in it,--making love to, or prettily sighing at, or as prettily sulking with, each other. the great event of the season was, undoubtedly, the "fair penitent:" lothario, powell; horatio, betterton; altamont, verbruggen; calista, mrs. barry; lavinia, mrs. bracegirdle. rowe had, in his "tamerlane," thundered, after the manner of dryden: had tried to be as pathetic as otway, and had employed some of the bombast of lee. but he lacked strength to make either of the heroes of that resonant tragedy vigorous. in devoting himself, henceforth, to illustrate the woes and weaknesses of heroines, he discovered where his real powers lay; and calista is one of the most successful of his portraitures. there is gross and unavowed plagiarism from massinger's "fatal dowry," but there is a greater purity of sentiment in rowe, who leaves, however, much room for improvement in that respect, by his successors. richardson saw this, when he made of his lovelace a somewhat purified lothario. rowe, however, notwithstanding the weak point in his fair penitent, who is more angry at being found out, than sorry for what has happened, has been eminently successful; for all the sympathy of the audience is freely rendered to calista. the tragedy may still be called an acting play, though it has lost something of the popularity it retained during the last century, when even edward, duke of york, and lady stanhope, enacted lothario and calista, in the once famous "private theatre" in downing street. johnson's criticism is all praise, as regards both fable and treatment. the style is purely english, as might be expected of a writer who said of dryden, that-- "backed by his friends, th' invader brought along a crew of foreign words into our tongue, to ruin and enslave our free-born english song. still, the prevailing faction propped his throne, and to four volumes let his plays run on." shakspeare, in name, at least, re-appears more frequently on the stage during the drury lane season of - , when "hamlet," "king lear," "macbeth," "timon of athens," "richard iii.," the "tempest," and "titus andronicus," were performed.[ ] these, however, were the "improved" editions of the poets. the novelties were, the "lying lover," by steele; "love, the leveller;" and the "albion queens." it was the season in which great anne fruitlessly forbade the presence of vizard-masks in the pit, and of gallants on the stage; recommended cleanliness of speech, and denounced the shabby people who occasionally tried to evade the money-takers.[ ] steele, in his play, attempted to support one of the good objects which the queen had in view; but in striving to be pure, after his idea of purity, and to be moral, after a loose idea of morality, he failed altogether in wit, humour, and invention. he thought to prove himself a good churchman, he said, even in so small a matter as a comedy; and in his character of comic poet, "i have been," he says, "a martyr and confessor for the church, for this play was damned for its piety." this is as broad an untruth as anything uttered by the "lying lover" himself, who, when he does express a mawkish sentiment after he has killed a man in his liquor, can only be held to be "a liar," as before. steele was condemned for stupidity in a piece, the only ray of humour in which pierces through the dirty, noisy, drunken throng of gallows birds in newgate. that steele seriously intended his play to be the beginning of an era of "new comedy," is, however, certain. in the prologue, it was said of the author-- "he aims to make the coming action move on the tried laws of friendship and of love. he offers no gross vices to your sight,-- those too much horror raise, for just delight." steele's comedy was a step in a right direction; and his great fault was pretending to be half-ashamed of having made it. that it had a "_clear_ stage and no favour," is literally true. it was one of the first pieces played without a mingling of the public with the players;--an evil fashion, which was not entirely suppressed for threescore years after queen anne's decree, when garrick proved more absolute than her majesty. it was a practice which so annoyed baron, that proudest of french actors, that to suggest to the audience in the house the absurdity of it, he would turn his back on them for a whole act, and play to the audience on the stage. sometimes the noise was so loud, that an actor's voice could be scarcely heard. "you speak too low!" cried a pit-critic to defresne. "and you too high!" retorted the actor. the offended pit screamed its indignation, and demanded an abject apology. "gentlemen," said defresne, "i never felt the degradation of my position till now;" ... and the pit interrupted the bold exordium by rounds of applause, under which he resumed his part. of the other pieces produced this season at drury lane, it will suffice to say, that "love the leveller" was by "g. b., gent.," who ascribes its failure to his having adopted the counsel of friends, and who consoles himself by the thought, that "it found so favourable a reception that the best plays hardly ever met with a fuller audience." happy man! his piece was at least damned by a full house. the "albion queens" was an old play, by banks, which, dealing with the affairs of england and scotland, was held to be politically dangerous; but good queen anne now licensed it, on the report of its inoffensiveness made by "a nobleman;" and its dulness, relieved by good acting, delighted our easy forefathers for half a century. lincoln's inn failed to distinguish itself this season. eton had no reason to be proud of the comedy of its _alumnus_, walker, "marry, or do worse;" and in the tragedy of "abra mulé," with its similes, which continually run away with their rider, the young master of arts, trapp, shows that he was as poor a poet,[ ] in his early days, as that translation of virgil, which so broke the rest of mrs. trapp, proved him to be in his later years, when he was d.d., and professor of poetry. dennis's "liberty asserted" only demonstrated how heartily he hated the french; and as there was no dramatist who did so, in the same degree, when the french and the pretender were very obnoxious, some years later, this thunder of dennis was revived to stimulate antipathies. queen anne's scottish historiographer did nothing for the english stage, by his comedy of "love at first sight," and farces like the "stage coach," the "wits of woman," and "squire trelooby," are only remarkable because betterton and the leading actors played in them as readily as in "first pieces." during may fair, the theatre was closed, some of the actors playing there, at pinkethman's booth. in the same season they played before the queen at st. james's, in the "merry wives of windsor," with betterton as falstaff, which he subsequently acted for his own benefit. this piece, and also "julius cæsar," "othello," and "timon of athens," were the plays by or _from_ shakspeare, which were played this season. the season of - , at drury lane, now prospering, to the considerable vexation of kit rich, chief proprietor, who felt himself unable to avoid paying his company their salaries, is notable for the production of cibber's "careless husband." he who now reads it for the first time may be surprised to hear that in this comedy a really serious and eminently successful attempt to reform the licentiousness of the drama was made by one who had been himself a great offender.[ ] nevertheless the fact remains. in lord morelove we have the first lover in english comedy, since licentiousness possessed it, who is at once a gentleman and an honest man. in lady easy, we have, what was hitherto unknown, or laughed at,--a virtuous, married woman. it is a conversational piece, not one of much action. the dialogue is admirably sustained, not only in repartee, but in descriptive parts. there is some refinement manifested in treating and talking of things unrefined, and incidents are pictured with a master's art. cibber's greatest claim to respect seems to me to rest on this elegant and elaborate, though far from faultless comedy. so carefully did he construct the character of the beautiful and brilliant coquette, lady betty modish, whose waywardness and selfishness are finally subdued by a worthy lover, that he despaired finding an actress with power enough to realise his conception. it was written for mrs. verbruggen (mountfort), but she was now dead; mrs. bracegirdle _might_ have played it; but "bracy" was not a member of the drury lane company. there was, indeed, mrs. oldfield, but colley could scarcely see more in her than an actress of promise. reluctantly, however, he entrusted the part to her, forboding discomfort;[ ] but there ensued a triumph for the actress and the play, for which colley was admiringly grateful to the end of his life. to her, he confessed, was chiefly owing the success, though every character was adequately cast. he eulogised her excellence of action, and her "personal manner of conversing." he adds, "there are many sentiments in the character of lady betty modish that i may almost say, were originally her own, or only dressed with a little more care than when they negligently fell from her lively humour; had her birth placed her in a higher rank of life, she had certainly appeared in reality what in this play she only excellently acted, an agreeably gay woman of quality, a little too conscious of her natural attractions." neither cibber's friends nor foes seem to have at all enjoyed his success. they would not compromise their own reputation by questioning the merit of this rare piece of dramatic excellence, but they insinuated or asserted that he was not the author. it was written by defoe, by the duke of argyll, by mrs. oldfield's particular friend, maynwaring! congreve, who had revelled in impurity, and stoutly asserted his cleanliness, ungenerously declared, "cibber has produced a play consisting of fine gentlemen and fine conversation, all together, which the ridiculous town, for the most part, likes." congreve had not then forgiven the ridiculous world for receiving so coldly his own last comedy, "the way of the world." dr. armstrong has more honestly analysed the play, and pointed out its defects, without noticing its merits; but walpole, no bad judge of a comedy of such character, has enthusiastically declared that it "deserves to be immortal." it has failed in that respect, because its theme, manners, follies, and allusions are obsolete, to say nothing of a company to follow even decently the original cast, which included sir charles easy, wilks; lord foppington, cibber; and lady betty modish, mrs. oldfield. steele's "tender husband, or the accomplished fools," in which he had addison for a coadjutor, was produced in april .[ ] addison's share therein was not avowed till long subsequently; but it was handsomely acknowledged, at last, by steele, in the _spectator_. in the concluding paper of the seventh volume, steele alluded to certain scenes which had been most applauded. these, he said, were by addison; and honest dick added, that he had ever since thought meanly of himself in not having publicly avowed the fact. this comedy was chiefly a satire on the evils of romance reading; and was of a strictly moral, yet decidedly heavy tendency; but with a biddy tipkin (mrs. oldfield), to which there has been, as to lady betty modish, no efficient successor. there was a good end in both these plays. the other novelties, "arsinoe, queen of cyprus," an opera; "gibraltar, or the spanish adventurer," a failure of dennis's; "farewell folly," by motteux; and the "quacks," by swiney--oblivion wraps them all. in this season dick estcourt made his first appearance in london as dominic, in the "spanish friar." of shakspeare's plays, "hamlet," "henry iv.," and "macbeth," were frequently repeated during the season. "arsinoe," which i have mentioned above, merits a special word in passing, as being the first attempt to establish opera in england, after the fashion of that of italy. "if this attempt," says clayton, the composer, who understood english no better than he did music, "shall be a means of bringing this manner of music to be used in my native country, i shall think my study and pains very well employed." the principal singer was mrs. tofts, who for two years had been singing, after the play, at lincoln's inn fields, against marguerite de l'epine, the pupil of greber, and subsequently the ill-favoured but happy wife of dr. pepusch, who fondly called her hecate--she answering good-humouredly to the name. the earl of nottingham (son of lord chancellor finch), and the duke of bedford, who lost by dice more than his father made by the "bedford level," patronised and went into ecstasy at the song and shake of "the italian lady," as marguerite was called. the proud duke of somerset, who was as mean as he was proud, and, according to lord cowper, as cowardly as he was arrogant, supported native talent, in mrs. tofts; as did also that duke of devonshire, whom evelyn wonderingly saw lose, with calmness, at newmarket, £ , and who was afterwards the munificent lover, and heart-stricken mourner, of another beautiful vocalist, miss campion. mrs. tofts had another supporter in her too zealous servant, anne barwick, who one night went to drury lane, and assailed marguerite with hisses and oranges, to the great disgust of her honest mistress. in such discord did opera commence among us. "arsinoe," however, had a certain success, towards which the composer, clayton, contributed little; and he was destined to do less subsequently. the season of the rival company was passed in two houses:--at lincoln's inn fields, from october till the april of , when the company with the "four capital b.'s," betterton, booth, mrs. barry, and mrs. bracegirdle, removed to the house in the haymarket, built for them by vanbrugh, under a subscription filled by thirty persons of quality, at £ each, for which they received free admissions for life. under his licence at lincoln's inn fields, betterton produced nothing of note this season but rowe's "biters," a satirical comedy, which failed. at the end of the season he consigned his licence to vanbrugh, under whom he engaged as leading tragedian. vanbrugh opened on the th of april, with an opera, the "triumph of love." it failed, as did old plays inadequately filled, and new pieces, by mrs. pix, swiney, and one or two other obscure writers, including chaves, author of a condemned comedy, the "cares of love." baker describes chaves as a person of no consideration, on the ground that he dedicated his play "to sir william read, the mountebank," who, i think, could very well afford to pay the usual fee. with these poor aids, and many mischances, the first season at the queen's theatre, on the site of our present opera house, came to an unsatisfactory conclusion. the season of - , at drury lane, with a few nights at dorset gardens, would have been equally unsatisfactory, but for one great success to balance the failures of repatching of old pieces, worthless new comedies, and the fruitless struggle of fashionable patrons to sustain cibber's tragedy, "perolla and izadora." the great success was farquhar's "recruiting officer," played on the th april , with this cast. plume, wilks; brazen, cibber; kite, estcourt; bullock, bullock; balance, keene; worthy, williams; costar pearmain, norris; appletree, fairbank; sylvia, mrs. oldfield; melinda, mrs. rogers; rose, mrs. susan mountfort; lucy, mrs. sapsford. this lively comedy was so successful that tonson, in a fit of liberality, gave the author fifteen pounds, and a supplementary half crown for the copyright. the money was welcome; for, between having married, or rather being married by, a woman who pretended she had a large fortune, when she really had only a large amount of love for farquhar, who was more attracted by the pretence than the reality; between this, his commission sold, his patrons indifferent, his family cares increasing, and his health declining, poor george was in sorry need, yet buoyant spirits. critics foretold that this play would live for ever; but unfortunately it has been found impossible to separate the wit and the lively action from the more objectionable parts, and we may not expect to see its revival. farquhar has drawn on his own experiences in the construction, and all the amiable people in the piece were transcripts of good shrewsbury folk, whose names have been preserved. farquhar immortalised the virtues of his hosts, and did not, like foote, watch them at the tables at which he was a guest, to subsequently expose them to public ridicule. "santlow, famed for dance," first bounded on to the stage during this season, and the heart of mr. secretary craggs bounded in unison. miss younger, too, first trod the boards, march , when about seven years old, as the princess elizabeth, in "virtue betrayed;" but, perhaps, the most notable circumstance of the year was, that the chapel in russell court was then building;[ ] but it was under difficulties, to extricate it from which the drury lane company played "hamlet," and handed over the handsome proceeds to the building committee! vanbrugh's two comedies, the "confederacy" and the "mistake" (the latter still acted under the title of "lovers' quarrels"), rowe's "ulysses," the "faithful general," by an anonymous young lady, a forgotten tragedy, the "revolution of sweden," by mrs. trotter, an equally forgotten comedy, "adventures in madrid," by fat mrs. pix, tragic, comic, and extravaganza operas, by lansdown, durfey, and others,--all this novelty, a fair company of actors, troops of dancers, and a company of vocalists with dick leveridge and mrs. tofts at the head of them, failed to render the often broken but prolonged season of - , which begun in lincoln's inn fields, and terminated at the house in the haymarket, profitable. in many respects it did not deserve to be, for vanbrugh, with more wit and humour, and more judgment in adaptation than ravenscroft, sought to bring back comedy to the uncleanliness in which the latter writer had left it. there came a cry, however, from the outer world against this condition of things. lord gardenstone, a lord of seat, i believe, and not a lord of state, as it is said in the north, indignantly remarked of the "confederacy":--"this is one of those plays which throw infamy on the english stage and general taste, though it is not destitute of wit and humour. a people must be in the last degree depraved among whom such public entertainments are produced and encouraged. in this symptom of degenerate manners we are, i believe, unmatched by any nation that is, or ever was, in the world." in the "confederacy," dogget's fame as an actor culminated. he dressed moneytrap with the care of a true artist. on an old, threadbare, black coat, he tacked new cuffs and collar to make its rustiness more apparent. genest, quoting wilks, adds that the neck of the coat was stuffed so as to make the wearer appear round-shouldered, and give greater prominency to the head. wearing large square-toed shoes with huge buckles over his own ordinary pair, made his legs appear smaller than they really were. dogget, we are told, could paint and mould his face to any age. kneller recognised in him a superior artist. sir godfrey remarks that "_he_ could only copy nature from the originals before him, but that dogget could vary them at pleasure and yet keep a close likeness." it must be confessed the public were more pleased with this piece than with rowe's "ulysses," in which penelope gave so bright an example of conjugal duty and maternal love, in the person of mrs. barry, to the ulysses of betterton, and the telemachus of booth. that public would, perhaps, have cared more for the grace and nature of addison's "rosamond," produced at drury lane, in march , with its exquisite flattery cunningly administered to the warrior who then dwelt near woodstock, had it been set by a less incompetent musician than william's old band-master, clayton, the conceited person, who undertook to improve on italian example, and who violated the accents and prosody of our language, as well as all rules of musical composition. it is singular, however, that neither arne nor arnold have been much more successful, in resetting addison's opera, than clayton himself. the piece was played but three times, and the author's witty articles against the absurdities of italian opera are supposed, by some writers, to have owed their satire to the failure of "rosamond." one great and happy success addison achieved through this piece, which compensated for any disappointment springing from it. poetical warrant of its excellence was sent to him from many a quarter; but the brightest wreath, the most elegant, refined, graceful, and the most welcome of all, emanated from his own university. addison, charmed with the lines, inquired after the writer, and discovered him in an undergraduate of queen's college, the son of a poor cumberland clergyman, and named thomas tickell. it was a happy day when both met, for then was laid the foundation of a long and tender friendship. to "rosamond" and his own musical lines upon it, tickell owed the felicity of his life, as addison's friend at home, his secretary in his study, his associate abroad, his assistant and substitute in his office of secretary of state, and, finally, less happy but not less honourable, the executor of his patron's will, and the editor of his patron's works. "rosamond" was produced during one of the most unlucky seasons at drury lane, - ; during which swiney parted from rich, took the haymarket, from vanbrugh, at a rent of £ [ ] per night, and carried with him some of the best actors from drury. "the deserted company," as they called themselves, advertised the "recruiting officer," for their benefit, "in which they pray there may be singing by mrs. tofts, in english and italian; and some dancing." the main stay of the season was the "recruiting officer." estcourt was advertised as "the true serjeant kite," against pack, who played it at the haymarket. at drury, where rich depended chiefly on opera, it was said that "sound had got the better of sense;" and the old motto, "_vivitur ingenio_," was no longer applicable. it is at the haymarket, says the dedication of "wit without money," to newman, the prompter, that "wit is encouraged, and the player reaps the fruit of his labours, without toiling for those who have always been the oppressors of the stage." [illustration: (mrs. bracegirdle.)] in the season of - , at the haymarket, mrs. oldfield and mrs. bracegirdle first played together,--the younger actress ultimately winning or vanquishing the town. cibber, too, joined the company, at the head of whom remained betterton and mrs. barry. every effort was made to beat opera, by a production of pieces of a romantic or classical cast; and addison's pen, in prologue on the stage, or in praise in the _spectator_, was wielded in the cause of the players, his neighbours. mrs. centlivre, and mrs. manley, contributed now-forgotten plays. the former,--the "platonic lady," in which there is the unpleasant incident of a couple of lovers, who ultimately prove to be brother and sister. mrs. manley, in "almyna," recommended what she had little practised,--unlimited exercise of heroic virtue. some vamped-up old pieces, with new names, were added, and subscription lists were opened, to enable the company, whose interests were espoused by lord halifax, to make head against opera. the greatest attempt to overcome the latter was made, by producing a truly and drily-classical tragedy, by edmund smith, called "phædra and hippolytus," which the public would not endure above three nights,[ ] to the disgust and astonishment of addison, as recorded in the _spectator_. smith, or neale rather--the former being a name he adopted from a benevolent uncle--was not the man to give new lustre to the stage. scarcely a year had elapsed since he had been expelled from oxford university; the brilliancy of his career there could not save him from that disgrace. his success on the stage, when he made this his sole attempt, was perhaps impeded by the exactions of actors and actresses at rehearsal, to suit whose caprices he had to write fresh verses, and furnish them with "tags," whereby to secure applause, as they made their _exit_. the play fell, and the author with it. the once brilliant scholar descended to become a sot. the once best-dressed fop of his day, became known by the nickname of "captain rag;" and as neither his wild life nor his careless style of costume seriously affected his great personal beauty, the women, tempering justice with clemency, called him the handsome sloven! this scholar, poet, critic, and drunkard, attempted to recover his reputation by writing a tragedy on the subject of lady jane grey; but he died in the attempt. a greater dramatist than he died this season in a blaze of triumph from the stage, under the dull cloud of poverty at home--george farquhar. his joyous "beaux' stratagem," first played on the th of march , was written in six painful weeks. tonson gave him £ for the right of printing, and this, with what he received from the managers, solaced the last weeks of the life of the ex-captain, who had sold his commission, and had been deluded by a patron who had promised to obtain preferment for him. farquhar had lost everything, but sense of pain and flow of spirits. he died in april , while the public were being enchanted by his comedy, so rich in delineation of character and in variety of incident. it was thus cast: aimwell, mills; archer, wilks; scrub, norris; foigard, bowen (then newly come from ireland);[ ] boniface, bullock; sullen, verbruggen (his last original character; the stage was thoughtful of his orphan children as it was of those of farquhar); gibbet, cibber; count bellair, bowman; sir charles freeman, keen; lady bountiful, mrs. powell; mrs. sullen, mrs. oldfield; cherry, mrs. bicknell; dorinda, mrs. bradshaw. this piece was the great glory of the haymarket season, - . the season of - was the last for a time of the two opposing houses, and it requires but a brief notice. powell at drury lane was weak as leading tragedian against betterton at the haymarket, and rich, the manager, produced no new piece. at the rival house the only novelties were cibber's adaptations of two or three forgotten plays, the bricks with which he built up his, at first "hounded," but ultimately successful, "double gallant," in which he played atall; the same author's "lady's last stake," a heavy comedy; and rowe's "royal convert," a heavier tragedy of the times of hengist and horsa. in this play, the courtly author bade for the bays (which were not to encircle his brows till the accession of george i.), by introducing a complimentary prophecy alluding to queen anne and the then much-canvassed union of england and scotland. this was, perhaps, not worse than the references made by the savage saxon rodogune to venus, and to the eagle that bore jove's thunder! there are, nevertheless, some stately scenes in this play. of its failure, rowe did not complain, he simply, on printing it, quoted the words, "laudatur et alget," on the title-page. critics have thought that the story was of too religious a texture to please. it was too obscure to excite interest. at the end of this season the two companies were _ordered_, by the lord chamberlain, to unite; and they were not indisposed to obey. the patent for drury lane was then held by rich, and sir thomas skipwith, who had formerly held a larger share. _the monthly mirror_, for march , says that rich's father was an attorney, to one of whose clients sir thomas owed a large sum of money. being unable to pay it, he put up a part of his theatrical patent to auction, and rich bought the share for £ ! in christopher rich's time a _quarter_ share was sold to colman for £ , . sir thomas now consigned what share he held to colonel brett--a man more famous, as the husband of the divorced wife of charles gerard, second earl of macclesfield, of whom fiction still makes the mother of savage, the poet,--and as the father of anne brett, george i.'s _english_ mistress, than for aught else, except it be that he was the friend of colley cibber. it was by colonel brett's influence that the union of the companies was effected, under the patent held by him and rich; and henceforward the great house in the haymarket was given up to swiney and italian opera, at the following prices for admission, which will be found to form a strong contrast with those at present extracted from the british pocket:--stage-boxes, s. d.; boxes, s.;[ ] pit, s.; lower gallery, s. d.; upper gallery, s. d. i have stated above that the union of the companies was the result of an order from the lord chamberlain. how absolute was the authority of this official may be gathered from various incidents on record. cibber cites one to this effect. powell, the actor, holding controversy on theatrical matters, at will's coffee house, was so excited as to strike one of the speakers on the opposite side. unluckily, this speaker was a kinsman of the master or manager of the house where powell played, and he rushed to the chamberlain's office to obtain redress, that is vengeance. in the absence of the supreme officer, the vice-chamberlain took up the quarrel. he _probably_ ordered the actor to offer an apology; and he _certainly_ shut up drury lane theatre, because the manager, who had received no communication from him, had permitted powell to appear before such reparation was made. the embarrassed company of comedians were not allowed to resume their calling for two or three days, and thus serious injury was inflicted on such actors as were paid only on the days of performance. this was in king william's reign, but the power was not less, nor less absolutely exercised in the reign of queen anne; and on this very occasion which led to the chamberlain's order for the union of the companies. great dissension had arisen at drury lane by a new arrangement with respect to benefits, whereby the patentees took a third of the receipts. the more discontented went over to the haymarket; others remained, protested, and sought for redress at the legal tribunal. cibber will best tell what followed:-- "several little disgraces were put upon them, particularly in the disposal of parts in plays to be revived; and as visible a partiality was shown in the promotion of those in their interest, though their endeavours to serve them could be of no extraordinary use. all this while the other party were passively silent, till one day, the actor who particularly solicited their cause at the lord chamberlain's office, being shown there the order signed for absolutely silencing the patentees, and ready to be served, flew back with the news to his companions, then at a rehearsal, at which he had been wanted; when being called to his part, and something hastily questioned by the patentee for his neglect of business, this actor, i say, with an erected look and a theatrical spirit, at once threw off the mask, and roundly told him: 'sir, i have now no more business here than you have. in half an hour you will neither have actors to command, nor authority to employ them.' the patentee who, though he could not readily comprehend his mysterious manner of speaking, had just glimpse of terror enough from the words to soften his reproof into a cold formal declaration, that 'if he would not do his work he should not be paid.' but now, to complete the catastrophe of these theatrical commotions, enters the messenger, with the order of silence in his hands, whom the same actor officiously introduced, telling the patentee that the gentleman wanted to speak with him, from the lord chamberlain. when the messenger had delivered the order, the actor, throwing his head over his shoulder, towards the patentee, in the manner of shakspeare's harry viii. to cardinal wolsey, cried: 'read o'er that! and then to breakfast, with what appetite you may!' though these words might be spoken in too vindictive and insulting a manner to be commended, yet, from the fulness of a heart injuriously treated, and now relieved on that instant occasion, why might they not be pardoned? the authority of the patent, now no longer subsisting, all the confederated actors immediately walked out of the house, to which they never returned, till they became themselves the tenants and masters of it." let me note here that in may , vanbrugh wrote to lord manchester:--"i have parted with my whole concern (the queen's theatre, haymarket) to mr. swiney, only reserving my rent, so he is entire possessor of the opera, and most people think will manage it better than anybody. he has a good deal of money in his pocket, that he got before by the acting company, and is willing to venture it upon the singers." this proves that the lack of prosperity, which marked the end of the last century, did not distinguish the beginning of the new. footnotes: [ ] the virgin prophetess, or the fate of troy. [ ] second edition. in this piece bassanio (betterton) is the most prominent character; and though the whole piece was converted into a comedy, dogget is said to have acted shylock with much effect, and without buffoonery. granville gave the profits of the play to one who needed them, dryden's son. [ ] this seems inaccurate. the author says it was well received. [ ] the _biographia dramatica_ expressly says that it was with the profits of this play that she and her husband set up a tavern in westminster. whincop also seems to imply that the piece was a success. [ ] clorimon. [ ] this is an assumption not justified by the facts. all of this chapter is a mere copying from genest; and though genest puts "all for the better," and "the patriot" last in his list, it is only because there is no record when they were produced. [ ] "timon of athens" was performed at drury lane, th july . [ ] scarcely accurate. downes says that it was "a very good play for three acts; but failing in the two last, answer'd not their expectation," p. . [ ] "the taming of the shrew" also-- th july . [ ] see genest ii. , for copy of this edict. [ ] "abra mulé" is pronounced by genest to be a fairly good tragedy. it was certainly very successful, for it was played fourteen times. [ ] this is most unfair to cibber, whose comedies are particularly inoffensive. [ ] incorrect. cibber's doubts were dispelled by mrs. oldfield's playing of leonora in "sir courtly nice" at bath two seasons previously. he wrote lady betty modish expressly for her. [ ] d april . [ ] the bill says, "repairing and fitting up." [ ] should be £ for every acting day, and not to exceed £ a year. [ ] it was played four times. genest, ii. . [ ] bowen came from ireland about , nearly twenty years before. [ ] in this season the prices for boxes seem to have been s., s. d., and s. [illustration: thomas dogget.] chapter xiv. the united and the disunited companies. the names of betterton, booth, wilks, cibber, mills, powell, estcourt, pinkethman, jun., keen, norris, bullock, pack, johnson, bowen, thurmond, bickerstaff--of mistresses barry, bradshaw, oldfield, powell, rogers, saunders, bicknell, knight, porter, susan mountfort, and cross,--indicate the quality of a company, which commenced acting at drury lane, and which, in some respects, was perhaps never equalled; though it did not at first realise a corresponding success. betterton only "played" occasionally, though he invariably acted well. the new pieces produced failed to please. the young kentish attorney, and future editor of shakspeare,--theobald, gave the first of about a score of forgotten dramas to the stage; but his "persian princess" swept it but once or twice with her train. taverner, the proctor, who could paint landscapes almost as ably as gaspar poussin, proved but a poor dramatist; and his "maid the mistress," was barely listened to. matters did not improve in - , in which season brett's share of the patent was made over to wilks, cibber, and estcourt,--the other shares amounting to nearly a dozen. the only success of this season was achieved by mrs. centlivre's "busy body" (marplot, by pack), and _that_ was a success of slow growth. baker, who had ridiculed his own effeminate ways in maiden ("tunbridge walks"), now satirised the women; but the public hissed his "fine lady's airs," almost as much as they did tom durfey's "prophets." in the latter piece, rakish, careless, penniless tom, laughed at the religious impostors of the day who dealt with the past dead and with future events; but the public did not see the fun of it, and damned the play, whose author survived to write worse. then there was the "appius and virginia," of dennis,--of which nothing survives but the theatrical thunder, invented by the author for this tragedy,--and the use of which, after the public had condemned the drama of a man who equally feared france abroad and bailiffs at home, was always resented by him as a plagiarism. in this piece, betterton acted the last of his long list of the dramatic characters created by him,--virginius. shortly after this took place that famous complimentary benefit for the old player, when the pit tickets were paid for at a guinea each. the actors could scarcely get through "love for love," in which he played valentine, for the cloud of noble patrons clustered on the stage, when guineas by the score were delicately pressed upon him for acceptance,--and mistresses barry and bracegirdle supported him at the close; while the former spoke the epilogue, which was the dramatic apotheosis of betterton himself. on the following june, actors and patentees were at issue; and their dissensions were not quelled by the lord chamberlain closing the house; from which rich, of whose oppressions the actors complained, was driven by collier, the m.p. for truro, to whom, for political as well as other reasons, a licence was granted to open drury lane. when collier took forcible possession of the house, he found that rich had carried off most of the scenery and costumes; but he made the best of adverse circumstances and a company lacking betterton and other able actors; and he opened drury on november rd, , under the direction of aaron hill, with "aurungzebe," and booth for his leading tragedian. booth wished to appear in a new tragedy, and hill wrote in a week that "elfrid" which the public damned in a night.[ ] hill was always ready to write. at westminster, he had filled his pockets by writing the exercises of young gentlemen who had not wit for the work; and by and by he will be writing the "bastard," for savage. meanwhile, here was "elfrid," written and condemned. the author allowed that it was "an unpruned wilderness of fancy, with here and there a flower among the leaves, but without any fruit of judgment." at this time, hill was a young fellow of four and twenty, with great experience and some reputation. a friendless young "westminster," he had at fifteen found his way alone to constantinople, where he obtained a patron in the ambassador, the sixth lord paget,--a distant relation of the youthful aaron. under the peer's auspices, hill travelled extensively in the east; and subsequently, ere he was yet twenty, accompanied sir william wentworth, as travelling tutor, over most of europe. later, his poem of "camillus," in defence of lord peterborough, procured for him the post of secretary to that brave and eccentric peer, with whom he remained till his marriage. then aaron lived with a divided allegiance to his wife and the stage, for the improvement of which he had many an impracticable theory. he would willingly have written a tragedy for booth once a week. tragedies not being in request, hill tried farce, and produced his "walking statue," a _screamer_, as improbable as his "elfrid" was _unpruned_. the audience would not tolerate it; and hill came before them in a few days with a comedy,--"trick upon trick," at which the house howled rather than laughed.[ ] whereupon hill new-nibbed his pen, and addressed himself to composition again. the treasury gained more by the appearance of elrington, in "oroonoko," than by hill's novelties. then, the trial of putting the fairy dancer, santlow, into boy's clothes, and giving her the small part of the eunuch in "valentinian" to play, and an epilogue to be spoken in male attire, succeeded so well, that she was cast for dorcas zeal in charles shadwell's "fair quaker of deal," wherein she took the town, and won the heart of booth. in this character-piece flip, the sea-brute, is contrasted with beau mizen, the sea-fop; but the latter is, in some degree, a copy of baker's maiden, the progenitor of the family of dundreary. from collier, there went over to the haymarket, under swiney, betterton, wilks, cibber, dogget, mills, mrs. barry, oldfield, and other actors of mark. drury had opened with dryden. the queen's theatre, haymarket, commenced its season on the th of september , with shakspeare. the play was "othello," with betterton in the moor; but oh! shade of the bard of avon, there was between the acts a performance by "a mr. higgins, a posture-master from holland," and the critics, silently admiring "old thomas," loudly pronounced the feats of the pseudo-hollander to be "marvellous." the only great event of the season was the death of betterton, soon after his benefit, on the th of april , of which i have already spoken at length. about this period, the word _encore_ was introduced at the operatic performances in the haymarket, and very much objected to by plain-going englishmen. it was also the custom of some who desired the repetition of a song to cry _altra volta! altra volta!_ the italian phrase was denounced as vigorously as the french exclamation; and a writer in the _spectator_ asks when it may be proper for him to say it in english, and would it be vulgar to shout _again! again!_ the season of - was a languishing one. players and playgoers seemed to feel that the great glory of the stage was extinguished in the death of betterton and the departure of mrs. barry. collier, restless and capricious, gave up drury lane for opera at the haymarket, swiney exchanging with him. the united company of actors assembling at the former, contributed £ a year as a sort of compensation to collier, as well as refraining from playing on a wednesday, when an opera was given on that night. the thursday audiences were all the larger for this; but the inferior actors, who were paid by the day, felt the hardship of this arrangement, and noblemen, who espoused the part of the english players against the foreign singers, expressed an opinion, as they walked about behind the scenes, that "it was shameful to take part of the actors' bread from them to support the silly diversions of people of quality." booth and powell shared the inheritance of betterton, and mrs. bradshaw succeeded to that of mrs. barry; but mrs. porter was soon to dispute it with her. the old stock pieces were well cast, but no new play obtained toleration for above a night or two. mrs. centlivre's "marplot,"[ ] a poor sequel to the "busy body," brought her nothing more substantial than a dedication fee of £ from the earl of portland, the son of william iii.'s "bentinck." this was more than johnson obtained for dedicating his condemned comedy, the "generous husband," to the last of the three lords ashburnham, who were alive in . poor elkanah settle, too, pensioned poet of the city, and a brother of the charterhouse, was employed by booth to adapt beaumont and fletcher's "knight of the burning pestle," which elkanah transformed to the "city ramble," booth playing rinaldo. settle was so unpopular at this time, that he brought out his play in the summer season when the town was scantily peopled. the only result was that it was damned by a thin house instead of a crowded one. at the close of the season swiney returned to the opera; collier to drury lane, under a new licence to himself, wilks, cibber, and dogget. collier withdrew, however, from the management, and the three actors named paid him £ a year for doing nothing. from this time may be dated the real prosperity of the sole and united company of actors, for whom a halcyon score of years was now beginning. on the other hand, the opera only brought ruin, and drove into exile its able but unlucky manager, swiney. footnotes: [ ] this is a specimen of one of the greatest difficulties in the revision of dr. doran. he frequently writes of a play as being damned, which really was played for a few nights with no great success. in the present case, "elfrid" was played five times. [ ] the comedy was entitled "squire brainless, or, trick upon trick." neither of these pieces was the ghastly failure dr. doran implies. [ ] acted six times. [illustration: pope and dr. garth.] chapter xv. union, strength, prosperity. naturally and justifiably jubilant is colley cibber when giving the history of the united companies. that union led to a prosperity of twenty years, though the union itself did not last so long. we now find houses crowded beyond anything known to that generation; and that not so much from surpassing excellence on the part of the actors, as from their zeal, industry, and the willingness with which they worked together. this success doubled the salaries of the comedians, and "in the twenty years, while we were our own directors," says colley, with honest pride, "we never had a creditor that had occasion to come twice for his bill; every monday morning discharged us of all demands, before we took a shilling for our own use." these halcyon days had, no doubt, their little passing clouds; some prejudices and jealousies would arise among the leaders, as excellence began to manifest itself from below; but these, as cibber remarks, with a lofty philosophy, were "frailties, which societies of a higher consideration, while they are composed of men, will never be entirely free from." cibber and his fellows deserved to prosper. although they enjoyed a monopoly they did not abuse it; and £ profit to each of the three managers, in one year, the greatest sum ever yet so realised on the english stage, showed what might be done, without the aid of "those barbarous entertainments," of acrobats and similar personages, for which the dignified cibber had the most profound and wholesome horror. while the management was in the hands of cibber, wilks, and dogget, the good temper of the first was imperturbable. he yielded, or seemed to yield, to the hot hastiness of wilks, and lent himself to the captious waywardness of dogget. however impracticable the latter was, cibber always left a way open to reconciliation. in the very bitterest of their feuds, "i never failed to give him my hat and '_your servant_,' whenever i met him, neither of which he would ever return for above a year after; but i still persisted in my usual salutation, without observing whether it was civilly received or not." dogget would sit sullen and silent, at the same table with cibber, at will's--the young gentlemen of the town loitering about the room, to listen to the critics, or look at the actors--and cibber would treat the old player with deference, till the latter was graciously pleased to be softened, and ask for a pinch from colley's box, in token of reconciliation. almost the only word approaching to complaint advanced by cibber refers to public criticism. the newspapers, and especially _mist's journal_, he says, "took upon them very often to censure our management, with the same freedom and severity as if we had been so many ministers of state." this is thoroughly cibberian in humour and expression. for these critics, however, colley had a supreme contempt. wilks and booth, who succeeded dogget, were more sensitive, and would fain have made reply; but cibber remarked that the noise made by the critics was a sign of the ability and success of the management. if we were insignificant, said he, and played only to empty houses, these fellows would be silent. when the fashion of patronising the folly of pantomimes came in, cibber reluctantly produced one at drury lane, but only "as crutches to the plays." in the regular drama itself, it seemed immaterial to him what he acted, so that the piece was well supported; and accordingly when the "orphan" was revived, and the town had just been falsely told that cibber was dead, "i quietly stole myself," he says, "into the part of the chaplain, which i had not been seen in for many years before;" and as the audience received him with delight, colley was satisfied and triumphant. in the first season the poets were less successful than the players; johnson's "wife's relief,"[ ] and mrs. centlivre's "perplexed lovers," were failures. but the lady fell with some _éclat_. the epilogue produced more sensation than the play. prince eugene was then in england, and to mrs. oldfield were entrusted lines complimentary to the military talents of the prince, and his brother in arms, the duke of marlborough. political feuds were then so embittered, that the managers were afraid to allow the epilogue to be spoken; but on the second night, they fortified themselves by the chamberlain's licence, and brave mistress oldfield delivered it, in spite of menacing letters addressed to her. the piece fell; but the authoress printed it, with a tribute of rhymed homage to the prince, who acknowledged the same by sending her a handsome and heavy gold snuff-box, with this inscription:--"the present of his highness prince eugene of savoy to susanna centlivre." those heavy boxes--some of them furnished with a tube and spring for shooting the snuff up the nose, were then in fashion, and prince could hardly give more fitting present to poetess than a snuff-box, for which-- "distant climes their various arts employ, to adorn and to complete the modish toy. hinges with close-wrought joints from paris come, pictures dear bought from venice and from rome. * * * * * some think the part too small of modish sand, which at a niggard pinch they can command. nor can their fingers for that task suffice, their nose too greedy, not their hand too nice, to such a height with these is fashion grown, they feed their very nostrils with a spoon." so sang the rev. samuel wesley, in his somewhat indelicate satire on snuff, addressed to his sister, keziah. mrs. centlivre's box probably figured at drury lane, and in very good company, with other boxes carried by ladies; for, says the poet-- "they can enchant the fair to such degree, scarce more admired could french romances be, scarce scandal more beloved or darling flattery; whether to th' india house they take their way, loiter i' the park, or at the toilet stay, whether at church they shine, or sparkle at the play." the great night of this season was that in which philips' version of racine's "andromaque" was played,--the th of march, . of the "distressed mother," the following was the original cast:--orestes, powell; pyrrhus, booth; pylades, mills; andromache, mrs. oldfield; hermione, mrs. porter. the english piece is even duller than the french one; but there is great scope in it for good declamatory actors, and booth especially led the town on this night to see in him the undoubted successor of betterton. all that could be done to render success assured, was done on this occasion, not only by the poet, but by his friends. before the tragedy was acted, the _spectator_ informed the public that a masterpiece was about to be represented. on the first night, there was a packed audience of hearty supporters. during the run of the play,[ ] the _spectator_ related the effect the tender tale had had on sir roger de coverley. we learn from addison, in the puff preliminary, that at the reading of the "distressed mother," by one of the actors,--the players, who listened, were moved to tears, and that the reader, in his turn, was so overcome by his emotions, "that he was frequently obliged to lay down the book, and pause, to recover himself and give vent to the humanity which rose in him at some irresistible touches of the imagined sorrow." on the first night of its being played, the performance was said to be "at the desire of several ladies of quality." sir roger de coverley, with will honeycombe and captain sentry, backed by two or three old servants,--the captain wearing the sword he had wielded at steinkirk, are described as being in the pit, early--four o'clock--before the house was full and the candles were lighted. there was access then for the public for a couple of hours before the curtain rose. the knight thought the king of france could not strut it more imposingly than booth in pyrrhus. he found the plot so ingeniously complicated, that he could not guess how it would end, or what would become of pyrrhus. his sympathies oscillated between the ladies, with a word of smart censure now and then for either; calling andromache a perverse widow, and anon, hermione "a notable young baggage." turgid as this english adaptation now seems,--to addison, its simplicity was one of its great merits. "why!" says sir roger, "there is not a single sentence in the play that i don't know the meaning of!" it was listened to with a "very remarkable silence and stillness," broken only by the applause; and a compliment is paid to mills who played pylades, in the remark, "though he speaks but little, i like the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them." the epilogue, spoken by mrs. oldfield, and undoing all the soft emotions wrought by the tragedy, was repeated twice, for several consecutive nights. the audience could not have enough of it, and long years after, they called for it, whenever the piece was revived. budgell was the reputed author, but tonson printed it, with addison's name as the writer. the latter, however, ordered that of budgell to be restored, "that it might add weight to the solicitation which he was then making for a place." thus ambrose philips showed that he could write something more vigorous than the pastorals, which had given him a name while at the university. he took higher rank among the wits at button's coffee-house, and had no reason to fear the censure or ridicule of men like henry carey, who fastened upon him the name of namby pamby. success made the author not less solemn, but more pompous. he wore the sword, which he could boldly use, although his foes called him quaker philips--with an air; and the successful author of a new tragedy could become arrogant enough to hang a rod up at button's, and threaten pope with a degrading application of it, for having expressed contempt of the authors pastorals.[ ] whatever may be thought of this, rowe and philips were the first authors of the last century who wrote tragedies which have been played in our own times. but a greater than either was rising; for addison was giving the last touches to "cato;" and he, with steele and others, was imparting his views and ideas on the subject to favourite actors over tavern dinners. at the close of this season, was finished the brief career of an actor, who was generally considered to possess rare talents, but who was variously judged of by such competent judicial authority as steele and cibber. i allude to richard estcourt. his london career as a player lasted little more than half a dozen years, during which he distinguished himself by creating serjeant kite and sir francis gripe. downes asserts that he was a born actor. steele mournfully says, "if i were to speak of merit neglected, misapplied, or misunderstood, might i not say that estcourt has a great capacity? but it is not the interest of those who bear a figure on the stage that his talents were understood. it is their business to impose upon him what cannot become him, or keep out of his hands anything in which he could shine." chetwood alludes to his habit of interpolating jokes and catches of his own, which raised a laugh among the general public, but which made critics frown. cibber has been accused of being unjust to him, but colley's judgment seems to be rendered with his usual fairness, lucidity, and skill. "this man," says cibber in his _apology_, "was so amazing and extraordinary a mimic, that no man or woman, from the coquette to the privy-counsellor, ever moved or spoke before him, but he could carry their voice, look, mien, and motion, instantly into another company. i have heard him make long harangues and form various arguments, even in the manner of thinking, of an eminent pleader at the bar, with every the least article and singularity of his utterance so perfectly imitated that he was the very _alter ipse_, scarce to be distinguished from his original. yet more, i have seen upon the margin of the written part of falstaff, which he acted, his own notes and observations upon almost every speech of it, describing the true spirit of the humour, and with what tone of voice, with what look or gesture, each of them ought to be delivered. yet in his execution upon the stage, he seemed to have lost all those just ideas he had formed of it, and almost through the character he laboured under a heavy load of flatness. in a word, with all his skill in mimicry, and knowledge of what ought to be done, he never upon the stage could bring it truly into practice, but was, upon the whole, a languid, unaffecting actor." his kite, however, is said to have been full of lively, dashing, natural humour. off the stage, estcourt's society was eagerly sought for, and he was to be met in the best company, where, on festive nights, he recited, gave his imitations, and was not too proud to pocket his guerdon. the old duke of marlborough gladly held fellowship with estcourt, and as the latter occasionally got guerdon out of the duke, he must have been a great and very affecting actor indeed. it was probably his spirit of good fellowship which induced him to leave the stage (in ) for another calling. this change was sufficiently important for the _spectator_ to notice, with a fine bit of raillery, too:--"estcourt has lain in, at the bumper, covent garden, neat, natural wines, to be sold wholesale, as well as retail, by his old servant, trusty anthony (aston). as estcourt is a person altogether unknowing in the wine trade, it cannot but be doubted that he will deliver the wine in the same natural purity that he receives it from the merchants," &c. on the foundation of the "beef steak club," estcourt was appointed _providore_; and in the exercise of this office to the chief wits and leading men of the nation, he wore a small gold gridiron, suspended round his neck by a green silk riband. dr. king alludes to the company, their qualities, and the dignity of the ex-actor, in his _art of cookery_: "he that of honour, wit, and mirth partakes, may be a fit companion o'er beef steaks. his name may be to future times unrolled, in estcourt's book, whose gridiron's made of gold." estcourt died in , and was buried in the "yard" of st. paul's, covent garden. near him lie kynaston and wycherley, susanna centlivre, wilks, macklin, and other once vivacious stage celebrities of later times. i have already had to notice, and shall have to do so again, the despotic power exercised by the lord chamberlain over theatrical affairs. one of the most remarkable instances presents itself this year, in connection with the opera house, indeed, but still illustrative of my subject. john hughes, who will subsequently appear as a dramatic author, of purer pretensions, had written the words for the composer of "calypso and telemachus." a crowd of the "quality," connoisseurs and amateurs, had attended the rehearsal, with which they were so satisfied that a subscription was formed to support the performance of the opera. this aroused the jealousy of the italian company then in london, who appealed for protection to the duke of shrewsbury, the then chamberlain. this duke was the charles talbot, in whose house it had been decided that william of orange should be invited to england, and who, corresponding with james after william was on the throne, had been discovered, and forgiven. he had been loved, it is said, by queen mary and the duchess of marlborough; but this able, gentle, wayward, and one-eyed statesman, was at this present time the husband of an italian lady, and on this fact, albeit she was not a _dulcis uxor_, the italian singers founded their hopes. as the lady's brother was hanged at tyburn, half a dozen years later, for murdering his servant, shrewsbury had no great cause, ultimately, to be proud of the connexion. nevertheless, it served the purpose of the foreign vocalists, it would seem, as the chamberlain protected their interests, and issued an order for the suppression of the subscription, adding, that the doors must be opened at the lowest playhouse prices, or not at all. even under this discouragement the opera was played with success, and was subsequently revived, with good effect, at lincoln's inn fields. romantic drama, light, bustling comedy, with less vice and not much less wit than of old, and the severest classical tragedy, challenged the favour of the town in the drury lane season of - . severe tragedy won the wreath from its competitors. first on the list was fat charles johnson, who was even a more frequent lounger at button's than ambrose philips, and who had a play ready for representation every year and a half. it is a curious fact, that his "successful pirate," a sort of melodrama, in five acts, the scene in madagascar, and the action made up of fighting and wooing, aroused the ire of the virtuous dennis. this censor wrote to the lord chamberlain, complaining that in such a piece as the above the stage was prostituted, villainy encouraged, and the theatre disgraced; that same theatre where, a few nights previously, had been acted the "old batchelor," and the "committee," which some people, like sir roger, considered a "good church of england comedy." the piece, however, made no impression; nor was much greater effected by that learned proctor, taverner's "french advocates,"[ ] nor by the farcical "humours of the army," which the ex-soldier charles shadwell had partly constructed out of his own military reminiscences, as he sat at his desk in the revenue office at dublin. equally indifferent were the public to a comedy called the "wife of bath," written by a young man who had been a mercer's apprentice in the strand, and who was now house-steward and man of business to the widowed duchess of monmouth at her residence, no longer in the mansion on the south side of soho square, about to be turned into auction rooms, but in fresh, pure, rustic, hedge lane, which now, as whitcombe street, lacks all freshness, purity, and rusticity. the young man's name was gay; but it was not on this occasion that he was to make it famous. in stern tragedy, the "heroic daughter," founded on corneille's "cid," wrung no tears,[ ] and "cinna's conspiracy" raised no emotions. the sole success of the season in this line was addison's "cato," first played on the th of april, ; thus cast: cato, booth; syphax, cibber; juba, wilks; portius, powell; sempronius, mills; marcus, ryan; decius, boman; lucius, keen; marcia, mrs. oldfield; lucia, mrs. porter. of the success of this tragedy, a compound of transcendent beauties and absurdity, i shall speak, when treating of booth, apart. it established that actor as the great master of his art, and it brought into notice young ryan, the intelligent son of an irish tailor, a good actor, and a true gentleman. "cato" had the good fortune to be represented by a band of superior actors, who had been enlightened by the instruction of addison, and stimulated, at rehearsals, by the sarcasm of swift. factions united in applause; purses--not bouquets--were presented to the chief actor, and the cato night was long one of the traditions about which old players loved to entertain all listeners. while thus new glories were rising, old ones were fading away or dying out. long-nosed tom durfey was poor enough to be grateful for a benefit given in his behalf, the proceeds of which furnished him with a fresh supply of sack, and strengthened him to new attempt at song. about the same time died the last of the actors of the cromwellian times, will peer, one who was qualified by nature to play the apothecary in "romeo and juliet," and by intelligence to deliver with well-feigned humility the players' prologue to the play in "hamlet," but whom old age, good living, and success rendered too fat for the first and too jolly for the second. in the season of - , booth was associated in the licence which wilks, cibber, and dogget held at the queen's pleasure. dogget withdrew on a pecuniary arrangement, agreed upon after some litigation, and the theatre was in the hands of the other three eminent actors. the old pieces of this season were admirably cast; of the new pieces which were failures it is not necessary to speak, but of two which have been played with success from that time down to the last year, some notice is required. i allude to rowe's "jane shore," and mrs. centlivre's "wonder." the tragedy was written after the poet had ceased to be under-secretary to the duke of queensberry, and after he had studied spanish, in hopes of a foreign appointment through halifax, who, according to the story, only congratulated him on being able to read don quixote in the original! "jane shore" was brought out, february , . hastings, booth; dumont, wilks; glo'ster, cibber; jane shore, mrs. oldfield; alicia, mrs. porter. a greater contrast to "cato" could not have been devised than this domestic tragedy, wherein all the unities are violated, the language is familiar, and the chief incidents the starving of a repentant wife, and the generosity of an exceedingly forgiving husband. the audience, which was stirred by the patriotism of "cato," was moved to delicious tears by the sufferings and sorrow of jane shore, whose character rowe has elevated in order to secure for her the suffrages of his hearers. the character was a triumph for mrs. oldfield, who had been trained to a beautiful reading of her part by rowe himself, who was unequalled as a reader by any poet save lee; and "jane shore," as a success, ranked only next to "cato." the third, sixth, and tenth nights were for the author's benefit. on the first two the boxes and pit "were laid together," admission half-a-guinea; the third benefit was "at common prices." much expectation had been raised by this piece, and it was realised to the utmost. it was otherwise with the "wonder," from which little was expected, but much success ensued.[ ] the sinning wife and moaning husband of the tragedy were the lively lady and the quick-tempered lover of this comedy. the violante of mrs. oldfield and the don felix of wilks were talked of in every coffee-house. the wits about the door, and the young poets in the back room at the new house set up by button, talked as vivaciously about it as their rivals at tom's, on the opposite side of the way; and every prophecy they made of the success of the comedy in times to come, does credit to them as soothsayers. the death of queen anne, on the st of august , cannot be said to have prematurely closed the summer season of this year. however, the actors mourned for a month, and then a portion of them played joyously enough, for a while, in pinkethman's booth, at southwark fair. at this period the stage lost a lady who was as dear to it as queen anne, namely, mrs. bradshaw. her departure, however, was caused by marriage, not by death; and the gentleman who carried her off, instead of being a rollicking gallant, or a worthless peer, was a staid, solemn, worthy antiquary, martin folkes, who rather surprised the town by wedding young mistress bradshaw. the lady had been on the stage about eighteen years; she had trodden it from early childhood, and always with unblemished reputation. she had her reward in an excellent, sensible, and wealthy husband, to whom her exemplary and prudent conduct endeared her; and the happiness of this couple was well established. probably, when martin was away on friday evenings, at the young devil tavern, where the members of the society of antiquaries met, upon "pain of forfeiture of sixpence," mrs. folkes sat quietly at home, thinking without sadness of the bygone times when she won applause as the originator of the characters of corinna, in the "conspirator,"[ ] sylvia, in the "double gallant," and arabella zeal, in the "fair quaker." in other respects, mistress bradshaw is one of the happy, honest women who have no history. if the age of queen anne was not quite so fully the golden age of authors as it has been supposed to be, it was still remarkable for a patronage of literature hitherto unparalleled. addison, congreve, gay, ambrose philips, rowe, were among the dramatic authors who, with men of much humbler pretensions, held public offices, were patronised by the great, or lived at their ease. with the death of this queen, the patent or licence, held by wilks, cibber, booth, and dogget, died also. in the new licence, steele, who, since we last met with him at the play had endured variety of fortune, was made a partner. he had married that second wife whom he treated so politely in his little failures of allegiance. he had established the _tatler_, co-operated in the _spectator_, had begun and terminated the _guardian_, and had started the _englishman_. he had served the duke of marlborough in and out of office, and had been elected m.p. for stockbridge, after nobly resigning his commissionership of stamps, and his pension as "servant to the late prince george of denmark." he had been expelled the house for writing what the house called seditious pamphlets, and had then returned to literature, and now to occupation as a manager. from the new government, under the new king, by whom he was soon after knighted, steele had influence enough to ultimately obtain a _patent_, in the names of himself, booth, wilks, and cibber, which protected them from some small tyrannies with which they were occasionally visited by the officials in the lord chamberlain's office. the season of - was not especially remarkable, save for this, that the great actors who were patentees frequently played small parts, in order to give young actors a chance. it was not given, however, to every young actor; for, on the th of april, , when rowe's "lady jane grey" was produced (dudley, booth; lady jane, mrs. oldfield), the very insignificant part of the lieutenant of the tower was played by a new actor from ireland,--one james quin, who was destined to equal booth in some parts, and to be surpassed in some, by an actor yet at school,--david garrick. [illustration: (james quin.)] charles johnson was, of course, ready with a comedy, stolen from various sources,--"country lasses." gay, who had returned from hanover with the third earl of clarendon, whose secretary he had become, after leaving the service of the duchess of monmouth, produced his hilarious burlesque of old and modern tragedies,--the "what d'ye call it?" the satire of this piece was so fine, that deaf gentlemen who saw the tragic action and could not hear the words, and the new sovereign and court who heard the words but could not understand their sense, were put into great perplexity; while the honest galleries, reached by the solemn sounds, and taking manner for matter, were affected to such tears as they could shed, at the most farcical and high-sounding similes. it was only after awhile that the joke was comprehended, and that the "what d'ye call it?" was seen to be a capital burlesque of "venice preserved." the very templars, who of course comprehended it all, from the first, and went to hiss the piece, for the honour of otway, could not do so, for laughing; and this only perplexed the more the matter-of-fact people, not so apt to discover a joke.[ ] rowe's "lady jane" did not prove so attractive as "jane shore." there were only innocence and calamity wherewith to move the audience; no guilt; no profound intrigue. but there is much force in some of the scenes. the very variety of the latter, indeed, was alleged against the author, as a defect, by the many slaves of the unity of time and place. it was objected to rowe, that in his violation of the unities he went beyond other offenders,--not only changing the scene with the acts, but varying it within the acts. for this, however, he had good authority in older and better dramatists. "to change the scene, as is done by rowe, in the middle of an act, is to add more acts to the play; since an act is so much of the business as is transacted without interruption. rowe, by this licence, easily extricates himself from difficulties, as in 'lady jane grey,' when we have been terrified by all the dreadful pomp of public execution, and are wondering how the heroine or poet will proceed; no sooner has jane pronounced some prophetic rhymes than--pass and be gone--the scene closes, and pembroke and gardiner are turned out upon the stage." the critic wished to stay and witness a "public execution," not satisfied with the pathos of the speech uttered by jane, and which, for tenderness, sets the scene in fine contrast with that of the quarrelling and reconciliation between pembroke and guilford. rowe's jane grey interests the heart more fully than jane shore or calista: but the last two ladies have a touch of boldness about them, in which the first, from her very innocence, is wanting; and audiences are, therefore, more excited by the loudly-proclaimed wrongs of the women who have gone astray than by the tender protests of the victim who suffers for the crimes of others. george powell ended his seven and twentieth season this year, at the close of which he died. for the old actor gone, a young actress appeared,--mrs. horton, "one of the most beautiful women that ever trod the stage." she had been a "stroller," ranting tragedy in barns and country towns, and playing cupid, in a booth at suburban fairs. the attention of managers was directed towards her; and booth, after seeing her act in southwark, engaged her for drury lane, where her presence was more agreeable to the public than particularly pleasant to dear mrs. oldfield. footnotes: [ ] acted about seven times. in second edition dr. doran quotes a letter from cromwell to pope in which is stated that this play brought johnson £ . [ ] acted about nine times. [ ] this story is not true. (second edition). [ ] should be "female advocates." [ ] yet it was played about eight times. [ ] it was acted only six times. [ ] should be "confederacy." [ ] quoted from a humorous account of the piece's reception, written by pope. [illustration: spiller's benefit ticket.] chapter xvi. competition, and what came of it. "augustus," as it was the fashion to call george i., by performing a justifiable act, inflicted some injury this year, by restoring the letters patent of charles ii. to christopher rich, of which the latter had been deprived, and under which his son, john, opened the revived theatre in lincoln's inn fields, on the th december , with the "recruiting officer." the enlarged stage was "superbly adorned with looking-glasses on both sides;" a circumstance which quin said "was an excellent trap to such actresses who admired their own persons more than they attended to the duties of their profession." some good actors left drury for the fields;--keen, the two bullocks, pack, spiller, cory, knap, mrs. rogers, and mrs. knight. cibber rather contemptuously says of such of the above as he names, that "they none of them had more than a negative merit,--being able only to do us more harm by leaving us without notice, than they could do us good by remaining with us; for, though the best of them could not support a play, the worst of them, by their absence, could maim it,--as the loss of the least pin in a watch may obstruct its motion." john rich's company in the fields either played old pieces, or adaptations from them, or "from the french"; none of which deserved even a passing word, except a roaring farce--pieces which now grew popular--called "love in a sack," by griffin, whom i notice not as an indifferent author, but as an excellent comedian, who made his first appearance in a double capacity. griffin may also be noticed under a double qualification. he was a gentleman and a glazier. his father was a norfolk rector, and had been chaplain to the earl of yarmouth,--that gallant sir robert paston, who was in france and flanders with james, duke of york. in the paston free school, at north walsham, griffin learnt his "rudiments," having done which his sire apprenticed him to the useful but not dignified calling of a glazier. the "'prentice lad," disgusted at the humiliation, ran away, took to strolling, found his way, after favourable report, to rich's theatre, and there proved so good an actor, that the drury lane management ultimately lured him away to a stage where able competitors polished him into still greater brilliancy. the season concluded on the last day of july[ ] with a "benefit for tim buck, to release him out of prison." in the following october, drury commenced a season which, save a few days of summer vacation, extended to the close of august . during this time, shakspeare's best plays were frequently acted, old comedies revived with success, and obscure farces played and consigned to oblivion. the great attempt, if not success, of the season, was the comedy of the "drummer, or the haunted house," first played in march , and not known to be addison's till steele published the fact after the author's death. tonson, however, knew or suspected the truth, for he gave £ for the copyright. wilks, cibber, mills, and mrs. oldfield could not secure a triumph for the play--which steele thought was more disgraceful to the stage than to the comedy. there is a novel mixture of sentiment, caricature, and farcical incident in this piece. warton describes it as "a just picture of life and real manners; where the poet never speaks in his own person, or totally drops or forgets a character, for the sake of introducing a brilliant simile or acute remark; where no train is laid for wit, no jeremys or bens are suffered to appear." more natural, it was less brilliant than the artificial comedies of congreve; but its failure probably vexed the author, as it certainly annoyed the publisher. tickell omitted it from his edition of addison's works, but steele gave these reasons for ascribing it to the latter; they are a little confused, but they probably contain the truth:--"if i remember right, the fifth act was written in a week's time.... he would walk about his room, and dictate in language with as much freedom and ease as any one could write it down.... i have been often thus employed by him.... i will put all my credit among men of wit, for the truth of my averment, when i presume to say, that no one but mr. addison was in any other way the writer of the 'drummer.' ... at the same time, i will allow that he has sent for me ... and told me, that 'a gentleman, then in the room, had written a play that he was sure i would like; but it was to be a secret; and he knew i would take as much pains, since he recommended it, as i would for him.'" at lincoln's inn fields, the season of - had this of remarkable in it, that john rich revived the "prophetess," as it enabled him to display his ability in the introduction and management of machinery, and his success in raising the prices of admission. bullock's farce, the "cobbler of preston," was begun on a friday, finished the next day, and played on the tuesday following--in order to anticipate charles johnson's farce,--like this, derived from the introduction to the "taming of the shrew," at drury lane. of the other plays--one, the "fatal vision," was written by aaron hill, who, having lost property and temper in a project how to extract olive oil from beech-nuts, endeavoured to inculcate in his piece the wrongfulness of giving way to rash designs and evil passions. this play he dedicated to the two most merciless critics of the day, dennis and gildon. then of the "perfidious brother," it is only to be stated that it was a bad play stolen by young theobald from mestayer, a watchmaker, who had lent him the manuscript. that an attorney should have the reprehensible taste to steal a worthless play seemed a slur upon the lawyer's judgment. another new play, the "northern heiress," by mrs. davys, a clergyman's widow, but now the lively irish mistress of a cambridge coffee-house, reminds me of the five-act farces of reynolds, with its fops, fools, half-pay officers, fast gentlemen, and flippant ladies. there are ten people married at the end, a compliment to matrimony, at the hands of the widow; but there is a slip in poetical justice; for, a lover who deserts his mistress, when he finds, as lord peterborough did of miss moses, that her fortune was not equal to his expectations, marries her, after discovering that he was mistaken. herewith we come to the drury lane season of - . booth, wilks, and cibber had a famous company, in which quin quietly made his way to the head,[ ] and mrs. horton's beauty acted with good effect on mrs. oldfield. in the way of novelty, mrs. centlivre produced a tragedy, the "cruel gift," in which nobody dies, and lovers are happily married. the most notable affair, however, was the comedy, "three hours after marriage," in which gay, pope, and arbuthnot, three grave men, who pretended to instruct and improve mankind, insulted modesty, virtue, and common decency, in the grossest way, by speech or inuendo. there is not so much filth in any other comedy of this century, and the trio of authors stand stigmatised for their attempt to bring in the old corruption. in strange contrast we have mrs. manley, a woman who began life with unmerited misfortune, and carried it on with unmitigated profligacy, producing a highly moral, semi-religious drama, "lucius." but while moral poets were polluting the stage, and immoral women undertaking to purify it, a reverend archdeacon of stowe, the historian, lawrence echard, in conjunction with lestrange, put on the stage of drury lane, a translation of the "eunuchus" of terence. it did not survive the third night; but the audience might have remarked how much more refinedly the carthaginian of old could treat a delicate subject than the christian poets of a later era--or, to speak correctly, than the later poets of a christian era. in this season i find the first trace of a "fashionable night," and a later hour for beginning the play than any of subsequent times. i quote from genest:--" june, . by particular desire of several ladies of quality. 'fatal marriage.' biron, booth; villeroy, mills; isabella, mrs. porter; victoria, mrs. younger. an exact computation being made of the number which the pit and boxes will hold, they are laid together; and no person can be admitted without tickets. by desire, the play is not to begin till nine o'clock, by reason of the heat of the weather--nor the house to be opened till eight." what a change from the time when dryden's lovely exclaimed:-- "as punctual as three o'clock at the playhouse!" the corresponding season ( - ) at lincoln's inn requires but brief notice. rich, who had failed in attempting essex, played, as mr. lun, harlequin, in the "cheats, or the tavern bilkers," a ballet-pantomime--the forerunner of the line of pantomime which, notwithstanding our presumed advance in civilisation, still has its admirers. in novelty, dick leveridge, the singer, produced the burlesque of "pyramus and thisbe"--those parts being played by himself and pack, with irresistible comic effect, especially when caricaturing the style of the italian opera, where your hero died in very good time and tune. english opera was not altogether neglected in the fields, but little was accomplished in the way of upholding the drama. bullock produced a comedy, which he was accused of stealing from a manuscript by savage--"woman's a riddle." it is a long, coarse farce, in which the most decent incident is the hanging of sir amorous vainwit, from a balcony, as he is trying to escape in woman's clothes, which are caught by a hook, and beneath which a footman stands with a flambeau. we learn, too, from this comedy, that young ladies carried snuff-boxes in those days. taverner, the proctor, also produced a comedy quite as extravagant, and not a whit less immoral than bullock's--the "artful husband." it had, however, great temporary success, quite enough to turn the author's head, and by his acts to show that there was nothing in it. the "artful husband," however, brought into notice a young actor who had but a small part to play,--stockwell. his name was spiller. the duke of argyle thought, and spoke well of him before this. on the night in question, spiller, who dressed his characters like an artist, went through his first scenes exquisitely, and without being recognised by his patron, who came behind the scenes, and had recommended him warmly to the notice of rich. genest says he hopes this story is true. i am sure it is not improbable; and for this reason. i once saw lafont acting the son in "père et fils." opposite to the side on which he made his exit an aged actor, who represented the father, passed me. i was delighted with the truth and beauty of his acting, and at the end of the scene asked who he was. to my astonishment, i heard that lafont, whom i had well known as an actor for more than twenty years, was playing both parts. this identifying power was spiller's distinguishing merit. riccoboni saw the young actor play an old man with a perfectness not to be expected but from players of the longest experience. "how great was my surprise," says riccoboni, "when i learnt that he was a young man, about the age of twenty-six. i could not believe it; but owned that it might be possible, had he only used a broken and a trembling voice, and had only an extreme weakness possessed his body, because i conceived that a young actor might, by the help of art, imitate that debility of nature to such a pitch of excellence; but the wrinkles of his face, his sunk eyes, and his loose yellow cheeks, the most certain marks of age, were incontestable proofs against what they said to me. notwithstanding all this, i was forced to submit to truth, because i was credibly informed that the actor, to fit himself for the part of this old man, spent an hour in dressing himself, and disguised his face so nicely, and painted so artificially a part of his eyebrows and eyelids, that at the distance of six paces it was impossible not to be deceived." in the next season, at drury ( - ), the only remarkable piece produced was cibber's adaptation of "tartuffe," under the name of the "nonjuror." in the lustre of the "nonjuror" paled and died out the first play by savage, "love in a veil." not twenty years had elapsed since this luckless and heartless young vagabond was born, in fox court, gray's inn lane, his unknown mother, but not that light lady, the countess of macclesfield, wearing a mask. savage had passed from a shoemaker's shop to the streets, had written a poem on the bangorian controversy, had adapted a play translated from the spanish, by the wife of mr. baron price, and which bullock re-adapted and produced at drury lane before savage could get his own accepted. "love in a veil" seems to have been founded on an incident in the spanish comedy; but however this may be, it failed to obtain the public approval. the author, however, did not altogether fail; generous wilks patronised the boy, and steele, befriending a lad of parts, designed to give him £ , which he had not got, with the hand of a natural daughter, whom the young and wayward poet did not get. the "nonjuror" alone survives as a memorial of the drury season of - . we owe the piece to fear and hatred of the pope and the pretender. it addressed itself to so wide a public that lintot gave the liberal sum of a hundred guineas for the copyright, and it was so acceptable to the king that he gave a dedication fee of twice that number of guineas to the author, who addressed him as "dread sir," and spoke of himself as "the lowest of your subjects from the theatre." cibber adds, "your comedians, sir, are an unhappy society, whom some severe heads think wholly useless, and others, dangerous to the young and innocent. this comedy is, therefore, an attempt to remove that prejudice, and to show what honest and laudable uses may be made of the theatre, when its performances keep close to the true purposes of its institution." cibber goes on to remark, that perhaps the idly and seditiously inclined may cease to disturb their brains about embarrassing the government, if "proper amusements" be provided for them. for such his play is rather a chastisement than an amusement, and he thinks _that_ would have been all the better taken had it not been administered by a comedian. the nonjurors, whose allegiance was paid to the pretender, were perhaps not worthy of a more exalted scourger; but he fears that truth and loyalty demanded a nobler champion. he flatteringly alludes to the small number of malcontents. his piece had either crushed them, or their forces were not so great as supposed, "there being no assembly where people are so free, and apt to speak their minds, as in a crowded theatre, of which," says the courtly fellow, "your majesty may have lately seen an instance in the insuppressible acclamations that were given on your appearing to honour this play with your royal presence." on the night of representation, rowe, in a prologue--he was now poet laureate and land surveyor of the customs in the port of london, deprecated the piece being considered unjustifiably discourteous. "think not our colours may too strongly paint the stiff non-juring separation saint. good breeding ne'er commands us to be civil to those who give the nation to the devil!" the play was admirably acted by booth, colonel woodvil; mills, sir john; wilks, heartley; cibber, dr. wolf (the cantwell of the modern arrangement); and walker (soon to be famous as captain macheath), charles. mrs. porter played lady woodvil, and mrs. oldfield turned the heads and touched the hearts of all lively and susceptible folks by her exquisite coquetry, in maria. the play was not a servile imitation of, but an excellent adaptation to modern circumstances of, the "tartuffe." thoroughly english, it abounds with the humour and manner of cibber, and despite some offences against taste, it was at this time the purest comedy on the stage. there was farce enough for the gallery, maxim and repartee, suggestions and didactic phrases for the rest of the house. the success surpassed even expectation. it raised against cibber a phalanx of implacable foes--foes who howled at everything of which he was, afterwards, the author; but it gained for him his advancement to the poet-laureateship, and an estimation which caused some people to place him, for usefulness to the cause of true religion, on an equality with the author of "the whole duty of man!" cibber foresaw the tempest, and, probably, also the prosperous gales which were to follow, to which there is some allusion in the epilogue spoken by mrs. oldfield, which, of course, had a fling against marriage:-- "was't not enough that critics might pursue him? but must he rouse a party to undo him? these blows, i told him, on his plays would fall: but he, unmov'd, cried, ----'s blood! we'll stand it all!" in the theatre itself the opposition to the piece was confined, cibber says, to "a few smiles of silent contempt. as the satire was chiefly employed on the enemies of the government, they were not so hardy as to own themselves such, by any higher disapprobation or resentment." they made up for this constrained silence, as above noted, and _mist's journal_, for fifteen years, lost no opportunity of mauling the detested offender. with the editor of that paper, says cibber, "though i could never persuade my wit to have an open account with him (for, as he had no effects of his own, i did not think myself obliged to answer his bills), notwithstanding, i will be so charitable to his real _manes_, and to the ashes of his paper, as to mention one particular civility he paid to my memory after he thought he had ingeniously killed me. soon after the 'nonjuror' had received the favour of the town, i read in one of his journals the following short paragraph:--'yesterday died mr. colley cibber, late comedian of the theatre royal, notorious for writing the _nonjuror_.' the compliment, in the latter part, i confess," adds cibber, "i did not dislike, because it came from so impartial a judge." the stage lost this year an excellent actor, irish bowen, who, at the age of fifty-two, was slain in duel by young quin.[ ] hitherto the sword had dealt lightly with actors. in , indeed, sandford nearly killed powell, on the stage. on the th of october they were acting together, in "oedipus, king of thebes," when the former, to whom a real dagger had been delivered by the property-man, instead of a weapon, the blade of which run up, when the point was pressed, into the handle, gave poor powell a stab three inches deep; the wound was, at first, thought to be mortal, but powell recovered. five years later, in july , i find brief mention in the papers of a duel between an actor and an officer. the initials only of the principals are given: "mr. h., an actor, of lincoln's inn fields theatre, fought mr. d., an officer, at barnes elms." whether the former was young hodgson or young harris is not now to be determined, nor the grounds of the quarrel. the issue of it was that the player dangerously wounded the soldier; and it is added, that both parties exhibited brilliant courage. bowen was the original representative of sir joshua[ ] wittol ("old batchelor"), jeremy ("love for love"), and foigard ("beaux' stratagem"). quin passed over to lincoln's inn fields in this season of - , where he played hotspur, tamerlane, morat ("aurungzebe"), mark antony, and created the part of scipio, in the "scipio africanus," written by young beckingham, the pride of merchant tailors' school. beckingham must also have been the pride of fleet street, and especially of the craft of linen-drapers, of which his father was a worthy and well-to-do member. the piece was played on the th of february . the author was then but nineteen years of age, and was full of bright promise. a tragedy by one so young, excited the public, and most especially the juvenile public, at merchant tailors', where dr. smith was head-master. the doctor and sub-masters held the stage in abhorrence till now, when a brilliant _alumnus_ was likely to shed lustre on the corporation of "merchant tailors and linen armourers." now they proclaimed high jubilee, gave the lads a half-holiday on the author's night, and joyfully saw the whole school swarming to the pit of lincoln's inn, to uphold the tragedy by this honoured _condiscipulus_. the masters, in this, acted against their own former precept and example; but they made amends for it by religious zeal, and by expelling all the jewish pupils from the school! israel was the scapegoat, and the christian sense of propriety was gratified. but quin's scipio established a taste for theatricals at merchant tailors', where classical plays were acted, for some years, as at westminster. beckingham's tragedy exhibits a romantic story, or stories, in a classical costume. there is severity enough to gratify rigid tastes, with a little of over-warmth of action on the part of one of three lovers, which shows that the young poet was not unread in the older masters. but there were worse and better plays than "scipio" brought out on the same stage this season. taverner failed in a _pendant_ to his "artful husband," the "artful wife." bullock did little for the credit of the stage by his farce of the "perjuror," and sir thomas moore justly criticised his own tragedy of "mangora, king of the timbusians," when he called it a "trifle." it is a very noisy trifle, concerned with love, battle, murder, and worse, between the spaniards and south american indians. rich thought its bustle might carry its absurdities successfully through, and sir thomas stimulated the actors, when at rehearsal, by inviting them to supper, at which leigh, the two bullocks, williams, ogden, knapp, and giffard, mistresses knight, bullock, and kent, made a joyous party, as hilarious as the audience was, whose laughter alone prevented them from hissing down the nonsense of an obscure man who was knighted for some forgotten service--certainly not for any rendered to the muses. the piece of this season which had stuff in it to cause it to live to our own times, was mrs. centlivre's "bold stroke for a wife." sprightly mrs. centlivre was as fervent a whig as cibber, and had written verses enough in praise of brunswick to entitle her to be poetess-laureate, had the princess caroline had a voice in the matter, when rowe died this very year, and newcastle recommended tipsy eusden for the office of "birthday fibber." the "bold stroke," laughed at and denounced by wilks, and taken reluctantly in hand by the actors, is a fair specimen of that lighter comedy which borders upon farce, but in which the fun is genuine, and the incidents not so improbable but that they may be accepted, or, by the rapidity of their succession, laughed at and forgotten. this season, withal, was not successful. it broke the heart of keen, actor and sharer. in the former capacity, though savage thought his life worth narrating, he won few laurels,--but his wreath was not entirely leafless. he was loved, too, by his brethren of both houses, whose subscriptions defrayed the expenses of a funeral, at which upwards of two hundred persons walked in deep mourning.[ ] at this time, drury, with its old, strong company, was patronised by court and town. plays, acted at hampton court, before the king, were repeated in the public theatre. of the former, i shall speak in a future page. two new comedies proved, indeed, inferior to mrs. centlivre's "bold stroke," at the other house. charles johnson's "masquerade," borrowed a little from shirley, and more from molière, furnished, in ombre and lady frances ombre, some ideas, probably, to cibber, when he placed a similar pair on the stage, in lord and lady townley. a worse piece was more successful,--the rambling comedy, "chit chat," by a mr. thomas killigrew, a gentleman who, like his namesake, had a place at court, but not his namesake's wit. the courtiers, with the duke of argyle at their head, carried the piece through eleven representations, and enriched the treasury by £ . the great effort of the season was made in bringing out "busiris," a tragedy, by the rev. dr. young, author of _night thoughts_. it was played on march , , by booth, elrington, wilks, mills, walker and thurmond, mrs. oldfield and mrs. thurmond. "busiris" was young's earliest tragedy. it is written in a stilted and inflated style, and bears all the marks of a juvenile production. the plot of the piece is void of all ingenuity; but there is little that is borrowed in it, save the haughty message sent by busiris to the persian ambassador, which is the same as that returned by the ethiopian prince to cambyses, in the third book of herodotus. of the phrasing, and indeed of the incidents of this tragedy, fielding made excellent fun, in his mock tragedy of "tom thumb." the sovereigns and courtiers of egypt gave little trouble to be converted into arthur and dollalolla, noodle, doodle, the great little prince, and huncamunca. the travestie is rich and facile; not least so in that passage mimicking the various addresses to the sun, who is bid to rise no more, but hide his face and put the world in mourning, on these, fielding remarks, that "the author of 'busiris' is extremely anxious to prevent the sun's blushing at any indecent object; and, therefore, on all such occasions, he addresses himself to the sun, and desires him to keep out of the way." it was dedicated to the duke of newcastle, the patron of eusden, the laureat, "because the late instances he had received of his grace's undeserved and uncommon favour, in an affair of some consequence, foreign to the theatre, had taken from him the privilege of choosing a patron." if this favour consisted in rewarding young for writing for the court, the favour _may_ have been "undeserved," but it was by no means "uncommon." the concluding incident of this play,--the double suicide of memnon (wilks) and mandane (mrs. oldfield), found such favour in the author's own estimation, that he repeated it in his next two tragedies, in each of which a couple of lovers make away with themselves. this tripled circumstance reminds a critic of the remark of dryden:--"the dagger and the bowl are always at hand to butcher a hero, when a poet wants the brains to save him." dr. young was at this time thirty-eight years of age, but was not yet "famous." born when charles ii. was king and dryden laureat, the hampshire godson of the princess anne, was as yet only known as having been the friend of the duke of wharton, and of tickell; as having first come before the public in ,[ ] with a poem to granville, in which there is good dramatic criticism; and of having since written poems of promise rather than of merit, the latest of which was a paraphrase on part of the book of job, which, curiously enough, abounds with phrases which show the author's growing intercourse with the playhouse and theatrical people. "busiris" was written in the year that "cato" was played, but its performance was delayed till this year, and its dramatic death occurred long before "cato" departed from the stage,--to be read, at least, as long as an admirer of addison survives. [illustration: mr. garrick as hamlet.] footnotes: [ ] should be august. [ ] quin can hardly be said to have been even near the head of this company. [ ] see page for some curious facts relating to this. [ ] sir joseph. [ ] he was buried at st. clement's. six actors held the pall.--_doran ms._ [ ] . [illustration: the new and old theatres royal, haymarket.] chapter xvii. the progress of james quin, and decline of barton booth. quin made great advances in the public favour in the season of - , at lincoln's inn, where, however, as yet, he only shared the leading business in tragedy and comedy with ryan, and the less distinguished evans. southwark fair, a fashionable resort, contributed to the company a new actor, bohemia or boheme, with great comic power; and susan mountfort replaced for a few weeks mrs. rogers, who had held for a time the tragic parts once acted by mrs. barry and bracegirdle, and who died about this time. of susan mountfort's touching end i will speak in a future page. mrs. rogers had been on the stage since , and numbered among her original parts:--imoinda, oriana, melinda, and isabinda, in "oroonoko," "inconstant," "recruiting officer," and "busy body." during this season a french company acted for some time in the fields, where the "tartuffe" was also played against the "nonjuror." the only novelty worthy of notice was the "sir walter raleigh" of poor dr. sewell, in which quin played the hero with indifferent success. the author was more remarkable than his piece. he was of good family, and a pupil of boerhaave; but, unsuccessful as a practitioner in london, he, curiously enough, gained fortune and reputation in the smaller sphere of hampstead, until, as a singular biographical notice informs us, "three other physicians settled at the same place, after which his gains became very inconsiderable." he became a poor poet instead of a rich physician; "kept no house, but was a boarder; was much esteemed, and so frequently invited to the tables of gentlemen in the neighbourhood, that he had seldom occasion to dine at home." seven years after quin failed to lift him into dramatic notoriety, this tory opponent of the whig bishop of salisbury, and one of the minor contributors (it is said) to the _spectator_ and _tatler_, though he is not included in bissett's lives of the writers in the first-named periodical, died, "and was supposed," says the anonymous biographer already quoted, "at that time to be in very indigent circumstances, as he was interred in the meanest manner, his coffin being little better than those allotted by the parish to their poor who are buried from the workhouses, neither did a single friend or relation attend him to the grave. no memorial was placed over his remains; but they lie just under a holly-tree, which formed part of a hedge-row, that was once the boundary of the churchyard." such was the end of the poet, through whom lincoln's inn fields hoped, in , to recover its ancient prosperity. eventful incidents marked the drury lane season of - . it commenced in the middle of september, between which time, and the last week of the following january, things went on prosperously as between players and public, but not so as between patentees and the government. within the period mentioned miss santlow had made booth happy--an union which helped to make susan mountfort mad,[ ] and dennis's "invader of his country," and southerne's "spartan dame," were produced. the former was the second of three adaptations[ ] from shakspeare's "coriolanus." forty years before, in , nahum tate fancied there was something in the times like that depicted in the days of coriolanus. to make the parallel more striking, he pulled shakspeare's play to pieces, and out of the fragments built up his own "ingratitude of a commonwealth." nahum altered all for the worse; and he wrote a new fifth act, which was still worse than the mere verbal or semi-alterations. the impudence of the destroyer was illustrated by his cool assurance in the prologue, that-- "he only ventures to make gold from ore, and turn to money what lay dead before." tate was now followed by dennis, who altered "coriolanus" for political reasons, brought it out at drury lane, in the cause of his country and sovereign, and perhaps thought to frighten the pretender by it. the failure was complete; although booth played the principal male character, and mrs. porter volumnia. southerne's "spartan dame" had been interdicted in the reign of william and mary, as it was supposed that the part of celonis (mrs. oldfield), wavering between her duty to her father, leonidas, and that owing to her husband, cleombrotus (booth), would have painfully reminded some, and joyfully reminded other, of the spectators, of the position of mary, between her royal sire and her princely consort. but it would have been as reasonable to prohibit "othello" or "king lear," because of the presence in them of individuals so related. southerne's play has no local colour about it, but abounds in anachronisms and incongruities, and it survived but during a brief popularity. the author was now sixty years of age, dennis seven years his senior.[ ] the older and unluckier, and less courteous poet, gained nothing by his play to compensate for the annuity he had purchased, but the term of which he had outlived. southerne gained £ by his "author's nights" alone; for patronage and presence on which occasions, the plausible poet personally solicited his friends. for the copyright he received an additional £ . about six weeks after southerne's play was produced--that is, after the performance of the "maid's tragedy," january , , an order from the duke of newcastle, lord chamberlain, suddenly closed the theatre! the alleged cause was "_information_ of misbehaviour on the part of the players." the real cause lay in sir richard steele, the principal man who held the patent! since we last parted with the knight, he had been ungenerously trying, in pamphlets, to hunt to the scaffold the last tory ministers of queen anne; he had lost his second wife; he had been projecting an union of church and kirk; he had invented a means of keeping fish alive while being transported across sea; he had been living extravagantly; but he had also offended his patron, the duke of newcastle, and therewith, the king, whose servant the duke was, and the government, of which the duke was a member. steele, in fact, had vehemently and successfully opposed, by speech and pamphlet, lord sunderland's peerage bill, which proposed to establish twenty-five hereditary peers of scotland to sit in the english house of lords, in place of the usual election of sixteen; and to create six new english peerages, with the understanding that the crown would never, in future, make a new peer except on the extinction of an old family. steele denounced, in the _plebeian_, the aristocratical tendency of the bill, and to such purpose, that the theatre he governed was closed, and his name struck out of the licence! steele appealed to the public, in a pamphlet, the _theatre_; and showed, by counsel's opinion, how he had been wronged; he estimated his loss at nearly £ , , and finally sank into distress, with mingled bitterness and wit. his old ducal patron had loudly proclaimed he would ruin him. "this," said steele, "from a man in his circumstances, to one in mine, is as great as the humour of malagene, in the comedy, who valued himself for his activity in 'tripping up cripples.'" dennis entered the lists against sir richard; but the worst the censor could say against the knight was, that he had a dark complexion, and wore a black peruke. dennis also attacked actors generally, as rogues and vagabonds in the eye of the law, and liable to be whipped at the king's porter's lodge. such was the testimony of this coarse cockney, the son of a saddler, and a fellow who, for his ill-doings, had been expelled from cambridge university. booth, cibber, and wilks were permitted to reopen drury under a licence, after an interval of a few days, and the season thus recommencing on the th of january, with the "careless husband," cibber playing lord foppington, ran on to august rd, when the house closed, with "bartholomew fair!" the only novelty was hughes's "siege of damascus," with false quantities in its classical names, and much heaviness of treatment of an apt story. it was hughes's first play, and he died unconscious of its success. he was then but forty-three years of age. the old school-fellow of isaac watts had begun his career by complimenting king william and eulogising queen anne. he had published clever translations, composed very gentlemanlike music, contributed to the _spectator_, and obtained a place among the wits. he wrote, in , the words of the opera of "calypso and telemachus," to prove how gracefully the english language might be wedded to music. two lord chancellors were among his patrons, cowper and macclesfield, and that he held the secretaryship to the commissioners of the peace was a pleasant consequence thereof. his "siege of damascus" has for moral, that it is wrong to extend religious faith by means of the sword. the angry lover who left the city he had saved, to assault it with the arabians from whom he had saved it, and to meet the lady of his love full of abhorrence for the traitor, might have produced some emotion; but loving, loved, living, and dying, they all talk, seldom act, and never touch. nevertheless, booth, wilks, mills, and mrs. porter had attentive listeners, if not ecstatic auditors, during a run of ten nights. the long tirades and the ponderous similes gratified the same audiences who took delight in norris's barnaby brittle, shepherd's sir tunbelly clumsey, and mrs. booth's helena, in the "rover." nevertheless, hughes acquired no fame. when swift received a copy of his works, he wrote to pope:--"i never heard of the man in my life, yet i find your name as a subscriber. he is too grave a poet for me; and, i think, among the mediocrists in prose as well as in verse." pope sanctioned the judgment; adding, that what hughes wanted in genius, he made up as an honest man. hitherto, the great tragedy of this century was "cato." at lincoln's inn, quin played the king to ryan's hamlet, and created henri quatre in young beckingham's second, last, and unsuccessful essay, "henry iv. of france." what was the course of the merchant tailors' pupil, and son of the fleet street linen-draper, after this, i am unable to say, further than that he died in obscurity some ten years later. a comedy, by "handsome leigh," a moderately fair actor, called "kensington gardens, or the pretenders," showed some power of drawing character, especially an effeminate footman, bardach, played by bullock, but it did nothing for a theatre which was now partly relying on subscriptions in aid. at the head of the subscribers was the last baron brooke, whose more famous son, the first earl of warwick, of the fulke greville line, used to subscribe his political vote so singularly--first for ministers, then for the opposition, and thirdly, not at all, in undeviating regularity. this piece failing, came theobald's adaptation of shakspeare's "richard ii.," very much for the worse, but so far to the profit of the adapter that the earl of orrery conferred on him an unusually liberal gift for the dedication, namely, a hundred pound note, enclosed in a box of egyptian pebble, which was worth a score of pounds more. the original author was less munificently remunerated, except in abiding glory. another attempt served the house as poorly namely, the re-appearance of a mrs. vandervelt, not because she was a clever, but that she was a very aged actress, eighty-five years old, who had not played since king charles's time, but who had spirits enough to act the widow rich, in the "half-pay officers," a vamped-up farce, by molloy, the political writer, and strength enough to dance a sprightly jig after it. as the hostess of a tavern in tottenham court road, peg fryer, as the old dame was called off the stage, kept a merry and prosperous house. another adaptation was griffin's comedy, "whig and tory," which had nothing political in it but the name; and by which that excellent low comedian, who ought to have been in the church, and who would not be a glazier, did not add to his fame. the "imperial captives" was a more ambitious venture, by a new author, mottley. it was a tragedy, in which quin played genseric, king of the vandals, and in which there is much love and a little murder, in the old thundering style, and all at cross-purposes. distress made a poet of mottley. his father was a jacobite colonel, who followed james to france; his mother, a thorough-bred whig, who stayed under william in england. occasionally, they settled their political differences, and met. mottley was one of those men who depend on patrons. he had lost a post in the excise office, and had not gained either of two which had been promised him, one in the wine licence office, by lord halifax, and one in the exchequer to which he had been appointed, but from which he was immediately ousted by sir robert walpole. an estate, in which he had a reversionary interest, was sold by his widowed and extravagant mother to pay her debts, and thus stripped of post and prospects, mottley made an essay as dramatic author, a career in which he was not destined to be distinguished, although queen caroline patronised him during a part of it--but so she did stephen duck! "cato" was not superseded; but young was putting the finishing stroke to his "revenge." that tragedy, which has been acted more frequently and more recently than "cato," was first played in the drury lane season of - . on the th of april, of the latter year, zanga was played by mills, while booth took alonzo, and wilks, carlos. the secondary parts were thus played by the better actors. mrs. porter played leonora, mrs. horton, isabella. this was a fine cast, and the piece was fairly successful. a story in the _guardian_, and two plays, by marlowe and aphra behn, are said to have furnished young with his materials, in handling which, one of his biographers has described him as "superior even to shakspeare!" the action does not flag, the situations are dramatic, the interest is well sustained, and the language is expressive and abounding in poetical beauty. the story of love, jealousy, and murder is, however, a little marred by the puling lines of the black iago,--zanga, at the close. young obtained but £ for the copyright of this piece. young's "revenge," if built upon other plays, has served the turn of later authors. in lord john russell's "don carlos," the reason given for the grovelling cordoba's hatred of the spanish prince, reminds the reader of that of zanga for alonzo; not less in the fact itself, the blow believed to be forgotten, but in the expression. any one, moreover, who remembers the avowal which artabanus makes of his guilt in the "artaxerxes" of metastasio, will be inclined to think that the italian had in his mind the similar speech of the moor to his master. cibber's comedy, the "refusal," skilfully built up from the "femmes savantes" of molière and the south sea mania, ran, like the more famous tragedy, but six nights, a riot attending each representation, and finally ending in driving a good play by the author of the "nonjuror" from the stage. the other incidents of this season are confined to the appearance of cibber's son, theophilus, who made his first essay in the duke of clarence, in the second part of "henry iv.," as arranged by betterton. it was a modest attempt on the part of him whose pistol was to serve, down to our day, as a tradition to be followed. as this vagabond theophilus appeared, there, on the other hand, departed the very pearl of chambermaids, mrs. saunders, who retired to become the friend and servant of mrs. oldfield. this last lady played but rarely this year; but mrs. horton profited by the opportunity, and mrs. porter, as a tragic actress, drew the town. lincoln's inn was, at least, active in its corresponding season. the progress of quin is curiously marked. he played glo'ster to the lear of boheme; hector, in "troilus and cressida," ryan playing troilus; the duke in "measure for measure;" coriolanus; aumerle, in "richard ii.;" aaron, in "titus andronicus;" leonato to ryan's benedick, &c. &c. moreover, while in the "merry wives" he played falstaff with great effect to the host of bullock, in the first part of "henry iv." bullock played the knight, and quin the king. the season, remarkable for shakspearian revivals, creditable to rich, was also distinguished for the failure of the original pieces produced. the "chimæra" was a satire by odell, a buckinghamshire squire, pensioned by government. it was aimed at the speculators in change alley, but it smote them tenderly. the "fair captive" was an adaptation by mrs. haywood, a lady who began by writing as loosely as aphra behn, concluded by writing as decorously as mrs. chapone, and left charge to her executors, in , to give no aid to any biography of her that might be attempted, on the ground that the least said was the soonest mended. this comedy[ ] was only exceeded in dulness by the tragedy which succeeded it, "antiochus," by mottley, who could not gain fortune either as poet or placeman. in the play, antiochus is in love with his father's wife, stratonice, who, on being surrendered to his son, by her husband, seleucus, is a little overjoyed, for she loves the younger prince; but she is also much shocked, and escapes from her embarrassment by suicide. the next novelty was a tragedy in one act and with four characters, "fatal extravagance," attributed to miller,[ ] the son of a scottish stone-cutter. miller was a sort of exaggerated richard savage; inferior to him as a poet, and in every respect a more inexcusable vagabond. he had no redeeming traits of character, and he destroyed health and fortune (both restored more than once), as insanely as he did fame and the patience of his friends. in "fatal extravagance," belmour, played by quin, kills a creditor who holds his bond, of which he also robs the dead man, mixes a "cordial," administers it to his wife and three children (off the stage), drinks and dies. the butchery[ ] is soon got through, in one act. miller subsequently declared that the piece was a gift to him from aaron hill. that busy and benevolent person had no money to give to a beggar; so he sat down and wrote a tragedy for him. it was a piece of clever extravagance. it was far more amusing than ambrose philip's tragedy the "briton," which was the sole novelty of the drury lane season - . the tragedy lacked neither skill, poetical spirit, nor incident; indeed, of love incidents there is something too much. but the amours of yvor (wilks) and gwendolin (mrs. booth), the infidelities of queen cartismand (mrs. porter) to vanoc (booth), and the intervention of the romans in these british domestic matters, interested but for a few nights, if then, an audience ill-read in their own primitive history. lincoln's inn fields was scarcely more prolific in novelty; this, with the exception of a poor drama, the "hibernian friend,"[ ] being confined to sturmy's tragedy, "love and duty;" lynceus, one of the half hundred sons of Ægyptus, by quin. the love is that of lynceus and his cousin, hypermnestra; the duty, that of killing her husband, on the bridal night, by command of her father. the "distressed bride," which is the second name of this piece, wisely disobeys her sire, who is ultimately slain; after which, the young people, sole survivors of fifty couples married yesterday (the bridegrooms, all brothers; and sisters, all the brides), are made happy by the hope of long life unembittered by feuds with their kinsfolk. the last two tragedies may be looked upon as a backsliding, after "cato," "jane shore," and the "revenge;" and in tragedy there was little improvement for several years. meanwhile, lincoln's inn fields acquired walker, from drury lane, and tony aston, an itinerant actor, the first, perhaps, who travelled the country with an entertainment in which he was the sole performer. on the other hand, the house lost pretty miss stone, humorous kit bullock (wilks's son-in-law), and busy george pack; the last, the original marplot, lissardo, and many similar characters. pack turned vintner in charing cross. quin's ability was nightly more appreciated. there was more "study" for the drury lane actors in - . mrs. centlivre's muse died calmly out with the comedy of the "artifice." in the good scenes there was an approach to sentimental comedy, more fully reached, in november, by steele, in his "conscious lovers," in which booth played young bevil, and mrs. oldfield, indiana. there was not an inferior performer in any of the other parts of this comedy, which fielding sneers at, by making parson adams declare that there were things in it that would do very well in a sermon. modern critics have called this comedy dull, but decent; perhaps because steele affected to claim it as at least moral in its tendency. the truth, however, is, that it is excessively indecent. there is nothing worse in aphra behn than the remarks made by cimberton, the "coxcomb with reflection," on lucinda. this fop, played by griffin, is for winning a beauty by the rules of metaphysics. there is more pathos than humour in this comedy; the author of which had now recovered his share in the patent, by favour of sir robert walpole; and it is by directing attention only to such scenes as those between bevil and indiana, or between the former and his friend myrtle (wilks), that critics have not correctly declared that the sentiments are those of the most refined morality! for the very attempt to render them so, even partially, sir richard has been sneered at, very recently, by a writer who looks upon steele as a fool for preferring to make bevil the portrait of what a man ought to be rather than what man really was. the story of the piece is admirably manipulated and reformed from the "andria," of terence, though tom (cibber) is but a sorry davus. on one night of the performance of this play, a general officer was observed in the boxes, weeping at the distresses of indiana. the circumstance was noted to wilks, who, with kindly feeling ever ready, remarked, "i am certain the officer will fight none the worse for it!" steele must have had more than ordinary power, if he could draw tears from martial eyes in those days. it is not to be supposed that pope set the author, as a writer, below crowne; and yet, in the following lines, where the two are mentioned, there is no very complimentary allusion to sir richard:-- "when simple macer, now of high renown, first sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel, to wear red stockings and to dine with steele. some ends of verse his betters might afford, and gave the harmless fellow a good word. set up with these, he ventured on the town, and with a borrow'd play outdid poor crowne. there he stopt short, nor since has writ a tittle, but has the wit to make the most of little." crowne, at least, found something of an imitator in ambrose philips, whose tragedy, "humphrey, duke of gloucester" (duke, booth; beaufort, cibber; margaret, mrs. oldfield; duchess of gloucester, mrs. porter), was produced in this season. it was the last and worst of philips' three dramatic essays. the insipid additions in the scene of beaufort's death are justly described by genest as being in crowne's vapid and senseless fashion; and the public would not accept this cold, declamatory, conversational play as a substitute for the varied incidents which go to the making up of the second part of shakspeare's "henry vi." even in dr. johnson's time, "it was only remembered by its title;" we may, therefore, here take leave of the old secretary of the hanover club, who found more fortune in place and pension in ireland, than he could derive from poetry and play writing in england. to the latter country he returned in , to "enjoy himself," in pursuit of which end he died the following year. addison once thought him well enough provided for, by being made a westminster justice. "nay," said ambrose, like a virtuous man in comedy, "though poetry be a trade i cannot live by, yet i scorn to owe subsistence to another which i ought not to live by;" and he nobly gave up the justiceship--as soon as he was otherwise provided for! philips was followed by an inferior author, but a greater man, sir hildebrand jacob, with a classical tragedy, "fatal constancy," in which all the unities are preserved; but _that_ did not bring it the nearer to "cato." then followed, in the summer and less fashionable portion of the season, savage's tragedy, "sir thomas overbury," in which the author played, very indifferently, the hero. at this time, the hapless young man was not widely known, except to those friends on whose charity he lived while he abused it. favoured by wilks and patronised by theophilus cibber, the ragged, rakish fellow, slunk at nights into the theatre, and by day lounged where he could, composing his tragedy on scraps of paper. in producing it, ever ready aaron hill assisted him; and his profits, amounting to about £ , gave him a temporary appearance of respectability. savage is said to have been deeply ashamed of having turned actor; but it seems to me that he was only ashamed of having failed. he had neither voice, figure, nor any other qualification for such a profession. the tragedy lived but three days. there is something adroit in the conduct of the plot, and evidence of correctness of conjecture as to the truth of the relations between overbury and lady somerset,--but there was no vitality therewith; and the poet gained no lasting fame by the effort. mrs. haywood followed savage's example, in acting in her own comedy, "a wife to be let;"[ ] but as this and other original pieces or adaptations passed away unheeded or disgraced, i may here conclude my notice of this season, by recording the death of mrs. bicknell, a woman, or rather an actress of merit, and the original representative of cherry in the "beaux' stratagem." against drury, the house in the fields long struggled in vain. audiences, of five or six pounds in value, discouraged the actors. egleton was not equal to cibber; yet the "baron," as he was called, from having assumed the title, when squandering his little patrimony in france, was next to colley in fops. quin, ryan, and boheme could not attract like booth, wilks, and cibber; and hippisley and others, acting "julius cæsar," as a comic piece, was not a happy idea.[ ] not more so, was that of turning the story of "cartouche," who had recently been broken on the wheel, into a farce. the company lost their best actress, too, in mrs. seymour, whom boheme married and took off the stage, to ryan's great regret, as she acted admirably up to him. a promising actor, too, was lost to the troop, in young reakstraw. in the summer vacation he was playing darius, in a booth in moorfields,--no derogation in those days. in the scene in which he is attacked by bessus and nabarzanes, one of the latter two thrust his foil at the king so awkwardly, that it entered the eye, pierced his brain, and laid the actor, after a scream, dead upon the boards! with this season, it is to be noted that the fortune of lincoln's inn mended--thanks to the impertinence of colley cibber. to the latter, a tragedy had been presented by a modest gentleman, of a good old staffordshire family, named fenton. he was forty years of age at this time. cibber knew his antecedents, that his jacobite principles had been an obstacle to his ordination, for which he was well qualified, and that although he had been secretary and tutor in the family of lord orrery, fenton had also earned his bread in the humble, but honourable, capacity of usher in a boarding-school. colley read the tragedy, "mariamne," and after keeping it unnecessarily long, he returned it, with the advice that fenton should stick to some honest calling, and cease to woo the muses. elijah fenton, however, had friends who enabled him now to live independently of labour, and by their counsel he took "mariamne" to rich, who immediately brought it out, with quin as sohemus, boheme as herod, and mrs. seymour as mariamne--her one great creation. boheme, in herod, played well up to the mariamne of mrs. seymour; but he could not approach mondory in that character, in the french play by tristan. mondory used to have his audience, on this occasion, departing from him, depressed, silent, wrapt in meditation. he surrendered himself entirely to the part, and died of the consequences of his efforts. herod was as truly the name of the malady to which he succumbed, as _orestes_ was of that which killed montfleury, as he was playing oreste, in racine's tragedy of "andromaque." the old story of herod and mariamne is so simple and natural that it appeals to every heart, in every age. fenton perilled it by additions; but the tragedy won a triumph, and the poet to whom pope paid about £ for translating four books of the _odyssey_ for him, netted four times that sum by this drama. he became famous, and critics did not note the false quantity which the cambridge man gave to the penultimate of salome. fenton was rendered supremely happy, but his dramatic fame rests on this piece alone. he never wooed melpomene again, but lived calmly the brief seven years of life which followed his success. like prior dying at wimpole, the honoured guest of harley, fenton died at easthampstead, the equally esteemed guest of sir william trumbull, son of king william's secretary of state. in pope's well-known epitaph, fenton's character is beautifully described in a few simple lines. aaron hill was the exact opposite of quiet fenton. his beech-nut oil company having failed, he joined sir robert montgomery in a project for colonising south carolina; and this too proving unproductive, he turned to the stage, and brought out in the season of - , at drury lane, his tragedy of "henry v."--an "improvement" of shakspeare's historical play of the same name. hill's additions comprise a harriet (mrs. thurmond), for whom he invented a breeches part, and some melodramatic situations--especially between her and henry (booth). hill cut out all shakspeare's comic characters; but he was so anxious for the success of the piece, that he spent £ of his own on the scenery, of which he made a present to the managers; and, after all, his play failed, despite the brilliant katherine of mrs. oldfield, and the dauphin of wilks. more successful was the "captives," by gay. the ex-mercer was now a poet, whom the "quality" petted; but he was not yet at the summit of his fame. the "captives" did not help to raise him. the story was found unnatural, and the style stilted. a persian captive (booth) is a joseph, against whom the median queen, whom he has offended, vows vengeance; in pursuit of which, love and murder are extensively employed. mrs. oldfield had one good scene in it as cydene, captive wife of the persian joseph, for whom she entertains a warm regard, of which he is worthy; yet these actors, well seconded, could only drag the tragedy through seven representations, before it was consigned to oblivion. but the company was strong enough to make their old repertory, with shakspeare in the van, attractive; and they had nothing to regret, when the season closed, but the death of pinkethman, who for two and thirty years, and chiefly at drury lane, had been the most irresistible laughter-compeller of that stage, on which he had originated beau clincher, old mirabel, and a score of similar merry characters. the company had not to complain; yet the managers had found it necessary to support their stock-pieces by a novelty--a ballet-pantomime, "the necromancer,"[ ] by the younger thurmond, a dancing-master. rich, at lincoln's inn, where "edwin" could not have drawn a shilling; where belisarius (boheme) begged an obolus in vain; and hurst's "roman maid" (paulina, mrs. moffat), represented a hermit as dwelling in a lone cave, near the mount aventine--a hermit would be as likely to be found in a wood on snow hill--rich, i say, improved on thurmond's idea, by producing on the th of december , "the necromancer, or the history of dr. faustus," and thereby founded pantomime, as it has been established among us, at least during the christmas-tide, for now a hundred and forty years. rich, with his "necromancer," conjured all the town within the ring of his little theatre. the splendour of the scenes, the vastness of the machinery, and the grace and ability of rich himself, raised harlequinade above shakspeare, and all other poets; and quin and ryan were accounted little of in comparison with the motley hero. the pantomime stood prominently in the bills; during the nights of its attraction the prices of admission were raised by one-fourth, and the weekly receipts advanced from six hundred (if the house was full every night, which had been a rare case in the fields), to a thousand pounds. the advanced price displeased the public, with whom ultimately a compromise was made, and a portion returned to those who chose to leave the house before the pantomime commenced. while the drama was thus yielding to the attractions of pantomime, a new theatre invited the public. the little theatre in the haymarket opened its doors for the first time on the th of september[ ] , with the "french fop," of which the author, sandford, says, that he wrote it in a few weeks, when he was but fifteen years of age. that may account for its having straightway died; but it served to introduce to the stage the utility actor, milward. the theatre was only open for a few nights. of the season - , at drury lane, there is little to be said, save that the inimitable company worked well and profitably in sterling old plays. wilks returned to sir harry wildair, and the public laughed at cibber's quivering tragedy tones, when playing achoreus, in his adaptation from beaumont and fletcher's "false one." in "cæsar in egypt," antony and cleopatra were played by wilks and mrs. oldfield, who were never more happy than when making love on the stage. this was the sole novelty of the season. in the fields there was more of it, but that most relied on was rich's "harlequin sorcerer," produced on the st of january . the "bath unmasked" was the only original comedy produced. it described bath as made up of very unprincipled people, with a good lord to about a score of knaves and hussies. it was the first and not lucky essay of miserable gabriel odingsell, who, nine years later, in a fit of madness, hung himself in his house, thatched court, westminster. booth was more brilliant than he had ever yet been, in the drury lane season of - . in shakspeare he shone conspicuously, and his hotspur to the prince of wales of giffard, from dublin, charmed as much by its chivalry as cato did by its dignity. mrs. oldfield enjoyed, and mrs. cibber, first wife of theophilus, claimed the favour of the town; and the elder cibber surrendered one or two old characters to a younger actor, bridgewater. amid a succession of old dramas, one novelty only was offered, a translation of the "hecuba" of euripides, with slight variations. the author was richard west, son-in-law of bishop burnet, and father of young west, the early friend of walpole and gray. his play was acted on the d[ ] of february , at which time west was lord chancellor of ireland. on the first night a full audience would not listen to the piece, and on the next two nights there was scarcely an audience assembled to listen. neither booth as polymnestor, nor mrs. porter as hecuba, could win the general ear. it did not succeed, wrote the author, "because _it was not heard_. a rout of vandals in the galleries intimidated the young actresses, disturbed the audience, and prevented all attention; and, i believe, if the verses had been repeated in the original greek, they would have been understood and received in the same manner." the young actresses were mrs. brett and mrs. cibber; the latter was not the famous lady of that name, destined to the highest walks of tragedy. lord chancellor west died in december of this year. the above single play was, however, worth all the novelties produced by rich at lincoln's inn fields. these were comedies of a farcical kind. in one of them, the "capricious lovers," by odingsell, there was an original character, mrs. mincemode (mrs. bullock), who "grows sick at the sight of a man, and refines upon the significancy of phrases, till she resolves common observations into indecency." in the "french fortune-teller,"[ ] the public failed to be regaled with a piece stolen from ravenscroft, who had stolen his from the french. the third play was "money the mistress," which the audience damned, in spite of the reputation of southerne, who, with this failure, closed a dramatic career which had commenced half a century earlier. in its course he had written ten plays, the author of which had this in common with shakspeare--that he was born at stratford-on-avon. with this year, - , came the first symptom of a "break-up" in the hitherto prosperous condition of drury lane. it occurred in the first long and serious illness of booth, which kept him from the theatre, three long and weary months to the town. the season at drury lane, however, and that at lincoln's inn fields, had this alike, that after booth's welcome return, all london was excited by expectations raised by comedies whose authors were "gentlemen," in whose success the "quality," generally, were especially interested. at drury it was the "rival modes," by moore smythe; at lincoln's inn fields, the "dissembled wanton, or, my son, get money," by leonard welsted. in the former piece there is a gay lover, bellamine (wilks), wooing the grave melissa (mrs. porter), while the serious sagely (mills) pays suit to the sprightly widow amoret (mrs. oldfield). an old beau of king william's time, earl of late airs (cibber), brings his son to town (lord toupet, a modern beau, by theophilus cibber), in order that he may marry melissa, with her father's consent. amoret contrives to upset this arrangement, and the other lovers are duly united. the plot was good, the players unsurpassable, the two cibbers fooling it to the top of their bent, and old and new fashions were pleasantly contrasted; but the action was languid, and the piece was hissed. the incident lacking here, abounded in welsted's intriguing comedy, the "dissembled wanton," a character finely acted by mrs. younger[ ]--whose marriage with beaufort (walker) being forbidden by her father, lord severne (quin), by whom she had been sent to france, she reappears in her father's presence as sir harry truelove, whose real character is known only to emilia (mrs. bullock), lord severne's ward. emilia's intimacy with sir harry causes the rupture of her marriage with colonel severne, and some coarse scenes have to be got through before all is explained; the respective lovers are united, and humphrey staple (hall) finds it useless to urge his son toby (w. bullock) to get money by espousing the rich ward emilia. although welsted's comedy was lively, it was found to be ill-written. he had had time enough to polish it, for ten years previous to its production steele had commended the plot, the moral, and the style; he had even praised its decency. like moore smyth's, it could not win the town. the respective authors, who made so much ineffectual noise in their own day, would be unknown to us in this, but for the censure of pope. in the _dunciad_ they enjoy notoriety with theobald, or cibber, gildon, dennis, centlivre, and aaron hill. moore was an oxford man, who assumed his maternal grandfather's name--being his heir--and held one or two lucrative posts under government. his father, the famous arthur moore, a wit, a politician, and a statesman, who was long m.p. for grimsby, had risen, by force of his talents, to an eminent position from a humble station. pope stooped to call moore smyth the son of a footman, and, when the latter name was assumed on his taking his maternal grandfather's estate, the whigs lampooned him as born at "the paternal seat of his family--the taphouse of the prison-gate, at monaghan." moore was on intimate terms with the mapledurham ladies--the blounts, and with others of pope's friends, as well as with pope himself. some tags of the poet's lines he had introduced into his unlucky comedy, and on this pope supported a grossly-expressed and weakly-founded charge of plagiarism. welsted, who was of a good leicestershire family, and of fair abilities, had moved pope's wrath by writing satirical verses against him, and the feeling was embittered when the two dramatists united in addressing _one epistle_ to pope, in which they touched him more painfully than he cared to confess. neither moore nor welsted ever tempted fortune on the stage again. "coestus artemque repono," said the former, on the title-page of his comedy, as if he was revenging himself on society. welsted confined himself, after some skirmishing with his critics, to his duties in the ordnance office. his wives were women of some mark. the first was the daughter of purcell; the second the sister of walker, the great defender of londonderry. a better gentleman than either, philip frowde--scholar, wit, poet, true man, friend of addison, and a friend to all,--was praised by the critics for his "fall of saguntum;" but the public voice did not ratify the judgment, though ryan, as fabius, and quin, as eurydamas, with mrs. berriman, as candace,--an amazonian queen, with nothing very womanly about her,--exerted themselves to the utmost. one other failure has to be recorded--"philip of macedon," by david lewis, the friend of pope. with a dull tragedy, pope's friend had no more chance of misleading the public, than his foes, with weak comedies. the greater poet's commendation so little influenced that public, that on the first night, with pope himself in the house, the audience was so numerically small,--though walker, ryan, quin, mrs. berriman, mrs. younger, and others, were, in their "habits" as unlike macedonians as they could well be,--the managers deemed acting to such a house not profitable, and dismissed it accordingly. the author's final condemnation was only postponed for a night or two, when he sank, never to rise again.[ ] [illustration: (lavinia fenton.)] with booth's failing health, and the ill-success of novelties produced at either house, there was a gloom over theatrical matters. but at this very time a sun was rising from behind the cloud. in one of the irregular series of performances, held at the little theatre in the haymarket, in , there appeared a young lady, in the part of monimia, in the "orphan," and subsequently as cherry, in the "beaux' stratagem." she was pretty, clever, and eighteen; but she was not destined to become either the tragic or the comic queen. soon after, however, thanks to the judgment of rich, who gave her the opportunity, she was hailed as the queen of english song. she was known as lavinia fenton, but she was the daughter of a naval lieutenant, named beswick. her widowed mother had married a coffee-house keeper in charing cross, whose name of fenton was assumed by his step-daughter. before we shall hear of her at lincoln's inn fields, a lieutenant[ ] will be offering her everything he possessed except his name; but lavinia, without being as discreet, was even more successful than pamela, and died a duchess. throughout the reign of george i., barton booth kept his position as the first english tragedian,--undisturbed even by the power of quin. associated with him, were comedians,--wilks, cibber, mrs. oldfield, porter, horton, and others, who shed splendour on the stage, at this period. the new dramatic poets of that reign were few, and not more than one of those few can be called distinguished. the name of young alone survives in the memory, and that but for one tragedy, the "revenge." of comedies, there is not one of the reign of george i. that is even read for its merits. it is otherwise with the comedies of an actress and dramatist who died in this reign,--susanna centlivre; and yet a contemporary notice of her death simply states that, as an actress, "having a greater inclination to wear the breeches than the petticoat, she struck into the men's parts;" and that the dramatist "had a small wen on her left eyelid, which gave her a masculine air." eventful to both houses was the season of - . it was the last season of booth, at drury lane; and it was the first of the "beggars' opera," at lincoln's inn fields. after thirty years' service, in the reigns of william, anne, george i., and now in that of george ii., in which garrick was to excel him, that admirable actor was compelled, by shattered health, to withdraw. for many nights he played henry viii., and walked in the coronation scene, which was tacked to various other plays, in honour of the accession of george ii., who, with the royal family, went, on the th of november, to witness booth enact the king. on the th of january, booth, after a severe struggle, played, for the sixth and last time, julio, in the "double falsehood;" a play which theobald ascribed to shakspeare; dr. farmer, to shirley; others, to massinger; but which was chiefly theobald's own, founded on a manuscript copy which, through downes, the prompter, had descended to him from betterton, and which served colman, who certainly derived his octavian from julio. the loss in booth was, in some degree, supplied by the "profit" arising from a month's run of a new comedy by vanbrugh and cibber--the "provoked husband;" in which the lord and lady townley were played by these incomparable lovers--wilks and mrs. oldfield. cibber acted sir francis wronghead, and young wetherell, squire richard. vanbrugh was at this time dead--in , at his house in whitehall, of quinsey. the critics and enemies of cibber were sadly at fault on this occasion. hating him for his "nonjuror," they hissed all the scenes of which they supposed him to be the author; and applauded those which they were sure were by vanbrugh. cibber published the imperfect play left by sir john, and thereby showed that his adversaries condemned and approved exactly in the wrong places. cibber enjoyed another triumph this season. steele, abandoning the responsibilities of management, to follow his pleasure, had submitted to a deduction of £ , s. d. nightly, to each of his partners, for performing his duties. steele was at this time in wales, dying, though he survived till september . his creditors, meanwhile, claimed the "five marks" as their own, and the case went into the rolls court, before sir joseph jekyll. cibber pleaded in person the cause of himself and active partners, and so convincingly, that he obtained a decree in their favour. in presence of this new audience, the old actor confesses he felt fear. he carried with him the heads of what he was about to urge; but, says colley, "when it came to the critical moment, the dread and apprehension of what i had undertaken so disconcerted my courage, that though i had been used to talk to above fifty thousand people every winter, for upwards of thirty years together, an involuntary and unexpected proof of confusion fell from my eyes; and as i found myself quite out of my element, i seemed rather gasping for life, than in a condition to cope with the eminent orators against me." cibber, however, recovered himself, and vanquished his adversaries, though two of them were of the stuff that won for them, subsequently, the dignity of lord chancellor. the "beggar's opera" season at lincoln's inn fields was the most profitable ever known there. swift's idea of a newgate pastoral was adopted by gay, who, smarting under disappointment of preferment at court, and angry at the offer to make him gentleman-usher to the youngest of the royal children, indulged his satirical humour against ministers and placement, by writing a newgate comedy, at which swift and pope shook their heads, and old congreve, for one of whose three sinecures gay would have given his ears, was sorely perplexed as to whether it would bring triumph or calamity to its author. the songs were added, but cibber, as doubtful as congreve, declined what rich eagerly accepted, and the success of which was first discerned by the duke of argyle, from his box on the stage, who looked at the house, and "saw it in the eyes of them." walker, who had been playing tragic parts, and very recently macbeth, was chosen for macheath, on quin declining the highwayman. lavinia fenton was the polly; peachum, by hippisley; and spiller made a distinctive character of mat o' the mint. walker "knew no more of music than barely singing in tune; but then his singing was supported by his inimitable action, by his speaking to the eye and charming the ear." it was at the close of a long run of the piece that walker once tripped in his words. "i wonder," said rich, "that you should forget the words of a part you have played so often!" "do you think," asked walker, with happy equivocation, "that a man's memory is to last for ever?" sixty-two nights in this season the "beggar's opera" drew crowded houses.[ ] highwaymen grew fashionable, and ladies not only carried fans adorned with subjects from the opera, but sang the lighter, and hummed the coarser, songs. sir robert walpole, who was present on the first night, finding the eyes of the audience turned on him as lockit was singing his song touching courtiers and bribes, was the first to blunt the point of the satire, by calling _encore_. swift says, "_two_ great ministers were in a box together, and all the world staring at them." at this time it was said that the quarrel of peachum and lockit was an imitation of that of brutus and cassius, but the public discerned therein walpole and his great adversary townshend. "the beggar's opera" hath knocked down _gulliver_, wrote swift to gay. "i hope to see pope's 'dulness' (the first name of the _dunciad_) knock down the 'beggar's opera,' but not till it hath fully done its job." but gay had no "mission;" he only sought to gratify himself and the town; to satirise, not to teach or to warn; the "opera" made "gay rich, and rich gay;" the former sufficiently so to make him forego earning a fee of twenty guineas by a dedication, and the latter only so far sad, that at the end of the season, lavinia fenton, after two benefits, was taken off the stage by the duke of bolton. the latter had from his wedding-day hated his wife, daughter and sole heiress of the earl of carberry; but his love for lavinia was so abounding, that on his wife's death, he made a duchess of "polly;" but their three sons were not born at a time that rendered either of them heir to the ducal coronet, which, in , passed to the duke's brother. gay's author's night realised a gain to him of £ , and enabled him to dress in "silver and blue." while he is blazing abroad, the once great master, booth, is slowly dying out. let us tell his varied story as his life ebbs surely away. [illustration: mr. foote as the doctor.] footnotes: [ ] very imaginative. mrs. mountfort lived with another lover, mr. minshull, for a year before booth's marriage. [ ] there are adaptations of "coriolanus" by tate, dennis, sheridan, and kemble. [ ] dennis born ; southerne . [ ] tragedy. [ ] should be mitchell. [ ] but the wife and children do not die; the poisoned cup having been emptied, and refilled with a harmless potion. [ ] should be "hibernia freed." [ ] "by reason of the indisposition of an actress." [ ] this is a most strange mistake. it is evidently caused by the entry in genest on th january , which is:--"julius cæsar. comic characters--hippisley, &c." this of course means that the characters in the tragedy which were, according to theatrical usage, played by comedians (the _plebeians_, for instance), were played by hippisley, &c., not that all the characters were made comic. [ ] thurmond's piece appears to have been called "harlequin doctor faustus." [ ] genest says th of december . [ ] should be d. [ ] should be "female fortune-teller." [ ] emilia is the dissembled wanton. [ ] acted four times. [ ] cooke (_memoirs of macklin_) says "a young libertine of very high rank." [ ] the notes to the _dunciad_ say "sixty-three days, uninterrupted;" but this is probably an error. [illustration: barton booth.] chapter xviii. barton booth. at this period it was evident that the stage was about to lose its greatest tragedian since the death of betterton. booth was stricken past recovery, and all the mirth caused by the "beggar's opera" could not make his own peculiar public forget him. scarcely eight and thirty years had elapsed since the time when, in , a handsome, well-bred lad, whose age did not then amount to two lustres, sought admission into westminster school. dr. busby thought him too young; but young barton booth was the son of a gentleman, was of the family of booth, earl of warrington, and was a remarkably clever and attractive boy. the doctor, whose acting had been commended by charles i., perhaps thought of the school-plays, and recognised in little barton the promise of a lover in terence's comedies. at all events, he admitted the applicant. barton booth, a younger son of a lancashire sire, was destined for holy orders. he was a fine elocutionist, and he took to latin as readily as erasmus; but then he had nicholas rowe for a school-fellow; and, one day, was cast for pamphilus in the "andria." luckily, or unluckily, he played this prototype of young bevil in steele's "conscious lovers" with such ease, perfection, and charming intelligence, that the old dormitory shook with plaudits. the shouts of approbation changed the whole purpose of his sire; they deprived the church of a graceful clergyman, and gave to the stage one of the most celebrated of our actors. he was but seventeen, when his brilliant folly led him to run away from home, and tempt fortune, by playing oroonoko, in dublin. the irish audiences confirmed the judgment of the westminster critics, and the intelligent lad moved the hands of the men and the hearts of the women, without a check, during a glorious three years of probation. and yet he narrowly escaped failure, through a ridiculous accident, when, in , he made his _début_ as oroonoko. it was a sultry night in june. while waiting to go on, before his last scene, he inadvertently wiped his darkened face, and the lamp-black thereon came off in streaks. on entering on the stage, unconscious of the countenance he presented, he was saluted with a roar of laughter, and became much confused. the generous laughers then sustained him by loud applause. but booth was disturbed by this accident, and to obviate its repetition, he went on, the next night, in a crape mask, made by an actress to fit close to his face. unfortunately, in the first scene the mask slipped, and the new audience were as hilarious as the old. "i looked like a magpie," said barton; "but they lamp-blacked me for the rest of the night, and i was flayed before i could get it off again." the mishap of the first night did not affect his triumph; this was so complete that ashbury, the "master," made him a present of five guineas; bright forerunners of the fifty that were to be placed in his hands by delighted bolingbroke. the hitherto penniless player was now fairly on the first step of the ascent it was his to accomplish. when he subsequently passed through lancashire to london, in , his fame had gone before him; he reached the capital with his manly beauty to gain him additional favour, with a heavy purse, and a steady conviction of even better fortune to come. with such a personage, his hitherto angry kinsmen were, of course, reconciled forthwith. one morning early in that year, , he might have been seen leaving lord fitzharding's rooms at st. james's, with bowman, the player, and making his way to betterton's house in great russell street. from the lord in waiting to prince george of denmark, he carries a letter of recommendation to the father of the stage; and generous old thomas, jealous of no rival, depreciator of no talent, gave the stranger a hearty welcome; heard his story, asked for a taste of his quality, imparted good counsel, took him into training, and ultimately brought him out at lincoln's inn fields, , as maximus, in rochester's "valentinian." betterton played Ætius, and mrs. barry, lucina. these two alone were enough to daunt so young an actor; but booth was not vain enough to be too modest, and the public at once hailed in him a new charmer. his ease, grace, fire, and the peculiar harmony of his voice, altogether distinct from that of betterton's, created a great impression. "booth with the silver tongue" gained the epithet before barry was born. westminster subsequently celebrated him in one of her school prologues:-- "old roscius to our booth must bow, 'twas then but art, 'tis nature now," and the district was proud of both players; of the young one of gentle blood, educated in st. peter's college, and of the old one, the royal cook's son, who was christened in st. margaret's, august ,[ ] . at first, booth was thought of as a promising undergraduate of the buskin, and he had faults to amend. he confessed to cibber that "he had been for some time too frank a lover of the bottle;" but, having the tipsyness of powell ever before him as a terrible warning, he made a resolution of maintaining a sobriety of character, from which he never departed. cibber pronounces this to be "an uncommon act of philosophy in a young man;" but he adds, that "in his fame and fortune he afterwards enjoyed the reward and benefit." for a few years, then, booth had arduous work to go through, and every sort of "business" to play. the house in the fields, too, suffered from the tumblers, dancers, and sagacious animals, added to the ordinary and well-acted plays at the house in the lane. leisure he had also amid all his labour, to pay successful suit to a young lady, the daughter of a norfolk baronet, sir william barkham, whom he married in . the lady died childless six years later. till this last period--that, too, of the death of betterton--booth may be said to have been in his minority as an actor, or, as cibber puts it, "only in the promise of that reputation," which he soon after happily arrived at. not that when that was gained he deemed himself perfect. the longest life, he used to say, was not long enough to enable an actor to be _perfect_ in his art. previous to he had created many new characters; among others, dick, in the "confederacy;" and he had played the ghost in "hamlet," with such extraordinary power, such a supernatural effect, so solemn, so majestic, and so affecting, that it was only second in attraction to the dane of betterton. but pyrrhus and cato were yet to come. meanwhile, soon after his wife's death, he played captain worthy, in the "fair quaker of deal," to the dorcas zeal of miss santlow, destined to be his second wife--but not just yet. the two great characters created by him, between the year when he played with miss santlow in charles shadwell's comedy, and that in which he married her, were pyrrhus, in the "distressed mother" ( ), and "cato" ( ). within the limits stated, booth kept household with poor susan mountfort, the daughter of the abler actress of that name. at such arrangements society took small objection, and beyond the fact, there was nothing to carp at in barton's home. the latter was broken up, however--the lady being in fault--in , when booth, who had been the faithful steward of susan's savings, consigned to her £ , which were speedily squandered by her next "friend," mr. minshull. the hapless young creature became insane; in which condition it is credibly asserted that she one night went through the part of ophelia, with a melancholy wildness which rendered many of her hearers almost as distraught as herself; soon after which she died. meanwhile, her more faithful friend, the acknowledged successor of betterton, achieved his two greatest triumphs--in characters originally represented by him--pyrrhus and cato. those who have experienced the affliction of seeing or reading the "distressed mother," may remember that the heaviest part in that heavy play is that of pyrrhus. but in acting it, booth set the orestes of less careful powell in the shade. "his entrance," says victor, "his walking and mounting to the throne, his sitting down, his manner of giving audience to the ambassador,[ ] his rising from the throne, his descending and leaving the stage--though circumstances of a very common character in theatrical performances, yet were executed by him with a grandeur not to be described." but it is with "cato" that booth is identified. fortunate it was for him that the play addison had kept so long in his desk was not printed, according to pope's advice, for readers only. fortunate, too, was the actor in the political coincidences of the time. marlborough, now a whig, had asked to be appointed "commander-in-chief for life." harley, bolingbroke, and the other tories, described this as an attempt to establish a perpetual dictatorship. the action and the sentiment of "cato" are antagonistic to such an attempt, and the play had a present political, as well as a great dramatic interest. common consent gave the part of the philosopher of utica to booth; addison named young ryan, son of a westminster tailor, as marcus, and the young fellow justified the nomination. wilks, cibber, and mrs. oldfield filled the other principal parts. addison surrendered all claim to profit, and on the evening of april , , there was excitement and expectation on both sides of the curtain. booth really surpassed himself; his dignity, pathos, energy, were all worthy of betterton, and yet were in nowise after the old actor's manner. the latter was forgotten on this night, and booth occupied exclusively the public eye, ear, and heart. the public judgment answered to the public feeling. the tories applauded every line in favour of popular liberty, and the whigs sent forth responsive peals to show that they, too, were advocates of popular freedom.[ ] the pit was in a whirlwind of delicious agitation, and the tory occupants of the boxes were so affected by the acting of booth, that bolingbroke, when the play was over, sent for the now greatest actor of the day, and presented him with a purse containing fifty guineas, the contributions of gentlemen who had experienced the greatest delight at the energy with which he had resisted a perpetual dictatorship, and maintained the cause of public liberty! the managers paid the actor a similar pecuniary compliment, and for five-and-thirty[ ] consecutive nights "cato" filled drury lane, and swelled the triumph of barton booth. there was no longer anything sad in the old exclamation of steele--"ye gods! what a part would betterton make of cato!" the managers, wilks, cibber, and dogget, were as satisfied as the public, for the share of profit to each at the end of this eventful season amounted to £ ! when booth and his fellow-actors, after the close of the london season, went to oxford to play "cato," before a learned and critical audience, "our house was in a manner invested, and entrance demanded by twelve o'clock at noon, and, before one, it was not wide enough for many who came too late for places. the same crowds continued for three days together (an uncommon curiosity in that place), and the death of cato triumphed over the injuries of cæsar everywhere. at our taking leave, we had the thanks of the vice-chancellor, 'for the decency and order observed by our whole society;' an honour," adds cibber, proudly, "which had not always been paid on the same occasion." four hundred and fifty pounds clear profit were shared by the managers, who gave the actors double pay, and sent a contribution of fifty pounds towards the repairs of st. mary's church. the church, of which booth was intended to be a minister, added its approbation, through dr. smalridge, dean of carlisle, who was present at the performance in oxford. "i heartily wish all discourses from the pulpit were as instructive and edifying, as pathetic and affecting, as that which the audience was then entertained with from the stage." this is a reproach to church-preachers at the cost of a compliment to booth; and old compton, ex-dragoon, and now dying bishop of london, would not have relished it. some of the metropolitan pulpits were, no doubt, less "entertaining" than the stage, but many of them were held to good purpose; and, as for the nonconformist chapels, of which smalridge knew nothing--there enthusiastic pomfret and matthew clarke were drawing as great crowds as booth; bradbury, that cheerful-minded patriarch of the dissenters, was even more entertaining; while neale was pathetic and earnest in aldersgate street; and john gale, affecting and zealous, amid his eager hearers in barbican. there is no greater mistake than in supposing that at this time the whole london world was engaged in resorting exclusively to the theatres, and especially to behold booth in cato. the grandeur of this piece has become somewhat dulled, but it contains more true sayings constantly quoted than any other english work, save gray's elegy. it has been translated into french, italian, latin, and russian, and has been played in italy and in the jesuits' college at st. omer. pope adorned it with a prologue; dr. garth trimmed it with an epilogue; dozens of poets wrote testimonial verses; tippling eusden gave it his solemn sanction, while dennis, with some "horseplay raillery," but with irrefutable argument, inexorably proved that, despite beauties of diction, it is one of the most absurd, inconsistent, and unnatural plays ever conceived by poet. but, johnson remarks truly, "as we love better to be pleased than to be taught, cato is read, and the critic is neglected." [illustration: (barton booth.)] booth reaped no brighter triumph than in this character, in which he has had worthy, but never equally able successors. boheme was respectable in it; quin imposing, and generally successful; sheridan, conventional, but grandly eloquent; mossop, heavy; walker, a failure; digges, stagy; kemble, next to the original; pope, "mouthy;" cooke, altogether out of his line; wright, weak; young, traditional but effective; and vandenhoff, classically correct and statuesque. in cato, the name of booth stands supreme; in _that_, the kinsman of the earls of warrington was never equalled. it was his good fortune, too, not to be admired less because of the affection for betterton in the hearts of surviving admirers. this is manifest from the lines of pope:-- "on avon's bank where flow'rs eternal blow, if i but ask,--if any weed can grow?-- one tragic sentence if i dare deride, which betterton's grave action dignified, or well-mouth'd booth with emphasis proclaims (though but perhaps a muster-roll of names), how will our fathers rise up in a rage, and swear all shame is lost in george's age." the performance of cato raised booth to fortune as well as to fame; and through bolingbroke he was appointed to a share in the profits of the management of drury lane, with cibber, wilks, and dogget. the last-named, thereupon, retired in disgust, with compensation; and cibber hints that booth owed his promotion as much to his tory sentiments as to his merits in acting cato. the new partner had to pay £ for his share of the stock property, "which was to be paid by such sums as should arise from half his profits of acting, till the whole was discharged." this incumbrance upon his share he discharged out of the income he received in the first year of his joint management. his fame, however, by this time had culminated. he sustained it well, but he cannot be said to have increased it. no other such a creation as cato fell to his lot. young and thomson could not serve him as addison and opportunity had done, and if he can be said to have won additional laurels after cato, it was in the season of - , when he played young bevil, in steele's "conscious lovers," with a success which belied the assertion that he was inefficient in genteel comedy. the season of - was also one of his most brilliant. meanwhile, a success off the stage secured him as much happiness as, on it, he had acquired wealth and reputation. the home he had kept with susan mountfort was broken up. in the course of this "intimate alliance of strict friendship," as the moral euphuists called it, booth had acted with remarkable generosity towards the lady. in the year they bought several tickets in the state lottery, and agreed to share equally whatever fortune might ensue. booth gained nothing; the lady won a prize of £ , and kept it. his friends counselled him to claim half the sum, but he laughingly remarked that there had never been any but a verbal agreement on the matter; and since the result had been fortunate for his friend, she should enjoy it all. a truer friend he found in miss santlow, the "santlow famed for dance," of gay. from the _ballet_ she had passed to the dignity of an actress, and booth had been enamoured of her "poetry of motion" before he had played worthy to her dorcas zeal. he described her, with all due ardour, in an _ode on mira, dancing_,--as resembling venus in shape, air, mien, and eyes, and striking a whole theatre with love, when alone she filled the spacious scene. thus was miss santlow in the popular cato's eyes:-- "whether her easy body bend, or her fair bosom heave with sighs, whether her graceful arms extend, or gently fall, or slowly rise, or returning, or advancing; swimming round, or side-long glancing; gods, how divine an air harmonious gesture gives the fair." her grace of motion effected more than eloquence, at least so booth thought, who thus sang the nymph in her more accelerated steps to conquest:-- "but now the flying fingers strike the lyre, the sprightly notes the nymph inspire. she whirls around! she bounds! she springs! as if jove's messenger had lent her wings. such daphne was.... such were her lovely limbs, so flushed her charming face! so round her neck! her eyes so fair! so rose her swelling chest! so flow'd her amber hair! while her swift feet outstript the wind, and left the enamour'd god of day behind." now, this goddess became to booth one of the truest, most charming, and most unselfish of mortal wives.[ ] but see of what perilous stuff _she_ was made who enraptured the generally unruffled poet thomson almost as much as she did barton booth. for _her_ smiles, marlborough had given what he least cared to part with--gold. craggs, the secretary of state, albeit a barber's son, had made her spouse, in all but name, and their daughter was mother of the first lord st. germans, and, by a second marriage, of the first marquis of abercorn. the santlow blood thus danced itself into very excellent company; but the aristocracy gave good blood to the stage, as well as took gay blood from it. contemporary with booth and mrs. santlow were the sisters, frolic mrs. bicknell and mrs. younger. they were nearly related to keith, earl marshal of scotland. their father had served in flanders under king william, "perhaps," says mr. carruthers, in his _life of pope_, "rode by the side of steele, whence steele's interest in mrs. bicknell, whom he praises in the _tatler_ and _spectator_." mrs. younger, in middle age, married john, brother of the seventh earl of winchelsea. when miss santlow left the ballet for comedy, it was accounted one of the lucky incidents in the fortune of drury. dorcas zeal, in the "fair quaker of deal," was the first original part in which miss santlow appeared. cibber says, somewhat equivocally, "that she was then in the full bloom of what beauty she might pretend to," and he, not very logically, adds, that her reception as an actress was, perhaps, owing to the admiration she had excited as a dancer. the part was suited to her figure and capacity. "the gentle softness of her voice, the composed innocence of her aspect, the modesty of her dress, the reserved decency of her gesture, and the simplicity of the sentiments that naturally fell from her, made her seem the amiable maid she represented." many admirers, however, regretted that she had abandoned the ballet for the drama. they mourned as if terpsichore herself had been on earth to charm mankind, and had gone never to return. they remembered, longed for, and now longed in vain for, that sight which used to set a whole audience half distraught with delight, when in the very ecstasy of her dance, santlow contrived to loosen her clustering auburn hair, and letting it fall about such a neck and shoulders as praxiteles could more readily imagine than imitate, danced on, the locks flying in the air, and half a dozen hearts at the end of every one of them. the union of booth and miss santlow was as productive of happiness as that of betterton and miss saunderson. indeed, with some few exceptions, the marriages of english players have been generally so. as much, perhaps, can hardly be said of the alliances of french actors. molière had but a miserable time of it with mademoiselle béjart; but he revenged himself by producing domestic incidents of a stormy and aggravating nature, on the stage. the _status_ of the french players was even lower, in one respect, than that of their english brethren. the french ecclesiastical law did not allow of marrying or giving in marriage amongst actors. they were excommunicated, by the mere fact that they were stage-players. the church refused them the sacrament of marriage, and a loving couple who desired to be honestly wed, were driven into lying. it was their habit to retire from their profession, get married as individuals who had no vocation, and the honeymoon over, to return again to the stage and their impatient public. the church was aware of the subterfuge, and did its utmost to establish the concubinage of parties thus united; but civil law and royal influence invariably declared that these marriages were valid, seeing that the contracting parties were not excommunicated actors when the ceremony was performed, whatever they may have been a month before, or a month after. no such difficulties as these had to be encountered by booth and miss santlow; and the former lost no opportunity to render justice to the excellence of his wife. this actor's leisure was a learned leisure. once, in his poetic vein, when turning an ode of his favourite _horace_ into english, he went into an original digression on the becomingness of a married life, and the peculiar felicity it had brought to himself. thus sang the benedict when the union was a few brief years old:-- "happy the hour when first our souls were joined! the social virtues and the cheerful mind have ever crowned our days, beguiled our pain; strangers to discord and her clamorous train. connubial friendship, hail! but haste away, the lark and nightingale reproach thy stay; from splendid theatres to rural scenes, joyous retire! so bounteous heav'n ordains. there we may dwell in peace. there bless the rising morn, and flow'ry field, charm'd with the guiltless sports the woods and waters yield." but neither the married nor the professional life of booth was destined to be of long continuance. his health began to give way before he was forty. the managers hoped they had found a fair substitute for him in the actor elrington. tom elrington subsequently became so great a favourite with the dublin audience that they remembered his bajazet as preferable to that of barry or mossop, on the ground that in that character his voice could be heard beyond the blind quay, whereas that of the other-named actors was not audible outside the house! elrington had none of the scholar-like training of booth. he was originally apprentice to an upholsterer in covent garden, was wont to attend plays unknown to his master, and to act in them privately, and with equal lack of sanction. his master was a vivacious frenchman, who, one day, came upon him as, under the instruction of chetwood, he was studying a part in some stilted and ranting tragedy. the stage-struck apprentice, in his agitation, sewed his book up inside the cushion, on which he was at work, "while he and chetwood exchanged many a desponding look, and every stitch went to both their hearts." the offenders escaped detection; but on another occasion the frenchman came upon his apprentice as he was enacting the ghost in "hamlet," when he laid the spirit, with irresistible effect of his good right arm. elrington was, from the beginning, a sort of "copper booth." his first appearance on the stage, at drury lane, in , was in oroonoko, the character in which booth had made his _coup d'essai_ in dublin. he was ambitious, too, and had influential support. when cibber refused to allow him to play torrismond, while elrington was yet young, a noble friend of the actor asked the manager to assign cause for the refusal. colley was not at a loss. "it is not with us as with you, my lord," said he; "your lordship is sensible that there is no difficulty in filling places at court, you cannot be at a loss for persons to act their part there; but i assure you, it is quite otherwise in our theatrical world. if we should invest people with characters they should be unable to support, we should be undone." elrington, after a few years of success in dublin, boldly attempted to take rank in london with booth himself. he began the attempt in his favourite part of bajazet, booth playing tamerlane. the latter, we are told by victor, "being in full force, and perhaps animated by a spirit of emulation towards the new bajazet, exerted all his powers; and elrington owned to his friends that, never having felt the force of such an actor, he was not aware that it was in the power of mortal to soar so much above him and shrink him into nothing." booth was quite satisfied with his own success, for he complimented elrington on his, adding that his bajazet was ten times as good as that of mills, who had pretensions to play the character. the compliment was not ill-deserved, for elrington possessed many of the natural and some of the acquired qualifications of booth, whom perhaps he equalled in oroonoko. he undoubtedly excelled mills in zanga, of which the latter was the original representative. after dr. young had seen elrington play it, he went round, shook him cordially by the hand, thanked him heartily, and declared he had never seen the part done such justice to as by him; "acknowledging, with some regret," says dr. lewis, "that mills did but growl and mouth the character." such was the actor who became for a time booth's "double," and might have become his rival. during the illness of the latter, in - , elrington, we are told, was the principal support of tragedy in drury lane. at that time, says davies, "the managers were so well convinced of his importance to them, that they offered him his own conditions, if he would engage with them for a term of years." elrington replied, "i am truly sensible of the value of your offer, but in ireland i am so well rewarded for my services that i cannot think of leaving it on any consideration. there is not a gentleman's house to which i am not a welcome visitor." booth has been called indolent, but he was never so when in health, and before a fitting audience. on one thin night, indeed, he was enacting othello rather languidly, but he suddenly began to exert himself to the utmost, in the great scene of the third act. on coming off the stage, he was asked the cause of this sudden effort. "i saw an oxford man in the pit," he answered, "for whose judgment i had more respect than for that of the rest of the audience;" and he played the moor to that one but efficient judge. some causes of languor may, perhaps, be traced to the too warm patronage he received, or rather friendship, at the hands of the nobility. it was no uncommon thing for "a carriage and six" to be in waiting for him--the equipage of some court friend--which conveyed him, in what was then considered the brief period of three hours to windsor, and back again the next day in time for play or rehearsal. this agitated sort of life seriously affected his health; and on one occasion his recovery was despaired of. but the public favourite was restored to the town; and learned mattaire celebrated the event in a latin ode, in which he did honour to the memory of betterton, and the living and invigorated genius of booth. that genius was not so perfect as that of his great predecessor. when able to go to the theatre, though not yet able to perform, he saw wilks play two of his parts,--jaffier and hastings,--and heard the applause which was awarded to his efforts; and the sound was ungrateful to the ears of the philosophical and unimpassioned cato. but jaffier was one of his triumphs; and he whose tenderness, pity, and terror had touched the hearts of a whole audience, was painfully affected at the triumph of another, though achieved by different means. one of the secrets of his own success, lay, undoubtedly, in his education, feeling, and judgment. it may be readily seen from aaron hill's rather elaborate criticism, that he was an actor who made "points;" "he could soften and slide over, with an elegant negligence, the improprieties of a part he acted; while, on the contrary, he could dwell with energy upon the beauties, as if he exerted a latent spirit, which he kept back for such an occasion, that he might alarm, awaken, and transport, in those places only which were worthy of his best exertions." this was really to depend on "points;" and was, perhaps, a defect in a player of whom it has been said, that he had learning to understand perfectly what it was his part to speak, and judgment to know how it agreed or disagreed with his character. the following, by hill, is as graphic as anything in cibber:--"booth had a talent at discovering the passions, where they lay hid in some celebrated parts, by the injudicious practice of other actors; when he had discovered, he soon grew able to express them; and his secret of attaining this great lesson of the theatre, was an adaptation of his look to his voice, by which artful imitation of nature, the variations in the sounds of his words gave propriety to every change in his countenance. so that it was mr. booth's peculiar felicity to be heard and seen the same; whether as the pleased, the grieved, the pitying, the reproachful, or the angry. one would be almost tempted to borrow the aid of a very bold figure, and to express this excellency the more significantly, by permission to affirm, that _the blind might have seen him in his voice, and the deaf have heard him in his visage_." in his later years, says a critic, "his merit as an actor was unrivalled, and even so extraordinary, as to be almost beyond the reach of envy." his othello, cato, and his polydore, in the "orphan," in which he was never equalled, were long the theme of admiration to his survivors, as were in a less degree his sorrowing and not roaring lear, his manly yet not blustering hotspur. dickey brass and dorimant, wildair and sir charles easy,[ ] pinchwife, manley, and young bevil, were among the best of his essays in comedy,--where, however, he was surpassed by wilks. "but then, i believe," says a critic, "no one will say he did not appear the fine gentleman in the character of bevil, in the 'conscious lovers.' it is said that he _once_ played falstaff in the presence of queen anne, 'to the delight of the whole audience.'" aaron hill, curiously statistical, states, that by the peculiar delivery of certain sentiments in cato, booth was always sure of obtaining from eighteen to twenty rounds of applause during the evening,--marks of approval, both of matter and manner. like betterton, he abounded in feeling. there was nothing of the stolidity of "punch" in either of them. betterton is said to have sometimes turned as "white as his neck-cloth," on seeing his father's ghost; while booth, when playing the ghost to betterton's hamlet, was once so horror-stricken at his distraught aspect, as to be too disconcerted to proceed, for a while, in his part. either actor, however, knew how far to safely yield themselves to feeling. judgment was always within call; the head ready to control the heart, however wildly it might be impelled by the latter. baron, the french actor, did not know better than they, that while rules may teach the actor not to raise his arms above his head, he will do well to break the rule, if passion carry him that way. "passion," as baron remarked, "knows more than art." i have noticed the report that booth and wilks were jealous of each other; i think there was more of emulation than of envy between them. booth could make sacrifices in favour of young actors as unreservedly as betterton. i find, even when he was in possession, as it was called, of all the leading parts, that he as often played laertes, or even horatio, as the ghost or hamlet. his laertes was wonderfully fine, and in a great actor's hands, may be made, in the fifth act, at least, equal with the princely dane himself. again, although his othello was one of his grandest impersonations, he would take cassio, in order to give an aspirant a chance of triumph in the moor. in "macbeth," booth played, one night, the hero of the piece; on another, banquo; and on a third, the little part of lennox. he was quite content that cibber should play wolsey, while he captivated the audience by enacting the king. his henry was a mixture of frank humour, dignity, and sternness. theophilus cibber says enough to convince us that booth, in the king, could be familiar without being vulgar, and that his anger was of the quality that excites terror. he pronounced the four words, "go thy ways, kate," with such a happy emphasis as to win admiration and applause: and "when he said, 'now, to breakfast with what appetite you may,' his expression was rapid and vehement, and his look tremendous." the credit attached to the acting of inferior parts by leading players was shared with booth by wilks and cibber. of the latter, his son says, that "though justly esteemed the first comedian of his time, and superior to all we have since beheld, he has played several parts, to keep up the spirit of some comedies, which you will now scarcely find one player in twenty who will not reject as beneath his mock-excellence." booth _could_, after all, perhaps, occasionally be languid without the excuse of illness. he would play his best to a single man in the pit whom he recognised as a playgoer, and a judge of acting; but to an unappreciating audience he could exhibit an almost contemptuous disinclination to exert himself. on one occasion of this sort he was made painfully sensible of his mistake, and a note was addressed to him from the stage-box, the purport of which was to know whether he was acting for his own diversion or in the service and for the entertainment of the public? on another occasion, with a thin house, and a cold audience, he was languidly going through one of his usually grandest impersonations, namely, pyrrhus. at his very dullest scene he started into the utmost brilliancy and effectiveness. his eye had just previously detected in the pit a gentleman, named stanyan, the friend of addison and steele, and the correspondent of the earl of manchester. stanyan was an accomplished man and a judicious critic. booth played to him with the utmost care and corresponding success. "no, no!" he exclaimed, as he passed behind the scenes, radiant with the effect he had produced, "i will not have it said at button's, that barton booth is losing his powers!" some indolence was excusable, however, in actors who ordinarily laboured as booth did. as an instance of the toil which they had to endure for the sake of applause, i will notice that in the season of - , when booth studied, played, and triumphed in cato, he within not many weeks studied and performed five original and very varied characters, cato being the last of a roll, which included arviragus, in the "successful pirate;" captain stanworth, in the "female advocates;" captain wildish, in "humours of the army;" cinna, in an adaptation of corneille's play, and finally, cato. no doubt booth was finest when put upon his mettle. in may , for instance, giffard from dublin appeared at drury lane, as the prince of wales, in "henry iv." the debutant was known to be an admirer of the hotspur of roaring elrington. the percy was one of booth's most perfect exhibitions; and, ill as he was on the night he was to play it to giffard's harry, he protested that he would surprise the new comer, and the house too; and he played with such grace, fire, and energy, that the audience were beside themselves with ecstasy, and the new actor was profuse at the side-scenes, and even out of hearing of booth, in acknowledgment of the great master and his superiority over every living competitor. betterton cared little if his audience was select, provided it also was judicious; booth, however, loved a full house, though he could play his best to a solitary, but competent, individual in the pit. he confessed that he considered profit after fame, and thought that large audiences tended to the increase of both. the intercourse between audience and actor was, in his time, more intimate and familiar than it is now. thus we see booth entering a coffee-house in bow street, one morning after he had played varanes, on the preceding night. the gentlemen present, all playgoers, as naturally as they were coffee-house frequenters, cluster round him, and acknowledge the pleasure they had enjoyed in witnessing him act. these pleasant morning critics only venture to blame him for allowing such unmeaning stuff as the pantomime of "perseus and andromeda" to follow the classical tragedy and mar its impression. but the ballet-pantomime draws great houses, and is therefore a less indignity in booth's eye, than half empty benches. it was not the business of managers, he said, to be wise to empty boxes. "there were many more spectators," he said, "than men of taste and judgment; and if by the artifice of a pantomime they could entice a greater number to partake of a good play than could be drawn without it, he could not see any great harm in it; and that, as those pieces were performed after the play, they were no interruption to it." in short, he held pantomimes to be rank nonsense, which might be rendered useful, after the fashion of his explanation. his retirement from the stage may be laid to the importunity of mr. theobald, who urged him to act in a play, for a moment attributed to shakspeare, the "double falsehood." booth struggled through the part of julio, for a week, in the season of - , and then withdrew, utterly cast down, and in his forty-sixth year. broxham, friend, colebatch, and mead came with their canes, perukes, pills, and proposals, and failing to restore him, they sent him away from london. the sick player and his wife wandered from town to bath, from the unavailing springs there to ostend, thence to antwerp, and on to holland, to consult boerhaave, who could only tell the invalid that in england a man should never leave off his winter clothing till midsummer-day, and that he should resume it the day after. from holland the sad couple came home to hampstead, and ultimately back to london, where fever, jaundice, and other maladies attacked booth with intermitting severity. here, in may , a quack doctor persuaded him that if he would take "crude mercury" it would not only prevent the return of his fever but effectually cure him of all his complaints. as we are gravely informed that, within five days the poor victim "took within two ounces of two pounds weight of mercury," we are not surprised to hear that at the end of that time booth was _in extremis_, and that sir hans sloane was at his bedside to accelerate, as it would seem, the catastrophe. to peruse what followed is like reading the details of an assassination. as if the two pounds, minus two ounces, of mercury were not enough, poor booth was bled profusely at the jugular, his feet were plastered, and his scalp was blistered; he was assailed in various ways by cathartics, and mocked, i may so call it, by emulsions; the _daily post_ announced that he lay a-dying at his house in hart street, other notices pronounced him moribund in charles street; but he was alive on the morning of the th of may , when a triad of prescriptions being applied against him, cato at length happily succumbed. but the surgeons would not let the dead actor rest; they opened his body, and dived into its recesses, and called things by strong names, and avoided technicalities; and, after declaring everything to be very much worse than the state of denmark, as briefly described by _hamlet_, alexander small, the especial examiner, signing the report, added a postscript thereto, implying that "there was no fault in any part of his body, but what is here mentioned." poor fellow! we are told that he recovered from his fever, but that he died of the jaundice, helped, i think, by the treatment. a few days subsequently the body was privately interred in cowley church, near uxbridge, where he occasionally resided. a few old friends, and some dearer than friends, accompanied him to the grave. his will was as a kiss on either cheek of his beautiful widow, and a slap on both cheeks of sundry of his relations. to the former he left everything he had possessed, and for the very best of reasons. "as i have been," he says, "a man much known and talked of, my not leaving legacies to my relations may give occasion to censorious people to reflect upon my conduct in this latter act of my life; therefore, i think it necessary to declare that i have considered my circumstances, and finding, upon a strict examination, that all i am now possessed of does not amount to two-thirds of the fortune my wife brought me on the day of our marriage, together with the yearly additions and advantages since arising from her laborious employment on the stage during twelve years past, i thought myself bound by honesty, honour, and gratitude, due to her constant affection, not to give away any part of the remainder of her fortune at my death, having already bestowed, in free gifts, upon my sister, barbara rogers, upwards of thirteen hundred pounds, _out of my wife's substance_, and full four hundred pounds of her money on my undeserving brother, george booth (besides the gifts they received before my marriage), and all those benefits were conferred on my said brother and sister, from time to time, at the earnest solicitation of my wife, who was perpetually entreating me to continue the allowance i gave my relations before my marriage. the inhuman return that has been made my wife for these obligations, by my sister, i forbear to mention." this was justice without vengeance, and worthy of the sage, of whom booth was the most finished representative. the generosity of hester santlow, too, has been fittingly preserved in the will; the whole of which, moreover, is a social illustration of the times. in westminster, "barton street" keeps up the actor's name; and "cowley street" the remembrance of his proprietorship of a country estate near uxbridge. to pass through the former street is like being transported to the times of queen anne. it is a quaint old locality, very little changed since the period in which barton built it. no great stretch of imagination is required to fancy the original pyrrhus and cato gliding along the shady side, with a smile on his lips and a certain fire in his eye. he is thinking of miss santlow! * * * * * with booth slowly dying, and mrs. oldfield often too ill to act, the prospects of drury began to wane in - . elrington could not supply the place of the former; nor mrs. porter and mrs. horton combined, that of the latter. cibber carefully instructed his son theophilus in the part of pistol, which became his one great part, and the appearance of miss raftor as dorinda, in dryden's version of the "tempest," on the nd of january , marks the first step in the bright and unchequered career of one who is better remembered as kitty clive, of whom, more hereafter.[ ] she was not able to save cibber's pastoral comedy, "love in a riddle," from condemnation by an audience who had the ill-manners, as it was considered, to hiss, despite a royal presence in the house. as the new names rose the old ones fell off, and congreve and steele--the first rich and a gentleman, the second needy, but a gentleman, too--died in , leaving no one but cibber fit to compete with them in comedy. musical pieces, such as the "village opera" and the "lover's opera," born of gay's success, brought no such golden results to their authors or the house, which was still happy in retaining wilks. on the other hand, in the fields, where ballad-opera had been a mine of wealth to astonished managers, classical tragedy took the lead, with quin leading in everything, and growing in favour with a town whose applause could no longer be claimed by booth. but classical tragedy reaped no golden harvests. barford's "virgin queen" lives but in a line of pope to arbuthnot. the "themistocles" (quin) of young madden, whom ireland ought to remember as one of her benefactors who was no mere politician, lived but for a few nights.[ ] mrs. heywood succeeded as ill with her romantic tragedy, "frederick, duke of brunswick," which was five acts of flattery to the house of hanover, some of whose members yawned over it ungratefully. but the "beggar's opera" could always fill the house whether miss cantrell warbled polly, with the old cast, or children played all the parts--a foolish novelty, not unattractive. hawker, an actor, vainly tried to rival gay, with a serio-comic opera, the "wedding," and gay himself was doomed to suffer disappointment; for the authorities suppressed his "polly," a vapid continuation of the fortunes of macheath and the lady, and thereby drove almost to the disaffection of which he was accused, not only gay, but his patrons, the duke and duchess of queensberry, who punished the court by absenting themselves from its pleasures and duties. the poet, who desired nothing but the joys of a quiet life, a good table, and a suit of blue and silver, all which he enjoyed beneath the ducal roof, happiest of mercer's apprentices, found compensation in publishing his work by subscription, whereby he realised so large a sum as to satisfy his utmost wishes. drury lane was not fortunate in any of its new pieces in the season of - . it was, perhaps, unfortunate that mrs. oldfield, by her recommendation, and by her acting, obtained even partial success for a comedy, by the rev. james miller, the "humours of oxford." this satirical piece brought the author into trouble with his university, at some of whose members it was aimed, and it did not tend to raise him in the estimation of his congregation in conduit street. the tragedy of "timoleon" was ruined[ ] by the zeal of the author's friends, who crowded the house, and as loudly applauded the candle-snuffers and furniture as they did mills or mrs. porter. martyn, the author, had been a linen-draper, but his epitaph in lewisham churchyard describes him as "one of the best bred men in england." he was certainly well connected, but he exhibited more efficiency in colonising georgia than in writing poetry. his "timoleon" had neither beauty of style, nor incident. this season, too, saw the first dramatic attempt of thomson, in "sophonisba." lee's tragedy of that name used to drown the female part of the house in tears; but thomson's could not stir even his own friends to enthusiasm. they rose from the full-dress rehearsals to which they were invited, dulled in sense rather than touched or elevated. thomson's play is far less tender than lee's; his sophonisba (the last character originally played by mrs. oldfield), more stern and patriotic, and less loving. the author himself described her as a "female cato," and in the epilogue not too delicately indicated that if the audience would only applaud a native poet, "then other shakspeares yet may rouse the stage, and other otways melt another age." "sophonisba," which thomson was not afraid to set above the heroine of corneille, abounds in platitudes, and it was fatal to cibber, who, never tolerable in tragedy, was fairly hissed out of the character of scipio, which he surrendered to a promising player, williams. the latter was violently hissed also on the first night of his acting scipio, he bore so close a resemblance to his predecessor. mrs. oldfield, alone, made a sensation, especially in the delivery of the line, "not one base word of carthage--on thy soul!" her grandeur of action, her stern expression, and her powerful tone of voice, elicited the most enthusiastic applause. exactly two months later, on the th of april , she acted lady brute, and therewith suddenly terminated her thirty years of service, dying exactly six months after illness compelled her to withdraw. before noticing more fully the career of mrs. oldfield, let me record here, that on the night she played lady brute in the "provoked wife," the part of mademoiselle was acted by charlotte charke, the wife of a good singer, but a worthless man, and the youngest child of colley cibber.[ ] there seems to have been a touch of insanity, certainly there was no power of self-control in this poor woman. from her childhood she had been wild, wayward, and rebellious; self-taught as a boy might be, and with nothing feminine in her character or pursuits. with self-assertion, too, she was weak enough to be won by a knave with a sweet voice, whose cruel treatment drove his intractable wife to the stage, where she failed to profit by her fine opportunities. the corresponding season at lincoln's inn fields was the usual one of an unfashionable house; but quin, ryan, walker, and boheme were actors who made way against wilks, cibber, mills, and bridgewater. no new piece of any value was produced; the only incidents worth recording being the playing of macheath by quin, for his benefit: and the sudden death of spiller, stricken by apoplexy, as he was playing in the "rape of proserpine." he was inimitable in old men, though he himself was young; but whatever he played, he so identified himself with his character that spiller disappeared from the eyes and the thoughts of an audience, unconsciously deluded by the artist. as the town grew, so also did theatres increase; that in goodman's fields, and the little house in the haymarket, were open this season. at the former giffard and his wife led in tragedy and comedy; but the company was generally weak. not so the authors who wrote for the house. first among them was fielding, a young fellow of three and twenty; bred to the law, but driven to the drama by the inability of his father, the general, to supply him with funds. his first play, "love in several masques," was acted at drury lane in ; his second, and a better, the "temple beau," was played at goodman's fields. ralph, who had been a schoolmaster in philadelphia, and came to england to thrive by political, satirical, or dramatic writings, and to live for ever in the abuse lavished on him by pope, supplied a ballad-opera, the "fashionable lady," which was _intended_ to rival the "beggar's opera." to macheath-walker is ascribed a tragedy, the "fate of villany;" and mottley, the disappointed candidate for place, and the compiler of _joe miller's jests_--miller being a better joker than he was an actor--wrote for this house his "widow bewitched," the last and poorest of his contributions to the stage. for the haymarket, fielding wrote the only piece which has come down to our times, his immortal burlesque-tragedy of "tom thumb," in which the weakness and bombast of late or contemporary writers are copied with wonderful effect. young suffered severely by this;--and the "oh, huncamunca! huncamunca, oh!" was a dart at the "oh, sophonisba! sophonisba, oh!" of jamie thomson. of the other pieces i need not disturb the dust. let me rather, contemplating that of mrs. oldfield, glance at the career of that great actress, who living knew no rival, and in her peculiar line has never been excelled. [illustration: mr. garrick as abel drugger.] footnotes: [ ] malone says "august ." [ ] "giving his answer to the ambassador."--_victor._ [ ] dr. doran exactly reverses the state of the case. dr. johnson says: "the whigs applauded every line in which liberty was mentioned, as a satire on the tories; and the tories echoed every clap, to show that the satire was unfelt." [ ] wrong. victor in his memoirs of booth says five-and-twenty nights: but this also is incorrect. on may , , "cato" is announced to be played for the twentieth time, and on may , for mrs. rogers' benefit, "the funeral" is in the bill. cibber says "cato" was acted every day for a month, mondays excepted. [ ] bellchambers, in his notes to "cibber," is very severe on this marriage. "in the year , mr. booth, who seems to have been a libertine and a sensualist, gave his hand to miss santlow, a strumpet of condition"--and then follow some very strong remarks on booth and his wife. [ ] these four characters were certainly not among booth's best. wildair and sir charles easy were wilks' parts, and indeed i cannot find that booth ever played any of the four. [ ] chetwood states that her first character was ismenes, a page, in "mithridates," in which she sang with extraordinary success. genest supposes this to have been in november . [ ] acted nine times. [ ] it was acted fourteen times--a great success in those days. [ ] charlotte charke says in her _autobiography_ that this was her first appearance, but it was really her second. index. actor, profession of, in greece and rome, , . actors and clergy in collision, ; playing under forged licence, ; authors, ; dennis' abuse of, . actors' famous "points," . actresses, introduction of, ; pre-restoration english, . addison, joseph, part author of the "tender husband," ; his "rosamond," ; his "cato," ; his "drummer," . aldridge, mrs., . alleyn, edward, , , . "amboyna," . angel, , . anne, queen of james i., an actress, . anne, princess, as lemandra, . apothecaries' hall the site of an early theatre, . arbuthnot, part author of "three hours after marriage," . arrest of players, . arrowsmith, dramatist, . arsinoe, first opera after the italian fashion, . aston, anthony, his criticisms of betterton, ; of mrs. barry, , , ; his appearance at lincoln's inn fields, . audience on the stage forbidden, . audiences of the seventeenth century, . baker, thomas, dramatist, . bale, bishop, . bancroft, archbishop, . bancroft, john, dramatist, . bankes, john, dramatist, . bankside, theatres on the, . barford, richard, dramatist, . baron, the french actor, . barry, mrs. elizabeth, , , ; account of her life, - ; tutored by lord rochester, ; as isabella in "mustapha," ; as alcmena, ; as calista, , ; as monimia, , ; her industry, ; as belvidera, ; as cassandra, ; as lady brute, ; as zara, ; as clarissa, ; as isabella in the "fatal marriage," ; as queen elizabeth, ; in free comedy, ; and mrs. boutell, ; and lord rochester and etheridge, , ; her last appearance, ; the first player to have a benefit, ; her death, ; her portrait by kneller, . barton street, westminster, . bateman, actor, . baxter, actor, . bear garden, . beckingham, dramatist, , . beeston, actor, . "beggar's opera," ; its famous run, . behn, mrs. aphra, ; her indecency, . bell, actor, . benefits, performers', first devised for mrs. barry, . benfield, actor, . betterton, father of the actor, , . betterton, mrs. (see also mrs. saunderson), ; instructs the princesses mary and anne, ; in her old age, ; pensioned by queen anne, . betterton, thomas, , , , , , , , , ; account of his life, - ; as hamlet, , , ; tutored in hamlet by davenant, ; his famous benefit, , ; as melantius, ; his death, , ; as bosola, ; in "mustapha," ; as colonel jolly, ; his modesty, ; in the "provoked wife," ; as jupiter, ; his friendship with dryden and tillotson, ; and pope, ; as othello, , ; as castalio, ; his portrait by kneller and pope, ; as bassanio, ; as horatio, ; patronised by royalty, ; licence granted to him by william iii., ; adversely criticised by aston, ; cibber's praise of, , ; as brutus, ; his salary, ; the _tatler_ on betterton, ; as an author, ; helps booth, . betterton, william, , . bicknell, mrs., ; death of, . bird, theophilus, ; accident to, . bishopsgate street, theatre at an inn, . blackfriars' theatre, , ; its history, , . blagden, actor, , . boar's head, the, without aldgate, . boheme, anthony, , ; marries mrs. seymour, ; as herod, . _book of sports_, the, . booth, barton, , ; as maximus, , ; recognised by betterton as his successor, , ; leading actor at drury lane, ; in "elfrid," ; as pyrrhus, , ; as cato, , , ; made a manager, , ; as hastings, ; his marriage, ; as cleombrotus, ; as alonzo, ; as young bevil, , ; as hotspur, , ; his illness, ; as julio, , ; his last season, ; his last appearance, ; account of his life, - ; as pamphilus, ; his _début_ as oroonoko, ; and betterton, ; as captain worthy, ; as the ghost in "hamlet," ; keeps house with susan mountfort, ; as tamerlane, ; his sense of appreciation, ; aaron hill's criticism of him, , ; his great parts, , ; his feeling, ; as laertes, ; as henry viii., ; finest when on his mettle, , ; his powers of application, ; his love of fame, ; his retirement, ; his death, ; his will, . boothby, mrs., dramatist, . boutel, mrs., , . bowen, william, ; converted by collier's "short view," ; killed by quin, , ; his original characters, . bowman, , . bowman, mrs., as lady fancyful, ; adopted by the bettertons, . boyer, abel, dramatist, . boyle, charles, dramatist, . "boys" superseded by women, . "boys" in rhodes's company, . bracegirdle, mrs. anne, , , ; as the page in "the orphan," ; as millamant, ; as statira, ; her high private character, , ; and lord burlington, ; attempted to be carried off by hill, ; opposed by mrs. oldfield, . bradshaw, mrs., ; her marriage, . brady, nicholas, dramatist, . brett, colonel, patentee, ; sells his share, . bristol, george, earl of, . brown, tom, on mrs. barry, . buckingham, duke of, . bull, the, in bishopsgate street, . bullock, christopher, his "woman's a riddle," ; his "perjuror," ; as bardach, ; his death, . bullock, mrs., as mrs. mincemode, . bullock, william, , . burbage, james, . burbage, richard, , . burnaby, charles, dramatist, . burt, , ; in female characters, ; as cicero, . busby, dr., an amateur actor, . cademan, ; accident to, . cambridge, plays at, , , , . cantrell, miss, as polly peachum, . carey, henry, viscount falkland, . carlell, sir ludovick, . carlisle, james, ; killed at aghrun, ; an author, . carrol, mrs. (afterwards mrs. centlivre), . cartwright, rev. wm., dramatist, . cartwright, actor, ; his bequest to dulwich college, ; great as falstaff, . caryll, earl of, . castlemaine, lady, , . "cato," by addison, , . centlivre, mrs., , , , ; her "busy body," ; her "wonder," , ; her "bold stroke for a wife," . champmeslé, la, the french actress, . charke, charlotte, daughter of colley cibber, . charles i. and the stage, . charles ii. and dryden, ; at the theatre (see chap. xii.). charleton, actor, . children of the chapel royal performing before royalty, . children of the revels, . church employs the stage in early times, . cibber, colley, quoted: on kynaston, ; on nokes, ; on betterton, , ; on underhill, ; on anthony leigh, ; on mrs. barry, , ; on mrs. mountfort, ; on the wearing of vizard-masks, ; on theatrical dissensions, ; on the success of the united companies, ; on the critics, ; on estcourt, . cibber, colley, , ; as the chaplain in "the orphan," praised by goodman, ; and betterton, ; as sir gentle's servant, ; as sigismond, ; and his wig, ; his comedies, ; his "careless husband" an attempt at greater decency, ; wilks and dogget, ; his famous play "the nonjuror," , - ; his "refusal," ; as achoreus, ; his share of "the provoked husband," ; in the law courts, ; his "love in a riddle," ; hissed as scipio, . cibber, mrs., the elder, , . cibber, theophilus, his first appearance, ; as pistol, , ; his first wife, . clerical actors, ; auditors, . clive, kitty, . clun, ; superior to mohun as iago, ; as subtle, ; his tragic death, . cockburn, mrs., dramatist, . cockpit, the, in drury lane, , . coleman, mrs. edward, early actress, . collier, jeremy, his "short view" converts bowen, ; attacks the indecency of the stage, . collier, w., m.p., patentee of drury lane, , , . company of players, richard iii. first english prince to employ them, . condell, . congreve, , , , , ; and mrs. bracegirdle, ; and voltaire, ; his sarcasm on cibber, ; his death, . cooke, g. f., . corey, john, . corey, mrs., , ; mimics lady harvey, . corye, john, dramatist, . covent garden theatre, different buildings, . cowley, abraham, dramatist, . cowley street, westminster, . cox, richard, . crauford, david, dramatist, . cromwell, lady mary, . cromwell's buffooneries, . cross keys, gracechurch street, . crowne, john, dramatist, , ; his death, . curtain road, . ---- theatre, the, . davenant, , , ; his company, , ; his improvements of shakspeare's plays, , . davenport, mrs., ; as roxalana, , ; entrapped by a mock marriage by the earl of oxford, . davies, mrs., , ; charles ii.'s mistress, . davys, mrs., authoress, . decrees regarding players, , , , . dennis, , , , , ; his "appius and virginius," ; the inventor of stage thunder, ; his "invader of his country," . dering, charles, duel with vaughan on the stage, . digges, . dixon, actor, . dogget, , ; as shylock, ; his original parts, ; a manager of drury lane, ; his coat and badge, ; as an author, ; the first "star," ; as moneytrap, ; his care in dressing his parts, ; cibber and wilks, ; gives up management, , . dorset garden, duke's theatre in, . drake, dr., . dramatists, list of, , , , . drury lane theatre, ; the various theatres, ; burnt, ; united with the haymarket, ; its waning prospects, . dryden, john, , , - , ; his "amboyna," ; his friendship with betterton, ; his assault upon shakspeare, . duelling in the theatre, . duffett, thomas, dramatist, . duke, actor, . duke's theatre, . dunstable, early theatre at, . durfey, thomas, , ; in his decline, ; his "prophets," . eastland, mrs., . eccleston, actor, . egleton, "baron," . elizabeth, a sharp censor, ; stage used to attack, , . elrington, tom, in "oroonoko," , , ; a substitute for booth, ; as bajazet, ; plays against booth, ; principal tragedian at drury lane, . _encore_ introduced at the haymarket, . estcourt, richard, his youthful adventures, ; as dominic, ; "the true serjeant kite," , ; his career, - ; becomes a wine merchant, ; his death, . etherege, sir john, - . eugene, prince, and mrs. centlivre, . evans, miss, a dancer, . evelyn at the theatre, , ; on licentious plays, . falkland, viscount, . fane, sir francis, . farquhar, captain george, , ; his "recruiting officer," ; his death, . farren, william, mentioned, . fenton, elijah, his treatment by cibber, ; success of his "mariamne," . fenton, lavinia, her first appearance, ; as polly peachum, ; and the duke of bolton, . field, nathaniel, the actor, . fielding, henry, ; his "tom thumb," , . filmer, dr., . flecnoe, . floid, actor, , . folkes, martin, marries mrs. bradshaw, . footmen admitted free to gallery, . fortune theatre, playhouse yard, . foster, actor, . french actors and actresses in blackfriars, ; pelted off the stage, . french company, a, at lincoln's inn, . frowde, philip, dramatist, . fryer, peg, an actress eighty-five years old, . "gammer gurton's needle," . garrick, david, , , . gay, john, ; his first piece, ; his "what d'ye call it?" ; his "captives," ; the "beggar's opera," , ; his "polly" forbidden, . geoffrey, an early manager, . gibbs, mrs., . giffard as prince of wales in "henry iv.", . gildon, charles, , . gillow, actor, . globe alley, . globe theatre, , . gloucester, richard, duke of, . goffe, an actor, . goodman, cardell ("scum"), ; as julius cæsar, ; as alexander, ; his rascalities, , ; his prophecy regarding cibber, . goodman's fields theatre, . gosson, stephen, , . gough, actor, . gould, robert, dramatist, . gracechurch street theatre in an inn, . griffin, benjamin, his young days, ; an author, . griffin, captain, , , . grindal, archbishop, . guilman, actor, . gwyn, madam, . gwyn, nell, , , , ; her birth, ; her first appearance as crydaria, ; her lovers, ; as almahide, ; her sons, ; her extravagance, ; her death, . haines, joseph, , ; at drury lane, ; as sparkish, ; his practical jokes, , ; as captain bluff, ; as roger in "Æsop," ; as tom errand, ; his misconduct on the stage, ; his death, . hancock, actor, . harris (the great actor of that name), , , ; as romeo, ; a rival to betterton, ; as henry v., ; as wolsey, ; his portrait by hailes, . harris, joseph (actor and author), . hart, charles, , , , ; as the duchess in shirley's "cardinal," ; as othello, ; as alexander, ; as brutus, ; as cataline, ; as amintor, ; as manly, ; his retirement, ; his bearing on the stage, ; his death, ; haines's practical joke on hart, . harvey, lady, and mrs. corey, . hatton, lord, . hawker, dramatist, . hawkins, licensed to train children of the revels, . haymarket, vanbrugh's theatre in the, . haymarket theatre opened, . haywood, mrs., dramatist, , ; as an actress, . hemings, . henslowe, money-lender and manager, . herbert, sir henry, master of the revels, . higden, henry, a jovial dramatist, . higgins, a posture-master, . higgons, bevil, dramatist, . hill, aaron, , , ; account of, - . hill, captain richard, murders mountfort, . hippisley, . "histrio-mastix," . hodgson, actor, . holden, mrs., ; her unfortunate blunder, . holywell lane, shoreditch, "the theatre" in, . hope, the, a playhouse, . hopkins, charles, dramatist, . horden, hildebrand, ; killed in a brawl, . horton, mrs., ; as isabella, . howard, edward, dramatist, , . howard, james, dramatist, , . howard, sir robert, dramatist, . hughes, actor, . hughes, john, dramatist, ; his "siege of damascus," , . hughes, mrs. margaret, ; suggested to have been the first actress, ; wooed by prince rupert, . inns, theatres at, , . jacob, sir hildebrand, dramatist, . james i. a patron of the stage, , . james, mrs., . jennings, mrs., . jevon, thomas, as jobson, ; as lycurgus, ; his silly buffoonery, ; his one play, . johnson, benjamin, ; a great actor, . johnson, charles, dramatist, , . keen, theophilus, his death, . kemble, charles, allusion to, . kemble, j. p., . kendall, licensed to train children of the revels, . killigrew, thomas, ; his patent, ; his death, ; his company, ; the first to employ actresses for all female characters, . killigrew, sir william, author, . kirkham, licensed to train children of the revels, . knight, joseph, his edition of the _roscius anglicanus_, _n_, _n_. knipp, mrs., , . kynaston, , , ; as olympia, ; in "the silent woman," ; a ladies' favourite, ; thrashed by order of sedley, ; as leon, ; as henry iv., ; his death, ; as boabdelin, . lacy, john, ; instructor of nell gwyn, ; a great falstaff, ; the original teague, ; as bayes, ; as captain otter, ; his quarrel with hon. edward howard, ; his posthumous comedy, . lansdowne, lord, ; his "jew of venice," . leanard, john, dramatist, . lee, mrs., actress, . lee, nat, , ; tries his fortune as an actor, ; his death, . leicester, earl of, ; his players, . leigh, anthony, ; as dominique, . leveridge, dick, ; as pyramus, . lewis, david, dramatist, . licensed players, , , . lilliston, . lincoln's inn fields, theatres in, , , . little rose theatre, . long, mrs., actress, . lovel, actor, . lowen, actor, , . lyddoll, . macswiney, _note_, , ; takes the haymarket theatre, , , . madden, dr. samuel, dramatist, . maidwell, l., dramatist, . mallory, christopher, punished, . manley, mrs., dramatist, . manning, francis, dramatist, . marshall, anne, , , ; said to have been the first actress, . marshall, rebecca, , ; as dorothea, ; as queen of sicily, ; and sir hugh middleton, . marshall, stephen, the presbyterian, father of the actresses, . martyn, benjamin, dramatist, . medbourne, matthew, , ; his death, ; an author, . middleton, the dramatist, imprisoned, , . middleton, sir hugh, and rebecca marshall, . miller, rev. james, dramatist, . mills, john, ; his character as an actor, ; his original characters, ; as zanga, . milward, william, his first appearance, . miracle-plays, . mitchell, joseph, dramatist, . mohun, major, , , , ; as iago, ; his portrait, ; as maximin, ; as clytus, ; his versatility, ; his modesty, . mohun, lord, concerned in mountfort's murder, . moore, master, . moore, sir thomas, his "mangora," . moralities, , . moseley, , . mossop, . motteux, peter anthony, ; his disgraceful death, . mottley, john, dramatist, - , . mountfort, mrs. (see also mrs. verbruggen), , ; described by colley cibber, ; in "the western lass," ; as bayes, ; as melantha, ; her original characters, ; her death, , . mountfort, susan, , ; lives with booth, ; as ophelia, ; her insanity, ; success in the lottery, . mountfort, william, , ; his powers of mimicry, ; his murder, - ; an author, . mysteries and miracle plays, , . newcastle, duke of, , . nokes, james, , , ; as nurse in "caius marius" and "fatal jealousy," ; as sir arthur addel, ; before charles ii., . nokes, robert, . "nonjuror," cibber's, , - . norris, , ; as dicky in "constant couple," ; his original characters, ; his death, . odell, thomas, dramatist, . odingsell, gabriel, an unfortunate dramatist, , . oldfield, mrs. anne, , , , , , ; as lady betty modish, ; as biddy tipkin, ; and mrs. bracegirdle, ; as marcia, ; as jane shore, ; as violante, ; as lady jane grey, ; as maria in the "nonjuror," ; as celonis, ; as indiana, ; as cydene, ; as sophonisba, ; her last part, . oldmixon, john, dramatist, , ; operas, . opera, introduction of, after the italian manner, . orrery, lord, , , . otway, ; tries his fortune on the stage, ; his assault on shakspeare, ; his death, . owenson, a comic tamerlane, . oxford, earl of, . oxford, plays at, . pack, , ; his original characters, ; as thisbe, ; his retirement, . pantomimes, , . paris garden, . patents--( ), ; killigrew's, ; davenant's, ; value of, . payne licensed to train children of the revels, . payne, nevil, . peer, william, ; as the apothecary and as the speaker of the prologue in "hamlet," ; his death, , . pepys, samuel, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ; his low opinion of shakspeare, . percival, mrs., see mrs. verbruggen. philips, ambrose, ; success of his "distressed mother," ; his "humphrey, duke of gloucester," . philips, mrs., dramatist, . "phoenix," the, . pinkethman, ; an incorrigible "gagger," ; as harlequin, ; his good fortune, ; his death, . piran round, . pix, mrs., dramatist, , . playhouse yard, . playhouses and bear garden presented as a nuisance, . pollard, . pope, alexander, actor, . pope alexander, on betterton, ; and ambrose philips, ; part author of "three hours after marriage," . pordage, samuel, dramatist, . porter, tom, . porter, mrs., ; as hermione, ; as lucia in "cato," ; as alicia, ; as isabella, ; as lady woodvil, ; as volumnia, ; as leonora, . powell, george, , ; imprisoned for deserting betterton's company, ; his dresser's _contretemps_, ; as falstaff, ; his original parts, ; as worthy, ; oroonoko taken from him, ; as orestes, ; an author, ; striking a gentleman, ; his death, ; injured by sandford on the stage, . price, actor, . price, mrs., her curious marriage, . prices of admission, , . "provoked husband," by vanbrugh and cibber, . prynne's "histrio-mastix," . queen's theatre, the, . quin, james, , , ; kills bowen, , _note_, ; his first appearance, ; as hotspur, tamerlane, morat, mark antony, and scipio, ; as sir walter raleigh, ; as henry iv. of france, ; his progress, ; as macheath, . raftor, miss (afterwards mrs. clive), her first appearance as dorinda, . "ralph roister doister," . ralph, james, . ravenscroft, edward, dramatist, , . rawlins, tom, dramatist, . reakstraw, actor, killed on the stage, . red bull, clerkenwell, . reeves, actor, . reeves, mrs., actress, . "rehearsal, the," . revet, ned, dramatist, . rhodes, the prompter, , ; receives a licence from monk, . rhodes, richard, the author, . rich, christopher, , _note_; driven from drury lane by collier, ; his patent restored, . rich, john, ; opens lincoln's inn fields, ; as harlequin, ; founds the christmas pantomime, . richard iii. first royal patron of stage in england, . richards, actor, . riots, . robinson, will, actor, ; killed in action, ; an accomplished "actress," . rochester, wilmot, earl of, . rogers, mrs., as amanda, ; her death, ; her characters, . "rogues and vagabonds," . rose alley, . rose theatre, , . rowe, nicholas, ; his "tamerlane," ; his "fair penitent," , ; his "jane shore," , ; his "lady jane grey," ; his prologue to the "nonjuror," . rupert, prince, and mrs. hughes, . russell court chapel, proceeds of "hamlet" given to, . rutter, mrs., . ryan as marcus in "cato," ; chosen by addison for the part, . rymer, thomas, ; on shakspeare, . st. john street, clerkenwell, . st. katherine, early drama, . salisbury court theatre, . sandford, , ; as banquo's ghost to smith's banquo, ; famous for his villains, , ; nearly kills powell on the stage, . sandford, dramatist, . santlow, hester (mrs. booth), ; as the eunuch in "valentinian," ; as dorcas zeal, , ; her marriage, , ; booth's ode to her, . saunders, dramatist, . saunders, mrs., her retirement, . saunderson, mrs. (afterwards mrs. betterton), ; as ianthe, ; as ophelia, , . savage, richard, his first play, ; his attempt at acting, . scott, thomas, dramatist, . scudamore, , ; a jacobite agent, ; marries a fortune, . sedley, sir charles, - , , ; mimicked by kynaston, . settle, elkanah, , . sewell, dr., dramatist, . seymour, mrs., marries boheme, ; as mariamne, . shadwell, thomas, , , , . shakspeare, charles, . shakspeare, w., acting in his own comedy of "as you like it," ; "improvements" on him, , ; the chandos portrait, . shakspeare's plays more frequently acted in - , . shaucks, actor, . shatterel, . shatterel, robert, . shatterel, william, . sheridan, r. b., borrowing from wycherley, ; on the old comedies, . sheridan, thomas, . shipman, . shirley, actor, . shirley, james, dramatist, . skipwith, sir thomas, patentee, . slingsby, lady mary, ; her death, . smith, william, actor, ; as banquo, ; as sir fopling flutter and pierre, chamont and scandal, ; as cyaxares, ; his death, ; the reason of his retirement, . smith, edmund ("captain rag"), . smythe, james moore, dramatist, , , . south, on the wickedness of theatres, . southerne, thomas, dramatist, ; his "spartan dame," ; his last play, . spiller, james, his wonderful acting of an old man, ; as mat o' the mint, ; his sudden death, . stage, condition of, at end of seventeenth century, , ; at beginning of eighteenth century, . stage denounced by the clergy, , , , , , . "stage plays: a short treatise against," . stapylton, sir robert, dramatist, . starring, first instance of, . steele, sir richard, ; his comedy of "the funeral," ; his _christian hero_, ; his "lying lover," ; his "tender husband," ; made a partner in the drury lane patent, , ; on addison's "drummer," ; his name struck out of the patent, , ; his "conscious lovers," ; his creditors' actions against his partners, ; his death, . still, bishop, . stone, miss, actress, . strolling players, , , , , , . sturmy, john, dramatist, . suppression of the theatres, - . sutton, preacher at st. mary overy's, . swan theatre, . swanston, a presbyterian player, . symcott, margaret, said to be nell gwyn's real name, . tate, nahum, , ; his assault on "coriolanus," . taverner, , , . taylor, joseph, actor, , . tennis court theatre, . "theatre, the," . theatres, one of the earliest, . theatres, two only licensed in london, . theobald, lewis, , ; his "richard ii.," . thomson, james, his first dramatic attempt, "sophonisba," . thurmond, actor, , . tillotson, archbishop, his friendship with betterton, . tofts, mrs., singer, . tooley, actor, . tothill street, westminster, . townsend, actor, . trotter, miss (see mrs. cockburn). tuke, sir samuel, . turbulent audiences, . udal, nicholas, . underhill, cave, ; as the gravedigger, , ; as don quixote and lolpoop, ; as sir sampson legend, . underwood, actor, . union of the two companies in , , . union ordered by lord chamberlain, , . unlicensed plays and houses, . uphill, mrs., . vanbrugh, sir john, , ; his theatre in the haymarket, ; as manager, ; his indecency, ; his "confederacy," ; lets his theatre to macswiney, , . vandenhoff, . verbruggen, , , ; as oroonoko, , ; as bajazet, ; as altamont, ; as sullen, . verbruggen, mrs., , ; described by colley cibber, ; in "the western lass," ; as bayes, ; as melantha, ; her original characters, ; her death, , . verjuice, mrs., . vizard masks, . voltaire, "the relapse" attributed to, . walker, thomas, actor, , , ; as macheath, . walker, william, dramatist, . walpole, sir robert, and the "beggar's opera," . warren (a dresser), his amusing accident on the stage, . warwick inn, holborn, . weaver, . webster, benjamin, mentioned, . welsted, leonard, dramatist, . west, richard, his "hecuba" condemned unheard, . whitaker, william, dramatist, . whitefriars' theatre, . wilks, robert, , ; as sir charles easy, ; as plume, ; as archer, ; wilks, cibber, and dogget, ; as juba, ; as dumont, ; as don felix, ; as carlos, ; as sir harry wildair, ; as antony, . williams, bishop, , . williams, as scipio, . wilson, john, dramatist, . wintersel, , ; as slender, . wiseman, mrs. jane, authoress, . wither, george, his "hallelujah," . wright, . wycherley, william, ; borrowed from, by sheridan, ; his death, . york, duke of, his company, . yorke, sir john, , . young, an early actor, . young, c. m., . young, dr. edward, , ; his "busiris," ; his "revenge," . younger, mrs., , ; in the "dissembled wanton," . end of vol. i. printed by ballantyne, hanson and co. edinburgh and london. transcriber's note italic text is denoted by _underscores_. the oe ligature has been replaced by 'oe' or 'oe'. obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. except for those changes noted below, misspelling by the author, and inconsistent or archaic usage, has been retained. for example, a while, awhile; playhouse, play-house; coffee house, coffee-house; inuendo; intrusted. see the note at the front of the book: this etext is derived from # of the copies printed. the duplicates of the portraits have been removed. p. 'twenty three' replaced by 'twenty-three'. p. 'dénoûment' replaced by 'dénouement'. p. 'dis tu' replaced by 'dis-tu'. p. 'mâitre' replaced by 'maître'. p. 'farqhuar' replaced by 'farquhar'. p. 'had attend' replaced by 'had attended'. p. 'incontestible' replaced by 'incontestable'. p. 'couple' replaced by 'couples'. p. 'debut' replaced by 'début'. index: kirkham: 'revels' replaced by 'the revels'. payne: 'revels' replaced by 'the revels'. https://archive.org/details/apologyforlifeof cibb project gutenberg has the other volume of this work. volume ii: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ an apology for the life of mr. colley cibber. _volume the first._ _note._ _ copies printed on this fine deckle-edge demy vo paper for england and america, with the portraits as india proofs after letters._ _each copy is numbered, and the type distributed._ _no._ [illustration: colley cibber.] an apology for the life of mr. colley cibber _written by himself_ a new edition with notes and supplement by robert w. lowe _with twenty-six original mezzotint portraits by r. b. parkes, and eighteen etchings by adolphe lalauze_ _in two volumes_ volume the first london john c. nimmo , king william street, strand mdccclxxxix chiswick press printed by charles whittingham and co. tooks court, chancery lane, london. e.c. preface. colley cibber's famous autobiography has always been recognized as one of the most delightful books of its class; but, to students of theatrical history, the charm of its author's ingenuous frankness has been unable altogether to overweigh the inaccuracy and vagueness of his treatment of matters of fact. to remove this cause of complaint is the principal object of the present edition. but correcting errors is only one of an editor's duties, and by no means the most difficult. more exacting, and almost equally important, are the illustration of the circumstances surrounding the author, the elucidation of his references to current events, and the comparison of his statements and theories with those of judicious contemporaries. in all these particulars i have interpreted my duty in the widest sense, and have aimed at giving, as far as in me lies, an exhaustive commentary on the "apology." i am fortunate in being able to claim that my work contains much information which has never before been made public. a careful investigation of the mss. in the british museum, and of the records of the lord chamberlain's office (to which my access was greatly facilitated by the kindness of mr. edward f. s. pigott, the licenser of plays), has enabled me to give the exact dates of many transactions which were previously uncertain, and to give references to documents of great importance in stage history, whose very existence was before unknown. how important my new matter is, may be estimated by comparing the facts given in my notes regarding the intricate transactions of the years to , with any previous history of the same period. among other sources of information, i may mention the cibber collections in the forster library at south kensington, to which my attention was drawn by the kindness of the courteous keeper, mr. r. f. sketchley; and i have also, of course, devoted much time to contemporary newspapers. in order to illustrate the "apology," two tracts of the utmost rarity, the "historia histrionica" and anthony aston's "brief supplement" to cibber's lives of the actors, are reprinted in this edition. the "historia histrionica" was written, all authorities agree, by james wright, barrister-at-law, whose "history and antiquities of the county of rutland" is quoted by cibber in his first chapter (vol. i. p. ). the historical value of this pamphlet is very great, because it contains the only formal account in existence of the generation of actors who preceded betterton, and because it gives many curious and interesting particulars regarding the theatres and plays, as well as the actors, before and during the civil wars. as cibber begins his account of the stage (see chap. iv.) at the restoration, there is a peculiar propriety in prefacing it by wright's work; a fact which has already been recognized, for the publisher of the third edition ( ) of the "apology" appended to it "a dialogue on old plays and old players," which is simply a reprint of the "historia histrionica" under another title, and without the curious preface. following the "historia histrionica" will be found a copy of the patent granted to sir william davenant, one of the most important documents in english stage history. a similar grant was made to thomas killigrew, as is noted on page of this volume. these documents form a natural introduction to cibber's history of the stage and of his own career, which commences, as has been said, at the restoration, and ends, somewhat abruptly, with his retirement from the regular exercise of his profession in . to complete the record of cibber's life, i have added a supplementary chapter to the "apology," in which i have also noted briefly the chief incidents of theatrical history up to the time of his death. in this, too, i have told with some degree of minuteness the story of his famous quarrel with pope; and to this chapter i have appended a list of cibber's dramatic productions, and a bibliography of works by, or relating to him. anthony aston's "brief supplement to colley cibber, esq; his lives of the late famous actors and actresses," of which a reprint is given with this edition, is almost, if not quite, the rarest of theatrical books. isaac reed, says genest, "wrote his name in his copy of aston's little book, with the date of --he says--'this pamphlet contains several circumstances concerning the performers of the last century, which are no where else to be found--it seems never to have been published'--he adds-'easter monday, --though i have now possessed this pamphlet years, it is remarkable that i never have seen another copy of it.'" of aston himself, little is known. according to his own account he came on the stage about , and we know that he was a noted stroller; but as to when he was born, or when he died, there is no information. he is supposed, and probably with justice, to be the "trusty anthony, who has so often adorned both the theatres in england and ireland," mentioned in estcourt's advertisement of his opening of the bumper tavern, in the "spectator" of th and th december, ; and he was no doubt a well-known character among actors and theatre-goers. he would thus be well qualified for his undertaking as biographer of the actors of his time; and, indeed, his work bears every mark of being the production of a writer thoroughly well acquainted with his subject. this valuable pamphlet has been, until now practically a sealed book to theatrical students. the three works which make up this edition--cibber's "apology," wright's "historia histrionica," and aston's "brief supplement"--are reprinted _verbatim et literatim;_ the only alterations made being the correction of obvious errors. among obvious errors i include the avalanche of commas with which cibber's printers overwhelmed his text. a more grotesque misuse of punctuation i do not know, and i have struck out a large number of these points, not only because they were unmeaning, but also because, to a modern reader, they were irritating in the highest degree. the rest of the punctuation i have not interfered with, and with the single exception of these commas the present edition reproduces not only the matter of the works reprinted, but the very manner in which they originally appeared, the use of italics and capitals having especially been carefully observed. the "apology" of cibber has gone through six editions. i have reprinted the text of the second, because it was certainly revised by the author, and many corrections made. but i have carefully compared my text with that of the first edition, and, wherever the correction is more than merely verbal, i have indicated the fact in a note (_e. g._ vol. i. p. ). the only edition which has been annotated is that published in , under the editorship of edmund bellchambers. whether the notes were written by the editor or by jacob henry burn, who annotated dickens's "grimaldi," is a point which i have raised in my "bibliographical account of english theatrical literature" (p. ). i have been unable to obtain any authentic information on the subject, so give burn's claim for what it is worth. the statement as to the latter's authorship was made in his own handwriting on the back of the title-page of a copy of the book, sold by a well-known bookseller some years ago. it was in the following terms:-- "in , while residing at no. , maiden lane, covent garden, the elder oxberry, who frequently called in as he passed, found me one day adding notes in ms. to cibber's 'apology.' taking it up, he said he should like to reprint it; he wanted something to employ the spare time of his hands, and proferred to buy my copy, thus annotated. i think it was two pounds i said he should have it for; this sum he instantly paid, and the notes throughout are mine, not bellchambers's, who having seen it through the press or corrected the proofs whilst printing, added his name as the editor.--j. h. burn." whether burn or bellchambers be the author, the notes, i find, are by no means faultlessly accurate. i have made little use of them, except that the biographies, which are by far the most valuable of the annotations, are reprinted at the end of my second volume. even in these, it will be seen, i have corrected many blunders. some of the memoirs i have condensed slightly; and, as the biographies of booth, dogget, and wilks were in all essential points merely a repetition of cibber's narrative, i have not reprinted them. in all cases where i have made any use of bellchambers's edition, or have had a reference suggested to me by it, i have carefully acknowledged my indebtedness. among the works of contemporary writers which i have quoted, either in illustration, in criticism, or in contradiction of cibber, it will be noticed that i make large drafts upon the anonymous pamphlet entitled "the laureat: or, the right side of colley cibber, esq;" ( ). i have done this because it furnishes the keenest criticism upon cibber's statements, and gives, in an undeniably clever style, the views of cibber's enemies upon himself and his works. i am unable even to guess who was the author of this work, but he must have been a man well acquainted with theatrical matters. another pamphlet from which i quote, "the egotist: or, colley upon cibber" ( ), is interesting as being, i think without doubt, the work of cibber himself, although not acknowledged by him. many of the works which i quote in my notes have gone through only one edition, and my quotations from these are easily traced; but, for the convenience of those who may wish to follow up any of my references to books which have been more than once issued, i may mention that in the case of davies's "dramatic miscellanies" i have referred throughout to the edition of ; that dr. birkbeck hill's magnificent edition of boswell's "life of johnson" is that which i have quoted; and that the references to nichols's reprint of steele's "theatre," the "anti-theatre," &c., are to the scarce and valuable edition in vols. mo, . my quotations from the "tatler" have been made from a set of the original folio numbers, which i am fortunate enough to possess; and i have made my extracts from the "roscius anglicanus" from mr. joseph knight's beautiful facsimile edition. the index, which will be found at the end of the second volume, has been the object of my special attention, and i have spared no pains to make it clear and exhaustive. robert w. lowe. london, _september, _. publisher's preface. the twenty-six portraits and eighteen chapter headings in this new edition of colley cibber's "apology" are all newly engraved. the portraits are copperplate mezzotints, engraved by r. b. parkes from the best and most authentic originals, in the selection of which great care has been taken. where more than one portrait exists, the least hackneyed likeness has been chosen, and pains have been taken to secure those pictures which are likely to be esteemed as rarities. the chapter headings are etched by adolphe lalauze, and the subjects represent scenes from plays illustrating the costumes, manner, and appearance of the actors of cibber's period, from contemporary authorities. london, _october, _. contents. page historia histrionica: an historical account of the english stage xix letters patent for erecting a new theatre liii title and dedication to the life of mr. colley cibber lxiii chapter i. the introduction. the author's birth, etc. chapter ii. he that trites of himself not easily tir'd, etc. chapter iii. the author's several chances for the church, the court, and the army, etc. chapter iv. a short view of the stage, from the year to the revolution, etc. chapter v. the theatrical characters of the principal actors in the year , continu'd, etc. chapter vi. the author's first step upon the stage. his discouragements, etc. chapter vii. the state of the stage continued, etc. chapter viii. the patentee of drury-lane wiser than his actors, etc. chapter ix. a small apology for writing on, etc. list of mezzotint portraits. newly engraved by r. b. parkes. volume the first. page i. colley cibber. after the painting by john baptist vanloo, _frontispiece_ ii. caius gabriel cibber, the sculptor, father of colley cibber. after the picture by laroon and christian richter. (collection of the earl of orford, strawberry hill) iii. thomas betterton. after the painting by sir godfrey kneller iv. benjamin johnson, in the character of ananias, in ben jonson's "alchemist," act iii. after the picture by peter van bleeck, v. edward kynaston, comedian. after r. cooper. vi. anthony leigh, in the character of the friar, in dryden's tragi-comedy of "the spanish friar." after the painting by sir godfrey kneller vii. elizabeth barry. after the painting by sir godfrey kneller, . (collection of the earl of orford, strawberry hill) viii. mrs. bracegirdle as "the indian queen," in the play by sir r. howard and j. dryden. after the picture by j. smith and w. vincent ix. william bullock. after the picture by thomas johnson. _ad vivum pinxit et fecit_ x. william penkethman. after the painting by r. schmutz xi. william congreve. after the painting by sir godfrey kneller, , "kit-cat club" xii. charlotte charke. after a study by henry gravelot xiii. sir john vanbrugh. after the painting by sir godfrey kneller, "kit-cat club" list of chapter headings. newly etched from contemporary drawings by adolphe lalauze. volume the first. i. caius gabriel cibber's figures of raving and melancholy madness. from bedlam hospital.[ ] ii. scene illustrating crowne's "sir courtly nice." after the contemporary design by arnold vanhaecken. iii. scene illustrating etheredge's "man of mode; or, sir fopling flutter." after the design by lud. du guernier. iv. scene illustrating congreve's "double dealer." after f. hayman. v. griffin and johnson in the characters of tribulation and ananias, ben jonson's "alchemist," act iii. scene . tribulation. "i do command thee (spirit of zeal, but trouble) to peace, within him." after the original by peter van bleeck, . vi. scene illustrating otway's "orphan." after the contemporary etching by g. vander gucht. vii. mrs. porter, mills, and cibber. after a contemporary engraving by j. basire. viii. scene illustrating steele's "funeral, or grief Ã� la mode." after the contemporary design by g. vander gucht. ix. mr. estcourt as "kite" in farquhar's "recruiting officer." after the contemporary design by e. knight and g. vander gucht. historia histrionica: an historical account of the english stage, shewing the ancient use, improvement, and perfection, of dramatick representations, in this nation. in a dialogue, of _plays_ and _players._ ----_olim meminisse juvabit._ _london._ printed by _g. croom,_ for _william haws_ at the rose in _ludgate-street_. . the preface. _much has been writ of late_ pro _and_ con, _about the stage, yet the subject admits of more, and that which has not been hetherto toucht upon; not only what that is, but what it was, about which some people have made such a busle. what it is we see, and i think it has been sufficiently displayed in mr._ collier'_s book; what it was in former ages, and how used in this kingdom, so far back as one may collect any memorialls, is the subject of the following dialogue. old plays will be always read by the_ curious, _if it were only to discover the manners and behaviour of several ages; and how they alter'd. for plays are exactly like_ portraits _drawn in the garb and fashion of the time when painted. you see one habit in the time of king_ charles i. _another quite different from that, both for men and women, in queen_ elizabeths _time; another under_ henry _the eighth different from both; and so backward all various. and in the several fashions of behaviour and conversation, there is as much mutability as in that of cloaths. religion and religious matters was once as much the mode in publick entertainments, as the contrary has been in some times since. this appears in the different plays of several ages: and to evince this, the following sheets are an essay or specimen._ _some may think the subject of this discourse trivial, and the persons herein mention'd not worth remembering. but besides that i could name some things contested of late with great heat, of as little, or less consequence, the reader may know that the profession of players is not so totally scandalous, nor all of them so reprobate, but that there has been found under that name, a canonized saint in the primitive church; as may be seen in the_ roman martyrology _on the_ th _of_ march; _his name_ masculas _a master of interludes_, (_the latin is_ archimimus, _and the french translation_ un maitre comedien) _who under the persecution of the_ vandals _in_ africa, _by_ geisericus _the_ arian _king, having endured many and greivious torments and reproaches for the confession of the truth, finisht the course of this glorious combat. saith the said_ martyrology. _it appears from this, and some further instances in the following discourse, that there have been players of worthy principles as to religion, loyalty, and other virtues; and if the major part of them fall under a different character, it is the general unhappiness of mankind, that the_ most _are the_ worst. a dialogue of plays and players. lovewit, truman. lovew. honest old cavalier! well met, 'faith i'm glad to see thee. trum. have a care what you call me. old, is a word of disgrace among the ladies; to be honest is to be poor, and foolish, (as some think) and cavalier is a word as much out of fashion as any of 'em. lovew. the more's the pity: but what said the fortune-teller in _ben. johnson_'s mask of _gypsies_, to the then _lord privy seal_, _honest and old!_ _in those the_ good _part of a fortune is told_. trum. _ben. johnson?_ how dare you name _ben. johnson_ in these times? when we have such a crowd of poets of a quite different genius; the least of which thinks himself as well able to correct _ben. johnson_, as he could a country school mistress that taught to spell. lovew. we have indeed, poets of a different genius; so are the plays: but in my opinion, they are all of 'em (some few excepted) as much inferior to those of former times, as the actors now in being (generally speaking) are, compared to _hart_, _mohun_, _burt_, _lacy_, _clun_, and _shatterel_; for i can reach no farther backward. trum. i can; and dare assure you, if my fancy and memory are not partial (for men of my age are apt to be over indulgent to the thoughts of their youthful days) i say the actors that i have seen before the wars, _lowin_, _tayler_, _pollard_, and some others, were almost as far beyond _hart_ and his company, as those were beyond these now in being. lovew. i am willing to believe it, but cannot readily; because i have been told, that those whom i mention'd, were bred up under the others of your acquaintance, and follow'd their manner of action, which is now lost. so far, that when the question has been askt, why these players do not revive the _silent woman_, and some other of _johnson_'s plays, (once of highest esteem) they have answer'd, truly, because there are none now living who can rightly humour those parts; for all who related to the _black-friers_, (where they were acted in perfection) are now dead, and almost forgotten. trum. 'tis very true, _hart_ and _clun_, were bred up boys at the _black-friers_, and acted womens parts, _hart_ was _robinson_'s boy or apprentice: he acted the dutchess in the tragedy of _the cardinal_, which was the first part that gave him reputation. _cartwright_, and _wintershal_ belong'd to the private house in _salisbury-court_, _burt_ was a boy first under _shank_ at the _black-friers_, then under _beeston_ at the _cockpit_; and _mohun_, and _shatterel_ were in the same condition with him, at the last place. there _burt_ used to play the principal women's parts, in particular _clariana_ in _love's cruelty_; and at the same time _mohun_ acted _bellamente_, which part he retain'd after the restauration. lovew. that i have seen, and can well remember. i wish they had printed in the last age (so i call the times before the rebellion) the actors names over against the parts they acted, as they have done since the restauration. and thus one might have guest at the action of the men, by the parts which we now read in the old plays. trum. it was not the custome and usage of those days, as it hath been since. yet some few old plays there are that have the names set against the parts, as, _the dutchess of malfy_; _the picture_; _the roman actor_; _the deserving favourite_; _the wild goose chace_, (at the black-friers) _the wedding_; _the renegado_; _the fair maid of the west_; _hannibal and scipio_; _king john and matilda_; (at the cockpit) and _holland's leaguer_, (at salisbury court). lovew. these are but few indeed: but pray sir, hat master-parts can you remember the old _black-friers_ men to act, in _johnson_, _shakespear_, and _fletcher_'s plays. trum. what i can at present recollect i'll tell you; _shakespear_, (who as i have heard, was a much better poet, than player) _burbadge_, _hemmings_, and others of the older sort, were dead before i knew the town; but in my time, before the wars, _lowin_ used to act, with mighty applause, _falstaffe_, _morose_, _volpone_, and _mammon_ in the _alchymist_; _melancius_, in the _maid's_ tragedy, and at the same time _amyntor_ was play'd by _stephen hammerton_, (who was at first a most noted and beautiful woman actor, but afterwards he acted with equal grace and applause, a young lover's part); _tayler_ acted _hamlet_ incomparably well, _iago_, _truewit_ in the _silent woman_, and _face_ in the _alchymist_; _swanston_ used to play _othello_; _pollard_, and _robinson_ were comedians, so was _shank_ who us'd to act sir _roger_, in _the scornful lady_. these were of the _black-friers_. those of principal note at the _cockpit_, were, _perkins_, _michael bowyer_, _sumner_, _william allen_, and _bird_, eminent actors, and _robins_ a comedian. of the other companies i took little notice. lovew. were there so many companies? trum. before the wars, there were in being all these play-houses at the same time. the _black-friers_, and _globe_ on the _bankside_, a winter and summer house, belonging to the same company, called the king's servants; the _cockpit_ or _phoenix_, in _drury-lane_, called the queen's servants; the private house in _salisbury-court_, called the prince's servants; the _fortune_ near _white-cross-street_, and the _red bull_ at the upper end of st. _john's-street_: the two last were mostly frequented by citizens, and the meaner sort of people. all these companies got money, and liv'd in reputation, especially those of the _black-friers_, who were men of grave and sober behaviour. lovew. which i admire at; that the town much less than at present, could then maintain five companies, and yet now two can hardly subsist. trum. do not wonder, but consider, that tho' the town was then, perhaps, not much more than half so populous as now, yet then the prices were small (there being no scenes) and better order kept among the company that came; which made very good people think a play an innocent diversion for an idle hour or two, the plays themselves being then, for the most part, more instructive and moral. whereas of late, the play-houses are so extreamly pestered with vizard-masks and their trade, (occasioning continual quarrels and abuses) that many of the more civilized part of the town are uneasy in the company, and shun the theater as they would a house of scandal. it is an argument of the worth of the plays and actors, of the last age, and easily inferr'd, that they were much beyond ours in this, to consider that they cou'd support themselves meerly from their own merit; the weight of the matter, and goodness of the action, without scenes and machines: whereas the present plays with all that shew, can hardly draw an audience, unless there be the additional invitation of a _signior fideli_, a _monsieur l'abbe_, or some such foreign regale exprest in the bottom of the bill. lovew. to wave this digression, i have read of one _edward allin_, a man so famed for excellent action, that among _ben. johnson_'s epigrams, i find one directed to him, full of encomium, and concluding thus, _wear this renown, 'tis just that who did give so many poets life, by one should live._ was he one of the _black-friers_? trum. never, as i have heard; (for he was dead before my time). he was master of a company of his own, for whom he built the _fortune_ playhouse from the ground, a large, round brick building. this is he that grew so rich that he purchased a great estate in _surrey_ and elsewhere; and having no issue, he built and largely endow'd _dulwich_ college, in the year , for a master, a warden, four fellows, twelve aged poor people, and twelve poor boys, _&c._ a noble charity. lovew. what kind of playhouses had they before the wars? trum. the _black-friers_, _cockpit_, and _salisbury-court_, were called private houses, and were very small to what we see now. the _cockpit_ was standing since the restauration, and _rhode_'s company acted there for some time. lovew. i have seen that. trum. then you have seen the other two, in effect; for they were all three built almost exactly alike, for form and bigness. here they had pits for the gentry, and acted by candle-light. the _globe_, _fortune_ and _bull_, were large houses, and lay partly open to the weather, and there they alwaies acted by daylight. lovew. but, prithee, _truman_, what became of these players when the stage was put down, and the rebellion rais'd? trum. most of 'em, except _lowin_, _tayler_ and _pollard_ (who were superannuated) went into the king's army, and like good men and true, serv'd their old master, tho' in a different, yet more honourable, capacity. _robinson_ was kill'd at the taking of a place, (i think _basing house_) by _harrison_, he that was after hang'd at _charing-cross_, who refused him quarter, and shot him in the head when he had laid down his arms; abusing scripture at the same time, in saying, _cursed is he that doth the work of the lord negligently_. _mohun_ was a captain, (and after the wars were ended here, served in _flanders_ where he received pay as a major), _hart_ was a lieutenant of horse under sir _thomas dallison_, in _prince rupert_'s regiment, _burt_ was cornet in the same troop, and _shatterel_ quarter-master. _allen_ of the _cockpit_, was a major, and quarter master general at _oxford_. i have not heard of one of these players of any note that sided with the other party, but only _swanston_, and he profest himself a presbyterian, took up the trade of a jeweller, and liv'd in _aldermanbury_, within the territory of father _calamy_. the rest either lost, or expos'd their lives for their king. when the wars were over, and the royalists totally subdued, most of 'em who were left alive gather'd to _london_, and for a subsistence endeavour'd to revive their old trade, privately. they made up one company out of all the scatter'd members of several; and in the winter before the king's murder, , they ventured to act some plays with as much caution and privacy as you'd be, at the _cockpit_. they continu'd undisturbed for three or four days; but at last as they were presenting the tragedy of the _bloudy brother_ (in which _lowin_ acted aubrey, _tayler_ rollo, _pollard_ the cook, _burt_ latorch, and i think _hart_ otto) a party of foot souldiers beset the house, surpriz'd 'em about the midle of the play, and carried 'em away in their habits, not admitting them to shift, to _hatton-house_, then a prison, where having detain'd them some time, they plunder'd them of their cloths and let 'em loose again. afterwards in _oliver_'s time, they used to act privately, three or four miles, or more, out of town, now here, now there, sometimes in noblemens houses, in particular _holland-house_ at _kensington_, where the nobility and gentry who met (but in no great numbers) used to make a sum for them, each giving a broad peice, or the like. and _alexander goffe_, the woman actor at _black-friers_ (who had made himself known to persons of quality) used to be the jackal, and give notice of time and place. at christmass, and bartlemew-fair, they used to bribe the officer who commanded the guard at _whitehall_, and were thereupon connived at to act for a few days, at the _red bull_; but were sometimes notwithstanding disturb'd by soldiers. some pickt up a little money by publishing the copies of plays never before printed, but kept up in manuscript. for instance, in the year , _beaumont_ and _fletcher's wild goose chace_ was printed in folio, _for the public use of all the ingenious_, (as the title-page says) _and private benefit of_ john lowin _and_ joseph tayler, _servants to his late majesty_; and by them dedicated _to the honour'd few lovers of dramatick poesy_: wherein they modestly intimate their wants. and that with sufficient cause; for whatever they were before the wars, they were, after, reduced to a necessitous condition. _lowin_ in his latter days, kept an inn (the three pidgions) at _brentford_, where he dyed very old, (for he was an actor of eminent note in the reign of k. _james_ the first) and his poverty was as great as his age. _tayler_ dyed at _richmond_ and was there buried. _pollard_ who lived single, and had a competent estate; retired to some relations he had in the country, and there ended his life. _perkins_ and _sumner_ of the _cockpit_, kept house together at _clerkenwel_, and were there buried. these all dyed some years before the restauration. what follow'd after, i need not tell you: you can easily remember. lovew. yes, presently after the restauration, the king's players acted publickly at the _red bull_ for some time, and then removed to a new-built playhouse in _vere-street_, by _claremarket_. there they continued for a year or two, and then removed to the _theater royal_ in _drury-lane_, where they first made use of scenes, which had been a little before introduced upon the publick stage by sir _william davenant_ at the _dukes old theater_ in _lincolns-inn-fields_, but afterwards very much improved, with the addition of curious machines, by mr. _betterton_ at the new _theater_ in _dorset-garden_, to the great expence and continual charge of the players. this much impair'd their profit o'er what it was before; for i have been inform'd, (by one of 'em) that for several years next after the restauration, every whole sharer in mr. _hart_'s company, got _l. per an._ about the same time that scenes first enter'd upon the stage at _london_, women were taught to act their own parts; since when, we have seen at both houses several excellent actresses, justly famed as well for beauty, as perfect good action. and some plays (in particular _the parson's wedding_) have been presented all by women, as formerly all by men. thus it continued for about years, when mr. _hart_ and some of the old men began to grow weary, and were minded to leave off; then the two companies thought fit to unite; but of late, you see, they have thought it no less fit to divide again, though both companies keep the same name of his majesty's servants. all this while the play-house musick improved yearly, and is now arrived to greater perfection than ever i knew it. yet for all these advantages, the reputation of the stage, and peoples affection to it, are much decay'd. some were lately severe against it, and would hardly allow stage-plays fit to be longer permitted. have you seen mr. _collier_'s book? trum. yes, and his opposer's. lovew. and what think you? trum. in my mind mr. _collier_'s reflections are pertinent, and true in the main; the book ingeniously writ, and well intended: but he has over-shot himself in some places; and his respondents, perhaps, in more. my affection inclines me not to engage on either side, but rather mediate. if there be abuses relating to the stage; (which i think is too apparent) let the abuse be reformed, and not the use, for that reason only, abolish'd. 'twas an old saying when i was a boy, _absit abusus, non desit totaliter usus._ i shall not run through mr. _collier_'s book; i will only touch a little on two or three general notions, in which, i think he may be mistaken. what he urges out of the primitive councils, and fathers of the church, seems to me to be directed against the heathen plays, which were a sort of religious worship with them, to the honour of _ceres_, _flora_, or some of their false deities; they had always a little altar on their stages, as appears plain enough from some places in _plautus_. and mr. _collier_ himself, p. , tells us out of _livy_, that plays were brought in upon the score of religion, to pacify the gods. no wonder then, they forbid christians to be present at them, for it was almost the same as to be present at their sacrifices. we must also observe that this was in the infancy of christianity, when the church was under severe, and almost continual persecutions, and when all its true members were of most strict and exemplary lives, not knowing when they should be call'd to the stake, or thrown to wild-beasts. they communicated daily, and expected death hourly; their thoughts were intent upon the next world, they abstain'd almost wholly from all diversions and pleasures (though lawfull and innocent) in this. afterwards when persecution ceased, and the church flourisht, christians being then freed from their former terrors, allow'd themselves, at proper times, the lawfull recreations of conversation, and among other (no doubt) this of shewes and representations. after this time, the censures of the church indeed, might be continued, or revived, upon occasion, against plays and players; tho' (in my opinion) it cannot be understood generally, but only against such players who were of vicious and licencious lives, and represented profane subjects, inconsistant with the morals and probity of manners requisite to christians; and frequented chiefly by such loose and debaucht people, as were much more apt to corrupt than divert those who associated with them. i say, i cannot think the canons and censures of the fathers can be applyed to all players, _quatenus_ players; for if so how could plays be continued among the christians, as they were, of divine subjects, and scriptural stories? a late french author, speaking of the original of the _hotel de bourgogne_ (a play-house in _paris_) says that the ancient dukes of that name gave it to the brotherhood of the passion, established in the church of trinity-hospital in the _rue s. denis_, on condition that they should represent here interludes of devotion: and adds that there have been public shews in this place years ago. the spanish and portuguize continue still to have, for the most part, such ecclesiastical stories, for the subject of their plays: and, if we may believe _gage_, they are acted in their churches in _mexico_, and the spanish _west-indies_. lovew. that's a great way off, _truman_; i had rather you would come nearer home, and confine your discourse to old _england_. trum. so i intend. the same has been done here in _england_; for otherwise how comes it to be prohibited in the _ th_ canon, among those past in convocation, . certain it is that our ancient plays were of religious subjects, and had for their actors, (if not priests) yet men relating to the church. lovew. how does that appear? trum. nothing clearer. _stow_ in his survey of _london_, has one chapter _of the sports and pastimes of old time used in this city_; and there he tells us, that in the year (which was _r._ .) a stage-play was play'd by the parish-clerks of _london_, at the _skinner's-well_ beside _smithfield_, which play continued, three days together, the king, queen, and nobles of the realm being present. and another was play'd in the year , ( _h._ .) which lasted eight days, and was of matter from the creation of the world; whereat was present most part of the nobility and gentry of _england_. sir _william dugdale_, in his antiquities of _warwickshire_, p. , speaking of the _gray-friers_ (or _franciscans_) at _coventry_, says, before the suppression of the monasteries, this city was very famous for the pageants that were play'd therein upon _corpus-christi_ day; which pageants being acted with mighty state and reverence by the friers of this house, had theatres for the several scenes very large and high, plac'd upon wheels, and drawn to all the eminent parts of the city, for the better advantage of the spectators; and contain'd the story of the new testament, composed in old english rhime. an ancient manuscript of the same is now to be seen in the _cottonian_ library, _sub effig. vespat. d._ . since the reformation, in queen _elizabeth's_ time, plays were frequently acted by quiristers and singing boys; and several of our old comedies have printed in the title page, _acted by the children of_ paul's, (not the school, but the church) others, _by the children of her majesty's chappel_; in particular, _cinthias revels_, and the _poetaster_ were play'd by them; who were at that time famous for good action. among _ben. johnson_'s epigrams you may find _an epitaph on s. p._ (sal pavy) _one of the children of queen_ elizabeth's _chappel_, part of which runs thus, _years he counted scarce thirteen when fates turn'd cruel, yet three fill'd zodiacks he had been the stages jewell; and did act (what now we moan) old men so duly, as, sooth, the_ parcæ _thought him one, he play'd so truly._ some of these chappel boys, when they grew men, became actors at the _black-friers_; such were _nathan feild_, and _john underwood_. now i can hardly imagine that such plays and players as these, are included in the severe censure of the councils and fathers; but such only who are truly within the character given by _didacus de tapia_, cited by mr. _collier_, p. , _viz. the infamous playhouse_; _a place of contradiction to the strictness and sobriety of religion_; _a place hated by god, and haunted by the devil_. and for such i have as great an abhorrance as any man. lovew. can you guess of what antiquity the representing of religious matters, on the stage, hath been in _england_? trum. how long before the conquest i know not, but that it was used in _london_ not long after, appears by _fitz-stevens_, an author who wrote in the reign of king _henry_ the second. his words are, _londonia pro spectaculis theatralibus, pro ludis scenicis, ludos habet sanctiores, representationes miraculorum, quæ sancti confessores operati sunt, seu representationes passionum quibus claruit constantia martyrum_. of this, the manuscript which i lately mention'd, in the _cottonian_ library, is a notable instance. sir _william dugdale_ cites this manuscript, by the title of _ludus coventriæ_; but in the printed catalogue of that library, p. , it is named thus, _a collection of plays in old english metre,_ h. e. _dramata sacra in quibus exhibentur historiæ veteris & n. testamenti, introductis quasi in scenam personis illic memoratis, quas secum invicem colloquentes pro ingenio fingit poeta. videntur olim coram populo, sive ad instruendum sive ad placendum, a fratribus mendicantibus repræsentata._ it appears by the latter end of the prologue, that these plays or interludes, were not only play'd at _coventry_, but in other towns and places upon occasion. and possibly this may be the same play which _stow_ tells us was play'd in the reign of king _henry_ iv., which lasted for eight days. the book seems by the character and language to be at least years old. it begins with a general prologue, giving the arguments of pageants or gesticulations (which were as so many several acts or scenes) representing all the histories of both testaments, from the creation, to the choosing of st. _mathias_ to be an apostle. the stories of the new testament are more largely exprest, _viz._ the annunciation, nativity, visitation; but more especially all matters relating to the passion very particularly, the resurrection, ascention, the choice of st. _mathias_: after which is also represented the assumption, and last judgment. all these things were treated of in a very homely style, (as we now think) infinitely below the dignity of the subject: but it seems the gust of that age was not so nice and delicate in these matters; the plain and incurious judgment of our ancestors, being prepared with favour, and taking every thing by the right and easiest handle: for example, in the scene relating to the visitation: _maria._ but husband of oo thyng pray you most mekely, i haue knowing that our cosyn elizabeth with childe is, that it please yow to go to her hastyly, if ought we myth comfort her it wer to me blys. _joseph._ a gods sake, is she with child, sche? than will her husband zachary be mery. in montana they dwelle, fer hence, so moty the, in the city of juda, i know it verily; it is hence i trowe myles two a fifty, we ar like to be wery or we come at the same. i wole with a good will, blessyd wyff mary; now go we forth then in goddys name, &c. a little before the resurrection: _nunc dormient milites, & veniet anima christi de inferno, cum_ adam & eva, abraham, john baptist, _& aliis._ _anima christi._ come forth adam, and eve with the, and all my fryndes that herein be, in paradys come forth with me in blysse for to dwelle. the fende of hell that is yowr foo he shall be wrappyd and woundyn in woo: fro wo to welth now shall ye go, with myrth euer mor to melle. _adam._ i thank the lord of thy grete grace that now is forgiuen my gret trespace, now shall we dwellyn in blyssful pace, &c. the last scene or pageant, which represents the day of judgment, begins thus: _michael._ _surgite_, all men aryse, _venite ad judicium_, for now is set the high justice, and hath assignyd the day of dome: kepe you redyly to this grett assyse, both gret and small, all and sum, and of yowr answer you now advise, what you shall say when that yow com, &c. these and such like, were the plays which in former ages were presented publickly: whether they had any settled and constant houses for that purpose, does not appear; i suppose not. but it is notorious that in former times there was hardly ever any solemn reception of princes, or noble persons, but pageants (that is stages erected in the open street) were part of the entertainment. on which there were speeches by one or more persons, in the nature of scenes; and be sure one of the speakers must be some saint of the same name with the party to whom the honour is intended. for instance, there is an ancient manuscript at _coventry_, call'd the _old leet book_, wherein is set down in a very particular manner, (fo. ) the reception of queen _margaret_, wife of _h._ , who came to _coventry_ (and i think, with her, her young son, prince _edward_) on the feast of the exaltation of the holy-cross, _h._ . ( ). many pageants and speeches were made for her welcome; out of all which, i shall observe but two or three, in the old english, as it is recorded. _st. edward._ moder of mekenes, dame margarete, princes most excellent, i king edward wellcome you with affection cordial, certefying to your highnes mekely myn entent, for the wele of the king and you hertily pray i shall, and for prince edward my gostly chylde, who i love principal. praying the, john evangelist, my help therein to be, on that condition right humbly i giue this ring to the. _john evangelist._ holy edward crowned king, brother in verginity, my power plainly i will prefer thy will to amplefy. most excellent princes of wymen mortal, your bedeman will i be. i know your life so vertuous that god is pleased thereby. the birth of you unto this reme shall cause great melody: the vertuous voice of prince edward shall dayly well encrease, st. edward his godfader and i shall pray therefore doubtlese. _st. margaret._ most notabul princes of wymen earthle, dame margarete, the chefe myrth of this empyre, ye be hertely welcome to this cyte. to the plesure of your highnesse i wyll set my desyre; both nature and gentlenesse doth me require, seth we be both of one name, to shew you kindnesse; wherefore by my power ye shall have no distresse. i shall pray to the prince that is endlese to socour you with solas of his high grace; he will here my petition this is doubtlesse, for i wrought all my life that his will wace. therefore, lady, when you be in any dredfull case, call on me boldly, thereof i pray you, and trust in me feythfully, i will do that may pay you. in the next reign (as appears in the same book, fo. ) an other prince _edward_, son of king _edward_ the , came to _coventry_ on the of _april_, _e._ , ( ) and was entertain'd with many pageants and speeches, among which i shall observe only two: one was of st. _edward_ again, who was then made to speak thus, noble prince edward, my cousin and my knight, and very prince of our line com yn dissent, i saint edward have pursued for your faders imperial right, whereof he was excluded by full furious intent. unto this your chamber as prince full excellent ye be right welcome. thanked be crist of his sonde, for that that was ours is now in your faders honde. the other speech was from st. _george_; and thus saith the book. ----also upon the condite in the croscheping was st. george armed, and a kings daughter kneling afore him with a lamb, and the fader and the moder being in a towre aboven beholding st. george saving their daughter from the dragon, and the condite renning wine in four places, and minstralcy of organ playing, and st. george hauing this speech under-written. o mighty god our all succour celestiall, which this royme hast given in dower to thi moder, and to me george protection perpetuall it to defend from enimys fer and nere, and as this mayden defended was here by thy grace from this dragons devour, so, lord preserve this noble prince, and ever be his socour. lovew. i perceive these holy matters consisted very much of praying; but i pitty poor st. _edward_ the confessor, who in the compass of a few years, was made to promise his favour and assistance to two young princes of the same name indeed, but of as different and opposite interests as the two poles. i know not how he could perform to both. trum. alas! they were both unhappy, notwithstanding these fine shews and seeming caresses of fortune, being both murder'd, one by the hand, the other by the procurement of _rich._ duke of _glocester_. i will produce but one example more of this sort of action, or representations, and that is of later time, and an instance of much higher nature than any yet mentioned, it was at the marriage of prince _arthur_, eldest son of king _henry _. to the princess _catherine_ of _spain, an. _. her passage through _london_ was very magnificent, as i have read it described in an old m.s. chronicle of that time. the pageants and speeches were many; the persons represented st. _catherine_, st. _ursula_, a senator, noblesse, virtue, an angel, king _alphonse_, _job_, _boetius_, &c. among others one is thus described. when this spech was ended, she held on her way tyll she cam unto the standard in chepe, where was ordeyned the fifth pagend made like an hevyn, theryn syttyng a personage representing the fader of hevyn, beyng all formyd of gold, and brennying beffor his trone vii candyilis of wax standyng in vii candylstykis of gold, the said personage beyng environed wyth sundry hyrarchies off angelis, and sytting in a cope of most rich cloth of tyssu, garnishyd wyth stoon and perle in most sumptuous wyse. foragain which said pagend upon the sowth syde of the strete stood at that tyme, in a hows wheryn that tyme dwellyd _william geffrey_ habyrdasher, the king, the quene, my lady the kingys moder, my lord of _oxynfford_, with many othir lordys and ladys, and perys of this realm, wyth also certayn ambassadors of france lately sent from the french king; and so passyng the said estatys, eyther guyvyng to other due and convenyent saluts and countenancs, so sone as hyr grace was approachid unto the sayd pagend, the fadyr began his spech as folowyth: _hunc veneram locum, septeno lumine septum._ _dignumque_ arthuri _totidem astra micant._ i am begynyng and ende, that made ech creature my sylfe, and for my sylfe, but man esspecially both male and female, made aftyr myne aun fygure, whom i joyned togydyr in matrimony and that in paradyse, declaring opynly that men shall weddyng in my chyrch solempnize, fygurid and signifyed by the erthly paradyze. in thys my chyrch i am allway recydent as my chyeff tabernacle, and most chosyn place, among these goldyn candylstikkis, which represent my catholyk chyrch, shynyng affor my face, with lyght of feyth, wisdom, doctryne, and grace, and mervelously eke enflamyd toward me wyth the extyngwible fyre of charyte. wherefore, my welbelovid dowgthyr katharyn, syth i have made yow to myne awn semblance in my chyrch to be maried, and your noble childryn to regn in this land as in their enherytance, se that ye have me in speciall remembrance: love me and my chyrch yowr spiritual modyr, for ye dispysing that oon, dyspyse that othyr. look that ye walk in my precepts, and obey them well: and here i give you the same blyssyng that i gave my well beloved chylder of israell; blyssyd be the fruyt of your bely; yower substance and frutys i shall encrease and multyply; yower rebellious enimyes i shall put in yowr hand, encreasing in honour both yow and yowr land. lovew. this would be censured now a days as profane to the highest degree. trum. no doubt on't: yet you see there was a time when people were not so nicely censorious in these matters, but were willing to take things in the best sence: and then this was thought a noble entertainment for the greatest king in _europe_ (such i esteem king _h._ . at that time) and proper for that day of mighty joy and triumph. and i must farther observe out of the lord _bacon_'s history of _h._ . that the chief man who had the care of that days proceedings was bishop _fox_, a grave councelor for war or peace, and also a good surveyor of works, and a good master of cerimonies, and it seems he approv'd it. the said lord _bacon_ tells us farther, that whosoever had those toys in compiling, they were not altogether pedantical. lovew. these things however are far from that which we understand by the name of a play. trum. it may be so; but these were the plays of those times. afterwards in the reign of k. _h._ . both the subject and form of these plays began to alter, and have since varied more and more. i have by me, a thing called _a merry play between the pardoner and the frere, the curate and neybour pratte_. printed the of _april_ , which was _h._ . (a few years before the dissolution of monasteries). the design of this play was to redicule friers and pardoners. of which i'll give you a taste. to begin it, the fryer enters with these words, deus hic; the holy trynyte preserue all that now here be. dere bretherne, yf ye will consyder the cause why i am com hyder, ye wolde be glad to knowe my entent; for i com not hyther for mony nor for rent, i com not hyther for meat nor for meale, but i com hyther for your soules heale, &c. after a long preamble, he addresses himself to preach, when the pardoner enters with these words, god and st. leonarde send ye all his grace as many as ben assembled in this place, &c. and makes a long speech, shewing his bulls and his reliques, in order to sell his pardons for the raising some money towards the rebuilding, of the holy chappell of sweet saynt leonarde, which late by fyre was destroyed and marde. both these speaking together, with continual interruption, at last they fall together by the ears. here the curate enters (for you must know the scene lies in the church) hold your hands; a vengeance on ye both two that euer ye came hyther to make this ado, to polute my chyrche, &c. _fri._ mayster parson, i marvayll ye will give lycence to this false knaue in this audience to publish his ragman rolles with lyes. i desyred hym ywys more than ones or twyse to hold his peas tyll that i had done, but he would here no more than the man in the mone. _pard._ why sholde i suffre the, more than thou me? mayster parson gaue me lycence before the. and i wolde thou knowest it i have relykes here, other maner stuffe than thou dost bere: i wyll edefy more with the syght of it, than will all thy pratynge of holy wryt; for that except that the precher himselfe lyve well, his predycacyon wyll helpe never a dell, &c. _pars._ no more of this wranglyng in my chyrch: i shrewe your hertys bothe for this lurche. is there any blood shed here between these knaues? thanked be god they had no stauys, nor egotoles, for then it had ben wronge. well, ye shall synge another songe. here he calls his neighbour _prat_ the constable, with design to apprehend 'em, and set 'em in the stocks. but the frier and pardoner prove sturdy, and will not be stockt, but fall upon the poor parson and constable, and bang 'em both so well-favour'dly, that at last they are glad to let 'em go at liberty: and so the farce ends with a drawn battail. such as this were the plays of that age, acted in gentlemens halls at christmas, or such like festival times, by the servants of the family, or strowlers who went about and made it a trade. it is not unlikely that[ ] lords in those days, and persons of eminent quality, had their several gangs of players, as some have now of fidlers, to whom they give cloaks and badges. the first comedy that i have seen that looks like regular, is _gammer gurton's needle_, writ i think in the reign of king _edward_ . this is composed of five acts, the scenes unbroken, and the unities of time and place duly observed. it was acted at _christ_ colledge in _cambridge_; there not being as yet any settled and publick theaters. lovew. i observe, _truman_, from what you have said, that plays in _england_ had a beginning much like those of _greece_, the monologues and the pageants drawn from place to place on wheels, answer exactly to the cart of _thespis_, and the improvements have been by such little steps and degrees as among the ancients, till at last, to use the words of sir _george buck_ (in his _third university of_ england) _dramatick poesy is so lively exprest and represented upon the publick stages and theatres of this city, as_ rome _in the_ auge _(the highest pitch) of her pomp and glory, never saw it better perform'd, i mean_ (says he) _in respect of the action and art, and not of the cost and sumptiousness_. this he writ about the year . but can you inform me _truman_, when publick theaters were first erected for this purpose in _london_? trum. not certainly; but i presume about the beginning of queen _elizabeths_ reign. for _stow_ in his survey of _london_ (which book was first printed in the year ) says, _of late years, in place of these stage-plays_ (i. e. those of religious matters) _have been used comedies, tragedies, interludes, and histories, both true and feigned; for the acting whereof certain publick places, as the theatre, the curtine, &c. have been erected_. and the continuator of _stows_ annals, p. , says, that in sixty years before the publication of that book, (which was _an. dom. _) no less than publick stages, or common playhouses, had been built in and about _london_. in which number he reckons five inns or common osteries, to have been in his time turned into play-houses, one cockpit, st. _paul_'s singing school, one in the _black-friers_, one in the _whitefriers_, and one in former time at _newington_ buts; and adds, before the space of years past, i never knew, heard, or read, of any such theaters, set stages, or playhouses, as have been purposely built within man's memory. lovew. after all, i have been told, that stage-plays are inconsistant with the laws of this kingdom, and players made rogues by statute. trum. he that told you so strain'd a point of truth. i never met with any law wholly to suppress them: sometimes indeed they have been prohibited for a season; as in times of _lent_, general mourning or publick calamities, or upon other occasions, when the government saw fit. thus by proclamation, of _april_, in the first year of queen _elizabeth_, plays and interludes were forbid till _all hallow-tide_ next following. _hollinshed_, p. . some statutes have been made for their regulation or reformation, not general suppression. by the stat. _eliz._ c. , (which was made _for the suppressing of rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars_) it is enacted, s. , that all persons that be, or utter themselves to be, proctors, procurers, patent gatherers, or collectors for gaols, prisons or hospitals, or fencers, barewards, common players of interludes and ministrels, wandering abroad, (other than players of interludes belonging to any baron of this realm, or any other honourable personage of greater degree, to be authoriz'd to play under the hand and seal of arms of such baron or personage) all juglers, tinkers, pedlers, and petty chapmen, wandering abroad, all wandring persons, &c. able in body, using loytering, and refusing to work for such reasonable wages as is commonly given, &c. these shall be ajudged and deemed rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars, and punished as such. lovew. but this priviledge of authorizing or licensing, is taken away by the stat. _ja._ . ch. , s. , and therefore all of them (as mr. _collier_ says, p. ) are expresly brought under the foresaid penalty, without distinction. trum. if he means all players, without distinction, 'tis a great mistake. for the force of the queens statute extends only to _wandring players_, and not to such as are the king or queen's servants, and establisht in settled houses by royal authority. on such, the ill character of vagrant players (or as they are now called, strolers) can cast no more aspersion, than the wandring proctors, in the same statute mentioned, on those of _doctors-commons_. by a stat. made _ ja._ i. ch. . it was enacted, that if any person shall in any stage-play, enterlude, shew, maygame, or pageant, jestingly or prophanely speak or use the holy name of god, christ jesus, the holy ghost, or of the trinity, he shall forfeit for every such offence, _l._ the stat. _char._ i. ch. , enacts, that no meetings, assemblies, or concourse of people shall be out of their own parishes, on the lords day, for any sports or pastimes whatsoever, nor any bear-bating, bull-bating, enterludes, common plays, or other unlawful exercises and pastimes used by any person or persons within their own parishes. these are all the statutes that i can think of relating to the stage and players; but nothing to suppress them totally, till the two ordinances of the long parliament, one of the of _october _, the other of the of _feb. _. by which all stage-plays and interludes are absolutely forbid; the stages, seats, galleries, _&c._ to be pulled down; all players tho' calling themselves the king or queens servants, if convicted of acting within two months before such conviction, to be punished as rogues according to law; the money received by them to go to the poor of the parish; and every spectator to pay s. to the use of the poor. also cock-fighting was prohibited by one of _oliver_'s acts of _ mar. _. but i suppose no body pretends these things to be laws; i could say more on this subject, but i must break off here, and leave you, _lovewit_; my occasions require it. love. farewel, old cavalier. trum. 'tis properly said; we are almost all of us, now, gone and forgotten. letters patent for erecting a new theatre january, car. ii. . a copy of the letters patents then granted by king charles ii. under the great seal of england, to sir william d'avenant, knt. his heirs and assigns, for erecting a new theatre, and establishing of a company of actors in any place within london or westminster, or the suburbs of the same: and that no other but this company, and one other company, by virtue of a like patent, to thomas killigrew, esq.; should be permitted within the said liberties. charles the second, by the grace of god, king of england, scotland, france, and ireland, defender of the faith, &c. to all to whom all these presents shall come, greeting. [sidenote: recites former patents, car. i. ann. , to sir will. d'avenant.] whereas our royal father of glorious memory, by his letters patents under his great seal of england bearing date at westminster the th day of march, in the th year of his reign, did give and grant unto sir william d'avenant (by the name of william d'avenant, gent.) his heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, full power, licence, and authority, that he, they, and every of them, by him and themselves, and by all and every such person and persons as he or they should depute or appoint, and his and their laborers, servants, and workmen, should and might, lawfully, quietly, and peaceably, frame, erect, new build, and set up, upon a parcel of ground, lying near unto or behind the three kings ordinary in fleet-street, in the parishes of st. dunstan's in the west, london; or in st. bride's, london; or in either of them, or in any other ground in or about that place, or in the whole street aforesaid, then allotted to him for that use; or in any other place that was, or then after should be assigned or allotted out to the said sir william d'avenant by thomas earl of arundel and surry, then earl marshal of england, or any other commissioner for building, for the time being in that behalf, a theatre or play-house, with necessary tiring and retiring rooms, and other places convenient, containing in the whole forty yards square at the most, wherein plays, musical entertainments, scenes, or other the like presentments might be presented. and our said royal father did grant unto the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs, executors, and administrators and assignes, that it should and might be lawful to and for him the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs, executors, administrators, and assignes, from time to time, to gather together, entertain, govern, privilege, and keep, such and so many players and persons to exercise actions, musical presentments, scenes, dancing, and the like, as he the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs, executors, administrators, or assignes, should think fit and approve for the said house. and such persons to permit and continue, at and during the pleasure of the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs, executors, administrators, or assignes, from time to time, to act plays in such house so to be by him or them erected, and exercise musick, musical presentments, scenes, dancing, or other the like, at the same or other houses or times, or after plays are ended, peaceably and quietly, without the impeachment or impediment of any person or persons whatsoever, for the honest recreation of such as should desire to see the same; and that it should and might be lawful to and for the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, to take and receive of such as should resort to see or hear any such plays, scenes, and entertainments whatsoever, such sum or sums of money as was or then after, from time to time, should be accustomed to be given or taken in other play-houses and places for the like plays, scenes, presentments, and entertainments as in and by the said letters patents, relation being thereunto had, more at large may appear. [sidenote: car. ii. exemplification of said letters patents.] and whereas we did, by our letters patents under the great seal of england, bearing date the th day of may, in the th year of our reign, exemplifie the said recited letters patents granted by our royal father, as in and by the same, relation being thereunto had, at large may appear. [sidenote: surrender of both to the king in the court of chancery.] and whereas the said sir william d'avenant hath surrendered our letters patents of exemplification, and also the said recited letters patents granted by our royal father, into our court of chancery, to be cancelled; which surrender we have accepted, and do accept by these presents. [sidenote: new grant to sir william d'avenant, his heirs and assignes.] [sidenote: to erect a theatre in london or westminster, or the suburbs.] know ye that we of our especial grace, certain knowledge, and meer motion, and upon the humble petition of the said sir william d'avenant, and in consideration of the good and faithful service which he the said sir william d'avenant hath done unto us, and doth intend to do for the future; and in consideration of the said surrender, have given and granted, and by these presents, for us, our heirs and successors, do give and grant, unto the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, full power, licence, and authority, that he, they, and every one of them, by him and themselves, and by all and every such person and persons as he or they should depute or appoint, and his or their labourers, servants, and workmen, shall and may lawfully, peaceably, and quietly, frame, erect, new build, and set up, in any place within our cities of london and westminster, or the suburbs thereof, where he or they shall find best accommodation for that purpose; to be assigned and allotted out by the surveyor of our works; one theatre or play-house, with necessary tiring and retiring rooms, and other places convenient, of such extent and dimention as the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs or assigns shall think fitting: wherein tragedies, comedies, plays, operas, musick, scenes, and all other entertainments of the stage whatsoever, may be shewed and presented. [sidenote: and to entertain players, &c. to act without the impeachment of any person.] and we do hereby, for us, our heirs and successors, grant unto the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs and assigns, full power, licence, and authority, from time to time, to gather together, entertain, govern, priviledge and keep, such and so many players and persons to exercise and act tragedies, comedies, plays, operas, and other performances of the stage, within the house to be built as aforesaid, or within the house in lincoln's-inn-fields, wherein the said sir william d'avenant doth now exercise the premises; or within any other house, where he or they can best be fitted for that purpose, within our cities of london and westminster, or the suburbs thereof; which said company shall be the servants of our dearly beloved brother, james duke of york, and shall consist of such number as the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs or assigns, shall from time to time think meet. and such persons to permit and continue at and during the pleasure of the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs or assigns, from time to time, to act plays and entertainments of the stage, of all sorts, peaceably and quietly, without the impeachment or impediment of any person or persons whatsoever, for the honest recreation of such as shall desire to see the same. and that it shall and may be lawful to and for the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs and assigns, to take and receive of such our subjects as shall resort to see or hear any such plays, scenes and entertainments whatsoever, such sum or sums of money, as either have accustomably been given and taken in the like kind, or as shall be thought reasonable by him or them, in regard of the great expences of scenes, musick, and such new decorations, as have not been formerly used. and further, for us, our heirs, and successors, we do hereby give and grant unto the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs and assigns, full power to make such allowances out of that which he shall so receive, by the acting of plays and entertainments of the stage, as aforesaid, to the actors and other persons imployed in acting, representing, or in any quality whatsoever, about the said theatre, as he or they shall think fit; and that the said company shall be under the sole government and authority of the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs and assigns. and all scandalous and mutinous persons shall from time to time be by him and them ejected and disabled from playing in the said theatre. [sidenote: that no other company but this, and one other under mr. killigrew, be permitted to act within london or westminster or the suburbs.] and for that we are informed that divers companies of players have taken upon them to act plays publicly in our said cities of london and westminster, or the suburbs thereof, without any authority for that purpose; we do hereby declare our dislike of the same, and will and grant that only the said company erected and set up, or to be erected and set up by the said sir william d'avenant, his heirs and assigns, by virtue of these presents, and one other company erected and set up, or to be erected and set up by thomas killigrew, esq., his heirs or assigns, and none other, shall from henceforth act or represent comedies, tragedies, plays, or entertainments of the stage, within our said cities of london and westminster, or the suburbs thereof; which said company to be erected by the said thomas killigrew, his heirs or assigns, shall be subject to his and their government and authority, and shall be stiled the company of us and our royal consort. [sidenote: no actor to go from one company to the other.] and the better to preserve amity and correspondency betwixt the said companies, and that the one may not incroach upon the other by any indirect means, we will and ordain, that no actor or other person employed about either of the said theatres, erected by the said sir william d'avenant and thomas killigrew, or either of them, or deserting his company, shall be received by the governor or any of the said other company, or any other person or persons, to be employed in acting, or in any matter relating to the stage, without the consent and approbation of the governor of the company, whereof the said person so ejected or deserting was a member, signified under his hand and seal. and we do by these presents declare all other company and companies, saving the two companies before mentioned, to be silenced and suppressed. [sidenote: to correct plays, &c.] and forasmuch as many plays, formerly acted, do contain several prophane, obscene, and scurrilous passages; and the womens parts therein have been acted by men in the habits of women, at which some have taken offence: for the preventing of these abuses for the future, we do hereby straitly charge and command and enjoyn, that from henceforth no new play shall be acted by either of the said companies, containing any passages offensive to piety and good manners, nor any old or revived play, containing any such offensive passages as aforesaid, until the same shall be corrected and purged, by the said masters or governors of the said respective companies, from all such offensive and scandalous passages, as aforesaid. and we do likewise permit and give leave that all the womens parts to be acted in either of the said two companies for the time to come, may be performed by women, so long as these recreations, which, by reason of the abuses aforesaid, were scandalous and offensive, may by such reformation be esteemed, not only harmless delights, but useful and instructive representations of humane life, to such of our good subjects as shall resort to see the same. [sidenote: these letters patents to be good and effectual in the law, according to the true meaning of the same, although, &c.] and these our letters patents, or the inrolment thereof, shall be in all things good and effectual in the law, according to the true intent and meaning of the same, any thing in these presents contained, or any law, statute, act, ordinance proclamation, provision, restriction, or any other matter, cause, or thing whatsoever to the contrary, in any wise notwithstanding; although express mention of the true yearly value, or certainty of the premises, or of any of them, or of any other gifts or grants by us, or by any of our progenitors or predecessors, heretofore made to the said sir william d'avenant in these presents, is not made, or any other statute, act, ordinance, provision, proclamation, or restriction heretofore had, made, enacted, ordained, or provided, or any other matter, cause, or thing whatsoever to the contrary thereof, in any wise notwithstanding. in witness whereof, we have caused these our letters to be made patents. witness our self at westminster, the fifteenth day of january, in the fourteenth year of our reign. by the king. howard. an apology for the life of _mr._ colley cibber, _comedian_, and late patentee of the _theatre-royal_. _with an historical view of the_ stage _during his_ own time. written by himself. ------------------------------_hoc est vivere bis, vitâ posse priore frui._ mart. lib. . _when years no more of active life retain, 'tis youth renew'd, to laugh 'em o'er again._ anonym. the second edition. _london:_ printed by john watts for the author: and sold by w. lewis in _russel-street,_ near _convent--garden._ mdccxl. to a certain gentleman.[ ] _sir,_ because i know it would give you less concern to find your name in an impertinent satyr, than before the daintiest dedication of a modern author, i conceal it. let me talk never so idly to you, this way; you are, at least, under no necessity of taking it to yourself: nor when i boast of your favours, need you blush to have bestow'd them. or i may now give you all the attributes that raise a wise and good-natur'd man to esteem and happiness, and not be censured as a flatterer by my own or your enemies. ----i place my own first; because as they are the greater number, i am afraid of not paying the greater respect to them. yours, if such there are, i imagine are too well-bred to declare themselves: but as there is no hazard or visible terror in an attack upon my defenceless station, my censurers have generally been persons of an intrepid sincerity. having therefore shut the door against them while i am thus privately addressing you, i have little to apprehend from either of them. under this shelter, then, i may safely tell you, that the greatest encouragement i have had to publish this work, has risen from the several hours of patience you have lent me at the reading it. it is true, i took the advantage of your leisure in the country, where moderate matters serve for amusement; and there, indeed, how far your good-nature for an old acquaintance, or your reluctance to put the vanity of an author out of countenance, may have carried you, i cannot be sure; and yet appearances give me stronger hopes: for was not the complaisance of a whole evening's attention as much as an author of more importance ought to have expected? why then was i desired the next day to give you a second lecture? or why was i kept a third day with you, to tell you more of the same story? if these circumstances have made me vain, shall i say, sir, you are accountable for them? no, sir, i will rather so far flatter myself as to suppose it possible, that your having been a lover of the stage (and one of those few good judges who know the use and value of it, under a right regulation) might incline you to think so copious an account of it a less tedious amusement, than it may naturally be to others of different good sense, who may have less concern or taste for it. but be all this as it may; the brat is now born, and rather than see it starve upon the bare parish provision, i chuse thus clandestinely to drop it at your door, that it may exercise one of your many virtues, your charity, in supporting it. if the world were to know into whose hands i have thrown it, their regard to its patron might incline them to treat it as one of his family: but in the consciousness of what i _am_, i chuse not, sir, to say who you _are_. if your equal in rank were to do publick justice to your character, then, indeed, the concealment of your name might be an unnecessary diffidence: but am i, sir, of consequence enough, in any guise, to do honour to mr. ----? were i to set him in the most laudable lights that truth and good sense could give him, or his own likeness would require, my officious mite would be lost in that general esteem and regard which people of the first consequence, even of different parties, have a pleasure in paying him. encomiums to superiors from authors of lower life, as they are naturally liable to suspicion, can add very little lustre to what before was visible to the publick eye: such offerings (to use the stile they are generally dressed in) like _pagan_ incense, evaporate on the altar, and rather gratify the priest than the deity. but you, sir, are to be approached in terms within the reach of common sense: the honest oblation of a chearful heart is as much as you desire or i am able to bring you: a heart that has just sense enough to mix respect with intimacy, and is never more delighted than when your rural hours of leisure admit me, with all my laughing spirits, to be my idle self, and in the whole day's possession of you! then, indeed, i have reason to be vain; i am, then, distinguish'd by a pleasure too great to be conceal'd, and could almost pity the man of graver merit that dares not receive it with the same unguarded transport! this nakedness of temper the world may place in what rank of folly or weakness they please; but 'till wisdom can give me something that will make me more heartily happy, i am content to be gaz'd at as i am, without lessening my respect for those whose passions may be more soberly covered. yet, sir, will i not deceive you; 'tis not the lustre of your publick merit, the affluence of your fortune, your high figure in life, nor those honourable distinctions, which you had rather deserve than be told of, that have so many years made my plain heart hang after you: these are but incidental ornaments, that, 'tis true, may be of service to you in the world's opinion; and though, as one among the crowd, i may rejoice that providence has so deservedly bestow'd them; yet my particular attachment has risen from a meer natural and more engaging charm, the agreeable companion! nor is my vanity half so much gratified in the _honour_, as my sense is in the _delight_ of your society! when i see you lay aside the advantages of superiority, and by your own chearfulness of spirits call out all that nature has given me to meet them; then 'tis i taste you! then life runs high! i desire! i possess you! yet, sir, in this distinguish'd happiness i give not up my farther share of that pleasure, or of that right i have to look upon you with the publick eye, and to join in the general regard so unanimously pay'd to that uncommon virtue, your _integrity_! this, sir, the world allows so conspicuous a part of your character, that, however invidious the merit, neither the rude license of detraction, nor the prejudice of party, has ever once thrown on it the least impeachment or reproach. this is that commanding power that, in publick speaking, makes you heard with such attention! this it is that discourages and keeps silent the insinuations of prejudice and suspicion; and almost renders your eloquence an unnecessary aid to your assertions: even your opponents, conscious of your _integrity_, hear you rather as a witness than an orator--but this, sir, is drawing you too near the light, _integrity_ is too particular a virtue to be cover'd with a general application. let me therefore only talk to you, as at _tusculum_ (for so i will call that sweet retreat, which your own hands have rais'd) where like the fam'd orator of old, when publick cares permit, you pass so many rational, unbending hours: there! and at such times, to have been admitted, still plays in my memory more like a fictitious than a real enjoyment! how many golden evenings, in that theatrical paradise of water'd lawns and hanging groves, have i walk'd and prated down the sun in social happiness! whether the retreat of _cicero_, in cost, magnificence, or curious luxury of antiquities, might not out-blaze the _simplex munditiis_, the modest ornaments of your _villa_, is not within my reading to determine: but that the united power of nature, art, or elegance of taste, could have thrown so many varied objects into a more delightful harmony, is beyond my conception. when i consider you in this view, and as the gentleman of eminence surrounded with the general benevolence of mankind; i rejoice, sir, for you and for myself; to see _you_ in this particular light of merit, and myself sometimes admitted to my more than equal share of you. if this _apology_ for my past life discourages you not from holding me in your usual favour, let me quit this greater stage, the world, whenever i may, i shall think this the best-acted part of any i have undertaken, since you first condescended to laugh with, _sir_, _your most obedient_, _most obliged, and_ _most humble servant_, colley cibber. novemb. . . an apology for the life of mr. colley cibber, &c. [ ] chapter i. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the introduction. the author's birth. various fortune at school. not lik'd by those he lov'd there. why. a digression upon raillery. the use and abuse of it. the comforts of folly. vanity of greatness. laughing, no bad philosophy._ you know, sir, i have often told you that one time or other i should give the publick some memoirs of my own life; at which you have never fail'd to laugh, like a friend, without saying a word to dissuade me from it; concluding, i suppose, that such a wild thought could not possibly require a serious answer. but you see i was in earnest. and now you will say the world will find me, under my own hand, a weaker man than perhaps i may have pass'd for, even among my enemies.--with all my heart! my enemies will then read me with pleasure, and you, perhaps, with envy, when you find that follies, without the reproach of guilt upon them, are not inconsistent with happiness.--but why make my follies publick? why not? i have pass'd my time very pleasantly with them, and i don't recollect that they have ever been hurtful to any other man living. even admitting they were injudiciously chosen, would it not be vanity in me to take shame to myself for not being found a wise man? really, sir, my appetites were in too much haste to be happy, to throw away my time in pursuit of a name i was sure i could never arrive at. now the follies i frankly confess i look upon as in some measure discharged; while those i conceal are still keeping the account open between me and my conscience. to me the fatigue of being upon a continual guard to hide them is more than the reputation of being without them can repay. if this be weakness, _defendit numerus_, i have such comfortable numbers on my side, that were all men to blush that are not wise, i am afraid, in ten, nine parts of the world ought to be out of countenance:[ ] but since that sort of modesty is what they don't care to come into, why should i be afraid of being star'd at for not being particular? or if the particularity lies in owning my weakness, will my wisest reader be so inhuman as not to pardon it? but if there should be such a one, let me at least beg him to shew me that strange man who is perfect! is any one more unhappy, more ridiculous, than he who is always labouring to be thought so, or that is impatient when he is not thought so? having brought myself to be easy under whatever the world may say of my undertaking, you may still ask me why i give myself all this trouble? is it for fame, or profit to myself,[ ] or use or delight to others? for all these considerations i have neither fondness nor indifference: if i obtain none of them, the amusement, at worst, will be a reward that must constantly go along with the labour. but behind all this there is something inwardly inciting, which i cannot express in few words; i must therefore a little make bold with your patience. a man who has pass'd above forty years of his life upon a theatre, where he has never appear'd to be himself, may have naturally excited the curiosity of his spectators to know what he really was when in no body's shape but his own; and whether he, who by his profession had so long been ridiculing his benefactors, might not, when the coat of his profession was off, deserve to be laugh'd at himself; or from his being often seen in the most flagrant and immoral characters, whether he might not see as great a rogue when he look'd into the glass himself as when he held it to others. it was doubtless from a supposition that this sort of curiosity wou'd compensate their labours that so many hasty writers have been encourag'd to publish the lives of the late mrs. _oldfield_, mr. _wilks_, and mr. _booth_, in less time after their deaths than one could suppose it cost to transcribe them.[ ] now, sir, when my time comes, lest they shou'd think it worth while to handle my memory with the same freedom, i am willing to prevent its being so odly besmear'd (or at best but flatly white-wash'd) by taking upon me to give the publick this, as true a picture of myself as natural vanity will permit me to draw: for to promise you that i shall never be vain, were a promise that, like a looking-glass too large, might break itself in the making: nor am i sure i ought wholly to avoid that imputation, because if vanity be one of my natural features, the portrait wou'd not be like me without it. in a word, i may palliate and soften as much as i please; but upon an honest examination of my heart, i am afraid the same vanity which makes even homely people employ painters to preserve a flattering record of their persons, has seduced me to print off this _chiaro oscuro_ of my mind. and when i have done it, you may reasonably ask me of what importance can the history of my private life be to the publick? to this, indeed, i can only make you a ludicrous answer, which is, that the publick very well knows my life has not been a private one; that i have been employ'd in their service ever since many of their grandfathers were young men; and tho' i have voluntarily laid down my post, they have a sort of right to enquire into my conduct (for which they have so well paid me) and to call for the account of it during my share of administration in the state of the theatre. this work, therefore, which i hope they will not expect a man of hasty head shou'd confine to any regular method: (for i shall make no scruple of leaving my history when i think a digression may make it lighter for my reader's digestion.) this work, i say, shall not only contain the various impressions of my mind, (as in _louis the fourteenth_ his cabinet you have seen the growing medals of his person from infancy to old age,) but shall likewise include with them the _theatrical history of my own time_, from my first appearance on the stage to my last _exit_.[ ] if then what i shall advance on that head may any ways contribute to the prosperity or improvement of the stage in being, the publick must of consequence have a share in its utility. this, sir, is the best apology i can make for being my own biographer. give me leave therefore to open the first scene of my life from the very day i came into it; and tho' (considering my profession) i have no reason to be asham'd of my original; yet i am afraid a plain dry account of it will scarce admit of a better excuse than what my brother _bays_ makes for prince _prettyman_ in the _rehearsal_, viz. _i only do it for fear i should be thought to be no body's son at all_;[ ] for if i have led a worthless life, the weight of my pedigree will not add an ounce to my intrinsic value. but be the inference what it will, the simple truth is this. i was born in _london_, on the _ th_ of _november _,[ ] in _southampton-street_, facing _southampton-house_.[ ] my father, _caius gabriel cibber_,[ ] was a native of _holstein_, who came into _england_ some time before the restoration of king _charles_ ii. to follow his profession, which was that of a statuary, _&c._ the _basso relievo_ on the pedestal of the great column in the city, and the two figures of the _lunaticks_, the _raving_ and the _melancholy_, over the gates of _bethlehem-hospital_,[ ] are no ill monuments of his fame as an artist. my mother was the daughter of _william colley_, esq; of a very ancient family of _glaiston_ in _rutlandshire_, where she was born. my mother's brother, _edward colley_, esq; (who gave me my christian name) being the last heir male of it, the family is now extinct. i shall only add, that in _wright's_ history of _rutlandshire_, publish'd in , the _colley's_ are recorded as sheriffs and members of parliament from the reign of _henry_ vii. to the latter end of _charles_ i., in whose cause chiefly sir _antony colley_, my mother's grandfather, sunk his estate from three thousand to about three hundred _per annum_.[ ] in the year , at little more than ten years of age, i was sent to the free-school of _grantham_ in _lincolnshire_, where i staid till i got through it, from the lowest form to the uppermost. and such learning as that school could give me is the most i pretend to (which, tho' i have not utterly forgot, i cannot say i have much improv'd by study) but even there i remember i was the same inconsistent creature i have been ever since! always in full spirits, in some small capacity to do right, but in a more frequent alacrity to do wrong; and consequently often under a worse character than i wholly deserv'd: a giddy negligence always possess'd me, and so much, that i remember i was once whipp'd for my _theme_, tho' my master told me, at the same time, what was good of it was better than any boy's in the form. and (whatever shame it may be to own it) i have observ'd the same odd fate has frequently attended the course of my later conduct in life. the unskilful openness, or in plain terms, the indiscretion i have always acted with from my youth, has drawn more ill-will towards me, than men of worse morals and more wit might have met with. my ignorance and want of jealousy of mankind has been so strong, that it is with reluctance i even yet believe any person i am acquainted with can be capable of envy, malice, or ingratitude:[ ] and to shew you what a mortification it was to me, in my very boyish days, to find myself mistaken, give me leave to tell you a school story. a great boy, near the head taller than myself, in some wrangle at play had insulted me; upon which i was fool-hardy enough to give him a box on the ear; the blow was soon return'd with another that brought me under him and at his mercy. another lad, whom i really lov'd and thought a good-natur'd one, cry'd out with some warmth to my antagonist (while i was down) beat him, beat him soundly! this so amaz'd me that i lost all my spirits to resist, and burst into tears! when the fray was over i took my friend aside, and ask'd him, how he came to be so earnestly against me? to which, with some glouting[ ] confusion, he reply'd, because you are always jeering and making a jest of me to every boy in the school. many a mischief have i brought upon myself by the same folly in riper life. whatever reason i had to reproach my companion's declaring against me, i had none to wonder at it while i was so often hurting him: thus i deserv'd his enmity by my not having sense enough to know i _had_ hurt him; and he hated me because he had not sense enough to know that i never _intended_ to hurt him. as this is the first remarkable error of my life i can recollect, i cannot pass it by without throwing out some further reflections upon it; whether flat or spirited, new or common, false or true, right or wrong, they will be still my own, and consequently like me; i will therefore boldly go on; for i am only oblig'd to give you my _own,_ and not a _good_ picture, to shew as well the weakness as the strength of my understanding. it is not on what i write, but on my reader's curiosity i relie to be read through: at worst, tho' the impartial may be tir'd, the ill-natur'd (no small number) i know will see the bottom of me. what i observ'd then, upon my having undesignedly provok'd my school-friend into an enemy, is a common case in society; errors of this kind often sour the blood of acquaintance into an inconceivable aversion, where it is little suspected. it is not enough to say of your raillery that you intended no offence; if the person you offer it to has either a wrong head, or wants a capacity to make that distinction, it may have the same effect as the intention of the grossest injury: and in reality, if you know his parts are too slow to return it in kind, it is a vain and idle inhumanity, and sometimes draws the aggressor into difficulties not easily got out of: or to give the case more scope, suppose your friend may have a passive indulgence for your mirth, if you find him silent at it; tho' you were as intrepid as _cæsar_, there can be no excuse for your not leaving it off. when you are conscious that your antagonist can give as well as take, then indeed the smarter the hit the more agreeable the party: a man of chearful sense among friends will never be grave upon an attack of this kind, but rather thank you that you have given him a right to be even with you: there are few men (tho' they may be masters of both) that on such occasions had not rather shew their parts than their courage, and the preference is just; a bull-dog may have one, and only a man can have the other. thus it happens that in the coarse merriment of common people, when the jest begins to swell into earnest; for want of this election you may observe, he that has least wit generally gives the first blow. now, as among the better sort, a readiness of wit is not always a sign of intrinsick merit; so the want of that readiness is no reproach to a man of plain sense and civility, who therefore (methinks) should never have these lengths of liberty taken with him. wit there becomes absurd, if not insolent; ill-natur'd i am sure it is, which imputation a generous spirit will always avoid, for the same reason that a man of real honour will never send a challenge to a cripple. the inward wounds that are given by the inconsiderate insults of wit to those that want it, are as dangerous as those given by oppression to inferiors; as long in healing, and perhaps never forgiven. there is besides (and little worse than this) a mutual grossness in raillery that sometimes is more painful to the hearers that are not concern'd in it than to the persons engaged. i have seen a couple of these clumsy combatants drub one another with as little manners or mercy as if they had two flails in their hands; children at play with case-knives could not give you more apprehension of their doing one another a mischief. and yet, when the contest has been over, the boobys have look'd round them for approbation, and upon being told they were admirably well match'd, have sat down (bedawb'd as they were) contented at making it a drawn battle. after all that i have said, there is no clearer way of giving rules for raillery than by example. there are two persons now living, who tho' very different in their manner, are, as far as my judgment reaches, complete masters of it; one of a more polite and extensive imagination, the other of a knowledge more closely useful to the business of life: the one gives you perpetual pleasure, and seems always to be taking it; the other seems to take none till his business is over, and then gives you as much as if pleasure were his only business. the one enjoys his fortune, the other thinks it first necessary to make it; though that he will enjoy it then i cannot be positive, because when a man has once pick'd up more than he wants, he is apt to think it a weakness to suppose he has enough. but as i don't remember ever to have seen these gentlemen in the same company, you must give me leave to take them separately.[ ] the first of them, then, has a title, and----no matter what; i am not to speak of the great, but the happy part of his character, and in this one single light; not of his being an illustrious, but a delightful companion. in conversation he is seldom silent but when he is attentive, nor ever speaks without exciting the attention of others; and tho' no man might with less displeasure to his hearers engross the talk of the company, he has a patience in his vivacity that chuses to divide it, and rather gives more freedom than he takes; his sharpest replies having a mixture of politeness that few have the command of; his expression is easy, short, and clear; a stiff or studied word never comes from him; it is in a simplicity of style that he gives the highest surprize, and his ideas are always adapted to the capacity and taste of the person he speaks to: perhaps you will understand me better if i give you a particular instance of it. a person at the university, who from being a man of wit easily became his acquaintance there, from that acquaintance found no difficulty in being made one of his chaplains: this person afterwards leading a life that did no great honour to his cloth, obliged his patron to take some gentle notice of it; but as his patron knew the patient was squeamish, he was induced to sweeten the medicine to his taste, and therefore with a smile of good humour told him, that if to the many vices he had already, he would give himself the trouble to add one more, he did not doubt but his reputation might still be set up again. sir _crape_, who could have no aversion to so pleasant a dose, desiring to know what it might be, was answered, _hypocrisy, doctor, only a little hypocrisy_! this plain reply can need no comment; but _ex pede herculem_, he is every where proportionable. i think i have heard him since say, the doctor thought hypocrisy so detestable a sin that he dy'd without committing it. in a word, this gentleman gives spirit to society the moment he comes into it, and whenever he leaves it they who have business have then leisure to go about it. having often had the honour to be my self the but of his raillery, i must own i have received more pleasure from his lively manner of raising the laugh against me, than i could have felt from the smoothest flattery of a serious civility. tho' wit flows from him with as much ease as common sense from another, he is so little elated with the advantage he may have over you, that whenever your good fortune gives it against him, he seems more pleas'd with it on your side than his own. the only advantage he makes of his superiority of rank is, that by always waving it himself, his inferior finds he is under the greater obligation not to forget it. when the conduct of social wit is under such regulations, how delightful must those _convivia,_ those meals of conversation be, where such a member presides; who can with so much ease (as _shakespear_ phrases it) _set the table in a roar_.[ ] i am in no pain that these imperfect out-lines will be apply'd to the person i mean, because every one who has the happiness to know him must know how much more in this particular attitude is wanting to be like him. the other gentleman, whose bare interjections of laughter have humour in them, is so far from having a title that he has lost his real name, which some years ago he suffer'd his friends to railly him out of; in lieu of which they have equipp'd him with one they thought had a better sound in good company. he is the first man of so sociable a spirit that i ever knew capable of quitting the allurements of wit and pleasure for a strong application to business; in his youth (for there was a time when he was young) he set out in all the hey-day expences of a modish man of fortune; but finding himself over-weighted with appetites, he grew restiff, kick'd up in the middle of the course, and turn'd his back upon his frolicks abroad, to think of improving his estate at home: in order to which he clapt collars upon his coach-horses, and that their mettle might not run over other people, he ty'd a plough to their tails, which tho' it might give them a more slovenly air, would enable him to keep them fatter in a foot pace, with a whistling peasant beside them, than in a full trot, with a hot-headed coachman behind them. in these unpolite amusements he has laugh'd like a rake and look'd about him like a farmer for many years. as his rank and station often find him in the best company, his easy humour, whenever he is called to it, can still make himself the fiddle of it. and tho' some say he looks upon the follies of the world like too severe a philosopher, yet he rather chuses to laugh than to grieve at them; to pass his time therefore more easily in it, he often endeavours to conceal himself by assuming the air and taste of a man in fashion; so that his only uneasiness seems to be, that he cannot quite prevail with his friends to think him a worse manager than he really is; for they carry their raillery to such a height that it sometimes rises to a charge of downright avarice against him. upon which head it is no easy matter to be more merry upon him than he will be upon himself. thus while he sets that infirmity in a pleasant light, he so disarms your prejudice, that if he has it not, you can't find in your heart to wish he were without it. whenever he is attack'd where he seems to lie so open, if his wit happens not to be ready for you, he receives you with an assenting laugh, till he has gain'd time enough to whet it sharp enough for a reply, which seldom turns out to his disadvantage. if you are too strong for him (which may possibly happen from his being oblig'd to defend the weak side of the question) his last resource is to join in the laugh till he has got himself off by an ironical applause of your superiority. if i were capable of envy, what i have observ'd of this gentleman would certainly incline me to it; for sure to get through the necessary cares of life with a train of pleasures at our heels in vain calling after us, to give a constant preference to the business of the day, and yet be able to laugh while we are about it, to make even society the subservient reward of it, is a state of happiness which the gravest precepts of moral wisdom will not easily teach us to exceed. when i speak of happiness, i go no higher than that which is contain'd in the world we now tread upon; and when i speak of laughter, i don't simply mean that which every oaf is capable of, but that which has its sensible motive and proper season, which is not more limited than recommended by that indulgent philosophy, _cum ratione insanire._[ ] when i look into my present self, and afterwards cast my eye round all my hopes, i don't see any one pursuit of them that should so reasonably rouze me out of a nod in my great chair, as a call to those agreeable parties i have sometimes the happiness to mix with, where i always assert the equal liberty of leaving them, when my spirits have done their best with them. [illustration: caius cibber.] now, sir, as i have been making my way for above forty years through a crowd of cares, (all which, by the favour of providence, i have honestly got rid of) is it a time of day for me to leave off these fooleries, and to set up a new character? can it be worth my while to waste my spirits, to bake my blood, with serious contemplations, and perhaps impair my health, in the fruitless study of advancing myself into the better opinion of those very--very few wise men that are as old as i am? no, the part i have acted in real life shall be all of a piece, ----_servetur ad imum, qualis ab incepto processerit._ hor.[ ] i will not go out of my character by straining to be wiser than i _can_ be, or by being more affectedly pensive than i _need_ be; whatever i am, men of sense will know me to be, put on what disguise i will; i can no more put off my follies than my skin; i have often try'd, but they stick too close to me; nor am i sure my friends are displeased with them; for, besides that in this light i afford them frequent matter of mirth, they may possibly be less uneasy at their _own_ foibles when they have so old a precedent to keep them in countenance: nay, there are some frank enough to confess they envy what they laugh at; and when i have seen others, whose rank and fortune have laid a sort of restraint upon their liberty of pleasing their company by pleasing themselves, i have said softly to myself,----well, there is some advantage in having neither rank nor fortune! not but there are among them a third sort, who have the particular happiness of unbending into the very wantonness of good-humour without depreciating their dignity: he that is not master of that freedom, let his condition be never so exalted, must still want something to come up to the happiness of his inferiors who enjoy it. if _socrates_ cou'd take pleasure in playing at _even or odd_ with his children, or _agesilaus_ divert himself in riding the hobby-horse with them, am i oblig'd to be as eminent as either of them before i am as frolicksome? if the emperor _adrian_, near his death, cou'd play with his very soul, his _animula_, &c. and regret that it cou'd be no longer companionable; if greatness at the same time was not the delight he was so loth to part with, sure then these chearful amusements i am contending for must have no inconsiderable share in our happiness; he that does not chuse to live his own way, suffers others to chuse for him. give me the joy i always took in the end of an old song, _my mind, my mind is a kingdom to me!_[ ] if i can please myself with my own follies, have not i a plentiful provision for life? if the world thinks me a trifler, i don't desire to break in upon their wisdom; let them call me any fool but an unchearful one; i live as i write; while my way amuses me, it's as well as i wish it; when another writes better, i can like him too, tho' he shou'd not like me. not our great imitator of _horace_ himself can have more pleasure in writing his verses than i have in reading them, tho' i sometimes find myself there (as _shakespear_ terms it) _dispraisingly_[ ] spoken of:[ ] if he is a little free with me, i am generally in good company, he is as blunt with my betters; so that even here i might laugh in my turn. my superiors, perhaps, may be mended by him; but, for my part, i own myself incorrigible: i look upon my follies as the best part of my fortune, and am more concern'd to be a good husband of them, than of that; nor do i believe i shall ever be rhim'd out of them. and, if i don't mistake, i am supported in my way of thinking by _horace_ himself, who, in excuse of a loose writer, says, _prætulerim scriptor delirus, inersque videri, dum mea delectent mala me, vel denique fallant, quam sapere, et ringi_----[ ] which, to speak of myself as a loose philosopher, i have thus ventur'd to imitate: _me, while my laughing follies can deceive, blest in the dear delirium let me live, rather than wisely know my wants and grieve._ we had once a merry monarch of our own, who thought chearfulness so valuable a blessing, that he would have quitted one of his kingdoms where he cou'd not enjoy it; where, among many other conditions they had ty'd him to, his sober subjects wou'd not suffer him to laugh on a _sunday_; and tho' this might not be the avow'd cause of his elopement,[ ] i am not sure, had he had no other, that this alone might not have serv'd his turn; at least, he has my hearty approbation either way; for had i been under the same restriction, tho' my staying were to have made me his successor, i shou'd rather have chosen to follow him. how far his subjects might be in the right is not my affair to determine; perhaps they were wiser than the frogs in the fable, and rather chose to have a log than a stork for their king; yet i hope it will be no offence to say that king _log_ himself must have made but a very simple figure in history. the man who chuses never to laugh, or whose becalm'd passions know no motion, seems to me only in the quiet state of a green tree; he vegetates, 'tis true, but shall we say he lives? now, sir, for amusement--reader, take heed! for i find a strong impulse to talk impertinently; if therefore you are not as fond of seeing, as i am of shewing myself in all my lights, you may turn over two leaves together, and leave what follows to those who have more curiosity, and less to do with their time, than you have.--as i was saying then, let us, for amusement, advance this, or any other prince, to the most glorious throne, mark out his empire in what clime you please, fix him on the highest pinnacle of unbounded power; and in that state let us enquire into his degree of happiness; make him at once the terror and the envy of his neighbours, send his ambition out to war, and gratify it with extended fame and victories; bring him in triumph home, with great unhappy captives behind him, through the acclamations of his people, to repossess his realms in peace. well, when the dust has been brusht from his purple, what will he do next? why, this envy'd monarch (who we will allow to have a more exalted mind than to be delighted with the trifling flatteries of a congratulating circle) will chuse to retire, i presume, to enjoy in private the contemplation of his glory; an amusement, you will say, that well becomes his station! but there, in that pleasing rumination, when he has made up his new account of happiness, how much, pray, will be added to the balance more than as it stood before his last expedition? from what one article will the improvement of it appear? will it arise from the conscious pride of having done his weaker enemy an injury? are his eyes so dazzled with false glory that he thinks it a less crime in him to break into the palace of his princely neighbour, because he gave him time to defend it, than for a subject feloniously to plunder the house of a private man? or is the outrage of hunger and necessity more enormous than the ravage of ambition? let us even suppose the wicked usage of the world as to that point may keep his conscience quiet; still, what is he to do with the infinite spoil that his imperial rapine has brought home? is he to sit down and vainly deck himself with the jewels which he has plunder'd from the crown of another, whom self-defence had compell'd to oppose him? no, let us not debase his glory into so low a weakness. what appetite, then, are these shining treasures food for? is their vast value in seeing his vulgar subjects stare at them, wise men smile at them, or his children play with them? or can the new extent of his dominions add a cubit to his happiness? was not his empire wide enough before to do good in? and can it add to his delight that now no monarch has such room to do mischief in? but farther; if even the great _augustus_, to whose reign such praises are given, cou'd not enjoy his days of peace free from the terrors of repeated conspiracies, which lost him more quiet to suppress than his ambition cost him to provoke them: what human eminence is secure? in what private cabinet then must this wondrous monarch lock up his happiness that common eyes are never to behold it? is it, like his person, a prisoner to its own superiority? or does he at last poorly place it in the triumph of his injurious devastations? one moment's search into himself will plainly shew him that real and reasonable happiness can have no existence without innocence and liberty. what a mockery is greatness without them? how lonesome must be the life of that monarch who, while he governs only by being fear'd, is restrain'd from letting down his grandeur sometimes to forget himself and to humanize him into the benevolence and joy of society? to throw off his cumbersome robe of majesty, to be a man without disguise, to have a sensible taste of life in its simplicity, till he confess from the sweet experience that _dulce est desipere in loco_[ ] was no fool's philosophy. or if the gawdy charms of pre-eminence are so strong that they leave him no sense of a less pompous, tho' a more rational enjoyment, none sure can envy him but those who are the dupes of an equally fantastick ambition. my imagination is quite heated and fatigued in dressing up this phantome of felicity; but i hope it has not made me so far misunderstood, as not to have allow'd that in all the dispensations of providence the exercise of a great and virtuous mind is the most elevated state of happiness: no, sir, i am not for setting up gaiety against wisdom; nor for preferring the man of pleasure to the philosopher; but for shewing that the wisest or greatest man is very near an unhappy man, if the unbending amusements i am contending for are not sometimes admitted to relieve him. how far i may have over-rated these amusements let graver casuists decide; whether they affirm or reject what i have asserted hurts not my purpose; which is not to give laws to others; but to shew by what laws i govern myself: if i am mis-guided, 'tis nature's fault, and i follow her from this persuasion; that as nature has distinguish'd our species from the mute creation by our risibility, her design must have been by that faculty as evidently to raise our happiness, as by our _os sublime_[ ] (our erected faces) to lift the dignity of our form above them. notwithstanding all i have said, i am afraid there is an absolute power in what is simply call'd our constitution that will never admit of other rules for happiness than her own; from which (be we never so wise or weak) without divine assistance we only can receive it; so that all this my parade and grimace of philosophy has been only making a mighty merit of following my own inclination. a very natural vanity! though it is some sort of satisfaction to know it does not impose upon me. vanity again! however, think it what you will that has drawn me into this copious digression, 'tis now high time to drop it: i shall therefore in my next chapter return to my school, from whence i fear i have too long been truant. chapter ii. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _he that writes of himself not easily tir'd. boys may give men lessons. the author's preferment at school attended with misfortunes. the danger of merit among equals. of satyrists and backbiters. what effect they have had upon the author. stanzas publish'd by himself against himself._ it often makes me smile to think how contentedly i have set myself down to write my own life; nay, and with less concern for what may be said of it than i should feel were i to do the same for a deceased acquaintance. this you will easily account for when you consider that nothing gives a coxcomb more delight than when you suffer him to talk of himself; which sweet liberty i here enjoy for a whole volume together! a privilege which neither cou'd be allow'd me, nor wou'd become me to take, in the company i am generally admitted to;[ ] but here, when i have all the talk to myself, and have no body to interrupt or contradict me, sure, to say whatever i have a mind other people shou'd know of me is a pleasure which none but authors as vain as myself can conceive.----but to my history. however little worth notice the life of a school-boy may be supposed to contain, yet, as the passions of men and children have much the same motives and differ very little in their effects, unless where the elder experience may be able to conceal them: as therefore what arises from the boy may possibly be a lesson to the man, i shall venture to relate a fact or two that happen'd while i was still at school. in _february, - _, died king _charles_ ii. who being the only king i had ever seen, i remember (young as i was) his death made a strong impression upon me, as it drew tears from the eyes of multitudes, who looked no further into him than i did: but it was, then, a sort of school-doctrine to regard our monarch as a deity; as in the former reign it was to insist he was accountable to this world as well as to that above him. but what, perhaps, gave king _charles_ ii. this peculiar possession of so many hearts, was his affable and easy manner in conversing; which is a quality that goes farther with the greater part of mankind than many higher virtues, which, in a prince, might more immediately regard the publick prosperity. even his indolent amusement of playing with his dogs and feeding his ducks in st. _james's park_, (which i have seen him do) made the common people adore him, and consequently overlook in him what, in a prince of a different temper, they might have been out of humour at. i cannot help remembring one more particular in those times, tho' it be quite foreign to what will follow. i was carry'd by my father to the chapel in _whitehall_; where i saw the king and his royal brother the then duke of _york_, with him in the closet, and present during the whole divine service. such dispensation, it seems, for his interest, had that unhappy prince from his real religion, to assist at another to which his heart was so utterly averse.----i now proceed to the facts i promis'd to speak of. king _charles_ his death was judg'd by our school-master a proper subject to lead the form i was in into a higher kind of exercise; he therefore enjoin'd us severally to make his funeral oration: this sort of task, so entirely new to us all, the boys receiv'd with astonishment as a work above their capacity; and tho' the master persisted in his command, they one and all, except myself, resolved to decline it. but i, sir, who was ever giddily forward and thoughtless of consequences, set myself roundly to work, and got through it as well as i could. i remember to this hour that single topick of his affability (which made me mention it before) was the chief motive that warm'd me into the undertaking; and to shew how very childish a notion i had of his character at that time, i raised his humanity, and love of those who serv'd him, to such height, that i imputed his death to the shock he receiv'd from the lord _arlington's_ being at the point of death about a week before him.[ ] this oration, such as it was, i produc'd the next morning: all the other boys pleaded their inability, which the master taking rather as a mark of their modesty than their idleness, only seem'd to punish by setting me at the head of the form: a preferment dearly bought! much happier had i been to have sunk my performance in the general modesty of declining it. a most uncomfortable life i led among them for many a day after! i was so jeer'd, laugh'd at, and hated as a pragmatical bastard (school-boys language) who had betray'd the whole form, that scarce any of 'em wou'd keep me company; and tho' it so far advanc'd me into the master's favour that he wou'd often take me from the school to give me an airing with him on horseback, while they were left to their lessons; you may be sure such envy'd happiness did not encrease their good-will to me: notwithstanding which my stupidity cou'd take no warning from their treatment. an accident of the same nature happen'd soon after, that might have frighten'd a boy of a meek spirit from attempting any thing above the lowest capacity. on the d of _april_ following, being the coronation-day of the new king, the school petition'd the master for leave to play; to which he agreed, provided any of the boys would produce an _english_ ode upon that occasion.----the very word, _ode_, i know makes you smile already; and so it does me; not only because it still makes so many poor devils turn wits upon it, but from a more agreeable motive; from a reflection of how little i then thought that, half a century afterwards, i shou'd be call'd upon twice a year, by my post,[ ] to make the same kind of oblations to an _unexceptionable_ prince, the serene happiness of whose reign my halting rhimes are still so unequal to----this, i own, is vanity without disguise; but _hæc olim meminisse juvat_:[ ] the remembrance of the miserable prospect we had then before us, and have since escaped by a revolution, is now a pleasure which, without that remembrance, i could not so heartily have enjoy'd.[ ] the ode i was speaking of fell to my lot, which in about half an hour i produc'd. i cannot say it was much above the merry style of _sing! sing the day, and sing the song_, in the farce: yet bad as it was, it serv'd to get the school a play-day, and to make me not a little vain upon it; which last effect so disgusted my play-fellows that they left me out of the party i had most a mind to be of in that day's recreation. but their ingratitude serv'd only to increase my vanity; for i consider'd them as so many beaten tits that had just had the mortification of seeing my hack of a _pegasus_ come in before them. this low passion is so rooted in our nature that sometimes riper heads cannot govern it. i have met with much the same silly sort of coldness, even from my contemporaries of the theatre, from having the superfluous capacity of writing myself the characters i have acted. here, perhaps, i may again seem to be vain; but if all these facts are true (as true they are) how can i help it? why am i oblig'd to conceal them? the merit of the best of them is not so extraordinary as to have warn'd me to be nice upon it; and the praise due to them is so small a fish, it was scarce worth while to throw my line into the water for it. if i confess my vanity while a boy, can it be vanity, when a man, to remember it? and if i have a tolerable feature, will not that as much belong to my picture as an imperfection? in a word, from what i have mentioned, i wou'd observe only this; that when we are conscious of the least comparative merit in ourselves, we shou'd take as much care to conceal the value we set upon it, as if it were a real defect: to be elated or vain upon it is shewing your money before people in want; ten to one but some who may think you to have too much may borrow, or pick your pocket before you get home. he who assumes praise to himself, the world will think overpays himself. even the suspicion of being vain ought as much to be dreaded as the guilt itself. _cæsar_ was of the same opinion in regard to his wife's chastity. praise, tho' it may be our due, is not like a _bank-bill_, to be paid upon demand; to be valuable it must be voluntary. when we are dun'd for it, we have a right and privilege to refuse it. if compulsion insists upon it, it can only be paid as persecution in points of faith is, in a counterfeit coin: and who ever believ'd occasional conformity to be sincere? _nero_, the most vain coxcomb of a tyrant that ever breath'd, cou'd not raise an unfeigned applause of his harp by military execution; even where praise is deserv'd, ill-nature and self-conceit (passions that poll a majority of mankind) will with less reluctance part with their mony than their approbation. men of the greatest merit are forced to stay 'till they die before the world will fairly make up their account: then indeed you have a chance for your full due, because it is less grudg'd when you are incapable of enjoying it: then perhaps even malice shall heap praises upon your memory; tho' not for your sake, but that your surviving competitors may suffer by a comparison.[ ] 'tis from the same principle that _satyr_ shall have a thousand readers where _panegyric_ has one. when i therefore find my name at length in the satyrical works of our most celebrated living author, i never look upon those lines as malice meant to me, (for he knows i never provok'd it) but profit to himself: one of his points must be, to have many readers: he considers that my face and name are more known than those of many thousands of more consequence in the kingdom: that therefore, right or wrong, a lick at the _laureat_[ ] will always be a sure bait, _ad captandum vulgus_, to catch him little readers: and that to gratify the unlearned, by now and then interspersing those merry sacrifices of an old acquaintance to their taste, is a piece of quite right poetical craft.[ ] but as a little bad poetry is the greatest crime he lays to my charge, i am willing to subscribe to his opinion of _it_.[ ] that this sort of wit is one of the easiest ways too of pleasing the generality of readers, is evident from the comfortable subsistence which our weekly retailers of politicks have been known to pick up, merely by making bold with a government that had unfortunately neglected to find their genius a better employment. hence too arises all that flat poverty of censure and invective that so often has a run in our publick papers upon the success of a new author; when, god knows, there is seldom above one writer among hundreds in being at the same time whose satyr a man of common sense ought to be mov'd at. when a master in the art is angry, then indeed we ought to be alarm'd! how terrible a weapon is satyr in the hand of a great genius? yet even there, how liable is prejudice to misuse it? how far, when general, it may reform our morals, or what cruelties it may inflict by being angrily particular,[ ] is perhaps above my reach to determine. i shall therefore only beg leave to interpose what i feel for others whom it may personally have fallen upon. when i read those mortifying lines of our most eminent author, in his character of _atticus_[ ] (_atticus_, whose genius in verse and whose morality in prose has been so justly admir'd) though i am charm'd with the poetry, my imagination is hurt at the severity of it; and tho' i allow the satyrist to have had personal provocation, yet, methinks, for that very reason he ought not to have troubled the publick with it: for, as it is observed in the d _tatler_, "in all terms of reproof, when the sentence appears to arise from personal hatred or passion, it is not then made the cause of mankind, but a misunderstanding between two persons." but if such kind of satyr has its incontestable greatness; if its exemplary brightness may not mislead inferior wits into a barbarous imitation of its severity, then i have only admir'd the verses, and expos'd myself by bringing them under so scrupulous a reflexion: but the pain which the acrimony of those verses gave me is, in some measure, allay'd in finding that this inimitable writer, as he advances in years, has since had candour enough to celebrate the same person for his visible merit. happy genius! whose verse, like the eye of beauty, can heal the deepest wounds with the least glance of favour. since i am got so far into this subject, you must give me leave to go thro' all i have a mind to say upon it; because i am not sure that in a more proper place my memory may be so full of it. i cannot find, therefore, from what reason satyr is allow'd more licence than comedy, or why either of them (to be admir'd) ought not to be limited by decency and justice. let _juvenal_ and _aristophanes_ have taken what liberties they please, if the learned have nothing more than their antiquity to justify their laying about them at that enormous rate, i shall wish they had a better excuse for them! the personal ridicule and scurrility thrown upon _socrates_, which _plutarch_ too condemns; and the boldness of _juvenal_, in writing real names over guilty characters, i cannot think are to be pleaded in right of our modern liberties of the same kind. _facit indignatio versum_[ ] may be a very spirited expression, and seems to give a reader hopes of a lively entertainment: but i am afraid reproof is in unequal hands when anger is its executioner; and tho' an outrageous invective may carry some truth in it, yet it will never have that natural, easy credit with us which we give to the laughing ironies of a cool head. the satyr that can smile _circum præcordia ludit_, and seldom fails to bring the reader quite over to his side whenever ridicule and folly are at variance. but when a person satyriz'd is us'd with the extreamest rigour, he may sometimes meet with compassion instead of contempt, and throw back the odium that was designed for him, upon the author. when i would therefore disarm the satyrist of this indignation, i mean little more than that i would take from him all private or personal prejudice, and wou'd still leave him as much general vice to scourge as he pleases, and that with as much fire and spirit as art and nature demand to enliven his work and keep his reader awake. against all this it may be objected, that these are laws which none but phlegmatick writers will observe, and only men of eminence should give. i grant it, and therefore only submit them to writers of better judgment. i pretend not to restrain others from chusing what i don't like; they are welcome (if they please too) to think i offer these rules more from an incapacity to break them than from a moral humanity. let it be so! still, that will not weaken the strength of what i have asserted, if my assertion be true. and though i allow that provocation is not apt to weigh out its resentments by drachms and scruples, i shall still think that no publick revenge can be honourable where it is not limited by justice; and if honour is insatiable in its revenge it loses what it contends for and sinks itself, if not into cruelty, at least into vain-glory. this so singular concern which i have shewn for others may naturally lead you to ask me what i feel for myself when i am unfavourably treated by the elaborate authors of our daily papers.[ ] shall i be sincere? and own my frailty? its usual effect is to make me vain! for i consider if i were quite good for nothing these pidlers in wit would not be concern'd to take me to pieces, or (not to be quite so vain) when they moderately charge me with only ignorance or dulness, i see nothing in that which an honest man need be asham'd of:[ ] there is many a good soul who from those sweet slumbers of the brain are never awaken'd by the least harmful thought; and i am sometimes tempted to think those retailers of wit may be of the same class; that what they write proceeds not from malice, but industry; and that i ought no more to reproach them than i would a lawyer that pleads against me for his fee; that their detraction, like dung thrown upon a meadow, tho' it may seem at first to deform the prospect, in a little time it will disappear of itself and leave an involuntary crop of praise behind it. when they confine themselves to a sober criticism upon what i write; if their censure is just, what answer can i make to it? if it is unjust, why should i suppose that a sensible reader will not see it, as well as myself? or, admit i were able to expose them by a laughing reply, will not that reply beget a rejoinder? and though they might be gainers by having the worst on't in a paper war, that is no temptation for me to come into it. or (to make both sides less considerable) would not my bearing ill-language from a chimney-sweeper do me less harm than it would be to box with him, tho' i were sure to beat him? nor indeed is the little reputation i have as an author worth the trouble of a defence. then, as no criticism can possibly make me worse than i really am; so nothing i can say of myself can possibly make me better: when therefore a determin'd critick comes arm'd with wit and outrage to take from me that small pittance i have, i wou'd no more dispute with him than i wou'd resist a gentleman of the road to save a little pocket-money.[ ] men that are in want themselves seldom make a conscience of taking it from others. whoever thinks i have too much is welcome to what share of it he pleases: nay, to make him more merciful (as i partly guess the worst he can say of what i now write) i will prevent even the imputation of his doing me injustice, and honestly say it myself, viz. that of all the assurances i was ever guilty of, this of writing my own life is the most hardy. i beg his pardon!----impudent is what i should have said! that through every page there runs a vein of vanity and impertinence which no _french ensigns memoires_ ever came up to; but, as this is a common error, i presume the terms of _doating trifler_, _old fool_, or _conceited coxcomb_ will carry contempt enough for an impartial censor to bestow on me; that my style is unequal, pert, and frothy, patch'd and party-colour'd like the coat of an _harlequin_; low and pompous, cramm'd with epithets, strew'd with scraps of second-hand _latin_ from common quotations; frequently aiming at wit, without ever hitting the mark; a mere ragoust toss'd up from the offals of other authors: my subject below all pens but my own, which, whenever i keep to, is flatly daub'd by one eternal egotism: that i want nothing but wit to be as accomplish'd a coxcomb here as ever i attempted to expose on the theatre: nay, that this very confession is no more a sign of my modesty than it is a proof of my judgment, that, in short, you may roundly tell me, that----_cinna_ (or _cibber_) _vult videri pauper, et est pauper_. _when humble_ cinna _cries_, i'm poor and low, _you may believe him----he is really so_. well, sir critick! and what of all this? now i have laid myself at your feet, what will you do with me? expose me? why, dear sir, does not every man that writes expose himself? can you make me more ridiculous than nature has made me? you cou'd not sure suppose that i would lose the pleasure of writing because you might possibly judge me a blockhead, or perhaps might pleasantly tell other people they ought to think me so too. will not they judge as well from what _i_ say as what _you_ say? if then you attack me merely to divert yourself, your excuse for writing will be no better than mine. but perhaps you may want bread: if that be the case, even go to dinner, i' god's name![ ] if our best authors, when teiz'd by these triflers, have not been masters of this indifference, i should not wonder if it were disbeliev'd in me; but when it is consider'd that i have allow'd my never having been disturb'd into a reply has proceeded as much from vanity as from philosophy,[ ] the matter then may not seem so incredible: and tho' i confess the complete revenge of making them immortal dunces in immortal verse might be glorious; yet, if you will call it insensibility in me never to have winc'd at them, even that insensibility has its happiness, and what could glory give me more?[ ] for my part, i have always had the comfort to think, whenever they design'd me a disfavour, it generally flew back into their own faces, as it happens to children when they squirt at their play-fellows against the wind. if a scribbler cannot be easy because he fancies i have too good an opinion of my own productions, let him write on and mortify; i owe him not the charity to be out of temper myself merely to keep him quiet or give him joy: nor, in reality, can i see why any thing misrepresented, tho' believ'd of me by persons to whom i am unknown, ought to give me any more concern than what may be thought of me in _lapland:_ 'tis with those with whom i am to _live_ only, where my character can affect me; and i will venture to say, he must find out a new way of writing that will make me pass my time _there_ less agreeably. you see, sir, how hard it is for a man that is talking of himself to know when to give over; but if you are tired, lay me aside till you have a fresh appetite; if not, i'll tell you a story. in the year there were many authors whose merit wanted nothing but interest to recommend them to the vacant _laurel_, and who took it ill to see it at last conferred upon a comedian; insomuch, that they were resolved at least to shew specimens of their superior pretensions, and accordingly enliven'd the publick papers with ingenious epigrams and satyrical flirts at the unworthy successor;[ ] these papers my friends with a wicked smile would often put into my hands and desire me to read them fairly in company: this was a challenge which i never declin'd, and, to do my doughty antagonists justice, i always read them with as much impartial spirit as if i had writ them myself. while i was thus beset on all sides, there happen'd to step forth a poetical knight-errant to my assistance, who was hardy enough to publish some compassionate stanzas in my favour. these, you may be sure, the raillery of my friends could do no less than say i had written to myself. to deny it i knew would but have confirmed their pretended suspicion: i therefore told them, since it gave them such joy to believe them my own, i would do my best to make the whole town think so too. as the oddness of this reply was i knew what would not be easily comprehended, i desired them to have a days patience, and i would print an explanation to it: to conclude, in two days after i sent this letter, with some doggerel rhimes at the bottom, _to the author of the_ whitehall evening-post. sir, _the verses to the laureat in yours of_ saturday _last have occasion'd the following reply, which i hope you'll give a place in your next, to shew that we can be quick as well as smart upon a proper occasion: and, as i think it the lowest mark of a scoundrel to make bold with any man's character in print without subscribing the true name of the author; i therefore desire, if the laureat is concern'd enough to ask the question, that you will tell him my name and where i live; till then, i beg leave to be known by no other than that of,_ your servant, francis fairplay. monday, jan. , . these were the verses.[ ] i. _ah, hah! sir_ coll, _is that thy way, thy own dull praise to write? and wou'd'st thou stand so sure a lay? no, that's too stale a bite._ ii. _nature and art in thee combine, thy talents here excel: all shining brass thou dost outshine, to play the cheat so well._ iii. _who sees thee in_ iago's _part, but thinks thee such a rogue? and is not glad, with all his heart, to hang so sad a dog?_ iv. _when_ bays _thou play'st, thyself thou art; for that by nature fit, no blockhead better suits the part, than such a coxcomb wit._ v. _in_ wronghead _too, thy brains we see, who might do well at plough; as fit for parliament was he, as for the laurel, thou._ vi. _bring thy protected verse from court, and try it on the stage; there it will make much better sport, and set the town in rage._ vii. _there beaux and wits and cits and smarts, where hissing's not uncivil, will shew their parts to thy deserts, and send it to the devil._ viii. _but, ah! in vain 'gainst thee we write, in vain thy verse we maul! our sharpest satyr's thy delight, [ ]for_----blood! thou'lt stand it all. ix. _thunder, 'tis said, the laurel spares; nought but thy brows could blast it: and yet----o curst, provoking stars! thy comfort is, thou_ hast _it._ this, sir, i offer as a proof that i was seven years ago[ ] the same cold candidate for fame which i would still be thought; you will not easily suppose i could have much concern about it, while, to gratify the merry pique of my friends, i was capable of seeming to head the poetical cry then against me, and at the same time of never letting the publick know 'till this hour that these verses were written by myself: nor do i give them you as an entertainment, but merely to shew you this particular cast of my temper. when i have said this, i would not have it thought affectation in me when i grant that no man worthy the name of an author is a more faulty writer than myself; that i am not master of my own language[ ] i too often feel when i am at a loss for expression: i know too that i have too bold a disregard for that correctness which others set so just a value upon: this i ought to be ashamed of, when i find that persons, perhaps of colder imaginations, are allowed to write better than myself. whenever i speak of any thing that highly delights me, i find it very difficult to keep my words within the bounds of common sense: even when i write too, the same failing will sometimes get the better of me; of which i cannot give you a stronger instance than in that wild expression i made use of in the first edition of my preface to the _provok'd husband_; where, speaking of mrs. _oldfield's_ excellent performance in the part of lady _townly_, my words ran thus, _viz. it is not enough to say, that here she outdid_ her usual _outdoing_.[ ]--a most vile jingle, i grant it! you may well ask me, how could i possibly commit such a wantonness to paper? and i owe myself the shame of confessing i have no excuse for it but that, like a lover in the fulness of his content, by endeavouring to be floridly grateful i talk'd nonsense. not but it makes me smile to remember how many flat writers have made themselves brisk upon this single expression; wherever the verb, _outdo_, could come in, the pleasant accusative, _outdoing_, was sure to follow it. the provident wags knew that _decies repetita placeret_:[ ] so delicious a morsel could not be serv'd up too often! after it had held them nine times told for a jest, the publick has been pester'd with a tenth skull thick enough to repeat it. nay, the very learned in the law have at last facetiously laid hold of it! ten years after it first came from me it served to enliven the eloquence of an eloquent pleader before a house of parliament! what author would not envy me so frolicksome a fault that had such publick honours paid to it? after this consciousness of my real defects, you will easily judge, sir, how little i presume that my poetical labours may outlive those of my mortal _cotemporaries_.[ ] at the same time that i am so humble in my pretensions to fame, i would not be thought to undervalue it; nature will not suffer us to despise it, but she may sometimes make us too fond of it. i have known more than one good writer very near ridiculous from being in too much heat about it. whoever intrinsically deserves it will always have a proportionable right to it. it can neither be resign'd nor taken from you by violence. truth, which is unalterable, must (however his fame may be contested) give every man his due: what a poem weighs it will be worth; nor is it in the power of human eloquence, with favour or prejudice, to increase or diminish its value. prejudice, 'tis true, may a while discolour it; but it will always have its appeal to the equity of good sense, which will never fail in the end to reverse all false judgment against it. therefore when i see an eminent author hurt, and impatient at an impotent attack upon his labours, he disturbs my inclination to admire him; i grow doubtful of the favourable judgment i have made of him, and am quite uneasy to see him so tender in a point he cannot but know he ought not himself to be judge of; his concern indeed at another's prejudice or disapprobation may be natural; but to own it seems to me a natural weakness. when a work is apparently great it will go without crutches; all your art and anxiety to heighten the fame of it then becomes low and little.[ ] he that will bear no censure must be often robb'd of his due praise. fools have as good a right to be readers as men of sense have, and why not to give their judgments too? methinks it would be a sort of tyranny in wit for an author to be publickly putting every argument to death that appear'd against him; so absolute a demand for approbation puts us upon our right to dispute it; praise is as much the reader's property as wit is the author's; applause is not a tax paid to him as a prince, but rather a benevolence given to him as a beggar; and we have naturally more charity for the dumb beggar than the sturdy one. the merit of a writer and a fine woman's face are never mended by their talking of them: how amiable is she that seems not to know she is handsome! to conclude; all i have said upon this subject is much better contained in six lines of a reverend author, which will be an answer to all critical censure for ever. _time is the judge; time has nor friend nor foe; false fame must wither, and the true will grow. arm'd with this truth all criticks i defy; for, if i fall, by my own pen i die; while snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain, to wound immortals, or to slay the slain._[ ] chapter iii. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the author's several chances for the church, the court, and the army. going to the university. met the revolution at nottingham. took arms on that side. what he saw of it. a few political thoughts. fortune willing to do for him. his neglect of her. the stage preferr'd to all her favours. the profession of an actor consider'd. the misfortunes and advantages of it._ i am now come to that crisis of my life when fortune seem'd to be at a loss what she should do with me. had she favour'd my father's first designation of me, he might then, perhaps, have had as sanguine hopes of my being a bishop as i afterwards conceived of my being a general when i first took arms at the revolution. nay, after that i had a third chance too, equally as good, of becoming an under-propper of the state. how at last i came to be none of all these the sequel will inform you. about the year i was taken from school to stand at the election of children into _winchester_ college; my being by my mother's side a descendant[ ] of _william_ of _wickam_, the founder, my father (who knew little how the world was to be dealt with) imagined my having that advantage would be security enough for my success, and so sent me simply down thither, without the least favourable recommendation or interest, but that of my naked merit and a pompous pedigree in my pocket. had he tack'd a direction to my back, and sent me by the carrier to the mayor of the town, to be chosen member of parliament there, i might have had just as much chance to have succeeded in the one as the other. but i must not omit in this place to let you know that the experience which my father then bought, at my cost, taught him some years after to take a more judicious care of my younger brother, _lewis cibber_, whom, with the present of a statue of the founder, of his own making, he recommended to the same college. this statue now stands (i think) over the school door there,[ ] and was so well executed that it seem'd to speak----for its kinsman. it was no sooner set up than the door of preferment was open to him. here one would think my brother had the advantage of me in the favour of fortune, by this his first laudable step into the world. i own i was so proud of his success that i even valued myself upon it; and yet it is but a melancholy reflection to observe how unequally his profession and mine were provided for; when i, who had been the outcast of fortune, could find means, from my income of the theatre, before i was my own master there, to supply in his highest preferment his common necessities. i cannot part with his memory without telling you i had as sincere a concern for this brother's well-being as my own. he had lively parts and more than ordinary learning, with a good deal of natural wit and humour; but from too great a disregard to his health he died a fellow of _new college_ in _oxford_ soon after he had been ordained by dr. _compton_, then bishop of _london_. i now return to the state of my own affair at _winchester_. after the election, the moment i was inform'd that i was one of the unsuccessful candidates, i blest myself to think what a happy reprieve i had got from the confin'd life of a school-boy! and the same day took post back to _london_, that i might arrive time enough to see a play (then my darling delight) before my mother might demand an account of my travelling charges. when i look back to that time, it almost makes me tremble to think what miseries, in fifty years farther in life, such an unthinking head was liable to! to ask why providence afterwards took more care of me than i did of myself, might be making too bold an enquiry into its secret will and pleasure: all i can say to that point is, that i am thankful and amazed at it![ ] 'twas about this time i first imbib'd an inclination, which i durst not reveal, for the stage; for besides that i knew it would disoblige my father, i had no conception of any means practicable to make my way to it. i therefore suppress'd the bewitching ideas of so sublime a station, and compounded with my ambition by laying a lower scheme, of only getting the nearest way into the immediate life of a gentleman-collegiate. my father being at this time employ'd at _chattsworth_ in _derbyshire_ by the (then) earl of _devonshire_, who was raising that seat from a _gothick_ to a _grecian_ magnificence, i made use of the leisure i then had in _london_ to open to him by letter my disinclination to wait another year for an uncertain preferment at _winchester_, and to entreat him that he would send me, _per saltum_, by a shorter cut, to the university. my father, who was naturally indulgent to me, seem'd to comply with my request, and wrote word that as soon as his affairs would permit, he would carry me with him and settle me in some college, but rather at _cambridge_, where (during his late residence at that place, in making some statues that now stand upon _trinity_ college new library) he had contracted some acquaintance with the heads of houses, who might assist his intentions for me.[ ] this i lik'd better than to go discountenanc'd to _oxford_, to which it would have been a sort of reproach to me not to have come elected. after some months were elaps'd, my father, not being willing to let me lie too long idling in _london_, sent for me down to _chattsworth_, to be under his eye, till he cou'd be at leisure to carry me to _cambridge_. before i could set out on my journey thither, the nation fell in labour of the revolution, the news being then just brought to _london_ that the prince of _orange_ at the head of an army was landed in the _west_.[ ] when i came to _nottingham_, i found my father in arms there, among those forces which the earl of _devonshire_ had rais'd for the redress of our violated laws and liberties. my father judg'd this a proper season for a young strippling to turn himself loose into the bustle of the world; and being himself too advanc'd in years to endure the winter fatigue which might possibly follow, entreated that noble lord that he would be pleas'd to accept of his son in his room, and that he would give him (my father) leave to return and finish his works at _chattsworth_. this was so well receiv'd by his lordship that he not only admitted of my service, but promis'd my father in return that when affairs were settled he would provide for me. upon this my father return'd to _derbyshire_, while i, not a little transported, jump'd into his saddle. thus in one day all my thoughts of the university were smother'd in ambition! a slight commission for a horse-officer was the least view i had before me. at this crisis you cannot but observe that the fate of king _james_ and of the prince of _orange_, and that of so minute a being as my self, were all at once upon the anvil: in what shape they wou'd severally come out, tho' a good _guess_ might be made, was not then _demonstrable_ to the deepest foresight; but as my fortune seem'd to be of small importance to the publick, providence thought fit to postpone it 'till that of those great rulers of nations was justly perfected. yet, had my father's business permitted him to have carried me one month sooner (as he intended) to the university, who knows but by this time that purer fountain might have wash'd my imperfections into a capacity of writing (instead of plays and annual odes) sermons and pastoral letters. but whatever care of the church might so have fallen to my share, as i dare say it may be now in better hands, i ought not to repine at my being otherwise disposed of.[ ] you must now consider me as one among those desperate thousands, who, after a patience sorely try'd, took arms under the banner of necessity, the natural parent of all human laws and government. i question if in all the histories of empire there is one instance of so bloodless a revolution as that in _england_ in , wherein whigs, tories, princes, prelates, nobles, clergy, common people, and a standing army, were unanimous. to have seen all _england_ of one mind is to have liv'd at a very particular juncture. happy nation! who are never divided among themselves but when they have least to complain of! our greatest grievance since that time seems to have been that we cannot all govern; and 'till the number of good places are equal to those who think themselves qualified for them there must ever be a cause of contention among us. while great men want great posts, the nation will never want real or seeming patriots; and while great posts are fill'd with persons whose capacities are but human, such persons will never be allow'd to be without errors; not even the revolution, with all its advantages, it seems, has been able to furnish us with unexceptionable statesmen! for from that time i don't remember any one set of ministers that have not been heartily rail'd at; a period long enough one would think (if all of them have been as bad as they have been call'd) to make a people despair of ever seeing a good one: but as it is possible that envy, prejudice, or party may sometimes have a share in what is generally thrown upon 'em, it is not easy for a private man to know who is absolutely in the right from what is said against them, or from what their friends or dependants may say in their favour: tho' i can hardly forbear thinking that they who have been _longest_ rail'd at, must from that circumstance shew in some sort a proof of capacity.----but to my history. it were almost incredible to tell you, at the latter end of king _james's_ time (though the rod of arbitrary power was always shaking over us) with what freedom and contempt the common people in the open streets talk'd of his wild measures to make a whole protestant nation papists; and yet, in the height of our secure and wanton defiance of him, we of the vulgar had no farther notion of any remedy for this evil than a satisfy'd presumption that our numbers were too great to be master'd by his mere will and pleasure; that though he might be too hard for our laws, he would never be able to get the better of our nature; and that to drive all _england_ into popery and slavery he would find would be teaching an old lion to dance.[ ] but happy was it for the nation that it had then wiser heads in it, who knew how to lead a people so dispos'd into measures for the publick preservation. here i cannot help reflecting on the very different deliverances _england_ met with at this time and in the very same year of the century before: then (in ) under a glorious princess, who had at heart the good and happiness of her people, we scatter'd and destroy'd the most formidable navy of invaders that ever cover'd the seas: and now (in ) under a prince who had alienated the hearts of his people by his absolute measures to oppress them, a foreign power is receiv'd with open arms in defence of our laws, liberties, and religion, which our native prince had invaded! how widely different were these two monarchs in their sentiments of glory! but, _tantum religio potuit suadere malorum_.[ ] when we consider in what height of the nation's prosperity the successor of queen _elizabeth_ came to this throne, it seems amazing that such a pile of _english_ fame and glory, which her skilful administration had erected, should in every following reign down to the revolution so unhappily moulder away in one continual gradation of political errors: all which must have been avoided, if the plain rule which that wise princess left behind her had been observed, _viz. that the love of her people was the surest support of her throne_. this was the principle by which she so happily govern'd herself and those she had the care of. in this she found strength to combat and struggle thro' more difficulties and dangerous conspiracies than ever _english_ monarch had to cope with. at the same time that she profess'd to _desire_ the people's love, she took care that her actions shou'd _deserve_ it, without the least abatement of her prerogative; the terror of which she so artfully covered that she sometimes seem'd to flatter those she was determin'd should obey. if the four following princes had exercis'd their regal authority with so visible a regard to the publick welfare, it were hard to know whether the people of _england_ might have ever complain'd of them, or even felt the want of that liberty they now so happily enjoy. 'tis true that before her time our ancestors had many successful contests with their sovereigns for their _ancient right_ and _claim_ to it; yet what did those successes amount to? little more than a declaration that there was such a right in being; but who ever saw it enjoy'd? did not the actions of almost every succeeding reign shew there were still so many doors of oppression left open to the prerogative that (whatever value our most eloquent legislators may have set upon those ancient liberties) i doubt it will be difficult to fix the period of their having a real being before the revolution: or if there ever was an elder period of our unmolested enjoying them, i own my poor judgment is at a loss where to place it. i will boldly say then, it is to the revolution only we owe the full possession of what, 'till then, we never had more than a perpetually contested right to: and, from thence, from the revolution it is that the protestant successors of king _william_ have found their paternal care and maintenance of that right has been the surest basis of their glory.[ ] these, sir, are a few of my political notions, which i have ventur'd to expose that you may see what sort of an _english_ subject i am; how wise or weak they may have shewn me is not my concern; let the weight of these matters have drawn me never so far out of my depth, i still flatter myself that i have kept a simple, honest head above water. and it is a solid comfort to me to consider that how insignificant soever my life was at the revolution, it had still the good fortune to make one among the many who brought it about; and that i now, with my coævals, as well as with the millions since born, enjoy the happy effects of it. but i must now let you see how my particular fortune went forward with this change in the government; of which i shall not pretend to give you any farther account than what my simple eyes saw of it. we had not been many days at _nottingham_ before we heard that the prince of _denmark_, with some other great persons, were gone off from the king to the prince of _orange_, and that the princess _anne_, fearing the king her father's resentment might fall upon her for her consort's revolt, had withdrawn her self in the night from _london_, and was then within half a days journey of _nottingham_; on which very morning we were suddenly alarm'd with the news that two thousand of the king's dragoons were in close pursuit to bring her back prisoner to _london_: but this alarm it seems was all stratagem, and was but a part of that general terror which was thrown into many other places about the kingdom at the same time, with design to animate and unite the people in their common defence; it being then given out that the _irish_ were every where at our heels to cut off all the protestants within the reach of their fury. in this alarm our troops scrambled to arms in as much order as their consternation would admit of, when, having advanc'd some few miles on the _london_ road, they met the princess in a coach, attended only by the lady _churchill_ (now dutchess dowager of _marlborough_) and the lady _fitzharding_, whom they conducted into _nottingham_ through the acclamations of the people: the same night all the noblemen and the other persons of distinction then in arms had the honour to sup at her royal highness's table; which was then furnish'd (as all her necessary accommodations were) by the care and at the charge of the lord _devonshire_. at this entertainment, of which i was a spectator, something very particular surpriz'd me: the noble guests at the table happening to be more in number than attendants out of liveries could be found for, i being well known in the lord _devonshire_'s family, was desired by his lordship's _maitre d'hotel_ to assist at it: the post assign'd me was to observe what the lady _churchill_ might call for. being so near the table, you may naturally ask me what i might have heard to have pass'd in conversation at it? which i should certainly tell you had i attended to above two words that were utter'd there, and those were, _some wine and water_. these i remember came distinguish'd and observ'd to my ear, because they came from the fair guest whom i took such pleasure to wait on: except at that single sound, all my senses were collected into my eyes, which during the whole entertainment wanted no better amusement, than of stealing now and then the delight of gazing on the fair object so near me: if so clear an emanation of beauty, such a commanding grace of aspect struck me into a regard that had something softer than the most profound respect in it, i cannot see why i may not without offence remember it; since beauty, like the sun, must sometimes lose its power to chuse, and shine into equal warmth the peasant and the courtier.[ ] now to give you, sir, a farther proof of how good a taste my first hopeful entrance into manhood set out with, i remember above twenty years after, when the same lady had given the world four of the loveliest daughters that ever were gaz'd on, even after they were all nobly married, and were become the reigning toasts of every party of pleasure, their still lovely mother had at the same time her votaries, and her health very often took the lead in those involuntary triumphs of beauty. however presumptuous or impertinent these thoughts might have appear'd at my first entertaining them, why may i not hope that my having kept them decently secret for full fifty years may be now a good round plea for their pardon? were i now qualify'd to say more of this celebrated lady, i should conclude it thus: that she has liv'd (to all appearance) a peculiar favourite of providence; that few examples can parallel the profusion of blessings which have attended so long a life of felicity. a person so attractive! a husband so memorably great! an offspring so beautiful! a fortune so immense! and a title which (when royal favour had no higher to bestow) she only could receive from the author of nature; a great grandmother without grey hairs! these are such consummate indulgencies that we might think heaven has center'd them all in one person, to let us see how far, with a lively understanding, the full possession of them could contribute to human happiness.--i now return to our military affairs. from _nottingham_ our troops march'd to _oxford_; through every town we pass'd the people came out, in some sort of order, with such rural and rusty weapons as they had, to meet us, in acclamations of welcome and good wishes. this i thought promis'd a favourable end of our civil war, when the nation seem'd so willing to be all of a side! at _oxford_ the prince and princess of _denmark_ met for the first time after their late separation, and had all possible honours paid them by the university. here we rested in quiet quarters for several weeks, till the flight of king _james_ into _france_; when the nation being left to take care of it self, the only security that could be found for it was to advance the prince and princess of _orange_ to the vacant throne. the publick tranquillity being now settled, our forces were remanded back to _nottingham_. here all our officers who had commanded them from their first rising receiv'd commissions to confirm them in their several posts; and at the same time such private men as chose to return to their proper business or habitations were offer'd their discharges. among the small number of those who receiv'd them, i was one; for not hearing that my name was in any of these new commissions, i thought it time for me to take my leave of ambition, as ambition had before seduc'd me from the imaginary honours of the gown, and therefore resolv'd to hunt my fortune in some other field.[ ] from _nottingham_ i again return'd to my father at _chattsworth_, where i staid till my lord came down, with the new honours[ ] of lord steward of his majesty's houshold and knight of the garter! a noble turn of fortune! and a deep stake he had play'd for! which calls to my memory a story we had then in the family, which though too light for our graver historians notice, may be of weight enough for my humble memoirs. this noble lord being in the presence-chamber in king _james_'s time, and known to be no friend to the measures of his administration, a certain person in favour there, and desirous to be more so, took occasion to tread rudely upon his lordship's foot, which was return'd with a sudden blow upon the spot: for this misdemeanour his lordship was fin'd thirty thousand pounds; but i think had some time allow'd him for the payment.[ ] in the summer preceding the revolution, when his lordship was retir'd to _chattsworth_, and had been there deeply engag'd with other noblemen in the measures which soon after brought it to bear, king _james_ sent a person down to him with offers to mitigate his fine upon conditions of ready payment, to which his lordship reply'd, that if his majesty pleas'd to allow him a little longer time, he would rather chuse to play _double_ or _quit_ with him: the time of the intended rising being then so near at hand, the demand, it seems, came too late for a more serious answer. however low my pretensions to preferment were at this time, my father thought that a little court-favour added to them might give him a chance for saving the expence of maintaining me, as he had intended, at the university: he therefore order'd me to draw up a petition to the duke, and, to give it some air of merit, to put it into _latin_, the prayer of which was, that his grace would be pleas'd to do something (i really forget what) for me.----however the duke, upon receiving it, was so good as to desire my father would send me to _london_ in the winter, where he would consider of some provision for me. it might, indeed, well require time to consider it; for i believe it was then harder to know what i was really fit for, than to have got me any thing i was not fit for: however, to _london_ i came, where i enter'd into my first state of attendance and dependance for about five months, till the _february_ following. but alas! in my intervals of leisure, by frequently seeing plays, my wise head was turn'd to higher views, i saw no joy in any other life than that of an actor, so that (as before, when a candidate at _winchester_) i was even afraid of succeeding to the preferment i sought for: 'twas on the stage alone i had form'd a happiness preferable to all that camps or courts could offer me! and there was i determin'd, let father and mother take it as they pleas'd, to fix my _non ultra_.[ ] here i think my self oblig'd, in respect to the honour of that noble lord, to acknowledge that i believe his real intentions to do well for me were prevented by my own inconsiderate folly; so that if my life did not then take a more laudable turn, i have no one but my self to reproach for it; for i was credibly inform'd by the gentlemen of his houshold, that his grace had, in their hearing, talk'd of recommending me to the lord _shrewsbury_, then secretary of state, for the first proper vacancy in that office. but the distant hope of a reversion was too cold a temptation for a spirit impatient as mine, that wanted immediate possession of what my heart was so differently set upon. the allurements of a theatre are still so strong in my memory, that perhaps few, except those who have felt them, can conceive: and i am yet so far willing to excuse my folly, that i am convinc'd, were it possible to take off that disgrace and prejudice which custom has thrown upon the profession of an actor, many a well-born younger brother and beauty of low fortune would gladly have adorn'd the theatre, who by their not being able to brook such dishonour to their birth, have pass'd away their lives decently unheeded and forgotten. many years ago, when i was first in the menagement of the theatre, i remember a strong instance, which will shew you what degree of ignominy the profession of an actor was then held at.--a lady, with a real title, whose female indiscretions had occasion'd her family to abandon her, being willing, in her distress, to make an honest penny of what beauty she had left, desired to be admitted as an actress; when before she could receive our answer, a gentleman (probably by her relation's permission) advis'd us not to entertain her, for reasons easy to be guess'd. you may imagine we cou'd not be so blind to our interest as to make an honourable family our unnecessary enemies by not taking his advice; which the lady, too, being sensible of, saw the affair had its difficulties, and therefore pursu'd it no farther. now, is it not hard that it should be a doubt whether this lady's condition or ours were the more melancholy? for here you find her honest endeavour to get bread from the stage was look'd upon as an addition of new scandal to her former dishonour! so that i am afraid, according to this way of thinking, had the same lady stoop'd to have sold patches and pomatum in a band-box from door to door, she might in that occupation have starv'd with less infamy than had she reliev'd her necessities by being famous on the theatre. whether this prejudice may have arisen from the abuses that so often have crept in upon the stage, i am not clear in; tho' when that is grossly the case, i will allow there ought to be no limits set to the contempt of it; yet in its lowest condition in my time, methinks there could have been no pretence of preferring the band-box to the buskin. but this severe opinion, whether merited or not, is not the greatest distress that this profession is liable to. i shall now give you another anecdote, quite the reverse of what i have instanc'd, wherein you will see an actress as hardly us'd for an act of modesty (which without being a prude, a woman, even upon the stage, may sometimes think it necessary not to throw off.) this too i am forc'd to premise, that the truth of what i am going to tell you may not be sneer'd at before it be known. about the year , a young actress of a desirable person, sitting in an upper box at the opera, a military gentleman thought this a proper opportunity to secure a little conversation with her, the particulars of which were probably no more worth repeating than it seems the _damoiselle_ then thought them worth listening to; for, notwithstanding the fine things he said to her, she rather chose to give the musick the preference of her attention: this indifference was so offensive to his high heart, that he began to change the tender into the terrible, and, in short, proceeded at last to treat her in a style too grosly insulting for the meanest female ear to endure unresented: upon which, being beaten too far out of her discretion, she turn'd hastily upon him with an angry look, and a reply which seem'd to set his merit in so low a regard, that he thought himself oblig'd in honour to take his time to resent it: this was the full extent of her crime, which his glory delay'd no longer to punish than 'till the next time she was to appear upon the stage: there, in one of her best parts, wherein she drew a favourable regard and approbation from the audience, he, dispensing with the respect which some people think due to a polite assembly, began to interrupt her performance with such loud and various notes of mockery, as other young men of honour in the same place have sometimes made themselves undauntedly merry with: thus, deaf to all murmurs or entreaties of those about him, he pursued his point, even to throwing near her such trash as no person can be suppos'd to carry about him unless to use on so particular an occasion. a gentleman then behind the scenes, being shock'd at his unmanly behaviour, was warm enough to say, that no man but a fool or a bully cou'd be capable of insulting an audience or a woman in so monstrous a manner. the former valiant gentleman, to whose ear the words were soon brought by his spies, whom he had plac'd behind the scenes to observe how the action was taken there, came immediately from the pit in a heat, and demanded to know of the author of those words if he was the person that spoke them? to which he calmly reply'd, that though he had never seen him before, yet, since he seem'd so earnest to be satisfy'd, he would do him the favour to own, that indeed the words were his, and that they would be the last words he should chuse to deny, whoever they might fall upon. to conclude, their dispute was ended the next morning in _hyde-park_, where the determin'd combatant who first ask'd for satisfaction was oblig'd afterwards to ask his life too; whether he mended it or not, i have not yet heard; but his antagonist in a few years after died in one of the principal posts of the government.[ ] now, though i have sometimes known these gallant insulters of audiences draw themselves into scrapes which they have less honourably got out of, yet, alas! what has that avail'd? this generous publick-spirited method of silencing a few was but repelling the disease in one part to make it break out in another: all endeavours at protection are new provocations to those who pride themselves in pushing their courage to a defiance of humanity. even when a royal resentment has shewn itself in the behalf of an injur'd actor, it has been unable to defend him from farther insults! an instance of which happen'd in the late king _james_'s time. mr. _smith_[ ] (whose character as a gentleman could have been no way impeach'd had he not degraded it by being a celebrated actor) had the misfortune, in a dispute with a gentleman behind the scenes, to receive a blow from him: the same night an account of this action was carry'd to the king, to whom the gentleman was represented so grosly in the wrong, that the next day his majesty sent to forbid him the court upon it. this indignity cast upon a gentleman only for having maltreated a player, was look'd upon as the concern of every gentleman; and a party was soon form'd to assert and vindicate their honour, by humbling this favour'd actor, whose slight injury had been judg'd equal to so severe a notice. accordingly, the next time _smith_ acted he was receiv'd with a chorus of cat-calls, that soon convinc'd him he should not be suffer'd to proceed in his part; upon which, without the least discomposure, he order'd the curtain to be dropp'd; and, having a competent fortune of his own, thought the conditions of adding to it by his remaining upon the stage were too dear, and from that day entirely quitted it.[ ] i shall make no observation upon the king's resentment, or on that of his good subjects; how far either was or was not right, is not the point i dispute for: be that as it may, the unhappy condition of the actor was so far from being reliev'd by this royal interposition in his favour, that it was the worse for it. while these sort of real distresses on the stage are so unavoidable, it is no wonder that young people of sense (though of low fortune) should be so rarely found to supply a succession of good actors. why then may we not, in some measure, impute the scarcity of them to the wanton inhumanity of those spectators, who have made it so terribly mean to appear there? were there no ground for this question, where could be the disgrace of entring into a society whose institution, when not abus'd, is a delightful school of morality; and where to excel requires as ample endowments of nature as any one profession (that of holy institution excepted) whatsoever? but, alas! as _shakespear_ says, _where's that palace, whereinto, sometimes foul things intrude not?_[ ] look into st. _peter_'s at _rome_, and see what a profitable farce is made of religion there! why then is an actor more blemish'd than a cardinal? while the excellence of the one arises from his innocently seeming what he is not, and the eminence of the other from the most impious fallacies that can be impos'd upon human understanding? if the best things, therefore, are most liable to corruption, the corruption of the theatre is no disproof of its innate and primitive utility. in this light, therefore, all the abuses of the stage, all the low, loose, or immoral supplements to wit, whether in making virtue ridiculous or vice agreeable, or in the decorated nonsense and absurdities of pantomimical trumpery, i give up to the contempt of every sensible spectator, as so much rank theatrical popery. but cannot still allow these enormities to impeach the profession, while they are so palpably owing to the deprav'd taste of the multitude. while vice and farcical folly are the most profitable commodities, why should we wonder that, time out of mind, the poor comedian, when real wit would bear no price, should deal in what would bring him most ready money? but this, you will say, is making the stage a nursery of vice and folly, or at least keeping an open shop for it.----i grant it: but who do you expect should reform it? the actors? why so? if people are permitted to buy it without blushing, the theatrical merchant seems to have an equal right to the liberty of selling it without reproach. that this evil wants a remedy is not to be contested; nor can it be denied that the theatre is as capable of being preserv'd by a reformation as matters of more importance; which, for the honour of our national taste, i could wish were attempted; and then, if it could not subsist under decent regulations, by not being permitted to present any thing there but what were _worthy_ to be there, it would be time enough to consider, whether it were necessary to let it totally fall, or effectually support it. notwithstanding all my best endeavours to recommend the profession of an actor to a more general favour, i doubt, while it is liable to such corruptions, and the actor himself to such unlimited insults as i have already mention'd, i doubt, i say, we must still leave him a-drift, with his intrinsick merit, to ride out the storm as well as he is able. however, let us now turn to the other side of this account, and see what advantages stand there to balance the misfortunes i have laid before you. there we shall still find some valuable articles of credit, that sometimes overpay his incidental disgraces. first, if he has sense, he will consider that as these indignities are seldom or never offer'd him by people that are remarkable for any one good quality, he ought not to lay them too close to his heart: he will know too, that when malice, envy, or a brutal nature, can securely hide or fence themselves in a multitude, virtue, merit, innocence, and even sovereign superiority, have been, and must be equally liable to their insults; that therefore, when they fall upon him in the same manner, his intrinsick value cannot be diminish'd by them: on the contrary, if, with a decent and unruffled temper, he lets them pass, the disgrace will return upon his aggressor, and perhaps warm the generous spectator into a partiality in his favour. that while he is conscious, that, as an actor, he must be always in the hands of injustice, it does him at least this involuntary good, that it keeps him in a settled resolution to avoid all occasions of provoking it, or of even offending the lowest enemy, who, at the expence of a shilling, may publickly revenge it. that, if he excells on the stage, and is irreproachable in his personal morals and behaviour, his profession is so far from being an impediment, that it will be oftner a just reason for his being receiv'd among people of condition with favour; and sometimes with a more social distinction, than the best, though more profitable trade he might have follow'd, could have recommended him to. that this is a happiness to which several actors within my memory, as _betterton_, _smith_, _montfort_, captain _griffin_,[ ] and mrs. _bracegirdle_ (yet living) have arriv'd at; to which i may add the late celebrated mrs. _oldfield_. now let us suppose these persons, the men, for example, to have been all eminent mercers, and the women as famous milliners, can we imagine that merely as such, though endow'd with the same natural understanding, they could have been call'd into the same honourable parties of conversation? people of sense and condition could not but know it was impossible they could have had such various excellencies on the stage, without having something naturally valuable in them: and i will take upon me to affirm, who knew them all living, that there was not one of the number who were not capable of supporting a variety of spirited conversation, tho' the stage were never to have been the subject of it. that to have trod the stage has not always been thought a disqualification from more honourable employments; several have had military commissions; _carlile_,[ ] and _wiltshire_[ ] were both kill'd captains; one in king _william_'s reduction of _ireland;_ and the other in his first war in _flanders_; and the famous _ben. johnson_, tho' an unsuccessful actor, was afterwards made poet-laureat.[ ] to these laudable distinctions let me add one more; that of publick applause, which, when truly merited, is perhaps one of the most agreeable gratifications that venial vanity can feel. a happiness almost peculiar to the actor, insomuch that the best tragick writer, however numerous his separate admirers may be, yet, to unite them into one general act of praise, to receive at once those thundring peals of approbation which a crouded theatre throws out, he must still call in the assistance of the skilful actor to raise and partake of them. in a word, 'twas in this flattering light only, though not perhaps so thoroughly consider'd, i look'd upon the life of an actor when but eighteen years of age; nor can you wonder if the temptations were too strong for so warm a vanity as mine to resist; but whether excusable or not, to the stage at length i came, and it is from thence, chiefly, your curiosity, if you have any left, is to expect a farther account of me. chapter iv. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _a short view of the stage, from the year to the revolution. the king's and duke's company united, composed the best set of_ english _actors yet known. their several theatrical characters._ tho' i have only promis'd you an account of all the material occurrences of the theatre during my own time, yet there was one which happen'd not above seven years before my admission to it, which may be as well worth notice as the first great revolution of it, in which, among numbers, i was involv'd. and as the one will lead you into a clearer view of the other, it may therefore be previously necessary to let you know that. king _charles_ ii. at his restoration granted two patents, one to sir _william davenant_,[ ] and the other to _thomas killigrew_, esq.,[ ] and their several heirs and assigns, for ever, for the forming of two distinct companies of comedians: the first were call'd the _king's servants,_ and acted at the theatre-royal in _drury-lane_;[ ] and the other the _duke's company_, who acted at the duke's theatre in _dorset-garden_.[ ] about ten of the king's company were on the royal houshold-establishment, having each ten yards of scarlet cloth, with a proper quantity of lace allow'd them for liveries; and in their warrants from the lord chamberlain were stiled _gentlemen of the great chamber_.[ ] whether the like appointments were extended to the duke's company, i am not certain; but they were both in high estimation with the publick, and so much the delight and concern of the court, that they were not only supported by its being frequently present at their publick _presentations_, but by its taking cognizance even of their private government, insomuch that their particular differences, pretentions, or complaints were generally ended by the _king_ or _duke_'s personal command or decision. besides their being thorough masters of their art, these actors set forwards with two critical advantages, which perhaps may never happen again in many ages. the one was, their immediate opening after the so long interdiction of plays during the civil war and the anarchy that followed it. what eager appetites from so long a fast must the guests of those times have had to that high and fresh variety of entertainments which _shakespear_ had left prepared for them? never was a stage so provided! a hundred years are wasted, and another silent century well advanced, and yet what unborn age shall say _shakespear_ has his equal! how many shining actors have the warm scenes of his genius given to posterity? without being himself in his action equal to his writing! a strong proof that actors, like poets, must be born such. eloquence and elocution are quite different talents: _shakespear_ could write _hamlet,_ but tradition tells us that the _ghost_, in the same play, was one of his best performances as an actor: nor is it within the reach of rule or precept to complete either of them. instruction, 'tis true, may guard them equally against faults or absurdities, but there it stops; nature must do the rest: to excel in either art is a self-born happiness which something more than good sense must be the mother of. [illustration: thomas betterton.] the other advantage i was speaking of is, that before the restoration no actresses had ever been seen upon the _english_ stage.[ ] the characters of women on former theatres were perform'd by boys, or young men of the most effeminate aspect. and what grace or master-strokes of action can we conceive such ungain hoydens to have been capable of? this defect was so well considered by _shakespear_, that in few of his plays he has any greater dependance upon the ladies than in the innocence and simplicity of a _desdemona_, an _ophelia_, or in the short specimen of a fond and virtuous _portia_. the additional objects then of real, beautiful women could not but draw a proportion of new admirers to the theatre. we may imagine, too, that these actresses were not ill chosen, when it is well known that more than one of them had charms sufficient at their leisure hours to calm and mollify the cares of empire.[ ] besides these peculiar advantages, they had a private rule or agreement, which both houses were happily ty'd down to, which was, that no play acted at one house should ever be attempted at the other. all the capital plays therefore of _shakespear_, _fletcher_, and _ben. johnson_ were divided between them by the approbation of the court and their own alternate choice.[ ] so that when _hart_[ ] was famous for _othello, betterton_ had no less a reputation for _hamlet_. by this order the stage was supply'd with a greater variety of plays than could possibly have been shewn had both companies been employ'd at the same time upon the same play; which liberty, too, must have occasion'd such frequent repetitions of 'em, by their opposite endeavours to forestall and anticipate one another, that the best actors in the world must have grown tedious and tasteless to the spectator: for what pleasure is not languid to satiety?[ ] it was therefore one of our greatest happinesses (during my time of being in the menagement of the stage) that we had a certain number of select plays which no other company had the good fortune to make a tolerable figure in, and consequently could find little or no account by acting them against us. these plays therefore for many years, by not being too often seen, never fail'd to bring us crowded audiences; and it was to this conduct we ow'd no little share of our prosperity. but when four houses[ ] are at once (as very lately they were) all permitted to act the same pieces, let three of them perform never so ill, when plays come to be so harrass'd and hackney'd out to the common people (half of which too, perhaps, would as lieve see them at one house as another) the best actors will soon feel that the town has enough of them. i know it is the common opinion, that the more play-houses the more emulation; i grant it; but what has this emulation ended in? why, a daily contention which shall soonest surfeit you with the best plays; so that when what _ought_ to please can no _longer_ please, your appetite is again to be raised by such monstrous presentations as dishonour the taste of a civiliz'd people.[ ] if, indeed, to our several theatres we could raise a proportionable number of good authors to give them all different employment, then perhaps the publick might profit from their emulation: but while good writers are so scarce, and undaunted criticks so plenty, i am afraid a good play and a blazing star will be equal rarities. this voluptuous expedient, therefore, of indulging the taste with several theatres, will amount to much the same variety as that of a certain oeconomist, who, to enlarge his hospitality, would have two puddings and two legs of mutton for the same dinner.[ ]--but to resume the thread of my history. these two excellent companies were both prosperous for some few years, 'till their variety of plays began to be exhausted: then of course the better actors (which the king's seem to have been allowed) could not fail of drawing the greater audiences. sir _william davenant_, therefore, master of the duke's company, to make head against their success, was forced to add spectacle and musick to action; and to introduce a new species of plays, since call'd dramatick opera's, of which kind were the _tempest_, _psyche_, _circe_, and others, all set off with the most expensive decorations of scenes and habits, with the best voices and dancers.[ ] this sensual supply of sight and sound coming in to the assistance of the weaker party, it was no wonder they should grow too hard for sense and simple nature, when it is consider'd how many more people there are, that can see and hear, than think and judge. so wanton a change of the publick taste, therefore, began to fall as heavy upon the king's company as their greater excellence in action had before fallen upon their competitors: of which encroachment upon wit several good prologues in those days frequently complain'd.[ ] but alas! what can truth avail, when its dependance is much more upon the ignorant than the sensible auditor? a poor satisfaction, that the due praise given to it must at last sink into the cold comfort of--_laudatur & alget_.[ ] unprofitable praise can hardly give it a _soup maigre_. taste and fashion with us have always had wings, and fly from one publick spectacle to another so wantonly, that i have been inform'd by those who remember it, that a famous puppet-shew[ ] in _salisbury_ change (then standing where _cecil-street_ now is) so far distrest these two celebrated companies, that they were reduced to petition the king for relief against it: nor ought we perhaps to think this strange, when, if i mistake not, _terence_ himself reproaches the _roman_ auditors of his time with the like fondness for the _funambuli_, the rope-dancers.[ ] not to dwell too long therefore upon that part of my history which i have only collected from oral tradition, i shall content myself with telling you that _mohun_[ ] and _hart_ now growing old (for, above thirty years before this time, they had severally born the king's commission of major and captain in the civil wars), and the younger actors, as _goodman_,[ ] _clark_,[ ] and others, being impatient to get into their parts, and growing intractable,[ ] the audiences too of both houses then falling off, the patentees of each, by the king's advice, which perhaps amounted to a command, united their interests and both companies into one, exclusive of all others, in the year .[ ] this union was, however, so much in favour of the duke's company, that _hart_ left the stage upon it, and _mohun_ survived not long after. one only theatre being now in possession of the whole town, the united patentees imposed their own terms upon the actors; for the profits of acting were then divided into twenty shares, ten of which went to the proprietors, and the other moiety to the principal actors, in such sub-divisions as their different merit might pretend to. these shares of the patentees were promiscuously sold out to money-making persons, call'd adventurers,[ ] who, tho' utterly ignorant of theatrical affairs, were still admitted to a proportionate vote in the menagement of them; all particular encouragements to actors were by them, of consequence, look'd upon as so many sums deducted from their private dividends. while therefore the theatrical hive had so many drones in it, the labouring actors, sure, were under the highest discouragement, if not a direct state of oppression. their hardship will at least appear in a much stronger light when compar'd to our later situation, who with scarce half their merit succeeded to be sharers under a patent upon five times easier conditions: for as they had but half the profits divided among ten or more of them; we had three fourths of the whole profits divided only among three of us: and as they might be said to have ten task-masters over them, we never had but one assistant menager (not an actor) join'd with us;[ ] who, by the crown's indulgence, was sometimes too of our own chusing. under this heavy establishment then groan'd this united company when i was first admitted into the lowest rank of it. how they came to be relieved by king _william_'s licence in , how they were again dispersed early in queen _anne_'s reign, and from what accidents fortune took better care of us, their unequal successors, will be told in its place: but to prepare you for the opening so large a scene of their history, methinks i ought (in justice to their memory too) to give you such particular characters of their theatrical merit as in my plain judgment they seem'd to deserve. presuming then that this attempt may not be disagreeable to the curious or the true lovers of the theatre, take it without farther preface. in the year , when i first came into this company, the principal actors then at the head of it were, of men. of women. mr. _betterton_, mrs. _betterton_, mr. _monfort_, mrs. _barry_, mr. _kynaston_, mrs. _leigh_, mr. _sandford_, mrs. _butler_, mr. _nokes_, mrs. _monfort_, and mr. _underhil_, and mrs. _bracegirdle_. mr. _leigh_. these actors whom i have selected from their cotemporaries were all original masters in their different stile, not meer auricular imitators of one another, which commonly is the highest merit of the middle rank, but self-judges of nature, from whose various lights they only took their true instruction. if in the following account of them i may be obliged to hint at the faults of others, i never mean such observations should extend to those who are now in possession of the stage; for as i design not my memoirs shall come down to their time, i would not lie under the imputation of speaking in their disfavour to the publick, whose approbation they must depend upon for support.[ ] but to my purpose. _betterton_ was an actor, as _shakespear_ was an author, both without competitors! form'd for the mutual assistance and illustration of each others genius! how _shakespear_ wrote, all men who have a taste for nature may read and know--but with what higher rapture would he still be _read_ could they conceive how _betterton play'd_ him! then might they know the one was born alone to speak what the other only knew to write! pity it is that the momentary beauties flowing from an harmonious elocution cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record! that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or at best can but faintly glimmer through the memory or imperfect attestation of a few surviving spectators. could _how betterton_ spoke be as easily known as _what_ he spoke, then might you see the muse of _shakespear_ in her triumph, with all her beauties in their best array rising into real life and charming her beholders. but alas! since all this is so far out of the reach of description, how shall i shew you _betterton_? should i therefore tell you that all the _othellos_, _hamlets_, _hotspurs_, _mackbeths_, and _brutus_'s whom you may have seen since his time, have fallen far short of him; this still would give you no idea of his particular excellence. let us see then what a particular comparison may do! whether that may yet draw him nearer to you? you have seen a _hamlet_ perhaps, who, on the first appearance of his father's spirit, has thrown himself into all the straining vociferation requisite to express rage and fury, and the house has thunder'd with applause; tho' the mis-guided actor was all the while (as _shakespear_ terms it) tearing a passion into rags[ ]----i am the more bold to offer you this particular instance, because the late mr. _addison_, while i sate by him to see this scene acted, made the same observation, asking me, with some surprize, if i thought _hamlet_ should be in so violent a passion with the ghost, which, tho' it might have astonish'd, it had not provok'd him? for you may observe that in this beautiful speech the passion never rises beyond an almost breathless astonishment, or an impatience, limited by filial reverence, to enquire into the suspected wrongs that may have rais'd him from his peaceful tomb! and a desire to know what a spirit so seemingly distrest might wish or enjoin a sorrowful son to execute towards his future quiet in the grave? this was the light into which _betterton_ threw this scene; which he open'd with a pause of mute amazement! then rising slowly to a solemn, trembling voice, he made the ghost equally terrible to the spectator as to himself![ ] and in the descriptive part of the natural emotions which the ghastly vision gave him, the boldness of his expostulation was still govern'd by decency, manly, but not braving; his voice never rising into that seeming outrage or wild defiance of what he naturally rever'd.[ ] but alas! to preserve this medium, between mouthing and meaning too little, to keep the attention more pleasingly awake by a temper'd spirit than by meer vehemence of voice, is of all the master-strokes of an actor the most difficult to reach. in this none yet have equall'd _betterton_. but i am unwilling to shew his superiority only by recounting the errors of those who now cannot answer to them, let their farther failings therefore be forgotten! or rather, shall i in some measure excuse them? for i am not yet sure that they might not be as much owing to the false judgment of the spectator as the actor. while the million are so apt to be transported when the drum of their ear is so roundly rattled; while they take the life of elocution to lie in the strength of the lungs, it is no wonder the actor, whose end is applause, should be also tempted at this easy rate to excite it. shall i go a little farther? and allow that this extreme is more pardonable than its opposite error? i mean that dangerous affectation of the monotone, or solemn sameness of pronounciation, which, to my ear, is insupportable; for of all faults that so frequently pass upon the vulgar, that of flatness will have the fewest admirers. that this is an error of ancient standing seems evident by what _hamlet_ says, in his instructions to the players, _viz._ _be not too tame, neither,_ &c. the actor, doubtless, is as strongly ty'd down to the rules of _horace_ as the writer. _si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi_----[ ] he that feels not himself the passion he would raise, will talk to a sleeping audience: but this never was the fault of _betterton_; and it has often amaz'd me to see those who soon came after him throw out, in some parts of a character, a just and graceful spirit which _betterton_ himself could not but have applauded. and yet in the equally shining passages of the same character have heavily dragg'd the sentiment along like a dead weight, with a long-ton'd voice and absent eye, as if they had fairly forgot what they were about: if you have never made this observation, i am contented you should not know where to apply it.[ ] a farther excellence in _betterton_ was, that he could vary his spirit to the different characters he acted. those wild impatient starts, that fierce and flashing fire, which he threw into _hotspur_, never came from the unruffled temper of his _brutus_ (for i have more than once seen a _brutus_ as warm as _hotspur_): when the _betterton brutus_ was provok'd in his dispute with _cassius,_ his spirit flew only to his eye; his steady look alone supply'd that terror which he disdain'd an intemperance in his voice should rise to. thus, with a settled dignity of contempt, like an unheeding rock he repelled upon himself the foam of _cassius_. perhaps the very words of _shakespear_ will better let you into my meaning: _must i give way and room to your rash choler? shall i be frighted when a madman stares?_ and a little after, _there is no terror,_ cassius, _in your looks_! &c. not but in some part of this scene, where he reproaches _cassius,_ his temper is not under this suppression, but opens into that warmth which becomes a man of virtue; yet this is that _hasty spark_ of anger which _brutus_ himself endeavours to excuse. but with whatever strength of nature we see the poet shew at once the philosopher and the heroe, yet the image of the actor's excellence will be still imperfect to you unless language could put colours in our words to paint the voice with. _et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum_,[ ] is enjoyning an impossibility. the most that a _vandyke_ can arrive at, is to make his portraits of great persons seem to _think;_ a _shakespear_ goes farther yet, and tells you _what_ his pictures thought; a _betterton_ steps beyond 'em both, and calls them from the grave to breathe and be themselves again in feature, speech, and motion. when the skilful actor shews you all these powers at once united, and gratifies at once your eye, your ear, your understanding: to conceive the pleasure rising from such harmony, you must have been present at it! 'tis not to be told you! [illustration: benjamin johnson.] there cannot be a stronger proof of the charms of harmonious elocution than the many even unnatural scenes and flights of the false sublime it has lifted into applause. in what raptures have i seen an audience at the furious fustian and turgid rants in _nat. lee's alexander the great_! for though i can allow this play a few great beauties, yet it is not without its extravagant blemishes. every play of the same author has more or less of them. let me give you a sample from this. _alexander_, in a full crowd of courtiers, without being occasionally call'd or provok'd to it, falls into this rhapsody of vain-glory. _can none remember? yes, i know all must!_ and therefore they shall know it agen. _when glory, like the dazzling eagle, stood perch'd on my beaver, in the granic flood, when fortune's self my standard trembling bore, and the pale fates stood frighted on the shore, when the immortals on the billows rode, and i myself appear'd the leading god._[ ] when these flowing numbers came from the mouth of a _betterton_ the multitude no more desired sense to them than our musical _connoisseurs_ think it essential in the celebrate airs of an _italian_ opera. does not this prove that there is very near as much enchantment in the well-govern'd voice of an actor as in the sweet pipe of an eunuch? if i tell you there was no one tragedy, for many years, more in favour with the town than _alexander_, to what must we impute this its command of publick admiration? not to its intrinsick merit, surely, if it swarms with passages like this i have shewn you! if this passage has merit, let us see what figure it would make upon canvas, what sort of picture would rise from it. if _le brun_, who was famous for painting the battles of this heroe, had seen this lofty description, what one image could he have possibly taken from it? in what colours would he have shewn us _glory perch'd upon a beaver_? how would he have drawn _fortune trembling_? or, indeed, what use could he have made of _pale fates_ or _immortals_ riding upon _billows_, with this blustering _god_ of his own making at the _head_ of them?[ ] where, then, must have lain the charm that once made the publick so partial to this tragedy? why plainly, in the grace and harmony of the actor's utterance. for the actor himself is not accountable for the false poetry of his author; that the hearer is to judge of; if it passes upon him, the actor can have no quarrel to it; who, if the periods given him are round, smooth, spirited, and high-sounding, even in a false passion, must throw out the same fire and grace as may be required in one justly rising from nature; where those his excellencies will then be only more pleasing in proportion to the taste of his hearer. and i am of opinion that to the extraordinary success of this very play we may impute the corruption of so many actors and tragick writers, as were immediately misled by it. the unskilful actor who imagin'd all the merit of delivering those blazing rants lay only in the strength and strain'd exertion of the voice, began to tear his lungs upon every false or slight occasion to arrive at the same applause. and it is from hence i date our having seen the same reason prevalent for above fifty years. thus equally mis-guided, too, many a barren-brain'd author has stream'd into a frothy flowing style, pompously rolling into sounding periods signifying----roundly nothing; of which number, in some of my former labours, i am something more than suspicious that i may myself have made one. but to keep a little closer to _betterton_. when this favourite play i am speaking of, from its being too frequently acted, was worn out, and came to be deserted by the town, upon the sudden death of _monfort_, who had play'd _alexander_ with success for several years, the part was given to _betterton_, which, under this great disadvantage of the satiety it had given, he immediately reviv'd with so new a lustre that for three days together it fill'd the house;[ ] and had his then declining strength been equal to the fatigue the action gave him, it probably might have doubled its success; an uncommon instance of the power and intrinsick merit of an actor. this i mention not only to prove what irresistable pleasure may arise from a judicious elocution, with scarce sense to assist it; but to shew you too, that tho' _betterton_ never wanted fire and force when his character demanded it; yet, where it was not demanded, he never prostituted his power to the low ambition of a false applause. and further, that when, from a too advanced age, he resigned that toilsome part of _alexander_, the play for many years after never was able to impose upon the publick;[ ] and i look upon his so particularly supporting the false fire and extravagancies of that character to be a more surprizing proof of his skill than his being eminent in those of _shakespear_; because there, truth and nature coming to his assistance, he had not the same difficulties to combat, and consequently we must be less amaz'd at his success where we are more able to account for it. notwithstanding the extraordinary power he shew'd in blowing _alexander_ once more into a blaze of admiration, _betterton_ had so just a sense of what was true or false applause, that i have heard him say, he never thought any kind of it equal to an attentive silence; that there were many ways of deceiving an audience into a loud one; but to keep them husht and quiet was an applause which only truth and merit could arrive at: of which art there never was an equal master to himself. from these various excellencies, he had so full a possession of the esteem and regard of his auditors, that upon his entrance into every scene he seem'd to seize upon the eyes and ears of the giddy and inadvertent! to have talk'd or look'd another way would then have been thought insensibility or ignorance.[ ] in all his soliloquies of moment, the strong intelligence of his attitude and aspect drew you into such an impatient gaze and eager expectation, that you almost imbib'd the sentiment with your eye before the ear could reach it. as _betterton_ is the centre to which all my observations upon action tend, you will give me leave, under his character, to enlarge upon that head. in the just delivery of poetical numbers, particularly where the sentiments are pathetick, it is scarce credible upon how minute an article of sound depends their greatest beauty or inaffection. the voice of a singer is not more strictly ty'd to time and tune, than that of an actor in theatrical elocution:[ ] the least syllable too long or too slightly dwelt upon in a period depreciates it to nothing; which very syllable if rightly touch'd shall, like the heightening stroke of light from a master's pencil, give life and spirit to the whole. i never heard a line in tragedy come from _betterton_ wherein my judgment, my ear, and my imagination were not fully satisfy'd; which, since his time, i cannot equally say of any one actor whatsoever: not but it is possible to be much his inferior, with great excellencies; which i shall observe in another place. had it been practicable to have ty'd down the clattering hands of all the ill judges who were commonly the majority of an audience, to what amazing perfection might the _english_ theatre have arrived with so just an actor as _betterton_ at the head of it! if what was truth only could have been applauded, how many noisy actors had shook their plumes with shame, who, from the injudicious approbation of the multitude, have bawl'd and strutted in the place of merit? if therefore the bare speaking voice has such allurements in it, how much less ought we to wonder, however we may lament, that the sweeter notes of vocal musick should so have captivated even the politer world into an apostacy from sense to an idolatry of sound. let us enquire from whence this enchantment rises. i am afraid it may be too naturally accounted for: for when we complain that the finest musick, purchas'd at such vast expence, is so often thrown away upon the most miserable poetry, we seem not to consider, that when the movement of the air and tone of the voice are exquisitely harmonious, tho' we regard not one _word_ of what we hear, yet the power of the melody is so busy in the heart, that we naturally annex ideas to it of our own creation, and, in some sort, become our selves the poet to the composer; and what poet is so dull as not to be charm'd with the child of his own fancy? so that there is even a kind of language in agreeable sounds, which, like the aspect of beauty, without words speaks and plays with the imagination. while this taste therefore is so naturally prevalent, i doubt to propose remedies for it were but giving laws to the winds or advice to inamorato's: and however gravely we may assert that profit ought always to be inseparable from the delight of the theatre; nay, admitting that the pleasure would be heighten'd by the uniting them; yet, while instruction is so little the concern of the auditor, how can we hope that so choice a commodity will come to a market where there is so seldom a demand for it? it is not to the actor, therefore, but to the vitiated and low taste of the spectator, that the corruptions of the stage (of what kind soever) have been owing. if the publick, by whom they must live, had spirit enough to discountenance and declare against all the trash and fopperies they have been so frequently fond of, both the actors and the authors, to the best of their power, must naturally have serv'd their daily table with sound and wholesome diet.[ ]----but i have not yet done with my article of elocution. as we have sometimes great composers of musick who cannot sing, we have as frequently great writers that cannot read; and though without the nicest ear no man can be master of poetical numbers, yet the best ear in the world will not always enable him to pronounce them. of this truth _dryden_, our first great master of verse and harmony, was a strong instance: when he brought his play of _amphytrion_ to the stage,[ ] i heard him give it his first reading to the actors, in which, though it is true he deliver'd the plain sense of every period, yet the whole was in so cold, so flat, and unaffecting a manner, that i am afraid of not being believ'd when i affirm it. on the contrary, _lee_, far his inferior in poetry, was so pathetick a reader of his own scenes, that i have been inform'd by an actor who was present, that while _lee_ was reading to major _mohun_ at a rehearsal, _mohun_, in the warmth of his admiration, threw down his part and said, unless i were able to _play_ it as well as you _read_ it, to what purpose should i undertake it? and yet this very author, whose elocution rais'd such admiration in so capital an actor, when he attempted to be an actor himself, soon quitted the stage in an honest despair of ever making any profitable figure there.[ ] from all this i would infer, that let our conception of what we are to speak be ever so just, and the ear ever so true, yet, when we are to deliver it to an audience (i will leave fear out of the question) there must go along with the whole a natural freedom and becoming grace, which is easier to conceive than to describe: for without this inexpressible somewhat the performance will come out oddly disguis'd, or somewhere defectively unsurprizing to the hearer. of this defect, too, i will give you yet a stranger instance, which you will allow fear could not be the occasion of: if you remember _estcourt_,[ ] you must have known that he was long enough upon the stage not to be under the least restraint from fear in his performance: this man was so amazing and extraordinary a mimick, that no man or woman, from the coquette to the privy-counsellor, ever mov'd or spoke before him, but he could carry their voice, look, mien, and motion, instantly into another company: i have heard him make long harangues and form various arguments, even in the manner of thinking of an eminent pleader at the bar,[ ] with every the least article and singularity of his utterance so perfectly imitated, that he was the very _alter ipse_, scarce to be distinguish'd from his original. yet more; i have seen upon the margin of the written part of _falstaff_ which he acted, his own notes and observations upon almost every speech of it, describing the true spirit of the humour, and with what tone of voice, look, and gesture, each of them ought to be delivered. yet in his execution upon the stage he seem'd to have lost all those just ideas he had form'd of it, and almost thro' the character labour'd under a heavy load of flatness: in a word, with all his skill in mimickry and knowledge of what ought to be done, he never upon the stage could bring it truly into practice, but was upon the whole a languid, unaffecting actor.[ ] after i have shewn you so many necessary qualifications, not one of which can be spar'd in true theatrical elocution, and have at the same time prov'd that with the assistance of them all united, the whole may still come forth defective; what talents shall we say will infallibly form an actor? this i confess is one of nature's secrets, too deep for me to dive into; let us content our selves therefore with affirming, that _genius_, which nature only gives, only can complete him. this _genius_ then was so strong in _betterton_, that it shone out in every speech and motion of him. yet voice and person are such necessary supports to it, that by the multitude they have been preferr'd to _genius_ itself, or at least often mistaken for it. _betterton_ had a voice of that kind which gave more spirit to terror than to the softer passions; of more strength than melody.[ ] the rage and jealousy of _othello_ became him better than the sighs and tenderness of _castalio_:[ ] for though in _castalio_ he only excell'd others, in _othello_ he excell'd himself; which you will easily believe when you consider that, in spite of his complexion, _othello_ has more natural beauties than the best actor can find in all the magazine of poetry to animate his power and delight his judgment with. the person of this excellent actor was suitable to his voice, more manly than sweet, not exceeding the middle stature, inclining to the corpulent; of a serious and penetrating aspect; his limbs nearer the athletick than the delicate proportion; yet however form'd, there arose from the harmony of the whole a commanding mien of majesty, which the fairer-fac'd or (as _shakespear_ calls 'em) the _curled_ darlings of his time ever wanted something to be equal masters of. there was some years ago to be had, almost in every print-shop, a _metzotinto_ from _kneller_, extremely like him.[ ] in all i have said of _betterton_, i confine myself to the time of his strength and highest power in action, that you may make allowances from what he was able to execute at fifty, to what you might have seen of him at past seventy; for tho' to the last he was without his equal, he might not then be equal to his former self; yet so far was he from being ever overtaken, that for many years after his decease i seldom saw any of his parts in _shakespear_ supply'd by others, but it drew from me the lamentation of _ophelia_ upon _hamlet_'s being unlike what she had seen him. ----_ah! woe is me! t'have seen what i have seen, see what i see!_ the last part this great master of his profession acted was _melantius_ in the _maid's tragedy_, for his own benefit;[ ] when being suddenly seiz'd by the gout, he submitted, by extraordinary applications, to have his foot so far reliev'd that he might be able to walk on the stage in a slipper, rather than wholly disappoint his auditors. he was observ'd that day to have exerted a more than ordinary spirit, and met with suitable applause; but the unhappy consequence of tampering with his distemper was, that it flew into his head, and kill'd him in three days, (i think) in the seventy-fourth year of his age.[ ] i once thought to have fill'd up my work with a select dissertation upon theatrical action,[ ] but i find, by the digressions i have been tempted to make in this account of _betterton_, that all i can say upon that head will naturally fall in, and possibly be less tedious if dispers'd among the various characters of the particular actors i have promis'd to treat of; i shall therefore make use of those several vehicles, which you will find waiting in the next chapter, to carry you thro' the rest of the journey at your leisure. chapter v. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc apres peter van bleeck] _the theatrical characters of the principal actors in the year , continu'd._ _a few words to critical auditors._ tho', as i have before observ'd, women were not admitted to the stage 'till the return of king _charles_, yet it could not be so suddenly supply'd with them but that there was still a necessity, for some time, to put the handsomest young men into petticoats;[ ] which _kynaston_ was then said to have worn with success; particularly in the part of _evadne_ in the _maid's tragedy_, which i have heard him speak of, and which calls to my mind a ridiculous distress that arose from these sort of shifts which the stage was then put to.----the king coming a little before his usual time to a tragedy, found the actors not ready to begin, when his majesty, not chusing to have as much patience as his good subjects, sent to them to know the meaning of it; upon which the master of the company came to the box, and rightly judging that the best excuse for their default would be the true one, fairly told his majesty that the queen was not _shav'd_ yet: the king, whose good humour lov'd to laugh at a jest as well as to make one, accepted the excuse, which serv'd to divert him till the male queen cou'd be effeminated. in a word, _kynaston_ at that time was so beautiful a youth that the ladies of quality prided themselves in taking him with them in their coaches to _hyde-park_ in his theatrical habit, after the play; which in those days they might have sufficient time to do, because plays then were us'd to begin at four a-clock: the hour that people of the same rank are now going to dinner.----of this truth i had the curiosity to enquire, and had it confirm'd from his own mouth in his advanc'd age: and indeed, to the last of him, his handsomeness was very little abated; even at past sixty his teeth were all sound, white, and even, as one would wish to see in a reigning toast of twenty. he had something of a formal gravity in his mien, which was attributed to the stately step he had been so early confin'd to, in a female decency. but even that in characters of superiority had its proper graces; it misbecame him not in the part of _leon_, in _fletcher's rule a wife, &c._ which he executed with a determin'd manliness and honest authority well worth the best actor's imitation. he had a piercing eye, and in characters of heroick life a quick imperious vivacity in his tone of voice that painted the tyrant truly terrible. there were two plays of _dryden_ in which he shone with uncommon lustre; in _aurenge-zebe_ he play'd _morat_, and in _don sebastian, muley moloch_; in both these parts he had a fierce, lion-like majesty in his port and utterance that gave the spectator a kind of trembling admiration! here i cannot help observing upon a modest mistake which i thought the late mr. _booth_ committed in his acting the part of _morat_. there are in this fierce character so many sentiments of avow'd barbarity, insolence, and vain-glory, that they blaze even to a ludicrous lustre, and doubtless the poet intended those to make his spectators laugh while they admir'd them; but _booth_ thought it depreciated the dignity of tragedy to raise a smile in any part of it, and therefore cover'd these kind of sentiments with a scrupulous coldness and unmov'd delivery, as if he had fear'd the audience might take too familiar a notice of them.[ ] in mr. _addison's cato, syphax_[ ] has some sentiments of near the same nature, which i ventur'd to speak as i imagin'd _kynaston_ would have done had he been then living to have stood in the same character. mr. _addison_, who had something of mr. _booth_'s diffidence at the rehearsal of his play, after it was acted came into my opinion, and own'd that even tragedy on such particular occasions might admit of a _laugh_ of _approbation_.[ ] in _shakespear_ instances of them are frequent, as in _mackbeth_, _hotspur_, _richard the third_, and _harry the eighth_,[ ] all which characters, tho' of a tragical cast, have sometimes familiar strokes in them so highly natural to each particular disposition, that it is impossible not to be transported into an honest laughter at them: and these are those happy liberties which, tho' few authors are qualify'd to take, yet, when justly taken, may challenge a place among their greatest beauties. now, whether _dryden_, in his _morat, feliciter audet_,[ ]----or may be allow'd the happiness of having hit this mark, seems not necessary to be determin'd by the actor, whose business, sure, is to make the best of his author's intention, as in this part _kynaston_ did, doubtless not without _dryden_'s approbation. for these reasons then, i thought my good friend, mr. _booth_ (who certainly had many excellencies) carry'd his reverence for the buskin too far, in not following the bold flights of the author with that wantonness of spirit which the nature of those sentiments demanded: for example! _morat_ having a criminal passion for _indamora_, promises, at her request, for one day to spare the life of her lover _aurenge-zebe_: but not chusing to make known the real motive of his mercy, when _nourmahal_ says to him, _'twill not be safe to let him live an hour!_ _morat_ silences her with this heroical _rhodomontade_, _i'll do't, to shew my arbitrary power_.[ ] _risum teneatis?_ it was impossible not to laugh and reasonably too, when this line came out of the mouth of _kynaston_,[ ] with the stern and haughty look that attended it. but above this tyrannical, tumid superiority of character there is a grave and rational majesty in _shakespear's harry the fourth_, which, tho' not so glaring to the vulgar eye, requires thrice the skill and grace to become and support. of this real majesty _kynaston_ was entirely master; here every sentiment came from him as if it had been his own, as if he had himself that instant conceiv'd it, as if he had lost the player and were the real king he personated! a perfection so rarely found, that very often, in actors of good repute, a certain vacancy of look, inanity of voice, or superfluous gesture, shall unmask the man to the judicious spectator, who, from the least of those errors, plainly sees the whole but a lesson given him to be got by heart from some great author whose sense is deeper than the repeater's understanding. this true majesty _kynaston_ had so entire a command of, that when he whisper'd the following plain line to _hotspur_, _send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it_![ ] he convey'd a more terrible menace in it than the loudest intemperance of voice could swell to. but let the bold imitator beware, for without the look and just elocution that waited on it an attempt of the same nature may fall to nothing. [illustration: kynaston.] but the dignity of this character appear'd in _kynaston_ still more shining in the private scene between the king and prince his son: there you saw majesty in that sort of grief which only majesty could feel! there the paternal concern for the errors of the son made the monarch more rever'd and dreaded: his reproaches so just, yet so unmix'd with anger (and therefore the more piercing) opening as it were the arms of nature with a secret wish, that filial duty and penitence awak'd, might fall into them with grace and honour. in this affecting scene i thought _kynaston_ shew'd his most masterly strokes of nature; expressing all the various motions of the heart with the same force, dignity and feeling, they are written; adding to the whole that peculiar and becoming grace which the best writer cannot inspire into any actor that is not born with it. what made the merit of this actor and that of _betterton_ more surprizing, was that though they both observ'd the rules of truth and nature, they were each as different in their manner of acting as in their personal form and features. but _kynaston_ staid too long upon the stage, till his memory and spirit began to fail him. i shall not therefore say any thing of his imperfections, which, at that time, were visibly not his own, but the effects of decaying nature.[ ] _monfort_,[ ] a younger man by twenty years, and at this time in his highest reputation, was an actor of a very different style: of person he was tall, well made, fair, and of an agreeable aspect: his voice clear, full, and melodious: in tragedy he was the most affecting lover within my memory. his addresses had a resistless recommendation from the very tone of his voice, which gave his words such softness that, as _dryden_ says, ----_like flakes of feather'd snow, they melted as they fell_![ ] all this he particularly verify'd in that scene of _alexander_, where the heroe throws himself at the feet of _statira_ for pardon of his past infidelities. there we saw the great, the tender, the penitent, the despairing, the transported, and the amiable, in the highest perfection. in comedy he gave the truest life to what we call the _fine gentleman_; his spirit shone the brighter for being polish'd with decency: in scenes of gaiety he never broke into the regard that was due to the presence of equal or superior characters, tho' inferior actors play'd them; he fill'd the stage, not by elbowing and crossing it before others, or disconcerting their action, but by surpassing them in true masterly touches of nature. he never laugh'd at his own jest, unless the point of his raillery upon another requir'd it.--he had a particular talent in giving life to _bons mots_ and _repartees_: the wit of the poet seem'd always to come from him _extempore_, and sharpen'd into more wit from his brilliant manner of delivering it; he had himself a good share of it, or what is equal to it, so lively a pleasantness of humour, that when either of these fell into his hands upon the stage, he wantoned with them to the highest delight of his auditors. the _agreeable_ was so natural to him, that even in that dissolute character of the _rover_[ ] he seem'd to wash off the guilt from vice, and gave it charms and merit. for tho' it may be a reproach to the poet to draw such characters not only unpunish'd but rewarded, the actor may still be allow'd his due praise in his excellent performance. and this is a distinction which, when this comedy was acted at _whitehall_, king _william_'s queen _mary_ was pleas'd to make in favour of _monfort_, notwithstanding her disapprobation of the play. he had, besides all this, a variety in his genius which few capital actors have shewn, or perhaps have thought it any addition to their merit to arrive at; he could entirely change himself; could at once throw off the man of sense for the brisk, vain, rude, and lively coxcomb, the false, flashy pretender to wit, and the dupe of his own sufficiency: of this he gave a delightful instance in the character of _sparkish_ in _wycherly's country wife_. in that of sir _courtly nice_[ ] his excellence was still greater: there his whole man, voice, mien, and gesture was no longer _monfort_, but another person. there, the insipid, soft civility, the elegant and formal mien, the drawling delicacy of voice, the stately flatness of his address, and the empty eminence of his attitudes were so nicely observ'd and guarded by him, that he had not been an entire master of nature had he not kept his judgment, as it were, a centinel upon himself, not to admit the least likeness of what he us'd to be to enter into any part of his performance, he could not possibly have so completely finish'd it. if, some years after the death of _monfort_, i my self had any success in either of these characters, i must pay the debt i owe to his memory, in confessing the advantages i receiv'd from the just idea and strong impression he had given me from his acting them. had he been remember'd when i first attempted them my defects would have been more easily discover'd, and consequently my favourable reception in them must have been very much and justly abated. if it could be remembred how much he had the advantage of me in voice and person, i could not here be suspected of an affected modesty or of over-valuing his excellence: for he sung a clear counter-tenour, and had a melodious, warbling throat, which could not but set off the last scene of sir _courtly_ with an uncommon happiness; which i, alas! could only struggle thro' with the faint excuses and real confidence of a fine singer under the imperfection of a feign'd and screaming trebble, which at best could only shew you what i would have done had nature been more favourable to me. this excellent actor was cut off by a tragical death in the d year of his age, generally lamented by his friends and all lovers of the theatre. the particular accidents that attended his fall are to be found at large in the trial of the lord _mohun_, printed among those of the state, in _folio_.[ ] _sandford_ might properly be term'd the _spagnolet_ of the theatre, an excellent actor in disagreeable characters: for as the chief pieces of that famous painter were of human nature in pain and agony, so _sandford_ upon the stage was generally as flagitious as a _creon_, a _maligni_, an _iago_, or a _machiavil_[ ] could make him. the painter, 'tis true, from the fire of his genius might think the quiet objects of nature too tame for his pencil, and therefore chose to indulge it in its full power upon those of violence and horror: but poor _sandford_ was not the stage-villain by choice, but from necessity; for having a low and crooked person, such bodily defects were too strong to be admitted into great or amiable characters; so that whenever in any new or revived play there was a hateful or mischievous person, _sandford_ was sure to have no competitor for it: nor indeed (as we are not to suppose a villain or traitor can be shewn for our imitation, or not for our abhorrence) can it be doubted but the less comely the actor's person the fitter he may be to perform them. the spectator too, by not being misled by a tempting form, may be less inclin'd to excuse the wicked or immoral views or sentiments of them. and though the hard fate of an _oedipus_ might naturally give the humanity of an audience thrice the pleasure that could arise from the wilful wickedness of the best acted _creon,_ yet who could say that _sandford_ in such a part was not master of as true and just action as the best tragedian could be whose happier person had recommended him to the virtuous heroe, or any other more pleasing favourite of the imagination? in this disadvantageous light, then, stood _sandford_ as an actor; admir'd by the judicious, while the crowd only prais'd him by their prejudice.[ ] and so unusual had it been to see _sandford_ an innocent man in a play, that whenever he was so, the spectators would hardly give him credit in so gross an improbability. let me give you an odd instance of it, which i heard _monfort_ say was a real fact. a new play (the name of it i have forgot) was brought upon the stage, wherein _sandford_ happen'd to perform the part of an honest statesman: the pit, after they had sate three or four acts in a quiet expectation that the well-dissembled honesty of _sandford_ (for such of course they concluded it) would soon be discover'd, or at least, from its security, involve the actors in the play in some surprizing distress or confusion, which might raise and animate the scenes to come; when, at last, finding no such matter, but that the catastrophe had taken quite another turn, and that _sandford_ was really an honest man to the end of the play, they fairly damn'd it, as if the author had impos'd upon them the most frontless or incredible absurdity.[ ] it is not improbable but that from _sandford_'s so masterly personating characters of guilt, the inferior actors might think his success chiefly owing to the defects of his person; and from thence might take occasion, whenever they appear'd as bravo's or murtherers, to make themselves as frightful and as inhuman figures as possible. in king _charles_'s time, this low skill was carry'd to such an extravagance, that the king himself, who was black-brow'd and of a swarthy complexion, pass'd a pleasant remark upon his observing the grim looks of the murtherers in _mackbeth_; when, turning to his people in the box about him, _pray, what is the meaning_, said he, _that we never see a rogue in a play, but, godsfish! they always clap him on a black perriwig? when it is well known one of the greatest rogues in_ england _always wears a fair one_? now, whether or no dr. _oates_ at that time wore his own hair i cannot be positive: or, if his majesty pointed at some greater man then out of power, i leave those to guess at him who may yet remember the changing complexion of his ministers.[ ] this story i had from _betterton_, who was a man of veracity: and i confess i should have thought the king's observation a very just one, though he himself had been fair as _adonis_. nor can i in this question help voting with the court; for were it not too gross a weakness to employ in wicked purposes men whose very suspected looks might be enough to betray them? or are we to suppose it unnatural that a murther should be thoroughly committed out of an old red coat and a black perriwig? for my own part, i profess myself to have been an admirer of _sandford_, and have often lamented that his masterly performance could not be rewarded with that applause which i saw much inferior actors met with, merely because they stood in more laudable characters. for, tho' it may be a merit in an audience to applaud sentiments of virtue and honour; yet there seems to be an equal justice that no distinction should be made as to the excellence of an actor, whether in a good or evil character; since neither the vice nor the virtue of it is his own, but given him by the poet: therefore, why is not the actor who shines in either equally commendable?--no, sir; this may be reason, but that is not always a rule with us; the spectator will tell you, that when virtue is applauded he gives part of it to himself; because his applause at the same time lets others about him see that he himself admires it. but when a wicked action is going forward; when an _iago_ is meditating revenge and mischief; tho' art and nature may be equally strong in the actor, the spectator is shy of his applause, lest he should in some sort be look'd upon as an aider or an abettor of the wickedness in view; and therefore rather chuses to rob the actor of the praise he may merit, than give it him in a character which he would have you see his silence modestly discourages. from the same fond principle many actors have made it a point to be seen in parts sometimes even flatly written, only because they stood in the favourable light of honour and virtue.[ ] i have formerly known an actress carry this theatrical prudery to such a height, that she was very near keeping herself chaste by it: her fondness for virtue on the stage she began to think might perswade the world that it had made an impression on her private life; and the appearances of it actually went so far that, in an epilogue to an obscure play, the profits of which were given to her, and wherein she acted a part of impregnable chastity, she bespoke the favour of the ladies by a protestation that in honour of their goodness and virtue she would dedicate her unblemish'd life to their example. part of this vestal vow, i remember, was contain'd in the following verse: _study to live the character i play_.[ ] but alas! how weak are the strongest works of art when nature besieges it? for though this good creature so far held out her distaste to mankind that they could never reduce her to marry any one of 'em; yet we must own she grew, like _cæsar_, greater by her fall! her first heroick motive to a surrender was to save the life of a lover who in his despair had vow'd to destroy himself, with which act of mercy (in a jealous dispute once in my hearing) she was provoked to reproach him in these very words: _villain! did not i save your life?_ the generous lover, in return to that first tender obligation, gave life to her first-born,[ ] and that pious offspring has since raised to her memory several innocent grandchildren. so that, as we see, it is not the hood that makes the monk, nor the veil the vestal; i am apt to think that if the personal morals of an actor were to be weighed by his appearance on the stage, the advantage and favour (if any were due to either side) might rather incline to the traitor than the heroe, to the _sempronius_ than the _cato_, or to the _syphax_ than the _juba_: because no man can naturally desire to cover his honesty with a wicked appearance; but an ill man might possibly incline to cover his guilt with the appearance of virtue, which was the case of the frail fair one now mentioned. but be this question decided as it may, _sandford_ always appear'd to me the honester man in proportion to the spirit wherewith he exposed the wicked and immoral characters he acted: for had his heart been unsound, or tainted with the least guilt of them, his conscience must, in spite of him, in any too near a resemblance of himself, have been a check upon the vivacity of his action. _sandford_ therefore might be said to have contributed his equal share with the foremost actors to the true and laudable use of the stage: and in this light too, of being so frequently the object of common distaste, we may honestly stile him a theatrical martyr to poetical justice: for in making vice odious or virtue amiable, where does the merit differ? to hate the one or love the other are but leading steps to the same temple of fame, tho' at different portals.[ ] this actor, in his manner of speaking, varied very much from those i have already mentioned. his voice had an acute and piercing tone, which struck every syllable of his words distinctly upon the ear. he had likewise a peculiar skill in his look of marking out to an audience whatever he judg'd worth their more than ordinary notice. when he deliver'd a command, he would sometimes give it more force by seeming to slight the ornament of harmony. in _dryden_'s plays of rhime, he as little as possible glutted the ear with the jingle of it, rather chusing, when the sense would permit him, to lose it, than to value it. had _sandford_ liv'd in _shakespear_'s time, i am confident his judgment must have chose him above all other actors to have play'd his _richard the third_: i leave his person out of the question, which, tho' naturally made for it, yet that would have been the least part of his recommendation; _sandford_ had stronger claims to it; he had sometimes an uncouth stateliness in his motion, a harsh and sullen pride of speech, a meditating brow, a stern aspect, occasionally changing into an almost ludicrous triumph over all goodness and virtue: from thence falling into the most asswasive gentleness and soothing candour of a designing heart. these, i say, must have preferr'd him to it; these would have been colours so essentially shining in that character, that it will be no dispraise to that great author to say, _sandford_ must have shewn as many masterly strokes in it (had he ever acted it) as are visible in the writing it.[ ] when i first brought _richard the third_[ ] (with such alterations as i thought not improper) to the stage, _sandford_ was engaged in the company then acting under king _william_'s licence in _lincoln's-inn-fields_; otherwise you cannot but suppose my interest must have offer'd him that part. what encouraged me, therefore, to attempt it myself at the _theatre-royal_, was that i imagined i knew how _sandford_ would have spoken every line of it: if, therefore, in any part of it i succeeded, let the merit be given to him: and how far i succeeded in that light, those only can be judges who remember him. in order, therefore, to give you a nearer idea of _sandford_, you must give me leave (compell'd as i am to be vain) to tell you that the late sir _john vanbrugh_, who was an admirer of _sandford_, after he had seen me act it, assur'd me that he never knew any one actor so particularly profit by another as i had done by _sandford_ in _richard the third_: _you have_, said he, _his very look, gesture, gait, speech, and every motion of him, and have borrow'd them all only to serve you in that character_. if, therefore, sir _john vanbrugh_'s observation was just, they who remember me in _richard the third_ may have a nearer conception of _sandford_ than from all the critical account i can give of him.[ ] i come now to those other men actors, who at this time were equally famous in the lower life of comedy. but i find myself more at a loss to give you them in their true and proper light, than those i have already set before you. why the tragedian warms us into joy or admiration, or sets our eyes on flow with pity, we can easily explain to another's apprehension: but it may sometimes puzzle the gravest spectator to account for that familiar violence of laughter that shall seize him at some particular strokes of a true comedian. how then shall i describe what a better judge might not be able to express? the rules to please the fancy cannot so easily be laid down as those that ought to govern the judgment. the decency, too, that must be observed in tragedy, reduces, by the manner of speaking it, one actor to be much more like another than they can or need be supposed to be in comedy: there the laws of action give them such free and almost unlimited liberties to play and wanton with nature, that the voice, look, and gesture of a comedian may be as various as the manners and faces of the whole mankind are different from one another. these are the difficulties i lie under. where i want words, therefore, to describe what i may commend, i can only hope you will give credit to my opinion: and this credit i shall most stand in need of, when i tell you, that: _nokes_[ ] was an actor of a quite different genius from any i have ever read, heard of, or seen, since or before his time; and yet his general excellence may be comprehended in one article, _viz._ a plain and palpable simplicity of nature, which was so utterly his own, that he was often as unaccountably diverting in his common speech as on the stage. i saw him once giving an account of some table-talk to another actor behind the scenes, which a man of quality accidentally listening to, was so deceived by his manner, that he ask'd him if that was a new play he was rehearsing? it seems almost amazing that this simplicity, so easy to _nokes_, should never be caught by any one of his successors. _leigh_ and _underhil_ have been well copied, tho' not equall'd by others. but not all the mimical skill of _estcourt_ (fam'd as he was for it) tho' he had often seen _nokes_, could scarce give us an idea of him. after this perhaps it will be saying less of him, when i own, that though i have still the sound of every line he spoke in my ear, (which us'd not to be thought a bad one) yet i have often try'd by myself, but in vain, to reach the least distant likeness of the _vis comica_ of _nokes_. though this may seem little to his praise, it may be negatively saying a good deal to it, because i have never seen any one actor, except himself, whom i could not at least so far imitate as to give you a more than tolerable notion of his manner. but _nokes_ was so singular a species, and was so form'd by nature for the stage, that i question if (beyond the trouble of getting words by heart) it ever cost him an hour's labour to arrive at that high reputation he had, and deserved. the characters he particularly shone in, were sir _martin marr-all_, _gomez_ in the _spanish friar_, sir _nicolas cully_ in _love in a tub_,[ ] _barnaby brittle_ in the _wanton wife_, sir _davy dunce_ in the _soldier's fortune_, _sosia_ in _amphytrion_,[ ] &c. &c. &c. to tell you how he acted them is beyond the reach of criticism: but to tell you what effect his action had upon the spectator is not impossible: this then is all you will expect from me, and from hence i must leave you to guess at him. he scarce ever made his first entrance in a play but he was received with an involuntary applause, not of hands only, for those may be, and have often been partially prostituted and bespoken, but by a general laughter which the very sight of him provoked and nature cou'd not resist; yet the louder the laugh the graver was his look upon it; and sure, the ridiculous solemnity of his features were enough to have set a whole bench of bishops into a titter, cou'd he have been honour'd (may it be no offence to suppose it) with such grave and right reverend auditors. in the ludicrous distresses which, by the laws of comedy, folly is often involv'd in, he sunk into such a mixture of piteous pusillanimity and a consternation so ruefully ridiculous and inconsolable, that when he had shook you to a fatigue of laughter it became a moot point whether you ought not to have pity'd him. when he debated any matter by himself, he would shut up his mouth with a dumb studious powt, and roll his full eye into such a vacant amazement, such a palpable ignorance of what to think of it, that his silent perplexity (which would sometimes hold him several minutes) gave your imagination as full content as the most absurd thing he could say upon it. in the character of sir _martin marr-all_, who is always committing blunders to the prejudice of his own interest, when he had brought himself to a dilemma in his affairs by vainly proceeding upon his own head, and was afterwards afraid to look his governing servant and counsellor in the face, what a copious and distressful harangue have i seen him make with his looks (while the house has been in one continued roar for several minutes) before he could prevail with his courage to speak a word to him! then might you have at once read in his face _vexation_--that his own measures, which he had piqued himself upon, had fail'd. _envy_--of his servant's superior wit--_distress_--to retrieve the occasion he had lost. _shame_--to confess his folly; and yet a sullen desire to be reconciled and better advised for the future! what tragedy ever shew'd us such a tumult of passions rising at once in one bosom! or what buskin'd heroe standing under the load of them could have more effectually mov'd his spectators by the most pathetick speech, than poor miserable _nokes_ did by this silent eloquence and piteous plight of his features? his person was of the middle size, his voice clear and audible; his natural countenance grave and sober; but the moment he spoke the settled seriousness of his features was utterly discharg'd, and a dry, drolling, or laughing levity took such full possession of him that i can only refer the idea of him to your imagination. in some of his low characters, that became it, he had a shuffling shamble in his gait, with so contented an ignorance in his aspect and an aukward absurdity in his gesture, that had you not known him, you could not have believ'd that naturally he could have had a grain of common sense. in a word, i am tempted to sum up the character of _nokes_, as a comedian, in a parodie of what _shakespear_'s _mark antony_ says of _brutus_ as a hero. _his life was laughter, and the_ ludicrous _so mixt in him, that nature might stand up and say to all the world--this was an_ actor.[ ] _leigh_ was of the mercurial kind, and though not so strict an observer of nature, yet never so wanton in his performance as to be wholly out of her sight. in humour he lov'd to take a full career, but was careful enough to stop short when just upon the precipice: he had great variety in his manner, and was famous in very different characters: in the canting, grave hypocrisy of the _spanish_ friar he stretcht the veil of piety so thinly over him, that in every look, word, and motion you saw a palpable, wicked slyness shine through it--here he kept his vivacity demurely confin'd till the pretended duty of his function demanded it, and then he exerted it with a cholerick sacerdotal insolence. but the friar is a character of such glaring vice and so strongly drawn, that a very indifferent actor cannot but hit upon the broad jests that are remarkable in every scene of it. though i have never yet seen any one that has fill'd them with half the truth and spirit of _leigh_----_leigh_ rais'd the character as much above the poet's imagination as the character has sometimes rais'd other actors above themselves! and i do not doubt but the poet's knowledge of _leigh_'s genius help'd him to many a pleasant stroke of nature, which without that knowledge never might have enter'd into his conception. _leigh_ was so eminent in this character that the late earl of _dorset_ (who was equally an admirer and a judge of theatrical merit) had a whole length of him, in the friar's habit, drawn by _kneller_: the whole portrait is highly painted, and extremely like him. but no wonder _leigh_ arriv'd to such fame in what was so compleatly written for him, when characters that would make the reader yawn in the closet, have, by the strength of his action, been lifted into the lowdest laughter on the stage. of this kind was the scrivener's great boobily son in the _villain_;[ ] _ralph_, a stupid, staring under-servant, in sir _solomon single_.[ ] quite opposite to those were sir _jolly jumble_ in the _soldier's fortune_,[ ] and his old _belfond_ in the _squire of alsatia_.[ ] in sir _jolly_ he was all life and laughing humour, and when _nokes_ acted with him in the same play, they returned the ball so dexterously upon one another, that every scene between them seem'd but one continued rest[ ] of excellence----but alas! when those actors were gone, that comedy and many others, for the same reason, were rarely known to stand upon their own legs; by seeing no more of _leigh_ or _nokes_ in them, the characters were quite sunk and alter'd. in his sir _william belfond_, _leigh_ shew'd a more spirited variety than ever i saw any actor, in any one character, come up to: the poet, 'tis true, had here exactly chalked for him the out-lines of nature; but the high colouring, the strong lights and shades of humour that enliven'd the whole and struck our admiration with surprize and delight, were wholly owing to the actor. the easy reader might, perhaps, have been pleased with the author without discomposing a feature, but the spectator must have heartily held his sides, or the actor would have heartily made them ach for it. [illustration: anthony leigh.] now, though i observ'd before that _nokes_ never was tolerably touch'd by any of his successors, yet in this character i must own i have seen _leigh_ extremely well imitated by my late facetious friend _penkethman_, who, tho' far short of what was inimitable in the original, yet, as to the general resemblance, was a very valuable copy of him: and, as i know _penkethman_ cannot yet be out of your memory, i have chosen to mention him here, to give you the nearest idea i can of the excellence of _leigh_ in that particular light: for _leigh_ had many masterly variations which the other cou'd not, nor ever pretended to reach, particularly in the dotage and follies of extreme old age, in the characters of _fumble_ in the _fond husband_,[ ] and the toothless lawyer[ ] in the _city politicks_, both which plays liv'd only by the extraordinary performance of _nokes_ and _leigh_. there were two other characters of the farcical kind, _geta_ in the _prophetess_, and _crack_ in sir _courtly nice_, which, as they are less confin'd to nature, the imitation of them was less difficult to _penkethman_,[ ] who, to say the truth, delighted more in the whimsical than the natural; therefore, when i say he sometimes resembled _leigh_, i reserve this distinction on his master's side, that the pleasant extravagancies of _leigh_ were all the flowers of his own fancy, while the less fertile brain of my friend was contented to make use of the stock his predecessor had left him. what i have said, therefore, is not to detract from honest _pinky_'s merit, but to do justice to his predecessor----and though, 'tis true, we as seldom see a good actor as a great poet arise from the bare _imitation_ of another's genius, yet if this be a general rule, _penkethman_ was the nearest to an exception from it; for with those who never knew _leigh_ he might very well have pass'd for a more than common original. yet again, as my partiality for _penkethman_ ought not to lead me from truth, i must beg leave (though out of its place) to tell you fairly what was the best of him, that the superiority of _leigh_ may stand in its due light----_penkethman_ had certainly from nature a great deal of comic power about him, but his judgment was by no means equal to it; for he would make frequent deviations into the whimsies of an _harlequin_. by the way, (let me digress a little farther) whatever allowances are made for the licence of that character, i mean of an _harlequin_, whatever pretences may be urged, from the practice of the ancient comedy, for its being play'd in a mask, resembling no part of the human species, i am apt to think the best excuse a modern actor can plead for his continuing it, is that the low, senseless, and monstrous things he says and does in it no theatrical assurance could get through with a bare face: let me give you an instance of even _penkethman_'s being out of countenance for want of it: when he first play'd _harlequin_ in the _emperor_ of the _moon_,[ ] several gentlemen (who inadvertently judg'd by the rules of nature) fancied that a great deal of the drollery and spirit of his grimace was lost by his wearing that useless, unmeaning masque of a black cat, and therefore insisted that the next time of his acting that part he should play without it: their desire was accordingly comply'd with----but, alas! in vain--_penkethman_ could not take to himself the shame of the character without being concealed--he was no more _harlequin_--his humour was quite disconcerted! his conscience could not with the same _effronterie_ declare against nature without the cover of that unchanging face, which he was sure would never blush for it! no! it was quite another case! without that armour his courage could not come up to the bold strokes that were necessary to get the better of common sense. now if this circumstance will justify the modesty of _penkethman_, it cannot but throw a wholesome contempt on the low merit of an _harlequin_. but how farther necessary the masque is to that fool's coat, we have lately had a stronger proof in the favour that the _harlequin sauvage_ met with at _paris_, and the ill fate that followed the same _sauvage_ when he pull'd off his masque in _london_.[ ] so that it seems what was wit from an _harlequin_ was something too extravagant from a human creature. if, therefore, _penkethman_ in characters drawn from nature might sometimes launch out into a few gamesome liberties which would not have been excused from a more correct comedian, yet, in his manner of taking them, he always seem'd to me in a kind of consciousness of the hazard he was running, as if he fairly confess'd that what he did was only as well as he _could_ do----that he was willing to take his chance for success, but if he did not meet with it a rebuke should break no squares; he would mend it another time, and would take whatever pleas'd his judges to think of him in good part; and i have often thought that a good deal of the favour he met with was owing to this seeming humble way of waving all pretences to merit but what the town would please to allow him. what confirms me in this opinion is, that when it has been his ill fortune to meet with a _disgraccia_, i have known him say apart to himself, yet loud enough to be heard----_odso!_ i believe i _am a little wrong here_! which once was so well receiv'd by the audience that they turn'd their reproof into applause.[ ] now, the judgment of _leigh_ always guarded the happier sallies of his fancy from the least hazard of disapprobation: he seem'd not to court, but to attack your applause, and always came off victorious; nor did his highest assurance amount to any more than that just confidence without which the commendable spirit of every good actor must be abated; and of this spirit _leigh_ was a most perfect master. he was much admir'd by king _charles_, who us'd to distinguish him when spoke of by the title of _his actor_: which however makes me imagine that in his exile that prince might have receiv'd his first impression of good actors from the _french_ stage; for _leigh_ had more of that farcical vivacity than _nokes_; but _nokes_ was never languid by his more strict adherence to nature, and as far as my judgment is worth taking, if their intrinsick merit could be justly weigh'd, _nokes_ must have had the better in the balance. upon the unfortunate death of _monfort_, _leigh_ fell ill of a fever, and dy'd in a week after him, in _december _.[ ] _underhil_ was a correct and natural comedian, his particular excellence was in characters that may be called still-life, i mean the stiff, the heavy, and the stupid; to these he gave the exactest and most expressive colours, and in some of them look'd as if it were not in the power of human passions to alter a feature of him. in the solemn formality of _obadiah_ in the _committee_, and in the boobily heaviness of _lolpoop_ in the _squire of alsatia_, he seem'd the immoveable log he stood for! a countenance of wood could not be more fixt than his, when the blockhead of a character required it: his face was full and long; from his crown to the end of his nose was the shorter half of it, so that the disproportion of his lower features, when soberly compos'd, with an unwandering eye hanging over them, threw him into the most lumpish, moping mortal that ever made beholders merry! not but at other times he could be wakened into spirit equally ridiculous----in the course, rustick humour of justice _clodpate_, in _epsome wells_,[ ] he was a delightful brute! and in the blunt vivacity of sir _sampson_, in _love for love_, he shew'd all that true perverse spirit that is commonly seen in much wit and ill-nature. this character is one of those few so well written, with so much wit and humour, that an actor must be the grossest dunce that does not appear with an unusual life in it: but it will still shew as great a proportion of skill to come near _underhil_ in the acting it, which (not to undervalue those who soon came after him) i have not yet seen. he was particularly admir'd too for the gravedigger in _hamlet_. the author of the _tatler_ recommends him to the favour of the town upon that play's being acted for his benefit, wherein, after his age had some years oblig'd him to leave the stage, he came on again, for that day, to perform his old part;[ ] but, alas! so worn and disabled, as if himself was to have lain in the grave he was digging; when he could no more excite laughter, his infirmities were dismiss'd with pity: he dy'd soon after, a superannuated pensioner in the list of those who were supported by the joint sharers under the first patent granted to sir _richard steele_. the deep impressions of these excellent actors which i receiv'd in my youth, i am afraid may have drawn me into the common foible of us old fellows; which is a fondness, and perhaps a tedious partiality, for the pleasures we have formerly tasted, and think are now fallen off because we can no longer enjoy them. if therefore i lie under that suspicion, tho' i have related nothing incredible or out of the reach of a good judge's conception, i must appeal to those few who are about my own age for the truth and likeness of these theatrical portraits. there were at this time several others in some degree of favour with the publick, _powel_,[ ] _verbruggen_,[ ] _williams_,[ ] &c. but as i cannot think their best improvements made them in any wise equal to those i have spoke of, i ought not to range them in the same class. neither were _wilks_ or _dogget_ yet come to the stage; nor was _booth_ initiated till about six years after them; or mrs. _oldfield_ known till the year . i must therefore reserve the four last for their proper period, and proceed to the actresses that were famous with _betterton_ at the latter end of the last century. mrs. _barry_ was then in possession of almost all the chief parts in tragedy: with what skill she gave life to them you will judge from the words of _dryden_ in his preface to _cleomenes_,[ ] where he says, _mrs._ barry, _always excellent, has in this tragedy excell'd herself, and gain'd a reputation beyond any woman i have ever seen on the theatre_. i very perfectly remember her acting that part; and however unnecessary it may seem to give my judgment after _dryden_'s, i cannot help saying i do not only close with his opinion, but will venture to add that (tho' _dryden_ has been dead these thirty eight years) the same compliment to this hour may be due to her excellence. and tho' she was then not a little past her youth, she was not till that time fully arriv'd to her maturity of power and judgment: from whence i would observe, that the short life of beauty is not long enough to form a complete actress. in men the delicacy of person is not so absolutely necessary, nor the decline of it so soon taken notice of. the fame mrs. _barry_ arriv'd to is a particular proof of the difficulty there is in judging with certainty, from their first trials, whether young people will ever make any great figure on a theatre. there was, it seems, so little hope of mrs. _barry_ at her first setting out, that she was at the end of the first year discharg'd the company, among others that were thought to be a useless expence to it. i take it for granted that the objection to mrs. _barry_ at that time must have been a defective ear, or some unskilful dissonance in her manner of pronouncing: but where there is a proper voice and person, with the addition of a good understanding, experience tells us that such defect is not always invincible; of which not only mrs. _barry_, but the late mrs. _oldfield_ are eminent instances. mrs. _oldfield_ had been a year in the theatre-royal before she was observ'd to give any tolerable hope of her being an actress; so unlike to all manner of propriety was her speaking![ ] how unaccountably, then, does a genius for the stage make its way towards perfection? for, notwithstanding these equal disadvantages, both these actresses, tho' of different excellence, made themselves complete mistresses of their art by the prevalence of their understanding. if this observation may be of any use to the masters of future theatres, i shall not then have made it to no purpose.[ ] mrs. _barry_, in characters of greatness, had a presence of elevated dignity, her mien and motion superb and gracefully majestick; her voice full, clear, and strong, so that no violence of passion could be too much for her: and when distress or tenderness possess'd her, she subsided into the most affecting melody and softness. in the art of exciting pity she had a power beyond all the actresses i have yet seen, or what your imagination can conceive. of the former of these two great excellencies she gave the most delightful proofs in almost all the heroic plays of _dryden_ and _lee_; and of the latter, in the softer passions of _otway's monimia_ and _belvidera_.[ ] in scenes of anger, defiance, or resentment, while she was impetuous and terrible, she pour'd out the sentiment with an enchanting harmony; and it was this particular excellence for which _dryden_ made her the above-recited compliment upon her acting _cassandra_ in his _cleomenes_. but here i am apt to think his partiality for that character may have tempted his judgment to let it pass for her master-piece, when he could not but know there were several other characters in which her action might have given her a fairer pretence to the praise he has bestow'd on her for _cassandra_; for in no part of that is there the least ground for compassion, as in _monimia_, nor equal cause for admiration, as in the nobler love of _cleopatra_, or the tempestuous jealousy of _roxana_.[ ] 'twas in these lights i thought mrs. _barry_ shone with a much brighter excellence than in _cassandra_. she was the first person whose merit was distinguish'd by the indulgence of having an annual benefit-play, which was granted to her alone, if i mistake not, first in king _james_'s time,[ ] and which became not common to others 'till the division of this company after the death of king _william_'s queen _mary_. this great actress dy'd of a fever towards the latter end of queen _anne_; the year i have forgot; but perhaps you will recollect it by an expression that fell from her in blank verse, in her last hours, when she was delirious, _viz_. _ha, ha! and so they make us lords, by dozens!_[ ] mrs. _betterton_, tho' far advanc'd in years, was so great a mistress of nature that even mrs. _barry_, who acted the lady _macbeth_ after her, could not in that part, with all her superior strength and melody of voice, throw out those quick and careless strokes of terror from the disorder of a guilty mind, which the other gave us with a facility in her manner that render'd them at once tremendous and delightful. time could not impair her skill, tho' he had brought her person to decay. she was, to the last, the admiration of all true judges of nature and lovers of _shakespear_, in whose plays she chiefly excell'd, and without a rival. when she quitted the stage several good actresses were the better for her instruction. she was a woman of an unblemish'd and sober life, and had the honour to teach queen _anne_, when princess, the part of _semandra_ in _mithridates_, which she acted at court in king _charles_'s time. after the death of mr. _betterton_, her husband, that princess, when queen, order'd her a pension for life, but she liv'd not to receive more than the first half year of it.[ ] [illustration: elizabeth barry.] mrs. _leigh_, the wife of _leigh_ already mention'd, had a very droll way of dressing the pretty foibles of superannuated beauties. she had in her self a good deal of humour, and knew how to infuse it into the affected mothers, aunts, and modest stale maids that had miss'd their market; of this sort were the modish mother in the _chances_, affecting to be politely commode for her own daughter; the coquette prude of an aunt in sir _courtly nice_, who prides herself in being chaste and cruel at fifty; and the languishing lady _wishfort_ in _the way of the world_: in all these, with many others, she was extremely entertaining, and painted in a lively manner the blind side of nature.[ ] mrs. _butler_, who had her christian name of _charlotte_ given her by king _charles_, was the daughter of a decay'd knight, and had the honour of that prince's recommendation to the theatre; a provident restitution, giving to the stage in kind what he had sometimes taken from it: the publick at least was oblig'd by it; for she prov'd not only a good actress, but was allow'd in those days to sing and dance to great perfection. in the dramatick operas of _dioclesian_ and that of _king arthur_, she was a capital and admired performer. in speaking, too, she had a sweet-ton'd voice, which, with her naturally genteel air and sensible pronunciation, render'd her wholly mistress of the amiable in many serious characters. in parts of humour, too, she had a manner of blending her assuasive softness even with the gay, the lively, and the alluring. of this she gave an agreeable instance in her action of the (_villiers_) duke of _buckingham_'s second _constantia_ in the _chances_. in which, if i should say i have never seen her exceeded, i might still do no wrong to the late mrs. _oldfield_'s lively performance of the same character. mrs. _oldfield_'s fame may spare mrs. _butler_'s action this compliment, without the least diminution or dispute of her superiority in characters of more moment.[ ] here i cannot help observing, when there was but one theatre in _london_, at what unequal sallaries, compar'd to those of later days, the hired actors were then held by the absolute authority of their frugal masters the patentees; for mrs. _butler_ had then but forty shillings a week, and could she have obtain'd an addition of ten shillings more (which was refus'd her) would never have left their service; but being offer'd her own conditions to go with mr. _ashbury_[ ] to _dublin_ (who was then raising a company of actors for that theatre, where there had been none since the revolution) her discontent here prevail'd with her to accept of his offer, and he found his account in her value. were not those patentees most sagacious oeconomists that could lay hold on so notable an expedient to lessen their charge? how gladly, in my time of being a sharer, would we have given four times her income to an actress of equal merit? mrs. _monfort_, whose second marriage gave her the name of _verbruggen_, was mistress of more variety of humour than i ever knew in any one woman actress. this variety, too, was attended with an equal vivacity, which made her excellent in characters extremely different. as she was naturally a pleasant mimick, she had the skill to make that talent useful on the stage, a talent which may be surprising in a conversation and yet be lost when brought to the theatre, which was the case of _estcourt_ already mention'd: but where the elocution is round, distinct, voluble, and various, as mrs. _monfort_'s was, the mimick there is a great assistant to the actor. nothing, tho' ever so barren, if within the bounds of nature, could be flat in her hands. she gave many heightening touches to characters but coldly written, and often made an author vain of his work that in it self had but little merit. she was so fond of humour, in what low part soever to be found, that she would make no scruple of defacing her fair form to come heartily into it;[ ] for when she was eminent in several desirable characters of wit and humour in higher life, she would be in as much fancy when descending into the antiquated _abigail_[ ] of _fletcher_, as when triumphing in all the airs and vain graces of a fine lady; a merit that few actresses care for. in a play of _d'urfey's_, now forgotten, call'd _the western lass_,[ ] which part she acted, she transform'd her whole being, body, shape, voice, language, look, and features, into almost another animal, with a strong _devonshire_ dialect, a broad laughing voice, a poking head, round shoulders, an unconceiving eye, and the most bediz'ning, dowdy dress that ever cover'd the untrain'd limbs of a _joan trot_. to have seen her here you would have thought it impossible the same creature could ever have been recover'd to what was as easy to her, the gay, the lively, and the desirable. nor was her humour limited to her sex; for, while her shape permitted, she was a more adroit pretty fellow than is usually seen upon the stage: her easy air, action, mien, and gesture quite chang'd from the quoif to the cock'd hat and cavalier in fashion.[ ] people were so fond of seeing her a man, that when the part of _bays_ in the _rehearsal_ had for some time lain dormant, she was desired to take it up, which i have seen her act with all the true coxcombly spirit and humour that the sufficiency of the character required. but what found most employment for her whole various excellence at once, was the part of _melantha_ in _marriage-alamode_.[ ] _melantha_ is as finish'd an impertinent as ever flutter'd in a drawing-room, and seems to contain the most compleat system of female foppery that could possibly be crowded into the tortured form of a fine lady. her language, dress, motion, manners, soul, and body, are in a continual hurry to be something more than is necessary or commendable. and though i doubt it will be a vain labour to offer you a just likeness of mrs. _monfort_'s action, yet the fantastick impression is still so strong in my memory that i cannot help saying something, tho' fantastically, about it. the first ridiculous airs that break from her are upon a gallant never seen before, who delivers her a letter from her father recommending him to her good graces as an honourable lover.[ ] here now, one would think, she might naturally shew a little of the sexe's decent reserve, tho' never so slightly cover'd! no, sir; not a tittle of it; modesty is the virtue of a poor-soul'd country gentlewoman; she is too much a court lady to be under so vulgar a confusion; she reads the letter, therefore, with a careless, dropping lip and an erected brow, humming it hastily over as if she were impatient to outgo her father's commands by making a compleat conquest of him at once; and that the letter might not embarrass her attack, crack! she crumbles it at once into her palm and pours upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, and motion; down goes her dainty, diving body to the ground, as if she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions; then launches into a flood of fine language and compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and risings, like a swan upon waving water; and, to complete her impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit that she will not give her lover leave to praise it: silent assenting bows and vain endeavours to speak are all the share of the conversation he is admitted to, which at last he is relieved from by her engagement to half a score visits, which she _swims_ from him to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling. if this sketch has colour enough to give you any near conception of her, i then need only tell you that throughout the whole character her variety of humour was every way proportionable; as, indeed, in most parts that she thought worth her care or that had the least matter for her fancy to work upon, i may justly say, that no actress, from her own conception, could have heighten'd them with more lively strokes of nature.[ ] i come now to the last, and only living person, of all those whose theatrical characters i have promised you, mrs. _bracegirdle_; who, i know, would rather pass her remaining days forgotten as an actress, than to have her youth recollected in the most favourable light i am able to place it; yet, as she is essentially necessary to my theatrical history, and as i only bring her back to the company of those with whom she pass'd the spring and summer of her life, i hope it will excuse the liberty i take in commemorating the delight which the publick received from her appearance while she was an ornament to the theatre. mrs. _bracegirdle_ was now but just blooming to her maturity; her reputation as an actress gradually rising with that of her person; never any woman was in such general favour of her spectators, which, to the last scene of her dramatick life, she maintain'd by not being unguarded in her private character.[ ] this discretion contributed not a little to make her the _cara_, the darling of the theatre: for it will be no extravagant thing to say, scarce an audience saw her that were less than half of them lovers, without a suspected favourite among them: and tho' she might be said to have been the universal passion, and under the highest temptations, her constancy in resisting them served but to increase the number of her admirers: and this perhaps you will more easily believe when i extend not my encomiums on her person beyond a sincerity that can be suspected; for she had no greater claim to beauty than what the most desirable _brunette_ might pretend to. but her youth and lively aspect threw out such a glow of health and chearfulness, that on the stage few spectators that were not past it could behold her without desire. it was even a fashion among the gay and young to have a taste or _tendre_ for mrs. _bracegirdle_. she inspired the best authors to write for her, and two of them,[ ] when they gave her a lover in a play, seem'd palpably to plead their own passions, and make their private court to her in fictitious characters. in all the chief parts she acted, the desirable was so predominant, that no judge could be cold enough to consider from what other particular excellence she became delightful. to speak critically of an actress that was extremely good were as hazardous as to be positive in one's opinion of the best opera singer. people often judge by comparison where there is no similitude in the performance. so that, in this case, we have only taste to appeal to, and of taste there can be no disputing. i shall therefore only say of mrs. _bracegirdle_, that the most eminent authors always chose her for their favourite character, and shall leave that uncontestable proof of her merit to its own value. yet let me say, there were two very different characters in which she acquitted herself with uncommon applause: if any thing could excuse that desperate extravagance of love, that almost frantick passion of _lee's alexander the great_, it must have been when mrs. _bracegirdle_ was his _statira_: as when she acted _millamant_[ ] all the faults, follies, and affectations of that agreeable tyrant were venially melted down into so many charms and attractions of a conscious beauty. in other characters, where singing was a necessary part of them, her voice and action gave a pleasure which good sense, in those days, was not asham'd to give praise to. she retir'd from the stage in the height of her favour from the publick, when most of her cotemporaries whom she had been bred up with were declining, in the year ,[ ] nor could she be persuaded to return to it under new masters upon the most advantageous terms that were offered her; excepting one day, about a year after, to assist her good friend mr. _betterton_, when she play'd _angelica_ in _love for love_ for his benefit. she has still the happiness to retain her usual chearfulness, and to be, without the transitory charm of youth, agreeable.[ ] if, in my account of these memorable actors, i have not deviated from truth, which, in the least article, i am not conscious of, may we not venture to say, they had not their equals, at any one time, upon any theatre in _europe_? or, if we confine the comparison to that of _france_ alone, i believe no other stage can be much disparag'd by being left out of the question; which cannot properly be decided by the single merit of any one actor; whether their _baron_ or our _betterton_ might be the superior, (take which side you please) that point reaches, either way, but to a thirteenth part of what i contend for, _viz._ that no stage, at any one period, could shew thirteen actors, standing all in equal lights of excellence in their profession: and i am the bolder, in this challenge to any other nation, because no theatre having so extended a variety of natural characters as the _english_, can have a demand for actors of such various capacities; why then, where they could not be equally wanted, should we suppose them, at any one time, to have existed? how imperfect soever this copious account of them may be, i am not without hope, at least, it may in some degree shew what talents are requisite to make actors valuable: and if that may any ways inform or assist the judgment of future spectators, it may as often be of service to their publick entertainments; for as their hearers are, so will actors be; worse, or better, as the false or true taste applauds or discommends them. hence only can our theatres improve or must degenerate. there is another point, relating to the hard condition of those who write for the stage, which i would recommend to the consideration of their hearers; which is, that the extreme severity with which they damn a bad play seems too terrible a warning to those whose untried genius might hereafter give them a good one: whereas it might be a temptation to a latent author to make the experiment, could he be sure that, though not approved, his muse might at least be dismiss'd with decency: but the vivacity of our modern criticks is of late grown so riotous, that an unsuccessful author has no more mercy shewn him than a notorious cheat in a pillory; every fool, the lowest member of the mob, becomes a wit, and will have a fling at him. they come now to a new play like hounds to a carcase, and are all in a full cry, sometimes for an hour together, before the curtain rises to throw it amongst them. sure those gentlemen cannot but allow that a play condemned after a fair hearing falls with thrice the ignominy as when it is refused that common justice. but when their critical interruptions grow so loud, and of so long a continuance, that the attention of quiet people (though not so complete criticks) is terrify'd, and the skill of the actors quite disconcerted by the tumult, the play then seems rather to fall by assassins than by a lawful sentence.[ ] is it possible that such auditors can receive delight, or think it any praise to them, to prosecute so injurious, so unmanly a treatment? and tho' perhaps the compassionate, on the other side (who know they have as good a right to clap and support, as others have to catcall, damn, and destroy,) may oppose this oppression; their good-nature, alas! contributes little to the redress; for in this sort of civil war the unhappy author, like a good prince, while his subjects are at mortal variance, is sure to be a loser by a victory on either side; for still the common-wealth, his play, is, during the conflict, torn to pieces. while this is the case, while the theatre is so turbulent a sea and so infested with pirates, what poetical merchant of any substance will venture to trade in it? if these valiant gentlemen pretend to be lovers of plays, why will they deter gentlemen from giving them such as are fit for gentlemen to see? in a word, this new race of criticks seem to me like the lion-whelps in the _tower_, who are so boisterously gamesome at their meals that they dash down the bowls of milk brought for their own breakfast.[ ] as a good play is certainly the most rational and the highest entertainment that human invention can produce, let that be my apology (if i need any) for having thus freely deliver'd my mind in behalf of those gentlemen who, under such calamitous hazards, may hereafter be reduced to write for the stage, whose case i shall compassionate from the same motive that prevail'd on _dido_ to assist the _trojans_ in distress. _non ignara mali miseris succurrere disco._ virg.[ ] or, as _dryden_ has it, _i learn to pity woes so like my own_. if those particular gentlemen have sometimes made me the humbled object of their wit and humour, their triumph at least has done me this involuntary service, that it has driven me a year or two sooner into a quiet life than otherwise my own want of judgment might have led me to:[ ] i left the stage before my strength left me, and tho' i came to it again for some few days a year or two after, my reception there not only turn'd to my account, but seem'd a fair invitation that i would make my visits more frequent: but to give over a winner can be no very imprudent resolution.[ ] chapter vi. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the author's first step upon the stage. his discouragements. the best actors in_ europe _ill us'd. a revolution in their favour. king_ william _grants them a licence to act in_ lincoln's-inn fields. _the author's distress in being thought a worse actor than a poet. reduc'd to write a part for himself. his success. more remarks upon theatrical action. some upon himself._ having given you the state of the theatre at my first admission to it, i am now drawing towards the several revolutions it suffer'd in my own time. but (as you find by the setting out of my history) that i always intended myself the heroe of it, it may be necessary to let you know me in my obscurity, as well as in my higher light, when i became one of the theatrical triumvirat. the patentees,[ ] who were now masters of this united and only company of comedians, seem'd to make it a rule that no young persons desirous to be actors should be admitted into pay under at least half a year's probation, wisely knowing that how early soever they might be approv'd of, there could be no great fear of losing them while they had then no other market to go to. but, alas! pay was the least of my concern; the joy and privilege of every day seeing plays for nothing i thought was a sufficient consideration for the best of my services. so that it was no pain to my patience that i waited full three quarters of a year before i was taken into a salary of ten shillings _per_ week;[ ] which, with the assistance of food and raiment at my father's house, i then thought a most plentiful accession, and myself the happiest of mortals. the first thing that enters into the head of a young actor is that of being a heroe: in this ambition i was soon snubb'd by the insufficiency of my voice; to which might be added an uninform'd meagre person, (tho' then not ill made) with a dismal pale complexion.[ ] under these disadvantages,[ ] i had but a melancholy prospect of ever playing a lover with mrs. _bracegirdle_, which i had flatter'd my hopes that my youth might one day have recommended me to. what was most promising in me, then, was the aptness of my ear; for i was soon allow'd to speak justly, tho' what was grave and serious did not equally become me. the first part, therefore, in which i appear'd with any glimpse of success, was the chaplain[ ] in the _orphan_ of _otway._ there is in this character (of one scene only) a decent pleasantry, and sense enough to shew an audience whether the actor has any himself. here was the first applause i ever receiv'd, which, you may be sure, made my heart leap with a higher joy than may be necessary to describe; and yet my transport was not then half so high as at what _goodman_ (who had now left the stage) said of me the next day in my hearing. _goodman_ often came to a rehearsal for amusement, and having sate out the _orphan_ the day before, in a conversation with some of the principal actors enquir'd what new young fellow that was whom he had seen in the chaplain? upon which _monfort_ reply'd, _that's he, behind you. goodman_ then turning about, look'd earnestly at me, and, after some pause, clapping me on the shoulder, rejoin'd, _if he does not make a good actor, i'll be d----'d_! the surprize of being commended by one who had been himself so eminent on the stage, and in so positive a manner, was more than i could support; in a word, it almost took away my breath, and (laugh, if you please) fairly drew tears from my eyes! and, tho' it may be as ridiculous as incredible to tell you what a full vanity and content at that time possess'd me, i will still make it a question whether _alexander_ himself, or _charles the twelfth_ of _sweden,_ when at the head of their first victorious armies, could feel a greater transport in their bosoms than i did then in mine, when but in the rear of this troop of comedians. you see to what low particulars i am forc'd to descend to give you a true resemblance of the early and lively follies of my mind. let me give you another instance of my discretion, more desperate than that of preferring the stage to any other views of life. one might think that the madness of breaking from the advice and care of parents to turn player could not easily be exceeded: but what think you, sir, of----matrimony? which, before i was two-and-twenty, i actually committed,[ ] when i had but twenty pounds a year, which my father had assur'd to me, and twenty shillings a week from my theatrical labours, to maintain, as i then thought, the happiest young couple that ever took a leap in the dark! if after this, to complete my fortune, i turn'd poet too, this last folly indeed had something a better excuse--necessity: had it never been my lot to have come on the stage, 'tis probable i might never have been inclin'd or reduc'd to have wrote for it: but having once expos'd my person there, i thought it could be no additional dishonour to let my parts, whatever they were, take their fortune along with it.--but to return to the progress i made as an actor. queen _mary_ having commanded the _double dealer_ to be acted, _kynaston_ happen'd to be so ill that he could not hope to be able next day to perform his part of the lord _touchwood_. in this exigence, the author, mr. _congreve_, advis'd that it might be given to me, if at so short a warning i would undertake it.[ ] the flattery of being thus distinguish'd by so celebrated an author, and the honour to act before a queen, you may be sure made me blind to whatever difficulties might attend it. i accepted the part, and was ready in it before i slept; next day the queen was present at the play, and was receiv'd with a new prologue from the author, spoken by mrs. _barry_, humbly acknowledging the great honour done to the stage, and to his play in particular: two lines of it, which tho' i have not since read, i still remember. _but never were in_ rome _nor_ athens _seen, so fair a circle, or so bright a queen_. after the play, mr. _congreve_ made me the compliment of saying, that i had not only answer'd, but had exceeded his expectations, and that he would shew me he was sincere by his saying more of me to the masters.----he was as good as his word, and the next pay-day i found my sallary of fifteen was then advanc'd to twenty shillings a week. but alas! this favourable opinion of mr. _congreve_ made no farther impression upon the judgment of my good masters; it only serv'd to heighten my own vanity, but could not recommend me to any new trials of my capacity; not a step farther could i get 'till the company was again divided, when the desertion of the best actors left a clear stage for younger champions to mount and shew their best pretensions to favour. but it is now time to enter upon those facts that immediately preceded this remarkable revolution of the theatre. you have seen how complete a set of actors were under the government of the united patents in ; if their gains were not extraordinary, what shall we impute it to but some extraordinary ill menagement? i was then too young to be in their secrets, and therefore can only observe upon what i saw and have since thought visibly wrong. though the success of the _prophetess_[ ] and _king arthur_[ ] (two dramatic operas, in which the patentees had embark'd all their hopes) was in appearance very great, yet their whole receipts did not so far balance their expence as to keep them out of a large debt, which it was publickly known was about this time contracted, and which found work for the court of chancery for about twenty years following, till one side of the cause grew weary. but this was not all that was wrong; every branch of the theatrical trade had been sacrific'd to the necessary fitting out those tall ships of burthen that were to bring home the _indies_. plays of course were neglected, actors held cheap, and slightly dress'd, while singers and dancers were better paid, and embroider'd. these measures, of course, created murmurings on one side, and ill-humour and contempt on the other. when it became necessary therefore to lessen the charge, a resolution was taken to begin with the sallaries of the actors; and what seem'd to make this resolution more necessary at this time was the loss of _nokes_, _monfort_, and _leigh_, who all dy'd about the same year:[ ] no wonder then, if when these great pillars were at once remov'd, the building grew weaker and the audiences very much abated. now in this distress, what more natural remedy could be found than to incite and encourage (tho' with some hazard) the industry of the surviving actors? but the patentees, it seems, thought the surer way was to bring down their pay in proportion to the fall of their audiences. to make this project more feasible they propos'd to begin at the head of 'em, rightly judging that if the principals acquiesc'd, their inferiors would murmur in vain. to bring this about with a better grace, they, under pretence of bringing younger actors forward, order'd several of _betterton_'s and mrs. _barry_'s chief parts to be given to young _powel_ and mrs. _bracegirdle_. in this they committed two palpable errors; for while the best actors are in health, and still on the stage, the publick is always apt to be out of humour when those of a lower class pretend to stand in their places; or admitting at this time they might have been accepted, this project might very probably have lessen'd, but could not possibly mend an audience, and was a sure loss of that time, in studying, which might have been better employ'd in giving the auditor variety, the only temptation to a pall'd appetite; and variety is only to be given by industry: but industry will always be lame when the actor has reason to be discontented. this the patentees did not consider, or pretended not to value, while they thought their power secure and uncontroulable: but farther their first project did not succeed; for tho' the giddy head of _powel_ accepted the parts of _betterton_, mrs. _bracegirdle_ had a different way of thinking, and desir'd to be excus'd from those of mrs. _barry_; her good sense was not to be misled by the insidious favour of the patentees; she knew the stage was wide enough for her success, without entring into any such rash and invidious competition with mrs. _barry_, and therefore wholly refus'd acting any part that properly belong'd to her. but this proceeding, however, was warning enough to make _betterton_ be upon his guard, and to alarm others with apprehensions of their own safety, from the design that was laid against him: _betterton_ upon this drew into his party most of the valuable actors, who, to secure their unity, enter'd with him into a sort of association to stand or fall together.[ ] all this the patentees for some time slighted; but when matters drew towards a crisis, they found it adviseable to take the same measures, and accordingly open'd an association on their part; both which were severally sign'd, as the interest or inclination of either side led them. [illustration: mrs bracegirdle as "the indian queen."] during these contentions which the impolitick patentees had rais'd against themselves (not only by this i have mentioned, but by many other grievances which my memory retains not) the actors offer'd a treaty of peace; but their masters imagining no consequence could shake the right of their authority, refus'd all terms of accommodation. in the mean time this dissention was so prejudicial to their daily affairs, that i remember it was allow'd by both parties that before _christmas_ the patent had lost the getting of at least a thousand pounds by it. my having been a witness of this unnecessary rupture was of great use to me when, many years after, i came to be a menager my self. i laid it down as a settled maxim, that no company could flourish while the chief actors and the undertakers were at variance. i therefore made it a point, while it was possible upon tolerable terms, to keep the valuable actors in humour with their station; and tho' i was as jealous of their encroachments as any of my co-partners could be, i always guarded against the least warmth in my expostulations with them; not but at the same time they might see i was perhaps more determin'd in the question than those that gave a loose to their resentment, and when they were cool were as apt to recede.[ ] i do not remember that ever i made a promise to any that i did not keep, and therefore was cautious how i made them. this coldness, tho' it might not please, at least left them nothing to reproach me with; and if temper and fair words could prevent a disobligation, i was sure never to give offence or receive it.[ ] but as i was but one of three, i could not oblige others to observe the same conduct. however, by this means i kept many an unreasonable discontent from breaking out, and both sides found their account in it. how a contemptuous and overbearing manner of treating actors had like to have ruin'd us in our early prosperity shall be shewn in its place.[ ] if future menagers should chance to think my way right, i suppose they will follow it; if not, when they find what happen'd to the patentees (who chose to disagree with their people) perhaps they may think better of it. the patentees then, who by their united powers had made a monopoly of the stage, and consequently presum'd they might impose what conditions they pleased upon their people, did not consider that they were all this while endeavouring to enslave a set of actors whom the publick (more arbitrary than themselves) were inclined to support; nor did they reflect that the spectator naturally wish'd that the actor who gave him delight might enjoy the profits arising from his labour, without regard of what pretended damage or injustice might fall upon his owners, whose personal merit the publick was not so well acquainted with. from this consideration, then, several persons of the highest distinction espous'd their cause, and sometimes in the circle entertain'd the king with the state of the theatre. at length their grievances were laid before the earl of _dorset_, then lord chamberlain, who took the most effectual method for their relief.[ ] the learned of the law were advised with, and they gave their opinion that no patent for acting plays, _&c._ could tie up the hands of a succeeding prince from granting the like authority where it might be thought proper to trust it. but while this affair was in agitation, queen _mary_ dy'd,[ ] which of course occasion'd a cessation of all publick diversions. in this melancholy interim, _betterton_ and his adherents had more leisure to sollicit their redress; and the patentees now finding that the party against them was gathering strength, were reduced to make sure of as good a company as the leavings of _betterton_'s interest could form; and these, you may be sure, would not lose this occasion of setting a price upon their merit equal to their own opinion of it, which was but just double to what they had before. _powel_ and _verbruggen_, who had then but forty shillings a week, were now raised each of them to four pounds, and others in proportion: as for my self, i was then too insignificant to be taken into their councils, and consequently stood among those of little importance, like cattle in a market, to be sold to the first bidder. but the patentees seeming in the greater distress for actors, condescended to purchase me. thus, without any farther merit than that of being a scarce commodity, i was advanc'd to thirty shillings a week: yet our company was so far from being full,[ ] that our commanders were forced to beat up for volunteers in several distant counties; it was this occasion that first brought _johnson_[ ] and _bullock_[ ] to the service of the theatre-royal. forces being thus raised, and the war declared on both sides, _betterton_ and his chiefs had the honour of an audience of the _king_, who consider'd them as the only subjects whom he had not yet deliver'd from arbitrary power, and graciously dismiss'd them with an assurance of relief and support--accordingly a select number of them were impower'd by his royal licence[ ] to act in a separate theatre for themselves. this great point being obtain'd, many people of quality came into a voluntary subscription of twenty, and some of forty guineas a-piece, for erecting a theatre within the walls of the tennis-court in _lincoln's-inn-fields_.[ ] but as it required time to fit it up, it gave the patentees more leisure to muster their forces, who notwithstanding were not able to take the field till the _easter-monday_ in _april_ following. their first attempt was a reviv'd play call'd _abdelazar_, or the _moor's revenge_, poorly written, by mrs. _behn_. the house was very full, but whether it was the play or the actors that were not approved, the next day's audience sunk to nothing. however, we were assured that let the audiences be never so low, our masters would make good all deficiencies, and so indeed they did, 'till towards the end of the season, when dues to ballance came too thick upon 'em. but that i may go gradually on with my own fortune, i must take this occasion to let you know, by the following circumstance, how very low my capacity as an actor was then rated: it was thought necessary at our opening that the town should be address'd in a new prologue; but to our great distress, among several that were offer'd, not one was judg'd fit to be spoken. this i thought a favourable occasion to do my self some remarkable service, if i should have the good fortune to produce one that might be accepted. the next (memorable) day my muse brought forth her first fruit that was ever made publick; how good or bad imports not; my prologue was accepted, and resolv'd on to be spoken. this point being gain'd, i began to stand upon terms, you will say, not unreasonable; which were, that if i might speak it my self i would expect no farther reward for my labour: this was judg'd as bad as having no prologue at all! you may imagine how hard i thought it, that they durst not trust my poor poetical brat to my own care. but since i found it was to be given into other hands, i insisted that two guineas should be the price of my parting with it; which with a sigh i received, and _powel_ spoke the prologue: but every line that was applauded went sorely to my heart when i reflected that the same praise might have been given to my own speaking; nor could the success of the author compensate the distress of the actor. however, in the end, it serv'd in some sort to mend our people's opinion of me; and whatever the criticks might think of it, one of the patentees[ ] (who, it is true, knew no difference between _dryden_ and _d'urfey_) said, upon the success of it, that insooth! i was an ingenious young man. this sober compliment (tho' i could have no reason to be vain upon it) i thought was a fair promise to my being in favour. but to matters of more moment: now let us reconnoitre the enemy. after we had stolen some few days march upon them, the forces of _betterton_ came up with us in terrible order: in about three weeks following, the new theatre was open'd against us with a veteran company and a new train of artillery; or in plainer _english_, the old actors in _lincoln's-inn-fields_ began with a new comedy of mr. _congreve's_, call'd _love_ for _love_;[ ] which ran on with such extraordinary success that they had seldom occasion to act any other play 'till the end of the season. this valuable play had a narrow escape from falling into the hands of the patentees; for before the division of the company it had been read and accepted of at the theatre-royal: but while the articles of agreement for it were preparing, the rupture in the theatrical state was so far advanced that the author took time to pause before he sign'd them; when finding that all hopes of accommodation were impracticable, he thought it advisable to let it take its fortune with those actors for whom he had first intended the parts. mr. _congreve_ was then in such high reputation as an author, that besides his profits from this play, they offered him a whole share with them, which he accepted;[ ] in consideration of which he oblig'd himself, if his health permitted, to give them one new play every year.[ ] _dryden_, in king _charles's_ time, had the same share with the king's company, but he bound himself to give them two plays every season. this you may imagine he could not hold long, and i am apt to think he might have serv'd them better with one in a year, not so hastily written. mr. _congreve_, whatever impediment he met with, was three years before, in pursuance to his agreement, he produced the _mourning bride_;[ ] and if i mistake not, the interval had been much the same when he gave them the _way of the world_.[ ] but it came out the stronger for the time it cost him, and to their better support when they sorely wanted it: for though they went on with success for a year or two, and even when their affairs were declining stood in much higher estimation of the publick than their opponents; yet in the end both sides were great sufferers by their separation; the natural consequence of two houses, which i have already mention'd in a former chapter. the first error this new colony of actors fell into was their inconsiderately parting with _williams_ and mrs. _monfort_[ ] upon a too nice (not to say severe) punctilio; in not allowing them to be equal sharers with the rest; which before they had acted one play occasioned their return to the service of the patentees. as i have call'd this an error, i ought to give my reasons for it. though the industry of _williams_ was not equal to his capacity; for he lov'd his bottle better than his business; and though mrs. _monfort_ was only excellent in comedy, yet their merit was too great almost on any scruples to be added to the enemy; and at worst, they were certainly much more above those they would have ranked them with than they could possibly be under those they were not admitted to be equal to. of this fact there is a poetical record in the prologue to _love for love_, where the author, speaking of the then happy state of the stage, observes that if, in paradise, when two only were there, they both fell; the surprize was less, if from so numerous a body as theirs, there had been any deserters. _abate the wonder, and the fault forgive, if, in our larger family, we grieve one falling_ adam, _and one tempted_ eve.[ ] these lines alluded to the revolt of the persons above mention'd. notwithstanding the acquisition of these two actors, who were of more importance than any of those to whose assistance they came, the affairs of the patentees were still in a very creeping condition;[ ] they were now, too late, convinced of their error in having provok'd their people to this civil war of the theatre! quite changed and dismal now was the prospect before them! their houses thin, and the town crowding into a new one! actors at double sallaries, and not half the usual audiences to pay them! and all this brought upon them by those whom their full security had contemn'd, and who were now in a fair way of making their fortunes upon the ruined interest of their oppressors. here, tho' at this time my fortune depended on the success of the patentees, i cannot help in regard to truth remembring the rude and riotous havock we made of all the late dramatic honours of the theatre! all became at once the spoil of ignorance and self-conceit! _shakespear_ was defac'd and tortured in every signal character--_hamlet_ and _othello_ lost in one hour all their good sense, their dignity and fame. _brutus_ and _cassius_ became noisy blusterers, with bold unmeaning eyes, mistaken sentiments, and turgid elocution! nothing, sure, could more painfully regret[ ] a judicious spectator than to see, at our first setting out, with what rude confidence those habits which actors of real merit had left behind them were worn by giddy pretenders that so vulgarly disgraced them! not young lawyers in hir'd robes and plumes at a masquerade could be less what they would seem, or more aukwardly personate the characters they belong'd to. if, in all these acts of wanton waste, these insults upon injur'd nature, you observe i have not yet charged one of them upon myself, it is not from an imaginary vanity that i could have avoided them; but that i was rather safe, by being too low at that time to be admitted even to my chance of falling into the same eminent errors: so that as none of those great parts ever fell to my share, i could not be accountable for the execution of them: nor indeed could i get one good part of any kind 'till many months after; unless it were of that sort which no body else car'd for, or would venture to expose themselves in.[ ] the first unintended favour, therefore, of a part of any value, necessity threw upon me on the following occasion. as it has been always judg'd their natural interest, where there are two theatres, to do one another as much mischief as they can, you may imagine it could not be long before this hostile policy shew'd itself in action. it happen'd, upon our having information on a _saturday_ morning that the _tuesday_ after _hamlet_ was intended to be acted at the other house, where it had not yet been seen, our merry menaging actors, (for they were now in a manner left to govern themselves) resolv'd at any rate to steal a march upon the enemy, and take possession of the same play the day before them: accordingly, _hamlet_ was given out that night to be acted with us on _monday._ the notice of this sudden enterprize soon reach'd the other house, who in my opinion too much regarded it; for they shorten'd their first orders, and resolv'd that _hamlet_ should to _hamlet_ be opposed on the same day; whereas, had they given notice in their bills that the same play would have been acted by them the day after, the town would have been in no doubt which house they should have reserved themselves for; ours must certainly have been empty, and theirs, with more honour, have been crowded: experience, many years after, in like cases, has convinced me that this would have been the more laudable conduct. but be that as it may; when in their _monday_'s bills it was seen that _hamlet_ was up against us, our consternation was terrible, to find that so hopeful a project was frustrated. in this distress, _powel_, who was our commanding officer, and whose enterprising head wanted nothing but skill to carry him through the most desperate attempts; for, like others of his cast, he had murder'd many a hero only to get into his cloaths. this _powel_, i say, immediately called a council of war, where the question was, whether he should fairly face the enemy, or make a retreat to some other play of more probable safety? it was soon resolved that to act _hamlet_ against _hamlet_ would be certainly throwing away the play, and disgracing themselves to little or no audience; to conclude, _powel_, who was vain enough to envy _betterton_ as his rival, proposed to change plays with them, and that as they had given out the _old batchelor_, and had chang'd it for _hamlet_ against us, we should give up our _hamlet_ and turn the _old batchelor_ upon them. this motion was agreed to, _nemine contradicente_; but upon enquiry, it was found that there were not two persons among them who had ever acted in that play: but that objection, it seems, (though all the parts were to be study'd in six hours) was soon got over; _powel_ had an equivalent, _in petto_, that would ballance any deficiency on that score, which was, that he would play the _old batchelor_ himself, and mimick _betterton_ throughout the whole part. this happy thought was approv'd with delight and applause, as whatever can be suppos'd to ridicule merit generally gives joy to those that want it: accordingly the bills were chang'd, and at the bottom inserted, _the part of the_ old batchelor _to be perform'd in imitation of the original._ printed books of the play were sent for in haste, and every actor had one to pick out of it the part he had chosen: thus, while they were each of them chewing the morsel they had most mind to, some one happening to cast his eye over the _dramatis personæ_, found that the main matter was still forgot, that no body had yet been thought of for the part of alderman _fondlewife_. here we were all aground agen! nor was it to be conceiv'd who could make the least tolerable shift with it. this character had been so admirably acted by _dogget_, that though it is only seen in the fourth act, it may be no dispraise to the play to say it probably ow'd the greatest part of its success to his performance. but, as the case was now desperate, any resource was better than none. somebody must swallow the bitter pill, or the play must die. at last it was recollected that i had been heard to say in my wild way of talking, what a vast mind i had to play _nykin_, by which name the character was more frequently call'd.[ ] notwithstanding they were thus distress'd about the disposal of this part, most of them shook their heads at my being mention'd for it; yet _powel_, who was resolv'd at all hazards to fall upon _betterton_, and having no concern for what might become of any one that serv'd his ends or purpose, order'd me to be sent for; and, as he naturally lov'd to set other people wrong, honestly said before i came, _if the fool has a mind to blow himself up at once, let us ev'n give him a clear stage for it_. accordingly the part was put into my hands between eleven and twelve that morning, which i durst not refuse, because others were as much straitned in time for study as myself. but i had this casual advantage of most of them; that having so constantly observ'd _dogget_'s performance, i wanted but little trouble to make me perfect in the words; so that when it came to my turn to rehearse, while others read their parts from their books, i had put mine in my pocket, and went thro' the first scene without it; and though i was more abash'd to rehearse so remarkable a part before the actors (which is natural to most young people) than to act before an audience, yet some of the better-natur'd encouraged me so far as to say they did not think i should make an ill figure in it: to conclude, the curiosity to see _betterton_ mimick'd drew us a pretty good audience, and _powel_ (as far as applause is a proof of it) was allow'd to have burlesqu'd him very well.[ ] as i have question'd the certain value of applause, i hope i may venture with less vanity to say how particular a share i had of it in the same play. at my first appearance one might have imagin'd by the various murmurs of the audience, that they were in doubt whether _dogget_ himself were not return'd, or that they could not conceive what strange face it could be that so nearly resembled him; for i had laid the tint of forty years more than my real age upon my features, and, to the most minute placing of an hair, was dressed exactly like him: when i spoke, the surprize was still greater, as if i had not only borrow'd his cloaths, but his voice too. but tho' that was the least difficult part of him to be imitated, they seem'd to allow i had so much of him in every other requisite, that my applause was, perhaps, more than proportionable: for, whether i had done so much where so little was expected, or that the generosity of my hearers were more than usually zealous upon so unexpected an occasion, or from what other motive such favour might be pour'd upon me, i cannot say; but in plain and honest truth, upon my going off from the first scene, a much better actor might have been proud of the applause that followed me; after one loud _plaudit_ was ended and sunk into a general whisper that seem'd still to continue their private approbation, it reviv'd to a second, and again to a third, still louder than the former. if to all this i add, that _dogget_ himself was in the pit at the same time, it would be too rank affectation if i should not confess that to see him there a witness of my reception, was to me as consummate a triumph as the heart of vanity could be indulg'd with. but whatever vanity i might set upon my self from this unexpected success, i found that was no rule to other people's judgment of me. there were few or no parts of the same kind to be had; nor could they conceive, from what i had done in this, what other sort of characters i could be fit for. if i sollicited for any thing of a different nature, i was answered, _that was not in my way_. and what _was_ in my way it seems was not as yet resolv'd upon. and though i reply'd, _that i thought any thing naturally written ought to be in every one's way that pretended to be an actor_; this was looked upon as a vain, impracticable conceit of my own. yet it is a conceit that, in forty years farther experience, i have not yet given up; i still think that a painter who can draw but one sort of object, or an actor that shines but in one light, can neither of them boast of that ample genius which is necessary to form a thorough master of his art: for tho' genius may have a particular inclination, yet a good history-painter, or a good actor, will, without being at a loss, give you upon demand a proper likeness of whatever nature produces. if he cannot do this, he is only an actor as the shoemaker was allow'd a limited judge of _apelles_'s painting, but _not beyond his last_. now, tho' to do any one thing well may have more merit than we often meet with, and may be enough to procure a man the name of a good actor from the publick; yet, in my opinion, it is but still the name without the substance. if his talent is in such narrow bounds that he dares not step out of them to look upon the singularities of mankind, and cannot catch them in whatever form they present themselves; if he is not master of the _quicquid agunt homines_,[ ] &c. in any shape human nature is fit to be seen in; if he cannot change himself into several distinct persons, so as to vary his whole tone of voice, his motion, his look and gesture, whether in high or lower life, and, at the same time, keep close to those variations without leaving the character they singly belong to; if his best skill falls short of this capacity, what pretence have we to call him a complete master of his art? and tho' i do not insist that he ought always to shew himself in these various lights, yet, before we compliment him with that title, he ought at least, by some few proofs, to let us see that he has them all in his power. if i am ask'd, who, ever, arriv'd at this imaginary excellence, i confess the instances are very few; but i will venture to name _monfort_ as one of them, whose theatrical character i have given in my last chapter: for in his youth he had acted low humour with great success, even down to _tallboy_ in the _jovial crew_; and when he was in great esteem as a tragedian, he was, in comedy, the most complete gentleman that i ever saw upon the stage. let me add, too, that _betterton_, in his declining age, was as eminent in sir _john falstaff_, as in the vigour of it, in his _othello_. [illustration: william bullock.] while i thus measure the value of an actor by the variety of shapes he is able to throw himself into, you may naturally suspect that i am all this while leading my own theatrical character into your favour: why really, to speak as an honest man, i cannot wholly deny it: but in this i shall endeavour to be no farther partial to myself than known facts will make me; from the good or bad evidence of which your better judgment will condemn or acquit me. and to shew you that i will conceal no truth that is against me, i frankly own that had i been always left to my own choice of characters, i am doubtful whether i might ever have deserv'd an equal share of that estimation which the publick seem'd to have held me in: nor am i sure that it was not vanity in me often to have suspected that i was kept out of the parts i had most mind to by the jealousy or prejudice of my cotemporaries; some instances of which i could give you, were they not too slight to be remember'd: in the mean time, be pleas'd to observe how slowly, in my younger days, my good-fortune came forward. my early success in the _old batchelor_, of which i have given so full an account, having open'd no farther way to my advancement, was enough, perhaps, to have made a young fellow of more modesty despair; but being of a temper not easily dishearten'd, i resolv'd to leave nothing unattempted that might shew me in some new rank of distinction. having then no other resource, i was at last reduc'd to write a character for myself; but as that was not finish'd till about a year after, i could not, in the interim, procure any one part that gave me the least inclination to act it; and consequently such as i got i perform'd with a proportionable negligence. but this misfortune, if it were one, you are not to wonder at; for the same fate attended me, more or less, to the last days of my remaining on the stage. what defect in me this may have been owing to, i have not yet had sense enough to find out; but i soon found out as good a thing, which was, never to be mortify'd at it: though i am afraid this seeming philosophy was rather owing to my inclination to pleasure than business. but to my point. the next year i produc'd the comedy of _love's last shift_; yet the difficulty of getting it to the stage was not easily surmounted; for, at that time, as little was expected from me, as an author, as had been from my pretensions to be an actor. however, mr. _southern_, the author of _oroonoko_, having had the patience to hear me read it to him, happened to like it so well that he immediately recommended it to the patentees, and it was accordingly acted in _january _.[ ] in this play i gave myself the part of sir _novelty_, which was thought a good portrait of the foppery then in fashion. here, too, mr. _southern_, though he had approv'd my play, came into the common diffidence of me as an actor: for, when on the first day of it i was standing, myself, to prompt the _prologue_, he took me by the hand and said, _young man! i pronounce thy play a good one; i will answer for its success,[ ] if thou dost not spoil it by thy own action_. though this might be a fair _salvo_ for his favourable judgment of the play, yet, if it were his real opinion of me as an actor, i had the good fortune to deceive him: i succeeded so well in both, that people seem'd at a loss which they should give the preference to.[ ] but (now let me shew a little more vanity, and my apology for it shall come after) the compliment which my lord _dorset_ (then lord-chamberlain) made me upon it is, i own, what i had rather not suppress, _viz. that it was the best first play that any author in his memory had produc'd; and that for a young fellow to shew himself such an actor and such a writer in one day, was something extraordinary._ but as this noble lord has been celebrated for his good-nature, i am contented that as much of this compliment should be suppos'd to exceed my deserts as may be imagin'd to have been heighten'd by his generous inclination to encourage a young beginner. if this excuse cannot soften the vanity of telling a truth so much in my own favour, i must lie at the mercy of my reader. but there was a still higher compliment pass'd upon me which i may publish without vanity, because it was not a design'd one, and apparently came from my enemies, _viz._ that, to their certain knowledge, _it was not my own_: this report is taken notice of in my dedication to the play.[ ] if they spoke truth, if they knew what other person it really belong'd to, i will at least allow them true to their trust; for above forty years have since past, and they have not yet reveal'd the secret.[ ] the new light in which the character of sir _novelty_ had shewn me, one might have thought were enough to have dissipated the doubts of what i might now be possibly good for. but to whatever chance my ill-fortune was due; whether i had still but little merit, or that the menagers, if i had any, were not competent judges of it; or whether i was not generally elbow'd by other actors (which i am most inclin'd to think the true cause) when any fresh parts were to be dispos'd of, not one part of any consequence was i preferr'd to 'till the year following: then, indeed, from _sir john vanbrugh_'s favourable opinion of me, i began, with others, to have a better of myself: for he not only did me honour as an author by writing his _relapse_ as a sequel or second part to _love's last shift_, but as an actor too, by preferring me to the chief character in his own play, (which from sir _novelty_) he had ennobled by the style of baron of _foppington_. this play (the _relapse_) from its new and easy turn of wit, had great success, and gave me, as a comedian, a second flight of reputation along with it.[ ] as the matter i write must be very flat or impertinent to those who have no taste or concern for the stage, and may to those who delight in it, too, be equally tedious when i talk of no body but myself, i shall endeavour to relieve your patience by a word or two more of this gentleman, so far as he lent his pen to the support of the theatre. though the _relapse_ was the first play this agreeable author produc'd, yet it was not, it seems, the first he had written; for he had at that time by him (more than) all the scenes that were acted of the _provok'd wife_; but being then doubtful whether he should ever trust them to the stage, he thought no more of it: but after the success of the _relapse_ he was more strongly importun'd than able to refuse it to the publick. why the last-written play was first acted, and for what reason they were given to different stages, what follows will explain. in his first step into publick life, when he was but an ensign and had a heart above his income, he happen'd somewhere at his winter-quarters, upon a very slender acquaintance with sir _thomas skipwith_, to receive a particular obligation from him which he had not forgot at the time i am speaking of: when sir _thomas's_ interest in the theatrical patent (for he had a large share in it, though he little concern'd himself in the conduct of it) was rising but very slowly, he thought that to give it a lift by a new comedy, if it succeeded, might be the handsomest return he could make to those his former favours; and having observ'd that in _love's last shift_ most of the actors had acquitted themselves beyond what was expected of them, he took a sudden hint from what he lik'd in that play, and in less than three months, in the beginning of _april_ following, brought us the _relapse_ finish'd; but the season being then too far advanc'd, it was not acted 'till the succeeding winter. upon the success of the _relapse_ the late lord _hallifax_, who was a great favourer of _betterton_'s company, having formerly, by way of family-amusement, heard the _provok'd wife_ read to him in its looser sheets, engag'd sir _john vanbrugh_ to revise it and gave it to the theatre in _lincolns-inn fields_. this was a request not to be refus'd to so eminent a patron of the muses as the lord _hallifax_, who was equally a friend and admirer of sir _john_ himself.[ ] nor was sir _thomas skipwith_ in the least disobliged by so reasonable a compliance: after which, sir _john_ was agen at liberty to repeat his civilities to his friend sir _thomas_, and about the same time, or not long after, gave us the comedy of _Ã�sop_, for his inclination always led him to serve sir _thomas_. besides, our company about this time began to be look'd upon in another light; the late contempt we had lain under was now wearing off, and from the success of two or three new plays, our actors, by being originals in a few good parts where they had not the disadvantage of comparison against them, sometimes found new favour in those old plays where others had exceeded them.[ ] of this good-fortune perhaps i had more than my share from the two very different chief characters i had succeeded in; for i was equally approv'd in _Ã�sop_ as the _lord foppington_, allowing the difference to be no less than as wisdom in a person deform'd may be less entertaining to the general taste than folly and foppery finely drest: for the character that delivers precepts of wisdom is, in some sort, severe upon the auditor by shewing him one wiser than himself. but when folly is his object he applauds himself for being wiser than the coxcomb he laughs at: and who is not more pleas'd with an occasion to commend than accuse himself? though to write much in a little time is no excuse for writing ill; yet sir _john vanbrugh_'s pen is not to be a little admir'd for its spirit, ease, and readiness in producing plays so fast upon the neck of one another; for, notwithstanding this quick dispatch, there is a clear and lively simplicity in his wit that neither wants the ornament of learning nor has the least smell of the lamp in it. as the face of a fine woman, with only her locks loose about her, may be then in its greatest beauty; such were his productions, only adorn'd by nature. there is something so catching to the ear, so easy to the memory, in all he writ, that it has been observ'd by all the actors of my time, that the style of no author whatsoever gave their memory less trouble than that of sir _john vanbrugh_; which i myself, who have been charg'd with several of his strongest characters, can confirm by a pleasing experience. and indeed his wit and humour was so little laboured, that his most entertaining scenes seem'd to be no more than his common conversation committed to paper. here i confess my judgment at a loss, whether in this i give him more or less than his due praise? for may it not be more laudable to raise an estate (whether in wealth or fame) by pains and honest industry than to be born to it? yet if his scenes really were, as to me they always seem'd, delightful, are they not, thus expeditiously written, the more surprising? let the wit and merit of them then be weigh'd by wiser criticks than i pretend to be: but no wonder, while his conceptions were so full of life and humour, his muse should be sometimes too warm to wait the slow pace of judgment, or to endure the drudgery of forming a regular fable to them: yet we see the _relapse_, however imperfect in the conduct, by the mere force of its agreeable wit, ran away with the hearts of its hearers; while _love's last shift_, which (as mr. _congreve_ justly said of it) had only in it a great many things that were _like_ wit, that in reality were _not_ wit: and what is still less pardonable (as i say of it myself) has a great deal of puerility and frothy stage-language in it, yet by the mere moral delight receiv'd from its fable, it has been, with the other, in a continued and equal possession of the stage for more than forty years.[ ] as i have already promis'd you to refer your judgment of me as an actor rather to known facts than my own opinion (which i could not be sure would keep clear of self-partiality) i must a little farther risque my being tedious to be as good as my word. i have elsewhere allow'd that my want of a strong and full voice soon cut short my hopes of making any valuable figure in tragedy; and i have been many years since convinced, that whatever opinion i might have of my own judgment or capacity to amend the palpable errors that i saw our tragedians most in favour commit; yet the auditors who would have been sensible of any such amendments (could i have made them) were so very few, that my best endeavour would have been but an unavailing labour, or, what is yet worse, might have appeared both to our actors and to many auditors the vain mistake of my own self-conceit: for so strong, so very near indispensible, is that one article of voice in the forming a good tragedian, that an actor may want any other qualification whatsoever, and yet have a better chance for applause than he will ever have, with all the skill in the world, if his voice is not equal to it. mistake me not; i say, for _applause_ only--but applause does not always stay for, nor always follow intrinsick merit; applause will frequently open, like a young hound, upon a wrong scent; and the majority of auditors, you know, are generally compos'd of babblers that are profuse of their voices before there is any thing on foot that calls for them. not but, i grant, to lead or mislead the many will always stand in some rank of a necessary merit; yet when i say a good tragedian, i mean one in opinion of whose _real_ merit the best judges would agree. having so far given up my pretensions to the buskin, i ought now to account for my having been, notwithstanding, so often seen in some particular characters in tragedy, as _iago_,[ ] _wolsey_, _syphax_, _richard the third_, &c. if in any of this kind i have succeeded, perhaps it has been a merit dearly purchas'd; for, from the delight i seem'd to take in my performing them, half my auditors have been persuaded that a great share of the wickedness of them must have been in my own nature: if this is true, as true i fear (i had almost said hope) it is, i look upon it rather as a praise than censure of my performance. aversion there is an involuntary commendation, where we are only hated for being like the thing we _ought_ to be like; a sort of praise, however, which few actors besides my self could endure: had it been equal to the usual praise given to virtue, my cotemporaries would have thought themselves injur'd if i had pretended to any share of it: so that you see it has been as much the dislike others had to them, as choice that has thrown me sometimes into these characters. but it may be farther observ'd, that in the characters i have nam'd, where there is so much close meditated mischief, deceit, pride, insolence, or cruelty, they cannot have the least cast or profer of the amiable in them; consequently, there can be no great demand for that harmonious sound, or pleasing round melody of voice, which in the softer sentiments of love, the wailings of distressful virtue, or in the throws and swellings of honour and ambition, may be needful to recommend them to our pity or admiration: so that, again, my want of that requisite voice might less disqualify me for the vicious than the virtuous character. this too may have been a more favourable reason for my having been chosen for them--a yet farther consideration that inclin'd me to them was that they are generally better written, thicker sown with sensible reflections, and come by so much nearer to common life and nature than characters of admiration, as vice is more the practice of mankind than virtue: nor could i sometimes help smiling at those dainty actors that were too squeamish to swallow them! as if they were one jot the better men for acting a good man well, or another man the worse for doing equal justice to a bad one! 'tis not, sure, _what_ we act, but _how_ we act what is allotted us, that speaks our intrinsick value! as in real life, the wise man or the fool, be he prince or peasant, will in either state be equally the fool or the wise man--but alas! in personated life this is no rule to the vulgar! they are apt to think all before them real, and rate the actor according to his borrow'd vice or virtue. if then i had always too careless a concern for false or vulgar applause, i ought not to complain if i have had less of it than others of my time, or not less of it than i desired: yet i will venture to say, that from the common weak appetite of false applause, many actors have run into more errors and absurdities, than their greatest ignorance could otherwise have committed:[ ] if this charge is true, it will lie chiefly upon the better judgment of the spectator to reform it. but not to make too great a merit of my avoiding this common road to applause, perhaps i was vain enough to think i had more ways than one to come at it. that, in the variety of characters i acted, the chances to win it were the stronger on my side--that, if the multitude were not in a roar to see me in _cardinal wolsey_, i could be sure of them in alderman _fondlewife_. if they hated me in _iago_, in sir _fopling_ they took me for a fine gentleman; if they were silent at _syphax_, no _italian_ eunuch was more applauded than when i sung in sir _courtly_. if the morals of _Ã�sop_ were too grave for them, justice _shallow_ was as simple and as merry an old rake as the wisest of our young ones could wish me.[ ] and though the terror and detestation raised by king _richard_ might be too severe a delight for them, yet the more gentle and modern vanities of a poet bays, or the well-bred vices of a lord _foppington_, were not at all more than their merry hearts or nicer morals could bear. these few instances out of fifty more i could give you, may serve to explain what sort of merit i at most pretended to; which was, that i supplied with variety whatever i might want of that particular skill wherein others went before me. how this variety was executed (for by that only is its value to be rated) you who have so often been my spectator are the proper judge: if you pronounce my performance to have been defective, i am condemn'd by my own evidence; if you acquit me, these out-lines may serve for a sketch of my theatrical character. chapter vii. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the state of the stage continued. the occasion of wilks's commencing actor. his success. facts relating to his theatrical talent. actors more or less esteem'd from their private characters._ the _lincoln's-inn-fields_ company were now, in ,[ ] a common-wealth, like that of _holland_, divided from the tyranny of _spain_: but the similitude goes very little farther; short was the duration of the theatrical power! for tho' success pour'd in so fast upon them at their first opening that every thing seem'd to support it self, yet experience in a year or two shew'd them that they had never been worse govern'd than when they govern'd themselves! many of them began to make their particular interest more their point than that of the general: and tho' some deference might be had to the measures and advice of _betterton_, several of them wanted to govern in their turn, and were often out of humour that their opinion was not equally regarded--but have we not seen the same infirmity in senates? the tragedians seem'd to think their rank as much above the comedians as in the characters they severally acted; when the first were in their finery, the latter were impatient at the expence, and look'd upon it as rather laid out upon the real than the fictitious person of the actor; nay, i have known in our own company this ridiculous sort of regret carried so far, that the tragedian has thought himself injured when the _comedian_ pretended to wear a fine coat! i remember _powel_, upon surveying my first dress in the _relapse_, was out of all temper, and reproach'd our master in very rude terms that he had not so good a suit to play _cæsar borgia_[ ] in! tho' he knew, at the same time, my lord _foppington_ fill'd the house, when his bouncing _borgia_ would do little more than pay fiddles and candles to it: and though a character of vanity might be supposed more expensive in dress than possibly one of ambition, yet the high heart of this heroical actor could not bear that a comedian should ever pretend to be as well dress'd as himself. thus again, on the contrary, when _betterton_ proposed to set off a tragedy, the comedians were sure to murmur at the charge of it: and the late reputation which _dogget_ had acquired from acting his _ben_ in _love_ for _love_, made him a more declared male-content on such occasions; he over-valued comedy for its being nearer to nature than tragedy, which is allow'd to say many fine things that nature never spoke in the same words; and supposing his opinion were just, yet he should have consider'd that the publick had a taste as well as himself, which in policy he ought to have complied with. _dogget_, however, could not with patience look upon the costly trains and plumes of tragedy, in which knowing himself to be useless, he thought were all a vain extravagance: and when he found his singularity could no longer oppose that expence, he so obstinately adhered to his own opinion, that he left the society of his old friends, and came over to us at the _theatre-royal_: and yet this actor always set up for a theatrical patriot. this happened in the winter following the first division of the (only) company.[ ] he came time enough to the _theatre-royal_ to act the part of _lory_ in the _relapse_, an arch valet, quite after the _french_ cast, pert and familiar. but it suited so ill with _dogget_'s dry and closely-natural manner of acting, that upon the second day he desired it might be disposed of to another; which the author complying with, gave it to _penkethman_, who, tho' in other lights much his inferior, yet this part he seem'd better to become. _dogget_ was so immovable in his opinion of whatever he thought was right or wrong, that he could never be easy under any kind of theatrical government, and was generally so warm in pursuit of his interest that he often out-ran it; i remember him three times, for some years, unemploy'd in any theatre, from his not being able to bear, in common with others, the disagreeable accidents that in such societies are unavoidable.[ ] but whatever pretences he had form'd for this first deserting from _lincoln's-inn-fields_, i always thought his best reason for it was, that he look'd upon it as a sinking ship; not only from the melancholy abatement of their profits, but likewise from the neglect and disorder in their government: he plainly saw that their extraordinary success at first had made them too confident of its duration, and from thence had slacken'd their industry--by which he observ'd, at the same time, the old house, where there was scarce any other merit than industry, began to flourish. and indeed they seem'd not enough to consider that the appetite of the publick, like that of a fine gentleman, could only be kept warm by variety; that let their merit be never so high, yet the taste of a town was not always constant, nor infallible: that it was dangerous to hold their rivals in too much contempt;[ ] for they found that a young industrious company were soon a match for the best actors when too securely negligent: and negligent they certainly were, and fondly fancied that had each of their different schemes been follow'd, their audiences would not so suddenly have fallen off.[ ] but alas! the vanity of applauded actors, when they are not crowded to as they may have been, makes them naturally impute the change to any cause rather than the true one, satiety: they are mighty loath to think a town, once so fond of them, could ever be tired; and yet, at one time or other, more or less thin houses have been the certain fate of the most prosperous actors ever since i remember the stage! but against this evil the provident patentees had found out a relief which the new house were not yet masters of, _viz._ never to pay their people when the money did not come in; nor then neither, but in such proportions as suited their conveniency. i my self was one of the many who for six acting weeks together never received one day's pay; and for some years after seldom had above half our nominal sallaries: but to the best of my memory, the finances of the other house held it not above one season more, before they were reduced to the same expedient of making the like scanty payments.[ ] such was the distress and fortune of both these companies since their division from the _theatre-royal_; either working at half wages, or by alternate successes intercepting the bread from one another's mouths;[ ] irreconcilable enemies, yet without hope of relief from a victory on either side; sometimes both parties reduced, and yet each supporting their spirits by seeing the other under the same calamity. during this state of the stage it was that the lowest expedient was made use of to ingratiate our company in the publick favour: our master, who had sometime practised the law,[ ] and therefore loved a storm better than fair weather (for it was his own conduct chiefly that had brought the patent into these dangers) took nothing so much to heart as that partiality wherewith he imagined the people of quality had preferr'd the actors of the other house to those of his own: to ballance this misfortune, he was resolv'd, at least, to be well with their domesticks, and therefore cunningly open'd the upper gallery to them _gratis_: for before this time no footman was ever admitted, or had presum'd to come into it, till after the fourth act was ended: this additional privilege (the greatest plague that ever play-house had to complain of) he conceived would not only incline them to give us a good word in the respective families they belong'd to, but would naturally incite them to come all hands aloft in the crack of our applauses: and indeed it so far succeeded, that it often thunder'd from the full gallery above, while our thin pit and boxes below were in the utmost serenity. this riotous privilege, so craftily given, and which from custom was at last ripen'd into right, became the most disgraceful nusance that ever depreciated the theatre.[ ] how often have the most polite audiences, in the most affecting scenes of the best plays, been disturb'd and insulted by the noise and clamour of these savage spectators? from the same narrow way of thinking, too, were so many ordinary people and unlick'd cubs of condition admitted behind our scenes for money, and sometimes without it: the plagues and inconveniences of which custom we found so intolerable, when we afterwards had the stage in our hands, that at the hazard of our lives we were forced to get rid of them; and our only expedient was by refusing money from all persons without distinction at the stage-door; by this means we preserved to ourselves the right and liberty of chusing our own company there: and by a strict observance of this order we brought what had been before debas'd into all the licenses of a lobby into the decencies of a drawing-room.[ ] about the distressful time i was speaking of, in the year ,[ ] _wilks_, who now had been five years in great esteem on the _dublin_ theatre, return'd to that of _drury-lane_; in which last he had first set out, and had continued to act some small parts for one winter only. the considerable figure which he so lately made upon the stage in _london_, makes me imagine that a particular account of his first commencing actor may not be unacceptable to the curious; i shall, therefore, give it them as i had it from his own mouth. in king _james_'s reign he had been some time employ'd in the secretary's office in _ireland_ (his native country) and remain'd in it till after the battle of the _boyn_, which completed the revolution. upon that happy and unexpected deliverance, the people of _dublin_, among the various expressions of their joy, had a mind to have a play; but the actors being dispersed during the war, some private persons agreed in the best manner they were able to give one to the publick _gratis_ at the _theatre_. the play was _othello_, in which _wilks_ acted the _moor_; and the applause he received in it warm'd him to so strong an inclination for the stage, that he immediately prefer'd it to all his other views in life: for he quitted his post, and with the first fair occasion came over to try his fortune in the (then only) company of actors in _london_. the person who supply'd his post in _dublin_, he told me, raised to himself from thence a fortune of fifty thousand pounds. here you have a much stronger instance of an extravagant passion for the stage than that which i have elsewhere shewn in my self; i only quitted my _hopes_ of being preferr'd to the like post for it; but _wilks_ quitted his actual _possession_ for the imaginary happiness which the life of an actor presented to him. and, though possibly we might both have better'd our fortunes in a more honourable station, yet whether better fortunes might have equally gratify'd our vanity (the universal passion of mankind) may admit of a question. upon his being formerly received into the _theatre-royal_ (which was in the winter after i had been initiated) his station there was much upon the same class with my own; our parts were generally of an equal insignificancy, not of consequence enough to give either a preference: but _wilks_ being more impatient of his low condition than i was, (and, indeed, the company was then so well stock'd with good actors that there was very little hope of getting forward) laid hold of a more expeditious way for his advancement, and returned agen to _dublin_ with mr. _ashbury_, the patentee of that theatre, to act in his new company there: there went with him at the same time mrs. _butler_, whose character i have already given, and _estcourt_, who had not appeared on any stage, and was yet only known as an excellent mimick: _wilks_ having no competitor in _dublin_, was immediately preferr'd to whatever parts his inclination led him, and his early reputation on that stage as soon raised in him an ambition to shew himself on a better. and i have heard him say (in raillery of the vanity which young actors are liable to) that when the news of _monfort_'s death came to _ireland_, he from that time thought his fortune was made, and took a resolution to return a second time to _england_ with the first opportunity; but as his engagements to the stage where he was were too strong to be suddenly broke from, he return'd not to the _theatre-royal_ 'till the year .[ ] upon his first arrival, _powel_, who was now in possession of all the chief parts of _monfort_, and the only actor that stood in _wilks_'s way, in seeming civility offer'd him his choice of whatever he thought fit to make his first appearance in; though, in reality, the favour was intended to hurt him. but _wilks_ rightly judg'd it more modest to accept only of a part of _powel_'s, and which _monfort_ had never acted, that of _palamede_ in _dryden's marriage alamode_. here, too, he had the advantage of having the ball play'd into his hand by the inimitable mrs. _monfort_, who was then his _melantha_ in the same play: whatever fame _wilks_ had brought with him from _ireland_, he as yet appear'd but a very raw actor to what he was afterwards allow'd to be: his faults, however, i shall rather leave to the judgments of those who then may remember him, than to take upon me the disagreeable office of being particular upon them, farther than by saying, that in this part of _palamede_ he was short of _powel_, and miss'd a good deal of the loose humour of the character, which the other more happily hit.[ ] but however he was young, erect, of a pleasing aspect, and, in the whole, gave the town and the stage sufficient hopes of him. i ought to make some allowances, too, for the restraint he must naturally have been under from his first appearance upon a new stage. but from that he soon recovered, and grew daily more in favour, not only of the town, but likewise of the patentee, whom _powel_, before _wilks_'s arrival, had treated in almost what manner he pleas'd. upon this visible success of _wilks_, the pretended contempt which _powel_ had held him in began to sour into an open jealousy; he now plainly saw he was a formidable rival, and (which more hurt him) saw, too, that other people saw it; and therefore found it high time to oppose and be troublesome to him. but _wilks_ happening to be as jealous of his fame as the other, you may imagine such clashing candidates could not be long without a rupture: in short, a challenge, i very well remember, came from _powel_, when he was hot-headed; but the next morning he was cool enough to let it end in favour of _wilks_. yet however the magnanimity on either part might subside, the animosity was as deep in the heart as ever, tho' it was not afterwards so openly avow'd: for when _powel_ found that intimidating would not carry his point; but that _wilks_, when provok'd, would really give battle,[ ] he (_powel_) grew so out of humour that he cock'd his hat, and in his passion walk'd off to the service of the company in _lincoln's-inn fields_. but there finding more competitors, and that he made a worse figure among them than in the company he came from, he stay'd but one winter with them[ ] before he return'd to his old quarters in _drury-lane_; where, after these unsuccessful pushes of his ambition, he at last became a martyr to negligence, and quietly submitted to the advantages and superiority which (during his late desertion) _wilks_ had more easily got over him. [illustration: william penkethman.] however trifling these theatrical anecdotes may seem to a sensible reader, yet, as the different conduct of these rival actors may be of use to others of the same profession, and from thence may contribute to the pleasure of the publick, let that be my excuse for pursuing them. i must therefore let it be known that, though in voice and ear nature had been more kind to _powel_, yet he so often lost the value of them by an unheedful confidence, that the constant wakeful care and decency of _wilks_ left the other far behind in the publick esteem and approbation. nor was his memory less tenacious than that of _wilks_; but _powel_ put too much trust in it, and idly deferr'd the studying of his parts, as school-boys do their exercise, to the last day, which commonly brings them out proportionably defective. but _wilks_ never lost an hour of precious time, and was, in all his parts, perfect to such an exactitude, that i question if in forty years he ever five times chang'd or misplac'd an article in any one of them. to be master of this uncommon diligence is adding to the gift of nature all that is in an actor's power; and this duty of studying perfect whatever actor is remiss in, he will proportionably find that nature may have been kind to him in vain, for though _powel_ had an assurance that cover'd this neglect much better than a man of more modesty might have done, yet, with all his intrepidity, very often the diffidence and concern for what he was to _say_ made him lose the look of what he was to _be_: while, therefore, _powel_ presided, his idle example made this fault so common to others, that i cannot but confess, in the general infection, i had my share of it; nor was my too critical excuse for it a good one, _viz._ that scarce one part in five that fell to my lot was worth the labour. but to shew respect to an audience is worth the best actor's labour, and, his business consider'd, he must be a very impudent one that comes before them with a conscious negligence of what he is about.[ ] but _wilks_ was never known to make any of these venial distinctions, nor, however barren his part might be, could bear even the self-reproach of favouring his memory: and i have been astonished to see him swallow a volume of froth and insipidity in a new play that we were sure could not live above three days, tho' favour'd and recommended to the stage by some good person of quality. upon such occasions, in compassion to his fruitless toil and labour, i have sometimes cry'd out with _cato----painful præeminence!_ so insupportable, in my sense, was the task, when the bare praise of not having been negligent was sure to be the only reward of it. but so indefatigable was the diligence of _wilks_, that he seem'd to love it, as a good man does virtue, for its own sake; of which the following instance will give you an extraordinary proof. in some new comedy he happen'd to complain of a crabbed speech in his part, which, he said, gave him more trouble to study than all the rest of it had done; upon which he apply'd to the author either to soften or shorten it. the author, that he might make the matter quite easy to him, fairly cut it all out. but when he got home from the rehearsal, _wilks_ thought it such an indignity to his memory that any thing should be thought too hard for it, that he actually made himself perfect in that speech, though he knew it was never to be made use of. from this singular act of supererogation you may judge how indefatigable the labour of his memory must have been when his profit and honour were more concern'd to make use of it.[ ] but besides this indispensable quality of diligence, _wilks_ had the advantage of a sober character in private life, which _powel_, not having the least regard to, labour'd under the unhappy disfavour, not to say contempt, of the publick, to whom his licentious courses were no secret: even when he did well that natural prejudice pursu'd him; neither the heroe nor the gentleman, the young _ammon_[ ] nor the _dorimant_,[ ] could conceal from the conscious spectator the true _george powel_. and this sort of disesteem or favour every actor will feel, and, more or less, have his share of, as he _has_, or has _not_, a due regard to his private life and reputation. nay, even false reports shall affect him, and become the cause, or pretence at least, of undervaluing or treating him injuriously. let me give a known instance of it, and at the same time a justification of myself from an imputation that was laid upon me not many years before i quitted the theatre, of which you will see the consequence. after the vast success of that new species of dramatick poetry, the _beggars opera_,[ ] the year following i was so stupid as to attempt something of the same kind, upon a quite different foundation, that of recommending virtue and innocence; which i ignorantly thought might not have a less pretence to favour than setting greatness and authority in a contemptible, and the most vulgar vice and wickedness, in an amiable light. but behold how fondly i was mistaken! _love in a riddle_[ ] (for so my new-fangled performance was called) was as vilely damn'd and hooted at as so vain a presumption in the idle cause of virtue could deserve. yet this is not what i complain of; i will allow my poetry to be as much below the other as taste or criticism can sink it: i will grant likewise that the applauded author of the _beggars opera_ (whom i knew to be an honest good-natur'd man, and who, when he had descended to write more like one, in the cause of virtue, had been as unfortunate as others of that class;) i will grant, i say, that in his _beggars opera_ he had more skilfully gratify'd the publick taste than all the brightest authors that ever writ before him; and i have sometimes thought, from the modesty of his motto, _nos hæc novimus esse nihil_,[ ] that he gave them that performance as a satyr upon the depravity of their judgment (as _ben. johnson_ of old was said to give his _bartholomew-fair_ in ridicule of the vulgar taste which had disliked his _sejanus_[ ]) and that, by artfully seducing them to be the champions of the immoralities he himself detested, he should be amply reveng'd on their former severity and ignorance. this were indeed a triumph! which even the author of _cato_ might have envy'd, _cato!_ 'tis true, succeeded, but reach'd not, by full forty days, the progress and applauses of the _beggars opera_. will it, however, admit of a question, which of the two compositions a good writer would rather wish to have been the author of? yet, on the other side, must we not allow that to have taken a whole nation, high and low, into a general applause, has shown a power in poetry which, though often attempted in the same kind, none but this one author could ever yet arrive at? by what rule, then, are we to judge of our true national taste? but to keep a little closer to my point, the same author the next year had, according to the laws of the land, transported his heroe to the _west-indies_ in a second part to the _beggars opera_;[ ] but so it happen'd, to the surprize of the publick, this second part was forbid to come upon the stage! various were the speculations upon this act of power: some thought that the author, others that the town, was hardly dealt with; a third sort, who perhaps had envy'd him the success of his first part, affirm'd, when it was printed, that whatever the intention might be, the fact was in his favour, that he had been a greater gainer by subscriptions to his copy than he could have been by a bare theatrical presentation. whether any part of these opinions were true i am not concerned to determine or consider. but how they affected me i am going to tell you. soon after this prohibition,[ ] my performance was to come upon the stage, at a time when many people were out of humour at the late disappointment, and seem'd willing to lay hold of any pretence of making a reprizal. great umbrage was taken that i was permitted to have the whole town to my self, by this absolute forbiddance of what they had more mind to have been entertain'd with. and, some few days before my bawble was acted, i was inform'd that a strong party would be made against it: this report i slighted, as not conceiving why it should be true; and when i was afterwards told what was the pretended provocation of this party, i slighted it still more, as having less reason to suppose any persons could believe me capable (had i had the power) of giving such a provocation. the report, it seems, that had run against me was this: that, to make way for the success of my own play, i had privately found means, or made interest, that the second part of the _beggars opera_ might be suppressed. what an involuntary compliment did the reporters of this falshood make me? to suppose me of consideration enough to influence a great officer of state to gratify the spleen or envy of a comedian so far as to rob the publick of an innocent diversion (if it were such) that none but that cunning comedian might be suffered to give it them.[ ] this is so very gross a supposition that it needs only its own senseless face to confound it; let that alone, then, be my defence against it. but against blind malice and staring inhumanity whatever is upon the stage has no defence! there they knew i stood helpless and expos'd to whatever they might please to load or asperse me with. i had not considered, poor devil! that from the security of a full pit dunces might be criticks, cowards valiant, and 'prentices gentlemen! whether any such were concern'd in the murder of my play i am not certain, for i never endeavour'd to discover any one of its assassins; i cannot afford them a milder name, from their unmanly manner of destroying it. had it been heard, they might have left me nothing to say to them: 'tis true it faintly held up its wounded head a second day, and would have spoke for mercy, but was not suffer'd. not even the presence of a royal heir apparent could protect it. but then i was reduced to be serious with them; their clamour then became an insolence, which i thought it my duty by the sacrifice of any interest of my own to put an end to. i therefore quitted the actor for the author, and, stepping forward to the pit, told them, _that since i found they were not inclin'd that this play should go forward, i gave them my word that after this night it should never be acted agen: but that, in the mean time, i hop'd they would consider in whose presence they were, and for that reason at least would suspend what farther marks of their displeasure they might imagine i had deserved._ at this there was a dead silence; and after some little pause, a few civiliz'd hands signify'd their approbation. when the play went on, i observ'd about a dozen persons of no extraordinary appearance sullenly walk'd out of the pit. after which, every scene of it, while uninterrupted, met with more applause than my best hopes had expected. but it came too late: peace to its _manes_! i had given my word it should fall, and i kept it by giving out another play for the next day, though i knew the boxes were all lett for the same again. such, then, was the treatment i met with: how much of it the errors of the play might deserve i refer to the judgment of those who may have curiosity and idle time enough to read it.[ ] but if i had no occasion to complain of the reception it met with from its _quieted_ audience, sure it can be no great vanity to impute its disgraces chiefly to that severe resentment which a groundless report of me had inflam'd: yet those disgraces have left me something to boast of, an honour preferable even to the applause of my enemies: a noble lord came behind the scenes, and told me, from the box, where he was in waiting, _that what i said to quiet the audience was extremely well taken there; and that i had been commended for it in a very obliging manner_. now, though this was the only tumult that i have known to have been so effectually appeas'd these fifty years by any thing that could be said to an audience in the same humour, i will not take any great merit to myself upon it; because when, like me, you will but humbly submit to their doing you all the mischief they can, they will at any time be satisfy'd. i have mention'd this particular fact to inforce what i before observ'd, that the private character of an actor will always more or less affect his publick performance. and if i suffer'd so much from the bare _suspicion_ of my having been guilty of a base action, what should not an actor expect that is hardy enough to think his whole private character of no consequence? i could offer many more, tho' less severe instances of the same nature. i have seen the most tender sentiment of love in tragedy create laughter, instead of compassion, when it has been applicable to the real engagements of the person that utter'd it. i have known good parts thrown up, from an humble consciousness that something in them might put an audience in mind of--what was rather wish'd might be forgotten: those remarkable words of _evadne_, in the _maid's tragedy--a maidenhead_, amintor, _at my years_?--have sometimes been a much stronger jest for being a true one. but these are reproaches which in all nations the theatre must have been us'd to, unless we could suppose actors something more than human creatures, void of faults or frailties. 'tis a misfortune at least not limited to the _english_ stage. i have seen the better-bred audience in _paris_ made merry even with a modest expression, when it has come from the mouth of an actress whose private character it seem'd not to belong to. the apprehension of these kind of fleers from the witlings of a pit has been carry'd so far in our own country, that a late valuable actress[ ] (who was conscious her beauty was not her greatest merit) desired the warmth of some lines might be abated when they have made her too remarkably handsome: but in this discretion she was alone, few others were afraid of undeserving the finest things that could be said to them. but to consider this matter seriously, i cannot but think, at a play, a sensible auditor would contribute all he could to his being well deceiv'd, and not suffer his imagination so far to wander from the well-acted character before him, as to gratify a frivolous spleen by mocks or personal sneers on the performer, at the expence of his better entertainment. but i must now take up _wilks_ and _powel_ again where i left them. though the contention for superiority between them seem'd about this time to end in favour of the former, yet the distress of the patentee (in having his servant his master, as _powel_ had lately been), was not much reliev'd by the victory; he had only chang'd the man, but not the malady: for _wilks_, by being in possession of so many good parts, fell into the common error of most actors, that of over-rating their merit, or never thinking it is so thoroughly consider'd as it ought to be, which generally makes them proportionably troublesome to the master, who they might consider only pays them to profit by them. the patentee therefore found it as difficult to satisfy the continual demands of _wilks_ as it was dangerous to refuse them; very few were made that were not granted, and as few were granted as were not grudg'd him: not but our good master was as sly a tyrant as ever was at the head of a theatre; for he gave the actors more liberty, and fewer days pay, than any of his predecessors: he would laugh with them over a bottle, and bite[ ] them in their bargains: he kept them poor, that they might not be able to rebel; and sometimes merry, that they might not think of it: all their articles of agreement had a clause in them that he was sure to creep out at, _viz._ their respective sallaries were to be paid in such manner and proportion as others of the same company were paid; which in effect made them all, when he pleas'd, but limited sharers of loss, and himself sole proprietor of profits; and this loss or profit they only had such verbal accounts of as he thought proper to give them. 'tis true, he would sometimes advance them money (but not more than he knew at most could be due to them) upon their bonds; upon which, whenever they were mutinous, he would threaten to sue them. this was the net we danc'd in for several years: but no wonder we were dupes, while our master was a lawyer. this grievance, however, _wilks_ was resolv'd, for himself at least, to remedy at any rate; and grew daily more intractable, for every day his redress was delay'd. here our master found himself under a difficulty he knew not well how to get out of: for as he was a close subtle man, he seldom made use of a confident in his schemes of government:[ ] but here the old expedient of delay would stand him in no longer stead; _wilks_ must instantly be comply'd with, or _powel_ come again into power! in a word, he was push'd so home, that he was reduc'd even to take my opinion into his assistance: for he knew i was a rival to neither of them; perhaps, too, he had fancy'd that, from the success of my first play, i might know as much of the stage, and what made an actor valuable, as either of them: he saw, too, that tho' they had each of them five good parts to my one, yet the applause which in my few i had met with, was given me by better judges than as yet had approv'd of the best they had done. they generally measured the goodness of a part by the quantity or length of it: i thought none bad for being short that were closely-natural; nor any the better for being long, without that valuable quality. but in this, i doubt, as to their interest, they judg'd better than myself; for i have generally observ'd that those who do a great deal not ill, have been preferr'd to those who do but little, though never so masterly. and therefore i allow that, while there were so few good parts, and as few good judges of them, it ought to have been no wonder to me, that as an actor i was less valued by the master or the common people than either of them: all the advantage i had of them was, that by not being troublesome i had more of our master's personal inclination than any actor of the male sex;[ ] and so much of it, that i was almost the only one whom at that time he us'd to take into his parties of pleasure; very often _tete à tete_, and sometimes in a _partie quarrèe_. these then were the qualifications, however good or bad, to which may be imputed our master's having made choice of me to assist him in the difficulty under which he now labour'd. he was himself sometimes inclin'd to set up _powel_ again as a check upon the overbearing temper of _wilks_: tho' to say truth, he lik'd neither of them, but was still under a necessity that one of them should preside, tho' he scarce knew which of the two evils to chuse. this question, when i happen'd to be alone with him, was often debated in our evening conversation; nor, indeed, did i find it an easy matter to know which party i ought to recommend to his election. i knew they were neither of them well-wishers to me, as in common they were enemies to most actors in proportion to the merit that seem'd to be rising in them. but as i had the prosperity of the stage more at heart than any other consideration, i could not be long undetermined in my opinion, and therefore gave it to our master at once in favour of _wilks_. i, with all the force i could muster, insisted, "that if _powel_ were preferr'd, the ill example of his negligence and abandon'd character (whatever his merit on the stage might be) would reduce our company to contempt and beggary; observing, at the same time, in how much better order our affairs went forward since _wilks_ came among us, of which i recounted several instances that are not so necessary to tire my reader with. all this, though he allow'd to be true, yet _powel_, he said, was a better actor than _wilks_ when he minded his business (that is to say, when he was, what he seldom was, sober). but _powel_, it seems, had a still greater merit to him, which was, (as he observ'd) that when affairs were in his hands, he had kept the actors quiet, without one day's pay, for six weeks together, and it was not every body could do that; for you see, said he, _wilks_ will never be easy unless i give him his whole pay, when others have it not, and what an injustice would that be to the rest if i were to comply with him? how do i know but then they may be all in a mutiny, and _mayhap_ (that was his expression) with _powel_ at the head of 'em?" by this specimen of our debate, it may be judg'd under how particular and merry a government the theatre then labour'd. to conclude, this matter ended in a resolution to sign a new agreement with _wilks_, which entitled him to his full pay of four pounds a week without any conditional deductions. how far soever my advice might have contributed to our master's settling his affairs upon this foot, i never durst make the least merit of it to _wilks_, well knowing that his great heart would have taken it as a mortal affront had i (tho' never so distantly) hinted that his demands had needed any assistance but the justice of them. from this time, then, _wilks_ became first minister, or bustle-master-general of the company.[ ] he now seem'd to take new delight in keeping the actors close to their business, and got every play reviv'd with care in which he had acted the chief part in _dublin_: 'tis true, this might be done with a particular view of setting off himself to advantage; but if at the same time it served the company, he ought not to want our commendation: now, tho' my own conduct neither had the appearance of his merit, nor the reward that follow'd his industry, i cannot help observing that it shew'd me, to the best of my power, a more cordial commonwealth's man: his first views in serving himself made his service to the whole but an incidental merit; whereas, by my prosecuting the means to make him easy in his pay, unknown to him, or without asking any favour for my self at the same time, i gave a more unquestionable proof of my preferring the publick to my private interest: from the same principle i never murmur'd at whatever little parts fell to my share, and though i knew it would not recommend me to the favour of the common people, i often submitted to play wicked characters rather than they should be worse done by weaker actors than my self: but perhaps, in all this patience under my situation, i supported my spirits by a conscious vanity: for i fancied i had more reason to value myself upon being sometimes the confident and companion of our master, than _wilks_ had in all the more publick favours he had extorted from him. i imagined, too, there was sometimes as much skill to be shewn in a short part, as in the most voluminous, which he generally made choice of; that even the coxcombly follies of a sir _john daw_ might as well distinguish the capacity of an actor, as all the dry enterprizes and busy conduct of a _truewit_.[ ] nor could i have any reason to repine at the superiority he enjoy'd, when i consider'd at how dear a rate it was purchased, at the continual expence of a restless jealousy and fretful impatience----these were the passions that, in the height of his successes, kept him lean to his last hour, while what i wanted in rank or glory was amply made up to me in ease and chearfulness. but let not this observation either lessen his merit or lift up my own; since our different tempers were not in our choice, but equally natural to both of us. to be employ'd on the stage was the delight of his life; to be justly excused from it was the joy of mine: i lov'd ease, and he pre-eminence: in that, he might be more commendable. tho' he often disturb'd me, he seldom could do it without more disordering himself:[ ] in our disputes, his warmth could less bear truth than i could support manifest injuries: he would hazard our undoing to gratify his passions, tho' otherwise an honest man; and i rather chose to give up my reason, or not see my wrong, than ruin our community by an equal rashness. by this opposite conduct our accounts at the end of our labours stood thus: while he lived he was the elder man, when he died he was not so old as i am: he never left the stage till he left the world: i never so well enjoy'd the world as when i left the stage: he died in possession of his wishes; and i, by having had a less cholerick ambition, am still tasting mine in health and liberty. but as he in a great measure wore out the organs of life in his incessant labours to gratify the publick, the many whom he gave pleasure to will always owe his memory a favourable report--some facts that will vouch for the truth of this account will be found in the sequel of these memoirs. if i have spoke with more freedom of his quondam competitor _powel_, let my good intentions to future actors, in shewing what will so much concern them to avoid, be my excuse for it: for though _powel_ had from nature much more than _wilks_; in voice and ear, in elocution in tragedy, and humour in comedy, greatly the advantage of him; yet, as i have observ'd, from the neglect and abuse of those valuable gifts, he suffer'd _wilks_ to be of thrice the service to our society. let me give another instance of the reward and favour which, in a theatre, diligence and sobriety seldom fail of: _mills_ the elder[ ] grew into the friendship of _wilks_ with not a great deal more than those useful qualities to recommend him: he was an honest, quiet, careful man, of as few faults as excellencies, and _wilks_ rather chose him for his second in many plays, than an actor of perhaps greater skill that was not so laboriously diligent. and from this constant assiduity, _mills_, with making to himself a friend in _wilks_, was advanced to a larger sallary than any man-actor had enjoy'd during my time on the stage.[ ] i have yet to offer a more happy recommendation of temperance, which a late celebrated actor was warn'd into by the mis-conduct of _powel_. about the year that _wilks_ return'd from _dublin_, _booth_, who had commenced actor upon that theatre, came over to the company in _lincolns-inn-fields_:[ ] he was then but an under-graduate of the buskin, and, as he told me himself, had been for some time too frank a lover of the bottle; but having had the happiness to observe into what contempt and distresses _powel_ had plung'd himself by the same vice, he was so struck with the terror of his example, that he fix'd a resolution (which from that time to the end of his days he strictly observ'd) of utterly reforming it; an uncommon act of philosophy in a young man! of which in his fame and fortune he afterwards enjoy'd the reward and benefit. these observations i have not merely thrown together as a moralist, but to prove that the briskest loose liver or intemperate man (though morality were out of the question) can never arrive at the necessary excellencies of a good or useful actor. chapter viii. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _the patentee of_ drury-lane _wiser than his actors_. _his particular menagement. the author continues to write plays. why. the best dramatick poets censured by_ j. collier, _in his_ short view of the stage. _it has a good effect. the master of the revels, from that time, cautious in his licensing new plays. a complaint against him. his authority founded upon custom only. the late law for fixing that authority in a proper person, considered._ though the master of our theatre had no conception himself of theatrical merit either in authors or actors, yet his judgment was govern'd by a saving rule in both: he look'd into his receipts for the value of a play, and from common fame he judg'd of his actors. but by whatever rule he was govern'd, while he had prudently reserv'd to himself a power of not paying them more than their merit could get, he could not be much deceived by their being over or under-valued. in a word, he had with great skill inverted the constitution of the stage, and quite changed the channel of profits arising from it; formerly, (when there was but one company) the proprietors punctually paid the actors their appointed sallaries, and took to themselves only the clear profits: but our wiser proprietor took first out of every day's receipts two shillings in the pound to himself; and left their sallaries to be paid only as the less or greater deficiencies of acting (according to his own accounts) would permit. what seem'd most extraordinary in these measures was, that at the same time he had persuaded us to be contented with our condition, upon his assuring us that as fast as money would come in we should all be paid our arrears: and that we might not have it always in our power to say he had never intended to keep his word, i remember in a few years after this time he once paid us nine days in one week: this happen'd when the _funeral_, or _grief à la mode_,[ ] was first acted, with more than expected success. whether this well-tim'd bounty was only allow'd us to save appearances i will not say: but if that was his real motive for it, it was too costly a frolick to be repeated, and was at least the only grimace of its kind he vouchsafed us; we never having received one day more of those arrears in above fifteen years service. while the actors were in this condition, i think i may very well be excused in my presuming to write plays: which i was forced to do for the support of my encreasing family, my precarious income as an actor being then too scanty to supply it with even the necessaries of life. it may be observable, too, that my muse and my spouse were equally prolifick; that the one was seldom the mother of a child, but in the same year the other made me the father of a play: i think we had a dozen of each sort between us; of both which kinds, some died in their infancy, and near an equal number of each were alive when i quitted the theatre--but it is no wonder, when a muse is only call'd upon by family duty, she should not always rejoice in the fruit of her labour. to this necessity of writing, then, i attribute the defects of my second play, which, coming out too hastily the year after my first, turn'd to very little account. but having got as much by my first as i ought to have expected from the success of them both, i had no great reason to complain: not but, i confess, so bad was my second, that i do not chuse to tell you the name of it; and that it might be peaceably forgotten, i have not given it a place in the two volumes of those i publish'd in quarto in the year .[ ] and whenever i took upon me to make some dormant play of an old author to the best of my judgment fitter for the stage, it was honestly not to be idle that set me to work; as a good housewife will mend old linnen when she has not better employment: but when i was more warmly engag'd by a subject entirely new, i only thought it a good subject when it seem'd worthy of an abler pen than my own, and might prove as useful to the hearer as profitable to my self: therefore, whatever any of my productions might want of skill, learning, wit, or humour, or however unqualify'd i might be to instruct others who so ill govern'd my self: yet such plays (entirely my own) were not wanting, at least, in what our most admired writers seem'd to neglect, and without which i cannot allow the most taking play to be intrinsically good, or to be a work upon which a man of sense and probity should value himself: i mean when they do not, as well _prodesse_ as _delectare_,[ ] give profit with delight! the _utile dulci_[ ] was, of old, equally the point; and has always been my aim, however wide of the mark i may have shot my arrow. it has often given me amazement that our best authors of that time could think the wit and spirit of their scenes could be an excuse for making the looseness of them publick. the many instances of their talents so abused are too glaring to need a closer comment, and are sometimes too gross to be recited. if then to have avoided this imputation, or rather to have had the interest and honour of virtue always in view, can give merit to a play, i am contented that my readers should think such merit the all that mine have to boast of--libertines of meer wit and pleasure may laugh at these grave laws that would limit a lively genius: but every sensible honest man, conscious of their truth and use, will give these ralliers smile for smile, and shew a due contempt for their merriment. but while our authors took these extraordinary liberties with their wit, i remember the ladies were then observ'd to be decently afraid of venturing bare-fac'd to a new comedy 'till they had been assur'd they might do it without the risque of an insult to their modesty--or, if their curiosity were too strong for their patience, they took care, at least, to save appearances, and rarely came upon the first days of acting but in masks, (then daily worn and admitted in the pit, the side boxes, and gallery[ ]) which custom, however, had so many ill consequences attending it, that it has been abolish'd these many years. these immoralities of the stage had by an avow'd indulgence been creeping into it ever since king _charles_ his time; nothing that was loose could then be too low for it: the _london cuckolds_, the most rank play that ever succeeded,[ ] was then in the highest court-favour: in this almost general corruption, _dryden_, whose plays were more fam'd for their wit than their chastity, led the way, which he fairly confesses, and endeavours to excuse in his epilogue to the _pilgrim_, revived in for his benefit,[ ] in his declining age and fortune--the following lines of it will make good my observation. _perhaps the parson[ ] stretch'd a point too far, when with our theatres he wag'd a war. he tells you that this very moral age receiv'd the first infection from the stage. but sure, a banish'd court, with lewdness fraught, the seeds of open vice returning brought. thus lodg'd (as vice by great example thrives) it first debauch'd the daughters, and the wives._ london, _a fruitful soil, yet never bore so plentiful a crop of horns before. the poets, who must live by courts or starve, were proud so good a government to serve. and mixing with buffoons and pimps profane, tainted the stage for some small snip of gain. for they, like harlots under bawds profest, took all th' ungodly pains, and got the least. thus did the thriving malady prevail, the court it's head, the poets but the tail. the sin was of our native growth, 'tis true, the scandal of the sin was wholly new. misses there were, but modestly conceal'd;_ whitehall _the naked_ venus _first reveal'd. who standing, as at_ cyprus, _in her shrine, the strumpet was ador'd with rites divine_, &c. this epilogue, and the prologue to the same play, written by _dryden_, i spoke myself, which not being usually done by the same person, i have a mind, while i think of it, to let you know on what occasion they both fell to my share, and how other actors were affected by it. sir _john vanbrugh_, who had given some light touches of his pen to the _pilgrim_ to assist the benefit day of _dryden_, had the disposal of the parts, and i being then as an actor in some favour with him, he read the play first with me alone, and was pleased to offer me my choice of what i might like best for myself in it. but as the chief characters were not (according to my taste) the most shining, it was no great self-denial in me that i desir'd he would first take care of those who were more difficult to be pleased; i therefore only chose for myself two short incidental parts, that of _the stuttering cook_[ ] and _the mad englishman_. in which homely characters i saw more matter for delight than those that might have a better pretence to the amiable: and when the play came to be acted i was not deceiv'd in my choice. sir _john_, upon my being contented with so little a share in the entertainment, gave me the epilogue to make up my mess; which being written so much above the strain of common authors, i confess i was not a little pleased with. and _dryden_, upon his hearing me repeat it to him, made me a farther compliment of trusting me with the prologue. this so particular distinction was looked upon by the actors as something too extraordinary. but no one was so impatiently ruffled at it as _wilks_, who seldom chose soft words when he spoke of any thing he did not like. the most gentle thing he said of it was, that he did not understand such treatment; that for his part he look'd upon it as an affront to all the rest of the company, that there shou'd be but one out of the whole judg'd fit to speak either a prologue or an epilogue! to quiet him i offer'd to decline either in his favour, or both, if it were equally easy to the author: but he was too much concern'd to accept of an offer that had been made to another in preference to himself, and which he seem'd to think his best way of resenting was to contemn. but from that time, however, he was resolv'd, to the best of his power, never to let the first offer of a prologue escape him: which little ambition sometimes made him pay too dear for his success: the flatness of the many miserable prologues that by this means fell to his lot, seem'd wofully unequal to the few good ones he might have reason to triumph in. i have given you this fact only as a sample of those frequent rubs and impediments i met with when any step was made to my being distinguish'd as an actor; and from this incident, too, you may partly see what occasion'd so many prologues, after the death of _betterton_, to fall into the hands of one speaker: but it is not every successor to a vacant post that brings into it the talents equal to those of a predecessor. to speak a good prologue well is, in my opinion, one of the hardest parts and strongest proofs of sound elocution, of which, i confess, i never thought that any of the several who attempted it shew'd themselves, by far, equal masters to _betterton_. _betterton_, in the delivery of a good prologue, had a natural gravity that gave strength to good sense, a temper'd spirit that gave life to wit, and a dry reserve in his smile that threw ridicule into its brightest colours. of these qualities, in the speaking of a prologue, _booth_ only had the first, but attain'd not to the other two: _wilks_ had spirit, but gave too loose a rein to it, and it was seldom he could speak a grave and weighty verse harmoniously: his accents were frequently too sharp and violent, which sometimes occasion'd his eagerly cutting off half the sound of syllables that ought to have been gently melted into the melody of metre: in verses of humour, too, he would sometimes carry the mimickry farther than the hint would bear, even to a trifling light, as if himself were pleased to see it so glittering. in the truth of this criticism i have been confirm'd by those whose judgment i dare more confidently rely on than my own: _wilks_ had many excellencies, but if we leave prologue-speaking out of the number he will still have enough to have made him a valuable actor. and i only make this exception from them to caution others from imitating what, in his time, they might have too implicitly admired---- but i have a word or two more to say concerning the immoralities of the stage. our theatrical writers were not only accus'd of immorality, but prophaneness; many flagrant instances of which were collected and published by a nonjuring clergyman, _jeremy collier_, in his _view of the stage_, &c. about the year .[ ] however just his charge against the authors that then wrote for it might be, i cannot but think his sentence against the stage itself is unequal; reformation he thinks too mild a treatment for it, and is therefore for laying his ax to the root of it: if this were to be a rule of judgment for offences of the same nature, what might become of the pulpit, where many a seditious and corrupted teacher has been known to cover the most pernicious doctrine with the masque of religion? this puts me in mind of what the noted _jo. hains_,[ ] the comedian, a fellow of a wicked wit, said upon this occasion; who being ask'd what could transport mr. _collier_ into so blind a zeal for a general suppression of the stage, when only some particular authors had abus'd it? whereas the stage, he could not but know, was generally allow'd, when rightly conducted, to be a delightful method of mending our morals? "for that reason," reply'd _hains_: "_collier_ is by profession a moral-mender himself, and two of trade, you know, can never agree.[ ]" [illustration: william congreve.] the authors of _the old batchelor_ and of the _relapse_ were those whom _collier_ most labour'd to convict of immorality; to which they severally publish'd their reply; the first seem'd too much hurt to be able to defend himself, and the other felt him so little that his wit only laugh'd at his lashes.[ ] my first play of the _fool in fashion_, too, being then in a course of success; perhaps for that reason only, this severe author thought himself oblig'd to attack it; in which i hope he has shewn more zeal than justice, his greatest charge against it is, that it sometimes uses the word _faith!_ as an oath, in the dialogue: but if _faith_ may as well signify our given word or credit as our religious belief, why might not his charity have taken it in the less criminal sense? nevertheless, mr. _collier_'s book was upon the whole thought so laudable a work, that king _william_, soon after it was publish'd, granted him a _nolo prosequi_ when he stood answerable to the law for his having absolved two criminals just before they were executed for high treason. and it must be farther granted that his calling our dramatick writers to this strict account had a very wholesome effect upon those who writ after this time. they were now a great deal more upon their guard; indecencies were no longer wit; and by degrees the fair sex came again to fill the boxes on the first day of a new comedy, without fear or censure. but the master of the revels,[ ] who then licens'd all plays for the stage, assisted this reformation with a more zealous severity than ever. he would strike out whole scenes of a vicious or immoral character, tho' it were visibly shewn to be reform'd or punish'd; a severe instance of this kind falling upon my self may be an excuse for my relating it: when _richard the third_ (as i alter'd it from _shakespear_)[ ] came from his hands to the stage, he expung'd the whole first act without sparing a line of it. this extraordinary stroke of a _sic volo_ occasion'd my applying to him for the small indulgence of a speech or two, that the other four acts might limp on with a little less absurdity! no! he had not leisure to consider what might be separately inoffensive. he had an objection to the whole act, and the reason he gave for it was, that the distresses of king _henry the sixth_, who is kill'd by _richard_ in the first act, would put weak people too much in mind of king _james_ then living in _france_; a notable proof of his zeal for the government![ ] those who have read either the play or the history, i dare say will think he strain'd hard for the parallel. in a word, we were forc'd, for some few years, to let the play take its fate with only four acts divided into five; by the loss of so considerable a limb, may one not modestly suppose it was robbed of at least a fifth part of that favour it afterwards met with? for tho' this first act was at last recovered, and made the play whole again, yet the relief came too late to repay me for the pains i had taken in it. nor did i ever hear that this zealous severity of the master of the revels was afterwards thought justifiable. but my good fortune, in process of time, gave me an opportunity to talk with my oppressor in my turn. the patent granted by his majesty king _george_ the first to sir _richard steele_ and his assigns,[ ] of which i was one, made us sole judges of what plays might be proper for the stage, without submitting them to the approbation or license of any other particular person. notwithstanding which, the master of the revels demanded his fee of forty shillings upon our acting a new one, tho' we had spared him the trouble of perusing it. this occasion'd my being deputed to him to enquire into the right of his demand, and to make an amicable end of our dispute.[ ] i confess i did not dislike the office; and told him, according to my instructions, that i came not to defend even our own right in prejudice to his; that if our patent had inadvertently superseded the grant of any former power or warrant whereon he might ground his pretensions, we would not insist upon our broad seal, but would readily answer his demands upon sight of such his warrant, any thing in our patent to the contrary notwithstanding. this i had reason to think he could not do; and when i found he made no direct reply to my question, i repeated it with greater civilities and offers of compliance, 'till i was forc'd in the end to conclude with telling him, that as his pretensions were not back'd with any visible instrument of right, and as his strongest plea was custom, we could not so far extend our complaisance as to continue his fees upon so slender a claim to them: and from that time neither our plays or his fees gave either of us any farther trouble. in this negotiation i am the bolder to think justice was on our side, because the law lately pass'd,[ ] by which the power of licensing plays, _&c._ is given to a proper person, is a strong presumption that no law had ever given that power to any such person before. my having mentioned this law, which so immediately affected the stage, inclines me to throw out a few observations upon it: but i must first lead you gradually thro' the facts and natural causes that made such a law necessary. although it had been taken for granted, from time immemorial, that no company of comedians could act plays, _&c._ without the royal license or protection of some legal authority, a theatre was, notwithstanding, erected in _goodman's-fields_ about seven years ago,[ ] where plays, without any such license, were acted for some time unmolested and with impunity. after a year or two, this playhouse was thought a nusance too near the city: upon which the lord-mayor and aldermen petition'd the crown to suppress it: what steps were taken in favour of that petition i know not, but common fame seem'd to allow, from what had or had not been done in it, that acting plays in the said theatre was not evidently unlawful.[ ] however, this question of acting without a license a little time after came to a nearer decision in _westminster-hall_; the occasion of bringing it thither was this: it happened that the purchasers of the patent, to whom mr. _booth_ and myself had sold our shares,[ ] were at variance with the comedians that were then left to their government, and the variance ended in the chief of those comedians deserting and setting up for themselves in the little house in the _hay-market_, in , by which desertion the patentees were very much distressed and considerable losers. their affairs being in this desperate condition, they were advis'd to put the act of the twelfth of queen _anne_ against vagabonds in force against these deserters, then acting in the _hay-market_ without license. accordingly, one of their chief performers[ ] was taken from the stage by a justice of peace his warrant, and committed to _bridewell_ as one within the penalty of the said act. when the legality of this commitment was disputed in _westminster-hall_, by all i could observe from the learned pleadings on both sides (for i had the curiosity to hear them) it did not appear to me that the comedian so committed was within the description of the said act, he being a housekeeper and having a vote for the _westminster_ members of parliament. he was discharged accordingly, and conducted through the hall with the congratulations of the crowds that attended and wish'd well to his cause. the issue of this trial threw me at that time into a very odd reflexion, _viz._ that if acting plays without license did not make the performers vagabonds unless they wandered from their habitations so to do, how particular was the case of us three late menaging actors at the _theatre-royal_, who in twenty years before had paid upon an averidge at least twenty thousand pounds to be protected (as actors) from a law that has not since appeared to be against us. now, whether we might certainly have acted without any license at all i shall not pretend to determine; but this i have of my own knowledge to say, that in queen _anne_'s reign the stage was in such confusion, and its affairs in such distress, that sir _john vanbrugh_ and mr. _congreve_, after they had held it about one year, threw up the menagement of it as an unprofitable post, after which a license for acting was not thought worth any gentleman's asking for, and almost seem'd to go a begging, 'till some time after, by the care, application, and industry of three actors, it became so prosperous, and the profits so considerable, that it created a new place, and a _sine-cure_ of a thousand pounds a year,[ ] which the labour of those actors constantly paid to such persons as had from time to time merit or interest enough to get their names inserted as fourth menagers in a license with them for acting plays, _&c._ a preferment that many a sir _francis wronghead_ would have jump'd at.[ ] but to go on with my story. this endeavour of the patentees to suppress the comedians acting in the _hay-market_ proving ineffectual, and no hopes of a reunion then appearing, the remains of the company left in _drury-lane_ were reduced to a very low condition. at this time a third purchaser, _charles fleetwood_, esq., stept in; who judging the best time to buy was when the stock was at the lowest price, struck up a bargain at once for five parts in six of the patent;[ ] and, at the same time, gave the revolted comedians their own terms to return and come under his government in _drury-lane_, where they now continue to act at very ample sallaries, as i am informed, in .[ ] but (as i have observ'd) the late cause of the prosecuted comedian having gone so strongly in his favour, and the house in _goodman's-fields_, too, continuing to act with as little authority unmolested; these so tolerated companies gave encouragement to a broken wit to collect a fourth company, who for some time acted plays in the _hay-market_, which house the united _drury-lane_ comedians had lately quitted: this enterprising person, i say (whom i do not chuse to name,[ ] unless it could be to his advantage, or that it were of importance) had sense enough to know that the best plays with bad actors would turn but to a very poor account; and therefore found it necessary to give the publick some pieces of an extraordinary kind, the poetry of which he conceiv'd ought to be so strong that the greatest dunce of an actor could not spoil it: he knew, too, that as he was in haste to get money, it would take up less time to be intrepidly abusive than decently entertaining; that to draw the mob after him he must rake the channel[ ] and pelt their superiors; that, to shew himself somebody, he must come up to _juvenal_'s advice and stand the consequence: _aude aliquid brevibus gyaris, & carcere dignum si vis esse aliquis_---- juv. sat. i.[ ] such, then, was the mettlesome modesty he set out with; upon this principle he produc'd several frank and free farces that seem'd to knock all distinctions of mankind on the head: religion, laws, government, priests, judges, and ministers, were all laid flat at the feet of this _herculean_ satyrist! this _drawcansir_ in wit,[ ] that spared neither friend nor foe! who to make his poetical fame immortal, like another _erostratus_, set fire to his stage by writing up to an act of parliament to demolish it.[ ] i shall not give the particular strokes of his ingenuity a chance to be remembred by reciting them; it may be enough to say, in general terms, they were so openly flagrant, that the wisdom of the legislature thought it high time to take a proper notice of them.[ ] having now shewn by what means there came to be four theatres, besides a fifth for operas, in _london_, all open at the same time, and that while they were so numerous it was evident some of them must have starv'd unless they fed upon the trash and filth of buffoonry and licentiousness; i now come, as i promis'd, to speak of that necessary law which has reduced their number and prevents the repetition of such abuses in those that remain open for the publick recreation. [illustration: charlotte charke.] while this law was in debate a lively spirit and uncommon eloquence was employ'd against it.[ ] it was urg'd that _one_ of the greatest goods we can enjoy is _liberty_. (this we may grant to be an incontestable truth, without its being the least objection to this law.) it was said, too, that to bring the stage under the restraint of a licenser was leading the way to an attack upon the liberty of the press. this amounts but to a jealousy at best, which i hope and believe all honest _englishmen_ have as much reason to think a groundless, as to fear it is a just jealousy: for the stage and the press, i shall endeavour to shew, are very different weapons to wound with. if a great man could be no more injured by being personally ridicul'd or made contemptible in a play, than by the same matter only printed and read against him in a pamphlet or the strongest verse; then, indeed, the stage and the press might pretend to be upon an equal foot of liberty: but when the wide difference between these two liberties comes to be explain'd and consider'd, i dare say we shall find the injuries from one capable of being ten times more severe and formidable than from the other: let us see, at least, if the case will not be vastly alter'd. read what mr. _collier_ in his _defence_ of his _short view of the stage_, &c. page , says to this point; he sets this difference in a clear light. these are his words: "the satyr of a _comedian_ and another _poet_, have a different effect upon reputation. a character of disadvantage upon the _stage_, makes a stronger impression than elsewhere. reading is but hearing at the second hand; now hearing at the best, is a more languid conveyance than sight. for as _horace_ observes, _segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem, quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus._[ ] the eye is much more affecting, and strikes deeper into the memory than the ear. besides, upon the _stage_ both the senses are in conjunction. the life of the action fortifies the object, and awakens the mind to take hold of it. thus a dramatick abuse is rivetted in the audience, a jest is improv'd into an argument, and rallying grows up into reason: thus a character of scandal becomes almost indelible, a man goes for a blockhead upon _content_; and he that's made a fool in a _play_, is often made one for his life-time. 'tis true he passes for such only among the prejudiced and unthinking; but these are no inconsiderable division of mankind. for these reasons, i humbly conceive the _stage_ stands in need of a great deal of discipline and restraint: to give them an unlimited range, is in effect to make them masters of all moral distinctions, and to lay honour and religion at their mercy. to shew greatness ridiculous, is the way to lose the use, and abate the value of the quality. things made little in jest, will soon be so in earnest: for laughing and esteem, are seldom bestow'd on the same object." if this was truth and reason (as sure it was) forty years ago, will it not carry the same conviction with it to these days, when there came to be a much stronger call for a reformation of the stage, than when this author wrote against it, or perhaps than was ever known since the _english_ stage had a being? and now let us ask another question! does not the general opinion of mankind suppose that the honour and reputation of a minister is, or ought to be, as dear to him as his life? yet when the law, in queen _anne_'s time, had made even an unsuccessful attempt upon the life of a minister capital, could any reason be found that the fame and honour of his character should not be under equal protection? was the wound that _guiscard_ gave to the late lord _oxford_, when a minister,[ ] a greater injury than the theatrical insult which was offer'd to a later minister, in a more valuable part, his character? was it not as high time, then, to take this dangerous weapon of mimical insolence and defamation out of the hands of a mad poet, as to wrest the knife from the lifted hand of a murderer? and is not that law of a milder nature which _prevents_ a crime, than that which _punishes_ it after it is committed? may not one think it amazing that the liberty of defaming lawful power and dignity should have been so eloquently contended for? or especially that this liberty ought to triumph in a theatre, where the most able, the most innocent, and most upright person must himself be, while the wound is given, defenceless? how long must a man so injur'd lie bleeding before the pain and anguish of his fame (if it suffers wrongfully) can be dispell'd? or say he had deserv'd reproof and publick accusation, yet the weight and greatness of his office never can deserve it from a publick stage, where the lowest malice by sawcy parallels and abusive inuendoes may do every thing but name him: but alas! liberty is so tender, so chaste a virgin, that it seems not to suffer her to do irreparable injuries with impunity is a violation of her! it cannot sure be a principle of liberty that would turn the stage into a court of enquiry, that would let the partial applauses of a vulgar audience give sentence upon the conduct of authority, and put impeachments into the mouth of a _harlequin_? will not every impartial man think that malice, envy, faction, and mis-rule, might have too much advantage over lawful power, if the range of such a stage-liberty were unlimited and insisted on to be enroll'd among the glorious rights of an _english_ subject? i remember much such another ancient liberty, which many of the good people of _england_ were once extremely fond of; i mean that of throwing squibs and crackers at all spectators without distinction upon a lord-mayor's day; but about forty years ago a certain nobleman happening to have one of his eyes burnt out by this mischievous merriment, it occasion'd a penal law to prevent those sorts of jests from being laugh'd at for the future: yet i have never heard that the most zealous patriot ever thought such a law was the least restraint upon our liberty. if i am ask'd why i am so voluntary a champion for the honour of this law that has limited the number of play-houses, and which now can no longer concern me as a professor of the stage? i reply, that it being a law so nearly relating to the theatre, it seems not at all foreign to my history to have taken notice of it; and as i have farther promised to give the publick a true portrait of my mind, i ought fairly to let them see how far i am, or am not, a blockhead, when i pretend to talk of serious matters that may be judg'd so far above my capacity: nor will it in the least discompose me whether my observations are contemn'd or applauded. a blockhead is not always an unhappy fellow, and if the world will not flatter us, we can flatter ourselves; perhaps, too, it will be as difficult to convince us we are in the wrong, as that you wiser gentlemen are one tittle the better for your knowledge. it is yet a question with me whether we weak heads have not as much pleasure, too, in giving our shallow reason a little exercise, as those clearer brains have that are allow'd to dive into the deepest doubts and mysteries; to reflect or form a judgment upon remarkable things _past_ is as delightful to me as it is to the gravest politician to penetrate into what is _present_, or to enter into speculations upon what is, or is not likely to come. why are histories written, if all men are not to judge of them? therefore, if my reader has no more to do than i have, i have a chance for his being as willing to have a little more upon the same subject as i am to give it him. when direct arguments against this bill were found too weak, recourse was had to dissuasive ones: it was said that _this restraint upon the stage would not remedy the evil complain'd of_: _that a play refus'd to be licensed would still be printed, with double advantage, when it should be insinuated that it was refused for some strokes of wit,_ &c. _and would be more likely then to have its effect among the people._ however natural this consequence may seem, i doubt it will be very difficult to give a _printed_ satyr or libel half the force or credit of an _acted_ one. the most artful or notorious lye or strain'd allusion that ever slander'd a great man, may be read by some people with a smile of contempt, or, at worst, it can impose but on one person at once: but when the words of the same plausible stuff shall be repeated on a theatre, the wit of it among a crowd of hearers is liable to be over-valued, and may unite and warm a whole body of the malicious or ignorant into a plaudit; nay, the partial claps of only _twenty_ ill-minded persons among several hundreds of silent hearers shall, and often have been, mistaken for a general approbation, and frequently draw into their party the indifferent or inapprehensive, who rather than be thought not to understand the conceit, will laugh with the laughers and join in the triumph! but alas! the _quiet_ reader of the same ingenious matter can only like for _himself_; and the poison has a much slower operation upon the body of a people when it is so retail'd out, than when sold to a full audience by wholesale. the _single_ reader, too, may happen to be a sensible or unprejudiced person; and then the merry dose, meeting with the antidote of a sound judgment, perhaps may have no operation at all: with such a one the wit of the most ingenious satyr will only by its intrinsick truth or value gain upon his approbation; or if it be worth an answer, a printed falshood may possibly be confounded by printed proofs against it. but against contempt and scandal, heighten'd and colour'd by the skill of an _actor_ ludicrously infusing it into a multitude, there is no immediate defence to be made or equal reparation to be had for it; for it would be but a poor satisfaction at last, after lying long patient under the injury, that time only is to shew (which would probably be the case) that the author of it was a desperate indigent that did it for bread. how much less dangerous or offensive, then, is the _written_ than the _acted_ scandal? the impression the comedian gives to it is a kind of double stamp upon the poet's paper, that raises it to ten times the intrinsick value. might we not strengthen this argument, too, even by the eloquence that seem'd to have opposed this law? i will say for my self, at least, that when i came to read the printed arguments against it, i could scarce believe they were the same that had amaz'd and raised such admiration in me when they had the advantage of a lively elocution, and of that grace and spirit which gave strength and lustre to them in the delivery! upon the whole; if the stage ought ever to have been reform'd; if to place a power _somewhere_ of restraining its immoralities was not inconsistent with the liberties of a civiliz'd people (neither of which, sure, any moral man of sense can dispute) might it not have shewn a spirit too poorly prejudiced, to have rejected so rational a law only because the honour and office of a minister might happen, in some small measure, to be protected by it.[ ] but however little weight there may be in the observations i have made upon it, i shall, for my own part, always think them just; unless i should live to see (which i do not expect) some future set of upright ministers use their utmost endeavours to repeal it. and now we have seen the consequence of what many people are apt to contend for, variety of playhouses! how was it possible so many could honestly subsist on what was fit to be seen? their extraordinary number, of course, reduc'd them to live upon the gratification of such hearers as they knew would be best pleased with publick offence; and publick offence, of what kind soever, will always be a good reason for making laws to restrain it. to conclude, let us now consider this law in a quite different light; let us leave the political part of it quite out of the question; what advantage could either the spectators of plays or the masters of play-houses have gain'd by its having never been made? how could the same stock of plays supply four theatres, which (without such additional entertainments as a nation of common sense ought to be ashamed of) could not well support two? satiety must have been the natural consequence of the same plays being twice as often repeated as now they need be; and satiety puts an end to all tastes that the mind of man can delight in. had therefore this law been made seven years ago, i should not have parted with my share in the patent under a thousand pounds more than i received for it[ ]----so that, as far as i am able to judge, both the publick as spectators, and the patentees as undertakers, are, or might be, in a way of being better entertain'd and more considerable gainers by it. i now return to the state of the stage, where i left it, about the year , from whence this pursuit of its immoralities has led me farther than i first design'd to have follow'd it. chapter ix. [illustration: ad lalauze, sc] _a small apology for writing on. the different state of the two companies. _wilks_ invited over from _dublin_. _estcourt_, from the same stage, the winter following. mrs. _oldfield_'s first admission to the _theatre-royal_. her character. the great theatre in the _hay-market_ built for _betterton_'s company. it answers not their expectation. some observations upon it. a theatrical state secret._ i now begin to doubt that the _gayeté du coeur_ in which i first undertook this work may have drawn me into a more laborious amusement than i shall know how to away with: for though i cannot say i have yet jaded my vanity, it is not impossible but by this time the most candid of my readers may want a little breath; especially when they consider that all this load i have heap'd upon their patience contains but seven years of the forty three i pass'd upon the stage, the history of which period i have enjoyn'd my self to transmit to the judgment (or oblivion) of posterity.[ ] however, even my dulness will find somebody to do it right; if my reader is an ill-natur'd one, he will be as much pleased to find me a dunce in my old age as possibly he may have been to prove me a brisk blockhead in my youth: but if he has no gall to gratify, and would (for his simple amusement) as well know how the playhouses went on forty years ago as how they do now, i will honestly tell him the rest of my story as well as i can. lest therefore the frequent digressions that have broke in upon it may have entangled his memory, i must beg leave just to throw together the heads of what i have already given him, that he may again recover the clue of my discourse. let him then remember, from the year to ,[ ] the various fortune of the (then) king's and duke's two famous companies; their being reduced to one united; the distinct characters i have given of thirteen actors, which in the year were the most famous then remaining of them; the cause of their being again divided in , and the consequences of that division 'till ; from whence i shall lead them to our second union in----hold! let me see----ay, it was in that memorable year when the two kingdoms of _england_ and _scotland_ were made one. and i remember a particular that confirms me i am right in my chronology; for the play of _hamlet_ being acted soon after, _estcourt_, who then took upon him to say any thing, added a fourth line to _shakespear_'s prologue to the play, in that play which originally consisted but of three, but _estcourt_ made it run thus: _for us, and for our tragedy, here stooping to your clemency,_ [this being a year of unity,] _we beg your hearing patiently._[ ] this new chronological line coming unexpectedly upon the audience, was received with applause, tho' several grave faces look'd a little out of humour at it. however, by this fact, it is plain our theatrical union happen'd in .[ ] but to speak of it in its place i must go a little back again. from to this union both companies went on without any memorable change in their affairs, unless it were that _betterton_'s people (however good in their kind) were most of them too far advanc'd in years to mend; and tho' we in _drury-lane_ were too young to be excellent, we were not too old to be better. but what will not satiety depreciate? for though i must own and avow that in our highest prosperity i always thought we were greatly their inferiors; yet, by our good fortune of being seen in quite new lights, which several new-written plays had shewn us in, we now began to make a considerable stand against them. one good new play to a rising company is of inconceivable value. in _oroonoko_[ ] (and why may i not name another, tho' it be my own?) in _love's last shift_, and in the sequel of it, the _relapse_, several of our people shew'd themselves in a new style of acting, in which nature had not as yet been seen. i cannot here forget a misfortune that befel our society about this time, by the loss of a young actor, _hildebrand horden_,[ ] who was kill'd at the bar of the _rose-tavern_,[ ] in a frivolous, rash, accidental quarrel; for which a late resident at _venice_, colonel _burgess_, and several other persons of distinction, took their tryals, and were acquitted. this young man had almost every natural gift that could promise an excellent actor; he had besides a good deal of table-wit and humour, with a handsome person, and was every day rising into publick favour. before he was bury'd, it was observable that two or three days together several of the fair sex, well dress'd, came in masks (then frequently worn) and some in their own coaches, to visit this theatrical heroe in his shrowd. he was the elder son of dr. _horden_, minister of _twickenham_, in _middlesex_. but this misfortune was soon repair'd by the return of _wilks_ from _dublin_ (who upon this young man's death was sent for over) and liv'd long enough among us to enjoy that approbation from which the other was so unhappily cut off. the winter following,[ ] _estcourt_, the famous mimick, of whom i have already spoken, had the same invitation from _ireland_, where he had commenc'd actor: his first part here, at the _theatre-royal_, was the _spanish friar_, in which, tho' he had remembred every look and motion of the late _tony leigh_ so far as to put the spectator very much in mind of him, yet it was visible through the whole, notwithstanding his exactness in the out-lines, the true spirit that was to fill up the figure was not the same, but unskilfully dawb'd on, like a child's painting upon the face of a _metzotinto_: it was too plain to the judicious that the conception was not his own, but imprinted in his memory by another, of whom he only presented a dead likeness.[ ] but these were defects not so obvious to common spectators; no wonder, therefore, if by his being much sought after in private companies, he met with a sort of indulgence, not to say partiality, for what he sometimes did upon the stage. in the year , mrs. _oldfield_ was first taken into the house, where she remain'd about a twelvemonth almost a mute[ ] and unheeded, 'till sir _john vanbrugh_, who first recommended her, gave her the part of _alinda_ in the _pilgrim_ revis'd. this gentle character happily became that want of confidence which is inseparable from young beginners, who, without it, seldom arrive to any excellence: notwithstanding, i own i was then so far deceiv'd in my opinion of her, that i thought she had little more than her person that appear'd necessary to the forming a good actress; for she set out with so extraordinary a diffidence, that it kept her too despondingly down to a formal, plain (not to say) flat manner of speaking. nor could the silver tone of her voice 'till after some time incline my ear to any hope in her favour. but publick approbation is the warm weather of a theatrical plant, which will soon bring it forward to whatever perfection nature has design'd it. however, mrs. _oldfield_ (perhaps for want of fresh parts) seem'd to come but slowly forward 'till the year .[ ] our company that summer acted at the _bath_ during the residence of queen _anne_ at that place. at that time it happen'd that mrs. _verbruggen_, by reason of her last sickness (of which she some few months after dy'd) was left in _london_; and though most of her parts were, of course, to be dispos'd of, yet so earnest was the female scramble for them, that only one of them fell to the share of mrs. _oldfield_, that of _leonora_ in sir _courtly nice_; a character of good plain sense, but not over elegantly written. it was in this part mrs. _oldfield_ surpris'd me into an opinion of her having all the innate powers of a good actress, though they were yet but in the bloom of what they promis'd. before she had acted this part i had so cold an expectation from her abilities, that she could scarce prevail with me to rehearse with her the scenes she was chiefly concern'd in with sir _courtly_, which i then acted. however, we ran them over with a mutual inadvertency of one another. i seem'd careless, as concluding that any assistance i could give her would be to little or no purpose; and she mutter'd out her words in a sort of mifty[ ] manner at my low opinion of her. but when the play came to be acted, she had a just occasion to triumph over the error of my judgment, by the (almost) amazement that her unexpected performance awak'd me to; so forward and sudden a step into nature i had never seen; and what made her performance more valuable was, that i knew it all proceeded from her own understanding, untaught and unassisted by any one more experienc'd actor.[ ] perhaps it may not be unacceptable, if i enlarge a little more upon the theatrical character of so memorable an actress.[ ] [illustration: sir john vanbrugh.] though this part of _leonora_ in itself was of so little value, that when she got more into esteem it was one of the several she gave away to inferior actresses; yet it was the first (as i have observ'd) that corrected my judgment of her, and confirm'd me in a strong belief that she could not fail in very little time of being what she was afterwards allow'd to be, the foremost ornament of our theatre. upon this unexpected sally, then, of the power and disposition of so unforeseen an actress, it was that i again took up the two first acts of the _careless husband_, which i had written the summer before, and had thrown aside in despair of having justice done to the character of lady _betty modish_ by any one woman then among us; mrs. _verbruggen_ being now in a very declining state of health, and mrs. _bracegirdle_ out of my reach and engag'd in another company: but, as i have said, mrs. _oldfield_ having thrown out such new proffers of a genius, i was no longer at a loss for support; my doubts were dispell'd, and i had now a new call to finish it: accordingly, the _careless husband_[ ] took its fate upon the stage the winter following, in . whatever favourable reception this comedy has met with from the publick, it would be unjust in me not to place a large share of it to the account of mrs. _oldfield_; not only from the uncommon excellence of her action, but even from her personal manner of conversing. there are many sentiments in the character of lady _betty modish_ that i may almost say were originally her own, or only dress'd with a little more care than when they negligently fell from her lively humour: had her birth plac'd her in a higher rank of life, she had certainly appear'd in reality what in this play she only excellently acted, an agreeably gay woman of quality a little too conscious of her natural attractions. i have often seen her in private societies, where women of the best rank might have borrow'd some part of her behaviour without the least diminution of their sense or dignity. and this very morning, where i am now writing at the _bath_, _november_ , , the same words were said of her by a lady of condition, whose better judgment of her personal merit in that light has embolden'd me to repeat them. after her success in this character of higher life, all that nature had given her of the actress seem'd to have risen to its full perfection: but the variety of her power could not be known 'till she was seen in variety of characters; which, as fast as they fell to her, she equally excell'd in. authors had much more from her performance than they had reason to hope for from what they had written for her; and none had less than another, but as their genius in the parts they allotted her was more or less elevated. in the wearing of her person she was particularly fortunate; her figure was always improving to her thirty-sixth year; but her excellence in acting was never at a stand: and the last new character she shone in (_lady townly_) was a proof that she was still able to do more, if more could have been done for _her_.[ ] she had one mark of good sense, rarely known in any actor of either sex but herself. i have observ'd several, with promising dispositions, very desirous of instruction at their first setting out; but no sooner had they found their least account in it, than they were as desirous of being left to their own capacity, which they then thought would be disgrac'd by their seeming to want any farther assistance. but this was not mrs. _oldfield_'s way of thinking; for, to the last year of her life, she never undertook any part she lik'd without being importunately desirous of having all the helps in it that another could possibly give her. by knowing so much herself, she found how much more there was of nature yet needful to be known. yet it was a hard matter to give her any hint that she was not able to take or improve. with all this merit she was tractable and less presuming in her station than several that had not half her pretensions to be troublesome: but she lost nothing by her easy conduct; she had every thing she ask'd, which she took care should be always reasonable, because she hated as much to be _grudg'd_ as _deny'd_ a civility. upon her extraordinary action in the _provok'd husband_,[ ] the menagers made her a present of fifty guineas more than her agreement, which never was more than a verbal one; for they knew she was above deserting them to engage upon any other stage, and she was conscious they would never think it their interest to give her cause of complaint. in the last two months of her illness, when she was no longer able to assist them, she declin'd receiving her sallary, tho' by her agreement she was entitled to it. upon the whole she was, to the last scene she acted, the delight of her spectators: why then may we not close her character with the same indulgence with which _horace_ speaks of a commendable poem: _ubi plura nitent_--_non ego paucis offendar maculis_----[ ] _where in the whole such various beauties shine, 'twere idle upon errors to refine._[ ] what more might be said of her as an actress may be found in the preface to the _provok'd husband_, to which i refer the reader.[ ] with the acquisition, then, of so advanc'd a comedian as mrs. _oldfield_, and the addition of one so much in favour as _wilks_, and by the visible improvement of our other actors, as _penkethman_, _johnson_, _bullock_, and i think i may venture to name myself in the number (but in what rank i leave to the judgment of those who have been my spectators) the reputation of our company began to get ground; mrs. _oldfield_ and mr. _wilks_, by their frequently playing against one another in our best comedies, very happily supported that humour and vivacity which is so peculiar to our _english_ stage. the _french_, our only modern competitors, seldom give us their lovers in such various lights: in their comedies (however lively a people they are by nature) their lovers are generally constant, simple sighers, both of a mind, and equally distress'd about the difficulties of their coming together; which naturally makes their conversation so serious that they are seldom good company to their auditors: and tho' i allow them many other beauties of which we are too negligent, yet our variety of humour has excellencies that all their valuable observance of rules have never yet attain'd to. by these advantages, then, we began to have an equal share of the politer sort of spectators, who, for several years, could not allow our company to stand in any comparison with the other. but theatrical favour, like publick commerce, will sometimes deceive the best judgments by an unaccountable change of its channel; the best commodities are not always known to meet with the best markets. to this decline of the old company many accidents might contribute; as the too distant situation of their theatre, or their want of a better, for it was not then in the condition it now is, but small, and poorly fitted up within the walls of a tennis _quaree_ court, which is of the lesser sort.[ ] _booth_, who was then a young actor among them, has often told me of the difficulties _betterton_ then labour'd under and complain'd of: how impracticable he found it to keep their body to that common order which was necessary for their support;[ ] of their relying too much upon their intrinsick merit; and though but few of them were young even when they first became their own masters, yet they were all now ten years older, and consequently more liable to fall into an inactive negligence, or were only separately diligent for themselves in the sole regard of their benefit-plays; which several of their principals knew, at worst, would raise them contributions that would more than tolerably subsist them for the current year. but as these were too precarious expedients to be always depended upon, and brought in nothing to the general support of the numbers who were at sallaries under them, they were reduc'd to have recourse to foreign novelties; _l'abbeè_, _balon_, and mademoiselle _subligny_,[ ] three of the then most famous dancers of the _french_ opera, were, at several times, brought over at extraordinary rates, to revive that sickly appetite which plain sense and nature had satiated.[ ] but alas! there was no recovering to a sound constitution by those mere costly cordials; the novelty of a dance was but of a short duration, and perhaps hurtful in its consequence; for it made a play without a dance less endur'd than it had been before, when such dancing was not to be had. but perhaps their exhibiting these novelties might be owing to the success we had met with in our more barbarous introducing of _french_ mimicks and tumblers the year before; of which mr. _rowe_ thus complains in his prologue to one of his first plays: _must_ shakespear, fletcher, _and laborious_ ben, _be left for_ scaramouch _and_ harlequin?[ ] while the crowd, therefore, so fluctuated from one house to another as their eyes were more or less regaled than their ears, it could not be a question much in debate which had the better actors; the merit of either seem'd to be of little moment; and the complaint in the foregoing lines, tho' it might be just for a time, could not be a just one for ever, because the best play that ever was writ may tire by being too often repeated, a misfortune naturally attending the obligation to play every day; not that whenever such satiety commences it will be any proof of the play's being a bad one, or of its being ill acted. in a word, satiety is seldom enough consider'd by either criticks, spectators, or actors, as the true, not to say just cause of declining audiences to the most rational entertainments: and tho' i cannot say i ever saw a good new play not attended with due encouragement, yet to keep a theatre daily open without sometimes giving the publick a bad old one, is more than i doubt the wit of human writers or excellence of actors will ever be able to accomplish. and as both authors and comedians may have often succeeded where a sound judgment would have condemn'd them, it might puzzle the nicest critick living to prove in what sort of excellence the true value of either consisted: for if their merit were to be measur'd by the full houses they may have brought; if the judgment of the crowd were infallible; i am afraid we shall be reduc'd to allow that the _beggars opera_ was the best-written play, and sir _harry wildair_[ ] (as _wilks_ play'd it) was the best acted part, that ever our _english_ theatre had to boast of. that critick, indeed, must be rigid to a folly that would deny either of them their due praise, when they severally drew such numbers after them; all their hearers could not be mistaken; and yet, if they were all in the right, what sort of fame will remain to those celebrated authors and actors that had so long and deservedly been admired before these were in being. the only distinction i shall make between them is, that to write or act like the authors or actors of the latter end of the last century, i am of opinion will be found a far better pretence to success than to imitate these who have been so crowded to in the beginning of this. all i would infer from this explanation is, that tho' we had then the better audiences, and might have more of the young world on our side, yet this was no sure proof that the other company were not, in the truth of action, greatly our superiors. these elder actors, then, besides the disadvantages i have mention'd, having only the fewer true judges to admire them, naturally wanted the support of the crowd whose taste was to be pleased at a cheaper rate and with coarser fare. to recover them, therefore, to their due estimation, a new project was form'd of building them a stately theatre in the _hay-market_,[ ] by sir _john vanbrugh_, for which he raised a subscription of thirty persons of quality, at one hundred pounds each, in consideration whereof every subscriber, for his own life, was to be admitted to whatever entertainments should be publickly perform'd there, without farther payment for his entrance. of this theatre i saw the first stone laid, on which was inscrib'd _the little whig_, in honour to a lady of extraordinary beauty, then the celebrated toast and pride of that party.[ ] in the year ,[ ] when this house was finish'd, _betterton_ and his co-partners dissolved their own agreement, and threw themselves under the direction of sir _john vanbrugh_ and mr. _congreve_, imagining, perhaps, that the conduct of two such eminent authors might give a more prosperous turn to their condition; that the plays it would now be their interest to write for them would soon recover the town to a true taste, and be an advantage that no other company could hope for; that in the interim, till such plays could be written, the grandeur of their house, as it was a new spectacle, might allure the crowd to support them: but if these were their views, we shall see that their dependence upon them was too sanguine. as to their prospect of new plays, i doubt it was not enough consider'd that good ones were plants of a slow growth; and tho' sir _john vanbrugh_ had a very quick pen, yet mr. _congreve_ was too judicious a writer to let any thing come hastily out of his hands: as to their other dependence, the house, they had not yet discover'd that almost every proper quality and convenience of a good theatre had been sacrificed or neglected to shew the spectator a vast triumphal piece of architecture! and that the best play, for the reasons i am going to offer, could not but be under great disadvantages, and be less capable of delighting the auditor here than it could have been in the plain theatre they came from. for what could their vast columns, their gilded cornices, their immoderate high roofs avail, when scarce one word in ten could be distinctly heard in it? nor had it then the form it now stands in, which necessity, two or three years after, reduced it to: at the first opening it, the flat ceiling that is now over the orchestre was then a semi-oval arch that sprung fifteen feet higher from above the cornice: the ceiling over the pit, too, was still more raised, being one level line from the highest back part of the upper gallery to the front of the stage: the front-boxes were a continued semicircle to the bare walls of the house on each side: this extraordinary and superfluous space occasion'd such an undulation from the voice of every actor, that generally what they said sounded like the gabbling of so many people in the lofty isles in a cathedral--the tone of a trumpet, or the swell of an eunuch's holding note, 'tis true, might be sweeten'd by it, but the articulate sounds of a speaking voice were drown'd by the hollow reverberations of one word upon another. to this inconvenience, why may we not add that of its situation; for at that time it had not the advantage of almost a large city, which has since been built in its neighbourhood: those costly spaces of _hanover_, _grosvenor_, and _cavendish_ squares, with the many and great adjacent streets about them, were then all but so many green fields of pasture, from whence they could draw little or no sustenance, unless it were that of a milk-diet. the city, the inns of court, and the middle part of the town, which were the most constant support of a theatre, and chiefly to be relied on, were now too far out of the reach of an easy walk, and coach-hire is often too hard a tax upon the pit and gallery.[ ] but from the vast increase of the buildings i have mention'd, the situation of that theatre has since that time received considerable advantages; a new world of people of condition are nearer to it than formerly, and i am of opinion that if the auditory part were a little more reduced to the model of that in _drury-lane_, an excellent company of actors would now find a better account in it than in any other house in this populous city.[ ] let me not be mistaken, i say an excellent company, and such as might be able to do justice to the best of plays, and throw out those latent beauties in them which only excellent actors can discover and give life to. if such a company were now there, they would meet with a quite different set of auditors than other theatres have lately been used to: polite hearers would be content with polite entertainments; and i remember the time when plays, without the aid of farce or pantomime, were as decently attended as opera's or private assemblies, where a noisy sloven would have past his time as uneasily in a front-box as in a drawing-room; when a hat upon a man's head there would have been look'd upon as a sure mark of a brute or a booby: but of all this i have seen, too, the reverse, where in the presence of ladies at a play common civility has been set at defiance, and the privilege of being a rude clown, even to a nusance, has in a manner been demanded as one of the rights of _english_ liberty: now, though i grant that liberty is so precious a jewel that we ought not to suffer the least ray of its lustre to be diminish'd, yet methinks the liberty of seeing a play in quiet has as laudable a claim to protection as the privilege of not suffering you to do it has to impunity. but since we are so happy as not to have a certain power among us, which in another country is call'd the _police_, let us rather bear this insult than buy its remedy at too dear a rate; and let it be the punishment of such wrong-headed savages, that they never will or can know the true value of that liberty which they so stupidly abuse: such vulgar minds possess their liberty as profligate husbands do fine wives, only to disgrace them. in a word, when liberty boils over, such is the scum of it. but to our new erected theatre. not long before this time the _italian_ opera began first to steal into _england_,[ ] but in as rude a disguise and unlike it self as possible; in a lame, hobling translation into our own language, with false quantities, or metre out of measure to its original notes, sung by our own unskilful voices, with graces misapply'd to almost every sentiment, and with action lifeless and unmeaning through every character: the first _italian_ performer that made any distinguish'd figure in it was _valentini_, a true sensible singer at that time, but of a throat too weak to sustain those melodious warblings for which the fairer sex have since idoliz'd his successors. however, this defect was so well supply'd by his action, that his hearers bore with the absurdity of his singing his first part of _turnus_ in _camilla_ all in _italian_, while every other character was sung and recited to him in _english_.[ ] this i have mention'd to shew not only our tramontane taste, but that the crowded audiences which follow'd it to _drury-lane_ might be another occasion of their growing thinner in _lincolns-inn-fields_. to strike in, therefore, with this prevailing novelty, sir _john vanbrugh_ and mr. _congreve_ open'd their new _hay-market theatre_ with a translated opera to _italian_ musick, called the _triumph of love_, but this not having in it the charms of _camilla_, either from the inequality of the musick or voices, had but a cold reception, being perform'd but three days, and those not crowded. immediately upon the failure of this _opera_, sir _john vanbrugh_ produced his comedy call'd the _confederacy_,[ ] taken (but greatly improv'd) from the _bourgeois à la mode_ of _dancour_: though the fate of this play was something better, yet i thought it was not equal to its merit:[ ] for it is written with an uncommon vein of wit and humour; which confirms me in my former observation, that the difficulty of hearing distinctly in that then wide theatre was no small impediment to the applause that might have followed the same actors in it upon every other stage; and indeed every play acted there before the house was alter'd seemed to suffer from the same inconvenience: in a word, the prospect of profits from this theatre was so very barren, that mr. _congreve_ in a few months gave up his share and interest in the government of it wholly to sir _john vanbrugh_.[ ] but sir _john_, being sole proprietor of the house, was at all events oblig'd to do his utmost to support it. as he had a happier talent of throwing the _english_ spirit into his translation of _french_ plays than any former author who had borrowed from them, he in the same season gave the publick three more of that kind, call'd the _cuckold in conceit_, from the _cocu imaginaire_ of _moliere_;[ ] _squire trelooby_, from his _monsieur de pourceaugnac_, and the _mistake_, from the _dépit amoureux_ of the same author.[ ] yet all these, however well executed, came to the ear in the same undistinguish'd utterance by which almost all their plays had equally suffered: for what few could plainly hear, it was not likely a great many could applaud. it must farther be consider'd, too, that this company were not now what they had been when they first revolted from the patentees in _drury-lane_, and became their own masters in _lincolns-inn-fields_. several of them, excellent in their different talents, were now dead; as _smith_, _kynaston_, _sandford_, and _leigh_: mrs. _betterton_ and _underhil_ being, at this time, also superannuated pensioners whose places were generally but ill supply'd: nor could it be expected that _betterton_ himself, at past seventy, could retain his former force and spirit; though he was yet far distant from any competitor. thus, then, were these remains of the best set of actors that i believe were ever known at once in _england_, by time, death, and the satiety of their hearers, mould'ring to decay. it was now the town-talk that nothing but a union of the two companies could recover the stage to its former reputation,[ ] which opinion was certainly true: one would have thought, too, that the patentee of _drury-lane_ could not have fail'd to close with it, he being then on the prosperous side of the question, having no relief to ask for himself, and little more to do in the matter than to consider what he might safely grant: but it seems this was not his way of counting; he had other persons who had great claims to shares in the profits of this stage, which profits, by a union, he foresaw would be too visible to be doubted of, and might raise up a new spirit in those adventurers to revive their suits at law with him; for he had led them a chace in chancery several years,[ ] and when they had driven him into a contempt of that court, he conjur'd up a spirit, in the shape of six and eight pence a-day, that constantly struck the tipstaff blind whenever he came near him: he knew the intrinsick value of delay, and was resolv'd to stick to it as the surest way to give the plaintiffs enough on't. and by this expedient our good master had long walk'd about at his leisure, cool and contented as a fox when the hounds were drawn off and gone home from him. but whether i am right or not in my conjectures, certain it is that this close master of _drury-lane_ had no inclination to a union, as will appear by the sequel.[ ] sir _john vanbrugh_ knew, too, that to make a union worth his while he must not seem too hasty for it; he therefore found himself under a necessity, in the mean time, of letting his whole theatrical farm to some industrious tenant that might put it into better condition. this is that crisis, as i observed in the eighth chapter, when the royal licence for acting plays, _&c._ was judg'd of so little value as not to have one suitor for it. at this time, then, the master of _drury-lane_ happen'd to have a sort of primier agent in his stage-affairs, that seem'd in appearance as much to govern the master as the master himself did to govern his actors: but this person was under no stipulation or sallary for the service he render'd, but had gradually wrought himself into the master's extraordinary confidence and trust, from an habitual intimacy, a cheerful humour, and an indefatigable zeal for his interest. if i should farther say, that this person has been well known in almost every metropolis in _europe_; that few private men have, with so little reproach, run through more various turns of fortune; that, on the wrong side of three-score, he has yet the open spirit of a hale young fellow of five and twenty; that though he still chuses to speak what he thinks to his best friends with an undisguis'd freedom, he is, notwithstanding, acceptable to many persons of the first rank and condition; that any one of them (provided he likes them) may now send him, for their service, to _constantinople_ at half a day's warning; that time has not yet been able to make a visible change in any part of him but the colour of his hair, from a fierce coal-black to that of a milder milk-white: when i have taken this liberty with him, methinks it cannot be taking a much greater if i at once should tell you that this person was mr. _owen swiney_,[ ] and that it was to him sir _john vanbrugh_, in this exigence of his theatrical affairs, made an offer of his actors, under such agreements of sallary as might be made with them; and of his house, cloaths, and scenes, with the queen's license to employ them, upon payment of only the casual rent of five pounds upon every acting day, and not to exceed _l._ in the year. of this proposal mr. _swiney_ desir'd a day or two to consider; for, however he might like it, he would not meddle in any sort without the consent and approbation of his friend and patron, the master of _drury lane_. having given the reasons why this patentee was averse to a union, it may now seem less a wonder why he immediately consented that _swiney_ should take the _hay-market_ house, _&c._ and continue that company to act against him; but the real truth was, that he had a mind both companies should be clandestinely under one and the same interest, and yet in so loose a manner that he might declare his verbal agreement with _swiney_ good, or null and void, as he might best find his account in either. what flatter'd him that he had this wholesome project, and _swiney_ to execute it, both in his power, was that at this time _swiney_ happen'd to stand in his books debtor to cash upwards of two hundred pounds: but here, we shall find, he over-rated his security. however, _swiney_ as yet follow'd his orders; he took the _hay-market_ theatre, and had, farther, the private consent of the patentee to take such of his actors from _drury-lane_ as either from inclination or discontent, might be willing to come over to him in the _hay-market_. the only one he made an exception of, was myself: for tho' he chiefly depended upon his singers and dancers,[ ] he said it would be necessary to keep some one tolerable actor with him, that might enable him to set those machines a going. under this limitation of not entertaining me, _swiney_ seem'd to acquiesce 'till after he had open'd with the so recruited company in the _hay-market_: the actors that came to him from _drury-lane_ were _wilks_, _estcourt_,[ ] _mills_, _keen_,[ ] _johnson_, _bullock_, mrs. _oldfield_, mrs. _rogers_, and some few others of less note: but i must here let you know that this project was form'd and put in execution all in very few days, in the summer-season, when no theatre was open. to all which i was entirely a stranger, being at this time at a gentleman's house in _gloucestershire_, scribbling, if i mistake not, the _wife's resentment_.[ ] the first word i heard of this transaction was by a letter from _swiney_, inviting me to make one in the _hay-market_ company, whom he hop'd i could not but now think the stronger party. but i confess i was not a little alarm'd at this revolution: for i consider'd, that i knew of no visible fund to support these actors but their own industry; that all his recruits from _drury-lane_ would want new cloathing; and that the warmest industry would be always labouring up hill under so necessary an expence, so bad a situation, and so inconvenient a theatre. i was always of opinion, too, that in changing sides, in most conditions, there generally were discovered more unforeseen inconveniencies than visible advantages; and that at worst there would always some sort of merit remain with fidelity, tho' unsuccessful. upon these considerations i was only thankful for the offers made me from the _hay-market_, without accepting them, and soon after came to town towards the usual time of their beginning to act, to offer my service to our old master. but i found our company so thinn'd that it was almost impracticable to bring any one tolerable play upon the stage.[ ] when i ask'd him where were his actors, and in what manner he intended to proceed? he reply'd, _don't you trouble yourself, come along, and i'll shew you_. he then led me about all the by-places in the house, and shew'd me fifty little back-doors, dark closets, and narrow passages; in alterations and contrivances of which kind he had busied his head most part of the vacation; for he was scarce ever without some notable joyner, or a bricklayer extraordinary, in pay, for twenty years. and there are so many odd obscure places about a theatre, that his genius in nook-building was never out of employment; nor could the most vain-headed author be more deaf to an interruption in reciting his works, than our wise master was while entertaining me with the improvements he had made in his invisible architecture; all which, without thinking any one part of it necessary, tho' i seem'd to approve, i could not help now and then breaking in upon his delight with the impertinent question of----_but, master, where are your actors?_ but it seems i had taken a wrong time for this sort of enquiry; his head was full of matters of more moment, and (as you find) i was to come another time for an answer: a very hopeful condition i found myself in, under the conduct of so profound a vertuoso and so considerate a master! but to speak of him seriously, and to account for this disregard to his actors, his notion was that singing and dancing, or any sort of exotick entertainments, would make an ordinary company of actors too hard for the best set who had only plain plays to subsist on. now, though i am afraid too much might be said in favour of this opinion, yet i thought he laid more stress upon that sort of merit than it would bear; as i therefore found myself of so little value with him, i could not help setting a little more upon myself, and was resolv'd to come to a short explanation with him. i told him i came to serve him at a time when many of his best actors had deserted him; that he might now have the refusal of me; but i could not afford to carry the compliment so far as to lessen my income by it; that i therefore expected either my casual pay to be advanced, or the payment of my former sallary made certain for as many days as we had acted the year before.--no, he was not willing to alter his former method; but i might chuse whatever parts i had a mind to act of theirs who had left him. when i found him, as i thought, so insensible or impregnable, i look'd gravely in his face, and told him--he knew upon what terms i was willing to serve him, and took my leave. by this time the _hay-market_ company had begun acting to audiences something better than usual, and were all paid their full sallaries, a blessing they had not felt in some years in either house before. upon this success _swiney_ press'd the patentee to execute the articles they had as yet only verbally agreed on, which were in substance, that _swiney_ should take the _hay-market_ house in his own name, and have what actors he thought necessary from _drury-lane_, and after all payments punctually made, the profits should be equally divided between these two undertakers. but soft and fair! rashness was a fault that had never yet been imputed to the patentee; certain payments were methods he had not of a long, long time been us'd to; that point still wanted time for consideration. but _swiney_ was as hasty as the other was slow, and was resolv'd to know what he had to trust to before they parted; and to keep him the closer to his bargain, he stood upon his right of having _me_ added to that company if i was willing to come into it. but this was a point as absolutely refus'd on one side as insisted on on the other. in this contest high words were exchang'd on both sides, 'till, in the end, this their last private meeting came to an open rupture: but before it was publickly known, _swiney_, by fairly letting me into the whole transaction, took effectual means to secure me in his interest. when the mystery of the patentee's indifference to me was unfolded, and that his slighting me was owing to the security he rely'd on of _swiney_'s not daring to engage me, i could have no further debate with my self which side of the question i should adhere to. to conclude, i agreed, in two words, to act with _swiney_,[ ] and from this time every change that happen'd in the theatrical government was a nearer step to that twenty years of prosperity which actors, under the menagement of actors, not long afterwards enjoy'd. what was the immediate consequence of this last desertion from _drury-lane_ shall be the subject of another chapter. index. abbé, monsieur l', a french dancer, i. xxvii., i. . acting, excellence of, about, , i. xlviii.; cibber's views on versatility in, i. . actors, their names not given in old plays, i. xxv.; join charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; the prejudice against, i. - ; taken into society, i. ; their delight in applause, i. ; entitled gentlemen of the great chamber, i. ; must be born, not made, i. ; their private characters influence audiences, i. - ; their arrangement with swiney in , ii. ; refused christian burial by the romish church, ii. ; badly paid, ii. ; dearth of young, ii. . ---- the old, played secretly during the commonwealth, i. xxx.; arrested for playing, i. xxx.; bribed officers of guard to let them play, i. xxx. actress (miss santlow), insulted, i. . actresses, first english, i. , _note_ , i. , i. ; who were charles ii.'s mistresses, i. ; difficulty of getting good, ii. . addison, joseph, i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; pope's attack on, i. ; his opinion of wilks's hamlet, i. ; his view regarding humour in tragedy, i. ; his play of "cato," ii. ; its great success, ii. - ; presents the profits of "cato" to the managers, ii. ; its success at oxford, ii. ; his "cato" quoted, ii. , _note_ . admission to theatres, cheap, before , i. xxvii. adventurers--subscribers to the building of dorset garden theatre, i. , _note_ ; their interest in the drury lane patent, ii. , _note_ ; rich uses them against brett, ii. ; names of the principal, ii. , _note_ . agreement preliminary to the union of , ii. , ii. . "albion queens, the," ii. , _note_ . "alexander the great," by lee, i. . allen, william, an eminent actor, i. xxvi.; a major in charles i.'s army, i. xxix. alleyn, edward, caused the fortune theatre to be built for his company, i. xxviii.; endowed dulwich college, i. xxviii.; ben jonson's eulogium of, i. xxviii. "amphytrion," by dryden, i. . angel, a comedian, ii. . anne, queen (while princess of denmark), deserts her father, james ii., i. , i. ; pensions mrs. betterton, i. ; at the play, i. ; forbids audience on the stage, i. , _note_ ; her death, ii. . applause, i. ; the pleasure of, i. . archer, william, his investigations regarding the truth of diderot's "paradoxe sur le comédien," i. , _note_ ; his "about the theatre," i. , _note_ . aristophanes, referred to, i. . arlington, earl of, his death, i. , _note_ . arthur, son of henry vii., pageants at his marriage, i. xliii. ashbury, joseph, the dublin patentee, i. , ii. ; engages mrs. charlotte butler, i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ . aston, anthony, quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. ; on his own acting of fondlewife, ii. ; his "brief supplement" to cibber's lives of his contemporaries, reprint of, ii. ; his description of mrs. barry, ii. ; betterton, ii. ; mrs. bracegirdle, ii. ; dogget, ii. ; haines, ii. ; mrs. mountfort, ii. ; sandford, ii. ; underhill, ii. ; verbruggen, ii. . audience on the stage, i. , ii. . audiences rule the stage for good or evil, i. ; authors discouraged by their severity, i. . authors abusing managers and actors, ii. ; managers' troubles with, ii. ; cibber censured for his treatment of, ii. , _note_ . bacon, lord, quoted, i. xlv. baddeley, robert, the last actor who wore the uniform of their majesties' servants, i. , _note_ . balon, mons., a french dancer, i. . banks, john, the excellence of his plots, ii. ; his "unhappy favourite," ii. . baron, michael (french actor), i. . barry, mrs. elizabeth, i. , i. , _note_ , i. , i. , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her great genius, i. ; dryden's compliment to, i. ; her unpromising commencement as an actress, i. ; her power of exciting pity, i. ; her dignity and fire, i. ; the first performer who had a benefit, i. ; her death, i. ; her retirement, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . beaumont and fletcher's "wild-goose chase," published for lowin and taylor's benefit, i. xxxi. beeston, christopher, ii. . "beggar's opera," i. , i. . behn, mrs. aphra, i. . bellchambers, edmund, his edition of cibber's "apology" quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his memoir of mrs. barry, ii. ; betterton, ii. ; mrs. betterton, ii. ; w. bullock, ii. ; estcourt, ii. ; goodman, ii. ; hart, ii. ; b. johnson, ii. ; keen, ii. ; kynaston, ii. ; anthony leigh, ii. ; john mills, ii. ; mohun, ii. ; mountfort, ii. ; james nokes, ii. ; mrs. oldfield, ii. ; pinkethman, ii. ; mrs. porter, ii. ; powell, ii. ; sandford, ii. : smith, ii. ; underhill, ii. ; verbruggen, ii. ; joseph williams, ii. . benefits, their origin, i. ; mrs. elizabeth barry the first performer to whom granted, i. , ii. ; part confiscated by rich, ii. ; rich ordered to refund the part confiscated, ii. ; amounts realized by principal actors, ii. , _note_ . betterton, mrs. mary, i. , i. , ii. ; said to be the first english actress, i. , _note_ ; cibber's account of, i. - ; without a rival in shakespeare's plays, i. ; her unblemished character, i. ; pensioned by queen anne, i. ; her death, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . ---- thomas, i. , i. , i. , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. . ii. , ii. , ii. ; improves scenery, i. xxii.; taken into good society, i. ; famous for hamlet, i. ; cibber's eulogium of, i. - ; his supreme excellence, i. ; description of his hamlet, i. ; booth's veneration for, i. , _note_ ; his hotspur, i. ; his brutus, i. ; the grace and harmony of his elocution, i. ; his success in "alexander the great," i. , i. ; his just estimate of applause, i. ; his perfect elocution, i. ; description of his voice and person, i. ; kneller's portrait of, i. ; his last appearance, i. ; his death, i. ; the "tatler's" eulogium of, i. , _note_ ; gildon's life of, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; mrs. bracegirdle returns to play for his benefit, i. ; ill-treated by the patentees, i. ; makes a party against them, i. ; obtains a licence in , i. , _note_ , i. ; mimicked by powell, i. , i. , _note_ ; his versatility, i. ; his difficulty in managing at lincoln's inn fields, i. ; as a prologue-speaker, i. ; inability to keep order in his company, i. ; said to be specially favoured by the lord chamberlain, ii. ; declines management in, , ii. ; advertisement regarding his salary ( ), ii. , _note_ ; his superiority to wilks and booth, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; and the puppet-show keeper, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . betterton's company ( to, ), their decline, i. ; disorders in, i. . biblical narratives dramatized in the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxvii. _et seq._ bibliography of colley cibber, ii. - . bickerstaffe, isaac (author), ii. . bickerstaffe, john (actor), ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; threatens cibber for reducing his salary, i. , _note_ . bignell, mrs., ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . "biographia britannica," ii. . "biographia dramatica," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . bird, theophilus, an eminent actor, i. xxvi. blackfriar's company, "men of grave and sober behaviour," i. xxvii. ---- theatre, i. xxv., i. xxvi., i. xxviii., i. xlix.; its excellent company, i. xxiv., i. xxvi. blanc, abbé le, his account of a theatre riot, i. , _note_ . "blast upon bays, a," ii. . "bloody brother, the," actors arrested while playing, i. xxx. booth, barton, i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; memoirs of, published immediately after his death, i. ; story told by him of cibber, i. , _note_ ; his veneration for betterton, i. , _note_ ; his indolence alluded to by cibber, i. ; his reverence for tragedy, i. ; his morat, i. ; his life, by theo. cibber, quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his henry viii., i. , _note_ ; is warned by powell's excesses to avoid drinking, i. ; as a prologue-speaker, i. ; elects to continue at drury lane in , ii. ; his marriage, ii. , _note_ ; the reason of the delay in making him a manager, ii. ; his success as cato, ii. - ; his claim to be made a manager on account of his success, ii. ; supported by lord bolingbroke, ii. , _note_ ; his name added to the licence, ii. ; the terms of his admission as sharer, ii. ; his suffering from wilks's temper, ii. ; his connection with steele during the dispute about steele's patent, ii. , _note_ ; wilks's jealousy of, ii. ; a scene with wilks, ii. - ; and wilks, their opinion of each other, ii. ; his deficiency in humour, ii. ; formed his style on betterton, ii. ; cibber's comparison of wilks and booth, ii. - ; his othello and cato, ii. ; memoir of, ii. , _note_ ; patent granted to him, wilks, and cibber, after steele's death, ii. ; sells half of his share of the patent to highmore, ii. . booth, mrs. barton (see also santlow, hester), insulted by capt. montague, i. - ; sells the remainder of booth's share to giffard, ii. . boswell, james, his "life of dr. johnson," quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . bourgogne, hotel de, a theatre originally used for religious plays, i. xxxv. boutell, mrs., mentioned, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . bowen, james (singer), ii. . bowman (actor), memoir of, ii. , _note_ ; sings before charles ii., ii. . ---- mrs., ii. , _note_ . bowyer, michael, an eminent actor, i. xxvi. boy-actresses, i. ; still played after the appearance of women, i. . bracegirdle, mrs. anne, i. , i. , i. , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; admitted into good society, i. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her good character, i. - ; her character attacked by bellchambers, i. , _note_ ; tom brown's scandal about her, i. , _note_ ; attacked in "poems on affairs of state," i. , _note_ ; her best parts, i. ; her retirement, i. ; memoir of her, i. , _note_ ; her rivalry with mrs. oldfield, i. , _note_ ; declines to play some of mrs. barry's parts, i. - ; her retirement, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; her attempted abduction by capt. hill, ii. . bradshaw, mrs., ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. . brett, colonel henry, a share in the drury lane patent presented to him by skipwith, ii. ; his acquaintance with cibber, ii. ; cibber's account of, ii. - ; admires cibber's perriwig, ii. ; and the countess of macclesfield, ii. - ; his dealings with rich, ii. - , ii. - ; makes wilks, estcourt, and cibber his deputies in management, ii. , _note_ ; gives up his share to skipwith, ii. . ---- mrs. (see also miss mason, and countess of macclesfield), cibber's high opinion of her taste, ii. , _note_ ; his "careless husband" submitted to her, ii. , _note_ ; her judicious treatment of her husband, ii. , _note_ . bridgwater (actor), ii. . brown, tom, ii. , ii. ; his scandal on mrs. bracegirdle, i. , _note_ . buck, sir george, his "third university of england," quoted, i. xlviii. buckingham, duke of, ii. . "buffoon, the," an epigram on cibber's admission into society, i. , _note_ . bullen, a. h., his "lyrics from elizabethan song-books," i. , _note_ . bullock, christopher, ii. , _note_ . ---- mrs. christopher, i. , _note_ . ---- william, i. , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . burbage, richard, i. xxvi. burgess, colonel, killed horden, an actor, i. ; his punishment, i. , _note_ . burlington, earl of, ii. . burnet, bishop, his observations on nell gwynne, ii. ; on mrs. roberts, ii. . burney, dr., his "history of music," ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his mss. in the british museum, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . burt (actor), superior to his successors, i. xxiv.; apprenticed to shank, i. xxv.; and to beeston, i. xxv.; a "boy-actress," i. xxv.; a cornet in charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; arrested for acting, i. xxx. butler, mrs. charlotte, i. , i. , ii. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; patronized by charles ii., i. ; a good singer and dancer, i. ; a pleasant and clever actress, i. ; compared with mrs. oldfield, i. ; goes to the dublin theatre, i. ; note regarding her, i. , _note_ . byrd, william, his "psalmes, sonets, etc.," i. , _note_ . byron, lord, a practical joke erroneously attributed to him while at cambridge, i. , _note_ . cambridge. see trinity college, cambridge. "careless husband," cast of, i. , _note_ . carey, henry, deprived of the freedom of the theatre for bantering cibber, ii. , _note_ . carlile, james, memoir of, i. , _note_ ; is killed at aughrim, i. , _note_ , i. . cartwright (actor), belonged to the salisbury court theatre, i. xxiv. castil-blaze, mons., his "la danse et les ballets" quoted, i. , _note_ . catherine of arragon, pageants at her marriage with prince arthur, i. xliii. "cato," by addison, cast of, ii. , _note_ ; its success, ii. - ; at oxford, ii. ; its influence, ii. ; cibber's syphax in, i. . chalmers, george, his "apology for the shakspeare-believers," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . "champion" (by henry fielding), quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . charke, charlotte, ii. . ---- (musician), husband of cibber's daughter, ii. . charles ii. mentioned, i. , i. ; his escape from presbyterian tyranny, i. ; cibber sees him at whitehall, i. ; writes a funeral oration on his death while still at school, i. ; patents granted by him to davenant and killigrew, i. ; wittily reproved by killigrew, i. , _note_ ; called anthony leigh "his actor," i. ; his court theatricals, ii. ; and bowman the actor, ii. ; his opinion of sandford's acting, ii. . chesterfield, lord, his powers of raillery, i. , i. ; refers ironically to cibber in "common sense," i. , _note_ ; opposes the licensing act of , i. . chetwood, william rufus, cibber acts for his benefit, ii. ; his "history of the stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. - , ii. , ii. , ii. . "children of her majesty's chapel," i. xxxvi. "children of paul's," i. xxxvi. churchill, general, ii. , _note_ . ---- lady (duchess of marlborough), i. ; cibber attends her at table, i. ; his admiration of her, i. ; her beauty and good fortune, i. . cibber, caius gabriel, father of colley cibber, i. , _note_ ; his statues and other works, i. ; his marriage, i. , _note_ ; his death, i. , _note_ ; presents a statue to winchester college, i. ; employed at chatsworth, i. ; statues carved by him for trinity college library, cambridge, i. . cibber, colley, account of his life:-- his apology written at bath, i. , _note_ ; his reasons for writing his own life, i. , i. ; his birth, i. ; his baptism recorded, i. , _note_ ; sent to school at grantham, i. ; his character at school, i. ; writes an ode at school on charles ii.'s death, i. ; and on james ii.'s coronation, i. ; his prospects in life, i. ; his first taste for the stage, i. ; stifles his love for the stage and desires to go to the university, i. ; serves against james ii. in , i. ; attends lady churchill at table, i. ; his admiration of her, i. ; disappointed in his expectation of receiving a commission in the army, i. ; petitions the duke of devonshire for preferment, i. ; determines to be an actor, i. ; hangs about downes the prompter, i. , _note_ ; his account of his own first appearances, i. ; his first salary, i. ; description of his personal appearance, i. ; his first success, i. ; his marriage, i. ; plays kynaston's part in "the double dealer," i. ; remains with patentees in, , i. ; writes his first prologue, i. ; not allowed to speak it, i. ; forced to play fondlewife, i. ; plays it in imitation of dogget, i. ; his slow advancement as an actor, i. , i. ; writes his first play, "love's last shift," i. ; as sir novelty fashion, i. ; encouraged and helped by vanbrugh, i. ; begins to advance as an actor, i. ; better in comedy than tragedy, i. ; tragic parts played by him, i. ; his iago abused, i. , _note_ ; description of his justice shallow, i. , _note_ ; leaves drury lane for lincoln's inn fields, i. , _note_ ; returns to drury lane, i. , _note_ ; his "love in a riddle" condemned, i. - ; accused of having gay's "polly" vetoed, i. ; his damon and phillida, i. , _note_ ; consulted by rich on matters of management, i. ; his disputes with wilks, i. ; his "woman's wit" a failure, i. ; distinguished by dryden, i. ; attacked by jeremy collier, i. ; his adaptation of "richard iii.," i. ; his "richard iii." mutilated by the master of the revels, i. ; attacked by george chalmers, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; declines to pay fees to killigrew, master of revels, i. ; his surprise at mrs. oldfield's excellence, i. ; writes "the careless husband" chiefly for mrs. oldfield, i. ; finishes "the provoked husband," begun by vanbrugh, i. , _note_ ; invited to join swiney at the haymarket, i. ; leaves rich and goes to swiney, i. ; his "lady's last stake," ii. ; his "double gallant," ii. ; his "marriage à la mode," ii. ; declines to act on the same stage as rope-dancers, ii. ; advises col. brett regarding the patent, ii. , ii. ; his first introduction to him, ii. ; his account of brett, - ; as young reveller in "greenwich park," ii. ; made deputy-manager by brett, ii. , _note_ ; advertisement regarding his salary, , ii. , _note_ ; made joint manager with swiney and others in , ii. ; and his fellow-managers, wilks and dogget, ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; mediates between wilks and dogget, ii. ; his troubles with wilks, ii. ; his views and conduct on booth's claiming to become a manager, ii. - , ii. - ; his meetings with dogget after their law-suit, ii. ; his "nonjuror," i. , _note_ , ii. - ; accused of stealing his "nonjuror," ii. , _note_ ; makes the jacobites his enemies, ii. - ; reported dead by "mist's weekly journal," ii. ; his "provoked husband" hissed by his jacobite enemies, ii. ; his appointment as poet laureate in , i. , _note_ ; the reason of his being made laureate, ii. ; his "ximena," ii. , _note_ ; his suspension by the duke of newcastle, ii. , _note_ ; his connection with steele during the dispute about steele's patent, ii. , _note_ ; his account of a suit brought by steele against his partners, ii. - ; his pleading in person in the suit brought by steele, ii. - ; his success in pleading, ii. , _note_ , ii. ; assisted steele in his "conscious lovers," ii. ; his playing of wolsey before george i., ii. ; admitted into good society, i. ; elected a member of white's, i. , _note_ ; an epigram on his admission into good society, i. , _note_ ; patent granted to cibber, wilks, and booth after steele's death, ii. ; sells his share of the patent to highmore, ii. ; his sale of his share in the patent, i. ; his shameful treatment of highmore, ii. ; his retirement, ii. ; gives a reason for retiring from the stage, i. , i. , _note_ ; his appearances after his retirement, ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his remarks on his successful reappearances, i. ; his last appearances, i. , _note_ ; his adaptation of "king john," i. , _note_ ; his "papal tyranny in the reign of king john" withdrawn from rehearsal, ii. ; his "papal tyranny" produced, ii. ; its success, ii. ; his quarrel with pope, ii. - ; and horace walpole, ii. ; his death and burial, ii. ; list of his plays, ii. - ; bibliography of, ii. - ; anthony aston's "supplement" to, ii. . cibber, colley, attacks on him:-- commonly accused of cowardice, i. , _note_ ; threatened by john bickerstaffe, for reducing his salary, i. , _note_ ; accused of "venom" towards booth, i. , _note_ ; abused by dennis, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his offer of a reward for discovery of dennis, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; charged with envy of estcourt, i. , _note_ ; fielding's attacks upon, quoted (see under fielding, hy.); his galling retaliation on fielding, i. ; said to have been thrashed by gay, i. , _note_ ; "the laureat's" attacks upon (see "laureat"); satirized on his appointment as laureate, i. ; epigrams on his appointment quoted, i. , _note_ ; writes verses in his own dispraise, i. ; his odes attacked by fielding, i. , _note_ ; and by johnson, i. , _note_ ; charges against him of levity and impiety, i. , _note_ ; accused of negligence in acting, i. , _note_ ; attacked by the daily papers, i. ; his disregard of them, i. , i. , _note_ ; on newspaper attacks, ii. ; on principle never answered newspaper attacks, ii. ; his famous quarrel with pope, ii. ; "the nonjuror" a cause of pope's enmity to cibber, ii. , _note_ ; attacked by pope for countenancing pantomimes, ii. , _note_ ; his reply, ii. , _note_ ; his first allusion to pope's enmity, i. ; his opinion of pope's attacks, i. ; his odes, i. , _note_ ; supposed to be referred to in preface to shadwell's "fair quaker of deal," ii. , _note_ ; attacked for mutilating shakespeare, ii. ; accused of stealing "love's last shift," i. , and "the careless husband," i. , _note_ ; satirized by swift, i. , _note_ ; his defence of his follies, i. , i. . cibber, colley, criticisms of contemporaries:-- on the production of addison's "cato," ii. , ii. - ; his description of mrs. barry, i. - ; on the excellence of betterton and his contemporaries, i. ; his eulogium of betterton, i. - ; his description of mrs. betterton, i. - ; his account of booth and wilks as actors, ii. - ; his description of mrs. bracegirdle, i. - ; his description of mrs. butler, i. - ; his high opinion of mrs. brett's taste, ii. , _note_ ; submits every scene of his "careless husband" to mrs. brett, ii. , _note_ ; on his own acting, i. - ; his "epilogue upon himself," ii. ; on dogget's acting, ii. ; his low opinion of garrick, ii. ; his description of kynaston, i. - ; his description of leigh, i. - ; his description of mrs. leigh, i. - ; his description of mountfort, i. - ; his description of mrs. mountfort, i. - ; his praise of nicolini, ii. ; his description of nokes, i. - ; his hyperbolical praise of mrs. oldfield's lady townly, i. , i. , _note_ ; on rich's misconduct, ii. ; his description of sandford, i. ; his description of cave underhill, i. - ; his unfairness to verbruggen, i. , _note_ ; his account of wilks and booth as actors, ii. - ; on wilks's hamlet, i. ; praises wilks's diligence, ii. , ii. ; on wilks's love of acting, ii. ; on wilks's temper, ii. , ii. ; a scene with wilks, - . cibber, colley, reflections and opinions:-- on acting, i. , i. ; on acting villains, i. - , i. ; on the prejudice against actors, i. - ; his advice to dramatists, ii. ; on applause, i. , ii. ; on the severity of audiences, i. ; on politeness in audiences, ii. ; on troubles with authors, ii. ; on the effect of comedy-acting, i. ; on court influence, ii. ; on criticism, i. ; on his critics, ii. ; on humour in tragedy, i. ; on the italian opera, ii. - ; on the difficulty of managing italian singers, ii. ; on laughter, i. ; on the liberty of the stage, i. ; on the validity of the licence, i. ; on the power of the lord chamberlain, ii. - ; his principles as manager, i. ; on management, ii. ; on judicious management, ii. ; on the duties and responsibilities of management, ii. - ; on the success of his management, ii. ; on morality in plays, i. , i. ; on the power of music, i. ; on oxford theatricals, ii. - ; on pantomimes, i. , ii. ; on prologue-speaking, i. ; on the difficulties of promotion in the theatre, ii. ; on the queen's theatre in the haymarket, i. ; on raillery, i. ; on the revolution of , i. - ; on satire, i. ; on the reformation of the on making the stage useful, ii. - ; on the benefit of only one theatre, i. , ii. , ii. - ; on the shape of the theatre, ii. ; on his own vanity, ii. . ---- miscellaneous:-- profit arising from his works, i. , _note_ ; frequently the object of envy, i. ; his obtrusive loyalty, i. , _note_ , i. ; banters his critics by allowing his "apology" to be impudent and ill-written, i. ; his easy temper under criticism and abuse, i. ; confesses the faults of his writing, i. ; his "quavering tragedy tones," i. , _note_ ; his playing of richard iii. an imitation of sandford, i. ; his "careless husband" quoted, i. , _note_ ; his wigs, ii. , _note_ ; his treatment of authors, ii. , _note_ ; reproved by col. brett for his treatment of authors, ii. , _note_ ; his dedication of the "wife's resentment" to the duke of kent, ii. ; censured for his treatment of authors, ii. , _note_ ; his satisfaction in looking back on his career, ii. ; his acknowledgment of steele's services to the theatre, ii. ; his dedication of "ximena" to steele, ii. , _note_ ; his omission of many material circumstances in the history of the stage, ii. , _note_ ; wilks his constant supporter and admirer, ii. , _note_ ; his "odes," ii. ; hissed as phorbas, ii. ; aston on cibber's acting, ii. . cibber, mrs. colley, her marriage, i. ; her character, i. , _note_ ; her father's objection to her marriage, i. , _note_ . ---- lewis (brother of colley), admitted to winchester college, i. ; cibber's affection for, i. ; his great abilities, i. ; his death, i. . ---- susanna maria (wife of theophilus), ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; her speaking described, i. , _note_ . ---- theophilus, ii. , _note_ , ii. ; mentioned ironically by lord chesterfield, i. , _note_ ; in "art and nature," i. , _note_ ; acts as his father's deputy in heads a mutiny against highmore, ii. ; account of him, ii. ; his "life of booth" quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . "circe," an opera, i. . civil war, the, closing of theatres during, i. . clark, actor, memoir of, i. , _note_ . cleveland, duchess of, and goodman, ii. . clive, mrs. catherine, ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; her acting in "love in a riddle," i. , _note_ . clun, a "boy-actress," i. xxiv. cock-fighting prohibited in, , i. lii. cockpit, the (or phoenix), i. xxv.; its company, i. xxvi., i. xxviii., i. xlix.; rhodes's company at, i. xxviii.; secret performances at, during the commonwealth, i. xxx. coke, rt. hon. thomas, vice-chamberlain, his interference in dogget's dispute with his partners, ii. . coleman, mrs., the first english actress, i. , _note_ . colley, the family of, i. , i. . ---- jane, mother of colley cibber, i. , _note_ . collier, jeremy, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ ; his "short view of the profaneness, &c., of the english stage," i. xxi., i. xxxiii., i. , i. ; his arguments confuted, i. xxxiii. collier, william, m.p., i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; procures a licence for drury lane, ii. ; evicts rich, ii. ; appoints aaron hill his manager, ii. , _note_ ; his unjust treatment of swiney, ii. , ii. ; takes the control of the opera from swiney, ii. ; farms the opera to aaron hill, ii. ; forces swiney to resume the opera, ii. ; made partner with cibber, wilks, and dogget at drury lane, ii. ; his shabby treatment of his partners, ii. , ii. ; his downfall, ii. ; replaced by steele in the licence, ii. . comedy-acting, the effect of, i. . "common sense," a paper by lord chesterfield, quoted, i. , _note_ . "comparison between the two stages," by gildon, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. . complexion, black, of evil characters on the stage, i. . congreve, william, i. , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; memoir of, mentioned, i. , _note_ ; his "love for love," i. , i. ; scandal about him and mrs. bracegirdle, i. , _note_ ; a sharer with betterton in his licence in , i. , _note_ , i. ; his "mourning bride," i. ; his "way of the world," i. ; his opinion of "love's last shift," i. ; and vanbrugh manage the queen's theatre, i. , i. ; gives up his share in the queen's theatre, i. ; and mrs. bracegirdle, ii. . cooper, lord chancellor, ii. , ii. . coquelin, constant, his controversy with henry irving regarding diderot's "paradoxe sur le comédien," i. , _note_ . corelli, arcangelo, ii. . cory (actor), ii. , _note_ . court, theatrical performances at, see royal theatricals; interference of the, in the management of the stage, i. . covent garden, drury lane theatre sometimes described as the theatre in, i. , _note_ . covent garden theatre, i. , _note_ . coventry, the old leet book of, i. xl. craggs, mr. secretary, ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; chastises captain montague for insulting miss santlow, i. . craufurd, david, his account of the disorders in betterton's company, i. , _note_ . crawley, keeper of a puppet-show, ii. . creation, the, dramatized in the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxviii. cromwell, lady mary, i. , _note_ . cross, mrs., i. , _note_ . ---- richard, prompter of drury lane, i. , _note_ . crowne, john, his masque of "calisto," ii. . cumberland, richard, his description of mrs. cibber's speaking, i. , _note_ . cunningham, lieut.-col. f., doubts if ben jonson was an unsuccessful actor, i. , _note_ . curll, edmund, his "history of the stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. ; his "life of mrs. oldfield," i. , _note_ ; his memoirs of wilks, i. , _note_ . curtain theatre, the, mentioned by stow as recently erected, i. xlviii. cuzzoni, francesca, her rivalry with faustina, ii. . "cynthia's revels," played by the children of her majesty's chapel, i. xxxvi. "daily courant," quoted, ii. , _note_ . daly, augustin, his company of comedians, ii. . dancers and singers introduced by davenant, i. . davenant, alexander, ii. , _note_ ; his share in the patent, i. , _note_ . ---- dr. charles, ii. . ---- sir william, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; first introduces scenery, i. xxxii.; copy of his patent, i. liii.; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; poet laureate, i. , _note_ ; receives a patent from charles i., i. , _note_ ; from charles ii., i. ; his company worse than killigrew's, i. ; he introduces spectacle and opera to attract audiences, i. ; unites with killigrew's, i. ; his "macbeth," ii. , _note_ . davies, thomas, his "dramatic miscellanies," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. . _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ . ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his "life of garrick," i. lv., _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. . davis, mary (moll), i. , _note_ . denmark, prince of, his support of william of orange, i. , i. . dennis, john, i. , _note_ , ii. ; abuses cibber for his loyalty, i. , _note_ ; accuses cibber of stealing his "love's last shift," i. ; his attacks on steele and cibber, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; attacks wilks, ii. , _note_ ; abuses one of the actors of his "comic gallant," ii. , _note_ . "deserving favourite, the," i. xxv. devonshire, duke of, ii. ; his quarrel with james ii., i. ; cibber presents a petition to, i. . diderot, denis, his "paradoxe sur le comédien," i. , _note_ . dillworth, w. h., his "life of pope," ii. , _note_ . dixon, a member of rhodes's company, i. , _note_ . dobson, austin, his "fielding" quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . dodington, bubb, mentioned by bellchambers, i. , _note_ . dodsley, robert, purchased the copyright of cibber's "apology," i. , _note_ . dogget, thomas, i. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his excellence in fondlewife, i. ; cibber plays fondlewife in imitation of, i. ; his intractability in betterton's company, i. ; deserts betterton at lincoln's inn fields, and comes to drury lane, i. ; arrested for deserting drury lane, ii. ; defies the lord chamberlain, ii. ; wins his case, ii. ; made joint manager with swiney and others in , ii. ; his characteristics as a manager, ii. , ii. ; his behaviour on booth's claiming to become a manager, ii. , ii. ; retires because of booth's being made a manager, ii. ; his refusal to come to any terms after booth's admission, ii. ; goes to law for his rights, ii. ; the result, ii. ; wilks's temper, the real reason of his retirement, ii. - ; shows a desire to return to the stage, ii. ; his final appearances, ii. ; cibber's account of his excellence, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. . doran, dr. john, his "annals of the stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. . dorset, earl of, ii. ; has leigh's portrait painted in "the spanish friar," i. ; when lord chamberlain, supports betterton in - , i. ; compliments cibber on his first play, i. . dorset garden, duke's theatre, i. xxxii. ---- theatre, built for davenant's company, i. , _note_ ; the subscribers to, called adventurers, i. , _note_ . "double dealer, the," i. , _note_ . "double gallant," cast of, ii. , _note_ . downes, john, his "roscius anglicanus," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; attended constantly by cibber and verbruggen in hope of employment on the stage, i. , _note_ ; the "tatler" publishes a supposed letter from, ii. . "dramatic censor," , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . dramatists, cibber's advice to, ii. . drury lane theatre, i. , _note_ ; opened by king's company, i. xxxii.; built for killigrew's company, i. ; sometimes called "the theatre in covent garden," i. , _note_ ; desertion from in , i. ; company ( ), their improvement, i. ; its patent, ii. ; its original construction, ii. ; why altered, ii. ; under w. collier's management, , ii. ; report on its stability, ii. - . dryden, john, ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; his prologue on opening drury lane, , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; a bad elocutionist, i. ; his morat("aurenge-zebe"), i. ; his high praise of mrs. elizabeth barry, i. ; his prologue to "the prophetess," i. , _note_ ; his "king arthur," i. , _note_ ; a sharer in the king's company, i. ; his address to the author of "heroic love" quoted, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his indecent plays, i. ; his epilogue to "the pilgrim," i. ; his "secular masque," i. , _note_ ; his prologue to "the prophetess" vetoed, ii. ; his prologues at oxford, ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; expensive revival of his "all for love," ii. . dublin, wilks's success in, i. . "duchess of malfy," i. xxv. dugdale, sir william, his "antiquities of warwickshire" quoted, i. xxxvi.; mentions the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxviii. duke's servants, the, i. , _note_ , i. . duke's theatre, ii. ; first theatre to introduce scenery, i. xxxii. dulwich college, built and endowed by edward alleyn, i. xxviii. "dunciad, the," i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; on italian opera, i. , _note_ . dyer, mrs., actress, i. , _note_ . edicts to suppress plays, - , ii. . edward, son of henry vi., pageant played before, i. xl. ---- son of edward iv., pageant played before, i. xlii. edwin, john, his "eccentricities" quoted, ii. , _note_ . e----e, mr. [probably erskine], his powers of raillery, i. , i. , _note_ , i. . egerton, william, his memoirs of mrs. oldfield, i. , _note_ . "egotist, the," i. lv., _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. . elephants on the stage, ii. , _note_ . elizabeth, queen, and the spanish armada, allusion to, i. ; her rule of government, i. . elocution, importance of, i. . elrington, thomas, his visit to drury lane in , ii. , _note_ ; cibber said to have refused to let him play a certain character, ii. , _note_ . ely, bishop of, and joe haines, ii. . erskine, mr., probably the person mentioned by cibber, i. , i. , _note_ , i. . estcourt, richard, i. , i. . i. . i. , _note_ ; a marvellous mimic, i. ; yet not a good actor, i. ; said to be unfairly treated by cibber, i. , _note_ ; could not mimic nokes, i. ; his "gag" on the union of the companies in, , i. ; his first coming to london, i. ; made deputy-manager by brett, ii. , _note_ ; advertisement regarding his salary, , ii. , _note_ ; his falstaff, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . eusden, laurence, poet laureate, his death, i. , _note_ . evans, john, his visit to drury lane in , ii. , _note_ ; his falstaff, ii. . "faction display'd," ii. , _note_ . "fair maid of the west, the," i. xxv. fairplay, francis, a name assumed by cibber on one occasion, i. . "fairy queen," preface to, quoted, i. , _note_ . farinelli (singer), ii. . farquhar, george, ii. , ii. , ii. . fashionable nights, ii. . faustina (faustina bordoni hasse), her rivalry with cuzzoni, ii. . fees for performances at court, ii. . fenwick, sir john, ii. . fideli, signor, i. xxvii. field, nathaniel, originally a "chapel boy," i. xxxvii. fielding, henry, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. ; attacks cibber in "the champion," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; in "joseph andrews," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; in "pasquin," i. , _note_ ; attacks cibber for mutilating shakespeare, ii. ; manager of a company at the haymarket, i. , _note_ ; cibber's retaliation on, i. ; austin dobson's memoir of, quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; said to have caused the licensing act of , i. . fitzgerald, percy, his "new history of the english stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . fitzharding, lady, i. . fitzstephen, william, his "description of the city of london," i. xxxvii. fleetwood, charles, ii. ; purchases from highmore and mrs. wilks their shares of the patent, i. , ii. ; the deserters return to him, ii. . fletcher, john, his plays, i. xxv. footmen, admitted gratis to drury lane, i. ; this privilege abolished, i. , _note_ . fortune theatre, i. xxvi., i. xxix. fox, bishop, had charge of pageants in which sacred persons were introduced, i. xlv. french actors at lincoln's inn fields, ii. , _note_ . ---- audience, conduct of, ii. . "funeral, the," i. . gaedertz, herr, his "zur kenntniss der altenglischen bühne," ii. , _note_ . "gammer gurton's needle," one of the earliest regular comedies, i. xlvii. garrick, david, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; his influence in reforming the stage, ii. ; cibber plays against, ii. ; cibber's low opinion of, ii. ; davies's life of, i. lv., _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. . gaussin, jeanne catherine, ii. . gay, john, said to have thrashed cibber, i. , _note_ ; his "beggar's opera," i. ; his "polly" forbidden to be played, i. , i. , _note_ . genest, rev. john, his "account of the english stage," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his opinion of cibber's richard iii., i. , _note_ . "gentleman's magazine," ii. . gentlemen of the great chamber, actors entitled, i. . george i. has theatrical performances at hampton court, ii. ; his amusement at a scene of "henry viii.," ii. ; his present to the actors for playing at court, ii. . ---- ii., i. , ii. . giffard, henry, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; his theatre in goodman's fields, i. , _note_ ; purchases half of booth's share of the patent, ii. . gifford, william, doubts if ben jonson was an unsuccessful actor, i. , _note_ . gildon, charles, his life of betterton, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. . globe theatre, i. xxvi., i. xxix. goffe, alexander, a "boy-actress," i. xxx.; employed to give notice of secret performances during the commonwealth, i. xxx. "golden rump, the," a scurrilous play, i. , _note_ . goodman, cardell, mentioned, i. , _note_ , i. ; prophesies cibber's success as an actor, i. ; a highway robber, ii. , ii. ; his connection with the fenwick and charnock plot, ii. ; he and captain griffin have one shirt between them, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . goodman's fields, unlicensed theatre in, i. ; attempt to suppress it, i. ; odell's theatre, i. , _note_ ; giffard's theatre, i. , _note_ . ---- theatre, i. , _note_ ; closed by licensing act ( ), i. , _note_ . grafton, duke of, ii. ; blamed for making cibber laureate, i. , _note_ . grantham, cibber sent to school at, i. . griffin, captain (actor), i. , _note_ ; admitted into good society, i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; and goodman have one shirt between them, ii. . griffith, thomas, his visit to drury lane in , ii. , _note_ . "grub street journal," ii. , _note_ . guiscard, his attack on lord oxford referred to, i. . gwyn, nell, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. ; and charles ii., ii. ; bishop burnet's opinion of, ii. . haines, joseph, ii. , _note_ ; his _bon mot_ on jeremy collier, i. ; account of his career, i. , _note_ ; aston's description of, ii. ; his pranks, ii. , ii. ; life of, ii. , _note_ . halifax, lord, i. , ii. ; a patron of the theatre, ii. ; his testimonial to mrs. bracegirdle, ii. . hamlet, incomparably acted by taylor, i. xxvi.; betterton as, i. ; wilks's mistakes in, i. . hammerton, stephen, a famous "boy-actress," i. xxvi.; played amyntor, i. xxvi. hampton court, theatrical performances at, ii. , ii. , ii. . "hannibal and scipio," i. xxv. harlequin, cibber's low opinion of the character, i. - ; played without a mask by pinkethman, i. . "harlequin sorcerer," a noted pantomime, ii. , _note_ . harper, john, arrested as a rogue and vagabond, i. ; trial, ii. ; the result of his trial, i. ; his falstaff, ii. . harris, ii. , ii. . harrison, general, murders w. robinson the actor, i. xxix. hart, charles, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , _note_ ; superior to his successors, i. xxiv.; apprenticed to robinson, i. xxiv.; a "boy-actress," i. xxiv.; a lieutenant in charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; arrested for acting, i. xxx.; grows old and wishes to retire, i. xxxii.; his acting of the plain dealer, i. , _note_ ; famous for othello, i. ; his retirement, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . haymarket, little theatre in the, i. , _note_ ; opened by the mutineers from highmore in , ii. ; closed by licensing act ( ), i. , _note_ . ---- the queen's theatre in the (now her majesty's), i. ; its history, i. , _note_ ; opened for betterton's company, i. ; defects in its construction, i. , i. ; inconvenience of its situation, i. . hemming, john, i. xxvi. "henry viii.," ii. . heron, mrs., ii. . hewett, sir thomas, his report on the stability of drury lane, ii. . highmore, john, at variance with his actors, i. ; his purchase of the patent, i. , _note_ ; the price he paid for the patent, i. , _note_ ; purchases half of booth's share of the patent, ii. ; purchases cibber's share, ii. : his actors mutiny, ii. ; he summons harper as a rogue and vagabond, ii. ; sells his share in the patent, ii. . hill, aaron, on "tone" in speaking, i. , _note_ ; appointed by w. collier to manage drury lane, ii. , _note_ ; defied and beaten by his actors, ii. , _note_ ; farms the opera from collier, ii. ; on booth's lack of humour, ii. , _note_ . ---- captain richard, his murder of mountfort, i. , _note_ , ii. . "historia histrionica," reprint of, i. xix.; preface to, i. xxi. "historical register for ," ii. . hitchcock, robert, his "historical view of the irish stage," i. , _note_ . "holland's leaguer," i. xxv. holt, lord chief justice, ii. . horden, hildebrand, a promising actor, killed in a brawl, i. . horton, mrs., ii. . howard, j. b., plays iago in english to salvini's othello, i. , _note_ . ---- sir robert, i. , _note_ . hughes, margaret, said to be the first english actress, i. , _note_ . hutton, laurence, his "literary landmarks of london" quoted, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . irving, henry, his controversy with constant coquelin regarding diderot's "paradoxe sur le comédien," i. , _note_ ; restores shakespeare's "richard iii." to the stage, ii. . italian opera, introduced into england, i. ; "the dunciad" on, i. , _note_ . jackson, john, his "history of the scottish stage" referred to, ii. , _note_ . jacobites attacked in cibber's "nonjuror," ii. ; repay cibber for his attack by hissing his plays, ii. ; hiss his "nonjuror," ii. . james ii., ii. ; cibber, at school, writes an ode on his coronation, i. ; cibber serves against, at the revolution, i. ; his flight to france, i. ; his quarrel with the duke of devonshire, i. . jekyll, sir joseph, ii. . jevon, thomas, i. , _note_ . johnson, benjamin (actor), i. , _note_ , i. , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . johnson, dr. samuel, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his opinion of cibber's odes, i. , _note_ ; his epigram on cibber's laureateship quoted, i. , _note_ ; his "life of pope," ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his "lives of the poets," ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; his famous prologue ( ) quoted, i. , _note_ . jones, inigo, ii. . jonson, ben, i. ; out of fashion in , i. xxiii.; no actors in who could rightly play his characters, i. xxiv.; his plays, i. xxv.; his epigram on alleyn, i. xxviii.; on sal pavy, i. xxxvi.; said by cibber to have been an unsuccessful actor, i. ; this denied by gifford and cunningham, his editors, i. , _note_ ; his masques, ii. . jordan, thomas, his "prologue to introduce the first woman that came to act on the stage," , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . "joseph andrews" quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . "julius cæsar," special revival of, in , ii. . keen, theophilus, i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . kemble, john p., mentioned, i. lv., _note_ . kent, duke of, ii. . ---- mrs., ii. , _note_ . killigrew, charles, ii. , _note_ ; his share in the patent, i. , _note_ . ---- thomas, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; granted a patent similar to davenant's, i. liii., i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; his witty reproof of charles ii., i. , _note_ ; his company better than davenant's, i. ; unites with davenant's, i. . "king and no king," special revival of, in , ii. . "king arthur," i. . "king john" mutilated by colley cibber, ii. . "king john and matilda," i. xxv. king's servants, the, i. , _note_ , i. ; before , i. xxvi.; after the restoration, i. xxxi. kirkman, francis, his "wits," ii. , _note_ . knap, ii. , _note_ . kneller, sir godfrey, his portrait of betterton, i. ; his portrait of anthony leigh, i. , ii. ; imitated by estcourt, ii. . knight, mrs. frances, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . ---- joseph, his edition of the "roscius anglicanus" referred to, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . knip, mrs., i. , _note_ . kynaston, edward, i. , i. , ii. , ii. , i. , i. ; petted by ladies of quality, i. ; the beauty of his person, i. ; his voice and appearance, i. ; his bold acting in inflated passages, i. ; his majesty and dignity, i. - ; lingered too long on the stage, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . lacy, john, superior to his successors, i. xxiv. lady of title, prevented by relatives from becoming an actress, i. . "lady's last stake," cast of, ii. , _note_ . langbaine, gerard, his "account of the english poets," ii. , _note_ . laughter, reflections on, i. . "laureat, the" (a furious attack on cibber), i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. . lebrun, charles, painter, alluded to, i. . lee, charles henry, master of the revels, ii. . ---- mrs. mary, i. , _note_ . ---- nathaniel, ii. ; his "alexander the great," i. ; a perfect reader of his own works, i. ; mohun's compliment to him, i. ; failed as an actor, i. . leigh, anthony, i. , i. , i. , i. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; his exuberant humour, i. ; in "the spanish friar," i. ; painted in the character of the spanish friar, i. ; his best characters, i. , i. ; and nokes, their combined excellence, i. , his superiority to pinkethman, i. ; the favourite actor of charles ii., i. ; compared with nokes, i. ; his death, i. , i. ; his "gag" regarding obadiah walker's change of religion, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . leigh, mrs. elizabeth, i. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her peculiar comedy powers, i. ; note regarding her, i. , _note_ . ---- francis, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . leveridge, richard, ii. , _note_ . licence granted by king william in , i. . licensing act of , i. , _note_ , i. , i. , _note_ , ii. . "lick at the laureat," said to be the title of a pamphlet, i. , _note_ . lincoln's inn fields, duke's old theatre in, i. xxxii., i. , _note_ . ---- betterton's theatre in, i. ; its opening, i. ; its success at first, i. ; its speedy disintegration, i. . ---- rich's theatre in, ii. , ii. ; its exact situation, ii. , _note_ ; rich's patent revived at, ii. ; its opening, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; actors desert drury lane to join, ii. . "london cuckolds," i. . "london news-letter," i. , _note_ . lord chamberlain, cibber on the power of the, ii. - , ii. ; his name not mentioned in the patents, ii. ; sir spencer ponsonby-fane on the power of, ii. , _note_ ; his power of licensing plays, ii. ; plays vetoed by him, ii. - ; actors arrested by his orders, ii. - ; his edicts against desertions, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; said to favour betterton at the expense of rival managers, ii. ; various edicts regarding powell, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; warrant to arrest dogget, ii. , _note_ ; his edict separating plays and operas in , ii. , _note_ ; interferes on behalf of actors in their dispute with the patentees in , ii. ; silences patentees for contumacy, ii. ; his order for silence, , quoted, ii. , _note_ . lord chamberlain's records, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . lorraine, duke of, ii. . louis xiv., mentioned, i. . ---- prince, of baden, ii. . "love in a riddle," cast of, i. , _note_ . lovel (actor), ii. . lovelace, lord, ii. . "love's last shift," cast of, i. , _note_ . lowin, john, ii. ; arrested for acting, i. xxx.; superior to hart, i. xxiv.; his chief characters, i. xxvi.; too old to go into charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; becomes an inn-keeper, and dies very poor, i. xxxi. "lucius junius brutus," by lee, vetoed, ii. . "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxviii.; these plays acted at other towns besides coventry, i. xxxviii.; a description of them, i. xxxviii. _et seq._ "lunatick, the," ii. , _note_ . luttrell's diary quoted, i. , _note_ . macaulay, lord, his "history of england" referred to, ii. , _note_ . "macbeth" _in the nature of an opera_, i. , _note_ ; ii. , ii. , _note_ . macclesfield, countess of, ii. . see also mrs. brett. macklin, charles, ii. , ii. ; his first coming to london, ii. ; a great reformer, ii. . macready, william c, mentioned, i. , _note_ . macswiney, owen. see swiney, owen. "maid's tragedy" vetoed in charles ii.'s time, ii. ; played with altered catastrophe, ii. . mainwaring, arthur, ii. , _note_ . malone, edmond, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . management, cibber on the duties and responsibilities of, ii. - . margaret, queen of henry vi., pageant played before her, i. xl. marlborough, duchess of. see churchill, lady. ---- duke of, ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. . "marriage à la mode," by cibber, cast of, ii. , _note_ . marshall, anne, i. , _note_ ; said to be the first english actress, i. , _note_ . ---- julian, his "annals of tennis" quoted, i. , _note_ . mary, the virgin, and joseph, characters in the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxix. ---- queen, her death, i. . "mary, queen of scotland," by banks, vetoed, ii. . masculus, a comedian, who was a christian martyr, i. xxii. masks, ladies wearing, at the theatre, i. ; ultimately the mark of a prostitute, i. , _note_ . mason, miss. see countess of macclesfield, and mrs. brett. masques, enormous expense of, ii. . master of the revels. see revels. mathews, charles (the elder), his powers of imitation referred to, i. , _note_ . mathias, st., the choosing of, as an apostle, dramatized in the "ludus coventriæ," i. xxxviii. matthews, brander, ii. , _note_ . maynard, serjeant, a whig lawyer, satirized, i. , _note_ . medbourn, matthew, ii. . melcombe, lord, mentioned, i. , _note_ . "mery play between the pardoner and the frere, the curate and neybour pratte, a," described, i. xlv. miller, james, his "art and nature" failed, i. , _note_ . ---- josias (actor), ii. . mills, john, i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; his friendship with wilks, i. , ii. ; his honesty and diligence, i. ; his large salary, i. ; advertisement regarding his salary, , ii. , _note_ ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. ; and the country squire, ii. . milward, william, i. , _note_ . mist, nathaniel. see "mist's weekly journal." "mist's weekly journal," ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. . mohun, lord, ii. ; implicated in mountfort's death, i. , _note_ , ii. . ---- michael, superior to his successors, i. xxiv.; apprentice to beeston, i. xxv.; acted bellamente, i. xxv.; a captain in charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; his death, i. ; his admiration of nat. lee's elocution, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . montague, captain, insults miss santlow, i. ; chastised by mr. craggs, i. . moore, mrs., ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . morley, professor henry, his edition of the "spectator," ii. , _note_ . mountfort, william, i. , i. , i. , _note_ , i. , ii. ; taken into good society, i. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; his voice and appearance, i. ; his alexander the great, i. ; his excellent acting of fine gentlemen, i. ; his delivery of witty passages, i. ; his rover, i. ; his versatility, i. , i. ; his sparkish ("country wife") and his sir courtly nice, i. ; copied by cibber in sir courtly nice, i. ; his tragic death, i. , i. ; memoir of him, i. , _note_ ; tom brown on his connection with mrs. bracegirdle, i. , _note_ ; his comedy of "greenwich park," ii. ; copied by wilks, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. ; full account of his death by the hands of capt. hill, ii. - . ---- mrs., i. , i. , ii. , ii. ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her variety of humour, i. ; her artistic feeling, i. ; her acting of the western lass, i. ; in male parts, i. ; plays bayes with success, i. ; the excellence of her melantha, i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; leaves betterton's company in , i. ; her death, ii. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. . mountfort, susanna, i. , _note_ . music in the theatre, i. xxxii. newcastle, duke of, ii. ; (lord chamberlain), his persecution of steele, ii. , _note_ . newington butts, i. xlix. newman, thomas, actor, one of their majesties' servants, i. , _note_ . nichols, john, his "theatre, anti-theatre, &c.," ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . nicolini (nicolo grimaldi), singer, ii. , ii. ; cibber's high praise of, ii. ; praised by the "tatler," ii. . noblemen's companies of players, i. xlvii. nokes, james, i. ; cibber's description of, i. - ; his natural simplicity, i. ; could not be imitated, i. ; his best characters, i. ; his ludicrous distress, i. ; his voice and person, i. ; and leigh, their combined excellence, i. ; compared with leigh, i. ; his death, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. ; why called "nurse nokes," ii. . nokes, robert, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. . "nonjuror, the," a line in the epilogue quoted, i. ; cast of, ii. , _note_ . norris, henry, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . ---- mrs., said to be the first english actress, i. , _note_ . northey, sir edward, his "opinion" on the patent, ii. , _note_ . oates, titus, i. . odell, thomas, his theatre in goodman's fields, i. , _note_ . "old and new london," referred to, ii. , _note_ . oldfield, mrs. anne, i. , i. , _note_ , i. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; memoirs of, published immediately after her death, i. ; her acting of lady townly praised in high-flown terms by cibber, i. , i. , _note_ ; admitted into good society, i. ; her unpromising commencement as an actress, i. , i. ; compared with mrs. butler, i. ; her rivalry with mrs. bracegirdle, i. , _note_ ; cibber's account of, i. - ; her good sense, i. ; her unexpected excellence, i. ; cibber writes "the careless husband" chiefly for her, i. ; her perfect acting in it, i. ; and wilks playing in same pieces, i. ; proposed to be made a manager, ii. ; gets increased salary instead, ii. ; advertisement regarding her salary, , ii. , _note_ ; riot directed against, ii. ; settles a dispute between wilks, cibber, and booth, ii. ; her death, ii. ; copied mrs. mountfort in comedy, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. ; and richard savage, ii. . opera, i. ; control of, given to swiney, ii. . ---- italian, account of its first separate establishment, ii. - ; decline of italian, ii. - . otway, thomas, his failure as an actor, i. , _note_ ; his "orphan," i. , _note_ . oxford, visited by the actors in , ii. , ii. ; dryden's prologues at, ii. , ii. , _note_ ; its critical discernment, ii. . ---- lord, guiscard's attack on, referred to, i. . pack, george, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; account of, ii. , _note_ . pageants formed part in receptions of princes, &c., i. xl. _et seq._ painting the face on the stage, i. , _note_ . pantomimes, the origin of, ii. ; cibber's opinion of, ii. ; "the dunciad" on, ii. , _note_ . "papal tyranny in the reign of king john," cast of, ii. , _note_ . parish-clerks, play acted by, in , i. xxxv. parliamentary reports on the theatres, i. , _note_ . "parson's wedding, the," played entirely by women, i. xxxii. "pasquin" quoted, i. , _note_ . patent, copy of, granted to sir william davenant in , i. liii.; steele's, ii. . patentees, the, their foolish parsimony, i. ; their ill-treatment of betterton and other actors, i. ; the actors combine against them, i. ; their deserted condition, i. . (for transactions of the patentees, see also rich, c.) pavy, sal, a famous child-actor, i. xxxvi.; ben jonson's epigram on, i. xxxvi. pelham, hon. henry, cibber's "apology" dedicated to, i. lv., _note_ . pembroke, earl of, ii. , _note_ . pepys, samuel, his "diary," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . percival (actor), i. , _note_ . perkins, an eminent actor, i. xxvi.; his death, i. xxxi. perrin, mons. (of the théâtre français), ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . perriwigs, enormous, worn by actors, ii. , _note_ . phoenix, the, or cockpit, i. xxvi. "picture, the," i. xxv. pinkethman, william, i. , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; his inferiority to anthony leigh, i. ; his liberties with the audience, i. ; hissed for them, i. , _note_ ; his lack of judgment, i. ; plays harlequin without the mask, i. ; his success as lory in "the relapse," i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . ---- the younger, ii. . plays, value of old, for information on manners, i. xxi.; old, no actors' names given, i. xxv.; originally used for religious purposes, i. xxxiv., i. xxxv.; their early introduction, i. xxxvii.; began to alter in form about the time of henry viii., i. xlv.; origin of, in greece and england, i. xlviii.; the alteration in their subjects noticed by stow in , i. xlviii.; temporarily suspended, i. xlix.; arranged to be divided between davenant's and killigrew's companies, i. ; expenses of, i. , _note_ . players defended regarding character, i. xxii.; not to be described as rogues and vagabonds, i. xlix.; entirely suppressed by ordinances of the long parliament, i. li. playhouses, large number of, in , i. xlix. "poems on affairs of state," quoted, i. , _note_ . "poetaster, the," played by the children of her majesty's chapel, i. xxxvi. poet laureate, cibber appointed, , i. , _note_ . pollard, thomas, a comedian, i. xxvi.; superior to hart, i. xxiv.; too old to go into charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; arrested for acting, i. xxx.; his retirement and death, i. xxxi. pollixfen, judge, ii. . ponsonby-fane, sir spencer, his memorandum on the power of the lord chamberlain, ii. , _note_ . pope, alexander, ii. ; cibber's "letter" to, quoted, i. , _note_ ; cibber's first allusion to pope's enmity, i. ; an epigram comparing pope and cibber in society, i. , _note_ ; cibber's opinion of pope's attacks, i. ; some of pope's attacks quoted, i. , _note_ ; his attack on atticus (addison), i. ; cibber's "letter" to, quoted, i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ ; epigram attributed to him, on cibber's laureateship, i. , _note_ ; his "moral essays," quoted, i. , _note_ ; attacks cibber for countenancing pantomimes, ii. , _note_ ; "the nonjuror" a cause of his enmity to cibber, ii. , _note_ ; his "epistle to dr. arbuthnot," ii. , _note_ ; his quarrel with cibber, ii. - ; cibber's "letter" to him, ii. ; his famous adventure, ii. ; cibber's second "letter" to, ii. ; his portrait of betterton, ii. ; his attacks on mrs. oldfield, ii. . (see also "dunciad.") porter, mrs. mary, ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; dogget plays for her benefit after his retirement, ii. ; accident to, ii. , ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . portuguese, the, and religious plays, i. xxxv. "post-boy rob'd of his mail," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ . powell, george, i. , i. , i. , _note_ , i. , i. , i. . _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; offered some of betterton's parts, i. ; his indiscretion as a manager, i. ; mimics betterton, i. , i. , _note_ ; the contest between him and wilks for supremacy at drury lane, i. - , i. - ; his carelessness, i. , i. ; deserts drury lane, i. ; returns to drury lane, i. ; arrested for deserting his manager, ii. ; arrested for striking young davenant, ii. ; discharged for assaulting aaron hill in , ii. , _note_ ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . price, joseph, account of him by bellchambers, i. , _note_ . prince's servants, the, before, , i. xxvi. pritchard, mrs., ii. , _note_ . profits made by the old actors, i. xxxii.; of the theatre, how divided in , i. . prologue-speaking, the art of, i. . "prophetess, the," i. . "provoked husband," cast of, i. , _note_ . "provoked wife," altered, ii. . "psyche," an opera, i. . puppet-show in salisbury change, i. . purcell, henry, i. , _note_ , ii. . quantz, mons., ii. , _note_ . queen's servants, the, before , i. xxvi. ---- theatre in the haymarket, success of swiney's company in, ii. ; set aside for operas only, ii. ; its interior altered, ii. ; opened by the seceders from drury lane in , ii. . quin, james, i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ ; the chief actor at garrick's appearance, ii. . raftor, catherine. see clive. ---- james, i. , _note_ . raillery, reflections on, i. . raymond, his "opinion" on the patent, ii. , _note_ . red bull theatre, i. xxvi., i. xxix.; used by king's company after the restoration, i. xxxi.; drawing of the stage of the, ii. , _note_ . reformation of the stage, cibber on, i. . rehan, ada, a great comedian, ii. . religion and the stage, i. xxi., i. xxxiii. "renegado, the," i. xxv. revels, master of the, his unreasonableness to cibber, i. ; his fees refused to be paid, i. . rhodes, the prompter, ii. , ii. ; his company, at the cockpit, i. xxviii.; his company of actors engaged by davenant, i. , _note_ . rich, christopher, patentee of drury lane, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. ; description of, i. , _note_ ; admits servants to theatre gratis, i. ; his treatment of his actors, i. ; consults cibber on matters of management, i. ; his principles of management, i. , ii. - ; his tactics to avoid settling with his partners, i. ; his objections to an union of the two companies, i. ; permits swiney to rent the queen's theatre, i. ; his foolish neglect of his actors, i. ; declines to execute his agreement with swiney, i. ; wishes to bring an elephant on the stage, ii. ; introduces rope-dancers at drury lane, ii. ; silenced for receiving powell, ii. , _note_ ; his share in the patent, ii. , _note_ , ii. ; his dealings with col. brett, ii. - , ii. - ; cibber on his misconduct, ii. ; his foolish mismanagement, ii. , ii. ; confiscates part of his actors' benefits, ii. ; ordered to refund this, ii. ; silenced by the lord chamberlain ( ), ii. ; his proceedings after being silenced, ii. , ii. , _note_ ; an advertisement issued by him regarding actors' salaries in , ii. , _note_ ; evicted by collier from drury lane ( ), ii. ; his patent revived in , ii. , ii. ; his extraordinary behaviour to the lord chamberlain, ii. ; genest's character of him, ii. , _note_ ; rebuilds lincoln's inn fields theatre, ii. ; his death, ii. , _note_ . rich, john, ii. , ii. , _note_ ; opens lincoln's inn fields theatre, ii. , _note_ ; an excellent harlequin, ii. , _note_ ; manages the lincoln's inn fields company, ii. ; opens covent garden, ii. . "richard iii.," cibber's adaptation of, i. ; his playing in, i. , i. ; cast of, ii. , _note_ . richardson, jonathan, ii. . roberts, mrs., one of charles ii.'s mistresses, ii. . robins, a comedian, i. xxvi. robinson, william, ii. ; hart apprenticed to, i. xxiv.; a comedian, i. xxvi.; murdered by harrison, i. xxix. rochester, lord, ii. , _note_ , ii. . rogers, mrs., i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. ; her affectation of prudery, i. ; becomes wilks's mistress, i. ; her eldest daughter, i. ; riot caused by, ii. . rogues and vagabonds, players not to be described as, i. xlix., i. . "roman actor, the," i. xxv. roman catholic religion, attacked by cibber, i. . rope-dancers on the stage, ii. . "roscius anglicanus." see downes, john. rose tavern, the, i. , _note_ . rowe, nicholas, in love with mrs. bracegirdle, i. ; complains of french dancers, i. . royal theatricals during george i.'s reign, ii. ; during previous reigns, ii. ; effect of audience on actors, ii. ; fees for, ii. . rymer, thomas, ii. . sacheverel, doctor, his trial hurtful to the theatres, ii. . st. giles's-in-the-fields, colley cibber christened at, i. , _note_ . "st. james's evening post," ii. , _note_ . st. paul's singing school, i. xlix. salisbury court, the private theatre in, i. xxiv., i. xxvi., i. xxviii. salvini, tommaso, the great italian tragedian, plays in italian, while his company plays in english, i. , _note_ . sandford, samuel, i. , i. , ii. , _note_ ; the "spagnolet" of the theatre, i. ; cibber's account of him, i. - ; his personal appearance, i. ; an actor of villains, i. , i. ; his creon ("oedipus"), i. ; the "tatler" on his acting, i. , _note_ ; anecdote of his playing an honest character, i. ; "a theatrical martyr to poetical justice," i. ; his voice and manner of speaking, i. ; would have been a perfect richard iii., i. ; cibber plays richard iii. in imitation of, i. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . santlow, hester, her first appearance as an actress, ii. ; her manner and appearance, ii. ; her character, ii. , _note_ ; her marriage with booth, ii. , _note_ . (see also booth, mrs. barton.) satire, reflections on, i. ; cibber's opinion regarding a printed and an acted, i. . saunderson, mrs. see betterton, mrs. savage, richard, ii. , _note_ ; and mrs. oldfield, ii. . scenes, first introduced by sir william davenant, i. xxxii., i. , _note_ . "secular masque, the," i. , _note_ . sedley, sir charles, kynaston's resemblance to, ii. . senesino (singer), ii. . sewell, dr. george, his "sir walter raleigh," ii. , _note_ . shadwell, charles, his "fair quaker of deal," ii. . ---- thomas, his comedy of "the squire of alsatia," i. . shaftesbury, first earl of, i. , _note_ . shakespeare, william (see also names of his plays), a better author than actor, i. xxv., i. ; his plays, i. xxv.; his plays depend less on women than on men, i. ; expenses of plays in his time, i. . "sham lawyer, the," ii. , _note_ . shank, john, a comedian, i. xxvi.; played sir roger ("scornful lady"), i. xxvi. shatterel, ii. ; superior to his successors, i. xxiv.; apprentice to beeston, i. xxv.; a quartermaster in charles i.'s army, i. xxix. shelton, lady, ii. . shore, john, brother-in-law of colley cibber, i. , _note_ . ---- miss. see cibber, mrs. colley, i. , _note_ . "shore's folly," i. , _note_ . "silent woman," i. xxiv. singers and dancers introduced by davenant, i. ; difficulty in managing, ii. . skipwith, sir george, ii. . ---- sir thomas (one of the patentees of drury lane), ii. ; does vanbrugh a service, i. ; receives "the relapse" in return, i. ; a sharer in the drury lane patent, ii. ; assigns his share to colonel brett, ii. ; his friendship for brett, ii. ; claims his share from brett, ii. . smith, william, i. , ii. , ii. ; insulted by one of the audience, i. ; defended by the king, i. ; driven from the stage because of the king's support of him, i. ; taken into good society, i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . sophocles, his tragedies, ii. . southampton house, bloomsbury, i. , _note_ . southerne, thomas, ii. ; prophesies the success of cibber's first play, i. ; his "oroonoko," i. , _note_ . spaniards, the, and religious plays, i. xxxv. "spectator," ii. . spiller, james, ii. , _note_ . stage, and religion, i. xxi., i. xxxiii.; the, cibber on the reformation of, i. ; audience on, forbidden, i. ; cibber on the influence of, ii. - ; shape of the, described, ii. ; doors, ii. , _note_ . statute regarding rogues and vagabonds, i. .; against profanity on the stage, i. .; against persons meeting out of their own parishes on sundays for sports, etc., i. .; entirely suppressing players, i. li. steele, sir richard, i. , _note_ , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; substituted for collier in the licence, ii. ; the benefits he had conferred on cibber and his partners, ii. ; dennis's attacks on, ii. , _note_ ; receives a patent, ii. ; assigns equal shares in the patent to his partners, ii. ; account of his transactions in connection with the theatre which are ignored by cibber, ii. , _note_ ; persecuted by the duke of newcastle, then lord chamberlain, ii. , _note_ ; his licence revoked, ii. , _note_ ; restored to his position, ii. , _note_ ; the expiry of his patent, ii. , _note_ ; assigns his share of the patent, ii. ; brings an action against his partners, ii. ; account of the pleadings, ii. - ; his recommendation of underhill's benefit, ii. . stow, john, his "survey of london" quoted, i. xxxv., i. xlviii. strolling players, i. xl., i. xlvii., i. . subligny, madlle., a french dancer, i. . "summer miscellany, the," ii. , _note_ . sumner, an eminent actor, i. xxvi.; his death, i. xxxi. sunderland, lady (the little whig), i. . swan theatre, drawing of the stage of the, ii. , _note_ . swanston, eliard, acted othello, i. xxvi.; the only actor that took the presbyterian side in the civil war, i. xxix. swift, jonathan, an attack on cibber by him in his "rhapsody on poetry" quoted, i. , _note_ . swiney, owen, i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his "quacks," i. , _note_ ; account of his character, i. ; memoir of, i. , _note_ ; rents the queen's theatre from vanbrugh, i. . i. . _note_ ; his agreement with rich about renting the queen's theatre, i. ; rich declines to execute it, i. ; his success at the queen's theatre in - , ii. ; his arrangement with his actors in , ii. ; control of the opera given to, ii. ; his gain by the opera in , ii. ; has joint control of plays and operas ( ), ii. ; forced to hand over the opera to collier, ii. ; forced to resume the opera, ii. ; goes abroad on account of debt, ii. ; his return to england, ii. ; cibber plays for his benefit, ii. . "tatler," the, i. , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. ; its eulogium of betterton, i. , _note_ ; recommends cave underhill's benefit, i. ; praises nicolini, ii. ; its influence on audiences, ii. . taylor, john, his "records of my life" quoted, i. lxv., _note_ . ---- joseph, ii. ; superior to hart, i. xxiv.; his chief characters, i. xxvi.; too old to go into charles i.'s army, i. xxix.; arrested for acting, i. xxx.; his death, i. xxxi. "tempest, the," as an opera, i. ; revival of, ii. . theatre, the, mentioned by stow as recently erected, i. xlviii. théâtre français, ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . theatres, number of, before , i. xxvi.; more reputable before , i. xxvii.; less reputable after the restoration, i. xxvii.; evil, artistically, of multiplying, i. . theobald, lewis, deposed from the throne of dulness, ii. . thomson, james, his "sophonisba," ii. . tofts, mrs. katherine, i. , _note_ , ii. ; cibber's account of, ii. . "tone" in speaking, i. , _note_ . trinity college, cambridge, caius cibber's statues on the library, i. ; particulars regarding these, i. , _note_ . underhill, cave, i. , i. , i. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his chief parts, i. - ; cibber's account of, i. - ; his particular excellence in stupid characters, i. ; the peculiarity of his facial expression, i. ; his retirement and last appearances, i. , _note_ ; his death, i. ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . underwood, john, originally a "chapel boy," i. xxxvii. union of companies in , i. xxxii., i. ; in , i. ; causes that led up to, ii. , ii. . valentini (valentini urbani), singer, i. , ii. , ii. . vanbrugh, sir john, i. , i. , i. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; his opinion of cibber's acting of richard iii., i. ; his "relapse," i. , i. ; his high opinion of cibber's acting, i. ; his "provoked wife," i. - ; in gratitude to sir thomas skipwith presents him with "the relapse," i. ; his "�sop," i. , i. ; his great ability, i. ; alters his "provoked wife," ii. ; his share in the "provoked husband," i. , _note_ ; builds the queen's theatre, i. ; and congreve manage the queen's theatre, i. , i. ; his "confederacy," i. ; "the cuckold in conceit" (attributed to him), i. ; his "squire trelooby," i. ; his "mistake," i. ; sole proprietor of the queen's theatre, i. ; lets it to swiney, i. , i. , _note_ . vaughan, commissioner, ii. , _note_ . "venice preserved," ii. , _note_ . verbruggen, john, i. , _note_ ; mentioned, i. , i. ; hangs about downes, the prompter, i. , _note_ ; note regarding, i. , _note_ ; anthony aston's description of, ii. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . ---- mrs. see mrs. mountfort. vere street, clare market, theatre in, i. xxxii. versatility, cibber's views on, i. . victor, benjamin, ii. ; a story told by him of cibber's cowardice, i. , _note_ ; his "history of the theatres," i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. ; his "letters" quoted, i. , _note_ ; his "life of booth," i. , _note_ , ii. , _note_ . villains, cibber's views on, i. ; macready's views on, referred to, i. , _note_ ; e. s. willard mentioned as famous for representing, i. , _note_ ; on the acting of, i. . vizard-masks (women of the town), i. xxvii. see also masks. voltaire, his "zaïre," ii. . walker, obadiah, his change of religion, ii. . waller, edmund, altered the last act of the "maid's tragedy," ii. . walpole, horace, and cibber, ii. . warburton, bishop, mentioned, i. , _note_ , ii. . ward, professor a. w., his "english dramatic literature," i. , _note_ . warwick, earl of, his frolic with pope and cibber, ii. . weaver, john, his "loves of mars and venus," ii. , _note_ . webster, benjamin, i. , _note_ . "wedding, the," i. xxv. "weekly packet" quoted, ii. , _note_ . welsted, leonard, satirically mentioned by swift, i. , _note_ . westminster bridge, difficulties in getting permission to build, ii. . whig, the little (lady sunderland), i. . white's club, cibber a member, i. , _note_ . whitefriars, i. xlix. "whitehall evening post," cibber sends verses to, regarding himself, i. . whitelocke's "memorials," ii. , _note_ . wigs. see perriwigs. wildair, sir harry, i. . "wild-goose chase, the," i. xxv. wilks, robert, i. , _note_ , i. , i. , i. , ii. , _note_ , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. , ii. ; memoirs published immediately after his death, i. ; mistakes in his hamlet, i. , _note_ ; lives with mrs. rogers, i. ; distressed by pinkethman's "gagging," i. , _note_ ; his impetuous temper, i. , i. , _note_ , i. , _note_ , ii. , ii. - , ii. ; his return to drury lane from dublin, i. ; his commencing as actor, i. ; the contest between him and powell for supremacy at drury lane, i. - , i. - ; his wonderful memory, i. , i. ; his diligence and care, i. , ii. ; his good character, i. ; made chief actor at drury lane, under rich, i. ; his energy in managing, i. ; his disputes with cibber, i. ; his friendship with mills, i. ; as a prologue-speaker, i. ; the occasion of his coming to london, i. ; and mrs. oldfield playing in same pieces, i. ; made deputy-manager by brett, ii. , _note_ ; made joint-manager with swiney and others in , ii. ; advertisement regarding his salary, , ii. , _note_ ; his characteristics as a manager, ii. , ii. ; his patronage of his friends, ii. ; his behaviour on booth's claiming to become a manager, ii. , ii. ; his favour for mills, ii. ; his connection with steele during the dispute about steele's patent, ii. , _note_ ; his love of acting, ii. ; a genuine admirer of cibber, ii. , _note_ ; attacked by dennis, ii. , _note_ ; his excellence as macduff, ii. ; gives the part to williams, ii. ; but withdraws it, ii. ; complains of acting so much, ii. ; a scene between him and his partners, ii. - ; benefits arising from his enthusiasm for acting, ii. ; and booth, their opinion of each other, ii. ; formed his style on mountfort's, ii. ; cibber's comparison of booth and wilks, ii. - ; his othello, ii. ; death of, ii. ; memoir of, ii. , _note_ ; patent granted to him, cibber, and booth, after steele's death, ii. . wilks, mrs., inherits wilks's share in the patent, ii. ; delegates her authority to john ellys, ii. ; her share sold to fleetwood, ii. . willard, e. s., mentioned, i. , _note_ . william of orange, cibber a supporter of, at the revolution, i. ; made king, i. ; gives a licence to betterton, i. , _note_ . williams, charles, wilks gives him the part of macduff, ii. ; but withdraws it, ii. ; hissed in mistake for cibber, i. , _note_ . ---- joseph, mentioned, i. , i. ; bellchambers's memoir of, ii. . wiltshire (actor), leaves the stage for the army, i. ; killed in flanders, i. . winchester college, cibber stands for election to, and is unsuccessful, i. ; his brother, lewis cibber, is afterwards successful, i. ; his father presents a statue to, i. ; communication from the head master of, i. , _note_ . wintershal (actor), belonged to the salisbury court theatre, i. xxiv. woffington, margaret, her artistic feeling, i. , _note_ ; an anecdote wrongly connected with her, ii. . "woman's wit," cast of, i. , _note_ . women, their first introduction on the stage, i. xxxii., i. , _note_ , i. . wren, sir christopher, the designer of drury lane theatre, ii. . wright, james, his "history of rutlandshire," i. ; quoted, i. , _note_ ; his "historia histrionica," i. xix. wykeham, william of, cibber connected with by descent, i. . "ximena," cast of, ii. , _note_ . york, duke of (james ii.), at whitehall, i. . young, dr. edward, his "epistle to mr. pope" quoted, i. , _note_ . young actors, dearth of, ii. . end of vol. i. [illustration: chiswick press:-c. whittingham and co., tooks court, chancery lane.] footnotes [footnote : colley cibber's "brazen brainless brothers." according to horace walpole, "one of the statues was the portrait of oliver cromwell's porter, then in bedlam."] [footnote : till the year of queen _elizabeth_, the queen had not any players; but in that year of the best of all those who belonged to several lords, were chosen & sworn her servants, as grooms of the chamber. stow's _annals_, p. .] [footnote : the right honourable henry pelham. davies ("life of garrick," ii. ) says that the "apology" was dedicated to "that wise and honest minister," pelham. john taylor ("records of my life," i. ) writes: "the name of the person to whom the dedication to the 'apology' was addressed is not mentioned, but the late mr. john kemble assured me that he had authority for saying it was mr. pelham, brother to the duke of newcastle." from the internal evidence it seems quite clear that this is so. in the verses to cibber quoted in "the egotist," p. , the authoress writes:-- "_some praise a patron and reveal him: you paint so true, you can't conceal him._ their _gaudy praise undue but shames him, while_ your's _by likeness only names him."_] [footnote : cibber, in chapter ix., mentions that he is writing his apology at bath, and fielding, in the mock trial of "_col._ apol." given in "the champion" of th may, , indicts the prisoner "for that you, not having the fear of grammar before your eyes, on the ---- of ---- at a certain place, called the _bath_, in the county of _somerset_, in _knights-bridge_, in the county of _middlesex_, in and upon the _english_ language an assault did make, and then and there, with a certain weapon called a goose-quill, value one farthing, which you in your left hand then held, several very broad wounds but of no depth at all, on the said _english_ language did make, and so you the said col. _apol._ the said _english_ language did murder."] [footnote : this seems to be a favourite argument of cibber. in his "letter" to pope, , he answers pope's line, "and has not colley still his lord and whore?" at great length, one of his arguments being that the latter accusation, "without some particular circumstances to aggravate the vice, is the flattest piece of satyr that ever fell from the formidable pen of mr. _pope_: because (_defendit numerus_) take the first ten thousand men you meet, and i believe, you would be no loser, if you betted ten to one that every single sinner of them, one with another, had been guilty of the same frailty."--p. .] [footnote : cibber's "apology" must have been a very profitable book. it was published in one volume quarto in , and in the same year the second edition, one volume octavo, was issued. a third edition appeared in , also in one volume octavo. davies ("dramatic miscellanies," iii. ) says: "cibber must have raised considerable contributions on the public by his works. to say nothing of the sums accumulated by dedications, benefits, and the sale of his plays singly, his dramatic works, in quarto, by subscription, published , produced him a considerable sum of money. it is computed that he gained, by the excellent apology for his life, no less than the sum of £ , ." "the laureat" ( ) is perhaps davies's authority for his computation. "_ingenious indeed_, who from such a pile of indigested incoherent ideas huddled together by the _misnomer_ of a history, could raise a contribution on the town (if fame says true) of fifteen hundred pounds."--"laureat," p. . cibber no doubt kept the copyright of the first and second editions in his own hands. in he sold his copyright to robert dodsley for the sum of fifty guineas. the original assignment, which bears the date "march ye th, / ," is in the collection of mr. julian marshall.] [footnote : of mrs. oldfield there was a volume of "authentick memoirs" published in , the year she died; and in appeared egerton's "faithful memoirs," and "the lover's miscellany," in which latter are memoirs of mrs. oldfield's "life and amours." three memoirs of wilks immediately followed his death, the third of which was written by curll, who denounces the other two as frauds. benjamin victor wrote a memoir of booth which was published in the year of his death, and there was one unauthorized memoir issued in the same year. bellchambers instances the life of congreve as another imposition.] [footnote : from this expression it appears that cibber did not contemplate again returning to the stage. he did, however, make a few final appearances, his last being to support his own adaptation of shakespeare's "king john," which he called "papal tyranny in the reign of king john," and which was produced at covent garden on th february, .] [footnote : "the rehearsal," act iii. sc. .] [footnote : the christening of colley cibber is recorded in the baptismal register of the church of st. giles-in-the-fields. the entry reads:-- "november christnings . colly sonne of caius gabriell sibber and jane ux"] [footnote : mr. laurence hutton, in his "literary landmarks of london," page , says: "southampton house, afterwards bedford house, taken down in the beginning of the present century, occupied the north side of bloomsbury square. evelyn speaks of it in his diary, october, , as in course of construction. another and an earlier southampton house in holborn, 'a little above holborn bars,' was removed some twenty years before cibber's birth. he was, therefore, probably born at the upper or north end of southampton street, facing bloomsbury square, where now are comparatively modern buildings, and not in southampton street, strand, as is generally supposed."] [footnote : caius gabriel cibber, born at flensborg in holstein in ; married, as his second wife, jane colley, on th november, ; died in . he was, as colley cibber states, a sculptor of some note.] [footnote : "where o'er the gates, by his fam'd father's hand, great cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand." (final edition of "the dunciad," i. verses - .) bellchambers notes that these figures were removed to the new hospital in st. george's fields. they are now in south kensington museum.] [footnote : "it was found by office taken in the th year of h. . that _john colly_ deceased, held the mannour and advowson of glaiston of _edward_ duke of buckingham, as of his castle of okeham by knights service."--wright's "history and antiquities of the county of rutland," p. . "in the . _car._ i. ( ) sir _anthony colly_ knight, then lord of this mannor, joyned with his son and heir apparent, _william colly_ esquire, in a conveyance of divers parcels of land in glaiston, together with the advowson of the church there, to _edward andrews_ of bisbroke in this county, esquire: which advowson is since conveyed over to _peterhouse_ in cambridge."--_ibid._ p. .] [footnote : fielding ("joseph andrews," chap. iii.), writing of parson adams, says: "simplicity was his characteristic: he did, no more than mr. colley cibber, apprehend any such passions as malice and envy to exist in mankind; which was indeed less remarkable in a country parson, than in a gentleman who has passed his life behind the scenes--a place which has been seldom thought the school of innocence."] [footnote : glout is an obsolete word signifying "to pout, to look sullen."] [footnote : bellchambers suggests that these two persons were the earl of chesterfield and "bubb doddington." as to the former he is no doubt correct, but i cannot see a single feature of resemblance between the second portrait and lord melcombe. "the laureat" says (p. ) that the portraits were "l----d c----d and mr. e----e" [probably erskine]. bellchambers seems to have supposed that "bubb" was a nickname.] [footnote : "set the table on a roar."--"hamlet," act v. sc. .] [footnote : ter. _eun._ i. , .] [footnote : _ars poetica_, .] [footnote : in william byrd's collection, entitled "psalmes, sonets, & songs of sadnes and pietie," , to., is the song to which cibber probably refers:-- "my minde to me a kingdome is." mr. bullen, in his "lyrics from elizabethan song-books" (p. ), quotes it.] [footnote : "and so many a time, when i have spoke of you dispraisingly, hath ta'en your part."--"othello," act iii. sc. .] [footnote : this is gibber's first allusion to pope's enmity. it was after the publication of the "apology" that pope's attacks became more bitter.] [footnote : horace, _epis._ ii. , .] [footnote : charles ii.'s flight from his scottish presbyterian subjects, at the end of , to take refuge among his wild highland supporters, was caused by the insolent invectives of the rigid presbyterian clergymen, who preached long sermons at him, on his own wickedness and that of his father and mother, and made his life generally a burden.] [footnote : hor. _od._ iv. , .] [footnote : "os homini sublime dedit."--ovid, _met._ i. .] [footnote : cibber is pardonably vain throughout at the society he moved in. his greatest social distinction was his election as a member of white's. his admission to such society was of course the subject of lampoons, such as the following:-- "_the_ buffoon, _an_ epigram. don't boast, prithee _cibber_, so much of thy state, that like _pope_ you are blest with the smiles of the great; with both they converse, but for different ends, and 'tis easy to know their buffoons from their friends."] [footnote : arlington did not, however, die till the th july, , surviving charles ii. by nearly six months.] [footnote : cibber was appointed poet-laureate on the death of eusden. his appointment was dated rd december, .] [footnote : "forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit."--virg. _�neid_, i. .] [footnote : as laureate, and as author of "the nonjuror," cibber is bound to be extremely loyal to the protestant dynasty.] [footnote : curiously enough, cibber's praise of his deceased companion-actors has been attributed to something of this motive.] [footnote : bellchambers prints these words thus: "lick at the laureat," as if cibber had referred to the title of a book; and notes: "this is the title of a pamphlet in which some of mr. cibber's peculiarities have been severely handled." but i doubt this, for there is nothing in cibber's arrangement of the words to denote that they represent the title of a book; and, besides, i know no work with such a title published before . bellchambers, in a note on page , represents that he quotes from "lick at the laureat, ;" but i find the quotation he gives in "the laureat," (p. ), almost _verbatim_. as it stands in the latter there is no hint that it is quoted from a previous work, nor, indeed, do the terms of it permit of such an interpretation. i can, therefore, only suppose that bellchambers is wrong in attributing the sentence to a work called "a lick at the laureat."] [footnote : the principal allusions to cibber which, up to the time of the publication of the "apology," pope had made, were in the "dunciad":-- "how, with less reading than makes felons 'scape, less human genius than god gives an ape, small thanks to france and none to rome or greece, a past, vamp'd, future, old, reviv'd, new piece, 'twixt plautus, fletcher, congreve, and corneille, can make a cibber, johnson, or ozell." second edition, book i. - . "beneath his reign, shall eusden wear the bays, cibber preside, lord-chancellor of plays." second edition, book iii. , . in the "epistle to dr. arbuthnot" there were one or two passing allusions to cibber, one of them being the line:-- "and has not colley still his lord and whore?" for which cibber retaliated in his "letter" of . in the "first epistle of the second book of horace" ( ), cibber is scurvily treated. in it occur the lines:-- "and idle cibber, how he breaks the laws, to make poor pinkey eat with vast applause!"] [footnote : cibber's odes were a fruitful subject of banter. fielding in "pasquin," act ii. sc. , has the following passage:-- "_ nd voter._ my lord, i should like a place at court too; i don't much care what it is, provided i wear fine cloaths, and have something to do in the kitchen, or the cellar; i own i should like the cellar, for i am a divilish lover of sack. _lord place._ sack, say you? odso, you shall be poet-laureat. _ nd voter._ poet! no, my lord, i am no poet, i can't make verses. _lord place._ no matter for that--you'll be able to make odes. _ nd voter._ odes, my lord! what are those? _lord place._ faith, sir, i can't tell well what they are; but i know you may be qualified for the place without being a poet." boswell ("life of johnson," i. ) reports that johnson said, "his [cibber's] friends give out that he _intended_ his birth-day _odes_ should be bad: but that was not the case, sir; for he kept them many months by him, and a few years before he died he shewed me one of them, with great solicitude to render it as perfect as might be." in "the egotist" (p. ) cibber is made to say: "as bad verses are the devil, and good ones i can't get up to----"] [footnote : "champion," th april, : "when he says (fol. ) satire is _angrily_ particular, every dunce of a reader knows that he means angry with a particular person."] [footnote : cibber's allusion to pope's treatment of addison is a fair hit.] [footnote : juvenal, i. .] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) says: "if we except the remarks on plays and players by the authors of the tatler and spectator, the theatrical observations in those days were coarse and illiberal, when compared to what we read in our present daily and other periodical papers."] [footnote : "_frankly._ is it not commendable in a man of parts, to be warmly concerned for his reputation? _author [cibber]._ in what regards his honesty or honour, i will make you some allowances: but for the reputation of his parts, not one tittle!"--"the egotist: or, colley upon cibber," p. . bellchambers notes here: "when cibber was charged with moral offences of a deeper dye, he thought himself at liberty, i presume, to relinquish his indifference, and bring the libeller to account. on a future page will be found the public advertisement in which he offered a reward of ten pounds for the detection of dennis."] [footnote : "_frankly._ it will be always natural for authors to defend their works. _author [cibber]._ and would it not be as well, if their works defended themselves?"--"the egotist: or, colley upon cibber," p. .] [footnote : in his "letter to pope," , p. , cibber says: "after near twenty years having been libell'd by our daily-paper scriblers, i never was so hurt, as to give them one single answer."] [footnote : "_frankly._ i am afraid you will discover yourself; and your philosophical air will come out at last meer vanity in masquerade. _author [cibber]._ o! if there be vanity in keeping one's temper; with all my heart."--"the egotist: or, colley upon cibber," p. .] [footnote : in his "letter to pope," , p. , cibber says: "i would not have even your merited fame in poetry, if it were to be attended with half the fretful solicitude you seem to have lain under to maintain it."] [footnote : the best epigram is that which cibber ("letter," , p. ) attributes to pope:-- "in merry old england, it once was a rule, the king had his poet, and also his fool. but now we're so frugal, i'd have you to know it, that cibber can serve both for fool and for poet." dr. johnson also wrote an epigram, of which he seems to have been somewhat proud:-- "augustus still survives in maro's strain, and spenser's verse prolongs eliza's reign; great george's acts let tuneful cibber sing; for nature form'd the poet for the king." boswell, i. . in "certain epigrams, in laud and praise of the gentlemen of the dunciad," p. , is:-- epigram xvi. _a question by_ anonymus. "tell, if you can, which did the worse, _caligula_, or _gr--n's_ [grafton's] gr--ce? that made a consul of a _horse_, and this a laureate of an _ass_." in "the egotist: or, colley upon cibber," p. , cibber is made to say: "an _ode_ is a butt, that a whole quiver of wit is let fly at every year!"] [footnote : "the laureat" says: "the things he calls verses, carry the most evident marks of their parent _colley_."--p. .] [footnote : _a line in the epilogue to the_ nonjuror.] [footnote : this allusion to time shows that cibber began his "apology" about .] [footnote : fielding has many extremely good attacks on cibber's style and language. for instance:-- "i shall here only obviate a flying report ... that whatever language it was writ in, it certainly could not be _english_.... now i shall prove it to be _english_ in the following manner. whatever book is writ in no other language, is writ in _english_. this book is writ in no other language, _ergo_, it is writ in _english_."--"champion," nd april, . again ("joseph andrews," book iii. chap. vi.), addressing the muse or genius that presides over biography, he says: "thou, who, without the assistance of the least spice of literature, and even against his inclination, hast, in some pages of his book, forced colley cibber to write english."] [footnote : in later editions the expression was changed to "she here outdid her usual excellence."] [footnote : "decies repetita placebit."--horace, _ars poetica_, .] [footnote : "for instance: when you rashly think, no rhymer can like welsted sink, his merits balanc'd, you shall find, the laureat leaves him far behind." swift, _on poetry: a rhapsody_, l. .] [footnote : "_frankly._ then for your reputation, if you won't bustle about it, and now and then give it these little helps of art, how can you hope to raise it? _author [cibber]._ if it can't live upon simple nature, let it die, and be damn'd! i shall give myself no further trouble about it."--"the egotist: or, colley upon cibber," p. .] [footnote : young's second "epistle to mr. pope."] [footnote : indirectly surely, william of wykeham being a priest.] [footnote : i am indebted to the courtesy of the head master of winchester college, the rev. dr. fearon, for the information that this statue, a finely designed and well-executed work, still stands over the door of the big school. a latin inscription states that it was presented by caius gabriel cibber in .] [footnote : bellchambers finds in this sentence "a levity, which accords with the charges so often brought against cibber of impiety and irreligion;" and he quotes from davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) two stories--one, that cibber spat at a picture of our saviour; and the other, that he endeavoured to enter into discussion with "honest mr. william whiston" with the intention of insulting him. both anecdotes seem to me rather foolish. i do not suppose cibber was in any sense a religious man, but his works are far from giving any offence to religion; and, as a paid supporter of a protestant succession, i think he was too prudent to be an open scoffer. a sentence in one of victor's "letters" (i. ), written from tunbridge, would seem to show that cibber at least preserved appearances. he says, "every one complies with what is called the _fashion_--_cibber_ goes constantly to _prayers_--and the curate (to return the compliment) as constantly, when prayers are over, to the _gaming table_!"] [footnote : by the kindness of a friend at cambridge i am enabled to give the following interesting extracts from a letter written by mr. william white, of trinity college library, regarding the statues here referred to: "they occupy the four piers, subdividing the balustrade on the east side of the library, overlooking neville's court. the four statues represent divinity, law, physic, and mathematics. that these were executed by mr. gabriel cibber our books will prove. i will give you two or three extracts from grumbold's account book, kept in the library. he was foreman of the works when the library was built. i think cibber cut the statues here. it is quite certain he and his men were here some time: no doubt they superintended the placing of them in their positions, at so great a height. 'payd for the carridg of a larg block stone given by john manning to ye coll. for one of ye figures : : .' 'may , . pd to mr gabriell cibber for cutting four statues : : .' ' june. pd to ye widdo bats for mr gabriel cibbers and his mens diatt : : . pd to mr martin [for the same] : : .'" in connection with these statues an amusing practical joke was played while byron was an undergraduate, which was attributed to him--unjustly, however, i believe.] [footnote : th november, .] [footnote : fielding, in "joseph andrews," book i. chap. i: "how artfully does the former [cibber] by insinuating that he escaped being promoted to the highest stations in the church and state, teach us a contempt of worldly grandeur! how strongly does he inculcate an absolute submission to our superiors!"] [footnote : fielding ("champion," th may, ): "not to mention our author's comparisons of himself to king _james_, the prince of _orange_, _alexander the great_, _charles_ the xiith, and _harry_ iv. of _france_, his favourite simile is a lion, thus _page_ , we have a satisfied presumption, that _to drive_ england _into slavery is like teaching_ an old lion to dance. . _our new critics are like lions whelps that dash down the bowls of milk &c._ besides a third allusion to the same animal: and this brings into my mind a story which i once heard from _booth_, that our biographer had, in one of his plays in a local simile, introduced this generous beast in some island or country where lions did not grow; of which being informed by the learned _booth_, the biographer replied, _prithee tell me then, where there is a lion, for god's curse, if there be a lion in_ europe, asia, africa, _or_ america, _i will not lose my simile_."] [footnote : lucretius, i. .] [footnote : john dennis, in an advertisement to "the invader of his country," , says, "'tis as easy for mr. _cibber_ at this time of day to make a bounce with his loyalty, as 'tis for a bully at sea, who had lain hid in the hold all the time of the fight, to come up and swagger upon the deck after the danger is over."] [footnote : "champion," th april, : "when in _page_ , we read, _beauty_ shines _into equal warmth the peasant and the courtier_, do we not know what he means though he hath made a verb active of shine, as in _page_ , he hath of regret, _nothing could more painfully regret a judicious spectator_."] [footnote : one of the commonest imputations made against cibber was that he was of a cowardly temper. in "common sense" for th june, , a paper attributed to lord chesterfield, there is a dissertation on kicking as a humorous incident on the stage. the writer adds: "of all the comedians who have appeared upon the stage within my memory, no one has taking (_sic_) a kicking with so much humour as our present most excellent laureat, and i am inform'd his son does not fall much short of him in this excellence; i am very glad of it, for as i have a kindness for the young man, i hope to see him as well kick'd as his father was before him." i confess that i am not quite sure how far this sentence is ironically meant, but bellchambers refers to it as conveying a serious accusation of cowardice. he also quotes from davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ), who relates, on the authority of victor, that cibber, having reduced bickerstaffe's salary by one-half, was waited upon by that actor, who "flatly told him, that as he could not subsist on the small sum to which he had reduced his salary, he must call the author of his distress to an account, for that it would be easier for him to lose his life than to starve. the affrighted cibber told him, he should receive an answer from him on saturday next. bickerstaffe found, on that day, his usual income was continued." this story rests only on victor's authority, but is, of course, not improbable. there is also a vague report that gay, in revenge for cibber's banter of "three hours after marriage," personally chastised him, but i know no good authority for the story.] [footnote : cibber ( st ed.) wrote: "new honours of duke of _devonshire_, lord steward," &c. he corrected his blunder in nd ed.] [footnote : see macaulay ("history," , vol. ii. p. ).] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) says: "cibber and verbruggen were two dissipated young fellows, who determined, in opposition to the advice of friends, to become great actors. much about the same time, they were constant attendants upon downes, the prompter of drury-lane, in expectation of employment."] [footnote : "the laureat" states that miss santlow (afterwards mrs. barton booth) was the actress referred to; that captain montague was her assailant, and mr. secretary craggs her defender.] [footnote : see memoir of william smith at end of second volume.] [footnote : see memoir.] [footnote : "as where's that palace whereinto foul things sometimes intrude not?"--"othello," act iii. sc. .] [footnote : captain griffin was, no doubt, the griffin who is mentioned by downes as entering the king's company "after they had begun at drury lane." this is of course very indefinite as regards time. drury lane was opened in , but the first character for which we can find griffin's name mentioned, is that of varnish in "the plain-dealer," which was produced in . at the union in , griffin took a good position in the amalgamated company, and continued on the stage till about , when his name disappears from the bills. during this time he is not called _captain,_ but in the name of captain griffin appears among the drury lane actors. genest says it is more probable that this should be griffin returned to the stage after thirteen years spent in the army, than that captain griffin should have gone on the stage without having previously been connected with it. in this genest is quite correct, for the anecdote of goodman and griffin, which cibber tells in chap. xii. shows conclusively that _captain_ griffin was an actor during goodman's stage-career, which ended certainly before . he appears to have finally retired about the beginning of . downes says "_mr._ griffin _so excell'd in_ surly. sir edward belfond, _the_ plain dealer, _none succeeding in the former have equall'd him_, [nor any] _except his predecessor mr._ hart _in the latter_" (p. ). i have ventured to supply the two words "nor any" to make clear what downes must have meant.] [footnote : the "biographia dramatica" (i. ) gives an account of james carlile. he was a native of lancashire, and in his youth was an actor; but he left the stage for the army, and was killed at the battle of aughrim, th july, . nothing practically is known of his stage career. downes (p. ) notes that at the union of the patents in , "mr. _monfort_ and mr. _carlile_, were grown to the maturity of good _actors_." i cannot trace carlile's name in the bills any later than .] [footnote : wiltshire seems to have been a very useful actor of the second rank. in he also appears for the last time.] [footnote : that ben jonson was an unsuccessful actor is gravely doubted by gifford and by his latest editor, lieut.-col. cunningham, who give excellent reasons in support of their view. see memoir prefixed to edition of jonson, , i. xi.] [footnote : sir william davenant was the son of a vintner and innkeeper at oxford. it was said that shakespeare used frequently to stay at the inn, and a story accordingly was manufactured that william davenant was in fact the son of the poet through an amour with mrs. davenant. but of this there is no shadow of proof. davenant went to oxford, but made no special figure as a scholar, winning fame, however, as a poet and dramatist. on the death of ben jonson in he was appointed poet-laureate, and in received a licence from charles i. to get together a company of players. in the civil war he greatly distinguished himself, and was knighted by the king for his bravery. before the restoration davenant was permitted by cromwell to perform some sort of theatrical pieces at rutland house, in charter-house yard, where "the siege of rhodes" was played about . at the restoration a patent was granted to him in august, , and he engaged rhodes's company of players, including betterton, kynaston, underhill, and nokes. another patent was granted to him, dated th january, , (see copy of patent given _ante,_) under which he managed the theatre in lincoln's inn fields till his death in . davenant's company were called the duke's players. the changes which were made in the conduct of the stage during davenant's career, such as the introduction of elaborate scenery and the first appearance of women in plays, make it one of the first interest and importance. (see mr. joseph knight's preface to his recent edition of the "roscius anglicanus.")] [footnote : thomas killigrew (not "henry" killigrew, as cibber erroneously writes) was a very noted and daring humorist. he was a faithful adherent of king charles i., and at the restoration was made a groom of the bedchamber. he also received a patent, dated th april, , to raise a company of actors to be called the king's players. these acted at the theatre royal in drury lane. killigrew survived the union of the two companies in , dying on the th of march, . he cannot be said to have made much mark in theatrical history. the best anecdote of killigrew is that related by granger, how he waited on charles ii. one day dressed like a pilgrim bound on a long journey. when the king asked him whither he was going, he replied, "to hell, to fetch back oliver cromwell to take care of england, for his successor takes none at all."] [footnote : it is curious to note that this theatre, which occupied the same site as the present drury lane, was sometimes described as drury lane, sometimes as covent garden.] [footnote : should be lincoln's inn fields. dorset garden, which was situated in salisbury court, fleet street, was not opened till .] [footnote : genest (ii. ) remarks on this: "how long this lasted does not appear--it appears however that it lasted to queen anne's time, as the alteration of 'wit without money' is dedicated to thomas newman, servant to her majesty, one of the gentlemen of the great chamber, and book-keeper and prompter to her majesty's company of comedians in the haymarket." dr. doran in his "their majesties' servants" ( edition, iii. ), says that he was informed by benjamin webster that baddeley was the last actor who wore the uniform of scarlet and gold prescribed for the gentlemen of the household, who were patented actors.] [footnote : the question of the identity of the first english actress is a very intricate one. mr. percy fitzgerald, in his "new history of the english stage," seems to incline to favour anne marshall, while mr. joseph knight, in his edition of the "roscius anglicanus," pronounces for mrs. coleman. davies says positively that "the first woman actress was the mother of norris, commonly called jubilee dicky." thomas jordan wrote a prologue "to introduce the first woman that came to act on the stage," but as the lady's name is not given, this does not help us. the distinction is also claimed for mrs. saunderson (afterwards mrs. betterton) and margaret hughes. but since mr. knight has shown that the performances in at rutland house, where mrs. coleman appeared, were for money, i do not see that we can escape from the conclusion that this lady was the first english professional actress. who the first actress after the restoration was is as yet unsettled.] [footnote : meaning, no doubt, nell gwyn and moll davis.] [footnote : genest points out (i. ) that cibber is not quite accurate here. shakespeare's and fletcher's plays _may_ have been shared; jonson's certainly were not.] [footnote : see memoir of hart at end of second volume.] [footnote : genest says that this regulation "might be very proper at the first restoration of the stage; but as a perpetual rule it was absurd. cibber approves of it, not considering that betterton could never have acted othello, brutus, or hotspur (the very parts for which cibber praises him so much) if there had not been a junction of the companies." bellchambers, in a long note, also contests cibber's opinion.] [footnote : in the season - , in addition to the two patent theatres, drury lane and covent garden, giffard was playing at goodman's fields theatre, and fielding, with his great mogul's company of comedians, occupied the haymarket. in - giffard played at the lincoln's-inn-fields theatre, and goodman's fields was unused. the licensing act of closed the two irregular houses, leaving only drury lane and covent garden open.] [footnote : cibber here refers to the pantomimes, which he deals with at some length in chapter xv.] [footnote : fielding ("champion," th may, ): "another observation which i have made on our author's similies is, that they generally have an eye towards the kitchen. thus, _page , two play-houses are like two_ puddings _or two_ legs of mutton. _ . to plant young actors is not so easy as to plant_ cabbages. to which let me add a metaphor in _page _, where _unprofitable praise can hardly give truth a_ soup maigre."] [footnote : "dramatic operas" seem to have been first produced about . in "the tempest," made into an opera by shadwell, was played at dorset garden; "pysche" followed in the next year, and "circe" in . "macbeth," as altered by davenant, was produced in , "in the nature of an opera," as downes phrases it.] [footnote : dryden, in his "prologue on the opening of the new house" in , writes:-- "'twere folly now a stately pile to raise, to build a playhouse while you throw down plays; while scenes, machines, and empty operas reign----" and the prologue concludes with the lines:-- "'tis to be feared---- that, as a fire the former house o'erthrew, machines and tempests will destroy the new." the allusion in the last line is to the opera of "the tempest," which i have mentioned in the previous note.] [footnote : "probitas laudatur et alget." juvenal, i. .] [footnote : in the prologue to "the emperor of the moon," , the line occurred: "there's nothing lasting but the puppet-show."] [footnote : "ita populus studio stupidus in funambulo animum occuparat." terence, _prol. to "hecyra,"_ line .] [footnote : see memoir of michael mohun at end of second volume.] [footnote : see memoir of cardell goodman at end of second volume.] [footnote : of clark very little is known. the earliest play in which his name is given by downes is "the plain-dealer," which was produced at the theatre royal in , clark playing novel, a part of secondary importance. his name appears to massina in "sophonisba," hephestion in "alexander the great," dolabella in "all for love," aquitius in "mythridates," and (his last recorded part) the earl of essex, the principal character in "the unhappy favourite," theatre royal, . after the union of the companies in his name does not occur. bellchambers has several trifling errors in the memoir he gives of this actor.] [footnote : curll ("history of the english stage," p. ) says: "the feuds and animosities of the king's _company_ were so well improved, as to produce an union betwixt the two patents."] [footnote : cibber gives the year as , but this is so obviously a slip that i venture to correct the text.] [footnote : genest (ii. ) remarks: "the theatre in dorset garden had been built by subscription--the subscribers were called adventurers--of this cibber seems totally ignorant--that there were any new adventurers, added to the original number, rests solely on his authority, and in all probability he is not correct."] [footnote : cibber afterwards relates the connection of owen swiney, william collier, m.p., and sir richard steele, with himself and his actor-partners.] [footnote : the only one of cibber's contemporaries of any note who was alive when the "apology" was published, was benjamin johnson. this admirable comedian died in august, , in his seventy-seventh year, having played as late as the end of may of that year.] [footnote : the actor pointed at is, no doubt, wilks. in the last chapter of this work cibber, in giving the theatrical character of wilks, says of his hamlet: "i own the half of what he spoke was as painful to my ear, as every line that came from betterton was charming."] [footnote : barton booth, who was probably as great in the part of the ghost as betterton was in hamlet, said, "when i acted the ghost with betterton, instead of my awing him, he terrified me. but divinity hung round that man!"--"dram. misc.," iii. .] [footnote : "the laureat" repeats the eulogium of a gentleman who had seen betterton play hamlet, and adds: "and yet, the same gentleman assured me, he has seen mr. _betterton_, more than once, play this character to an audience of twenty pounds, or under" (p. ).] [footnote : _ars poetica_, . this is the much discussed question of diderot's "paradoxe sur le comédien," which has recently been revived by mr. henry irving and m. coquelin, and has formed the subject of some interesting studies by mr. william archer.] [footnote : this is doubtless directed at booth, who was naturally of an indolent disposition, and seems to have been, on occasions, apt to drag through a part.] [footnote : ausonius, ii, (_epigram_, xi.).] [footnote : "alexander the great; or, the rival queens," act ii. sc. .] [footnote : bellchambers notes on this passage: "the criticisms of cibber upon a literary subject are hardly worth the trouble of confuting, and yet it may be mentioned that bishop warburton adduced these lines as containing not only the most sublime, but the most judicious imagery that poetry can conceive. if le brun, or any other artist, could not succeed in pourtraying the terrors of fortune, it conveys, perhaps, the highest possible compliment to the powers of lee, to admit that he has mastered a difficulty beyond the most daring aspirations of an accomplished painter." with all respect to warburton and bellchambers, i cannot help remarking that this last sentence seems to me perilously like nonsense.] [footnote : i can find no record of this revival, nor am i aware that any other authority than cibber mentions it. i am unable therefore even to guess at a date.] [footnote : in , in betterton's own company at the haymarket, verbruggen played alexander. at drury lane, in , wilks had played the part.] [footnote : anthony aston says that his voice "enforced universal attention even from the fops and orange girls."] [footnote : anthony aston says of mrs. barry: "neither she, nor any of the actors of those times, had any tone in their speaking, (too much, lately, in use.)" but the line of criticism which cibber takes up here would lead to the conclusion that aston is not strictly accurate; and, moreover, i can scarcely imagine how, if these older actors used no "tone," the employment of it should have been so general as it certainly was a few years after betterton's death. victor ("history," ii. ) writes of "the good old manner of singing and quavering out their tragic notes," and on the same page mentions cibber's "quavering tragedy tones." my view, also, is confirmed by the facts that in the preface to "the fairy queen," , it is said: "he must be a very ignorant player, who knows not there is a musical cadence in speaking; and that a man may as well speak out of tune, as sing out of tune;" and that aaron hill, in his dedication of "the fatal vision," , reprobates the "affected, vicious, and unnatural tone of voice, so common on the stage at that time." see genest, iv. - . an admirable description of this method of reciting is given by cumberland ("memoirs," nd edition, i. ): "mrs. cibber in a key, high-pitched but sweet withal, sung, or rather recitatived rowe's harmonious strain, something in the manner of the improvisatories: it was so extremely wanting in contrast, that, though it did not wound the ear, it wearied it." cumberland is writing of mrs. cibber in the earlier part of her career ( ), when the teaching of her husband's father, colley cibber, influenced her acting: no doubt garrick, who exploded the old way of speaking, made her ultimately modify her style. yet as she was, even in , a very distinguished pathetic actress, we are forced to the conclusion that the old style must have been more effective than we are disposed to believe.] [footnote : as dr. johnson puts it in his famous prologue ( ):-- "ah! let no censure term our fate our choice, the stage but echoes back the public voice; the drama's laws the drama's patrons give, for we, that live to please, must please to live."] [footnote : "amphytrion" was played in . the dedication is dated th october, .] [footnote : downes ("roscius anglicanus," p. ) relates lee's misadventure, which he attributes to stage-fright. he says of otway the poet, that on his first appearance "_the full house put him to such a sweat and tremendous agony, being dash't, spoilt him for an actor. mr._ nat. lee, _had the same fate in acting_ duncan _in_ macbeth, _ruin'd him for an actor too_."] [footnote : see memoir of estcourt at end of second volume.] [footnote : it will be remembered that the elder mathews, the most extraordinary mimic of modern times, had this same power in great perfection. see his "memoirs," iii. - .] [footnote : cibber has been charged with gross unfairness to estcourt, and his unfavourable estimate of him has been attributed to envy; but estcourt's ability seems to have been at least questionable. this matter will be found treated at some length in the memoir of estcourt in the appendix to this work.] [footnote : "his voice was low and grumbling."--anthony aston.] [footnote : in otway's tragedy of "the orphan," produced at dorset garden in , betterton was the original castalio.] [footnote : see memoir of betterton at end of second volume.] [footnote : th april, .] [footnote : in the "tatler," no. , in which the famous criticism of betterton's excellencies is given, his funeral is stated to have taken place on nd may, .] [footnote : i do not know whether cibber in making this remark had in view gildon's life of betterton, in which there are twenty pages of memoir to one hundred and fifty of dissertation on acting.] [footnote : this seems to have been done to a very limited extent. the first unquestionable date on which, after , women appeared is rd january, , when pepys saw "the beggar's bush" at the theatre, that is, killigrew's house, and notes, "and here the first time that ever i saw women come upon the stage." at the same theatre he had seen the same play on th november, , the female parts being then played by men. thomas jordan wrote "_a prologue, to introduce the first woman that came to act on the stage, in the tragedy called_ the moor of venice" (quoted by malone, "shakespeare," , iii. ), and malone supposes justly as i think, that this was on th december, ; on which date, in all probability, the first woman appeared on the stage after the restoration. who she was we do not know. see _ante_, p. . on th january, , kynaston played epicoene in "the silent woman," and on th january, , pepys saw "the scornful lady," "now done by a woman." on the th of the same month pepys had seen the latter play with a man in the chief part, so that it is almost certain that the "boy-actresses" disappeared about the beginning of .] [footnote : "the laureat" (p. ): "i am of opinion, _booth_ was not wrong in this. there are many of the sentiments in this character, where nature and common sense are outraged; and an actor, who shou'd give the full comic utterance to them in his delivery, would raise what they call a _horse-laugh_, and turn it into burlesque." on the other hand, theophilus cibber, in his life of booth, p. , supports his father's opinion, saying:-- "the remark is just--mr. _booth_ would sometimes slur over such bold sentiments, so flightily delivered by the poet. as he was good-natured--and would 'hear each man's censure, yet reserve his judgment,'--i once took the liberty of observing, that he had neglected (as i thought) giving that kind of spirited turn in the afore-mentioned character--he told me i was mistaken; it was not negligence, but design made him so slightly pass them over:--for though, added he, in these places one might raise a laugh of approbation in a few,--yet there is nothing more unsafe than exciting the laugh of simpletons, who never know when or where to stop; and, as the majority are not always the wisest part of an audience,--i don't chuse to run the hazard."] [footnote : a long account of the production of "cato" is given by cibber in chap. xiv. from the cast quoted in a note, it will be seen that cibber himself was the original syphax.] [footnote : "the laureat" (p. ): "i have seen the original _syphax_ in _cato_, use many ridiculous distortions, crack in his voice, and wreathe his muscles and his limbs, which created not a smile of approbation, but a loud laugh of contempt and ridicule on the actor." on page : "in my opinion, the part of _syphax_, as it was originally play'd, was the only part in _cato_ not tolerably executed."] [footnote : bellchambers on this passage has one of those aggravating notes, in which he seems to try to blacken cibber as much as possible. i confess that i can see nothing of the "venom" he resents so vigorously. he says:-- "theophilus cibber, in the tract already quoted, expressly states, that booth 'was not so scrupulously nice or timerous' in this character, as in that to which our author has invidiously referred. i shall give the passage, for its powerful antidote to colley's venom:-- "mr. _booth_, in this part, though he gave full scope to the humour, never dropped the dignity of the character--you laughed at _henry_, but lost not your respect for him.--when he appeared most familiar, he was by no means vulgar.--the people most about him felt the ease they enjoyed was owing to his condescension.--he maintained the monarch.--_hans holbein_ never gave a higher picture of him than did the actor (_booth_) in his representation. when angry, his eye spoke majestic terror; the noblest and the bravest of his courtiers were awe-struck--he gave you the full idea of that arbitrary prince, who thought himself born to be obeyed;--the boldest dared not to dispute his commands:--he appeared to claim a right divine to exert the power he imperiously assumed.' (p. )." ] [footnote : "spirat tragicum satis et feliciter audet." hor. _epis._ ii. i, .] [footnote : "aurenge-zebe; or, the great mogul," act iv.] [footnote : kynaston was the original morat at the theatre royal in ; hart the aurenge-zebe.] [footnote : "king henry iv.," first part, act i. sc. .] [footnote : see memoir of kynaston at end of second volume.] [footnote : downes spells mountfort's name monfort and mounfort.] [footnote : "spanish friar," act ii. sc. .] [footnote : willmore, in mrs. behn's "rover," of which smith was the original representative.] [footnote : in crowne's "sir courtly nice," produced at the theatre royal in .] [footnote : william mountfort was born in or . he became a member of the duke's company as a boy, and downes says that in he had grown to the maturity of a good actor. in the "counterfeits," licensed th august, , the boy is played by young _mumford_, and in "the revenge," produced in , the same name stands to the part of jack, the barber's boy. after the union in he made rapid progress, for he played his great character of sir courtly nice as early as . in this cibber gives him the highest praise; and downes says, "sir courtly was so nicely perform'd, that not any succeeding, but mr. _cyber_ has equall'd him." mountfort was killed by one captain hill, aided, it is supposed, by the lord mohun who died in that terrible duel with the duke of hamilton, in , in which they hacked each other to death. whether hill murdered mountfort or killed him in fair fight is a doubtful point. (see doran's "their majesties' servants," edition, i. - ; see also memoir at end of second volume.)] [footnote : creon (dryden and lee's "oedipus"); malignii (porter's "villain"); machiavil (lee's "cæsar borgia").] [footnote : the "tatler," no. : "i must own, there is something very horrid in the publick executions of an _english_ tragedy. stabbing and poisoning, which are performed behind the scenes in other nations, must be done openly among us to gratify the audience. when poor _sandford_ was upon the stage, i have seen him groaning upon a wheel, stuck with daggers, impaled alive, calling his executioners, with a dying voice, cruel dogs, and villains! and all this to please his judicious spectators, who were wonderfully delighted with seeing a man in torment so well acted."] [footnote : bellchambers notes: "this anecdote has more vivacity than truth, for the audience were too much accustomed to see sandford in parts of even a comic nature, to testify the impatience or disappointment which mr. cibber has described." i may add that i have been unable to discover any play to which the circumstances mentioned by cibber would apply. but it must not be forgotten that, if the play were damned as completely as cibber says, it would probably not be printed, and we should thus in all probability have no record of it.] [footnote : probably the earl of shaftesbury.] [footnote : macready seems to have held something like this view regarding "villains." at the present time we have no such prejudices, for one of the most popular of english actors, mr. e. s. willard, owes his reputation chiefly to his wonderfully vivid presentation of villainy.] [footnote : the play in question is "the triumphs of virtue," produced at drury lane in , and the actress is mrs. rogers, who afterwards lived with wilks. the lines in the epilogue are:-- "i'll pay this duteous gratitude; i'll do that which the play has done--i'll copy you. at your own virtue's shrine my vows i'll pay, study to live the character i play."] [footnote : chetwood gives a short memoir of this "first-born," who became the wife of christopher bullock, and died in . mrs. dyer was the only child of mrs. bullock's mentioned by chetwood.] [footnote : see memoir of sandford at end of second volume.] [footnote : it is a very common mistake to state that cibber founded his playing of richard iii. on that of sandford. he merely says that he tried to act the part as he knew sandford _would_ have played it.] [footnote : cibber's adaptation, which has held the stage ever since its production, was first played at drury lane in . genest (ii. - ) gives an exhaustive account of cibber's mutilation. his opinion of it may be gathered from these sentences: "one has no wish to disturb cibber's own tragedies in their tranquil graves, but while our indignation continues to be excited by the frequent representation of richard the d in so disgraceful a state, there can be no peace between the friends of unsophisticated shakspeare and cibber." "to the advocates for cibber's richard i only wish to make one request--that they would never say a syllable in favour of shakspeare."] [footnote : "the laureat" (p. ): "this same mender of shakespear chose the principal part, _viz. the king_, for himself; and accordingly being invested with the purple robe, he screamed thro' four acts without dignity or decency. the audience ill-pleas'd with the farce, accompany'd him with a smile of contempt, but in the fifth act, he degenerated all at once into sir _novelty_; and when in the heat of the battle at _bosworth field_, the king is dismounted, our comic-tragedian came on the stage, really breathless, and in a seeming panick, screaming out this line thus--_a harse, a harse, my kingdom for a harse_. this highly delighted some, and disgusted others of his auditors; and when he was kill'd by _richmond_, one might plainly perceive that the good people were not better pleas'd that so _execrable a tyrant_ was destroy'd, than that so _execrable an actor_ was silent."] [footnote : james noke, or nokes--not _robert_, as bellchambers states. of robert nokes little is known. downes mentions both actors among rhodes's original company, robert playing male characters, and james being one of the "boy-actresses." downes does not distinguish between them at all, simply mentioning "mr. nokes" as playing particular parts. robert nokes died about , so that we are certain that the famous brother was james.] [footnote : "the comical revenge; or, love in a tub."] [footnote : of these plays, "the spanish friar," "the soldier's fortune," and "amphytrion" were produced after robert nokes's death.] [footnote : see memoir of james nokes at end of second volume.] [footnote : "_coligni_, the character alluded to, at the original representation of this play, was sustained, says downs, 'by that inimitable sprightly actor, mr. price,--especially in this part.' joseph price joined d'avenant's company on rhodes's resignation, being one of 'the new actors,' according to the 'roscius anglicanus,' who were 'taken in to complete' it. he is first mentioned for _guildenstern_, in 'hamlet;' and, in succession, for _leonel_, in d'avenant's 'love and honour,' on which occasion the earl of oxford gave him his coronation-suit; for _paris_, in 'romeo and juliet;' the _corregidor_, in tuke's 'adventures of five hours;' and _coligni_, as already recorded. in the year , by speaking a 'short comical prologue' to the 'rivals,' introducing some 'very diverting dances,' mr. price 'gained him an universal applause of the town.' the versatility of this actor must have been great, or the necessities of the company imperious, as we next find him set down for _lord sands_, in 'king henry the eighth.' he then performed _will_, in the 'cutter of coleman-street,' and is mentioned by downs as being dead, in the year ." the above is bellchambers's note. he is wrong in stating that price played the corregidor in tuke's "adventures of five hours;" his part was silvio. he omits, too, to mention one of price's best parts, dufoy, in "love in a tub," in which downes specially commends him in this queer couplet:-- "sir nich'las, sir fred'rick; widow and dufoy, were not by any so well done, mafoy." price does not seem to have acted after may, , when the theatres closed for the plague, for his name is never mentioned by downes after the theatres re-opened in november, , after the plague and fire.] [footnote : "sir solomon; or, the cautious coxcomb," by john caryll.] [footnote : by otway.] [footnote : by shadwell.] [footnote : "rest" is a term used in tennis, and seems to have meant a quick and continued returning of the ball from one player to the other--what is in lawn tennis called a "rally." cibber uses the word in his "careless husband," act iv. sc. . "_lady betty_ [to lord morelove]. nay, my lord, there's no standing against two of you. _lord foppington._ no, faith, that's odds at tennis, my lord: not but if your ladyship pleases, i'll endeavour to keep your back-hand a little; though upon my soul you may safely set me up at the line: for, knock me down, if ever i saw a rest of wit better played, than that last, in my life." in the only dictionary in which i have found this word "rest," it is given as "a match, a game;" but, as i think i have shown, this is a defective explanation. i may add that, since writing the above, i have been favoured with the opinion of mr. julian marshall, the distinguished authority on tennis, who confirms my view.] [footnote : by durfey.] [footnote : bartoline. genest suggests that this character was intended for the whig lawyer, serjeant maynard. the play was written by crowne.] [footnote : see memoir of pinkethman at end of second volume.] [footnote : in this farce, written by mrs. behn, and produced in , jevon was the original harlequin. pinkethman played the part in , and played it without the mask on th september, . the "daily courant" of that date contains an advertisement in which it is stated that "at the desire of some persons of quality ... will be presented a comedy, call'd, _the emperor of the moon_, wherein mr. _penkethman_ acts the part of _harlequin_ without a masque, for the entertainment of an _african_ prince lately arrived here."] [footnote : this refers to "art and nature," a comedy by james miller, produced at drury lane th february, . the principal character in "harlequin sauvage" was introduced into it and played by theophilus cibber. the piece was damned the first night, but it must not be forgotten that the templars damned everything of miller's on account of his supposed insult to them in his farce of "the coffee house." bellchambers says the piece referred to by cibber was "the savage," vo, ; but this does not seem ever to have been acted.] [footnote : this probably refers to the incident related by davies in his "dramatic miscellanies":--"in the play of the 'recruiting officer,' wilks was the captain _plume_, and pinkethman one of the recruits. the captain, when he enlisted him, asked his name: instead of answering as he ought, pinkey replied, 'why! don't you know my name, bob? i thought every fool had known that!' wilks, in rage, whispered to him the name of the recruit, _thomas appletree_. the other retorted aloud, '_thomas appletree_? thomas devil! my name is will pinkethman:' and, immediately addressing an inhabitant of the upper regions, he said 'hark you, friend; don't you know my name?'--'yes, master pinkey,' said a respondent, 'we know it very well.' the play-house was now in an uproar: the audience, at first, enjoyed the petulant folly of pinkethman, and the distress of wilks; but, in the progress of the joke, it grew tiresome, and pinkey met with his deserts, a very severe reprimand in a hiss; and this mark of displeasure he changed into applause, by crying out, with a countenance as melancholy as he could make it, in a loud and nasal twang, 'odso! i fear i am wrong'" (iii. ).] [footnote : see memoir of leigh at end of second volume.] [footnote : by shadwell.] [footnote : underhill seems to have partially retired about the beginning of . he played sir joslin jolley on th december, , but bullock played it on th january, , and, two days after, johnson played underhill's part of the first gravedigger. underhill, however, played in "the rover" on th january, . the benefit cibber refers to took place on rd june, . underhill played the gravedigger again on rd february, , and on th may, , for his benefit, he played trincalo in "the tempest." genest says he acted at greenwich on th august, . the advertisement in the "tatler" ( th may, ) runs: "mr. cave underhill, the famous comedian in the reigns of k. charles ii. k. james ii. k. william and q. mary, and her present majesty q. anne; but now not able to perform so often as heretofore in the play-house, and having had losses to the value of near £ , , is to have the tragedy of hamlet acted for his benefit, on friday the third of june next, at the theatre-royal in drury-lane, in which he is to perform his original part, the grave-maker. tickets may be had at the mitre-tavern in fleet-street." see also memoir of underhill at end of second volume.] [footnote : see memoir of powel at end of second volume.] [footnote : john verbruggen, whose name downes spells "vanbruggen," "vantbrugg," and "verbruggen," is first recorded as having played termagant in "the squire of alsatia," at the theatre royal, in . his name last appears in august, , and he must have died not long after. on th april, , a benefit was announced for "a young orphan child of the late mr. and mrs. verbruggen." he seems to have been an actor of great natural power, but inartistic in method. see what anthony aston says of him. cibber unfairly, as we must think, seems carefully to avoid mentioning him as of any importance. "the laureat," p. , says: "i wonder, considering our author's particularity of memory, that he hardly ever mentions mr. _verbruggen_, who was in many characters an excellent actor.... i cannot conceive why _verbruggen_ is left out of the number of his excellent actors; whether some latent grudge, _alta mente repostum_, has robb'd him of his immortality in this work." see also memoir of verbruggen at end of second volume.] [footnote : see memoir of williams at end of second volume.] [footnote : produced at the theatre royal in .] [footnote : in chapter ix. of this work cibber gives an elaborate account of mrs. oldfield. he remarks there that, after her joining the company, "she remain'd about a twelvemonth almost a mute, and unheeded."] [footnote : see memoir of mrs. barry at end of second volume.] [footnote : in "the orphan," produced at dorset garden in , and in "venice preserved," produced at the same theatre in .] [footnote : in "the rival queens." mrs. marshall was the original roxana, at the theatre royal in . so far as we know, mrs. barry had not played cleopatra (dryden's "all for love") when dryden wrote the eulogy cibber quotes. mrs. boutell originally acted the part, theatre royal, .] [footnote : bellchambers contradicts cibber, saying that the agreement of th october, [see memoir of hart], shows that benefits existed then. the words referred to are, "the day the young men or young women play for their own profit only." but this day set aside for the young people playing was, i think, quite a different matter from a benefit to a particular performer. pepys ( st march, ) says, "the young men and women of the house ... having liberty to act for their own profit on wednesdays and fridays this lent." these were evidently "scratch" performances on "off" nights; and it is to these, i think, that the agreement quoted refers.] [footnote : as dr. doran points out ("their majesties' servants," edition, i. ) this does not settle the question so easily as cibber supposes. twelve tory peers were created by queen anne in the last few days of , and mrs. barry did not die till the end of .] [footnote : see memoir of mrs. betterton at end of second volume.] [footnote : downes includes mrs. leigh among the recruits to the duke's company about . he does not give her maiden name, but genest supposes she may have been the daughter of dixon, one of rhodes's company. as there are two actresses of the name of mrs. leigh, and one mrs. lee, and as no reliance can be placed on the spelling of names in the casts of plays, it is practically impossible to decide accurately the parts each played. this mrs. leigh seems to have been elizabeth, and her name does not appear after , the eli. leigh who signed the petition to queen anne in being probably a younger woman. bellchambers has a most inaccurate note regarding mrs. leigh, stating that she "is probably not a distinct person from mrs. mary lee."] [footnote : mrs. charlotte butler is mentioned by downes as entering the duke's company about the year . by she occupied an important position as an actress, and in her name appears to the part of la pupsey in durfey's "marriage-hater matched." this piece must have been produced early in the year, for ashbury, by whom, as cibber relates, she was engaged for dublin, opened his season on rd march, . hitchcock, in his "view of the irish stage," describes her as "an actress of great repute, and a prodigious favourite with king charles the second" (i. ).] [footnote : chetwood gives a long account of joseph ashbury. he was born in , and served for some years in the army. by the favour of the duke of ormond, then lord lieutenant, ashbury was appointed successively deputy-master and master of the revels in ireland. the latter appointment he seems to have received in , though hitchcock says " ." ashbury managed the dublin theatre with propriety and success, and was considered not only the principal actor in his time there, but the best teacher of acting in the three kingdoms. chetwood, who saw him in his extreme old age, pronounced him admirable both in tragedy and comedy. he died in , at the great age of eighty-two.] [footnote : this artistic sense was shown also by margaret woffington. davies ("life of garrick," th edition, i. ) writes: "in mrs. day, in the committee, she made no scruple to disguise her beautiful countenance, by drawing on it the lines of deformity and the wrinkles of old age, and to put on the tawdry habiliments and vulgar manners of an old hypocritical city vixen."] [footnote : in "the scornful lady."] [footnote : "the bath; or, the western lass," produced at drury lane in .] [footnote : it is curious to compare with this anthony aston's outspoken criticism on mrs. mountfort's personal appearance.] [footnote : anthony aston says "melantha was her master-piece." dryden's comedy was produced at the theatre royal in , when mrs. boutell played melantha.] [footnote : act ii. scene .] [footnote : mrs. mountfort, originally mrs. (that is miss) percival, and afterwards mrs. verbruggen, is first mentioned as the representative of winifrid, a young welsh jilt, in "sir barnaby whigg," a comedy produced at the theatre royal in . as diana, in "the lucky chance" ( ), genest gives her name as mrs. mountfort, late mrs. percival; so that her marriage with mountfort must have taken place about the end of or beginning of . mountfort was killed in , and in the part of mary the buxom, in "don quixote," part first, is recorded by genest as played by mrs. verbruggen, late mrs. mountfort. in , in the "comparison between the two stages," gildon pronounces her "a miracle." in she died. she was the original representative of, among other characters, nell, in "devil of a wife;" belinda, in "the old bachelor;" lady froth, in "the double dealer;" charlott welldon, in "oroonoko;" berinthia, in "relapse;" lady lurewell; lady brumpton, in "the funeral;" hypolita, in "she would and she would not;" and hillaria, in "tunbridge walks."] [footnote : bellchambers has here a most uncharitable note, which i quote as curious, though i must add that there is not a shadow of proof of the truth of it. "mrs. bracegirdle was decidedly not 'unguarded' in her conduct, for though the object of general suspicion, no proof of positive unchastity was ever brought against her. her intrigue with mountfort, who lost his life in consequence of it,{a} is hardly to be disputed, and there is pretty ample evidence that congreve was honoured with a gratification of his amorous desires.{b} {subnote a: "'we had not parted with him as many minutes as a man may beget his likeness in, but who should we meet but mountfort the player, looking as pale as a ghost, sailing forward as gently as a caterpillar 'cross a sycamore leaf, gaping for a little air, like a sinner just come out of the powdering-tub, crying out as he crept towards us, "o my back! confound 'em for a pack of brimstones: o my back!"--"how now, _sir courtly_," said i, "what the devil makes thee in this pickle?"--"o, gentlemen," says he, "i am glad to see you; but i am troubled with such a weakness in my back, that it makes me bend like a superannuated fornicator." "some strain," said i, "got in the other world, with overheaving yourself."--"what matters it how 'twas got," says he; "can you tell me anything that's good for it?" "yes," said i; "get a warm girdle and tie round you; 'tis an excellent corroborative to strengthen the loins."--"pox on you," says he, "for a bantering dog! how can a single _girdle_ do me good, when a _brace_ was my destruction?"'--brown's 'letters from the dead to the living' [ , ii. ].} {subnote b: "in one of those infamous collections known by the name of 'poems on state affairs' [iv. ], there are several obvious, though coarse and detestable, hints of this connexion. collier's severity against the stage is thus sarcastically deprecated, in a short piece called the 'benefits of a theatre.' shall a place be put down, when we see it affords _fit wives for great poets_, and whores for great lords? since _angelica_, bless'd with a singular grace, had, by her fine acting, preserv'd all his plays, in an amorous rapture, young _valentine_ said, one so fit for his plays might be fit for his bed. "the allusion to congreve and mrs. bracegirdle wants, of course, no corroboration; but the hint at their marriage, broached in the half line i have italicised, is a curious though unauthorized fact. from the verses i shall continue to quote, it will appear that this marriage between the parties, though thought to be private, was currently believed; it is an expedient that has often been used, in similar cases, to cover the nakedness of outrageous lust. he warmly pursues her, she yielded her charms, and bless'd the kind youngster in her kinder arms: but at length the poor nymph did for justice implore, and _he's married her now_, though he'd ---- her before. "on a subsequent page of the same precious miscellany, there is a most offensive statement of the cause which detached our great comic writer from the object of his passion. the thing is too filthy to be even described."}] [footnote : rowe and congreve.] [footnote : in congreve's "way of the world."] [footnote : cibber's chronology is a little shaky here. mrs. bracegirdle's name appeared for the last time in the bill of th february, . betterton's benefit, for which she returned to the stage for one night, took place on th april, .] [footnote : mrs. anne bracegirdle made her first appearance on the stage as a very young child. in the cast of otway's "orphan," , the part of cordelio, polydore's page, is said to be played by "the little girl," who, curll ("history," p. ) informs us, was anne bracegirdle, then less than six years of age. in her name appears to the part of lucia in "the squire of alsatia;" but it is not till that she can be said to have regularly entered upon her career as an actress. she was the original representative of some of the most famous heroines in comedy: araminta, in "the old bachelor;" cynthia, in "the double dealer;" angelica, in "love for love;" belinda, in "the provoked wife;" millamant; flippanta, in "the confederacy," and many others. mrs. bracegirdle appears to have been a good and excellent woman, as well as a great actress. all the scandal about her seems to have had no further foundation than, to quote genest, "the extreme difficulty with which an actress at this period of the stage must have preserved her chastity." genest goes on to remark, with delicious _naïveté_, "mrs. bracegirdle was perhaps a woman of a cold constitution." her retirement from the stage when not much over thirty is accounted for by curll, by a story of a competition between her and mrs. oldfield in the part of mrs. brittle in "the amorous widow," in which the latter was the more applauded. he says that they played the part on two successive nights; but i have carefully examined dr. burney's mss. in the british museum for the season - , and "the amorous widow" was certainly not played twice successively. i doubt the story altogether. that mrs. bracegirdle retired because mrs. oldfield was excelling her in popular estimation is most likely, but i can find no confirmation whatever for curll's story. "the laureat," p. , attributes her retirement to mrs. oldfield's being "preferr'd to some parts before her, by our very _apologist_"; but though the reason thus given is probably accurate, the person blamed is as probably guiltless; for i do not think cibber could have sufficient authority to distribute parts in - . mrs. bracegirdle died september, , but was dead to the stage from . cibber's remark on p. had therefore no reference to her.] [footnote : cibber writes here with feeling; for, after his "nonjuror" abused the jacobites and nonjurors, that party took every opportunity of revenging themselves on him by maltreating his plays.] [footnote : see _ante_, p. , for an allusion to this passage by fielding in "the champion."] [footnote : �neid, i. .] [footnote : this is a curious statement, and has never, so far as i know, been commented on; the cause of cibber's retirement having always been considered mysterious. i suppose this reference to ill-treatment must be held as confirming davies's statement that the public lost patience at cibber's continually playing tragic parts, and fairly hissed him off the stage. davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) relates the following incident: "when thomson's sophonisba was read to the actors, cibber laid his hand upon scipio, a character, which, though it appears only in the last act, is of great dignity and importance. for two nights successively, cibber was as much exploded as any bad actor could be. williams, by desire of wilks, made himself master of the part; but he, marching slowly, in great military distinction, from the upper part of the stage, and wearing the same dress as cibber, was mistaken for him, and met with repeated hisses, joined to the music of cat-cals; but, as soon as the audience were undeceived, they converted their groans and hisses to loud and long continued applause."] [footnote : cibber retired in may, . the reappearance he refers to was not that he made in , as bellchambers states. he no doubt alludes to his performances in - , when he played bayes, lord foppington, sir john brute, and other comedy parts. on the nights he played, the compliment was paid him of putting no name in the bill but his own.] [footnote : the original holders of the patents, sir william davenant and thomas killigrew, were dead in ; and their successors, alexander davenant, to whom charles davenant had assigned his interest, and charles killigrew, seem to have taken little active interest in the management; for christopher rich, who acquired davenant's share in , seems at once to have become managing proprietor.] [footnote : davies ("dramatic miscellanies," iii. ) gives the following account of cibber's first salary: "but mr. richard cross, late prompter of drury-lane theatre, gave me the following history of colley cibber's first establishment as a hired actor. he was known only, for some years, by the name of master colley. after waiting impatiently a long time for the prompter's notice, by good fortune he obtained the honour of carrying a message on the stage, in some play, to betterton. whatever was the cause, master colley was so terrified, that the scene was disconcerted by him. betterton asked, in some anger, who the young fellow was that had committed the blunder. downes replied, 'master colley.'--'master colley! then forfeit him.'--'why, sir,' said the prompter, 'he has no salary.'--'no!' said the old man; 'why then put him down ten shillings a week, and forfeit him _s._'"] [footnote : complexion is a point of no importance now, and this allusion suggests a theory to me which i give with all diffidence. we know that actresses painted in pepys's time (" , oct. . but, lord! to see how they [nell gwynne and mrs. knipp] were both painted would make a man mad, and did make me loathe them"), and we also know that dogget was famous for the painting of his face to represent old age. if, then, complexion was a point of importance for a lover, as cibber states, it suggests that young actors playing juvenile parts did not use any "make-up" or paint, but went on the stage in their natural complexion. the lighting of the stage was of course much less brilliant than it afterwards became, so that "make-up" was not so necessary.] [footnote : "the laureat" (p. ) describes cibber's person thus:-- "he was in stature of the middle size, his complexion fair, inclinable to the sandy, his legs somewhat of the thickest, his shape a little clumsy, not irregular, and his voice rather shrill than loud or articulate, and crack'd extremely, when he endeavour'd to raise it. he was in his younger days so lean, as to be known by the name of _hatchet face_."] [footnote : bellchambers notes that this part was originally played by percival, who came into the duke's company about .] [footnote : of cibber's wife there is little record. in the name of "mrs. cibbars" appears to the part of galatea in "philaster," and she was the original hillaria in cibber's "love's last shift" in ; but she never made any great name or played any famous part. she was a miss shore, sister of john shore, "sergeant-trumpet" of england. the "biographia dramatica" (i. ) says that miss shore's father was extremely angry at her marriage, and spent that portion of his fortune which he had intended for her in building a retreat on the thames which was called shore's folly.] [footnote : "the double dealer," , was not very successful, and when played at lincoln's inn fields, th october, , was announced as not having been acted for fifteen years; so that this incident no doubt occurred in the course of the first few nights of the play, which, malone says, was produced in november, .] [footnote : "the prophetess," now supposed to be mostly fletcher's work (see ward's "english dramatic literature," ii. ), was made into an opera by betterton, the music by purcell. it was produced in , with a prologue written by dryden, which, for political reasons, was forbidden by the lord chamberlain after the first night.] [footnote : "king arthur; or, the british worthy," a dramatic opera, as dryden entitles it, was produced in . in his dedication to the marquis of halifax, dryden says: "this poem was the last piece of service, which i had the honour to do, for my gracious master, king charles the second." downes says "'twas very gainful to the company," but cibber declares it was not so successful as it appeared to be.] [footnote : end of .] [footnote : betterton seems to have been a very politic person. in the "comparison between the two stages" (p. ) he is called, though not in reference to this particular matter, "a cunning old fox."] [footnote : this is no doubt a hit at wilks, whose temper was extremely impetuous.] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "he (cibber) was always against raising, or rewarding, or by any means encouraging merit of any kind." he had "many disputes with _wilks_ on this account, who was impatient, when justice required it, to reward the meritorious."] [footnote : this is a reference to the secession of seven or eight actors in , caused, according to cibber, by wilks's overbearing temper. see chapter xv.] [footnote : downes and davies give the following accounts of the transaction:-- "some time after, a difference happening between the united patentees, and the chief _actors_: as mr. _betterton_; mrs. _barry_ and mrs. _bracegirdle_; the latter complaining of oppression from the former; they for redress, appeal'd to my lord of _dorset_, then lord chamberlain, for justice; who espousing the cause of the actors, with the assistance of sir _robert howard_, finding their complaints just, procur'd from king _william_, a seperate license for mr. _congreve_, mr. _betterton_, mrs. _bracegirdle_ and mrs. _barry_, and others, to set up a new company, calling it the new theatre in _lincolns-inn-fields_."--"roscius anglicanus," p. . "the nobility, and all persons of eminence, favoured the cause of the comedians; the generous dorset introduced betterton, mrs. barry, mrs. bracegirdle, and others, to the king, who granted them an audience.... william, who had freed all the subjects of england from slavery, except the inhabitants of the mimical world, rescued them also from the insolence and tyranny of their oppressors."--"dram. miscellanies," iii. .] [footnote : th december, .] [footnote : the "comparison between the two stages" says (p. ): "'twas almost impossible in _drury-lane_, to muster up a sufficient number to take in all the parts of any play."] [footnote : see memoir of johnson at end of second volume.] [footnote : see memoir of bullock at end of second volume.] [footnote : i do not think that the date of this licence has ever been stated. it was th march, .] [footnote : "comparison between the two stages," p. : "we know what importuning and dunning the noblemen there was, what flattering, and what promising there was, till at length, the incouragement they received by liberal contributions set 'em in a condition to go on." this theatre was the theatre in _little_ lincoln's inn fields. see further details in chap. xiii.] [footnote : no doubt, rich.] [footnote : downes says (p. ), "the house being fitted up from a tennis-court, they open'd it the last day of _april, _."] [footnote : it will be noticed that downes in the passage quoted by me (p. , note ) mentions congreve as if he had been an original sharer in the licence; but the statement is probably loosely made.] [footnote : bellchambers has here the following notes, the entire substance of which will be found in malone ("shakespeare," , iii. , _et seq._): "in shakspeare's time the nightly expenses for lights, supernumeraries, etc., was but forty-five shillings, and having deducted this charge, the clear emoluments were divided into shares, (supposed to be forty in number,) between the proprietors, and principal actors. in the year , the whole profit arising from acting plays, masques, etc., at the king's theatre, was divided into twelve shares and three quarters, of which mr. killegrew, the manager, had two shares and three quarters, each share computed to produce about £ , net, per annum. in sir william d'avenant's company, from the time their new theatre was opened in portugal-row, the total receipt, after deducting the nightly expenses, was divided into fifteen shares, of which it was agreed that ten should belong to d'avenant, for various purposes, and the remainder be divided among the male members of his troops according to their rank and merit. i cannot relate the arrangement adopted by betterton in lincoln's-inn-fields, but the share accepted by congreve was, doubtless, presumed to be of considerable value. "dryden had a share and a quarter in the king's company, for which he bound himself to furnish not two, but three plays every season. the following paper, which, after remaining long in the killegrew family, came into the hands of the late mr. reed, and was published by mr. malone in his 'historical account of the english stage,' incontestably proves the practice alluded to. the superscription is lost, but it was probably addressed to the lord-chamberlain, or the king, about the year , 'oedipus,' the ground of complaint, being printed in : "'whereas upon mr. dryden's binding himself to write three playes a yeere, hee the said mr. dryden was admitted and continued as a sharer in the king's playhouse for diverse years, and received for his share and a quarter three or four hundred pounds, communibus annis; but though he received the moneys, we received not the playes, not one in a yeare. after which, the house being burnt, the company in building another, contracted great debts, so that shares fell much short of what they were formerly. thereupon mr. dryden complaining to the company of his want of proffit, the company was so kind to him that they not only did not presse him for the playes which he so engaged to write for them, and for which he was paid beforehand, but they did also at his earnest request give him a third day for his last new play called _all for love_; and at the receipt of the money of the said third day, he acknowledged it as a guift, and a particular kindnesse of the company. yet notwithstanding this kind proceeding, mr. dryden has now, jointly with mr. lee, (who was in pension with us to the last day of our playing, and shall continue,) written a play called _oedipus_, and given it to the duke's company, contrary to his said agreement, his promise, and all gratitude, to the great prejudice and almost undoing of the company, they being the only poets remaining to us. mr. crowne, being under the like agreement with the duke's house, writt a play called _the destruction of jerusalem_, and being forced by their refusall of it, to bring it to us, the said company compelled us, after the studying of it, and a vast expence in scenes and cloaths, to buy off their clayme, by paying all the pension he had received from them, amounting to one hundred and twelve pounds paid by the king's company, besides near forty pounds he the said mr. crowne paid out of his owne pocket. "'these things considered, if notwithstanding mr. dryden's said agreement, promise, and moneys freely giving him for his said last new play, and the many titles we have to his writings, this play be judged away from us, we must submit. (signed) "'charles killigrew. "'charles hart. "'rich. burt. "'cardell goodman. "'mic. mohun.'"] [footnote : the interval between the two plays cannot have been quite three years. the first was produced in april, , the second some time in .] [footnote : produced early in .] [footnote : mrs. mountfort was now mrs. verbruggen.] [footnote : the passage is:-- "the freedom man was born to, you've restor'd, and to our world such plenty you afford, it seems, like eden, fruitful of its own accord. but since, in paradise, frail flesh gave way, and when but two were made, both went astray; forbear your wonder, and the fault forgive, if, in our larger family, we grieve one falling adam, and one tempted eve."] [footnote : in his preface to "woman's wit," cibber says, "but however a fort is in a very poor condition, that (in a time of general war) has but a handful of raw young fellows to maintain it." he also talks of himself and his companions as "an uncertain company."] [footnote : bellchambers has here this note: "mr. cibber's usage of the verb _regret_ here, may be said to confirm the censure of fielding, who urged, in reviewing some other of his inadvertencies, that it was 'needless for a great writer to understand his grammar.'" see note on page .] [footnote : genest (ii. ) has the following criticism of cibber's statement: "there can be no doubt but that the acting at the theatre royal was miserably inferiour to what it had been--but perhaps cibber's account is a little exaggerated--he had evidently a personal dislike to powell--everything therefore that he says, directly or indirectly, against him must be received with some grains of allowance--powell seems to have been eager to exhibit himself in some of betterton's best parts, whereas a more diffident actor would have wished to avoid comparisons--we know from the spectator that powell was too apt to tear a passion to tatters, but still he must have been an actor of considerable reputation at this time, or he would not have been cast for several good parts before the division of the company."] [footnote : "old bachelor," act iv. sc. :-- "_fondlewife._ come kiss _nykin_ once more, and then get you in--so--get you in, get you in. by by. _lætitia._ by, _nykin_. _fondlewife._ by, cocky. _lætitia._ by, _nykin_. _fondlewife._ by, cocky, by, by."] [footnote : regarding powell's playing in imitation of betterton, chetwood ("history of the stage," p. ) says: "mr. _george powel_, a reputable actor, with many excellencies, gave out, that he would perform the part of sir _john falstaff_ in the manner of that very excellent _english roscius_, mr. _betterton_. he certainly hit his manner, and tone of voice, yet to make the picture more like, he mimic'd the infirmities of distemper, old age, and the afflicting pains of the gout, which that great man was often seiz'd with."] [footnote : "quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas, gaudia, discursus, nostri est farrago libelli." juvenal, i. .] [footnote : that is, january, . the cast was:-- "love's last shift; or, the fool in fashion." sir william wisewoud .............. mr. johnson. loveless .......................... mr. verbruggen. sir novelty fashion ............... mr. cibber. elder worthy ...................... mr. williams. young worthy ...................... mr. horden. snap .............................. mr. penkethman. sly ............................... mr. bullock. lawyer ............................ mr. mills. amanda ............................ mrs. rogers. narcissa .......................... mrs. verbruggen. hillaria .......................... mrs. cibber. mrs. flareit ...................... mrs. kent. amanda's woman .................... mrs. lucas.] [footnote : in the dedication to this play cibber says that "mr. _southern_'s good-nature (whose own works best recommend his judgment) engaged his reputation for the success."] [footnote : gildon praises this play highly in the "comparison between the two stages," p. :-- "_ramble._ ay, marry, that play was the philosopher's stone; i think it did wonders. _sullen._ it did so, and very deservedly; there being few comedies that came up to't for purity of plot, manners and moral: it's often acted now a daies, and by the help of the author's own good action, it pleases to this day."] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) says: "so little was hoped from the genius of cibber, that the critics reproached him with stealing his play. to his censurers he makes a serious defence of himself, in his dedication to richard norton, esq., of southwick, a gentleman who was so fond of stage-plays and players, that he has been accused of turning his chapel into a theatre. the furious john dennis, who hated cibber for obstructing, as he imagined, the progress of his tragedy called the invader of his country, in very passionate terms denies his claim to this comedy: 'when the fool in fashion was first acted (says the critic) cibber was hardly twenty years of age--how could he, at the age of twenty, write a comedy with a just design, distinguished characters, and a proper dialogue, who now, at forty, treats us with hibernian sense and hibernian english?'"] [footnote : this same accusation was made against cibber on other occasions. dr. johnson, referring to one of these, said: "there was no reason to believe that the _careless husband_ was not written by himself."--boswell's johnson, ii. .] [footnote : "the relapse; or, virtue in danger," was produced at drury lane in . cibber's part in it, lord foppington, became one of his most famous characters. the "comparison between the two stages," p. , says: "_oronoko_, _�sop_, and _relapse_ are master-pieces, and subsisted _drury-lane_ house, the first two or three years."] [footnote : "the provoked wife" was produced at lincoln's inn fields in ; and, as cibber states, "�sop" was played at drury lane in the same year. it seems (see prologue to "the confederacy") that vanbrugh gave his first three plays as presents to the companies.] [footnote : "comparison between the two stages," p. : "in the meantime the mushrooms in _drury-lane_ shoot up from such a desolate fortune into a considerable name; and not only grappled with their rivals, but almost eclipst 'em."] [footnote : the last performance of this comedy which genest indexes was at covent garden, th february, .] [footnote : davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) says: "the truth is, cibber was endured, in this and other tragic parts, on account of his general merit in comedy;" and the author of "the laureat," p. , remarks: "i have often heard him blamed as a trifler in that part; he was rarely perfect, and, abating for the badness of his voice and the insignificancy and meanness of his action, he did not seem to understand either what he said or what he was about."] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "whatever the actors appear'd upon the stage, they were most of them _barbarians_ off on't, few of them having had the education, or whose fortunes could admit them to the conversation of gentlemen."] [footnote : davies praises cibber in fondlewife, saying that he "was much and justly admired and applauded" ("dram. misc.," iii. ); and in the same work (i. ) he gives an admirable sketch of cibber as justice shallow:-- "whether he was a copy or an original in shallow, it is certain no audience was ever more fixed in deep attention, at his first appearance, or more shaken with laughter in the progress of the scene, than at colley cibber's exhibition of this ridiculous justice of peace. some years after he had left the stage, he acted shallow for his son's benefit. i believe in , when quin was the falstaff, and milward the king. whether it was owing to the pleasure the spectators felt on seeing their old friend return to them again, _though for that night only_, after an absence of some years, i know not; but, surely, no actor or audience were better pleased with each other. his manner was so perfectly simple, his look so vacant, when he questioned his cousin silence about the price of ewes, and lamented, in the same breath, with silly surprise, the death of old double, that it will be impossible for any surviving spectator not to smile at the remembrance of it. the want of ideas occasions shallow to repeat almost every thing he says. cibber's transition, from asking the price of bullocks, to trite, but grave reflections on mortality, was so natural, and attended with such an unmeaning roll of his small pigs-eyes, accompanied with an important utterance of tick! tick! tick! not much louder than the balance of a watch, that i question if any actor was ever superior in the conception or expression of such solemn insignificancy."] [footnote : i presume cibber means . the company was self-governed from its commencement in , and the disintegration seems to have begun in the next season. see what cibber says of dogget's defection a few pages on.] [footnote : in lee's tragedy of "cæsar borgia," originally played at dorset garden in . borgia was betterton's part, and was evidently one of those which powell laid violent hands on.] [footnote : among the lord chamberlain's papers is a curious decision, dated oct. , regarding this desertion. by it, dogget, who is stated to have been seduced from lincoln's inn fields, is permitted to act where he likes.] [footnote : genest's list of dogget's characters shows that he was apparently not engaged to , both inclusive; for the seasons - and - ; and for the season - . this would make the three occasions mentioned by cibber.] [footnote : dryden, in his address to granville on his tragedy of "heroic love" in , says of the lincoln's inn fields company:-- "their setting sun still shoots a glimmering ray, like ancient rome, majestic in decay; and better gleanings their worn soil can boast, than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring coast."] [footnote : "comparison between the two stages," p. : "but this [the success of 'love for love'] like other things of that kind, being only nine days wonder, and the audiences, being in a little time sated with the novelty of the _new-house_, return in shoals to the old."] [footnote : cibber says nothing of his having been a member of the lincoln's inn fields company. but he was, for he writes in his preface to "woman's wit": "during the time of my writing the two first acts i was entertain'd at the new theatre.... in the middle of my writing the third act, not liking my station there, i return'd again to the theatre royal." cibber must have joined betterton, i should think, about the end of . it is curious that he should in his "apology" have entirely suppressed this incident. it almost suggests that there was something in it of which he was in later years somewhat ashamed.] [footnote : "comparison between the two stages," p. : "the town ... chang'd their inclinations for the two houses, as they found 'emselves inclin'd to comedy or tragedy: if they desir'd a tragedy, they went to _lincolns-inn-fields_; if to comedy, they flockt to _drury-lane_."] [footnote : christopher rich, of whom the "comparison between the two stages" says (p. ): "_critick_. in the other house there's an old snarling lawyer master and sovereign; a waspish, ignorant, pettifogger in law and poetry; one who understands poetry no more than algebra; he wou'd sooner have the grace of god than do everybody justice."] [footnote : this privilege seems to have been granted about or . it was not abolished till . on th may, , footmen having been deprived of their privilege, of them broke into drury lane and did great damage. many were, however, arrested, and no attempt was made to renew hostilities.] [footnote : queen anne issued several edicts forbidding persons to be admitted behind the scenes, and in the advertisements of both theatres there appeared the announcement, "by her majesty's command no persons are to be admitted behind the scenes." cibber here, no doubt, refers to the sign manual of nov. , a copy of which is among the chamberlain's papers.] [footnote : cibber is probably incorrect here. it seems certain from the bills that wilks did not re-appear in london before .] [footnote : see note on page .] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "_wilks_, in this part of _palamede_, behav'd with a modest diffidence, and yet maintain'd the spirit of his part." the author says, on the same page, that powel never could appear a gentleman. "his conversation, his manners, his dress, neither on nor off the stage, bore any similitude to that character."] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "i believe he (wilks) was obliged to fight the heroic _george powel_, as well as one or two others, who were piqued at his being so highly encouraged by the town, and their rival, before he cou'd be quiet."] [footnote : powell seems to have been at lincoln's inn fields for two seasons, those of and , and for part of a third, - . he returned to drury lane about june, . for the arbitrary conduct of the lord chamberlain, in allowing him to desert to lincoln's inn fields (or the haymarket), but arresting him when he deserted back again to drury lane, see after, in chap. x.] [footnote : cibber is here somewhat in the position of satan reproving sin, if davies's statements ("dram. misc.," iii. ) are accurate. he says:-- "this attention to the gaming-table would not, we may be assured, render him [cibber] fitter for his business of the stage. after many an unlucky run at tom's coffee-house [in russell street], he has arrived at the playhouse in great tranquillity; and then, humming over an opera-tune, he has walked on the stage not well prepared in the part he was to act. cibber should not have reprehended powell so severely for neglect and imperfect representation: i have seen him at fault where it was least expected; in parts which he had acted a hundred times, and particularly in sir courtly nice; but colley dexterously supplied the deficiency of his memory by prolonging his ceremonious bow to the lady, and drawling out 'your humble servant, madam,' to an extraordinary length; then taking a pinch of snuff, and strutting deliberately across the stage, he has gravely asked the prompter, what is next?"] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "i have known him (wilks) lay a wager and win it, that he wou'd repeat the part of _truewitt_ in the _silent woman_, which consists of thirty lengths of paper, as they call 'em, (that is, one quarter of a sheet on both sides to a length) without misplacing a single word, or missing an (_and_) or an (_or_)."] [footnote : alexander in "the rival queens."] [footnote : in "the man of the mode; or, sir fopling flutter."] [footnote : produced at lincoln's inn fields, th january, .] [footnote : "love in a riddle." a pastoral. produced at drury lane, th january, . arcas........................................ mr. mills. �gon ........................................ mr. harper. amyntas ..................................... mr. williams. iphis ....................................... mrs. thurmond. philautus, a conceited corinthian courtier... mr. cibber. corydon ..................................... mr. griffin. cimon ....................................... mr. miller. mopsus ...................................... mr. oates. damon ....................................... mr. ray. ianthe, daughter to arcas ................... mrs. cibber. pastora, daughter to �gon ................... mrs. lindar. phillida, daughter to corydon ............... mrs. raftor. _mrs._ raftor (at this time _miss_ was not generally used) was afterwards the famous mrs. clive. chetwood, in his "history of the stage," (p. ), says: "i remember the first night of _love in a riddle_ (which was murder'd in the same year) a pastoral opera wrote by the _laureat_, which the hydra-headed multitude resolv'd to worry without hearing, a custom with authors of merit, when miss _raftor_ came on in the part of _phillida_, the monstrous roar subsided. a person in the stage-box, next to my post, called out to his companion in the following elegant style--'zounds! _tom!_ take care! or this charming little devil will save all.'" chetwood's "post" was that of prompter.] [footnote : martial, xiii. , .] [footnote : cibber should have written _catiline_.] [footnote : this second part was called "polly." in his preface gay gives an account of its being vetoed. the prohibition undoubtedly was in revenge for the political satire in "the beggar's opera." "polly" was published by subscription, and probably brought the author more in that way than its production would have done. it was played for the first time at the haymarket, th june, . it is, as genest says, miserably inferior to the first part.] [footnote : "polly" was officially prohibited on th december, .] [footnote : i know only one case in which a new piece is said to have been prohibited because the other house was going to play one on the same subject. this is swiney's "quacks; or, love's the physician," produced at drury lane on th march, , after being twice vetoed. swiney in his preface gives the above as the reason for the prohibition.] [footnote : cibber afterwards formed the best scenes of "love in a riddle" into a ballad opera, called "damon and phillida."] [footnote : bellchambers notes that this was probably mrs. oldfield. but i think this more than doubtful, for this lady not only was fair, but also, as touchstone says, "had the gift to know it." it is, of course, impossible to say decidedly to whom cibber referred; but i fancy that mrs. barry is the actress who best fulfils the conditions, though, of course, i must admit that her having been dead for a quarter of a century weakens my case.] [footnote : a "bite" is what we now term a "sell." in "the spectator," nos. and , some account of "biters" is given: "a race of men that are perpetually employed in laughing at those mistakes which are of their own production."] [footnote : this is a capital sketch of christopher rich.] [footnote : cibber's hint of rich's weakness for the fair sex is corroborated by the "comparison between the two stages," page : "_critick._ he is monarch of the stage, tho' he knows not how to govern one province in his dominion, but that of signing, sealing, and something else, that shall be nameless."] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "if _minister wilks_ was now alive to hear thee prate thus, mr. _bayes,_ i would not give one half-penny for thy ears; but if he were alive, thou durst not for thy ears rattle on in this affected _matchiavilian_ stile."] [footnote : characters in ben jonson's "silent woman."] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "did you not, by your general misbehaviour towards authors and actors, bring an _odium_ on your brother _menagers_, as well as yourself; and were not these, with many others, the reasons, that sometimes gave occasion to _wilks_, to chastise you, with his tongue only."] [footnote : see memoir of john mills at end of second volume.] [footnote : john mills, in the advertisement issued by rich, in , in the course of a dispute with his actors, is stated to have a salary of "£ a week for himself, and £ a week for his wife, for little or nothing." this advertisement is quoted by me in chap. xii. mills's salary was the same as betterton's. no doubt cibber, wilks, dogget, and booth had ultimately larger salaries, but they, of course, were managers as well as actors.] [footnote : booth seems to have joined the lincoln's inn fields company in .] [footnote : steele's comedy was produced at drury lane in . cibber played lord hardy.] [footnote : the play was called "woman's wit; or, the lady in fashion." it was produced at drury lane in . it must have been in the early months of that year, for in his preface cibber says, to excuse its failure, that it was hurriedly written, and that "rather than lose a winter" he forced himself to invent a fable. "the laureat," p. , stupidly says that the name of the play was "_perolla_ and _isadora_." the cast was:-- lord lovemore ................................... mr. harland. longville ....................................... mr. cibber. major rakish .................................... mr. penkethman. jack rakish ..................................... mr. powel. mass johnny, lady manlove's son, a schoolboy .... mr. dogget. father benedic .................................. mr. smeaton. lady manlove..................................... mrs. powel. leonora ......................................... mrs. knight. emilia .......................................... mrs. rogers. olivia .......................................... mrs. cibber. lettice ......................................... mrs. kent.] [footnote : "aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae." hor. _ars poetica_, .] [footnote : "omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci." hor. _ars poetica_, .] [footnote : pepys ( th june, ) records that the lady mary cromwell at the theatre, "when the house began to fill, put on her vizard, and so kept it on all the play; which of late is become a great fashion among the ladies, which hides their whole face." very soon, however, ladies gave up the use of the mask, and "vizard-mask" became a synonym for "prostitute." in this sense it is frequently used in dryden's prologues and epilogues.] [footnote : compare with cibber's condemnation genest's opinion of this play. he says (i. ): "if it be the province of comedy, not to retail morality to a yawning pit, but to make the audience laugh, and to keep them in good humour, this play must be allowed to be one of the best comedies in the english language."] [footnote : to "the pilgrim," revived in , as cibber states, dryden's "secular masque" was attached. whether the revival took place before or after dryden's death ( st may, ) is a moot point. see genest, ii. , for an admirable account of the matter. he thinks it probable that the date of production was th march, . cibber is scarcely accurate in stating that "the pilgrim" was revived for dryden's benefit. it seems, rather, that vanbrugh, who revised the play, stipulated that, in consideration of dryden's writing "the secular masque," and also the prologue and epilogue, he should have the usual author's third night. the b. m. copy of "the pilgrim" is dated, in an old handwriting, "monday, the of may."] [footnote : jeremy collier.] [footnote : genest notes (ii. ) that in the original play the servant in the nd act did not stutter.] [footnote : collier's famous work, which was entitled "a short view of the immorality and profaneness of the english stage: together with the sense of antiquity upon this argument," was published in . collier was a nonjuring clergyman. he was born on rd september, , and died in . the circumstance to which cibber alludes in the second paragraph from the present, was collier's attending to the scaffold sir john friend and sir william perkins, who were executed for complicity in plots against king william in .] [footnote : the facetious joe haines was an actor of great popularity, and seems to have excelled in the delivery of prologues and epilogues, especially of those written by himself. he was on the stage from about to or , in which latter year (on the th of april) he died. he was the original sparkish in wycherley's "country wife," lord plausible in the same author's "plain dealer," and tom errand in farquhar's "constant couple." davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) tells, on quin's authority, an anecdote of haines's pretended conversion to romanism during james the second's reign. he declared that the virgin mary appeared to him in a vision. "lord sunderland sent for joe, and asked him about the truth of his conversion, and whether he had really seen the virgin?--yes, my lord, i assure you it is a fact.--how was it, pray?--why, as i was lying in my bed, the virgin appeared to me, and said, _arise, joe!_--you lie, you rogue, said the earl; for, if it had really been the virgin herself, she would have said _joseph_, if it had been only out of respect to her husband." for an account of haines, see also anthony aston.] [footnote : "the laureat" (p. ) states that soon after the publication of collier's book, informers were placed in different parts of the theatres, on whose information several players were charged with uttering immoral words. queen anne, however, satisfied that the informers were not actuated by zeal for morality, stopped the inquisition. these informers were paid by the society for the reformation of manners.] [footnote : congreve's answer to collier was entitled "amendments of mr. collier's false and imperfect citations, &c. from the old batchelour, double dealer, love for love, mourning bride. by the author of those plays." vanbrugh called his reply, "a short vindication of the relapse and the provok'd wife, from immorality and prophaneness. by the author." davies says, regarding congreve ("dram. misc.," iii. ): "congreve's pride was hurt by collier's attack on plays which all the world had admired and commended; and no hypocrite showed more rancour and resentment, when unmasked, than this author, so greatly celebrated for sweetness of temper and elegance of manners."] [footnote : charles killigrew, who died in , having held the office of master of the revels for over forty years.] [footnote : produced at drury lane in . for some account of cibber's playing of richard, see _ante_, pp. , .] [footnote : chalmers ("apology for the believers in the shakspeare papers," page ) comments unfavourably on cibber's method of stating this fact, saying, "well might pope cry out, _modest_ cibber!" but chalmers is unjust to colley, who is not expressing his own opinion of his play's importance, but merely reporting the opinion of killigrew.] [footnote : steele's name first appears in a license granted th october, . his patent was dated th january, .] [footnote : chalmers ("apology for the believers," page ) says: "the patentees sent colley cibber, as envoy-extraordinary, to negotiate an amicable settlement with the sovereign of the revels. it is amusing to hear, how this flippant negotiator explained his own pretensions, and attempted to invalidate the right of his opponent; as if a subsequent charter, under the great seal, could supersede a preceding grant under the same authority. charles killigrew, who was now sixty-five years of age, seems to have been oppressed by the insolent civility of colley cibber." but this is an undeserved hit at cibber, who had suffered the grossest injustice at killigrew's hands regarding the licensing of "richard iii." see _ante_, p. . the dispute regarding fees must have occurred about .] [footnote : the licensing act of . this act was passed by sir robert walpole's government, and gave to the lord chamberlain the power to prohibit a piece from being acted at all, by making it necessary to have every play licensed. this power, however, had practically been exercised by the chamberlain before, as in the case of gay's "polly," which cibber has already mentioned. the immediate cause of this act of was a piece called "the golden rump," which was so full of scurrility against the powers that were, that giffard, the manager to whom it was submitted, carried it to walpole. in spite of the opposition of lord chesterfield, who delivered a famous speech against it, the bill was passed, st june, . the "biographia dramatica" hints plainly that "the golden rump" was written at walpole's instigation to afford an excuse for the act. bellchambers has the following note on this passage:-- "the abbé le blanc,{a} who was in england at the time this law passed, has the following remarks upon it in his correspondence:-- "'this act occasioned an universal murmur in the nation, and was openly complained of in the public papers: in all the coffee-houses of london it was treated as an unjust law, and manifestly contrary to the liberties of the people of england. when winter came, and the play-houses were opened, that of covent-garden began with three new pieces, which had been approved of by the lord chamberlain. there was a crowd of spectators present at the first, and among the number myself. the best play in the world would not have succeeded the first night.{b} there was a resolution to damn whatever might appear, the word _hiss_ not being sufficiently expressive for the english. they always say, to _damn_ a piece, to _damn_ an author, &c. and, in reality, the word is not too strong to express the manner in which they receive a play which does not please them. the farce in question was damned indeed, without the least compassion: nor was that all, for the actors were driven off the stage, and happy was it for the author that he did not fall into the hands of this furious assembly. "'as you are unacquainted with the customs of this country, you cannot easily devise who were the authors of all this disturbance. perhaps you may think they were schoolboys, apprentices, clerks, or mechanics. no, sir, they were men of a very grave and genteel profession; they were lawyers, and please you; a body of gentlemen, perhaps less honoured, but certainly more feared here than they are in france. most of them live in colleges,{c} where, conversing always with one another, they mutually preserve a spirit of independency through the body, and with great ease form cabals. these gentlemen, in the stage entertainments of london, behave much like our footboys, in those at a fair. with us, your party-coloured gentry are the most noisy; but here, men of the law have all the sway, if i may be permitted to call so those pretended professors of it, who are rather the organs of chicanery, than the interpreters of justice. at paris the cabals of the pit are only among young fellows, whose years may excuse their folly, or persons of the meanest education and stamp; here they are the fruit of deliberations in a very grave body of people, who are not less formidable to the minister in place, than to the theatrical writers. "'the players were not dismayed, but soon after stuck up bills for another new piece: there was the same crowding at covent-garden, to which i again contributed. i was sure, at least, that if the piece advertised was not performed, i should have the pleasure of beholding some very extraordinary scene acted in the pit. "'half an hour before the play was to begin, the spectators gave notice of their dispositions by frightful hisses and outcries, equal, perhaps, to what were ever heard at a roman amphitheatre. i could not have known, but by my eyes only, that i was among an assembly of beings who thought themselves to be reasonable. the author, who had foreseen this fury of the pit, took care to be armed against it. he knew what people he had to deal with, and, to make them easy, put in his prologue double the usual dose of incense that is offered to their vanity; for there is an established tax of this kind, from which no author is suffered to dispense himself. this author's wise precaution succeeded, and the men that were before so redoubtable grew calm; the charms of flattery, more strong than those of music, deprived them of all their fierceness. "'you see, sir, that the pit is the same in all countries: it loves to be flattered, under the more genteel name of being complimented. if a man has tolerable address at panegyric, they swallow it greedily, and are easily quelled and intoxicated by the draught. every one in particular thinks he merits the praise that is given to the whole in general; the illusion operates, and the prologue is good, only because it is artfully directed. every one saves his own blush by the authority of the multitude he makes a part of, which is, perhaps, the only circumstance in which a man can think himself not obliged to be modest. "'the author having, by flattery, begun to tame this wild audience, proceeded entirely to reconcile it by the first scene of his performance. two actors came in, one dressed in the english manner very decently, and the other with black eyebrows, a ribbon of an ell long under his chin, a bag-peruke immoderately powdered, and his nose all bedaubed with snuff. what englishman could not know a frenchman by this ridiculous picture! the common people of london think we are indeed such sort of folks, and of their own accord, add to our real follies all that their authors are pleased to give us. but when it was found, that the man thus equipped, being also laced down every seam of his coat, was nothing but a cook, the spectators were equally charmed and surprised. the author had taken care to make him speak all the impertinencies he could devise, and for that reason, all the impertinencies of his farce were excused, and the merit of it immediately decided. there was a long criticism upon our manners, our customs, and above all, upon our cookery. the excellence and virtues of english beef were cried up, and the author maintained, that it was owing to the qualities of its juice, that the english were so courageous, and had such a solidity of understanding, which raised them above all the nations in europe: he preferred the noble old english pudding beyond all the finest ragouts that were ever invented by the greatest geniuses that france has produced; and all these ingenious strokes were loudly clapped by the audience. "'the pit, biassed by the abuse that was thrown on the french, forgot that they came to damn the play, and maintain the ancient liberty of the stage. they were friends with the players, and even with the court itself, and contented themselves with the privilege left them, of lashing our nation as much as they pleased, in the room of laughing at the expense of the minister. the license of authors did not seem to be too much restrained, since the court did not hinder them from saying all the ill they could of the french. "'intractable as the populace appear in this country, those who know how to take hold of their foibles, may easily carry their point. thus is the liberty of the stage reduced to just bounds, and yet the english pit makes no farther attempt to oppose the new regulation. the law is executed without the least trouble, all the plays since having been quietly heard, and either succeeded, or not, according to their merit.'" see article in mr. archer's "about the theatre," p. , and parliamentary reports, and . {subnote a: mr. garrick, when in paris, refused to meet this writer, on account of the irreverence with which he had treated shakspeare.} {subnote b: the action was interrupted almost as soon as begun, in presence of a numerous assembly, by a cabal who had resolved to overthrow the first effect of this act of parliament, though it had been thought necessary for the regulation of the stage.} {subnote c: called here inns of court, as the two temples, lincoln's inn, gray's inn, doctor's commons, &c.}] [footnote : the theatre in goodman's fields was opened in october, , by thomas odell, who was afterwards deputy licenser under the act. odell, having no theatrical experience, entrusted the management to henry giffard. odell's theatre seems to have been in leman street.] [footnote : i can find no hint that plays were ever stopped at odell's theatre. there is a pamphlet, published in , with the following title: "a letter to the right honourable sir richard brocas, lord mayor of london. by a citizen," which demands the closing of the theatre, but i do not suppose any practical result followed. in an attempt by the patentees of drury lane and covent garden to silence giffard's company, then playing at his new theatre in goodman's fields, was unsuccessful. this theatre was in ayliffe street.] [footnote : half of booth's share of the patent was purchased by highmore, who also bought the whole of cibber's share. giffard was the purchaser of the remainder of booth's share.] [footnote : this was john harper. davies ("life of garrick," i. ) says that "the reason of the patentees fixing on harper was in consequence of his natural timidity." his trial was on the th november, . harper was a low comedian of some ability, but of no great note.] [footnote : cibber again alludes to this in chap. xiii.] [footnote : sir francis wronghead is a character in "the provoked husband," a country squire who comes to london to seek a place at court. in act iv. sir francis relates his interview with a certain great man: "sir francis, says my lord, pray what sort of a place may you ha' turned your thoughts upon? my lord, says i, beggars must not be chusers; but ony place, says i, about a thousand a-year, will be well enough to be doing with, till something better falls in--for i thowght it would not look well to stond haggling with him at first."] [footnote : giffard seems to have retained his sixth part.] [footnote : some account of the entire dispute between highmore and his actors will be found in my supplement to this book.] [footnote : this "broken wit" was henry fielding, between whom and cibber there was war to the knife, fielding taking every opportunity of mocking at colley and attacking his works. mr. austin dobson, in his "fielding," page , writes: "when the _champion_ was rather more than a year old, colley cibber published his famous _apology_. to the attacks made upon him by fielding at different times he had hitherto printed no reply--perhaps he had no opportunity of doing so. but in his eighth chapter, when speaking of the causes which led to the licensing act, he takes occasion to refer to his assailant in terms which fielding must have found exceedingly galling. he carefully abstained from mentioning his name, on the ground that it could do him no good, and was of no importance; but he described him as 'a broken wit,'" &c. mr. dobson, on page , gives his approval to the theory that "fielding had openly expressed resentment at being described by cibber as 'a broken wit,' without being mentioned by name."] [footnote : the use of "channel," meaning "gutter," is obsolete in england; but i am sure that i have heard it used in that sense in scotland. shakespeare in "king henry the sixth," third part, act ii. sc. , has, "as if a channel should be called the sea." and in marlowe's "edward the second," act i. sc. , occur the lines:-- "throw off his golden mitre, rend his stole, and in the channel christen him anew."] [footnote : juvenal, i. .] [footnote : mr. dobson ("fielding," page ) says: "he [cibber] called him, either in allusion to his stature, or his pseudonym in the _champion_, a '_herculean_ satyrist,' a '_drawcansir_ in wit.'"] [footnote : fielding's political satires, in such pieces as "pasquin" and "the historical register for ," contributed largely to the passing of the act of , although "the golden rump" was the ostensible cause.] [footnote : fielding, in the "champion" for tuesday, april nd, , says of cibber's refusal to quote from "pasquin"--"the good parent seems to imagine that he hath produced, as well as my lord _clarendon_, a [greek: ktêma es aei]; for he refuses to quote anything out of _pasquin_, lest he should _give it a chance of being remembered_." mr. dobson ("fielding," page ) says fielding "never seems to have wholly forgotten his animosity to the actor, to whom there are frequent references in _joseph andrews_; and, as late as , he is still found harping on 'the withered laurel' in a letter to lyttelton. even in his last work, the _voyage to lisbon_, cibber's name is mentioned. the origin of this protracted feud is obscure; but, apart from want of sympathy, it must probably be sought for in some early misunderstanding between the two in their capacities of manager and author."] [footnote : by lord chesterfield.] [footnote : horace, _ars poetica_, .] [footnote : guiscard's attack on harley occurred in .] [footnote : genest (iii. ) remarks, "if the power of the licenser had been laid _under proper regulations_, all would have been right." the whole objection to the licenser is simply that he is under no regulations whatever. he is a perfectly irresponsible authority, and one from whose decisions there is no appeal.] [footnote : cibber received three thousand guineas from highmore for his share in the patent (see victor's "history," i. ).] [footnote : "the laureat," page : "indeed, _laureat_, notwithstanding what thou may'st dream of the immortality of this work of thine, and bestowing the same on thy favourites by recording them here; thou mayst, old as thou art, live to see thy precious labours become the vile wrappers of pastry-grocers and chandlery wares." the issue of the present edition of cibber's "apology" is sufficient commentary on "the laureat's" ill-natured prophecy.] [footnote : cibber prints , repeating his former blunder. (see p. .)] [footnote : the first play acted by the united company was "hamlet." in this estcourt is cast for the gravedigger, so that if cibber's anecdote is accurate, as no doubt it is, estcourt must have "doubled" the gravedigger and the speaker of the prologue.] [footnote : the first edition reads " ," and in the next chapter cibber says . in point of fact, the first performance by the united company took place th january, . this does not make estcourt's "gag" incorrect, for though we now should not consider may, , and the following january in the same year, yet up to , when the style was changed in england, they were so.] [footnote : southerne's "oroonoko" was produced at drury lane in .] [footnote : of horden we know little more than cibber tells us. he seems to have been on the stage only for a year or two; and during only, at drury lane, does his name appear to important parts. davies ("dram. misc.," iii. ) says horden "was bred a scholar: he complimented george powell, in a latin encomium on his treacherous brothers." "the london news-letter," th may, , says: "on _monday_ capt. _burges_ who kill'd mr. _fane_, and was found guilty of manslaughter at the _old baily_, kill'd mr. _harding_ a comedian in a quarrel at the _rose_ tavern in _hatton_ [should be _covent_] _garden_, and is taken into custody." in "luttrell's diary," on tuesday, th may, , is noted: "captain burgesse, convicted last sessions of manslaughter for killing mr. fane, is committed to the gatehouse for killing mr. horden, of the playhouse, last night in covent garden." and on tuesday, th november, , "captain burgesse, who killed mr. horden the player, has obtained his majesties pardon."] [footnote : this tavern seems to have been very near drury lane theatre, and to have been a favourite place of resort after the play. in the epilogue to the "constant couple" the rose tavern is mentioned:-- "now all depart, each his respective way, to spend an evening's chat upon the play; some to hippolito's; one homeward goes, and one with loving she, retires to th' rose." in the "comparison between the two stages" one scene is laid in the rose tavern, and from it we gather that the house was of a very bad character:-- _"ramb._ defend us! what a hurry of sin is in this house! _sull._ drunkenness, which is the proper iniquity of a tavern, is here the most excusable sin; so many other sins over-run it, 'tis hardly seen in the crowd.... _sull._ this house is the very camp of sin; the devil sets up his black standard in the faces of these hungry harlots, and to enter into their trenches is going down to the bottomless pit according to the letter."--_comp._, p. . pepys mentions the rose more than once. on th may, , the first day of sedley's play, "the mulberry garden," the diarist, having secured his place in the pit, and feeling hungry, "did slip out, getting a boy to keep my place; and to the rose tavern, and there got half a breast of mutton, off the spit, and dined all alone. and so to the play again."] [footnote : cibber's chronology cannot be reconciled with what we believe to be facts. horden was killed in ; wilks seems to have come to england not earlier than the end of , while it is, i should say, certain that estcourt did not appear before . i can only suppose that cibber, who is very reckless in his dates, is here particularly confused.] [footnote : for leigh's playing of this character, see _ante_, p. .] [footnote : curll, in his "life of mrs. oldfield," says that the only part she played, previous to appearing as alinda, was candiope in "secret love." she played alinda in .] [footnote : in , gildon, in the "comparison between the two stages" (p. ), includes mrs. oldfield among the "meer rubbish that ought to be swept off the stage with the filth and dust."] [footnote : "miff," a colloquial expression signifying "a slight degree of resentment."] [footnote : cibber is pleasantly candid in allowing that he had no share in mrs. oldfield's success. the temptation to assume some credit for teaching her something must have been great.] [footnote : mrs. anne oldfield, born about , was introduced to vanbrugh by farquhar, who accidentally heard her reading aloud, and was struck by her dramatic style. cibber gives so full an account of her that it is only necessary to add that she made her last appearance on th april, , at drury lane, and that she died on the rd october in the same year. it was of mrs. oldfield that pope wrote the often-quoted lines ("moral essays," epistle i., part iii.):-- "odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke (were the last words that poor narcissa spoke), no, let a charming chintz and brussels lace wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: one would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead-- and--betty--give this cheek a little red." i may note that, though cibber enlarges chiefly on her comedy acting, she acted many parts in tragedy with the greatest success.] [footnote : produced th december, , at drury lane. "the careless husband." lord morelove .............. mr. powel. lord foppington ............ mr. cibber. sir charles easy ........... mr. wilks. lady betty modish .......... mrs. oldfield. lady easy .................. mrs. knight. lady graveairs ............. mrs. moore. mrs. edging ................ mrs. lucas.] [footnote : mrs. oldfield played lady townly in the "provoked husband," th january, . i presume that cibber means that this was her last _important_ original part, for she was the original representative of sophonisba (by james thomson) and other characters after january, .] [footnote : "the provoked husband." lord townly ............... mr. wilks. lady townly ............... mrs. oldfield. lady grace ................ mrs. porter. mr. manley ................ mr. mills, sen. sir francis wronghead ..... mr. cibber, sen. lady wronghead ............ mrs. thurmond. squire richard ............ young wetherelt. miss jenny ................ mrs. cibber. john moody ................ mr. miller. count basset .............. mr. bridgewater. mrs. motherly ............. mrs. moore. myrtilla .................. mrs. grace. mrs. trusty .................... mrs. mills. vanbrugh left behind him nearly four acts of a play entitled "a journey to london," which cibber completed, calling the finished work "the provoked husband." it was produced at drury lane on th january, .] [footnote : "verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis offendar maculis."--horace, _ars poetica_, .] [footnote : "the laureat," p. : "but i can see no occasion you have to mention any errors. she had fewer as an actress than any; and neither you, nor i, have any right to enquire into her conduct any where else."] [footnote : the following is the passage referred to:-- "but there is no doing right to mrs. oldfield, without putting people in mind of what others, of great merit, have wanted to come near her--'tis not enough to say, she here outdid her usual excellence. i might therefore justly leave her to the constant admiration of those spectators who have the pleasure of living while she is an actress. but as this is not the only time she has been the life of what i have given the public, so, perhaps, my saying a little more of so memorable an actress, may give this play a chance to be read when the people of this age shall be ancestors--may it therefore give emulation to our successors of the stage, to know, that to the ending of the year , a cotemporary comedian relates, that mrs. oldfield was then in her highest excellence of action, happy in all the rarely found requisites that meet in one person to complete them for the stage. she was in stature just rising to that height, where the graceful can only begin to show itself; of a lively aspect, and a command in her mien, that like the principal figure in the finest painting, first seizes, and longest delights, the eye of the spectators. her voice was sweet, strong, piercing, and melodious; her pronunciation voluble, distinct, and musical; and her emphasis always placed, where the spirit of the sense, in her periods, only demanded it. if she delighted more in the higher comic, than in the tragic strain, 'twas because the last is too often written in a lofty disregard of nature. but in characters of modern practised life, she found occasion to add the particular air and manner which distinguished the different humours she presented; whereas, in tragedy, the manner of speaking varies as little as the blank verse it is written in.--she had one peculiar happiness from nature, she looked and maintained the agreeable, at a time when other fine women only raise admirers by their understanding--the spectator was always as much informed by her eyes as her elocution; for the look is the only proof that an actor rightly conceives what he utters, there being scarce an instance, where the eyes do their part, that the elocution is known to be faulty. the qualities she had acquired, were the genteel and the elegant; the one in her air, and the other in her dress, never had her equal on the stage; and the ornaments she herself provided (particularly in this play) seemed in all respects the _paraphernalia_ of a woman of quality. and of that sort were the characters she chiefly excelled in; but her natural good sense, and lively turn of conversation, made her way so easy to ladies of the highest rank, that it is a less wonder if, on the stage, she sometimes was, what might have become the finest woman in real life to have supported." [bell's edition.]] [footnote : mr. julian marshall, in his "annals of tennis," p. , describes the two different sorts of tennis courts--"that which was called _le quarré_, or the square; and the other with the _dedans_, which is almost the same as that of the present day." cibber is thus correct in mentioning that the court was one of the lesser sort.] [footnote : interesting confirmation of cibber's statement is furnished by an edict of the lord chamberlain, dated th november, , by which betterton is ordered "to take upon him ye sole management" of the lincoln's inn fields company, there having been great disorders, "for want of sufficient authority to keep them to their duty." see david craufurd's preface to "courtship à la mode" ( ), for an account of the disorganized state of the lincoln's inn fields company. he says that though betterton did his best, some of the actors neither learned their parts nor attended rehearsals; and he therefore withdrew his comedy and took it to drury lane, where it was promptly produced.] [footnote : mons. castil-blaze, in his "la danse et les ballets," , p. , writes: "ballon danse avec énergie et vivacité; mademoiselle de subligny se fait généralement admirer pour sa danse noble et gracieuse." madlle. subligny was one of the first women who were dancers by profession. "la demoiselle subligny parut peu de temps après la demoiselle fontaine [ ], et fut aussi fort applaudie pour sa danse; mais elle quitta le théâtre, en , et mourut après l'année ."--"histoire de l'opéra." of mons. l'abbé i have been unable to discover any critical notice.] [footnote : downes ("roscius anglicanus," p. ) says: "in the space of ten years past, mr. _betterton_ to gratify the desires and fancies of the nobility and gentry; procur'd from abroad the best dances and singers, as monsieur _l'abbe_, madam _sublini_, monsieur _balon_, _margarita delpine_, _maria gallia_ and divers others; who being exhorbitantly expensive, produc'd small profit to him and his company, but vast gain to themselves." gildon, in the "comparison between the two stages," alludes to some of these dancers:-- "_sull._ the town ran mad to see him [balon], and the prizes were rais'd to an extravagant degree to bear the extravagant rate they allow'd him" (p. ). "_crit._ there's another toy now [madame subligny]--gad, there's not a year but some surprizing monster lands: i wonder they don't first show her at _fleet-bridge_ with an old drum and a crackt trumpet" (p. ). ] [footnote : in the prologue to "the ambitious stepmother," produced at lincoln's inn fields in (probably), rowe writes:-- "the stage would need no farce, nor song nor dance, nor capering monsieur brought from active france." and in the epilogue (not prologue, as cibber says):-- "show but a mimick ape, or french buffoon, you to the other house in shoals are gone, and leave us here to tune our crowds alone. must shakespear, fletcher, and laborious ben, be left for scaramouch and harlaquin?"] [footnote : in "the constant couple," and its sequel, "sir harry wildair."] [footnote : this theatre, opened th april, , was burnt down th june, ; rebuilt ; again burnt in . during its existence it has borne the name of queen's theatre, opera house, king's theatre, and its present title of her majesty's theatre.] [footnote : the beautiful lady sunderland. mr. percy fitzgerald ("new history," i. ) states that it was said that workmen, on th march, , found a stone with the inscription: "april th, . this corner-stone of the queen's theatre was laid by his grace charles duke of somerset."] [footnote : should be . downes (p. ) says: "about the end of , mr. _betterton_ assign'd his license, and his whole company over to captain _vantbrugg_ to _act_ under his, at the theatre in the _hay market_." vanbrugh opened his theatre on th april, .] [footnote : in dryden's prologue at the opening of drury lane in , in comparing the situation of drury lane with that of dorset garden, which was at the east end of fleet street, he talks of "... a cold bleak road, where bears in furs dare scarcely look abroad." this is now the strand and fleet street! no doubt the road westward to the haymarket was equally wild.] [footnote : this experiment was never tried. from the time cibber wrote, the house was used as an opera house.] [footnote : "to court, her seat imperial dulness shall transport. already opera prepares the way, the sure fore-runner of her gentle sway." "dunciad," iii. verses - . "when lo! a harlot form soft sliding by, with mincing step, small voice, and languid eye; foreign her air, her robe's discordant pride in patchwork fluttering, and her head aside; by singing peers upheld on either hand, she tripp'd and laugh'd, too pretty much to stand." "dunciad," iv. verses - .] [footnote : salvini, the great italian actor, played in america with an english company, he speaking in italian, they answering in english: i have myself seen a similar polyglot performance at the edinburgh lyceum theatre, where the manager, mr. j. b. howard, acted iago (in english), while signor salvini and his company played in italian. i confess the effect was not so startling as i expected.] [footnote : "the confederacy" was not produced till the following season-- th october, .] [footnote : it was acted ten times.] [footnote : genest (ii. ) says that congreve resigned his share at the close of the season - .] [footnote : cibber should have said "the confederacy." "the cuckold in conceit" has never been printed, and genest doubts if it is by vanbrugh. besides, it was not produced till nd march, .] [footnote : "the mistake" was produced th december, . "squire trelooby," which was first played in , was revived th january, , with a new second act.] [footnote : a junction of the companies seems to have been talked of as early as . in the prologue to "the unhappy penitent" ( ), the lines occur:-- "but now the peaceful tattle of the town, is how to join both houses into one."] [footnote : in "the post-boy rob'd of his mail," p. , some curious particulars of the negotiations for a union are given. one of rich's objections to it is that he has to consider the interests of his partners, with some of whom he has already been compelled to go to law on monetary questions.] [footnote : in july, , rich was approached on behalf of vanbrugh regarding a union, and the lord chamberlain supported the latter's proposal. rich, in declining, wrote: "i am concern'd with above forty persons in number, either as adventurers under the two patents granted to sir _william davenant,_ and _tho. killigrew_, esq.; or as renters of _covent-garden_ and _dorset-garden_ theatres.... i am a purchaser under the patents, to above the value of two thousand pounds (a great part of which was under the marriage-settlements of dr. _davenant_)."--"the post-boy rob'd of his mail," p. .] [footnote : owen swiney, or mac swiney, was an irishman. as is related by cibber in this and following chapters, he leased the haymarket from vanbrugh from the beginning of the season - . at the union, - , the haymarket was made over to him for the production of operas; and when, at the end of - , rich was ordered to silence his company at drury lane, swiney was allowed to engage the chief of rich's actors to play at the haymarket, where they opened september, . at the beginning of season - , swiney and his partners became managers of drury lane, but swiney was forced at the end of that season to resume the management of the operas. after a year of the opera-house (end of - ), swiney was ruined and had to go abroad. he remained abroad some twenty years. on th february, , he had a benefit at drury lane, at which cibber played for his old friend. the "biographia dramatica" says that he received a place in the custom house, and was made keeper of the king's mews. he died nd october, , leaving his property to mrs. woffington. davies, in his "dramatic miscellanies" (i. ), tells an idle tale of a scuffle between swiney and mrs. clive's brother, which bellchambers quotes at length, though it has no special reference to anything.] [footnote : at drury lane this season ( - ) very few plays were acted, rich relying chiefly on operas.] [footnote : cibber seems to be wrong in including estcourt in this list. his name appears in the drury lane bills for - , and his great part of sergeant kite ("recruiting officer") was played at the haymarket by pack. on th november, , it was advertised that "the true sergeant kite is performed at drury lane."] [footnote : see memoir of theophilus keen at end of second volume.] [footnote : downes (p. ) gives the following account of the transaction:-- "in this interval captain _vantbrugg_ by agreement with mr. _swinny_, and by the concurrence of my lord chamberlain, transferr'd and invested his license and government of the theatre to mr. _swinny_; who brought with him from mr. _rich_, mr. _wilks_, mr. _cyber_, mr. _mills_, mr. _johnson_, mr. _keene_, mr. _norris_, mr. _fairbank_, mrs. _oldfield_ and others; united them to the old company; mr. _betterton_ and mr. _underhill_, being the only remains of the duke of _york's_ servants, from , till the union in _october_ ."] [footnote : the chief actors left at drury lane were estcourt, pinkethman, powell, capt. griffin, mrs. tofts, mrs. mountfort (that is, the great mrs. mountfort's daughter), and mrs. cross: a miserably weak company.] [footnote : swiney's company began to act at the haymarket on th october, . cibber's first appearance seems to have been on th november, when he played lord foppington in "the careless husband."] * * * * * * transcription note: the index, originally printed in volume ii and covering both volumes, has been copied to the end of this volume for the convenience of the reader. the original spelling and grammar have been retained. footnotes have been moved to the end of this work. minor adjustments to hyphenation and other punctuation have been made without annotation. typographical changes to this volume: pg lvi (sidenote) in london or westmister[westminster] pg liii added heading [letters patent for erecting a new theatre] pg had military commissions; carlisle [carlile] pg in a full rowd[crowd] of courtiers pg nd[and] therefore they shall know pg falls into this rhapsody of vain-lory[vain-glory] pg that would have been the [extra the] least part pg likeness of these theatrical portraicts[portraits] pg he had this wholsom[wholesome] fn played at dorset garden; "pysche"["psyche"] followed a mummer's wife by george moore a dedication to robert ross i in the sunset of his life a man often finds himself unable to put dates even upon events in which his sympathies were, and perhaps are still, engaged; all things seem to have befallen yesterday, and yet it cannot be less than three years since we were anxious to testify to our belief in the kindness and justice with which you had fulfilled your double duties in the _morning post_ towards us and the proprietors of the paper. a committee sprang up quickly, and a letter was addressed by it to all the notable workers in the arts and to all those who were known to be interested in the arts, and very soon a considerable sum of money was collected; but when the committee met to decide what form the commemorative gift should take, a perplexity arose, many being inclined towards a piece of plate. it was pointed out that a piece of plate worth eight hundred pounds would prove a cumbersome piece of furniture--a white elephant, in fact--in the small house or apartment or flat in which a critic usually lives. the truth of this could not be gainsaid. other suggestions were forthcoming for your benefit, every one obtaining a certain amount of support, but none commanding a majority of votes; and the perplexity continued till it was mooted that the disposal of the money should be left to your option, and in view of the fact that you had filled the post of art critic for many years, you decided to found a slade scholarship. it seemed to you well that a young man on leaving the slade school should be provided with a sum of money sufficient to furnish a studio, and some seven or eight hundred pounds were invested, the remainder being spent on a trinket for your personal wear--a watch. i have not forgotten that i was one of the dissidents, scholarships not appealing to me, but lately i have begun to see that you were wise in the disposal of the money. a watch was enough for remembrance, and since i caught sight of it just now, the pleasant thoughts it has evoked console me for your departure: after bidding you good-bye on the doorstep, i return to my fireside to chew the cud once again of the temperate and tolerant articles that i used to read years ago in the _morning post_. you see, ross, i was critic myself for some years on the _speaker_, but my articles were often bitter and explosive; i was prone to polemics and lacked the finer sense that enabled you to pass over works with which you were not in sympathy, and without wounding the painter. my intention was often to wound him in the absurd hope that i might compel him to do better. my motto seems to have been 'compel them to come in'--words used by jesus in one of his parables, and relied on by ecclesiastics as a justification of persecution, and by many amongst us whose names i will not pillory here, for i have chosen that these pages shall be about you and nothing but you. if i speak of myself in a forgotten crusade, it is to place you in your true light. we recognized your critical insight and your literary skill, but it was not for these qualities that we, the criticized, decided to present you, the critic, with a token of our gratitude; nor was it because you had praised our works (a great number of the subscribers had not received praise from you): we were moved altogether, i think, by the consciousness that you had in a difficult task proved yourself to be a kindly critic, and yet a just one, and it was for these qualities that you received an honour, that is unique, i think, in the chronicles of criticism. ii memory pulls me up, and out of some moments of doubt, the suspicion emerges that all i am writing here was read by me somewhere: but it was not in our original declaration of faith, for i never saw it, not having attended the presentation of the testimonial. where, then? in the newspapers that quoted from the original document? written out by whom? by witt or by maccoll, excellent writers both? but being a writer myself, i am called upon to do my own writing.... newspapers are transitory things--a good reason for writing out the story afresh; and there is still another reason for writing it out--my reasons for dedicating this book to you. we must have reasons always, else we pass for unreasonable beings, and a better reason for dedicating a book to you than mine, i am fain to believe, will never be found by anybody in search of a reason for his actions. my name is among the signatories to the document that i have called 'our declaration of faith'; and having committed myself thus fully to your critical judgment, it seems to me that for the completion of the harmony a dedication is necessary. a fair share of reasons i am setting forth for this act of mine, every one of them valid, and the most valid of all my reason for choosing this book, _a mummer's wife_, to dedicate to you, is your own commendation of it the other night when you said to me that no book of mine in your opinion was more likely to 'live'! to live for five-and-twenty years is as long an immortality as anyone should set his heart on; for who would wish to be chattered about by the people that will live in these islands three hundred years hence? we should not understand them nor they us. avaunt, therefore, all legendary immortalities, and let us be content, ross, to be remembered by our friends, and, perhaps, to have our names passed on by disciples to another generation! a fair and natural immortality this is; let us share it together. our bark lies in the harbour: you tell me the spars are sound, and the seams have been caulked; the bark, you say, is seaworthy and will outlive any of the little storms that she may meet on the voyage--a better craft is not to be found in my little fleet. you said yesterevening across the hearthrug, '_esther waters_ speaks out of a deeper appreciation of life;' but you added: 'in _a mummer's wife_ there is a youthful imagination and a young man's exuberance on coming into his own for the first time, and this is a quality--'no doubt it is a quality, ross; but what kind of quality? you did not finish your sentence, or i have forgotten it. let me finish it for you--'that outweighs all other qualities' but does it? i am interpreting you badly. you would not commit yourself to so crude an opinion, and i am prepared to believe that i did not catch the words as they fell from your lips. all i can recall for certain of the pleasant moment when, you were considering which of my works you liked the best are stray words that may be arranged here into a sentence which, though it does not represent your critical judgments accurately, may be accepted by you. you said your thoughts went more frequently to _a mummer's wife_ than to _esther waters_; and i am almost sure something was said about the earlier book being a more spontaneous issue of the imagination, and that the wandering life of the mummers gives an old-world, adventurous air to the book, reminding you of _the golden ass_--a book i read last year, and found in it so many remembrances of myself that i fell to thinking it was a book i might have written had i lived two thousand years ago. who can say he has not lived before, and is it not as important to believe we lived herebefore as it is to believe we are going to live hereafter? if i had lived herebefore, jupiter knows what i should have written, but it would not have been _esther waters_: more likely a book like _a mummer's wife_--a band of jugglers and acrobats travelling from town to town. as i write these lines an antique story rises up in my mind, a recollection of one of my lost works or an instantaneous reading of apuleius into _a mummers wife_--which? g.m. a mummer's wife i in default of a screen, a gown and a red petticoat had been thrown over a clothes-horse, and these shaded the glare of the lamp from the eyes of the sick man. in the pale obscurity of the room, his bearded cheeks could be seen buried in a heap of tossed pillows. by his bedside sat a young woman. as she dozed, her face drooped until her features were hidden, and the lamp-light made the curious curves of a beautiful ear look like a piece of illuminated porcelain. her hands lay upon her lap, her needlework slipped from them; and as it fell to the ground she awoke. she pressed her hands against her forehead and made an effort to rouse herself. as she did so, her face contracted with an expression of disgust, and she remembered the ether. the soft, vaporous odour drifted towards her from a small table strewn with medicine bottles, and taking care to hold the cork tightly in her fingers she squeezed it into the bottle. at that moment the clock struck eleven and the clear tones of its bell broke the silence sharply; the patient moaned as if in reply, and his thin hairy arms stirred feverishly on the wide patchwork counterpane. she took them in her hands and covered them over; she tried to arrange the pillows more comfortably, but as she did so he turned and tossed impatiently, and, fearing to disturb him, she put back the handkerchief she had taken from the pillow to wipe the sweat from his brow, and regaining her chair, with a weary movement she picked up the cloth that had fallen from her knees and slowly continued her work. it was a piece of patchwork like the counterpane on the bed; the squares of a chessboard had been taken as a design, and, selecting a fragment of stuff, she trimmed it into the required shape and sewed it into its allotted corner. nothing was now heard but the methodical click of her needle as it struck the head of her thimble, and then the long swish of the thread as she drew it through the cloth. the lamp at her elbow burned steadily, and the glare glanced along her arm as she raised it with the large movement of sewing. her hair was blue wherever the light touched it, and it encircled the white prominent temple like a piece of rich black velvet; a dark shadow defined the delicate nose, and hinted at thin indecision of lips, whilst a broad touch of white marked the weak but not unbeautiful chin. on the corner of the table lay a book, a well-worn volume in a faded red paper cover. it was a novel she used to read with delight when she was a girl, but it had somehow failed to interest her, and after a few pages she had laid it aside, preferring for distraction her accustomed sewing. she was now well awake, and, as she worked, her thoughts turned on things concerning the daily routine of her life. she thought of the time when her husband would be well: of the pillow she was making; of how nice it would look in the green armchair; of the much greater likelihood of letting their rooms if they were better furnished; of their new lodger; and of the probability of a quarrel between him and her mother-in-law, mrs. ede. for more than a week past the new lodger had formed the staple subject of conversation in this household. mrs. ede, kate's mother-in-law, was loud in her protestations that the harbouring of an actor could not but be attended by bad luck. kate felt a little uneasy; her puritanism was of a less marked kind; perhaps at first she had felt inclined to agree with her mother-in-law, but her husband had shown himself so stubborn, and had so persistently declared that he was not going to keep his rooms empty any longer, that for peace' sake she was fain to side with him. the question arose in a very unexpected way. during the whole winter they were unfortunate with their rooms, though they made many attempts to get lodgers; they even advertised. some few people asked to see the rooms; but they merely made an offer. one day a man who came into the shop to buy some paper collars asked kate if she had any apartments to let. she answered yes, and they went upstairs. after a cursory inspection he told her that he was the agent in advance to a travelling opera company, and that if she liked he would recommend her rooms to the stage manager, a particular friend of his. the proposition was somewhat startling, but, not liking to say no, she proposed to refer the matter to her husband. at that particular moment ede happened to be engaged in a violent dispute with his mother, and so angry was he that when mrs. ede raised her hands to protest against the introduction of an actor into the household, he straightway told her that 'if she didn't like it she might do the other thing.' nothing more was said at the time; the old lady retired in indignation, and mr. lennox was written to. kate sympathized alternately with both sides. mrs. ede was sturdy in defence of her principles; ede was petulant and abusive; and between the two kate was blown about like a feather in a storm. daily the argument waxed warmer, until one night, in the middle of a scene characterized by much biblical quotation, ede declared he could stand it no longer, and rushed out of the house. in vain the women tried to stop him, knowing well what the consequences would be. a draught, a slight exposure, sufficed to give him a cold, and with him a cold always ended in an asthmatic attack. and these were often so violent as to lay him up for weeks at a time. when he returned, his temper grown cooler under the influence of the night air, he was coughing, and the next night found him breathless. his anger had at first vented itself against his mother, whom he refused to see, and thus the whole labour of nursing him was thrown on kate. she didn't grumble at this, but it was terrible to have to listen to him. it was mr. lennox, and nothing but mr. lennox. all the pauses in the suffocation were utilized to speak on this important question, and even now kate, who had not yet perceived that the short respite which getting rid of the phlegm had given him was coming to an end, expected him to say something concerning the still unknown person. but ede did not speak, and, to put herself as it were out of suspense, she referred to some previous conversation: 'i'm sure you're right; the only people in the town who let their rooms are those who have a theatrical connection.' 'oh, i don't care; i'm going to have a bad night,' said mr. ede, who now thought only of how he should get his next breath. 'but you seemed to be getting better,' she replied hurriedly. 'no! i feel it coming on--i'm suffocating. have you got the ether?' kate did not answer, but made a rapid movement towards the table, and snatching the bottle she uncorked it. the sickly odour quietly spread like oil over the close atmosphere of the room, but, mastering her repugnance, she held it to him, and in the hope of obtaining relief he inhaled it greedily. but the remedy proved of no avail, and he pushed the bottle away. 'oh, these headaches! my head is splitting,' he said, after a deep inspiration which seemed as if it would cost him his life. 'nothing seems to do me any good. have you got any cigarettes?' 'i'm sorry, they haven't arrived yet. i wrote for them,' she replied, hesitating; 'but don't you think--?' he shook his head; and, resenting kate's assiduities, with trembling fingers he unfastened the shawl she had placed on his shoulders, and then, planting his elbows on his knees, with a fixed head and elevated shoulders, he gave himself up to the struggle of taking breath.... at that moment she would have laid down her life to save him from the least of his pains, but she could only sit by him watching the struggle, knowing that nothing could be done to relieve him. she had seen the same scene repeated a hundred times before, but it never seemed to lose any of its terror. in the first month of their marriage she had been frightened by one of these asthmatic attacks. it had come on in the middle of the night, and she remembered well how she had prayed to god that it should not be her fate to see her husband die before her eyes. she knew now that death was not to be apprehended--the paroxysm would wear itself out--but she knew also of the horrors that would have to be endured before the time of relief came. she could count them upon her fingers--she could see it all as in a vision--a nightmare that would drag out its long changes until the dawn began to break; she anticipated the hours of the night. 'air! air! i'm suff-o-cating!' he sobbed out with a desperate effort. kate ran to the window and threw it open. the paroxysm had reached its height, and, resting his elbows well on his knees, he gasped many times, but before the inspiration was complete his strength failed him. no want but that of breath could have forced him to try again; and the second effort was even more terrible than the first. a great upheaval, a great wrenching and rocking seemed to be going on within him; the veins on his forehead were distended, the muscles of his chest laboured, and it seemed as if every minute were going to be his last. but with a supreme effort he managed to catch breath, and then there was a moment of respite, and kate could see that he was thinking of the next struggle, for he breathed avariciously, letting the air that had cost him so much agony pass slowly through his lips. to breathe again he would have to get on to his feet, which he did, and so engrossed was he in the labour of breathing that he pushed the paraffin lamp roughly; it would have fallen had kate not been there to catch it. she besought of him to say what he wanted, but he made no reply, and continued to drag himself from one piece of furniture to another, till at last, grasping the back of a chair, he breathed by jerks, each inspiration being accompanied by a violent spasmodic wrench, violent enough to break open his chest. she watched, expecting every moment to see him roll over, a corpse, but knowing from past experiences that he would recover somehow. his recoveries always seemed to her like miracles, and she watched the long pallid face crushed under a shock of dark matted hair, a dirty nightshirt, a pair of thin legs; but for the moment the grandeur of human suffering covered him, lifting him beyond the pale of loving or loathing, investing and clothing him in the pity of tragic things. the room, too, seemed transfigured. the bare wide floor, the gaunt bed, the poor walls plastered with religious prints cut from journals, even the ordinary furniture of everyday use--the little washhandstand with the common delf ewer, the chest of drawers that might have been bought for thirty shillings--lost their coarseness; their triviality disappeared, until nothing was seen or felt but this one suffering man. the minutes slipped like the iron teeth of a saw over kate's sensibilities. a hundred times she had run over in her mind the list of remedies she had seen him use. they were few in number, and none of any real service except the cigarettes which she had not. she asked him to allow her to try iodine, but he could not or would not make her any answer. it was cruel to see him struggling, but he resisted assistance, and watching like one in a dream, frightened at her own powerlessness to save or avert, kate remained crouching by the fireplace without strength to think or act, until she was suddenly awakened by seeing him relax his hold and slip heavily on the floor; and it was only by putting forth her whole strength she could get him into a sitting position; when she attempted to place him in a chair he slipped through her arms. there was, therefore, nothing to do but to shriek for help, and hope to awaken her mother-in-law. the echoes rang through the house, and as they died away, appalled, she listened to the silence. at length it grew clear that mrs. ede could not be awakened, and kate saw that she would have to trust to herself alone, and after two or three failures she applied herself to winning him back to consciousness. it was necessary to do so before attempting to move him again, and, sprinkling his face with water, she persuaded him to open his eyes, and after one little stare he slipped back into the nothingness he had come out of; and this was repeated several times, kate redoubling her efforts until at last she succeeded in placing him in a chair. he sat there, still striving and struggling with his breath, unable to move, and soaked with sweat, but getting better every minute. the worst of the attack was now over; she buttoned his nightshirt across his panting chest and covered his shoulders with his red shawl once more, and with a sentiment of real tenderness she took his hand in hers. she looked at him, feeling her heart grow larger. he was her husband; he had suffered terribly, and was now getting better; and she was his wife, whose duty it was to attend him. she only wished he would allow her to love him a little better; but against her will facts pierced through this luminous mist of sentiment, and she could not help remembering how petulant he was with her, how utterly all her wishes were disregarded. 'what a pity he's not a little different!' she thought; but when she looked at him and saw how he suffered, all other thoughts were once more drowned and swept away. she forgot how he often rendered her life miserable, wellnigh unbearable, by small vices, faults that defy definition, unending selfishness and unceasing irritability. but now all dissatisfaction and bitternesses were again merged into a sentiment that was akin to love; and in this time of physical degradation he possessed her perhaps more truly, more perfectly, than even in his best moments of health. but her life was one of work, not of musing, and there was plenty for her to attend to. ralph would certainly not be able to leave his chair for some time yet; she had wrapped him up comfortably in a blanket, she could do no more, and whilst he was recovering it would be as well to tidy up the room a bit. he would never be able to sleep in a bed that he had been lying in all day; she had better make the bed at once, for he generally got a little ease towards morning, particularly after a bad attack. so, hoping that the present occasion would not prove an exception, kate set to work to make the bed. she resolved to do this thoroughly, and turning the mattress over, she shook it with all her force. she did the same with the pillows, and fearing that there might be a few crumbs sticking to the sheets, she shook them out several times; and when the last crease had been carefully smoothed away she went back to her husband and insisted on being allowed to paint his back with iodine, although he did not believe in the remedy. on his saying he was thirsty, she went creeping down the narrow stairs to the kitchen, hunted for matches in the dark, lighted a spirit lamp and made him a hot drink, which he drank without thanking her. she fell to thinking of his ingratitude, and then of the discomfort of the asthma. how could she expect him to think of her when he was thinking of his breath? all the same, on these words her waking thoughts must have passed into dream thoughts. she was still watching by his bedside, waiting to succour him whenever he should ask for help, yet she must have been asleep. she did not know how long she slept, but it could not have been for long; and there was no reason for his peevishness, for she had not left him. 'i'm sorry, ralph, but i could not help it, i was so very tired. what can i do for you, dear?' 'do for me?' he said--'why, shut the window. i might have died for all you would have known or cared.' she walked across the room and shut the window, but as she came back to her place she said, 'i don't know why you speak to me like that, ralph.' 'prop me up: if i lie so low i shall get bad again. if you had a touch of this asthma you'd know what it is to lie alone for hours.' 'for hours, ralph?' kate repeated, and she looked at the clock and saw that she had not been asleep for more than half an hour. without contradicting him--for of what use would that be, only to make matters worse?--she arranged the pillows and settled the blankets about him, and thinking it would be advisable to say something, she congratulated him on seeming so much better. 'better! if i'm better, it's no thanks to you,' he said. 'you must have been mad to leave the window open so long.' 'you wanted it open; you know very well that when you're very bad like that you must have change of air. the room was so close.' 'yes, but that is no reason for leaving it open half an hour.' 'i offered to shut it, and you wouldn't let me.' 'i dare say you're sick of nursing me, and would like to get rid of me. the window wasn't a bad dodge.' kate remained silent, being too indignant for the moment to think of replying; but it was evident from her manner that she would not be able to contain herself much longer. he had hurt her to the quick, and her brown eyes swam with tears. his head lay back upon the built-up pillows, he fumed slowly, trying to find new matter for reproach, and breath wherewith to explain it. at last he thought of the cigarettes. 'even supposing that you did not remember how long you left the window open, i cannot understand how you forgot to send for the cigarettes. you know well enough that smoking is the only thing that relieves me when i'm in this state. i think it was most unfeeling--yes, most unfeeling!' having said so much, he leaned forward to get breath, and coughed. 'you'd better lie still, ralph; you'll only make yourself bad again. now that you feel a little easier you should try to go to sleep.' so far she got without betraying any emotion, but as she continued to advise him her voice began to tremble, her presence of mind to forsake her, and she burst into a flood of tears. 'i don't know how you can treat me as you do,' she said, sobbing hysterically. 'i do everything--i give up my night's rest to you, i work hard all day for you, and in return i only receive hard words. oh, it's no use,' she said; 'i can bear it no longer; you'll have to get someone else to mind you.' this outburst of passion came suddenly upon mr. ede, and for some time he was at a loss how to proceed. at last, feeling a little sorry, he resolved to make it up, and putting out his hand to her, he said: 'now, don't cry, kate; perhaps i was wrong in speaking so crossly. i didn't mean all i said--it's this horrid asthma.' 'oh, i can bear anything but to be told i neglect you--and when i stop up watching you three nights running----' these little quarrels were of constant occurrence. irritable by nature, and rendered doubly so by the character of his complaint, the invalid at times found it impossible to restrain his ill-humour; but he was not entirely bad; he inherited a touch of kind-heartedness from his mother, and being now moved by kate's tears, he said: 'that's quite true, and i'm sorry for what i said; you are a good little nurse. i won't scold you again. make it up.' kate found it hard to forget merely because ralph desired it, and for some time she refused to listen to his expostulations, and walked about the room crying, but her anger could not long resist the dead weight of sleep that was oppressing her, and eventually she came and sat down in her own place by him. the next step to reconciliation was more easy. kate was not vindictive, although quicktempered, and at last, amid some hysterical sobbing, peace was restored. ralph began to speak of his asthma again, telling how he had fancied he was going to die, and when she expressed her fear and regret he hastened to assure her that no one ever died of asthma, that a man might live fifty, sixty, or seventy years, suffering all the while from the complaint; and he rambled on until words and ideas together failed him, and he fell asleep. with a sigh of relief kate rose to her feet, and seeing that he was settled for the night, she turned to leave him, and passed into her room with a slow and dragging movement; but the place had a look so cold and unrestful that it pierced through even her sense of weariness, and she stood urging her tired brains to think of what she should do. at last, remembering that she could get a pillow from the room they reserved for letting, she turned to go. facing their room, and only divided by the very narrowest of passages, was the stranger's apartment. both doors were approached by a couple of steps, which so reduced the space that were two people to meet on the landing, one would have to give way to the other. mr. and mrs. ede found this proximity to their lodger, when they had one, somewhat inconvenient, but, as he said, 'one doesn't get ten shillings a week for nothing.' kate lingered a moment on the threshold, and then, with the hand in which she held the novel she had been reading, she picked up her skirt and stepped across the way. ii at first she could not determine who was passing through the twilight of the room, but as the blinds were suddenly drawn up and a flood of sunlight poured across the bed, she fell back amid the pillows, having recognized her mother-in-law in a painful moment of semi-blindness. the old woman carried a slop-pail, which she nearly dropped, so surprised was she to find kate in the stranger's room. 'but how did you get here?' she said hastily. 'i had to give ralph my pillow, and when he went to sleep i came to fetch one out of the bedroom here; and then i thought i would be more comfortable here--i was too tired to go back again--i don't know how it was--what does it matter?' kate, who was stupefied with sleep, had answered so crossly that mrs. ede did not speak for some time; at last, at the end of a long silence, she said: 'then he had a very bad night?' 'dreadful!' returned kate. 'i never was so frightened in my life.' 'and how did the fit come on?' asked mrs. ede. 'oh, i can't tell you now,' said kate. 'i'm so tired. i'm aching all over.' 'well, then, i'll bring you up your breakfast. you do look tired. it will do you good to remain in bed.' 'bring me up my breakfast! then, what time is it?' said kate, sitting up in bed with a start. 'what does it matter what the time is? if you're tired, lie still; i'll see that everything is right.' 'but i've promised mrs. barnes her dress by tomorrow night. oh, my goodness! i shall never get it done! do tell me what time it is.' 'well, it's just nine,' the old woman answered apologetically; 'but mrs. barnes will have to wait; you can't kill yourself. it's a great shame of ralph to have you sitting up when i could look after him just as well, and all because of the mummer.' 'oh, don't, mother,' said kate, who knew that mrs. ede could rate play-actors for a good half-hour without feeling the time passing, and taking her mother-in-law's hands in hers, she looked earnestly in her face, saying: 'you know, mother, i have a hard time of it, and i try to bear up as well as i can. you're the only one i've to help me; don't turn against me. ralph has set his mind on having the rooms let, and the mummer, as you call him, is coming here to-day; it's all settled. promise me you'll do nothing to unsettle it, and that while mr. lennox is here you'll try to make him comfortable. i've my dressmaking to attend to, and can't be always after him. will you do this thing for me?' and after a moment or so of indecision mrs. ede said: 'i don't believe money made out of such people can bring luck, but since you both wish it, i suppose i must give way. but you won't be able to say i didn't warn you.' 'yes, yes, but since we can't prevent his coming, will you promise that whilst he's here you'll attend to him just as you did to the other gentleman?' 'i shall say nothing to him, and if he doesn't make the house a disgrace, i shall be well satisfied.' 'how do you mean a disgrace?' 'don't you know, dear, that actors have always a lot of women after them, and i for one am not going to attend on wenches like them. if i had my way i'd whip such people until i slashed all the wickedness out of them.' 'but he won't bring any women here; we won't allow it,' said kate, a little shocked, and she strove to think how they should put a stop to such behaviour. 'if mr. lennox doesn't conduct himself properly--' 'of course i shall try to do my duty, and if mr. lennox respects himself i shall try to respect him.' she spoke these words hesitatingly, but the admission that she possibly might respect mr. lennox satisfied kate, and not wishing to press the matter further, she said, suddenly referring to their previous conversation: 'but didn't you say that it was nine o'clock?' 'it's more than nine now.' 'oh, lord! oh, lord! how late i am! i suppose the two little girls are here?' 'they just came in as i was going upstairs; i've set them to work.' 'i wish you'd get the tea ready, and you might make some buttered toast; ralph would like some, and so should i, for the matter of that.' then ralph's voice was heard calling, and seeing what was wanted, she hastened to his assistance. 'where were you last night?' he asked her. 'i slept in the stranger's room; i thought you'd not require me, and i was more comfortable there. the bed in the back room is all ups and downs.' he was breathing heavily in a way that made her fear he was going to have another attack. 'is mother in a great rage because i won't let her in?' he said presently. 'she's very much cut up about it, dear; you know she loves you better than anyone in the world. you'd do well to make it up with her.' 'well, perhaps i was wrong,' he said after a time, and with good humour, 'but she annoys me. she will interfere in everything; as if i hadn't a right to let my rooms to whom i please. she pays for all she has here, but i'd much sooner she left us than be lorded over in that way.' 'she doesn't want to lord it over you, dear. it's all arranged. she promised me just now she'd say nothing more about it, and that she'd look after mr. lennox like any other lodger.' on hearing that his mother was willing to submit to his will, the invalid smiled and expressed regret that the presence of an extra person in the house, especially an actor, would give his wife and mother more work to do. 'but i shall soon be well,' he said, 'and i dare say downstairs looking after the shop in a week.' kate protested against such imprudence, and then suggested she should go and see after his breakfast. ralph proffered no objection, and bidding him goodbye for the present, she went downstairs. annie was helping mrs. ede to make the toast in the front kitchen; lizzie stood at the table buttering it, but as soon as kate entered they returned to their sewing, for it was against kate's theories that the apprentices should assist in the household work. 'dear mother,' she began, but desisted, and when all was ready mrs. ede, remembering she had to make peace with her son, seized the tray and went upstairs. and the moment she was gone kate seated herself wearily on the red, calico-covered sofa. like an elongated armchair, it looked quaint, neat, and dumpy, pushed up against the wall between the black fireplace on the right and the little window shaded with the muslin blinds, under which a pot of greenstuff bloomed freshly. she lay back thinking vaguely, her cup of hot tea uppermost in her mind, hoping that mrs. ede would not keep her waiting long; and then, as her thoughts detached themselves, she remembered the actor whom they expected that afternoon. the annoyances which he had unconsciously caused her had linked him to her in a curious way, and all her prejudices vanished in the sensation of nearness that each succeeding hour magnified, and she wondered who this being was who had brought so much trouble into her life even before she had seen him. as the word 'trouble' went through her mind she paused, arrested by a passing feeling of sentimentality; but it explained nothing, defined nothing, only touched her as a breeze does a flower, and floated away. the dreamy warmth of the fire absorbed her more direct feelings, and for some moments she dozed in a haze of dim sensuousness and emotive numbness. as in a dusky glass, she saw herself a tender, loving, but unhappy woman; by her side were her querulous husband and her kindly-minded mother-in-law, and then there was a phantom she could not determine, and behind it something into which she could not see. was it a distant country? was it a scene of revelry? impossible to say, for whenever she attempted to find definite shapes in the glowing colours they vanished in a blurred confusion. but amid these fleeting visions there was one shape that particularly interested her, and she pursued it tenaciously, until in a desperate effort to define its features she awoke with a start and spoke more crossly than she intended to the little girls, who had pulled aside the curtain and were intently examining the huge theatrical poster that adorned the corner of the lane. but as she scolded she could not help smiling; for she saw how her dream had been made out of the red and blue dresses of the picture. the arrival of each new company in the town was announced pictorially on this corner wall, and, in the course of the year, many of the vicissitudes to which human life is liable received illustration upon it. wrecks at sea, robberies on the highways, prisoners perishing in dungeons, green lanes and lovers, babies, glowing hearths, and heroic young husbands. the opera companies exhibited the less serious sides of life--strangely dressed people and gallants kissing their hands to ladies standing on balconies. the little girls examined these pictures and commented on them; and on saturdays it was a matter of the keenest speculation what the following week would bring them. lizzie preferred exciting scenes of murder and arson, while annie was moved more by leavetakings and declarations of unalterable affection. these differences of taste often gave rise to little bickerings, and last week there had been much prophesying as to whether the tragic or the sentimental element would prove next week's attraction. lizzie had voted for robbers and mountains, annie for lovers and a nice cottage. and, remembering their little dispute, kate said: 'well, dears, is it a robber or a sweetheart?' 'we're not sure,' exclaimed both children in a disappointed tone of voice; 'we can't make the picture out.' then lizzie, who cared little for uncertainties, said: 'it isn't a nice picture at all; it is all mixed up.' 'not a nice picture at all, and all mixed up?' said kate, smiling, yet interested in the conversation. 'and all mixed up; how is that? i must see if i can make it out myself.' the huge poster contained some figures nearly life-size. it showed a young girl in a bridal dress and wreath struggling between two police agents, who were arresting her in a marketplace of old time, in a strangely costumed crowd, which was clamouring violently. the poor bridegroom was being held back by his friends; a handsome young man in knee-breeches and a cocked hat watched the proceedings cynically in the right-hand corner, whilst on the left a big fat man frantically endeavoured to recover his wig, that had been lost in the mêlée. the advertisement was headed, 'morton and cox's operatic company,' and concluded with the announcement that _madame angot_ would be played at the queen's theatre. after a few moments spent in examining the picture kate said it must have something to do with france. 'i know what it means,' cried lizzie; 'you see that old chap on the right? he's the rich man who has sent the two policemen to carry the bride to his castle, and it's the young fellow in the corner who has betrayed them.' the ingenuity of this explanation took kate and annie so much by surprise that for the moment they could not attempt to controvert it, and remained silent, whilst lizzie looked at them triumphantly. the more they examined the picture the more clear did it appear that lizzie was right. at the end of a long pause kate said: 'anyhow, we shall soon know, for one of the actors of the company is coming here to lodge, and we'll ask him.' 'a real actor coming here to lodge?' exclaimed annie. 'oh, how nice that will be! and will he take us to see the play?' 'how silly of you, annie!' said lizzie, who, proud of her successful explanation of the poster, was a little inclined to think she knew all about actors. 'how can he take us to the play? isn't he going to act it himself? but do tell me, mrs. ede--is he the one in the cocked hat?' 'i hope he isn't the fat man who has lost his wig,' annie murmured under her breath. 'i don't know which of those gentlemen is coming here. for all i know it may be the policeman,' kate added maliciously. 'don't say that, mrs. ede!' annie exclaimed. kate smiled at the children's earnestness, and, wishing to keep up the joke, said: 'you know, my dear, they are only sham policemen, and i dare say are very nice gentlemen in reality.' annie and lizzie hung down their heads; it was evident they had no sympathies with policemen, not even with sham ones. 'but if it isn't a policeman, who would you like it to be, lizzie?' said kate. 'oh, the man in the cocked hat,' replied lizzie without hesitation. 'and you, annie?' annie looked puzzled, and after a moment said with a slight whimper: 'lizzie always takes what i want--i was just going--' 'oh yes, miss, we know all about that,' returned lizzie derisively. 'annie never can choose for herself; she always tries to imitate me. she'll have the man who's lost his wig! oh yes, yes! isn't it so, mrs. ede? isn't annie going to marry the man who's lost his wig?' tears trembled in annie's eyes, but as she happened at that moment to catch sight of the young man in white, she declared triumphantly that she would choose him. 'well done, annie!' said kate, laughing as she patted the child's curls, but her eyes fell on the neglected apron, and seeing how crookedly it was being hemmed, she said: 'oh, my dear, this is very bad; you must go back, undo all you have done this morning, and get it quite straight.' she undid some three or four inches of the sewing, and then showed the child how the hem was to be turned in, and while she did so a smile hovered round the corners of her thin lips, for she was thinking of the new lodger, asking herself which man in the picture was coming to lodge in her house. mrs. ede returned, talking angrily, but kate could only catch the words 'waiting' and 'breakfast cold' and 'sorry.' at last, out of a confusion of words a reproof broke from her mother-in-law for not having roused her. 'i called and called,' said kate, 'but nothing would have awakened you.' 'you should have knocked at my door,' mrs. ede answered, and after speaking about open house and late hours she asked kate suddenly what was going to be done about the latchkey. 'i suppose he will have to have his latchkey,' kate answered. 'i shall not close my eyes,' mrs. ede returned, 'until i hear him come into the house. he won't be bringing with him any of the women from the theatre.' kate assured her that she would make this part of the bargain, and somewhat softened, mrs. ede spoke of the danger of bad company, and trusted that having an actor in the house would not be a reason for going to the theatre and falling into idle habits. 'one would have thought that we heard enough of that theatre from miss hender,' she interjected, and then lapsed into silence. miss hender, kate's assistant, was one of mrs. ede's particular dislikes. of her moral character mrs. ede had the gravest doubts; for what could be expected, she often muttered, of a person who turned up her nose when she was asked to stay and attend evening prayers, and who kept company with a stage carpenter? mrs. ede did not cease talking of hender till the girl herself came in, with many apologies for being an hour behind her time, and saying that she really could not help it; her sister had been very ill, and she had been obliged to sit up with her all night. mrs. ede smiled at this explanation, and withdrew, leaving kate in doubt as to the truth of the excuse put forward by her assistant; but remembering that mrs. barnes's dress had been promised for tuesday morning, she said: 'come, we're wasting all the morning; we must get on with mrs. barnes's dress,' and a stout, buxom, carroty-haired girl of twenty followed kate upstairs, thinking of the money she might earn and of how she and the stage carpenter might spend it together. she was always full of information concerning the big red house in queen street. she was sure that the hours in the workroom would not seem half so long if kate would wake up a bit, go to the play, and chat about what was going on in the town. how anyone could live with that horrid old woman always hanging about, with her religion and salvation, was beyond her. she hadn't time for such things, and as for bill, he said it was all 'tommy-rot.' hender was an excellent workwoman, although a lazy girl, and, seeing from kate's manner that the time had not come for conversation, applied herself diligently to her business. placing the two side-seams and the back under the needle, she gave the wheel a turn, and rapidly the little steel needle darted up and down into the glistening silk, as miss hender's thick hands pushed it forward. the work was too delicate to admit of any distraction, so for some time nothing was heard but the clinking rattle of the machine and the 'swishing' of the silk as kate drew it across the table and snipped it with the scissors which hung from her waist. but at the end of about half an hour the work came to a pause. hender had finished sewing up the bodice, had tacked on the facings, and kate had cut out the skirt and basted it together. the time had come for exchanging a few words, and lifting her head from her work, she asked her assistant if she could remain that evening and do a little overtime. hender said she was very sorry, but it was the first night of the new opera company; she had passes for the pit, and had promised to take a friend with her. she would, therefore, have to hurry away a little before six, so as to have her tea and be dressed in time. 'well, i don't know what i shall do,' said kate sorrowfully. 'as for myself, i simply couldn't pass another night out of bed. you know i was up looking after my husband all night. attending a sick man, and one as cross as mr. ede, is not very nice, i can assure you.' hender congratulated herself inwardly that bill was never likely to want much attendance. 'i think you'd better tell mrs. barnes that she can't expect the dress; it will be impossible to get it done in the time. i'd be delighted to help you, but i couldn't disappoint my little friend. besides, you've mr. lennox coming here to-day ... you can't get the dress done by to-morrow night!' hender had been waiting for a long time for an opportunity to lead up to mr. lennox. 'oh, dear me!' said kate, 'i'd forgotten him, and he'll be coming this afternoon, and may want some dinner, and i'll have to help mother.' 'they always have dinner in the afternoon,' said miss hender, with a feeling of pride at being able to speak authoritatively on the ways and habits of actors. 'do they?' replied kate reflectively; and then, suddenly remembering her promise to the little girls, she said: 'but do you know what part he takes in the play?' hender always looked pleased when questioned about the theatre, but all the stage carpenter had been able to tell her about the company was that it was one of the best travelling; that frank bret, the tenor, was supposed to have a wonderful voice; that the amount of presents he received in each town from ladies in the upper ranks of society would furnish a small shop--'it's said that they'd sell the chemises off their backs for him.' the stage carpenter had also informed her that joe mortimer's performance in the cloches was extraordinary; he never failed to bring down the house in his big scene; and lucy leslie was the best clairette going. and now that they were going to have an actor lodging in their house, kate felt a certain interest in hearing what such people were like; and while miss hender gossiped about all she had heard, kate remembered that her question relating to mr. lennox remained unanswered. 'but you've not told me what part mr. lennox plays. perhaps he's the man in white who is being dragged away from his bride? i've been examining the big picture; the little girls were so curious to know what it meant.' 'yes, he may play that part; it is called pom-pom pouet--i can't pronounce it right; it's french. but in any case you'll find him fine. all theatre people are. the other day i went behind to talk to bill, and mr. rickett stopped to speak to me as he was running to make a change.' 'what's that?' asked kate. 'making a change? dressing in a hurry.' 'i hope you won't get into trouble; stopping out so late is very dangerous for a young girl. and i suppose you walk up piccadilly with him after the play?' 'sometimes he takes me out for a drink,' hender replied, anxious to avoid a discussion on the subject, but at the same time tempted to make a little boast of her independence. 'but you must come to see _madame angot_; i hear it is going to be beautifully put on, and mr. lennox is sure to give you a ticket.' 'i dare say i should like it very much; i don't have much amusement.' 'indeed you don't, and what do you get for it? i don't see that mr. ede is so kind to you for all the minding and nursing you do; and old mrs. ede may repeat all day long that she's a christian woman, and what else she likes, but it doesn't make her anything less disagreeable. i wouldn't live in a house with a mother-in-law--and such a mother-in-law!' 'you and mrs. ede never hit it off, but i don't know what i should do without her; she's the only friend i've got.' 'half your time you're shut up in a sick-room, and even when he is well he's always blowing and wheezing; not the man that would suit me.' 'ralph can't help being cross sometimes,' said kate, and she fell to thinking of the fatigue of last night's watching. she felt it still in her bones, and her eyes ached. as she considered the hardships of her life, her manner grew more abandoned. 'if you'll let me have the skirt, ma'am, i'll stitch it up.' kate handed her the silk wearily, and was about to speak when mrs. ede entered. 'mr. lennox is downstairs,' she said stiffly. 'i don't know what you'll think of him. i'm a christian woman and i don't want to misjudge anyone, but he looks to me like a person of very loose ways.' kate flushed a little with surprise, and after a moment she said: 'i suppose i'd better go down and see him. but perhaps he won't like the rooms after all. what shall i say to him?' 'indeed, i can't tell you; i've the dinner to attend to.' 'but,' said kate, getting frightened, 'you promised me not to say any more on this matter.' 'oh, i say nothing. i'm not mistress here. i told you that i would not interfere with mr. lennox; no more will i. why should i? what right have i? but i may warn you, and i have warned you. i've said my say, and i'll abide by it.' these hard words only tended to confuse kate; all her old doubts returned to her, and she remained irresolute. hender, with an expression of contempt on her coarse face, watched a moment and then returned to her sewing. as she did so kate moved towards the door. she waited on the threshold, but seeing that her mother-in-law had turned her back, her courage returned to her and she went downstairs. when she caught sight of mr. lennox she shrank back frightened, for he was a man of about thirty years of age, with bronzed face, and a shock of frizzly hair, and had it not been for his clear blue eyes he might have passed for an italian. leaning his large back against the counter, he examined a tray of ornaments in black jet. kate thought he was handsome. he wore a large soft hat, which was politely lifted from his head when she entered. the attention embarrassed her, and somewhat awkwardly she interrupted him to ask if he would like to see the rooms. the suddenness of the question seemed to surprise him, and he began talking of their common acquaintance, the agent in advance, and of the difficulty in getting lodgings in the town. as he spoke he stared at her, and he appeared interested in the shop. it was a very tiny corner, and, like a samson, mr. lennox looked as if he would only have to extend his arms to pull the whole place down upon his shoulders. from the front window round to the kitchen door ran a mahogany counter; behind it, there were lines of cardboard boxes built up to the ceiling; the lower rows were broken and dusty, and spread upon wires were coarse shirts and a couple of pairs of stays in pink and blue. the windows were filled with babies' frocks, hoods, and many pairs of little woollen shoes. after a few remarks from mr. lennox the conversation came to a pause, and kate asked him again if he would like to see the rooms. he said he would be delighted, and she lifted the flap and let him pass into the house. on the right of the kitchen door there was a small passage, and at the end of it the staircase began; the first few steps turned spirally, but after that it ascended like a huge canister or burrow to the first landing. they passed mrs. ede gazing scornfully from behind the door of the workroom, but mr. lennox did not seem to notice her, and continued to talk affably of the difficulty of finding lodgings in the town. even the shabby gentility of the room, which his presence made her realize more vividly than ever, did not appear to strike him. he examined with interest the patchwork cloth that covered the round table, looked complacently at the little green sofa with the two chairs to match, and said that he thought he would be comfortable. but when kate noticed how dusty was the pale yellow wall-paper, with its watery roses, she could not help feeling ashamed, and she wondered how so fine a gentleman as he could be so easily satisfied. then, plucking up courage, she showed him the little mahogany chiffonier which stood next the door, and told him that it was there she would keep whatever he might order in the way of drinks. mr. lennox walked nearer to the small looking-glass engarlanded with green paper cut into fringes, twirled a slight moustache many shades lighter than his hair, and admired his white teeth. the inspection of the drawing-room being over, they went up the second portion of the canister-like staircase, and after a turn and a stoop arrived at the bedroom. 'i'm sorry you should see the room like this,' kate said. 'i thought that my mother-in-law had got the room ready for you. i was obliged to sleep here last night; my husband--' 'i assure you i take no objection to the fact of your having slept here,' he replied gallantly. kate blushed, and an awkward silence followed. as mr. lennox looked round an expression of dissatisfaction passed over his face. it was a much poorer place than the drawing-room. religion and poverty went there hand-in-hand. a rickety iron bedstead covered with another patchwork quilt occupied the centre of the room, and there was a small chest of drawers in white wood placed near the fireplace--the smallest and narrowest in the world. upon the black painted chimney-piece a large red apple made a spot of colour. the carpet was in rags, and the lace blinds were torn, and hung like fishnets. mr. lennox apparently was not satisfied, but when his eyes fell upon kate it was clear that he thought that so pretty a woman might prove a compensation. but the pious exhortations hanging on the walls seemed to cause him a certain uneasiness. above the washstand there were two cards bearing the inscriptions, 'thou art my hope,' 'thou art my will'; and these declarations of faith were written within a painted garland of lilies and roses. 'i see that you're religious.' 'i'm afraid not so much as i should be, sir.' 'well, i don't know so much about that; the place is covered with bible texts.' 'those were put there by my mother-in-law. she is very good.' 'oh ah,' said mr. lennox, apparently much relieved by the explanation. 'old people are very pious, generally, aren't they? but this patchwork quilt is yours, i suppose?' 'yes, sir; i made it myself,' said kate, blushing. he made several attempts at conversation, but she did not respond, her whole mind being held up by the thought: 'is he going to take the rooms, i wonder?' at last he said: 'i like these apartments very well; and you say that i can have breakfast here?' 'oh, you can have anything you order, sir. i, or my mother, will--' 'very well, then; we may consider the matter settled. i'll tell them to send down my things from the theatre.' this seemed to conclude the affair, and they went downstairs. but mr. lennox stopped on the next landing, and without any apparent object re-examined the drawing-room. speaking like a man who wanted to start a conversation, he manifested interest in everything, and asked questions concerning the rattle of the sewing-machine, which could be heard distinctly; and before she could stop him he opened the door of the workroom. he wondered at all the brown-paper patterns that were hung on the walls, and miss hender, too eager to inform him, took advantage of the occasion to glide in a word to the effect that she was going to see him that evening at the theatre. kate was amused, but felt it was her duty to take the first opportunity of interrupting the conversation. for some unexplained reason mr. lennox seemed loath to go, and it was with difficulty he was got downstairs. even then he could not pass the kitchen door without stopping to speak to the apprentices. he asked them where they had found their brown hair and eyes, and attempted to exchange a remark with mrs. ede. kate thought the encounter unfortunate, but it passed off better than she expected. mrs. ede replied that the little girls were getting on very well, and, apparently satisfied with this answer, mr. lennox turned to go. his manner indicated his bohemian habits, for after all this waste of time he suddenly remembered that he had an appointment, and would probably miss it by about a quarter of an hour. 'will you require any dinner?' asked kate, following him to the door. at the mention of the word 'dinner' he again appeared to forget all about his appointment. his face changed its expression, and his manner again grew confidential. he asked all kinds of questions as to what she could get him to eat, but without ever quite deciding whether he would be able to find time to eat it. kate thought she had never seen such a man. at last in a fit of desperation, he said: 'i'll have a bit of cold steak. i haven't the time to dine, but if you'll put that out for me ... i like a bit of supper after the theatre--' kate wished to ask him what he would like to drink with it, but it was impossible to get an answer. he couldn't stop another minute, and, dodging the passers-by, he rushed rapidly down the street. she watched until the big shoulders were lost in the crowd, and asked herself if she liked the man who had just left her; but the answer slipped from her when she tried to define it, and with a sigh she turned into the shop and mechanically set straight those shirts that hung aslant on the traversing wires. at that moment mrs. ede came from the kitchen carrying a basin of soup for her sick son. she wanted to know why kate had stayed so long talking to that man. 'talking to him!' kate repeated, surprised at the words and suspicious of an implication of vanity. 'if we're going to take his money it's only right that we should try to make him comfortable.' 'i doubt if his ten shillings a week will bring us much good,' mrs. ede answered sourly; and she went upstairs, backbone and principles equally rigid, leaving kate to fume at what she termed her mother-in-law's unreasonableness. but kate had no time to indulge in many angry thoughts, for the tall gaunt woman returned with tears in her eyes to beg pardon. 'i'm so sorry, dear. did i speak crossly? i'll say no more about the actor, i'll promise.' 'i don't see why i should be bullied in my own house,' kate answered, feeling that she must assert herself. 'why shouldn't i let my rooms to mr. lennox if i like?' 'you're right,' mrs. ede replied--'i've said too much; but don't turn against me, kate.' 'no, no, mother; i don't turn against you. you're the only person i have to love.' at these words a look of pleasure passed over the hard, blunt features of the peasant woman, and she said with tears in her voice: 'you know i'm a bit hard with my tongue, but that's all; i don't mean it.' 'well, say no more, mother,' and kate went upstairs to her workroom. miss hender, already returned from dinner, was trembling with excitement, and she waited impatiently for the door to be shut that she might talk. she had been round to see her friend the stage carpenter, and he had told her all about the actor. mr. lennox was the boss; mr. hayes, the acting manager, was a nobody, generally pretty well boozed; and mr. cox, the london gent, didn't travel. kate listened, only half understanding what was said. 'and what part does he play in _madame angot_?' she asked as she bent her head to examine the bead trimmings she was stitching on to the sleeves. 'the low comedy part,' said miss hender; but seeing that kate did not understand, she hastened to explain that the low comedy parts meant the funny parts. 'he's the man who's lost his wig--la--la ravodée, i think they call it--and a very nice man he is. when i was talking to bill i could see mr. lennox between the wings; he had his arm round miss leslie's shoulder. i'm sure he's sweet on her.' kate looked up from her work and stared at miss hender slowly. the announcement that mr. lennox was the funny man was disappointing, but to hear that he was a woman's lover turned her against him. 'all those actors are alike. i see now that my mother-in-law was right. i shouldn't have let him my rooms.' 'one's always afraid of saying anything to you, ma'am; you twist one's words so. i'm sure i didn't mean to say there was any harm between him and miss leslie. there, perhaps you'll go and tell him that i spoke about him.' 'i'm sure i shall do nothing of the sort. mr. lennox has taken my rooms for a week, and there's an end of it. i'm not going to interfere in his private affairs.' the conversation then came to a pause, and all that was heard for a long time was the clicking of the needle and the rustling of silk. kate wondered how it was that mr. lennox was so different off the stage from what he was when on; and it seemed to her strange that such a nice gentleman--for she was obliged to admit that he was that--should choose to play the funny parts. as for his connection with miss leslie, that of course was none of her business. what did it matter to her? he was in love with whom he pleased. she'd have thought he was a man who would not easily fall in love; but perhaps miss leslie was very pretty, and, for the matter of that, they might be going to be married. meanwhile miss hender regretted having told kate anything about mr. lennox. the best and surest way was to let people find out things for themselves, and having an instinctive repugnance to virtue--at least, to questions of conscience--she could not abide whining about spilt milk. beyond an occasional reference to their work, the women did not speak again, until at three o'clock mrs. ede announced that dinner was ready. there was not much to eat, however, and kate had little appetite, and she was glad when the meal was finished. she had then to help mrs. ede in getting the rooms ready, and when this was done it was time for tea. but not even this meal did they get in comfort, for mr. lennox had ordered a beefsteak for supper; somebody would have to go to fetch it. mrs. ede said she would, and kate went into the shop to attend to the few customers who might call in the course of the evening. the last remarkable event in this day of events was the departure of miss hender, who came downstairs saying she had only just allowed herself time to hurry to the theatre; she feared she wouldn't be there before the curtain went up, and she was sorry kate wasn't coming, but she would tell her to-morrow all about mr. lennox, and how the piece went. as kate bade her assistant good-night a few customers dropped in, all of whom gave a great deal of trouble. she had to pull down a number of packages to find what was wanted. then her next-door neighbour, the stationer's wife, called to ask after mr. ede and to buy a reel of cotton; and so, in evening chat, the time passed, until the fruiterer's boy came to ask if he should put up the shutters. kate nodded, and remarked to her friend, who had risen to go, what a nice, kind man mr. jones was. 'yes, indeed, they are very kind people, but their prices are very high. do you deal with them?' kate replied that she did; and, as the fruiterer's boy put up the shutters with a series of bangs, she tried to persuade her neighbour to buy a certain gown she had been long talking of. 'trimming and everything, it won't cost you more than thirty shillings; you'll want something fresh now that summer's coming on.' 'so i shall. i'll speak to my man about it to-night. i think he'll let me have it.' 'he won't refuse you if you press him.' 'well, we shall see,' and bidding kate good-night she passed into the street. the evening was fine, and kate stood for a long while watching the people surging out of the potteries towards piccadilly. 'coming out,' she said, 'for their evening walk,' and she was glad that the evening was fine. 'after a long day in the potteries they want some fresh air,' and then, raising her eyes from the streets, she watched the sunset die out of the west; purple and yellow streaks still outlined the grey expanse of the hills, making the brick town look like a little toy. an ugly little brick town--brick of all colours: the pale reddish-brown of decaying brick-yards, the fierce red brick of the newly built warehouses that turns to purple, and above the walls scarlet tiled roofs pointing sharp angles to a few stars. kate stood watching the fading of the hills into night clouds, interested in her thoughts vaguely--her thoughts adrift and faded somewhat as the spectacle before her. she wondered if her lodger would be satisfied with her mother's cooking; she hoped so. he was a well-spoken man, but she could not hope to change mother. as the image of the lodger floated out of her mind hender's came into it, and she hoped the girl would not get into trouble. so many poor girls are in trouble; how many in the crowd passing before her door? the difficulty she was in with mrs. barnes's dress suggested itself, and with a shiver and a sigh she shut the street-door and went upstairs. the day had passed; it was gone like a hundred days before it--wearily, perhaps, yet leaving in the mind an impression of something done, of duties honestly accomplished. iii 'oh, ma'am!' hender broke in, 'you can't think how amusing it was last night! i never enjoyed myself so much in my life. the place was crammed! such a house! and miss leslie got three encores and a call after each act.' 'and what was mr. lennox like?' 'oh, he only played a small part--one of the policemen. he don't play pom-poucet; i was wrong. it's too heavy a part, and he's too busy looking after the piece. but joe mortimer was splendid; i nearly died of laughing when he fell down and lost his wig in the middle of the stage. and frank bret looked such a swell, and he got an encore for the song, "oh, certainly i love clairette." and he and miss leslie got another for the duet. to-morrow they play the _cloches_.' 'but now you've seen so much of the theatre i hope you'll be able to do a little overtime with me. i've promised to let mrs. barnes have her dress by to-morrow morning.' 'i'm afraid i shan't be able to stay after six o'clock.' 'but surely if they're doing the same play you don't want to see it again?' 'well 'tisn't exactly that, but--well, i prefer to tell you the truth; 'tisn't the piece i go to the theatre for; i'm one of the dressers, and i get twelve shillings a week, and i can't afford to lose it. but there's no use in telling mrs. ede, she'd only make a bother.' 'how do you mean, dressing?' 'the ladies of the theatre must have someone to dress them, and i look after the principals, miss leslie and miss beaumont, that's all.' 'and how long have you been doing that?' 'why, about a month now. bill got me the place.' this conversation had broken in upon a silence of nearly half an hour; with bent heads and clicking needles, kate and hender had been working assiduously at mrs. barnes's skirt. having a great deal of _passementerie_ ornamentation to sew on to the heading of the flounces, and much fringe to arrange round the edge of the drapery, kate looked forward to a heavy day. she had expected miss hender an hour earlier, and she had not turned up until after nine. an assistant whose time was so occupied that she couldn't give an extra hour when you were in a difficulty was of very little use; and it might be as well to look out for somebody more suitable. besides, all this talk about theatres and actors was very wrong; there could be little doubt that the girl was losing her character, and to have her coming about the house would give it a bad name. such were kate's reflections as she handled the rustling silk and folded it into large plaitings. now and again she tried to come to a decision, but she was not sincere with herself. she knew she liked the girl, and hender's conversation amused her: to send her away meant to surrender herself completely to her mother-in-law's stern kindness and her husband's irritability. hender was the window through which kate viewed the bustle and animation of life, and even now, annoyed as she was that she would not be able to get the dress done in time, she could not refrain from listening to the girl's chatter. there was about miss hender that strange charm which material natures possess even when they offend. being of the flesh, we must sympathize with it, and the amiability of hender's spirits made a great deal pass that would have otherwise appeared wicked. she could tell without appearing too rude, how mr. wentworth, the lessee, was gone on a certain lady in the new company, and would give her anything if she would chuck up her engagement and come and live with him. when hender told these stories, kate, fearing that mrs. ede might have overheard, looked anxiously at the door, and under the influence of the emotion, it interested her to warn her assistant of the perils of frequenting bad company. but as kate lectured she could not help wondering how it was that her life passed by so wearily. was she never going to do anything else but work? she often asked herself, and then reproached herself for the regret that had risen unwittingly up in her mind that life was not all pleasure. it certainly was not, 'but perhaps it is better,' she said to herself, 'that we have to get our living, for me at least'--her thoughts broke off sharply, and she passed out of the present into a long past time. kate had never known her father; her mother, an earnest believer in wesley, was a hard-working woman who made a pound a week by painting on china. this was sufficient for their wants, and mrs. howell's only fears were that she might lose her health and die before her time, leaving her daughter in want. to avoid this fate she worked early and late at the factory, and kate was left in the charge of the landlady, a childless old woman who, sitting by the fire, used to tell stories of her deceptions and misfortunes in life, thereby intoxicating the little girl's brain with sentiment. the mother's influence was a sort of make-weight; mrs. howell was a deeply religious woman, and kate was often moved to trace back a large part of herself to bible-readings and extemporary prayers offered up by the bedside in the evening. her school-days were unimportant. she learnt to read and write and to do sums; that was all. kate grew, softly and mystically as a dark damask rose, into a pretty woman without conversions or passions: for notwithstanding her early training, religion had never taken a very firm hold upon her, and despite the fact that she married into a family very similar to her own, although her mother-in-law was almost a counterpart of her real mother--a little harder and more resolute, but as god-fearing and as kind--kate had caught no blast of religious fervour; religion taught her nothing, inspired her with nothing, could influence her in little. she was not strong nor great, nor was she conscious of any deep feeling that if she acted otherwise than she did she would be living an unworthy life. she was merely good because she was a kind-hearted woman, without bad impulses, and admirably suited to the life she was leading. but in this commonplace inactivity of mind there was one strong characteristic, one bit of colour in all these grey tints: kate was dreamy, not to say imaginative. when she was a mere child she loved fairies, and took a vivid interest in goblins; and when afterwards she discarded these stories for others, it was not because it shocked her logical sense to read of a beanstalk a hundred feet high, but for a tenderer reason: jack did not find a beautiful lady to love him. she could not help feeling disappointed, and when the _london journal_ came for the first time across her way, with the story of a broken heart, her own heart melted with sympathy; the more sentimental and unnatural the romance, the more it fevered and enraptured her. she loved to read of singular subterranean combats, of high castles, prisoners, hair-breadth escapes; and her sympathies were always with the fugitives. it was also very delightful to hear of lovers who were true to each other in spite of a dozen wicked uncles, of women who were tempted until their hearts died within them, and who years after threw up their hands and said, 'thank god that i had the courage to resist!' the second period of her sentimental education was when she passed from the authors who deal exclusively with knights, princesses, and kings to those who interest themselves in the love fortunes of doctors and curates. amid these there was one story that interested her in particular, and caused her deeper emotions than the others. it concerned a beautiful young woman with a lovely oval face, who was married to a very tiresome country doctor. this lady was in the habit of reading byron and shelley in a rich, sweet-scented meadow, down by the river, which flowed dreamily through smiling pasture-lands adorned by spreading trees. but this meadow belonged to a squire, a young man with grand, broad shoulders, who day after day used to watch these readings by the river without venturing to address a word to the fair trespasser. one day, however, he was startled by a shriek: in her poetical dreamings the lady had slipped into the water. a moment sufficed to tear off his coat, and as he swam like a water-dog he had no difficulty in rescuing her. of course after this adventure he had to call and inquire, and from henceforth his visits grew more and more frequent, and by a strange coincidence, he used to come riding up to the hall-door when the husband was away curing the ills of the country-folk. hours were passed under the trees by the river, he pleading his cause, and she refusing to leave poor arthur, till at last the squire gave up the pursuit and went to foreign parts, where he waited thirty years, until he heard arthur was dead. and then he came back with a light heart to his first and only love, who had never ceased to think of him, and lived with her happily for ever afterwards. the grotesque mixture of prose and poetry, both equally false, used to enchant kate, and she always fancied that had she been the heroine of the book she would have acted in the same way. kate's taste for novel-reading distressed mrs. howell; she thought it 'a sinful waste of time, not to speak of the way it turned people's heads from god'; and when one day she found kate's scrap-book, made up of poems cut from the _family herald_, she began to despair of her daughter's salvation. the answer kate made to her mother's reproaches was: 'mother, i've been sewing all day; i can't see what harm it can be to read a little before i go to bed. nobody is required to be always saying their prayers.' the next two years passed away unperceived by either mother or daughter, and then an event occurred of some importance. their neighbours at the corner of the street got into difficulties, and were eventually sold out and their places taken by strangers, who changed the oil-shop into a drapery business. the new arrivals aroused the keenest interest, and mrs. howell and her daughter called to see what they were like, as did everybody else. the acquaintance thus formed was renewed at church, and much to their surprise and pleasure, they discovered that they were of the same religious persuasion. henceforth the howells and edes saw a great deal of each other, and every sunday after church the mothers walked home together and the young people followed behind. ralph spoke of his ill-health, and kate pitied him, and when he complimented her on her beautiful hair she blushed with pleasure. for much as she had revelled in fictitious sentiment, she had somehow never thought of seeking it in nature, and how that she had found a lover, the critical sense was not strong enough in her to lead her to compare reality with imagination. she accepted ralph as unsuspectingly as she hitherto accepted the tawdry poetry of her favourite fiction. and her nature not being a passionate one, she was able to do this without any apparent transition of sentiment. she pitied him, hoped she could be of use in nursing him, and felt flattered at the idea of being mistress of a shop. the mothers were delighted, and spoke of the coincidence of their religions and the admirable addition dressmaking would be to the drapery business. of love, small mention was made. the bridegroom spoke of his prospects of improving the business, the bride listened, interested for the while in his enthusiasm; orders came in, and kate was soon transformed into a hard-working woman. this change of character passed unperceived by all but mrs. howell, who died wondering how it came about. kate herself did not know; she fancied that it was fully accounted for by the fact that she had no time--'no time for reading now'--which was no more than the truth; but she did not complain; she accepted her husband's kisses as she did the toil he imposed on her--meekly, unaffectedly, as a matter of course, as if she always knew that the romances which used to fascinate her were merely idle dreams, having no bearing upon the daily life of human beings--things fit to amuse a young girl's fancies, and to be thrown aside when the realities of life were entered upon. the only analogy between the past and present was an ample submission to authority and an indifference to the world and its interest. even the fact of being without children did not seem to concern her, and when her mother-in-law regretted it she merely smiled languidly, or said, 'we are very well as we are.' of the world and the flesh she lived almost in ignorance, suspecting their existence only through miss hender. hender was attracted by her employer's kindness and softness of manner, and kate by her assistant's strength of will. for some months past a friendship had been growing up between the two women, but if kate had known for certain that hender was living a life of sin with the stage carpenter she might not have allowed her into the house. but the possibility of sin attached her to the girl in the sense that it forced her to think of her continually. and then there was a certain air of bravado in miss hender's freckled face that kate admired. she instituted comparisons between herself and the assistant, and she came to the conclusion that she preferred that fair, blonde complexion to her own clear olive skin; and the sparkle of the red frizzy hair put her out of humour with the thick, wavy blue tresses which encircled her small temples like a piece of black velvet. as she continued her sewing she reconsidered the question of hender's dismissal, but only to perceive more and more clearly the blank it would occasion in her life. and besides her personal feeling there was the fact to consider that to satisfy her customers she must have an assistant who could be depended upon. and she did not know where she would find another who would turn out work equal to hender's. at last kate said: 'i don't know what i shall do; i promised the dress by to-morrow morning.' 'i think we'll be able to finish it to-day,' hender answered. 'i'll work hard at it all the afternoon; a lot can be done between this and seven o'clock.' 'oh, i don't know,' replied kate dolefully; 'these leaves take such a time to sew on; and then there's all the festooning.' 'i think it can be managed, but we must stick at it.' on this expression of good-will the conversation ceased for the time being, and the clicking of needles and the buzzing of flies about the brown-paper patterns were all that was heard until twelve o'clock, when mrs. ede burst into the room. 'i knew what it would be,' she said, shutting the door after her. 'what is it?' said kate, looking up frightened. 'well, i offered to do him a chop or some fried eggs, but he says he must have an omelette. did you ever hear of such a thing? i told him i didn't know how to make one, but he said that i was to ask you if you could spare the time.' 'i'll make him an omelette,' said kate, rising. 'have you got the eggs?' 'yes. the trouble that man gives us! what with his bath in the morning, and two pairs of boots to be cleaned, and the clothes that have to be brushed, i've done nothing but attend to him since ten o'clock; and what hours to keep!--it is now past eleven.' 'what's the use of grumbling? you know the work must be done, and i can't be in two places at once. you promised me you wouldn't say anything more about it, but would attend to him just the same as any other lodger.' 'i can't do more than i'm doing; i haven't done anything all the morning but run upstairs,' said mrs. ede very crossly; 'and i wish you'd take the little girls out of the kitchen; i can't look after them, and they do nothing but look out of the window.' 'very well, i'll have them up here; they can sit on the sofa. we can manage with them now that we've finished the cutting out.' hender made no reply to this speech, which was addressed to her. she hated having the little girls up in the workroom, and kate knew it. kate did not take long to make mr. lennox's omelette. there was a bright fire in the kitchen, the muffins were toasted, and the tea was made. 'this is a very small breakfast,' she said as she put the plates and dishes on the tray. 'didn't he order anything else?' 'he spoke about some fried bacon, but i'll attend to that; you take the other things up to him.' as kate passed with the tray in her hand she reproved the little girls for their idleness and told them to come upstairs, but it was not until she motioned them into the workroom that she realized that she was going into mr. lennox's room. after a slight pause she turned the handle of the door and entered. mr. lennox was lying very negligently in the armchair, wrapped in his dressing-gown. 'oh, i beg your pardon, sir; i didn't know--' she said, starting back. then, blushing for shame at her own silliness in taking notice of such things, she laid the breakfast things on the table. mr. lennox thanked her, and without seeming to notice her discomfiture he wrapped himself up more closely, drew his chair forward, and, smacking his lips, took the cover off the dish. 'oh, very nice indeed,' he said, 'but i'm afraid i've given you a great deal of trouble; the old lady said you were very, very busy.' 'i've to finish a dress to-day, sir, and my assistant--' here kate stopped, remembering that if mr. lennox had renewed his acquaintance with hender at the theatre, any allusion to her would give rise to further conversation. 'oh yes, i know miss hender; she's one of our dressers; she looks after our two leading ladies, miss leslie and miss beaumont. but i don't see the bacon here.' 'mrs. ede is cooking it; she'll bring it up in a minute or two,' kate answered, edging towards the door. 'we've nothing to do with the dressers,' said mr. lennox, speaking rapidly, so as to detain his landlady; 'but if you're as pressed with your work as you tell me, i dare say, by speaking to the lessee, i might manage to get miss hender off for this one evening.' 'thank you, sir; i'm sure it's very kind of you, but i shall be able to manage without that.' the lodger spoke with such an obvious desire to oblige that kate could not choose but like him, and it made her wish all the more that he would cover up his big, bare neck. ''pon my word, this is a capital omelette,' he said, licking his lips, 'there is nothing i like so much as a good omelette, i was very lucky to come here,' he added, glancing at kate's waist, which was slim even in her old blue striped dress. 'it's very kind of you to say so, sir,' she said, and a glow of rose-colour flushed the dark complexion. there was something very human in this big man, and kate did not know whether his animalism irritated or pleased her. 'you weren't at the theatre last night?' he said, forcing a huge piece of deeply buttered, spongy french roll into his mouth. 'no, sir, i wasn't there; i rarely go to the theatre.' 'ah! i'm sorry. how's that? we had a tremendous house. i never saw the piece go better. if this business keeps up to the end of the week i think we shall try to get another date.' kate did not know what 'another date' meant, but hender would be able to tell her. 'you've only to tell me when you want to see the piece, and i'll give you places. would you like to come to-night?' 'not to-night, thank you, sir. i shall be busy all the evening, and my husband is not very well.' the conversation then came to an irritating pause. mr. lennox had scraped up the last fragments of the omelette, and poured himself out another cup of tea, when mrs. ede appeared with the broiled bacon. on seeing kate talking to mr. lennox, she at once assumed an air of mingled surprise and regret. kate noticed this, but mr. lennox had no eyes for anything but the bacon, which he heaped on his plate and devoured voraciously. it pleased kate to see him enjoy his breakfast, but while she was admiring him mrs. ede said as she moved towards the door, 'can i do anything for you, sir?' 'well, no,' replied mr. lennox indifferently; but seeing that kate was going too he swallowed a mouthful of tea hastily and said, 'i was just telling the lady here that we had a tremendous success last night, and that she ought to come and see the piece. i think she said she had no one to go with. you should take her. i'm sure you will like the _cloches_.' mrs. ede looked indignant, but after a moment she recovered herself, and said severely and emphatically: 'thank you, sir, but i'm a christian woman. no offence, sir, but i don't think such things are right.' 'ah! don't you, indeed?' replied the mummer, looking at her in blank astonishment. but the expression of his face soon changed, and as if struck suddenly by some painful remembrance, he said, 'you're a dissenter or something of that kind, i suppose. we lost a lot of money at bradford through people of your persuasion; they jolly well preached against us.' mrs. ede did not answer, and after a few brief apologetic phrases to the effect that it would not do for us all to think alike, kate withdrew to her work-room, asking herself if mr. lennox would take offence and leave them. hender suspected that something had occurred, and was curious to hear what it was; but there sat those idiotic little girls, and of course it wouldn't do to speak before them. once she hinted that she had heard that mr. lennox, though a very nice man, was a bit quick-tempered, a query that kate answered evasively, saying that it was difficult to know what mr. lennox was like. words were an effort to her, and she could not detach a single precise thought from the leaden-coloured dreams which hung about her. click, click, went the needles all day long, and kate wondered what a woman who lived in a thirty-pound house could want with a ten-pound dress. but that was no affair of hers, and as it was most important she should not disappoint her, kate kept hender to dinner; and as compensation for the press of work, she sent round to the public for three extra half-pints. they needed a drink, for the warmth of the day was intense. along the red tiles of the houses, amid the brick courtyards, the sun's rays created an oven-like atmosphere. from the high wall opposite the dead glare poured into the little front kitchen through the muslin blinds, burning the pot of green-stuff, and falling in large spots upon the tiled floor; and overcome by the heat, the two women lay back on the little red calico-covered sofa, languidly sipping their beer, and thinking vaguely of when they would have to begin work again. hender lolled with her legs stretched out; kate rested her head upon her hand wearily; mrs. ede sat straight, apparently unheeding the sunlight which fell across the plaid shawl that she wore winter and summer. she drank her beer in quick gulps, as if even the time for swallowing was rigidly portioned out. the others watched her, knowing that when her pewter was empty she would turn them out of the kitchen. in a few moments she said, 'i think, kate, that if you're in a hurry you'd better get on with your dress. i have to see to mr. lennox's dinner, and i can't have you a-hanging about. as it is, i don't know how i'm to get the work done. there's a leg of mutton to be roasted, and a pudding to be made, and all by four o'clock.' kate calmed the old woman with a few words, and taking ralph's dinner from her, carried it upstairs. she found her husband better, and, setting the tray on the edge of the bed, she answered the questions he put to her concerning the actor briefly; then begged of him to excuse her, as she heard voices in the shop. mr. lennox had come in bringing two men with him, joe mortimer, the low comedian, and young montgomery, the conductor; and it became difficult to prevent hender from listening at the doors, and almost useless to remind her of the fact that there were children present, so excited did she become when she spoke of bret's love affairs. but at six o'clock she put on her hat, and there was no dissuading her; mrs. barnes must wait for her dress. there was still much to be done, and when mrs. ede called from the kitchen that tea was ready, kate did not at first answer, and when at last she descended she remained only long enough to eat a piece of bread and butter. her head was filled with grave forebodings, that gradually drifted and concentrated into one fixed idea--not to disappoint mrs. barnes. once quite suddenly, she was startled by an idea which flashed across her mind, and stopping in the middle of a 'leaf,' she considered the question that had propounded itself. lodgers often make love to their landladies; what would she do if mr. lennox made love to her? such a thing might occur. an expression of annoyance contracted her face, and she resumed her sewing. the hours passed slowly and oppressively. it was now ten o'clock, and the tail had still to be bound with braid, and the side strings to be sewn in. she had no tape by her, and thought of putting off these finishing touches till the morning, but plucking up her courage, she determined to go down and fetch from the shop what was required. the walk did her good, but it was hard to sit down to work again; and the next few minutes seemed to her interminable: but at last the final stitch was given, the thread bitten off, and the dress held up in triumph. she looked at it for a moment with a feeling of pride, which soon faded into a sensation of indifference. all the same her day's labour was over; she was now free. but the thought carried a bitterness: she remembered that there was no place for her to go to but her sick husband's room. yet she had been looking forward to having at least one night's rest, and it exasperated her to think that there was nothing for her but a hard pallet in the back room, and the certainty of being awakened several times to attend to ralph. she asked herself passionately if she was always going to remain a slave and a drudge? hender's words came back to her with a strange distinctness, and she saw that she knew nothing of pleasure, or even of happiness; and in a very simple way she wondered what were really the ends of life. if she were good and religious like her mother or her mother-in-law--but somehow she could never feel as they did. heaven seemed so far away. of course it was a consolation to think there was a happier and better world; still--still--not being able to pursue the thread any further, she stopped, puzzled, and a few moments after she was thinking of the lady who used to read byron and shelley, and who resisted her lover's entreaties so bravely. every part of the forgotten story came back to her. she realized the place they used to dream in. she could see them watching with ardent eyes the paling of the distant sky as they listened to the humming of insects, breathing the honied odour of the flowers; she saw her leaning on his arm caressingly, whilst pensively she tore with the other hand the leaves as they passed up the long terrace. then as the vision became more personal and she identified herself with the heroine of the book, she thought of the wealth of love she had to give, and it seemed to her unutterably sad that it should bloom like a rose in a desert unknown and unappreciated. this was the last flight of her dream. the frail wings of her imagination could sustain her no longer, and too weary to care for or even to think of anything, she went upstairs, to find mrs. ede painting her son's chest and back with iodine. he had a bad attack, which was beginning to subside. his face was haggard, his eyes turgid, and the two women talked together. mrs. ede was indignant, and told of all her trouble with the dinner. she had to fetch cigars and drinks. kate listened, watching her husband all the while. he began to get a little better, and mrs. ede took advantage of the occasion to suggest that it was time for evening prayers. in days when speech was possible, it was ralph who read the customary chapter of the bible and led the way with the lord's prayer; but when words were forbidden to him his mother supplied his place. the tall figure knelt upright. it was not a movement of cringing humility, but of stalwart belief, and as she handed her the bible, kate could not help thinking that there was pride in her mother-in-law's very knees. the old woman turned over the leaves for a few seconds in silence; then, having determined on a chapter, she began to read. but she had not got beyond a few sentences before she was interrupted by the sound of laughing voices and stamping feet. she stopped reading, and looked from kate to her husband. he was at the moment searching for his pocket-handkerchief. kate rose to assist him, and mrs. ede said: 'it's shameful! it's disgraceful!' 'it's only mr. lennox coming in.' 'only mr. lennox!' at that moment she was interrupted by the lighter laughter of female voices; she paused to listen, and then, shutting the book fiercely, she said, 'from the first i was against letting our rooms to a mummer; but i didn't think i should live to see my son's house turned into a night house. i shall not stop here.' 'not stop here--eh, eh? we must tell--tell him that it can't be allowed,' ralph wheezed. 'and i should like to know who these women are he has dared to bring into-- people he has met in piccadilly, i suppose!' 'oh no!' interrupted kate, 'i'm sure that they are the ladies of the theatre.' 'and where's the difference?' mrs. ede asked fiercely. sectarian hatred of worldly amusement flamed in her eyes, and made common cause with the ordinary prejudice of the british landlady. mr. ede shared his mother's opinions, but as he was then suffering from a splitting headache, his chief desire was that she should lower the tone of her voice. 'for goodness' sake don't speak so loud!' he said plaintively. 'of course he mustn't bring women into the house; but he had better be told so. kate, go down and tell him that these ladies must leave.' kate stood aghast at hearing her fate thus determined, and she asked herself how she was to tell mr. lennox that he must put his friends out of doors. she hesitated, and during a long silence all three listened. a great guffaw, a woman's shriek, a peal of laughter, and then a clinking of glasses was heard. even kate's face told that she thought it very improper, and mrs. ede said with a theatrical air of suppressed passion: 'very well; i suppose that is all that can be done at present.' feeling very helpless, kate murmured, 'i don't see how i'm to tell them to go. hadn't we better put it off until morning?' 'till morning!' said mr. ede, trying to button his dirty nightshirt across his hairy chest. 'i'm not going to listen to that noise all night. kate, you g-go and tur-r-rn them out.' 'i'm sorry, dearie,' said mrs. ede, seeing her daughter-in-law's distress. 'i'll soon send them away.' 'oh no! i'd rather go myself,' said kate. 'very well, dear. i only thought you might not like to go down among a lot of rough people.' the noise downstairs was in the meanwhile increasing, and ralph grew as angry as his asthma would allow him. 'they're just killing me with their noise. go down at once and tell them they must leave the house instantly. if you don't i'll go myself.' mrs. ede made a movement towards the door, but kate stopped her, saying: 'i'll go; it's my place.' as she descended the stairs she heard a man's voice screaming above the general hubbub: 'i'll tell you what; if miss beaumont doesn't wait for my beat another night, i'll insist on a rehearsal being called. she took the concerted music in the finale of the first act two whole bars before her time. it was damned awful. i nearly broke my stick trying to stop her.' 'quite true; i never saw the piece go so badly. bret was "fluffing" all over the shop.' kate listened to these fragments of conversation, asked herself how she was to walk in upon those people and tell them that they must keep quiet. 'and the way beaumont tries to spoon with dick. she nearly missed her cue once with sneaking after him in the wings.' a peal of laughter followed. this sally determined kate to act; and without having made up her mind what to say, she turned the handle of the door and walked into the room. the three gas-burners were blazing, wine-glasses were on the table, and mr. lennox stood twisting a corkscrew into a bottle which he held between his fat thighs. on the little green sofa miss lucy leslie lay back playing with her bonnet-strings. her legs were crossed, and a lifted skirt showed a bit of striped stocking. next her, with his spare legs sprawled over the arm of the easy-chair, was mr. montgomery, the thinnest being possible to imagine, in grey clothes. his nose was enormous, and he pushed up his glasses when kate came into the room with a movement of the left hand that was clearly habitual. on the other side of the round table sat mr. joe mortimer, the heavy lead, the celebrated miser in the _cloches_. a tall girl standing behind him playfully twisted his back hair. he addressed paternal admonitions to her from time to time in an artificially cracked voice. 'please, sir,' said kate pleadingly, 'i'm very sorry, but we cannot keep open house after eleven o'clock.' a deep silence followed this announcement. miss leslie looked up at kate curiously. mr. lennox stopped twisting the corkscrew into the bottle, and the low comedian, seizing the opportunity, murmured in his mechanical voice to the girl behind him, 'open house! of course, she's quite right. i knew there was a draught somewhere; i felt my hair blowing about.' everybody laughed, and the merriment still contributed to discountenance the workwoman. 'will he never speak and let me go?' she asked herself. at last he did speak, and his words fell upon her like blows. 'i don't know what you mean, mrs. ede,' he said in a loud, commanding voice. 'i made no agreement with you that i wasn't to bring friends home with me in the evening. had i known that i was taking lodgings in a church i wouldn't have come.' she felt dreadfully humiliated, and nothing was really present in her mind but a desire to conciliate mr. lennox. 'it isn't my fault, sir. i really don't mind; but my mother-in-law and my husband won't have people coming into the house after ten o'clock.' mr. lennox's face showed that his heart had softened towards her, and when she mentioned that her husband was lying ill in bed, turning round to his company, he said: 'i think we are making too much noise; we shouldn't like it ourselves if--' but just at that moment, when all was about to end pleasantly, mrs. ede was heard at the top of the stairs. 'i'm a christian woman, and will not remain in a house where drinking and women--' this speech changed everything. mr. lennox's eyes flashed passion, and he made a movement as if he were going to shout an answer back to mrs. ede, but checking himself, he said, addressing kate, 'i beg that you leave my rooms, ma'am. you can give me warning in the morning if you like, or rather, i'll give it to you; but for this evening, at least, the place is mine, and i shall do what i like.' on that he advanced towards the door and threw it open. tears stood in her eyes. she looked sorrowfully at mr. lennox. he noticed the pitiful, appealing glance, but was too angry to understand. the look was her whole soul. she did not see miss leslie sneering, nor mr. montgomery's grinning face. she saw nothing but mr. lennox, and, stunned by the thought of his leaving them, she followed her mother-in-law upstairs. the old woman scolded and rowed. to have that lot of men and women smoking and drinking after eleven o'clock in the house was not to be thought of, and she tried to force her son to say that the police must be sent for. but it was impossible to get an answer from him: the excitement and effort of speaking had rendered him speechless, and holding his moppy black hair with both hands, he wheezed in deep organ tones. kate looked at him blankly, and longed for some place out of hearing of his breath and out of the smell of the medicine-bottles. his mother was now insisting on his taking a couple of pills, and called upon kate to find the box. the sharp, sickly odour of the aloes was abominable, and with her stomach turning, she watched her husband trying vainly to swallow the dose with the aid of a glass of water. stop in this room! no, that she couldn't do! it would poison her. she wanted sleep and fresh air. where could she get them? the mummer was in the spare room; but he would be gone to-morrow, and she would be left alone. the thought startled her, though she soon forgot it in her longing to get out of her husband's sight. every moment this desire grew stronger, and at last she said: 'i cannot stay here; another night would kill me. will you let me have your room?' 'certainly i will, my dear,' replied the old woman, astonished not so much at the request, but at the vehemence of the emphasis laid upon the words. 'you're looking dreadfully worn out, my dear; i'll see to my boy.' as soon as her request had been granted, kate hesitated as if she feared she was doing wrong, and she looked at her husband, wondering if he would call her back. but he took no heed; his attention was too entirely occupied by his breath to think either of her or of the necessity of sending for the police, and he waved his mother away when she attempted to speak to him. 'are those men going to stop there all night?' mrs. ede asked. 'oh, i really don't know; i'm too tired to bother about it any more,' replied kate petulantly. 'it's all your fault--you're to blame for everything; you've no right to interfere with the lodgers in my house.' mrs. ede raised her arms as she sought for words, but kate walked out of the room without giving her time to answer. suddenly a voice cried in a high key: 'who do you take me for, dick? i wasn't born yesterday. a devilish pretty woman, if you ask me. what hair!--like velvet!' kate stopped. 'black hair,' she said to herself--'they must be talking of me,' and she listened intently. the remark, however, did not appear to have been particularly well-timed, for after a long silence, a woman's voice said: 'well, i don't know whether he liked her, and i don't care, but what i'm not going to do is to wait here listening to you all cracking up a landlady's good looks. i'm off.' a scuffle then seemed to be taking place; half a dozen voices spoke together, and in terror of her life kate flew across the workroom to mrs. ede's bed. the door of the sitting-room was flung open and cajoling and protesting words echoed along the passage up and down the staircase. it was disgraceful, and kate expected every minute to hear her mother-in-law's voice mingling in the fray; but peace was restored, and for at least an hour she listened to sounds of laughing voices mingling with the clinking of glasses. at last dick wished his friends good-night, and kate lay under the sheets and listened. something was going to happen. 'he thinks me a pretty woman; she is jealous,' were phrases that rang without ceasing in her ears. then, hearing his door open, she fancied he was coming to seek her, and in consternation buried herself under the bedclothes, leaving only her black hair over the pillows to show where she had disappeared. but the duplicate drop of a pair of boots was conclusive, and assuring herself that he would not venture on such a liberty, she strove to compose herself to sleep. iv next day, about eleven o'clock, kate walked up market street with mrs. barnes's dress, meditating on the letter she had received. a very serious matter this angry letter was to kate, and she thought of what she could say to satisfy her customer. her anxiety of mind caused her to walk faster than she was aware of, up the hill towards the square of sky where the passers-by seemed like figures on the top of a monument. at the top of the hill she would turn to the left and descend towards the little quasi-villa residences which form the suburbs of northwood. ten minutes later kate approached mrs. barnes's door hot and out of breath, her plans matured, determined, if the worst came to the worst, to let the dress go at a reduction. her present difficulty was so great that she forgot other troubles, and it was not until she had received her money that she remembered mr. lennox. he was going. her rooms would be empty again. she was sorry he was going, and at the top of market street she stood at gaze, surprised by the view, though she had never seen any other. a long black valley lay between her and the dim hills far away, miles and miles in length, with tanks of water glittering like blades of steel, and gigantic smoke clouds rolling over the stems of a thousand factory chimneys. she had not come up this hillside at the top of market street for a long while; for many years she had not stood there and gazed at the view, not since she was a little girl, and the memories that she cherished in her workroom between hanley and the wever hills were quite different from the scene she was now looking upon. she saw the valley with different eyes: she saw it now with a woman's eyes; before she had seen it with a child's eyes. she remembered the ruined collieries and the black cinder-heaps protruding through the hillside on which she was now standing. in childhood, these ruins were convenient places to play hide-and-seek in. but now they seemed to convey a meaning to her mind, a meaning that was not very clear, that perplexed her, that she tried to put aside and yet could not. at her left, some fifty feet below, running in the shape of a fan, round a belt of green, were the roofs of northwood--black brick unrelieved except by the yellow chimney-pots, specks of colour upon a line of soft cotton-like clouds melting into grey, the grey passing into blue, and the blue spaces widening. 'it will be a hot day,' she said to herself, and fell to thinking that a hot day was hotter on this hillside than elsewhere. at every moment the light grew more and more intense, till a distant church spire faded almost out of sight, and she was glad she had come up here to admire the view from the top of market street. southwark, on the right, as black as northwood, toppled into the valley in irregular lines, the jaded houses seeming in kate's fancy like cart-loads of gigantic pill-boxes cast in a hurry from the counter along the floor. it amused her to stand gazing, contrasting the reality with her memories. it seemed to her that southwark had never before been so plain to the eye. she could follow the lines of the pavement and almost distinguish the men from the women passing. a hansom appeared and disappeared, the white horse seen now against the green blinds of a semi-detached villa and shown a moment after against the yellow rotundities of a group of pottery ovens. the sun was now rapidly approaching the meridian, and in the vibrating light the wheels of the most distant collieries could almost be counted, and the stems of the far-off factory chimneys appeared like tiny fingers. kate saw with the eyes and heard with the ears of her youth, and the past became as clear as the landscape before her. she remembered the days when she came to read on this hillside. the titles of the books rose up in her mind, and she could recall the sorrow she felt for the heroes and heroines. it seemed to her strange that that time was so long past and she wondered why she had forgotten it. now it all seemed so near to her that she felt like one only just awakened from a dream. and these memories made her happy. she took pleasure in recalling every little event--an excursion she made when she was quite a little girl to the ruined colliery, and later on, a conversation with a chance acquaintance, a young man who had stopped to speak to her. at the bottom of the valley, right before her eyes, the white gables of bucknell rectory, hidden amid masses of trees, glittered now and then in an entangled beam that flickered between chimneys, across brick-banked squares of water darkened by brick walls. behind bucknell were more desolate plains full of pits, brick, and smoke; and beyond bucknell an endless tide of hills rolled upwards and onwards. the american tariff had not yet come into operation, and every wheel was turning, every oven baking; and through a drifting veil of smoke the sloping sides of the hills with all their fields could be seen sleeping under great shadows, or basking in the light. a deluge of rays fell upon them, defining every angle of watley rocks and floating over the grasslands of standon, all shape becoming lost in a huge embrasure filled with the almost imperceptible outlines of the wever hills. and these vast slopes which formed the background of every street were the theatre of all kate's travels before life's struggles began. it amused her to remember that when she played about the black cinders of the hillsides she used to stop to watch the sunlight flash along the far-away green spaces, and in her thoughts connected them with the marvels she read of in her books of fairy-tales. beyond these wonderful hills were the palaces of the kings and queens who would wave their wands and vanish! a few years later it was among or beyond those slopes that the lovers with whom she sympathized in the pages of her novels lived. but it was a long time since she had read a story, and she asked herself how this was. dreams had gone out of her life, everything was a hard reality; her life was like a colliery, every wheel was turning, no respite day or night; her life would be always the same, a burden and a misery. there never could be any change now. she remembered her marriage, and how mrs. ede had persuaded her into it, and for the first time she blamed the old woman for her interference. but this was not all. kate was willing to admit that there was no one she loved like mr. ede, but still it was hard to live with a mother-in-law who had a finger in everything and used the house like her own. it would be all very well if she were not so obstinate, so certain that she was always right. religion was very well, but that perpetual 'i'm a christian woman,' was wearisome. no wonder mr. lennox was leaving. poor man, why shouldn't he have a few friends up in the evening? the lodgings were his own while he paid for them. no wonder he cut up rough; no wonder he was leaving them. if so, she would never see him again. the thought caught her like a pain in the throat, and with a sudden instinct she turned to hurry home. as she did so her eyes fell on mr. lennox walking towards her. at such an unexpected realization of her thoughts she uttered a little cry of surprise; but, smiling affably, and in no way disconcerted, he raised his big hat from his head. on account of the softness of the felt this could only be accomplished by passing the arm over the head and seizing the crown as a conjurer would a pocket-handkerchief. the movement was large and unctuous, and it impressed kate considerably. 'i took the liberty to stop, for you seemed so interested that i felt curious to know what could be worth looking at in those chimneys and cinder-mounds.' 'i wasn't looking at the factories, but at the hills. the view from here is considered very fine. don't you think so, sir?' she asked, feeling afraid that she had made some mistake. 'ah, well, now you mention it, perhaps it is. how far away, and yet how distinct! they look like the gallery of a theatre. we're on the stage, the footlights run round here, and the valley is the pit; and there are plenty of pits in it,' he added, laughing. 'but i mustn't speak to you of the theatre.' 'oh, i'm sure i don't mind! i'm very fond of the theatre,' said kate hastily. this indirect allusion to last night brought the conversation to a close, and for some moments they stood looking vacantly at the landscape. overhead the sky was a blue dome, and so still was the air that the smoke-clouds trailed like the wings of gigantic birds slowly balancing themselves. and waves of white light rolled up the valley as if jealous of the red, flashing furnaces. an odour of iron and cinders poisoned the air, and after some moments of contemplation which seemed to draw them closer together, mr. lennox said: 'there is no doubt that the view is very grand, but it is tantalizing to have those hills before your eyes when you are shut up in a red brick oven. how fresh and cool they look! what wouldn't you give to be straying about in those fresh woods far away?' kate looked at mr. lennox with ravished eyes; his words had flooded her mind with a thousand forgotten dreams. she felt she liked him better for what he had said, and she murmured as if half ashamed: 'i've never been out of hanley. i've never seen the sea, and when i was a child i used to fancy that the fairies lived beyond those hills; even now i can't help imagining that the world is quite different over there. here it is all brick, but in novels they never speak of anything but gardens and fields.' 'never seen the sea! well, there isn't much to _see_ in it,' mr. lennox said, laughing at the pun. 'when you were a little girl you used to come here to play, i suppose?' 'yes, sir; i was born over in one of those cottages.' mr. lennox, without knowing whether to look sorry or sentimental, listened patiently to kate, who, proud of being able to show him anything, drew his attention to the different points of view. the white gables that could just be distinguished in the large dark masses of trees was bucknell rectory. the fragment of the cliff on the top of the highest ridge half-way up the sky was watley rocks; then came western coyney, the plains of standon, and far away in a blue mist the outlines of the wever hills. but mr. lennox did not seem very much interested; the sun was too hot for him, and in the first pause of the conversation he asked kate which way she was going. he had to get on to the theatre, and he asked her if she would show him the way there. 'you can't do better than to go down market street; but if you like i will direct you.' 'i shall be so glad if you will; but market street--i think you said market street? that is just the way i've come.' market street was where people connected with the theatre generally lived, and kate knew at once he had been looking for lodgings; but she was ashamed to ask him, and they walked on for some time without speaking. but every moment the silence became more irritating, and at last, determined to know the worst, she said, 'i suppose you were looking for lodgings; all the theatre people put up in that street.' mr. lennox flinched before this direct question. 'why, no, not exactly; i was calling on some friends; but as you say, some of the profession live in the street, and now you mention it, i suppose i shall have to find some new diggings.' 'i'm sorry, sir, very sorry,' said kate, looking up into the big blue eyes. 'i ought not to have come down; you are, of course, master in your own rooms.' 'oh, it wasn't your fault; i could live with you for ever. you mustn't think i want to change. if you could only guarantee that your mother-in-law will keep out of my way.' kate felt at that moment that she would guarantee anything that would prevent mr. lennox from leaving her house. 'oh, i don't think there will be any difficulty about that,' she said eagerly. 'i'll bring your breakfast and dinner up, and you are out nearly all day.' 'very well, then, and i'll promise not to bring home any friends,' he added gallantly. 'but i'm afraid you'll be very lonely, sir.' 'i'll have you to talk to sometimes.' kate made no answer, but they both felt that the words implied more than they actually meant, and they remained silent, like people who had come to some important conclusion. then after a long pause, and without any transition, mr. lennox spoke of the heat of the weather and of the harm it was likely to do their business at the theatre. she asked him what he thought of hanley. mr. lennox smiled through his faint moustache and said the red brick hurt his eyes. kate did not feel quite satisfied with this last observation, and spoke of the pretty places there were about the town. pointing down a red perspective backed by the usual hills, she told him that trentham, the duke of sutherland's place, was over there. 'what, over those hills? that must be miles away.' 'oh, not so far as that. hanley doesn't reach to there. the country is beautiful, once you get past stoke. i went once to see the duke's place, and we had tea in the inn. that was the only time i was ever really in the country, and even then we were never quite out of sight of the factories. still, it was very nice.' 'and who were you with?' 'oh, with my husband.' 'he's an invalid, isn't he?' 'well, i'm afraid he suffers very much at times, but he's often well enough.' the conversation again came to a pause, and both thought of how happy they would be were they taking tea together at the inn at trentham. but they were now in the centre of the town, close to the town hall, a stupid, square building with two black cannon on either side of the door. opposite was a great shop with 'commercial house' written across the second story in gold letters. bright carpets and coarse goods were piled about the doorway; and from these two houses piccadilly and broad street, its continuation, ran down an incline, and church street branched off, giving the town the appearance of a two-pronged fork. all was red brick blazing under a blue sky without a cloud in it; the red brick that turns to purple; and all the roofs were scarlet--red brick and scarlet tiles, and not a tree anywhere. 'you don't seem to have a tree in hanley,' mr. lennox said. 'i don't think there are many,' she answered, and they gazed at the bald rotundities of the pottery ovens. he had never seen a town before composed entirely of brick and iron. a town of work; a town in which the shrill scream of the steam train as it rolled solemnly up the incline seemed to be man's cry of triumph over vanquished nature. after looking about him, mr. lennox said, 'what i object to in the town is that there's nothing to do. and it's so blazing hot; for goodness' sake let us get under the shadow of a wall.' kate smiled, and as they crossed over they both wiped their faces. 'there are the potteries,' she said, referring to mr. lennox's complaint that there was nothing to do in the town. 'everybody that comes to hanley goes to see them; but the best are in stoke.' 'i'm sure i'm not going to stoke to see potteries,' he answered decisively, 'but if there are any at hanley i dare say i shall turn in some afternoon. i've heard some of our people say they are worth seeing. but,' he added, as if a sudden thought had struck him, 'i might go now; i've nothing to do for the next couple of hours. how far are the nearest?' kate told him that powell and jones's works were close by in the high street. she pointed out the way, but, failing to make mr. lennox understand her, she consented to go with him. he had a kind, soft manner of speaking which drew kate towards him almost as if he had taken her in his arms, and it was astonishing how intimate they had grown in the last few minutes. 'it doesn't look very interesting,' he said, as they stopped before an archway and looked into a yard filled with straw and packing-cases. 'yes it is, but you must see the different rooms. you must go up to the office and ask for permission to see the works.' 'i don't think i'd care to go by myself. won't you come with me?' kate hesitated; she had very little to do at home, and could say that mrs. barnes had kept her waiting. 'do come,' he said after a pause, during which he looked at her eagerly. 'well, i should like to see the room where my mother used to work, but we mustn't stop too long. i shall be missed at home.' the matter being so arranged, they entered the yard, and kate pointed out a rough staircase placed against the wall. 'you must go up there; the office is at the top. ask for permission to see the works and i'll wait here for you.' half a dozen men were packing crockery into crates with spades, and as she watched them she remembered that she used to come to this yard with her mother's dinner, and stand wondering how they could pack the delf without breaking it. she remembered one afternoon particularly well; she had promised to be very good, and had been allowed to sit by her mother and watch her painting flowers that wound in and out and all about a big blue vase. she remembered how she was reproved for peeping over her neighbour's shoulder, and how proud she felt sitting among all the workwomen. she could recall the smell of the paint and turpentine, and her grief when she was told that she was too delicate to learn painting, and was going to be put out to dressmaking. but that time was long ago; her mother was dead and she was married. everything was changed or broken, as was that beautiful vase, probably. it astonished kate to find herself thinking of these things. she had passed the high street twenty times during the last six months without it even occurring to her to visit the old places, and when mr. lennox came back he noticed that there were tears in her eyes. he made no remark, but hastily explained that he had been told that there was a party just that minute gone on in front of them, and they were to catch them up. 'this way, then,' she said, pointing to a big archway. 'oh, i can't run; don't be in such a hurry,' said mr. lennox, panting. kate laughed, and admitted that the heat was great. out of a sky burnt almost to white the glare descended into the narrow brick-yards. the packing straw seemed ready to catch fire; the heaps of wet clay, which two boys were shovelling, smoked, emitting as it did so an unpleasant wet odour. on passing the archway they caught sight of three black coats and three soft hats like the one mr. lennox wore. 'oh!' said kate, stopping, disappointed, 'we'll have to go round with those clergymen.' 'what does that matter? it will be amusing to listen to them.' 'but mother knows all of them.' 'they must be strangers in the town or they wouldn't be visiting the potteries, surely.' 'i hadn't thought of that; i suppose you're right,' and hastening a little, they overtook the party that was being shown round. the dissenting clergymen looked askance at mr. lennox, and as he showed them into a small white cell the guide said, 'you're in plenty of time, sir; these are the snagger-makers.' two men were beating a heap of wet clay in order to insure a something in the bakery which nobody understood, but which the guide took some trouble to explain. the clergymen pressed forward to listen. mr. lennox wiped his face, and they were then hurried into a second cell, where unbaked dishes were piled all around upon shelves. it was said to be the dishmakers' place, and was followed by another and another room, all of which mr. lennox thought equally hot and uninteresting. he strove to escape from the guide, who drew him through the line of clergymen and made plain to him the mysteries of earthenware. at last these preliminary departments were disposed of, and they were led to another part of the works. on their way thither they passed the ovens. these were scattered over the ground like beehives in a garden. lennox patted their round sides, approvingly saying that they reminded him of oyster boys in a pantomime, and might be introduced into the next christmas show. kate looked at him, her eyes full of wonder. she could not understand how he could think of such things. in the printing-room they listened to the guide, who apparently considered it important that clergymen, actor, and dressmaker should understand the different processes the earthenware had to pass through before it was placed on toilet or breakfast table. smoking flannels hung on lines all around, and like laundresses at their tubs, four or five women washed the printed paper from the plates. a man in a paper cap bent over a stove, and as if dissatisfied with the guide's explanation of his work, broke out into a wearisome flow of technical details. at the other end of this vast workroom there was a line of young girls who cut the printed matter out of sheets of paper, the scissors running in and out of flowers, tendrils, and little birds without ever injuring one. the clergymen watched the process, delighted, while lennox stepped behind kate and whispered that he had just caught the tall dissenter winking at the dark girl on the right, which was not true, and was invented for the sake of the opportunity it gave him of breathing on kate's neck--a lead up to the love-scene which he had now decided was to come off as soon as he should find himself alone with her. they passed through a brick alley with a staircase leading to a platform built like a ship's deck, and went on through a series of rooms till they came to a place almost as hot as a turkish bath, filled with unbaked plates and dishes. the smell of wet clay drying in steam diffused from underneath was very unpleasant, and caused one of the ministers to cough violently, whereupon the guide explained that the platemakers' departments were considered the most unhealthy of any in the works; the people who worked there, he said, usually suffered from what is known as the potter's asthma. this interested kate, and she delayed the guide with questions as to how the potter's asthma differed from the ordinary form of the disease, and when their little procession was again put in motion she told mr. lennox how her husband was affected, and the nights she had spent watching at his side. but although lennox listened attentively, she could not help thinking that he seemed rather glad than otherwise that her husband was an invalid. the unkind way in which he spoke of sick people shocked her, and she opposed the opinion that a person in bad health was a disgusting object, while lennox took advantage of the occasion to whisper into her ears that she was far too pretty a woman for an asthmatic husband; and, encouraged by her blushes, he even hazarded a few coarse jokes anent the poor husband's deficiencies. how could a man kiss if he couldn't breathe, for if there was a time when breath was essential, according to him, it was when four lips meet. no one had ever spoken to her in this way before, and had she known how to do so she would have resented his familiarities. once their hands met. the contact caused her a thrill; she put aside the unbaked plate they were examining and said: 'we'd better make haste or we shall lose them.' the next two rooms were considered the most interesting they had been through; even the three clergymen lost something of their stolid manner and asked lennox his opinion regarding the religious character of hanley, and if he were of their persuasion. 'what is that?' asked lennox, affecting a comic innocence which he hoped would tickle kate's fancy. 'we're wesleyans,' said the minister. 'and i'm an actor; but, i beg your pardon, stage-managing's more my business,' news that seemed to cast a gloom over the faces of the ministers; and leaving them to make what they could of his reply, he drew kate forward confidentially and pointed to an old man sitting straddle-legged on a high narrow table just on a line with the window. he was covered with clay; his forehead and beard were plastered with it, and before him was an iron plate, kept continually whirling by steam, which he could stop by a pressure of his foot. he squeezed a lump of clay into a long shape not unlike a tall ice, then, forcing it down into the shape of a batter-pudding, he hollowed it. round and round went the clay, the hands forming it all the while, cleaning and smoothing until it came out a true and perfect jampot, even to the little furrow round the top, which was given by a movement of the thumbs. he had been at work since seven in the morning, and the shelves round him were encumbered with the result of his labours. everyone marvelled at his dexterity, until he was forgotten in the superior attractions of the succeeding room. this was the turning-house, and lennox could not help laughing outright, so amusing did the scene appear to him. women went dancing up and down on one leg, and at such regular intervals that they seemed absolutely like machines. they were at once the motive power and the feeders of the different lathes. it was they who handed the men lumps of dry clay, which they turned into shapes. the strangeness of the spectacle gave rise to much comment. the clergymen were anxious to know if the constant jigging was injurious to health. lennox inquired how much coin they made by their one-leg dancing. he spoke of their good looks, and this led him easily into the question of morals, a subject in which he was much interested. he wanted to know if this crowding together of the sexes could be effected without danger. surely cases of seduction must occur occasionally. in answering him the guide betrayed a certain reticence of manner which encouraged lennox to ask him if he really meant to say that nothing ever befell these young women who were working all day side by side with people of the other sex. did their thoughts never wander from their work? the guide assured mr. lennox that there was no time to think of such nonsense in the factory, and, anxious to vindicate the honour of the establishment, he declared that any who took the smallest liberty with any female would be instantly dismissed from the works. the ministers listened approvingly, although they seemed to think the subject might have been avoided. kate felt a little embarrassed, and mr. lennox watched a big, blonde-haired woman who smiled prettily and seemed quite conscious of her sex, notwithstanding the ludicrous bobbing up and down position she was in. with a courage that surprised herself kate proposed that they should go on. she was beginning to feel uneasy at the time she had been away from home and certain that mrs. ede would be on the doorstep looking up and down the street; and she could well imagine how cross ralph would be if he heard she had been to the potteries with mr. lennox. she felt very sorry for the one and a little resentful towards the other, but the sentimental desire to see the painting-room where her mother used to work prevailed, and with her heart full of recollections she followed the party to the ovens. their way thither led them around the building, and they passed through many workrooms. these were generally clean, airy spaces, with big rafters and whitewashed walls. sometimes a bunch of violets, a book, or a newspaper lying on the table, suggested an absent owner, and a refined countenance was sought for in the different groups of women. there was also a difference in the hats and shawls, and it was easy to tell which belonged to the young girls, which to the mothers of families. everyone looked healthy and contented. all were nice-looking, as lennox continued to assert, and all worked industriously at their numberless employments, one of the most curious of which consisted in knocking the roughness off the finished earthenware. a dozen women sat in a circle; above them and around them were piles of dinner-services of all kinds. each held with one hand a piece of crockery on her knees, whilst with a chisel she chopped away at it as if it could not by any possibility be broken. as may easily be imagined, the noise in this warehouse was bewildering. through this room and others, up and down many narrow staircases, the visiting party went, the guide leading, the three black clergymen following, kate lingering behind with mr. lennox until they came to the ovens. the entrance was from an immense corridor, prolonged by shadow and divided down the middle by presses full of drying earthenware, the smell of which was not, however, as strong as in the platemakers' place, and the difference was noticed by the clergyman with the cough. he said he was not affected to nearly the same extent. from time to time the visitors had to give way to men who marched in single file carrying what seemed to be huge cheeses, but the guide explained that within these were cups, saucers, bowls, and basins, and men mounted on ladders piled these yellow tubs up the walls of the ovens. when the visitors had peeped into the huge interior, they were conducted to the furnaces; and these were set in the oven's inner shell, which made a narrow circular passage slanting inwards as it ascended like the neck of a champagne bottle. the fires glared so furiously that they suggested many impious thoughts to lennox, and he proposed to ask the ministers if there were any warmer corners in hell, and was with difficulty dissuaded by kate, about whose waist he had passed his arm. his constant whispering in her ear, which had at first amused her, now irritated and annoyed her; other emotions filled her mind with a vague tumult, and she longed to be left to think in peace. she begged of him to keep quiet, and as they crossed one of the yards she asked the guide if he could not go straight to the painting-room. he replied that there was a regular order to be observed, and insisted on marching them through two more rooms, and explaining fully three or four more processes. then, after begging them to be careful and to hold the rail, he led them up a high staircase. the warning caused kate a thrill, for she remembered that every step of this staircase had been a terror to her mother. the room itself proved a little disappointing. the tables were not arranged in quite the same way, and these alterations deprived her of the emotions she had expected. still it gave her a great deal of pleasure to point out to mr. lennox where her mother used to work. but to find the exact spot was not by any means easy. there were upwards of a hundred young women sitting on benches, leaning over huge tables covered with unfinished pottery. each held in her hand a plate, bowl, or vase, on which she executed some design. the clergy showed more interest than they had hitherto done, and as they leaned to and fro examining the work, one of them discovered the something _guardian_, a wesleyan organ, on one of the tables, and hailing his fellows, they began to interview the proprietor. but the guide said they had to visit the store-rooms, and forced them away from their 'lamb.' ridges of vases, mounds of basins and jugs, terraces of plates, formed masses of sickly white, through which rays of light were caught and sent dancing. along the wall on the left-hand side presses were overcharged with dusty tea-services. on the right were square grey windows, under which the convex sides of salad-bowls sparkled in the sun; and from rafter to rafter, in garlands and clusters like grapes, hung gilded mugs bearing devices suitable for children, and down the middle of the floor a terrace was built of dinner-plates. two rooms away, a large mound of chamber-pots formed an astonishing background, and against all this white and grey effacement the men who stood on high ladders dusting the crockery came out like strange black climbing insects. the clergyman said it was very interesting, and just as he did everything else the guide explained the system of storing employed by the firm; how the crockery was packed, and how the men would soon be working only three days a week on account of the american tariff. but he was not much listened to. everyone was now tired, and the clergymen, who, since the discovery of the newspaper, had been showing signs that they regarded their visit to the potteries as ended, pulled out their watches and whispered that their time was up. the guide told them that there were only a few more rooms to visit, but they said that they must be off, and demanded to be conducted to the door. this request was an embarrassing one; it was against the rules ever to leave visitors when going the rounds. the guide had, therefore, either to conduct the whole party to the door or transgress his orders. after a slight hesitation, influenced no doubt by a conversation he had had with lennox, in which mention was made of tickets for the theatre, he decided to take the responsibility on himself, and asked that gentleman if he would mind waiting a few minutes with his lady while the religious gentlemen were being shown the way out. lennox assented with readiness, and the three black figures and the guide disappeared a moment after behind the bedroom utensils. after an anxious glance round lennox looked at kate, who, at that moment, was gathering to herself all the recollections that the place evoked. she knew the room she was in well, for she used to pass through it daily with her mother's dinner, and she remembered how in her childhood she wondered how big the world must be to hold enough people to use such thousands of cups and saucers. there used to be a blue tea-service in the far corner, and she had often lingered to imagine a suitable parlour for it and for her dream husband. one day she had torn her frock coming up the stairs, and was terribly scolded; another time mr. powell, attracted by her black curls, had stopped to speak to her, and he had given her as a present one of the children's mugs--one exactly like those hanging over her head. she had treasured it a long time, but at last it was broken. it seemed that all things belonging to her had to be broken; her dreams were made in crockery. but as kate looked into the past she became gradually conscious of a voice whispering to her, 'how odd it is that you should never have thought of revisiting this place until you met me.' she raised her eyes, and, her look seeming to tell him that this was his moment, he turned to see if they were watched. at their feet a pile of plates and teacups slept in a broad flood of sunlight, and three rooms away the boys on high ladders dusted the mugs. 'what a pretty child you must have been! i can fancy you with your black hair falling about your shoulders. had i known you then, i should have taken you in my arms and kissed you. do you think you would have liked me to have kissed you?' she raised her eyes again, and a vague feeling of how nice, how kind he was, rushed through her, and perceiving still more clearly that this moment was his moment, lennox affected to examine a ring on her finger. the warm pressure of his hand caused her to start, and she would have put him from her, but his voice calmed her. 'ah!' he said, 'had i known you then, i should have been in love with you.' kate closed her eyes, and abandoned herself to an ineffable sentiment of weakness, of ravishment; and then, imagining that she was his, lennox took her in his arms and kissed her rudely. but quick, angry thoughts rushed to her head at the first movement of his arms, and obeying an impulse in contradiction to her desire, she shook herself free, and looked at him vexed and humiliated. 'oh, how very cross we are; and about a kiss, just a tiny, wee kiss!' she stood staring at him, only half hearing what he said, irritated against him and herself. 'i'm sure i didn't mean to offend you,' he continued after a pause, for kate's manner puzzled him; 'i love you too well.' 'love me?' she cried, astonished, but with nevertheless a tone of interrogation in her voice. 'why, you never saw me till the other day.' 'i loved you the first moment; i assure you i did.' kate looked at him imploringly, as if beseeching him not to deceive her. there was an honest frankness in his big blue eyes, and his face said as clearly as words, 'i think you a deuced pretty woman, and i'm sure i could love you very much,' and recognizing this, kate remained silent. and thus encouraged, mr. lennox attempted to renew his intentions. but actions have to be prefaced by words, and he commenced by declaring that when a man would give the whole world for a kiss, it was not to be expected that he would resist trying for one, and he strove to think of the famous love scene in _the lady of lyons_. but it was years since he had played the part, and he could only murmur something about reading no books but lovers' books, singing no songs but lovers' songs. the guide would be back in a few minutes, and, inspired by kate's pale face, he came to the conclusion that it would be absurd to let her go without kissing her properly. he was a strong man, but kate had now really lost her temper, and struggled vigorously, determined he should not gain his end. three times his lips had rested on her cheek, once he managed to kiss her on the chin, but he could not reach her mouth: she always succeeded in twisting her face away, and not liking to be beaten he put forth all his strength. she staggered backwards and placed one hand on his throat, and with the other strove to catch at his moustache; she had given it a wrench that had brought tears into his eyes, but now he was pinioning her; she could see his big face approaching, and summoning up all her strength she strove to get away, but that moment, happening to tread on her skirt, her feet slipped. he made a desperate effort to sustain her, but her legs had gone between his. the crash was tremendous. a pile of plates three feet high was sent spinning, a row of salad-bowls was over, and then with a heavy stagger mr. lennox went down into a dinner-service, sending the soup-tureen rolling gravely into the next room. a feeling at first prevailed that some serious accident had happened, but when kate rose, pale and trembling, from the litter of a bedroom set, and lennox was lifted out of the dinner-service with nothing apparently worse than a cut hand, a murmur of voices asking the cause of the disaster was heard. but before a word could be said the guide came running towards them. he declared that he would lose his place, and spoke vaguely to those around him of the necessity of suppressing the fact that he had left visitors alone in the storerooms. lennox, on the other hand, was very silent. he had evidently received some bad cuts, of which he did not speak. he put his hand to his legs and felt them doubtfully. there was a large gash in his right hand, from which he picked a piece of delf, and as he tied the wound up with a pocket-handkerchief he partly quieted the expostulating guide by assuring him that everything would be paid for. and taking kate's arm, he hobbled out of the place. the suddenness and excitement of the accident had for the moment quenched her angry feelings, and, overwhelmed with pity for the poor wounded hand, she thought of nothing but getting him to a doctor. indeed, it was not until she heard him telling mr. powell in the office that he was subject to fits, and that in striving to hold him up the lady had fallen too, that she remembered how he had behaved, how he had disgraced her. but her mouth was closed, and she listened in amazement to him as he invented detail after detail with surprising dexterity. he did not even hesitate to call in the evidence of the guide, who, in his own interests, was obliged to assent; and when mr. powell inquired after the three clergymen, lennox said that they had left them in the yard after visiting the ovens. mr. powell listened with a look of pity on his face, and began to tell of a poor brother of his who was likewise subject to fits, and, possibly influenced by the remembrance, refused to receive any remuneration for the broken crockery, saying that to a firm like theirs a few plates more or less was of no importance. and this matter being settled, lennox hobbled away, leaving a little pool of blood on the floor of the office. she had to lend him her handkerchief, his was now saturated--to tie round his hand: he confessed to a bad cut in the leg, saying he could feel the blood trickling down into his boot, but did not think he needed a doctor. 'a bit of sticking-plaster, dear; i'll get some at the apothecary's. which is the way?' 'take the first turn to the right, and you're in church street; but there may be bits of the delf in the wound?' 'i shall see to that. but how strong you are; you're like a lion. you mustn't struggle like that next time.' at the suggestion that there was going to be a next time kate's face clouded, but she was so alarmed for his safety that it was only for a moment. she had hardly noticed that he called her 'dear'; he used the word so naturally and simply that it touched her with swift pleasure, and was as soon lost in a crowd of conflicting emotions. the man was coarse and largely sensual, but each movement of his fat hands was protective, every word he uttered was kind, the very intonation of his voice was comforting. he was, in a word, human, and this attracted all that was human in her. v on leaving mr. lennox kate walked slowly along the streets, recalling every word he had said, feeling his breath upon her cheek and his blue eyes looking into hers more distinctly in recollection than when he had held her in his arms. she walked immersed in recollections, every one clear and precise, experiencing a sort of supersensual gratification, one she had never known before. being a child of the people, his violence had not impressed her, and she murmured to herself every now and then: 'poor fellow, what a fall he had! i hope he didn't hurt himself.' by turns she thought of things totally different--of hender, of the little girls, who would regret her absence from the workroom, and it was not without surprise that she caught herself wishing suddenly they were her own children. the wish was only momentary, but it was the first time a desire for motherhood had ever troubled her. it amused her to think of their smiling faces, and to make sure of their smiles she entered a shop and bought a small packet of sweetstuff, and with the paper in her hand continued her walk home. the cheap prints in a newspaper shop delayed her, and the workmen who were tearing up the road forced her to consider how a suspension of traffic would interfere with her business. she was now in broad street, and when she raised her eyes she saw her own house. a new building high and narrow, it stood in the main street at the corner of a lane, the ground-floor windows filled with light goods, and underneath them black hats trimmed with wings and tails of birds. there were also children's dresses, and a few neckties trimmed with white lace. as she entered the shop mrs. ede, who was in the front kitchen, cried, 'well, is that you, kate? where have you been? i waited dinner an hour for you; and how tired you look!' in her present state of mind mrs. ede was the last person kate cared to meet. 'what's the matter, my dear? aren't you well? shall i get you a glass of water?' 'oh no, mother; i'm all right. can't you see that i'm only very hot?' 'but where have you been? i waited dinner an hour for you. it's past two o'clock!' kate did not know how to account for her absence from home, but after a pause she answered, thinking of mr. lennox as she spoke, 'mrs. barnes kept me waiting above an hour trying her dress on, and then i was so done up with night-watching and sewing that i thought i'd go for a walk,' and after wiping her weary hot face she asked her mother-in-law if many people had been in the shop that morning. 'well, yes, half a dozen or more,' mrs. ede answered, and began to recount the different events of the morning. mrs. white had bought one of the aprons; she said she hadn't seen the pattern before; a stranger had taken another; and miss sargent had called and wanted to know how much it would cost to remake her blue dress. 'oh, i know; she wants me to reline the skirt and put new trimming on the bodice for seven and sixpence; we can do without her custom. what then?' 'and then--ah! i was forgetting--mrs. west came in to tell us that her friend mrs. wood, the bookseller's wife, you know, up the street, was going to be confined, and would want some baby-linen, and she recommended her here.' 'did you see nobody else?' 'well, yes, a young man who bought half a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs; i let him have the half-dozen for four shillings; and i sold a pink necktie to one of the factory hands over the way.' 'why, mother, you've done a deal of business, and i'm glad about the baby-linen. we've a lot in stock, and it hasn't gone off well. i don't know mrs. wood, but it's very kind of mrs. west to recommend us; and how has hender been getting on with the skirt?' 'well, i must say she has been working very well; she was here at half-past eight, and she did not stop away above three-quarters of an hour for dinner.' 'i'm glad of that, for i was never so backward in my life with my work, what with ralph being ill and mr. ----' kate tried here to stop herself. the conversation had so far been an agreeable one, and she did not wish to spoil it by alluding to a subject on which there was no likelihood of their agreeing. but her mother-in-law, guessing that kate was thinking of the mummer, said, 'yes, i wanted to talk to you about that. he hasn't sent anyone to take away his things, and he didn't even speak when i took him up his breakfast this morning.' 'i don't think mr. lennox is leaving us,' she answered, after a pause. 'i thought it was settled last night that he was to be told that he mustn't bring friends home after eleven o'clock at night. when i see him i'll speak to him about it.' 'the house is yours, deary. if you're satisfied, i am.' and kate walked into the kitchen, and when she had finished her dinner she went upstairs to see ralph, whom mrs. ede declared to be much better. on passing the workroom the door opened suddenly and the bright faces of the little girls darted out. 'oh, is that you, mrs. ede? how we've missed you all the morning!' annie cried. 'and miss hender has been so busy that she had to get me to help her with the skirt, and i did a great long piece myself without a mistake. didn't i, miss hender?' 'i'm going to see my husband,' said kate, smiling; 'but i shall be down presently, and i've bought something for you.' 'oh, what is it?' cried annie excitedly. 'you shall see presently.' ralph was lying still in bed, propped up in his usual attitude, with his legs tucked under him. 'don't you think we might open something?' she said, as she sat down by the bedside; 'and your sheets want changing.' 'oh, if you've only come in to turn everything upside-down, you might as well have stayed away.' he spoke with difficulty, in a thin wheeze. 'i think the pills did me good last night,' he said, after a pause; and then added, laughing as much as his breath would allow him, 'and what a rage mother was in! but tell me, what were they doing downstairs? were there any ladies there? i was too bad to think of anything.' 'yes, some of the ladies from the theatre,' kate answered. 'but i don't think mother had a right to kick up all the row she did.' 'and it just came in upon her prayers,' ralph replied, smiling. although cross-grained, mr. ede was not always an unpleasant man, and often in sudden flashes of affection the kind heart of his mother was recognizable in him. 'you mustn't laugh, ralph,' said kate, looking aside, for the comic side of the question had suddenly dawned upon her. but their hilarity was not of long endurance. ralph was seized with a fit of coughing, and when this was over he lay back exhausted. at last he said: 'but where have you been all the day? we've been wondering what had become of you.' the question, although not put unkindly, annoyed kate. 'one would think i'd come back from a long journey', she said to herself. 'it's just as hender says; if i'm out half an hour more than my time everyone is, as they say, "wondering what has become of me."' assuming an air of indifference, she told him that mrs. barnes kept her a long time, and that she went for a walk afterwards. 'i'm glad of that,' he said. 'you wanted a walk after being shut up with me three nights running. and what a time you must have had of it! but tell me what you've been doing in the shop.' she told him that 'mother' had sold all the aprons, and he said: 'i knew they'd sell. i told you so, didn't i?' 'you did, dear,' said kate, seeking to satisfy him; 'but you mustn't talk so much; you'll make yourself bad again.' 'but are you going?' 'i've been out so long that i've a lot to do; but i'll come back and see you in the evening.' 'well, then, kiss me before you go.' as she kissed him, she remembered the struggle in the potteries, and it appeared strange to her that she should now be giving as a matter of course what she had refused an hour ago. she had always complied with the ordinances of the marriage state without passion or revolt, but now it disgusted her to kiss her husband, and as she stepped into the passage she almost walked into mr. lennox's room unconsciously, without knowing what she was doing, beguiled by the natural sentiment that a woman feels in the room of a man she is interested in. hoping that mrs. ede had not yet set everything straight, she went on to make sure. slippers and boots lay about; the portmanteau yawned wide open, with some soiled shirts on the top; a pair of trousers trailed from a chair on the floor. annoyed at the mother's negligence, kate hung the trousers on the door, placed the slippers tidily by his bedside, and put away the soiled linen. but in doing so she could not refrain from glancing at the contents of the portmanteau. she saw many of the traces which follow those who frequent women's society. the duchess works a pair of slippers for her lover, and the chorus-girl does the same. the merchant's wife, as she holds the loved hand under the ledge of her box at the theatre, clasps the ring she had given; the rich widow opposite has a jewel-case in her pocket which will presently be sent round to the stage-door for the tenor, who is now thinking of his high b flat. under the shirts kate found a pair of slippers, a pin-cushion, and the inevitable ring. but there were other presents more characteristic of the man: there was a bracelet, a scent-bottle, and two pots of _pâté de foie gras_ wrapped up in a lace-trimmed chemise. kate examined everything, but without being able to adduce any conclusion beyond a vague surmise that lennox lived in a different world from hers. the _foie gras_ suggested delicacy of living, the chemise immorality, the bottle of scent refinement of taste; the bracelet she could make nothing of. prosaic and vulgar as were all these articles, in the dressmaker's imagination they became both poetized and purified. an infinite sadness, that she could not explain, rose up through her mind, and, staring vaguely at the pious exhortations hung on the wall--'thou art my will,' 'thou art my hope'--she thought of mr. lennox's wounded legs, and asked herself if his bed were soft, and if she could do anything to make him more comfortable. it vexed her to see that he had chosen to use the basin-stand made out of a triangular board set in a corner instead of the proper one, where she had hung two clean towels; and it was not until she remembered the little girls that she was able to tear herself away. 'what have you got for us?' said four red lips as kate entered. 'oh, you must guess,' she replied, taking a chair, and bidding miss hender good-morning. 'an apple?' cried annie. 'no.' 'an orange?' cried lizzie. kate shook her head, and at the sight of their bright looks she felt her spirits return to her. 'no, it is sweetstuff.' 'brandy balls?' 'no.' 'toffee.' 'yes; annie has guessed right,' said kate, as she divided the toffee equally between the two. 'and do i get nothing for guessing right?' said annie doubtfully. 'oh, for shame, annie! i didn't think you were greedy!' 'i think i ought to have the most,' replied lizzie in self-defence. 'had it not been for me miss hender would never have got through her skirt. i helped you famously, didn't i, miss hender?' the assistant nodded an impatient assent and gazed at her mistress curiously. but while the children were present, she could only watch her employer's face, and strive to read it. and unconscious of the scrutiny, kate sat idly talking of the skirt that was finished. the clicking of the needles sounded as music in her ears, and she abandoned herself to all sorts of soft and floating reveries. not for years had she known what it was to take her fill of rest; and her thoughts swayed, now on one side and then on the other, as voluptuously as flowers, and hid themselves in the luxurious current of idleness which lapped loosely around her. the afternoon passed delightfully, full of ease and pleasant quiet, hender telling them how _les cloches_ had gone the night before: of miss leslie's spirited singing, of the cider song, of joe mortimer's splendid miser scene, of bret's success in the barcarole. so eagerly did she speak of them that one would have thought she herself had received the applause she described. kate listened dreamily, and the little girls sucked toffee, staring the while with interested eyes. vi but kate could not manage to see mr. lennox that evening or the next. he came in very late, and was away before she was down. she tormented herself trying to find reasons for his absence, and it pained her to think that it might be because the breakfasts were not to his taste. it seemed strange to her, too, that when a man cared to walk about the potteries with a woman, and talked as nicely as he had done to her, that he should not take the trouble to come and see her, if only to say good-morning; and in a thousand different ways did these thoughts turn and twist in kate's brain, as she sat sewing opposite hender in the workroom. this young woman had made up her mind that there was something between the stage-manager and her employer, and it irritated her when kate said she had not seen him for the last two days. kate was not very successful either in extracting theatrical news from hender. 'if she's going to be close with me, i'll show her that two can play at that game,' and she answered that she had not noticed any limp. but mrs. ede told kate he limped so badly that she felt sure he must have met with an accident. which was she to believe? mother, of course; but feeling that only direct news of him would satisfy her, she waited next morning in the kitchen. but the trick was not successful; she was serving in the shop, and heard him leave by the side door. whether he had done this on purpose to avoid her, or whether it was the result of chance, kate passed the morning in considering. she had hitherto succeeded in completely ignoring their ridiculous fall amid the teacups, but the memory of it now surged up in her mind; and certain coarse details that she had forgotten continued to recur to her with a singular persistency; deaf to hender's conversation, she sat sullenly sewing, hating even to go down to the shop to attend when mrs. ede called from below that there was a customer waiting. about three o'clock mrs. ede's voice was heard. 'kate, come down; there is someone in the shop.' passing round the counter, she found herself face to face with a well-dressed woman. 'i was recommended here by mrs. west,' the lady said, after a slight hesitation, 'to buy a set of baby clothes.' 'is it for a new-born infant?' kate asked, putting on her shop airs. 'well, the baby is not born yet, but i hope soon will be.' 'oh, i beg pardon,' said kate, casting a rapid glance in the direction of the lady's waist. the baby clothes were kept in a box under the counter, and in a few moments kate reappeared with a bundle of flannels. 'you will find these of the very best quality; will you feel the warmth of this, ma'am?' she said, spreading out something that looked like two large towels. the lady seemed satisfied with the quality, but from her manner of examining the strings kate judged she was at her first confinement, and with short phrases and quick movements proceeded to explain how the infant was to be laid in the middle, and how the tapes were to be tied across. 'and you will want a hood and cloak? we have some very nice ones at two pounds ten; but perhaps you would not like to give so much?' without replying to this question, the lady asked to see the articles referred to, and then, beneath the men's shirts that hung just above their heads, the two women talked with many genuine airs of mystery and covert subtlety. the lady spoke of her fears, of how much she wished the next fortnight was over, of her husband, of how long she had been married. she was mrs. wood, the stationer's wife in piccadilly. kate said she knew her customer's shop perfectly, and assumed a sad expression when in her turn she was asked if she had any children. on her replying in the negative, mrs. wood said, with a sigh of foreboding, that people were possibly just as well without them. it was at this moment that mr. lennox entered, and kate tried to sweep away and to hide up the things that were on the counter. mrs. wood was mildly embarrassed, and with a movement of retiring she attempted to resume the conversation. 'very well, mrs. ede,' she said; 'i quite agree with you--and i'll call again about those pocket-handkerchiefs.' but kate, in her anxiety not to lose a chance of doing a bit of business, foolishly replied: 'yes, but about those baby clothes--shall i send them, mrs. wood?' mrs. wood murmured something inaudible in reply, and as she sidled and backed out of the shop she bumped against mr. lennox. he lifted his big hat and strove to make way for her, but he had to get into a corner to allow her to pass out, and then, still apologizing, he took a step forwards, and leaning on the counter, said in a hurried voice: 'i've been waiting to see you for the last two days. where have you been hiding yourself?' the unexpected question disconcerted kate, and instead of answering him coldly and briefly, as she had intended, said: 'why, here; where did you expect me to be? but you've been out ever since,' she added simply. 'it wasn't my fault--the business i've had to do! i was in london yesterday, and only got back last night in time for the show. there was talk of our boss drying up, but i think it's all right. i'll tell you about that another time. i want you to come to the theatre to-morrow night. here are some tickets for the centre circle. i'll come and sit with you when i get the curtain up, and we'll be able to talk.' the worm does not easily realize the life of the fly, and kate did not understand. the rapidly stated facts bewildered her, and she could only say, in answer to his again repeated question: 'oh, i should like it so much, but it is impossible; if my mother-in-law heard of it i don't know what she would say.' 'well, then, come to-night; but no, confound it! i shall be busy all to-night. hayes, our acting manager, has been drunk for the last three days; he can't even make up the returns. no, no; you must come to-morrow night. come with hender; she's one of the dressers. i'll make that all right; you can tell her so from me. will you promise to come?' 'i should like it so much; but what excuse can i give for being out till half-past ten at night?' 'you needn't stay till then; you can leave before the piece is half over. say you went out for a walk.' the most ingenious and complete fiction that mr. lennox's inventive brain might have worked out would not have appeased kate's fears so completely as the simple suggestion of a walk, and her face lit up with a glow of intelligence as she remembered how successfully she had herself made use of the same excuse. 'then you'll come?' he said, taking her look for an answer. 'i'll try,' she replied, still hesitating. 'then that's all right,' he murmured, pressing two or three pieces of paper into her hands. 'i've been thinking of you a great deal.' kate smiled slowly, and a slight flush for a moment illuminated the pale olive complexion. 'i dreamt that we were going up to london together, and that your head was lying on my shoulder, and it was so nice and pleasant, and when i woke up i was disappointed.' kate shivered a little, and drew back as if afraid; and in the pause which ensued mr. lennox remembered an appointment. 'i must be off now,' he said, 'there's no help for it; but you won't disappoint me, will you? the doors open at half-past six. if you're there early i may be able to see you before the piece begins.' and with a grand lift of the hat the actor hurried away, leaving kate to examine the three pieces of paper he had given her. it was clearly impossible for her to go to the theatre without her assistant finding it out; she must confide in hender, who would be astonished, no doubt. and she was not wrong in her surmise; the news produced first an astonished stare, and then a look of satisfaction to be read: 'well, you are coming to your senses at last.' kate would have liked no more to be said on the subject, but the fact that her employer was going to meet mr. lennox at the theatre was not sufficient for hender; she must needs question kate how this change had come about in her. 'was she really spoons on the actor?' at these words kate, who wished to leave everything vague, the facts as well as her conception of them, declared that she would rather not go to the theatre at all, if such remarks were to be made. whereupon miss hender took a view less carnal, and the two women discussed how old mrs. ede might be given the slip. the idea of the walk was not approved of; it was too simple; but on this point kate would take no advice, although she accepted the suggestion that she was to go upstairs, and under the pretext of changing her petticoat, should fold her hat into her mantle and tie the two behind her just as she would a bustle; an ingenious device, but difficult to put into practice. ralph was out of bed, and, having been deprived of speech for more than a week, he followed kate into the back room, worrying her with questions about the shop, his health, his mother, and mr. lennox. at five o'clock mrs. ede came up to say she was going up the town to do a little marketing for sunday, and to ask kate to come down to the front kitchen, where she could be in sight of the shop. miss hender said nothing could have happened more fortunately, and, with many instructions as to where they should meet, she hurried away. but she was no sooner gone than kate remembered she had no one to leave in charge of the shop. she should have asked one of the apprentices, but she hadn't, and would have to turn the key in the door and leave her mother-in-law to come in by the side way. ralph would open to her; it couldn't be helped. mr. lennox was going away to-morrow; she must see him. at that moment her mantle caused her some uneasiness; it didn't seem to hang well, and it was impossible to go to the theatre in the gloves that had been lying in her pocket for the last month. she took a pair of grey thread from the window, but while pulling them on her face changed expression. was it ralph coming down the staircase? there was nobody else in the house. trembling, she waited for him to appear. wheezing loudly, her husband dragged himself through the doorway. 'what--do you look so fri-frightened at? you did-didn't expect to see me, did you?' 'no, i didn't,' kate answered as if in a dream. 'feeling a good deal better, i thou-ght i would come down, but--but the stairs--have tried me.' it was some time before he could speak again. at last he said: 'where are you going?' 'i was just going for a walk.' 'i don't know how it is, but it seems to me that you're always out now; always coming in or going out; never in the shop. if it wasn't for my asthma i don't think i'd ever be out of the shop, but women think of nothing but pleasure and--,' a very rude word which she had never heard ralph use before. but it might be that she was mistaken. poor man! it was distressing to watch him gasping for breath. he leaned against the counter, and kate begged him to let her help him upstairs, but he shook her off testily, saying that he understood himself better than anybody else did, and that he would look after the shop. 'you're going out? well, go,' and she hurried away, hoping that a customer would come in, for his great delight was the shop. 'attending on half a dozen customers will amuse him more than the play will amuse me,' she said to herself, and a smile rose to her lips, for she imagined him taking advantage of her absence to rearrange the window. 'but what can have brought him down?' kate asked herself. 'ah! that's it,' she said, for it had suddenly come into her mind that ever since she had told him of a certain sale of aprons and some unexpected orders for baby clothes he had often mentioned that the worst part of these asthmatic attacks was that they prevented his attendance in the shop. 'the shop is his pleasure just as the theatre is hender's,' kate said as she hurried up piccadilly to the theatre, her heart in her mouth, for her time was up. fearing to miss hender, she raced along, dodging the passengers with quick turns and twists. 'it's my only chance of seeing him; he's going away tomorrow,' and she was living so intensely in her own imagination that she neither saw nor heeded anybody until she suddenly heard somebody calling after her, 'kate! kate! kate!' she turned round and faced her mother-in-law. 'where on earth are you going at that rate?' said mrs. ede, who carried a small basket on her arm. 'only for a walk,' kate replied in a voice dry with enforced calmness. 'oh, for a walk; i'm glad of that, it will do you good. but which way are you going?' 'any where round about the town. up on the hill, st. john's road.' 'how curious! i was just thinking of going back that way. there's a fruiterer's shop where you can get potatoes a penny a stone cheaper than you can here.' if a thunderbolt had ruined hanley before her eyes at that moment, it would not have appeared to her of such importance as this theft of her evening's pleasure. it was with difficulty that she saved herself from saying straight out that she was going to the theatre to see mr. lennox, and had a right to do so if she pleased. 'but i like walking fast,' she said; 'perhaps i walk too fast for you?' 'oh no, not at all. my old legs are as good as your young ones. kate, dear, what is the matter? are you all right?' she said, seeing how cross her daughter-in-law was looking. 'oh yes, i'm all right, but you do bother one so.' this very injudicious phrase led to a demonstration of affection on the part of mrs. ede, and whatever were the chances of getting rid of her before, they were now reduced to nothing. the strain on her nerves was at height during the first half of the walk, for during that time she knew that mr. lennox was expecting her; afterwards, while bargaining with the fruiterer in st. john's road, she fell into despondency. nothing seemed to matter now; she did not care what might befall her, and in silence she accompanied her mother-in-law home. 'now, mother, you must leave me; i've some work to finish.' 'i'm sorry, kate, if----' 'mother, i've some work to finish; good-night.' and she sat in the workroom waiting for mr. lennox. at last his heavy step was heard on the stairs; then, laying aside the shirt she was making, she stole out to meet him. he saw her as he scraped a match on the wall; dropping it, he put out his hands towards her. 'is that you, dear?' he said. 'why didn't you come to the theatre? we had a magnificent house.' 'i couldn't; i met my mother-in-law.' the red embers of the match that had fallen on the floor now went out, and the indication of their faces was swept away in the darkness. 'let me get a light, dear.' the intonation of his voice as he said 'dear' caused her an involuntary feeling of voluptuousness. she trembled as the vague outline of his big cheeks became clear in the red flame of the match which he held in his hollowed hands. 'won't you come in?' she heard him say a moment after. 'no, i couldn't; i must go upstairs in a minute. i only came to tell you, for i didn't want you to go away angry; it wasn't my fault. i should so much have liked to have gone to the theatre.' 'it was a pity you didn't come; i was waiting at the door for you. i could have sat by you the whole time.' kate's heart died within her at thought of what she had lost, and after a long silence she said very mournfully: 'perhaps when you come back another time i shall be able to go to the theatre.' 'we've done so well here that we're going to get another date. i'll write and let you know.' 'will you? and will you come back and lodge here?' 'of course, and i hope that i shan't be so unlucky the next time as to fall down amid the crockery.' at this they both laughed, and the conversation came to a pause. 'i must bid you good-night now.' 'but won't you kiss me--just a kiss, so that i may have something to think of?' 'why do you want to kiss me? you have miss leslie to kiss.' 'i never kissed leslie; that's all nonsense, and i want to kiss you because i love you.' kate made no answer, and, following her into the heavy darkness that hung around the foot of the staircase, he took her in his arms. she at first made no resistance, but the passion of his kiss caused her a sudden revolt, and she struggled with him. 'oh, mr. lennox, let me go, i beg of you,' she said, speaking with her lips close to his. 'let me go, let me go; they will miss me.' possibly fearing another fall, mr. lennox loosed his embrace, and she left him. vii next morning about eleven the mummer took off his hat in his very largest manner to the ladies, and the bow was so deferential, and seemed to betoken so much respect for the sex, that even mrs. ede could not help thinking that mr. lennox was very polite. ralph too was impressed, as well he might be, so attentively did dick listen to him, just as if nothing in the world concerned him as much as this last attack of asthma, and it was not until mrs. ede mentioned that they would be late for church that it occurred to dick that his chance of catching the eleven o'clock train was growing more and more remote. with a hasty comment on his dilatoriness, he caught up a parcel and rug and shook hands with them all. the cab rattled away, and ralph proceeded up the red, silent streets towards the wesleyan church, walking very slowly between his womankind. 'there's no doubt but that mr. lennox is a very nice man,' he said, after they had gone some twenty or thirty paces--'a very nice man indeed; you must admit, mother, that you were wrong.' 'he's polite, if you will,' replied mrs. ede, who for the last few minutes had been considering the ungodliness of travelling on a sunday. 'don't walk so fast,' ralph cried. 'well, then, we shall be late for church!' 'which, then, is the most important in your eyes--mr. peppencott's sermon or my breath?' 'i'm not thinking of mr. peppencott's sermon.' 'then of his voice in the prayer. lennox may be no better than an actor,' he continued, 'but he's more fellow-feeling than you have. you saw yourself how interested he was in my complaint, and i shall try the cigarettes that used to give his mother relief.' he appealed to kate, who answered him that it would be as well to try the cigarettes, and her thoughts floated away into a regret that mr. lennox had not been able to come to church with them, for she was reckoned to have a good voice. it may have been a memory of dick that enabled her to pour her voice into the hymn, singing it more lustily than mrs. ede ever heard her sing it before. it seemed to mrs. ede that only god's grace could enable anyone to sing as kate was singing, and when the minister began to preach and kate sat down, her eyes fixed, mrs. ede rejoiced. 'the word of god has reached her at last,' she said. 'never have i seen her listen so intently before to mr. peppencott.' kate sat quite still, almost unconscious of the life around her, remembering that it was on her way from the potteries that she had learnt that there is a life within us deeper and more intense than the life without us. dick's kisses had angered her at the moment, but in recollection they were inexpressibly dear to her. her fear had been that time would dim her recollection of them, and her great joy was to discover that this was not so, and that she could recall the intonations of his voice and the colour of his eyes and the words he spoke to her, reliving them in imagination more intensely than while she was actually in his arms just before that terrible fall or in the shop and frightened lest mrs. ede or ralph should come in and surprise them. but in imagination she was secure from interruption and hindrance, and could taste over and over again the words that he had spoken: 'i shall be back in three months, dear one.' a great part of her happiness was in the fact that it was all within herself, that none knew of it; had she wished to communicate it, she could not have done so. it was a life within her life, a voice in her heart which she could hear at any moment, and it was a voice so sweet and intense that it could close her ears to her husband and her mother-in-law, who during dinner fell into one of their habitual quarrels. ralph, who had not forgotten his mother's lack of sympathy on their way to church, maintained the favourable opinion he had formed of mr. lennox. 'it's unchristian,' he said, 'to condemn a man because of the trade or profession he follows,' and somewhat abashed, his mother answered: 'i've always been taught to believe that people who don't go to church lead godless lives.' sunday was kept strictly in this family. three services were attended regularly. kate hoped to recover the sensations of the morning, and attended church in the afternoon. but the whole place seemed changed. the cold white walls chilled her; the people about her appeared to her in a very small and miserable light, and she was glad to get home. her thoughts went back to the book she had fallen asleep over last sunday night when she sat by her husband's bedside, and when the house was quiet she went upstairs and fetched it. but after reading a few pages the heat of the house seemed to her intolerable. there was no place to go to for a walk except st. john's road, and there, turning listlessly over the pages of the old novel, the time passed imperceptibly. it was like sitting on the sea-shore; the hills extended like an horizon, and as the sea dreamer strives to pierce the long illimitable line of the wave and follows the path of the sailing ship, so did kate gaze out of the sweeping green line that enclosed all she knew of the world, and strove to look beyond into the country to where her friend was going. northwood, with its hundreds of sharp roofs and windows, seemed to be dropping into a sunday doze, under pale salmon-coloured tints, and the bells of its church sounded clearer and clearer at each peal. warm airs passed over the red roofs of southwark, and below in the vast hollow of the valley all was still, all seemed abandoned as a desert; no whiff of white steam was blown from the collieries; no black cloud of smoke rolled from the factory chimneys, and they raised their tall stems like a suddenly dismantled forest to a wan, an almost colourless sky. the hills alone maintained their unchangeable aspect. viii by well-known ways the dog comes back to his kennel, the sheep to the fold the horse to the stable, and even so did kate return to her sentimental self. one day she was turning over the local paper, and suddenly, as if obeying a long forgotten instinct, her eyes wandered to the poetry column, and again, just as in old time, she was caught by the same simple sentiments of sadness and longing. she found there the usual song, in which _regret_ rhymes to _forget_. the same dear questions which used to enchant seven years ago were again asked in the same simple fashion; and they touched her now as they had before. she refound all her old dreams. it seemed as if not a day had passed over her. when she was a girl she used to collect every scrap of love poetry that appeared in the local paper, and paste them into a book, and now, the events of the week having roused her from the lethargy into which she had fallen, she turned for a poem to the _hanley courier_ as instinctively as an awakened child turns to the breast. the verses she happened to hit on were after her own heart, and just what were required to complete the transformation of her character: 'i love thee, i love thee, how fondly, how well let the years that are coming my constancy tell; i think of thee daily, my night-thoughts are thine; in fairy-like vision thy hand presses mine; and even though absent you dwell in my heart; of all that is dear to me, dearest, thou art.' in reading these lines kate's heart began to beat quickly, her eyes filled with tears, and wrapped in brightness, like a far distant coast-line, a vision of her girlhood arose. she recalled the emotions she once experienced, the books she had read, and the poetry that was lying upstairs in an old trunk pushed under the bed. it seemed to her wonderful that it had been forgotten so long; her memory skipped from one fragment to the other, picking up a word here, a phrase there, until a remembrance of her favourite novel seized her; she became the heroine of the absurd fiction, substituting herself for the lady who used to read byron and shelley to the gentleman who went to india in despair. as the fitness of the comparison dawned upon her, she yielded to an ineffable sentiment of weakness: george was the husband's name in the book, she was helene, and dick was the lover to whom she could not, would not, give herself, and who on that account had gone away in despair. the coincidence appeared to her as something marvellous, something above nature, and she turned it over, examined it in her mind, as a child would a toy, till, forgetful of her desire to overlook these relics of old times, she went upstairs to the workroom. the missed visit to the theatre was a favourite theme of conversation between the two women. kate listened to what went on behind the scenes with greater indulgence, and she seemed to become more accustomed to the idea that bill and hender were something more than friends. she was conscious of disloyalty to her own upbringing and to her mother-in-law who loved her, and she often blamed herself and resolved never to allow hender to speak ill again of mrs. ede. but the temptation to complain was insidious. it was not every woman who would consent, as she did, to live under the same roof as her mother-in-law, and hender, who hated mrs. ede, who spoke of her as the 'hag,' never lost an opportunity of pointing out the fact that the house was kate's house and not mrs. ede's. the first time hender said, 'after all, the house is yours,' kate was pleased, but the girl insisted too much, and kate was often irritated against her assistant, and she often raged inwardly. it was abominable to have her thoughts interpreted by hender. she loved her mother-in-law dearly, she didn't know what she'd do without her, but--so it went on; struggle as she would with herself, there still lay at the bottom of her mind the thought that mrs. ede had prevented her from going that evening to the theatre, and turn, twist, and wander away as she would, it invariably came back to her. frequently miss hender had to repeat her questions before she obtained an intelligible answer, and often, without even vouchsafing a reply, kate would pitch her work aside nervously. her thoughts were not in her work; she waited impatiently for an opportunity of turning out the old trunk, full of the trinkets, books, verses, remembrances of her youth, which lay under her bed, pushed up against the wall. but a free hour was only possible when ralph was out. then her mother-in-law had to mind the shop, and kate would be sure of privacy at the top of the house. there was no valid reason why she should dread being found out in so innocent an amusement as turning over a few old papers. her fear was merely an unreasoned and nervous apprehension of ridicule. ever since she could remember, her sentimentality was always a subject either of mourning or pity; in allowing it to die out of her heart she had learned to feel ashamed of it; the idea of being discovered going back to it revolted her, and she did not know which would annoy her the most, her husband's sneers or mrs. ede's blank alarm. kate remembered how she used to be told that novels must be wicked and sinful because there was nothing in them that led the soul to god, and she resolved to avoid further lectures on this subject. she devoted herself to the task of persuading ralph to leave his counter and to go out for a walk. this was not easy, but she arrived at last at the point of helping him on with his coat and handing him his hat; then, conducting him to the door, she bade him not to walk fast and to be sure to keep in the sun. she then went upstairs, her mind relaxed, determined to enjoy herself to the extent of allowing her thoughts for an hour or so to wander at their own sweet will. the trunk was an oblong box covered with brown hair; to pull it out she had to get under the bed, and it was with trembling and eager fingers that she untied the old twisted cords. remembrance with kate was a cult, but her husband's indifference and her mother-in-law's hard, determined opposition had forced the past out of sight; but now on the first encouragement it gushed forth like a suppressed fountain that an incautious hand had suddenly liberated. and with what joy she turned over the old books! she examined the colour of the covers, she read a phrase here and there: they were all so dear to her that she did not know which she loved the best. scenes, heroes, and heroines long forgotten came back to her, and in what minuteness, and how vividly! it appeared to her that she could not go on fast enough; her emotion gained upon her until she became quite hysterical; in turning feverishly over some papers a withered pansy floated into her lap. tears started to her eyes, and she pressed the poor little flower, forgotten so long, to her lips. she could not remember when she gathered it, but it had come to her. her lips quivered, the light seemed to be growing dark, and a sudden sense of misery eclipsed her happiness, and unable to restrain herself any longer, she burst into a tumultuous storm of sobs. but after having cried for a few minutes her passion subsided, and she wiped the tears from her hands and face, and, smiling at herself, she continued her search. everything belonging to that time interested her, verses and faded flowers; but her thoughts were especially centred on an old copybook in which she kept the fragments of poetry that used to strike her fancy at the moment. when she came upon it her heart beat quicker, and with mild sentiments of regret she read through the slips of newspaper; they were all the same, but as long as anyone was spoken of as being the nearest and the dearest kate was satisfied. even the bonbon mottoes, of which there were large numbers, drew from her the deepest sighs. the little cupid firing at a target in the shape of a heart, with 'tom smith & co., london,' printed in small letters underneath, did not prevent her from sharing the sentiment expressed in the lines: 'let this cracker, torn asunder, be an emblem of my heart; and as we have shared the plunder, pray you of my love take part.' sitting on the floor, with one hand leaning on the open trunk, she read, letting her thoughts drift through past scenes and sensations. all was far away; and she turned over the relics that the past had thrown up on the shore of the present without seeing any connection between them and the needs of the moment until she lit on the following verses: 'wearily i'm waiting for you, for your absence watched in vain ask myself the hopeless question, will he ever come again? 'all these years, am i forgotten? or in absence are you true? oh, my darling, 'tis so lonely, watching, waiting here for you! 'has your heart from its allegiance turned to greet a fairer face? have you welcomed in another charms you missed in me, and grace? 'long, long years i have been waiting, bearing up against my pain; all my thoughts and vows have vanished, will they ever come again? 'yes, for woman's faith ne'er leaves her, and my trust outweighs my fears; and i still will wait his coming, though it may not be for years.' as the deer, when he believes he has eluded the hounds, leaves the burning plains and plunges into the cool woodland water, kate bathed her tired soul, letting it drink its fill of this very simple poem. the sentiment came to her tenderly, through the weak words; and melting with joy, she repeated them over and over again. at last her sad face lit up with a smile. it had occurred to her to send the poem that gave her so much pleasure to dick. it would make him think of her when he was far away; it would tell him that she had not forgotten him. the idea pleased her so much that it did not occur to her to think if she would be doing wrong in sending these verses to her lodger, and with renewed ardour and happiness she continued her search among her books. there was no question in her mind as to which she would read, and she anticipated hours of delight in tracing resemblances between herself and the lady who used to read byron and shelley to her aristocratic lover. she feared at first she had lost this novel, but when it was discovered it was put aside for immediate use. the next that came under her hand was the story of a country doctor. in this instance the medical hero had poisoned one sister to whom he was secretly married in order that he might wed a second. kate at first hesitated, but remembering that there was an elopement, with a carriage overturned in a muddy lane, she decided upon looking it through again. another book related the love of a young lady who found herself in the awkward predicament of not being able to care for anyone but her groom, who was lucky enough to be the possessor of the most wonderful violet eyes. the fourth described the distressing position of a young clergyman who, when he told the lady of his choice that his means for the moment did not admit of his taking a wife, was answered that it did not matter, for in the meantime she was quite willing to be his mistress. this devotion and self-sacrifice touched kate so deeply that she was forced to pause in her search to consider how those who have loved much are forgiven. but at this moment mrs. ede entered. 'oh, kate, what are you doing?' although the question was asked in an intonation of voice affecting to be one of astonishment only, there was nevertheless in it an accent of reproof that was especially irritating to kate in her present mood. a deaf anger against her mother-in-law's interference oppressed her, but getting the better of it, she said quietly, though somewhat sullenly: 'you always want to know what i'm doing! i declare, one can't turn round but you're after me, just like a shadow.' 'what you say is unjust, kate,' replied the old woman warmly. 'i'm sure i never pry after you.' 'well, anyhow, there it is: i'm looking out for a book to read in the evenings, if you want to know.' 'i thought you'd given up reading those vain and sinful books; they can't do you any good.' 'what harm can they do me?' 'they turn your thoughts from christ. i've looked into them to see that i may not be speaking wrongly, and i've found them nothing but vain accounts of the world and its worldliness. i didn't read far, but what i saw was a lot of excusing of women who couldn't love their husbands, and much sighing after riches and pleasure. i thanked god you'd given over such things. i believed your heart was turned towards him. now it grieves me bitterly to see i was mistaken.' 'i don't know what you mean. ralph never said that there was any harm in my reading tales.' 'ah! ralph, i'm afraid, has never set a good example. i wouldn't blame him, for he's my own son, but i'd wish to see him not prizing so highly the things of the world.' 'we must live, though,' kate answered, without quite understanding what she said. 'live--of course we have to live; but it depends how we live and what we live for--whether it be to indulge the desires of the flesh, the desire of the eye, or to regain the image of god, to have the design of god again planted in our souls. this is what we should live for, and it is only thus that we shall find true happiness.' though these were memories of phrases heard in the pulpit, they were uttered by mrs. ede with a fervour, with a candour of belief, that took from them any appearance of artificiality; and kate did not notice that her mother-in-law was using words that were not habitual to her. 'but what do you want me to do?' said kate, who began to feel frightened. 'to go to christ, to love him. he is all we have to help us, and they who love him truly are guided as to how to live righteously. whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, it springs from or leads to the love of god and man.' these words stirred kate to her very entrails; a sudden gush of feeling brought the tears to her eyes, and she was on the point of throwing herself into mrs. ede's arms. the temptation to have a good cry was almost irresistible, and the burden of her pent-up emotions was more than she could bear. but communing the while rapidly within herself, she hesitated, until an unexpected turn of thought harshly put it before her that she was being made a fool of--that she had a perfect right to look through her books and poetry, and that hender's sneers were no more than she deserved for allowing a mother-in-law to bully her. then the tears of sorrow became those of anger, and striving to speak as rudely as she could, she said: 'i don't talk about christ as much as you, but he judges us by our hearts and not by our words. you would do well to humble yourself before you come to preach to others.' 'dear kate, it's because i see you interested in things that have no concern with god's love that i speak to you so. a man who never knows a thought of god has been staying here, and i fear he has led you----' at these words kate threw the last papers into the trunk, pushed it away, and turned round fiercely. 'led me into what? what do you mean? mr. lennox was here because ralph wished him to be here. i think that you should know better than to say such things. i don't deserve it.' on this kate left the room, her face clouded and trembling with a passion that she did not quite feel. to just an appreciable extent she was conscious that it suited her convenience to quarrel with her mother-in-law. she was tired of the life she was leading; her whole heart was in her novels and poetry; and, determined to take in the _london reader_ or _journal_, she called back to mrs. ede that she was going to consult ralph on the matter. he was in capital spirits. the affairs in the shop were going on more satisfactorily than usual, a fact which he did not fail to attribute to his superior commercial talents. 'a business like theirs went to the bad,' he declared, 'when there wasn't a man to look after it. women liked being attended to by one of the other sex,' and beaming with artificial smiles, the little man measured out yards of ribbon, and suggested 'that they had a very superior thing in the way of petticoats just come from manchester.' his health was also much improved, so much so that his asthmatic attack seemed to have done him good. a little colour flushed his cheeks around the edges of the thick beard. in the evenings after supper, when the shop was closed, an hour before they went up to prayers, he would talk of the sales he had made during the day, and speak authoritatively of the possibilities of enlarging the business. his ambition was to find someone in london who would forward them the latest fashions; somebody who would be clever enough to pick out and send them some stylish but simple dress that kate could copy. he would work the advertisements, and if the articles were well set in the window he would answer for the rest. the great difficulty was, of course, the question of frontage, and mr. ede's face grew grave as he thought of his little windows. 'nothing,' he said, 'can be done without plate-glass; five hundred pounds would buy out the fruit-seller, and throw the whole place into one'; and kate, interested in all that was imaginative, would raise her eyes from the pages of her book and ask if there was no possibility of realizing this grand future. she was reading a novel full of the most singular and exciting scenes. in it she discovered a character who reminded her of her husband, a courtier at the court of louis xiv., who said sharp things, and often made himself disagreeable, but there was something behind that pleased, and under the influence of this fancy she began to find new qualities in ralph, the existence of which she had not before suspected. sometimes the thought struck her that if he had been always like what he was now she would have loved him better, and listening to a dispute which had arisen between him and his mother regarding the purchase of the fruiterer's premises, her smile deepened, and then, the humour of the likeness continuing to tickle her, she burst out laughing. 'what are you laughing at, kate?' said her husband, looking admiringly at her pretty face. mrs. ede sternly continued her knitting, but ralph seemed so pleased, and begged so good-naturedly to be told what the matter was, that the temptation to do so grew irresistible. 'you won't be angry if i tell you?' 'angry, no. why should i be angry?' 'you promise?' 'yes, i promise,' replied ralph, extremely curious. 'well then, there is a cha-cha-rac-ter so--so like----' 'oh, if you want to tell me, don't laugh like that. i can't hear a word you're saying.' 'oh it is so--so--so like----' 'yes, but do stop laughing and tell me.' at last kate had to stop laughing for want of breath, and she said, her voice still trembling: 'well, there's a fellow in this book--you promise not to be angry?' 'oh yes, i promise.' 'well, then, there's someone in this book that does remind me so much--of you--that is to say, when you're cross, not as you are now.' at this announcement mrs. ede looked up in astonishment, and she seemed as hurt as if kate had slapped her in the face, whereas ralph's face lighted up, his smile revealing through the heavy moustache the gap between his front teeth which had been filled with some white substance. kate always noticed it with aversion, but ralph, who was not susceptible to feminine revulsions of feelings, begged her to read the passage, and with an eagerness that surprised his mother. without giving it a second thought she began, but she had not read half a dozen words before mrs. ede had gathered up her knitting and was preparing to leave the room. 'oh, mother, don't go! i assure you there's no harm.' 'leave her alone. i'm sick of all this nonsense about religion. i should like to know what harm we're doing,' said ralph. kate made a movement to rise, but he laid his hand upon her arm, and a moment after mrs. ede was gone. 'oh, do let me go and fetch her,' exclaimed kate. 'i shouldn't--i know i shouldn't read these books. it pains her so much to see me wasting my time. she must be right.' 'there's no right about it; she'd bully us all if she had her way. do be quiet, kate! do as i tell you, and let's hear the story.' relinquishing another half-hearted expostulation which rose to her lips, kate commenced to read. ralph was enchanted, and, deliciously tickled at the idea that he was like someone in print, he chuckled under his breath. soon they came to the part that had struck kate as being so particularly appropriate to her husband. it concerned a scene between this ascetic courtier and a handsome, middle-aged widow who frequently gave him to understand that her feelings regarding him were of the tenderest kind; but on every occasion he pretended to misunderstand her. the humour of the whole thing consisted in the innocence of the lady, who fancied she had not explained herself sufficiently; and harassed with this idea, she pursued the courtier from the court hall into the illuminated gardens, and there told him, and in language that admitted of no doubt, that she wished to marry him. the courtier was indignant, and answered her so tartly that kate, even in reading it over a second time, could not refrain from fits of laughter. 'it is--is so--s-o like what you w-wo-uld say if a wo-wo-man were to fol-low you,' she said, with the tears rolling down her cheeks. 'is it really?' asked ralph, joining in the laugh, although in a way that did not seem to be very genuine. the fact was that he felt just a little piqued at being thought so indifferent to the charms of the other sex, and looked at his wife for a moment or two in a curious sort of way, trying to think how he should express himself. at last he said: 'i'm sure that if it was my own kate who was there i shouldn't answer so crossly.' kate ceased laughing, and looked up at him so suddenly that she increased his embarrassment; but the remembrance that he was after all only speaking to his wife soon came to his aid, and confidentially he sat down beside her on the sofa. her first impulse was to draw away from him--it was so long since he had spoken to her thus. 'could you never love me again if i were very kind to you?' 'of course i love you, ralph.' 'it wasn't my fault if i was ill--one doesn't feel inclined to love anyone in illness. give me a kiss, dear.' a recollection of how she had kissed dick flashed across her mind, but in an instant it was gone; and bending her head, she laid her lips to her husband's. it in no way disgusted her to do so; she was glad of the occasion, and was only surprised at the dull and obtuse anxiety she experienced. they then spoke of indifferent things, but the flow of conversation was often interrupted by complimentary phrases. while ralph discoursed on his mother's nonsense in always dragging religion into everything, kate congratulated him on looking so much better; and, as she told him of the work she would have to get through at all costs before friday, he either squeezed her hand or said that her hair was getting thicker, longer, and more beautiful than ever. * * * * * next morning kate received a letter from dick, saying he was coming to hanley on his return visit, and hoped that he would be able to have his old rooms. ix she would have liked to talk to hender first, but hender would not arrive for another hour, and nothing had ever seemed to her so important as that dick should lodge with them. it was therefore with bated breath that she waited for ralph to speak. they could not hope, he said, to find a nicer lodger; the little he had seen of him made him desirous of renewing the acquaintance, and he continued all through breakfast to eulogize mr. lennox. his mother, whose opinions were attacked, sat munching her bread and butter with indifference. but it was not permitted to anyone to be indifferent to ralph's wishes, and, determined to resent the impertinence, he derisively asked his mother if she had any objections. 'you've a right to do what you like with your rooms; but i should like to know why you so particularly want this actor here. one would think he was a dear friend of yours to hear you talk. is it the ten shillings a week he pays for his room and the few pence you make out of his breakfast you're hankering after?' 'of course i want to keep my rooms let. perhaps you might like to have them yourself; you could have all the clergymen in the town to see you once a week, and a very nice tea-party you'd make in the sitting-room.' nor was this all; he continued to badger his mother with the bitterest taunts he could select. quite calmly kate watched him work himself into a passion, until he declared that he had other reasons more important than the ten shillings a week for wishing to have mr. lennox staying in the house. this statement caused kate just a pang of uneasiness, and she begged for an explanation. partly to reward her for having backed him up in the discussion, and through a wish to parade his own far-seeing views, he declared that mr. lennox might be of great use to them in their little business if he were so inclined. kate could not repress a look of triumph; she knew now that nothing would keep him from having dick in the house. 'shall i write to him to-day, then, and say that we can let him have the rooms from next monday?' 'of course,' ralph replied, and kate went upstairs with hender, who had just come in. the little girls were told to move aside; there was a lot of cutting to be done; this was said preparatory to telling them a little later on that they were too much in the way, and would have to go down and work in the front kitchen under the superintendence of mrs. ede. hender was at the machine, but kate, who had a dressing-gown on order, unrolled the blue silk and fidgeted round the table as if she had not enough room for laying out her pattern-sheets. hender noticed these manoeuvres with some surprise, and when kate said, 'now, my dear children, i'm afraid you're very much in my way; you'd better go downstairs,' she looked up with the expression of one who expects to be told a secret. this manifest certitude that something was coming troubled kate, and she thought it would be better after all to say nothing about mr. lennox, but again changing her mind, she said, assuming an air of indifference: 'mr. lennox will be here on monday. i've just got a letter from him.' 'oh, i'm so glad; for perhaps this time it will be possible to have one spree on the strict q.t.' kate was thinking of exactly the same thing, but miss hender's crude expression took the desire out of her heart, and she remained silent. 'i'm sure it's for you he's coming,' said the assistant. 'i know he likes you; i could see it in his eyes. you can always see if a man likes you by his eyes.' although it afforded kate a great deal of pleasure to think that dick liked her, it was irritating to hear his feelings for her discussed; she could not forget she was a married woman, and she began to regret that she ever mentioned the subject at all, when miss hender said: 'but what's the use of his coming if you can't get out? a man always expects a girl to be able to go out with him. the "hag" is sure to be about, and even if you did manage to give her the slip, there's your husband. lord! i hadn't thought of that before. what damned luck! don't you wish he'd get ill again? another fit of asthma would suit us down to the ground.' the blood rushed to kate's face, and snapping nervously with the scissors in the air, she said: 'i don't know how you can bring yourself to speak in that way. how can you think that i would have my husband ill so that i might go to the theatre with mr. lennox? what do you fancy there is between us that makes you say such a thing as that?' 'oh, i really don't know,' miss hender answered with a toss of her head; 'if you're going to be hoighty-toighty i've done.' kate thought it very provoking that hender could never speak except coarsely, and it would have given her satisfaction to have said something sharp, but she had let hender into a good many of her secrets, and it would be most inconvenient to have her turn round on her. not, indeed, that she supposed she'd be wicked enough to do anything of the kind, but still---- and influenced by these considerations, kate determined not to quarrel with hender, but to avoid speaking to her of dick. even with her own people she maintained an attitude of shy reserve until dick arrived, declining on all occasions to discuss the subject, whether with her husband or mother-in-law. 'i don't care whether he comes or not; decide your quarrels as you like, i've had enough of them,' was her invariable answer. this air of indifference ended by annoying ralph, but she was willing to do that if it saved her from being forced into expressing an opinion--that was the great point; for with a woman's instinct she had already divined that she would not be left out of the events of the coming week. but there was still another reason. she was a little ashamed of her own treachery. otherwise her conscience did not trouble her; it was crushed beneath a weight of desire and expectancy, and for three or four days she moved about the house in a dream. when she met her husband on the stairs and he joked her about the roses in her cheeks, she smiled curiously, and begged him to let her pass. in the workroom she was happy, for the mechanical action of sewing allowed her to follow the train of her dreams, and drew the attention of those present away from her. she had tried her novels, but now the most exciting failed to fix her thoughts. the page swam before her eyes, a confusion of white and black dots, the book would fall upon her lap in a few minutes, and she would relapse again into thinking of what dick would say to her, and of the hours that still separated them. on sunday, without knowing why, she insisted on attending all the services. ralph in no way cared for this excessive devotion, and he proposed to take her for a walk in the afternoon, but she preferred to accompany mrs. ede to church. it loosened the tension of her thoughts to raise her voice in the hymns, and the old woman's gabble was pleasant to listen to on their way home--a sort of meaningless murmur in her ears while she was thinking of dick, whom she might meet on the doorstep. it was, however, his portmanteau that they caught sight of in the passage when they opened the door. ralph had taken it in; lennox said that he had a lot of business to do with the acting manager, and would not return before they went up to prayers. still kate did not lose hope, and on the off chance that he might feel tired after his journey, and come home earlier than he expected, she endeavoured to prolong the conversation after supper. by turns she spoke to mrs. ede of the sermons of the day, and to ralph of the possibilities of enlarging the shop-front. but when she was forced to hear how the actor was to send them the new fashions from london, the old lady grew restive, as did ralph when the conversation turned on the relative merits of the morning and afternoon sermon. it was the old story of the goat and the cabbage--each is uneasy in the other's company; and even before the usual time mother and son agreed that it would be better to say prayers and get to bed. kate would have given anything to see dick that night, and she lay awake for hours listening for the sound of the well-known heavy footstep. at last it came, tramp, tramp, a dull, heavy, noisy flapping through the silence of the house. she trembled, fearing that he would mistake the door and come into their room; if he did, she felt she would die of shame. the footsteps approached nearer, nearer; her husband was snoring loudly, and, casting a glance at him, she wondered if she should have time to push the bolt to. but immediately after, dick stumbled up the stairs into his room, and, hugging the thought that he was again under her roof, she fell to dreaming of their meeting in the morning, wondering if it would befall her to meet him on the stairs or in the shop face to face, or if she would catch sight of him darting out of the door hurrying to keep an appointment which he had already missed. mrs. ede usually took in the lodger's hot water, it not being considered quite right for kate to go into a gentleman's room when he was in bed. but the next morning mrs. ede was out and ralph was asleep, so there was nothing for it but to fill the jug. dick heard the door open, but didn't trouble to look round, thinking it was mrs. ede, and kate glided to the washhandstand and put down the jug in the basin. but the clink of the delf caused him to look round. 'oh, is that you, kate?' he said, brushing aside with a wave of his bare arm his frizzly hair. 'i didn't expect to see so pretty a sight first thing in the morning. and how have you been?' 'i'm very well, thank you, sir,' kate replied, retreating. 'well, i don't see why you should run away like that. what have i done to offend you? you know,' he said, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, 'i didn't write to you about the poetry you sent me (at least, i suppose it was from you, it had the hanley post-mark; if it wasn't, i'll burn it), because i was afraid that your old mother or your husband might get hold of my letter.' 'i must go away now, sir; your hot water is there,' she said, looking towards the door, which was ajar. 'but tell me, wasn't it you who sent me the verses? i have them here, and i brought you a little something--i won't tell you what--in return.' 'i can't talk to you now,' said kate, casting on him one swift glance of mingled admiration and love. although somewhat inclined to corpulence, he was a fine man, and looked a tower of strength as he lay tossed back on the pillows, his big arms and thick brown throat bare. a flush rose to her cheeks when he said that he had brought her a little something; all the same, it was impossible to stop talking to him now, and hoping to make him understand her position, raising her voice, she said: 'and what can i get you for breakfast, sir? would you like an omelette?' 'oh, i shan't be able to wait for breakfast; i have to be up at our acting manager's by nine o'clock. what time is it now?' 'i think it's just going the half-hour, sir.' 'oh, then, i've lots of time yet,' replied dick, settling himself in a way that relieved kate of all apprehension that he was going to spring out before her on the floor. 'then shall i get you breakfast, sir?' 'no, thanks, i shan't have time for that; i shall have something to eat up at hayes'. but tell me, is there anyone listening?' he said, lowering his voice again. 'i want to speak to you now particularly, for i'm afraid i shall be out all day.' afraid that her husband might overhear her, kate made a sign in the negative, and whispered, 'tomorrow at breakfast.' although the thought that he had a present for her delighted her all day, kate was not satisfied; for there had been something pretty, something coquettish associated in her mind with carrying in his breakfast tray (doubtless a remembrance of the ribbon-bedecked chambermaids she had read of in novels), which was absent in the more menial office of taking in his hot water. besides, had he not told her that he was going to be out all day? monday, tuesday, and wednesday she had dotted over with little plans; thursday and friday she knew nothing of. saturday? well, there was just a possibility that he might kiss her before going away. she felt irritated with herself for this thought, but could not rid herself of it; a bitter sense of voluptuousness burnt at the bottom of her heart, and she railed against life sullenly. she had missed him on sunday; monday had ended as abruptly as an empty nut, and hender's questions vexed and wearied her; she despaired of being able to go to the theatre. nothing seemed to be going right. even the little gold earrings which dick took out of a velvet case and wanted to put into her ears only added a bitterer drop to her cup. all she could do was to hide them away where no one could find them. it tortured her to have to tell him that she could not wear them, and the kiss that he would ask for, and she could not refuse, seemed only a mockery. he was going away on sunday, and this time she did not know when he would return. in addition to all these disappointments, she found herself obliged to go for a long walk on tuesday afternoon to see a lady who had written to her about a dress. she did not get home until after six, and then it was only to learn that mr. lennox had been about the house all day, idling and talking to ralph in the shop, and that they had gone off to the theatre together. mrs. ede was more than indignant, and when the little man was brought home at night, speaking painfully in little short gasps, she declared that it was a judgment upon him. next day he was unable to leave his room. when dick was told what had happened he manifested much concern, and insisted on seeing the patient. indeed, the sympathy he showed was so marked that kate at first was tempted to doubt its sincerity. but she was wrong. dick was truly sorry for poor ralph, and he sat a long time with him, thinking what could be done to relieve him. he laid all the blame at his own door. he ought never to have kept a person liable to such a disease out so late at night. there was a particular chair in which ralph always sat when he was affected with his asthma. it had a rail on which he could place his feet, and thus lift one knee almost on to a level with his chest; and in this position, his head on his hand, he would remain for hours groaning and wheezing. dick watched him with an expression of genuine sorrow on his big face; and it was so clear that he regretted what he had done that for a moment even mrs. ede's heart softened towards him. but the thaw was only momentary; she froze again into stone when he remarked that it was a pity that mr. ede was ill, for they were going to play _madame angot_ on thursday night, and he would like them all to come. the invitation flattered ralph's vanity, and, resolved not to be behindhand in civility, he declared between his gasps that no one should be disappointed on his account; he would feel highly complimented by mr. lennox's taking mrs. ede to the play; and on the spot it was arranged that kate and miss hender should go together on thursday night to see _madame angot_. kate murmured that she would be very pleased, and alluding to some work which had to be finished, she returned to the workroom to tell hender the news. 'that's the best bit of news i've heard in this house for some time,' hender said. kate felt she could not endure another disappointment. all that was required of her now was to assume an air of indifference, and take care not to betray herself to mrs. ede, whom she suspected of watching her. but her excitement rendered her nervous, and she found the calm exterior she was so desirous of imposing on herself difficult to maintain. the uncertainty of her husband's temper terrified her. it was liable at any moment to change, and on the night in question he might order her not to leave the house. if so, she asked herself if she would have the courage to disobey him. the answer slipped from her: it was impossible for her to fix her attention on anything; and although she had a press of work on her hands, she availed herself of every occasion to escape to the kitchen, where she might talk to lizzie and annie about the play, and explain to them the meaning of the poster, that she now understood thoroughly. their childish looks and questions soothed the emotions that were burning within her. thursday morning especially seemed interminable, but at last the long-watched clock on their staircase struck the wished-for hour, and still settling their bonnet-strings, kate and hender strolled in the direction of the theatre. the evening was dry and clear, and over an embrasure of the hills beyond stoke the sun was setting in a red and yellow mist. the streets were full of people; and where piccadilly opens into the market-place, groups and couples of factory girls were eagerly talking, some stretching forward in a pose that showed the nape of the neck and an ear; others, graver of face, walking straight as reeds with their hands on their hips, the palms flat, and the fingers half encircling the narrow waists. 'you must be glad to get out.' hender said. 'to be cooped up in the way you are! i couldn't stand it.' 'well, you see, i can enjoy myself all the more when i do get out.' kate would have liked to answer more tartly, but on second thoughts she decided it was not worth while. it bored her to be reminded of the humdrum life she led, and she had come to feel ashamed that she had been to the theatre only twice in her life, especially when it was mentioned in dick's presence. 'we're too soon,' said hender, breaking in jauntily on kate's reflections; 'the doors aren't open yet.' 'i can see that.' 'but what are you so cross about?' asked hender, who was not aware of what was passing in her employer's mind. 'i'm not cross. but how long shall we have to wait? mr. lennox said he'd meet us here, didn't he?' 'oh, he can't be long now, for here comes wentworth with the keys to open the doors.' the street they were in branched to the right and left rectangularly; opposite were large flat walls, red in colour, and roofed like a barn, and before one black doorway some fifty or sixty people had collected. the manager pushed his way through the crowd, and soon after, like a snake into a hole, the line began to disappear. hender explained that this was the way to the pit, and what kate took for a cellar was the stage entrance. a young man with a big nose, whom she recognized as mr. montgomery, stared at them as he passed; then came two ladies--miss leslie and miss beaumont. dick did not appear for some time after, but at last the big hat was seen coming along. although, as usual, in a great hurry, he was apparently much pleased to see them, and he offered kate his arm and conducted her across the street into the theatre. 'you're a bit early, you know. the curtain doesn't go up for half an hour yet,' he said, as they ascended a high flight of steps, at the top of which sat a woman with tickets in her hand. 'we were afraid of being too late.' 'it was very good of you to come. i hope you'll have a pleasant evening; it would be quite a treat to act when you were in the house.' 'but aren't you going to act, sir?' 'you mustn't call me sir; everybody calls me dick, and i don't know anyone who has a better right to do so than you.' 'but aren't you going to act, di--? i can't say it.' 'i don't call it acting. i come on in the first act. i just do that to save the salary, for you know i have an interest in the tour.' kate had no idea as to what was meant by having 'an interest in the tour,' and she did not ask, fearing to waste her present happiness in questions. her attention was so concentrated on the big man by her side that she scarcely knew she was in a theatre, and had as yet perceived neither the star-light nor the drop-curtain. dick spoke to her of herself and of himself, but he said nothing that recalled any of the realities of her life, and when he suddenly lifted his hand from hers and whispered, 'here comes miss hender: we mustn't appear too intimate before her,' she experienced the sensation of one awaking out of a most delicious dream. hender cast a last retort at the two men with whom she was chaffing, and, descending through the chairs, said: 'mr. lennox, you're wanted behind.' dick promised to see them again when the act was over, and hastened away, and hender, settling herself in her chair, looked at kate in a way which said as distinctly as words, 'well, my young woman, you do go it when you're out on the loose.' but she refrained from putting her thoughts into words, possibly because she feared to turn her mistress from what she considered, too obviously, indeed, to be the right path. they were sitting in the middle division of a gallery divided into three parts, where the twilight was broken by the yellow-painted backs of the chairs, and where a series of mirrors, framed in black wood, decorated the walls, reflecting monotonously different small corners of the house. only a dozen or fifteen people had as yet come in, and they moved about like melancholy shades; or, when sitting still, seemed like ink-spots on a dark background. the two women looked down into the great pit, through which the crowd was rolling in one direction, a sort of human tide, a vague tumult in which little was distinguishable; a bald head or a bunch of yellow flowers in a woman's bonnet flashed through the darkness for an instant like the crest of a wave. a dozen pale jets of a miserable iron gas-fitting hanging out of the shadows of the roof struggled in the gloom, leaving the outlines of the muses above the proscenium as undefinable as the silhouettes of the shopkeepers in the pit. over against the shopkeepers was the drop-curtain, the centre of which contained a romantic picture intended to prepare the spectators for the play soon to begin. kate admired the lake, and during the long interval it seemed to her bluer and more beautiful than any she had ever seen. along the shores there were boats with sailors hoisting sails, and she began to wonder what was the destination of these boats, if the sailors were leaving their sweethearts or setting forth to regain them. it seemed to kate that the play was never going to begin, so long had she been kept waiting. she did not consult hender, but possessed her soul in patience till a thin young man came up from under the stage, pushing his glasses higher on his beak-like nose. he took his place on the high stool; he squared his shoulders; looked around; waved his stick. the sparkling marriage chorus, with the fanciful peasants and the still more fanciful bridegroom in silk, the bright appearance of clairette at the window, and the sympathy awakened by her love for the devil-may-care revolutionary poet seduced kate like a sensual dream; and in all she saw and felt there was a mingled sense of nearness and remoteness, an extraordinary concentration, and an absence of her own proper individuality. never had she heard such music. how suave it was compared with the austere and regular rhythm of the hymns she sang in church! the gay tripping measure of the market-woman's song filled her with visions and laughter. there was an accent of insincerity in the serenade that troubled her as a sudden cloud might the dreams of the most indolent of _lazzaroni_, but the beseeching passion of the duet revealed to her sympathies for parting lovers that even her favourite poetry had been unable to do. all her musical sensibilities rushed to her head like wine; it was only by a violent effort, full of acute pain, that she saved herself from raising her voice with those of the singers, and dreading a giddiness that might precipitate her into the pit, she remained staring blindly at the stage. her happiness would have been complete, if such violent emotions can be called happiness, had it not been for hender. this young person, actuated probably by a desire of displaying her knowledge, could not be prevented from talking. as each actor or actress entered she explained their position in the company, and all she knew of their habits in private life. mr. mortimer's dispute the other night with bill, the scene-shifter, necessitated quite a little tirade against drunkenness, and as it was necessary to tell of what had been said in the ladies' dressing-room, a description of miss beaumont's underclothing was introduced; it was very elegant--silk stockings and lace-trimmed chemises; whereas miss leslie's was declared to be much plainer. once or twice hender was asked to keep quiet, but kate did not much mind. the thunder of applause which rose from a pit filled with noisy factory boys and girls was accepted in good faith, and it floated through her mind, elevating and exciting her emotions as the roar of the breakers on the shore does the dreams of a dreamer. but the star she was expecting had not yet appeared. she had seen miss leslie, miss beaumont, joe mortimer, and frank bret, and numberless other people, who had appeared in all sorts of dresses and had sung all kinds of enchanting songs, but dick was nowhere to be found. she had searched vainly for him in the maze of colour that was being flashed before her eyes. would he appear as a king, a monk, a shepherd, or would he wear a cocked hat? she did not know, and was too bewildered to think. she had a dim notion that he would do something wonderful, set everything to rights, that they would all bow down before him when he entered, and she watched every motion of the crowd, expecting it every moment to make way for him. but he did not appear, and at last they all went away singing. her heart sank within her, but just when she had begun to lose hope, two men rushed across the stage and commenced to spy about and make plans. at first kate did not recognize her lover, so completely was he disguised, but soon the dreadful truth commenced to dawn upon her. oh, misery! oh, horror! how could this be? and she closed her eyes to shut out her dreadful disappointment. why had he done this thing? she had expected a king, and had found a policeman. 'there he is, there he is!' whispered hender. 'don't you see, 'tis he who does the policeman? a french policeman! he drags the bride away at the end of the act, you know.' poor kate felt very unhappy indeed. her fanciful house of cards had fallen down and crushed her under the ruins. she felt she could no longer take an interest in anything. the rest of the act was torture to her. what pleasure could it be to her to see her lover, looking hideous, drag a bride away from her intended? kate wished that her lover had not chosen to act such a part, and she felt, dimly, perhaps, but intensely, that it was incongruous of him to exhibit himself to her as a policeman who at the end of the act dragged the bride away from her intended. and she could not understand why he should have chosen, if he loved her, to dress himself in such very unbecoming clothes. she thought she would like to run out of the theatre, but that was impossible. but when dick came to her at the fall of the curtain and sat down by her side she forgot all about the foreign policeman; he was dick again. 'how did you like the piece, dear?' 'very much.' it was on her tongue to ask him why he had chosen to play the policeman, but all that was over; why should she trouble him with questions? yet the question in her mind betrayed itself, for, laying his hand affectionately on hers, he said that he felt that something had happened. hender, who had seen dick take kate's hand, thought that this was a moment for her to escape, but kate begged of her to stay. hender, however, feeling that her absence would be preferable to her company, mentioned that she must go; she had to speak to the manager on some business which she had forgotten till now. 'why did you want her to stay?' said dick, 'don't you like being alone with me?' kate answered him with a look, wondering all the while what could have induced him to play the part of that ugly policeman. 'i'm sure you didn't like the piece,' he continued, 'and yet i must say from behind it seemed to go very well; but then, there are so many things you miss from the wings.' kate understood nothing of what he said, but seeing that he was terribly sincere, and fearing to pain him, she hastened to give the piece her unqualified approbation. 'i assure you i couldn't have liked anything more--the music was so pretty.' 'and how did you think i looked? it's only a small part, you know, but at the same time it requires to be played. if there isn't some go put into it the finale all goes to pot.' now kate felt sure he was quizzing her, and at length she said, the desire to speak her mind triumphing over her shyness, 'but why did you make yourself look like that? it wasn't a nice part, was it?' 'it's only a trumpery bit of a thing, but it is better for me to take it than have another salary on the list. in the next act, you know, i come on as the captain of the guard.' 'and will that be nice?' kate asked, her face flushing at the idea of seeing her lover in a red coat. 'oh yes, it looks well enough, but it isn't an acting part. i'm only on for a few minutes. i'm only supposed to come on in search of the conspirators. i take a turn or two of the waltz with miss beaumont, who plays lange, and it's all over. have you ever heard the waltz?' kate never had; so, drawing her close to him, he sang the soft flowing melody in her ear. in her nervousness she squeezed his hand passionately, and this encouraged him to say, 'how i wish it were you that i had to dance with! how nice it would be to hold you in my arms! would you like to be in my arms?' kate looked at him appealingly; but nothing more was said, and soon after dick remembered he had to get the stage ready for the second act. as he hurried away, hender appeared. she had been round to the 'pub.' to have a drink with bill, and had been behind talking to her ladies, who, as she said, 'were all full of dick's new mash.' 'they've seen you, and are as jealous as a lot of cats.' 'it's very wicked of them to say there's anything between mr. lennox and me,' replied kate angrily. 'i suppose they think everybody is like themselves--a lot of actresses!' hender made no answer, but she turned up her nose at what she considered to be damned insulting to the profession. however, in a few minutes her indignation evaporated, and she called kate's attention to what a splendid house it was. 'i can tell you what; with a shilling pit, a sixpenny gallery, and the centre and side circles pretty well full, it soon runs up. there must be nigh on seventy pounds in--and that for thursday night!' they were now well on in the second act. the brilliancy of the 'choeur des merveilleuses,' the pleading pity of 'she is such a simple little thing,' the quaint drollery of the conspirators, made kate forget the aspersions cast on clairette's character. the light music foamed in her head like champagne, and in a whirling sense of intoxication a vision of dick in a red coat passed and repassed before her. for this she had to wait a long time, but at last the sounds of trumpets were heard, and those on the stage cried that the soldiers were coming. kate's heart throbbed, a mist swam before her eyes, and immediately after came a sense of bright calm; for, in all the splendour of uniform, dick entered, big and stately, at the head of a regiment of girls in red tights. the close-fitting jacket had reduced his size, the top-boots gave a dignity to his legs. he was doubtless a fine man; to kate he was more than divine. then the sweet undulating tune he had sung in her ears began, and casting a glance of explanation in the direction of the gallery, he put his arm round miss beaumont's waist. the action caused kate a heart-pang, but the strangeness of the scene she was witnessing distracted her thoughts. for immediately the other actors and actresses in their startling dresses selected partners, and the stage seemed transformed into a wonderful garden of colour swinging to the music of a fountain that, under the inspiration of the moonlight, broke from its monotonous chant into rhythmical variations. dick, like a great tulip in his red uniform, turned in the middle, and miss beaumont, in her long yellow dress, sprawled upon him. her dress was open at both sides, and each time she passed in front, kate, filled with disgust, strove not to see the thick pink legs, which were visible to the knees. miss leslie in her bride's dress bloomed a lily white, as she danced with a man whose red calves and thighs seemed prolonged into his very chest. la rivodière cast despairing glances at lange, poor pomponet strove to get to his bride, and all the blonde wigs and black collars of the conspirators were mixed amid the strange poke bonnets of the ladies, and the long swallow-tailed coats, reaching almost to the ground, flapped in and out of the legs of the female soldiers. kate smiled feebly and drank in the music of the waltz. it was played over again; like a caged canary's song it haunted clairette's orange-blossoms; like the voluptuous thrill of a nightingale singing in a rose-garden it flowed about lange's heavy draperies and glistening bosom; like the varied chant of the mocking bird it came from under ange pitou's cocked hat. it was sung separately and in unison, and winding and unwinding itself, it penetrated into the deepest recesses of kate's mind. it seduced like a deep slow perfume; it caressed with the long undulations of a beautiful snake and the mystery of a graceful cat; it whispered of fair pleasure places, where scent, music, and love are one, where lovers never grow weary, and where kisses endure for ever. she was conscious of deep self-contentment, of dreamy idleness, of sad languor, and the charm to which she abandoned herself resembled the enervations of a beautiful climate, the softness of a church; she yearned for her lover and the fanciful life of which he was the centre, as one might for some ideal fatherland. the current of the music carried her far away, far beyond the great hills into a land of sleep, dream, and haze, and a wonderful tenderness swam within her as loose and as dim as the green sea depths, that a wave never stirs. she struggled, but it was only as one in a dream strives to lift himself out of the power that holds; and when the conductor waved his stick for the last time, and the curtain came down amid deafening applause, irritated and enervated, she shrank from hender, as if anxious not to be wholly awakened. the third act passed she scarcely knew how. she was overborne and over-tempted; all her blood seemed to be in her head and heart, and from time to time she was shaken with quick shudderings. when dick came to see her she scarcely understood what he said to her, and it annoyed her not to be able to answer him. when the word 'love' was pronounced she smiled, but her smile was one of pain, and she could not rouse herself from a sort of sad ecstasy. gay as the tunes were, there was in every one a sort of inherent sadness which she felt but could not explain to dick, who began to think that she was disappointed in the piece. 'disappointed! oh no,' she said, and they stood for a long while staring at a large golden moon, lighting up the street like a bull's-eye. 'how nice it is to be here out of that hot stuffy theatre!' said dick, putting his arm round her. 'oh, do you think so? i could listen to that music for ever.' 'it is pretty, isn't it? i'm so glad you liked it. i told you the waltz was lovely.' 'lovely! i should think so. i shall never forget it.' she lost her habitual shyness in her enthusiasm, and sang the first bars with her face raised towards her lover's; then, gaining courage from his look of astonishment and pleasure, she gave all the modulations with her full voice. 'by jove! you've a deuced nice soprano, and a devilish good ear too. 'pon my soul, you sing that waltz as well as beaumont.' 'oh, dick, you mustn't laugh at me.' 'i swear i'm not laughing. sing it again; nobody's listening.' they were standing in the shade of a large warehouse; the line of slates making a crescent of the full moon, and amid the reverberating yards and brickways kate's voice sounded as penetrating and direct as a flute. the exquisite accuracy of her ear enabled her to give each note its just value. dick was astonished, and he said when she had finished: 'i really don't want to flatter you, but with a little teaching you would sing far better than beaumont. your ear is perfect; it's the production of the voice that wants looking to;' and he talked to her of the different tunes, listening to what she had to say, and encouraging her to recall the music she had heard. he would beg her to repeat a phrase after him; he taught her how to emphasize the rhythm, and was anxious that she should learn the legend of madame angot. 'now,' said dick, 'i'll sing the symphony, and we'll go through it with all the effects--one, two, three, four, ta ra ta ta ta ta ta.' but as kate attacked the first bar it was taken up by three or four male voices, the owners of which, judging by the sound, could not be more than forty or fifty yards away. 'here's montgomery, joe mortimer, and all that lot. i wouldn't be caught here with you for anything.' 'by going up this passage we can get home in two minutes.' 'can we? well, let's cut; but no, they're too close on us. do you go, dear; i'll remain and tell them it was a lady singing out of that window. here, take my latchkey. off you go.' without another word kate fled down the alley, and dick was left to explain whatever he pleased concerning the mythical lady whom he declared he had been serenading. when kate arrived home that night she lay awake for hours, tossing restlessly, her brain whirling with tunes and parts of tunes. the conspirators' chorus, the waltz song, the legend, and a dozen disconnected fragments of the opera all sang together in her ears, and in her insomnia she continued to take singing lessons from dick. she was certain that he loved her, and the enchantment of her belief murmured in her ears all night long; and when she met hender next morning, the desire to speak of dick burnt her like a great thirst, and it was not until hender left her to go to the theatre that she began to realize in all its direct brutality the fact that on the morrow she would have to bid him goodbye, perhaps for ever. her husband wheezed on the sofa, her mother-in-law read the bible, sitting bolt upright in the armchair, and the shaded lamp covered the table with light, and fearing she might be provoked into shrieks or some violent manifestation of temper, she went to bed as early as she could. but there her torments became still more intolerable. all sorts of ideas and hallucinations, magnified and distorted, filled her brain, rendered astonishingly clear by the effects of insomnia. she saw over again the murders she had read of in her novels, and her imagination supplied details the author had not dreamed of. the elopements, with all their paraphernalia of moonlight and roses, came back to her.... but if she were never to see him again--if it were her fate to lie beside her husband always, to the end of her life! she buried her head in the pillows in the hopes of shutting out the sound of his snores. at last she felt him moving, and a moment afterwards she heard him say, 'there's mr. lennox at the door; he can't get in. do go down and open it for him.' 'why don't you go yourself?' she answered, starting up into a sitting position. 'how am i to go? you don't want me to catch my death at the front door?' ralph replied angrily. kate did not answer, but quickly tying a petticoat about her, and wrapping herself in her dressing-gown, she went downstairs. it was quite dark, and she had to feel her way along the passage. but at last she found and pulled back the latch, and when the white gleam of moonlight entered she retreated timidly behind the door. 'i'm so sorry,' said dick, trying to see who the concealed figure was, 'but i forgot my latchkey.' 'it doesn't matter,' said kate. 'oh, it's you, dear. i've been trying to get home all day to see you, but couldn't. why didn't you come down to the theatre?' 'you know that i can't do as i like.' 'well, never mind; don't be cross; give me a kiss.' kate shrunk back, but dick took her in his arms. 'you were in bed, then?' he said, chuckling. 'yes, but you must let me go.' 'i should like never to let you go again.' 'but you're leaving to-morrow.' 'not unless you wish me to, dear.' kate did not stop to consider the impossibility of his fulfilling his promise, and, her heart beating, she went upstairs. on the first landing he stopped her, and laying his hand on her arm, said, 'and would you really be very glad if i were to stay with you?' 'you know i would, dick.' they could not see each other, and after a long silence she said, 'we mustn't stop here talking. mrs. ede sleeps, you know, in the room at the back of the workroom, and she might hear us.' 'then come into the sitting-room,' said dick, taking her hands and drawing her towards him. 'i cannot.' 'i love you better than anyone in the world.' 'no, no; why should you love me?' 'let us prove our love one to the other,' he murmured, and frightened, but at the same time delighted by the words, she allowed him to draw her into his room. 'my husband will miss me,' she said as the door closed, but she could think no more of him; he was forgotten in a sudden delirium of the senses; and for what seemed to him like half an hour ralph waited, asking himself what his wife could be doing all that time, thinking that perhaps it was not lennox after all, but some rambling vagrant who had knocked at the door, and that he had better go down and rescue his wife. he would have done so had he not been afraid of a sudden draught, and while wondering what was happening he dozed away, to be awakened a few minutes afterwards by voices on the landing. 'let me go, dick, let me go; my husband will miss me.' she passed away from him and entered her husband's room, and ralph said: 'well, who was it?' 'mr. lennox,' she answered. 'our lodger,' ralph murmured, and fell asleep again. x 'is this the stage entrance?' 'yes, ma'am; you see, during the performance the real stage-door is used as a pit entrance, and we pass under the stage.' this explanation was given after a swaggering attitude had been assumed, and a knowing wink, the countersign for 'now i'm going to do something for your amusement,' had been bestowed on his pals. the speaker, a rough man with a beard and a fez cap, became the prominent figure of a group loitering before a square hole with an earthward descent, cut in the wall of the hanley theatre. kate was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice that she was being laughed at, and she said instantly, 'i want to see mr. lennox; will you tell him i'm here?' 'mr. lennox is on the stage; unless yer on in the piece i don't see 'ow it's to be done.' at this rebuff kate looked round the grinning faces, but at that moment a rough-looking fellow of the same class as the speaker ascended from the cellar-like opening, and after nudging his 'pal,' touched his cap, and said with the politeness of one who had been tipped, 'this way, marm. mr. lennox is on the stage, but if you'll wait a minute i'll tell 'im yer 'ere. take care, marm, or yer'll slip; very arkerd place to get down, with all 'em baskets in the way. this company do travel with a deal of luggage. that's mr. lennox's--the one as yer 'and is on.' 'oh, indeed!' kate said, stopping on her way to read mr. lennox's name on the basket. 'we piles 'em 'gainst that 'ere door so as to 'ave 'em 'andy for sending down to the station ter-morrow morning. but if you will remain here a moment, marm, i'll run up on the stage and see if i can see 'im.' the mention made by the scene-shifter of the approaching removal of dick's basket frightened her, and she remembered that she had scarcely spoken to him since last night. he had been obliged to go out in the morning before breakfast; and though he had tried hard to meet her during the course of the day, fate seemed to be against them. she was in a large, low-roofed storeroom with an earthen floor. the wooden ceiling was supported by an endless number of upright posts that gave the place the appearance of a ship. at the farther end there were two stone staircases leading to opposite sides of the stage. in front of her were a drum and barrel, and the semi-darkness at the back was speckled over with the sparkling of the gilt tinsel stuff used in pantomimes; a pair of lattice-windows, a bundle of rapiers, a cradle and a breastplate, formed a group in the centre; a broken trombone lay at her feet. the odour of size that the scenery exhaled reminded her of ralph's room; and she wondered if the swords were real, what different uses the tinsel paper might be put to; until she would awake from her dream, asking herself bitterly why he did not come down to see her. in the pause that followed the question, she was startled by a prolonged shout from the chorus. the orchestra seemed to be going mad; the drum was thumped, the cymbals were clashed, and back and forward rushed the noisy feet, first one way, then the other; a soprano voice was heard for a moment clear and distinct, and was drowned immediately after in a general scream. what could it mean? had the place taken fire? kate asked herself wildly. 'the finale of the act 'as begun, marm; mr. lennox will be hoff the stage directly.' 'has nothing happened? is the--?' the scene-shifter's look of astonishment showed kate that she was mistaken, but before they had time to exchange many words, the trampling and singing overhead suddenly ceased, and the muffled sound of clapping and applause was heard in the distance. 'there's the act.' said bill; 'he'll be down now immediately; he'll take no call for the perliceman,' and a moment after a man attired in knee-breeches, with a huge cravat wound several times round his throat, came running down the stone staircase. 'oh, 'ere he is,' said bill. 'i'll leave yer now, marm.' 'and so you found your way, dear?' said dick, putting out his arm to draw kate towards him. but he looked so very strange with the great patches of coarse red on his cheeks, and the deep black lines drawn about his eyes, that she could not conceal her repulsion, and guessing the cause of her embarrassment, he said, laughing: 'ah! i see you don't know me! a good makeup, isn't it? i took a lot of trouble with it.' kate made no answer; but the sound of his voice soothed her, and she leaned upon his arm. 'give me a kiss, dear, before we go up,' he said coaxingly. kate looked at him curiously, and then, laughing at her own foolishness, said, 'wait until you have the soldier's dress on.' at the top of the staircase the piled-up side-scenes made so many ways and angles that kate had to keep close to dick for fear of getting lost. however, at last they arrived in the wings, where gaslights were burning blankly on the whitewashed walls. a crowd of loud-voiced, perspiring girls in short fancy petticoats and with bare necks and arms, pushed their way towards the mysterious and ladder-like staircases and scrambled up them. ange pitou had taken off his cocked hat and was sharing a pint of beer with clairette. it being her turn to drink, she said: 'noe, hold my skirts in, there's a dear; this beer plays the devil with white satin.' 'it isn't on your skirts it will go if you spill it,' ange replied, 'but into your bosom. stop a second, and i'll give the bottom of the pot a wipe, then you'll be all right.' in the meanwhile pomponet and la rivodière were engaged in a violent quarrel. 'just you understand,' shouted mortimer: 'if you want to do any clowning you'd better fill your wig with sawdust. it had better be stuffed with something.' this sally was received with smacks of approbation from a circle of supers, who were waiting in the hopes of hearing some spirited dialogue. 'clowning! and what can you do? i suppose your line is the legitimate. go and play don john again, and you'll read us the notices in the morning.' 'notices ... talking of notices, you never had one, except one to quit from your landlady, poor woman!' replied mortimer in his most nasal intonation of voice. enchanted at this witticism, the supers laughed, and poor dubois would have been utterly done for if dick had not interposed. 'what do you think, dear?' he said, drawing her aside; 'shall i go and make my change now? i don't come on till the end of the act, and we'll be able to talk without interruption till then.' she had expected him to explain the rights and wrongs of that terrible quarrel that so providentially had passed off without bloodshed, and he seemed to have forgotten all about it. 'but those two gentlemen--the actors--what will happen? are they going to go away?' 'lord, no! of course it is riling to have a fellow mugging behind you with his wig when you're speaking, but one must go in for a bit of extra clowning on saturday night.' all this was greek to her, and before she could ask dick to explain he had darted down a passage. when he was with her it was well enough, but the moment his protection was withdrawn all her old fears returned to her. she did not know where to stand. the scene-shifters had come to carry away the scenes that were piled up in her corner, and one of the huge slips had nearly fallen on her. a troop of girls in single coloured gowns and poke bonnets had stopped to stare at her. she remembered their appearance from thursday, but she had not seen their vulgar, everyday eyes, nor heard until now their coarse, everyday laughs and jokes. amid this group lange, fat and lumpy, perorated. 'the most beastly place i ever was in, my dear. i always dread the week here. just look round the house. i don't believe there's a man in front who has a quid in his pocket. now at liverpool there are lots of nice men. you should have seen the things i had sent me when i was there with harrington's company--and the bouquets! there were flowers left for me every day.' what all this meant kate did not know, and she did not care to guess. for a moment the strange world she found herself in had distracted her thoughts, but it could do so no longer; no, not if it were ten times as strange. what did she care for these actresses? what was it to her what they said or what they thought of her? she had come to look after her lover; that was her business, and that only. he was going away to-morrow, and they had arranged nothing! she did not know whether he was going to remain, or if he expected her to follow him. she hated the people around her; she hated them for their laughter, for their fine clothes; she hated them above all because they were all calling for him. it was mr. lennox here and dick there. what did they want with him? could they do nothing without him? it seemed to her that they were all mocking her, and she hated them for it. the stage was now full of women. the men stood in the wings or ran to the ends of distant passages and called, 'dick, dick, dick!' the orchestra had ceased playing, and the noise in front of the curtain was growing every moment angrier and louder. at last dick appeared, looking splendid in red tights and hessian boots. he caught hold of two or three girls, changed their places, peeped to see if montgomery was all right, and gave the signal to ring up. but once the curtain was raised, he was surrounded by half a dozen persons all wanting to speak to him. ridding himself of them he contrived to get to kate's side, but they had not exchanged half a dozen words before the proprietor asked if he could 'have a moment.' then hender turned up, and begged of kate to come and see the dressing-rooms, but fearing to miss him, she declared she preferred to stay where she was. nevertheless, it was difficult not to listen to her friend's explanations as to what was passing on the stage, and in one of these unguarded moments dick disappeared. it was heart-breaking, but she could do nothing but wait until he came back. like an iron, the idea that she was about to lose her lover forced itself deeper into her heart. the fate of her life was hanging in the balance, and the few words that were to decide it were being delayed time after time, by things of no importance. dick had now returned, and was talking with the gas-man, who wanted to know if the extra 'hand' he had engaged was to be paid by the company or the management. every now and again an actress or an actor would rush through the wings and stare at her; sometimes it was the whole chorus, headed by miss beaumont, whose rude remarks reached her ears frequently. she tried to retreat, but the rude eyes and words followed her. occasionally the voice of the prompter was heard: 'now then, ladies, silence if you please; i can't hear what's being said on the stage.' no one listened to him, and, like animals in a fair, they continued to crush and to crowd in the passage between the wings and the whitewashed wall. a tall, fat girl stood close by; her hand was on her sword, which she slapped slowly against her thighs. the odour of hair, cheap scent, necks, bosoms and arms was overpowering, and to kate's sense of modesty there was something revolting in this loud display of body. a bugle call was soon sounded in the orchestra, and this was the signal for much noise and bustle. the conspirators rushed off the stage, threw aside their cloaks, and immediately after the soft curling strains of the waltz were heard; then the bugle was sounded again, and the girls began to tramp. 'cue for soldiers' entrance,' shouted the prompter. 'now then, ladies, are you ready?' cried dick, as he put himself at the head of the army. 'yes,' was murmured all along the line, and seeing her hero marching away at the head of so many women, any one of whom he could have had for the asking, it crossed her mind that it was unnatural for him to stoop to her, a poor little dressmaker of hanley, who did not know anything except, perhaps, how to stitch the seams of a skirt. but after what had befallen her last night, it did not seem possible that her fate was to be left behind, stitching beside hender and the two little girls, annie and lizzie; stitching bodice after bodice, skirt after skirt, till the end of her days, remembering always something that had come into her life suddenly and had gone out of it suddenly. 'it cannot be,' she cried out to herself--'it cannot be!' and she remembered that he had said that her ear was true, and her voice as pure as leslie's. 'a little throaty,' he had said, 'but that can be improved.' what he meant by throaty she did not know, but no matter; and to convince herself that he had spoken truly she sang the refrain of the waltz till the gas-man pulled a rope and brought the curtain down. she was about to rush on the stage to speak to dick, but the gas-man stopped her. 'you must wait a moment, there's a call,' he said. up went the curtain; the house burst into loud applause. down went the curtain; up it went again. this time only the principals came on, and while they were bowing and smiling to the audience a great herd of females poured through the wings, and kate found herself again among courtesans, conspirators, seducers, and wandering minstrels. 'who is she?' they asked as they went by. and kate heard somebody answer, 'a spoon of dick's,' and unable to endure the coarse jeering faces, which the strange costumes seemed to accentuate, she took advantage of a sudden break in the ranks and ran through the wings towards the back of the stage. 'what's the matter, dear?' he said, drawing her to him. 'oh, dick, you shouldn't neglect me as you do! i've been waiting here among those horrid girls nearly an hour for you, and you're talking to everybody but me.' 'it wasn't my fault, dear; i was on in the last act. they couldn't have finished it without me.' 'i don't know, i don't know; but you're going away to-morrow, and i shall never see you again. it's very hard on me that this last night--night-- that----' 'now, don't cry like that, dear. i tell you what. it's impossible to talk here; everybody's after me. i'll take off these things and we'll go for a walk through the town--will that do? i know we've a lot of things to speak about.' the serious way in which he spoke this last phrase brought courage to kate, and she strove to calm herself, but she was sobbing so heavily that she could not answer. 'well, you'll wait here, dear; no one will disturb you, and i shan't be above two minutes.' kate nodded her head in reply, and five minutes after they were walking up the street together. 'how did you get out, dear? did they see you?' 'no; ralph is bad with his asthma, and mother is sitting upstairs with him. i said i had some sewing to do.... oh, dick, i cannot bear to think that you're going away, and that i shall never see you again.' 'yes, you will, dear,' he answered cheerfully. 'now i wonder if your husband would consent to your going on the stage?' 'who would do the dressmaking for him?' she asked. 'he talks about the business, but we would be starving if we relied upon what we sell.' and stopping from time to time as their talk grew more earnest, they strolled through the crowded streets, kate hanging on dick's arm, her face inspiring the jeers of the factory girls. 'i wouldn't kiss her if i were you,' said the most impudent. 'wouldn't you really?' cried two youths, stealing up from behind and seizing two of the girls by the waist, and kissing them despite blows and laughter. the combats that followed forced kate and dick into the roadway. 'we cannot talk here,' dick said; 'isn't there a quiet street near by?' 'there's market street; don't you remember, dick, where you met me the day you took me to the potteries?' 'yes,' he said, 'i do remember that day. what a crash! and all because you wouldn't let me kiss you; just like those boys and girls. you were more determined than those girls were, for methinks, as we say in shakespeare, they wished to be kissed; but you didn't then.' 'that was the day,' she answered, 'that i took round mrs. barnes's dress after having stayed up all night to finish it. here's market street,' and they walked towards the square of sky enframed in the end of the street, talking of the luck that had brought them together just at the moment when they thought that chance had divided them for ever. 'it was a crash!' dick repeated, and they walked about the grass-grown mounds of cinders. 'but, dick, you won't desert me,' she said. 'tell me that you'll take me away from hanley. i couldn't bear it when you were gone--i would sooner die.' 'of course i'll take you away, my dear,' said dick, with a distinct vision of the divorce court in his mind; 'but you know that will mean giving up everything and travelling about the country with me; i don't know that you'll like it.' 'you mean that you don't love me enough to take me away.' 'i'll take you away, dear, if you'll come. i never liked a woman as i do you. the train call is for ten o'clock. we must contrive something. how are you to meet me at the station?' it was kate's turn then to hesitate. she had never been out of the potteries in her life; she had been born, reared and married here. and now she was going away without hope of ever being able to return, she was going into an unknown region to roam she did not know whither--adrift, and as helpless as a tame bird freed and delivered to the enmities of an unknown land. half the truth dawned upon her in that moment, and lifting her eyes, she said: 'dick! you're asking a great deal of me. what shall i do? never, never, never to see hanley again!' 'i didn't know that you cared so much about hanley. and you accused me just now of not loving you enough to take you away. i think it's you who don't love me.' 'dick, you know that i love you better than anything in the world! but to give up everything, never to see what you have seen all your life.' 'i don't think you'll regret it, dear; we'll be very happy. we're going from here to derby, and from there to blackpool, a very jolly place by the sea.' and he talked to her about boating and picnicking, becoming all the while more convinced of her pretty face, and his memory of her pretty voice was active in him when he took her in his arms and said: 'you mustn't think any more about it, dear; i couldn't leave this place without you. you'll like blackpool if you're fond of boating.' 'i don't know,' she said; 'i've never seen the sea.' 'well, you can see it now,' he answered. 'look out there; the valley between us and the hills filled with mist is more like the ocean than anything i've ever seen.' 'the ocean,' kate repeated. 'have you been to america?' 'yes,' he answered, 'i have lived there for several years. i may take the company out there--probably next year, if all goes well.' 'and will you take me with you?' 'yes,' he said, 'but you must come away to-morrow morning. why do you hesitate?' 'i'm not hesitating,' she answered, 'but those hills beyond the valley have always seemed to me very wonderful; ever since i was a little child i've asked myself what lies beyond those hills.' for answer dick kissed her, and they relapsed into contemplation. the tall stems of the factory chimneys, the bottle-shaped pottery ovens, the intricate shafts of the collieries were hidden in the mist, and the furnace fires flashing through the mist enhanced the likeness of the hanley valley to a sea of stars; like stars these furnaces flamed, now here, now there, over the lower slopes of the hills, till at last one blazed into existence high amid the hills, so high that it must have been on the very lowest verge. it seemed to kate like a hearth of pleasure and comfort awaiting her in some distant country, and all her fancies were centred in this distant light, till another light breaking suddenly higher up in the hills attracted her, and she deemed that it would be in or about this light that she would find happiness. she must ascend from one light to the next, but the light on which her eyes were fixed was not a furnace light, but a star. would she never find happiness, then, in this world? she asked. was dick going to desert her? and without telling him that she had mistaken an earthly for a heavenly light, she threw her arms about him. 'of course, dick, i'll go with you; i will follow you wherever you may choose to go and do the work that you bid me to do. you've spoken well of my voice. oh yes, dick, i'll go with you. why shouldn't i? you're everything to me! i never knew what happiness was till i saw you; i've never had any amusement, i've never had any love; it was nothing but drudgery from morning to night. better be dead than continue such an existence. tell me, dick, you'll take me away.' dick listened calmly and quietly to these passionate beseechings, and taking her in his arms, he kissed her fervidly, though somewhat with the air of one who deems further explanation unnecessary. but when he withdrew his face kate continued, at first plaintively, but afterwards with more passion: 'it's very wicked--i know it is--but i can't help myself. i was brought up religiously, nobody more so, but i never could think of god and forget this world like my mother and mrs. ede. i always used to like to read tales about lovers, and i used to feel miserable when they didn't marry in the end and live happily. but then those people were good and pure, and were commanded to love each other, whereas i'm sinful, and shall be punished for my sin. i don't know how that will be; perhaps you'll cease to love me, and will leave me. when you cease to love me i hope i shall die. but you'll never do that, dick; tell me that you will not. you'll remember that i gave up a great deal for you; that i left my home for you; that i left everything.' her feebleness attracted him as much as her pretty face, and he knew she loved him; and they were going away together; so much had been decided, and as far as he could see, there the matter ended. besides, it was getting very late; the third act must be nearly over now, and he had a lot of business to get through. but it was difficult to suggest that they should go home, for kate had burst into tears, unable to control herself any longer. he must console her. 'you mustn't cry, dear,' he said softly; 'we shall be far away from here to-morrow, and you'll find out then how well i love you.' 'but do you really love me? if i were only sure that it was so!' 'if i didn't love you, why should i ask you to go away with me? if i didn't love you, could i kiss you as i do?' 'of course we've been very wicked,' she continued as if she had not heard him, 'and you can't respect me very much; but then you made love to me so, and the music made me forget everything. it wasn't all my fault, i think, and you were so different from all the other men i've seen--so much more like what i imagined a man should be, so much more like the heroes in the novels. you know in the books there's always a tenor who comes and sings under the window in the moonlight, and sends the lady he loves roses. you never sent me any roses, but then there are no roses in hanley. but you were so kind and nice, and spoke so differently, and when i looked at your blue eyes i couldn't help feeling i loved you. i really think i knew--at least, i couldn't talk to you quite in the same way as i did to other men. you remember when i was showing you over the rooms, how you stopped to talk to me about the pious cards mrs. ede had hung on the wall--well, since then i felt that you liked me. and it was so different since you came to live in the house. i didn't see much of you, you were always so busy, but i used to lie awake at night to hear you come in.' 'look here, dear, i know you're very fond of me--so am i of you--but i must get back to the theatre. you've no idea of the business i've to get through to-night, and as we're going away together we'll have to look out for some place to put up.' this necessity for immediate action at once startled and frightened her, and bursting again into a passionate fit of sobbing, she exclaimed: 'oh, dick, this is a terrible thing you're asking me to do! oh, what will become of me? but do you love me? tell me again that you love me, and will not leave me.' dick drew her closer to him for answer. 'we must not stay here any longer,' he said. 'but i cannot go home, dick--to that house.' 'you'll sleep with me, dear, at the inn.' 'sleep with you?' she repeated and allowed herself to be led. the furnace fires had increased by tens; each dazzling line was now crossed and interwoven with other lines; and through the tears that blinded her eyes kate saw an immense sea of fire, and beyond nothing but unfathomable grey. xi next morning the sky was low and grey, and the house-tops appeared dimly through the mist. a little later the clouds began to gather, and it seemed like rain, but now and then a shaft of sunlight fell on a corner of the table within a few inches of kate's impatiently moving fingers. she had not been able to eat any breakfast--had just crumbled a piece of bread and sipped a cup of tea, and begged dick to hasten. it seemed that he hadn't a thought for her, of what her fate would be if they missed the train. she couldn't spend another night in hanley. 'dick, dear, do make haste. we shall miss the train.' 'we've plenty of time,' he answered, and she read in his face the desire for another plate of crumpets, and she prayed that he might not ask for another egg. 'dick, it's ten minutes to ten.' 'i don't think it can be as much as that, dear.' he turned to look at the clock, which was behind him. 'oh, dick, dick! make haste, i beg of you; you don't know what i'm suffering. supposing my husband was to come in now and find us here?' 'he can't know that we're here; the station is the first place he'd go to; there's no use hanging about there longer than we can help.' 'oh dear, i'd give ten years of my life if we were once in the train.' 'there's no use exciting yourself like that, dear; i'll see that you don't meet anyone.' 'how will you manage that?' 'i'll tell you in the cab. i think on the whole we'd better start now. luckily, we haven't much luggage to delay us. waiter, bring the bill and call me a cab.' 'and how will you save me from meeting him if he's there before us?' she said to dick as they drove away. 'i'll leave you in the cab, and cut down and see if he's there.' 'he might come and find me when you were gone, and that would be worse than anything. he might kill me, and i should have no one to save me.' he was, in truth, a little puzzled, for there was no getting away from the fact that it was only too possible, not to say probable, that they would find mr. ede waiting for them. he thought of disguises and secret doors, and masks and wigs, of the wardrobe-baskets, but a moment's reflection convinced him of the impracticability of stowing kate away in one of these. he then thought of wrapping a railway rug around his newly-acquired wife, and carrying her thus concealed in his arms; but that would not do either. mr. ede would be sure to ask him what he had there. 'oh, dick, dear, what shall we do if we find him waiting on the platform? you'll protect me, won't you? you won't desert me! i couldn't go back to him.' 'of course not. let him take you away from me? not me! if you don't want to live with him any more you've a right to leave him. i'll knock him down if he gives me any of his cheek.' 'you won't do that, will you, dear? remember how small and weak he is; you'd kill him.' 'that's true, so i would. well, i'm damned if i know what to do; you'll have to come with me even if he does kick up a row. it'll be deuced unpleasant, and before the whole company too. don't you think that you could wait a moment in the cab while i have a look round--i won't go far.' 'oh, i'd be too afraid! couldn't you ask someone to go for you?' 'i'll see who's there,' said dick, twisting his neck to look round the corner. 'by jove! they're all there--beaumont, dolly goddard. i think i'll ask montgomery; he's a devilish good chap. we had better stop the cab here and i'll call to him.' kate consented, and a moment after the musician's immense nose and scarecrow face was poked in the window. 'hey, old pal, what is it? waiting--but--i beg----' 'never mind that,' said dick, laying his hand on the young fellow's arm; 'i want you to do me a favour. run down on the platform and see if there's a little scraggy man about the height of dubois hanging about anywhere. you can't mistake him; he has a dirty dark beard that grows on his face like a bunch of grass, and he's no chest, little thin shoulders, and he'd have on----' 'a pair of grey trousers, and a red woollen comforter round his neck,' whispered kate, feeling bitterly ashamed. 'all right,' said montgomery, 'i'll spot him if he's there. but you know the train goes in ten minutes or less, and hayes says that he can't take the tickets; you've all the coin.' 'so i have; i forgot to send it round to him last night. ask him to step up here, there's a good fellow.' 'now, i bet you hayes won't be able to get the tickets right. he's perfectly useless, always boozed--nipping, you know.' kate did not answer, and an uneasy silence ensued, which was broken at length by the appearance of a hiccuping, long-whiskered man. 'how are you, o-o-old man? eh! who is--? i don't think i have the pleasure of this lady's acquaintance.' 'mrs. ede--mr. hayes, our acting manager. now, look here, hayes, you go and get the tickets. i can't leave this lady. thirty-five will do.' 'how thirty-five? we travel forty-one.' 'you know well enough that thirty-five is what we always get. damn it, man, make haste!' 'don't damn me. new member of the com-company, eh?' 'i'll tell you all about that after, old man,' said dick, leaning forward and pretending to whisper confidentially. this satisfied the tippler, who, after pulling his silky whiskers and serving kate to another drunken stare, hurried off, black bag in hand. 'confounded nuisance to have to deal with a fellow like that; he thinks he's a dab at business, and goes about with the black bag for show.' two minutes passed, maybe three; it seemed to her an eternity, and then she heard montgomery's voice crying: 'it's all right, i'm sure.' 'then get out, dear,' said dick, 'we haven't a moment to lose.' she jumped out, but hadn't walked a dozen yards before she stopped panic-stricken. 'mrs. ede--my mother-in-law--perhaps she's there! oh, dick, what shall i do?' 'she isn't there,' montgomery answered; 'i know her by sight,' and that montgomery should know her mother-in-law by sight meant to kate as much as a footprint does to a lost one in a desert. for the sight of the company on the asphalt, and all the luggage, portmanteaux, and huge white baskets labelled 'morton and cox's operatic company,' and the train waiting to carry them away to an unknown destination, made her feel more intensely than ever that she was adrift in a current that would carry her she knew not whither. all these strange people collected together were henceforth her world. she was not unnaturally frightened, but the baggage man especially filled her with alarm, so all-powerful did he seem, rushing up and down the platform, shouting at the porters, and throwing out bits of information to the ladies of the company as he passed them by. 'we shall be off in a minute, dear,' whispered dick softly in her ear, 'and then----' 'whose carriage are you going in, dick?' said a little stout man who walked with a strut and wore a hat like a bishop's. 'i really don't know; i don't mind; anywhere except with the pipe-smokers. i can't stand that lot.' 'perhaps he's going to take a first-class compartment with hot-water pans,' remarked mortimer, and the little group of admirers all laughed consumedly. dick, overhearing the remark, said to kate: 'one mustn't take notice of what he says; i very nearly kicked him into the orchestra at halifax about six months ago. but what compartment shall we take? let's go with leslie and dubois and montgomery; they're the quietest. let me introduce you to miss leslie. miss leslie--mrs. ede, a lady i'm escorting to blackpool; you two have a chat together. i'll be back in a minute. i must go after hayes; if i don't he may forget all about the tickets.' 'i'm afraid you'll find us a very noisy lot, mrs. ede,' said miss leslie, and in a way that made kate feel intimate with her at once. miss leslie had a bright smiling face, with clear blue eyes, and a mop of dyed hair peeped from under a prettily ribboned bonnet, and kate noticed how beautifully cut were her clothes. miss beaumont sported large diamonds in her ears, and she wore a somewhat frayed yellow french cloak, which, she explained to the girls near her, particularly to her pal, dolly goddard, was quite good enough for travelling. no one in the company could understand the friendship between these two; the knowing ones declared that dolly was beaumont's daughter; others, who professed to be more knowing, entertained other views. dolly was a tiny girl with crumpled features, who wore dresses that were remade from the big woman's cast-off garments. she sang in the chorus, was in receipt of a salary of five-and-twenty shillings a week, and was a favourite with everyone. around her stood a group of girls; they formed a black mass of cotton, alpaca, and dirty cloth. near them half a dozen chorus-men were talking of the possibility of getting another drink before the train came up. their frayed boots and threadbare frock-coats would have caused them to be mistaken for street idlers, but one or two of their number exhibited patent leathers and a smart made-up cravat of the latest fashion. dubois's hat gave him the appearance of a bishop, his tight trousers confounded him with a groom; and joe mortimer made up very well for the actor whose friends once believed he was a genius. the news had gone about that dick was running away with a married woman, and that the husband was expected to appear every minute to stop her; it had reached even the ears of the chorus-men in the refreshment-room, and they gulped down their beer and hurried back to see the sport. mortimer declared that they were going to see dick for the first time in legitimate drama, and that he wouldn't miss it for the world. the joke was repeated through the groups, and before the laughter ceased the green-painted engine puffed into sight, and at the same moment dick was seen making his way towards them from the refreshment room, dragging drunken mr. hayes along with them. then kate felt glad, and almost triumphantly she dashed the tears from her eyes. no one could stop her now. she was going away with dick, to be loved and live happy for ever. beaumont was forgotten, and the fierce longing for change she had been so long nourishing completely mastered her, and, with a childlike impetuosity, she rushed up to her lover, and leaning on his arm, strove to speak. 'what is it, dear?' he said, bending towards her. 'what are you crying about?' 'oh, nothing, dick. i'm so happy. oh, if only we were outside this station! where shall i get in?' even if her husband did come, and she were taken back, she thought that she would like to have been at least inside a railway carriage. 'get in here. where's montgomery? let's have him.' 'and, oh, do ask miss leslie! she's been so kind to me.' 'yes, she always travels with us,' said dick, standing at the carriage door. 'come, get in, montgomery; make haste, dubois.' 'but where's bret?' shouted someone. 'i haven't seen him,' replied several voices. 'is there any lady missing?' asked montgomery. 'no,' replied mortimer in the deepest nasal intonation he could assume, 'but i noticed a relation of the chief banker in the town in the theatre last night. perhaps our friend has had his cheque stopped.' roars of laughter greeted this sally, the relevance of which no one could even faintly guess; and the guard smiled as he said to the porter: 'that's mr. mortimer. amusing, is them theatre gentlemen.' then, turning to dick, 'i must start the train. your friend will be late if he doesn't come up jolly quick.' 'isn't it extraordinary that bret can never be up to time? every night there's a stage wait for him to come on for the serenade,' said dick, withdrawing his head from the window. 'here 'e is, sir,' said the guard. 'come on, bret; you'll be late,' shouted dick. a tall, thin man in a velvet coat, urged on by two porters, was seen making his way down the platform with a speed that was evidently painful. 'in here,' said dick, opening the door. out of the dim station they passed into the bright air alongside of long lines of waggons laden with chimney-pots and tiles, the produce of hanley. the collieries steamed above their cinder-hills, the factory chimneys vomited, and as kate looked out on this world of work that she was leaving for ever, she listened to the uncertain trouble that mounted up through her mind, and to the voices of the actors talking of comic songs and dances. she put out her hand instinctively to find dick's; he was sitting beside her, and she felt happy again. at these intimacies none but frank bret was surprised, and the laugh that made kate blush was occasioned by the tenor's stupid questioning look: it was the first time he had seen her; he had not yet heard the story of the elopement, and his glance went from one to the other, vainly demanding an explanation, and to increase the hilarity dick said: 'but, by the way, bret, what made you so late this morning? were you down at the bank cashing a cheque?' 'what are you thinking about? there are no banks open on sunday morning,' said bret, who of course had not the least idea what was meant. the reply provoked peals of laughter from all save miss leslie, and all possible changes were rung on the joke, until it became as nauseous to the rest of the company as to the bewildered tenor, who bore the chaff with the dignified stupidity of good looks. the mummers travelled third class. kate sat next the window, with her back to the engine; dick was beside her, and miss leslie facing her; then came dubois and bret, with montgomery at the far end. the conversation had fallen, and dick, passing his arm around kate's waist, whispered to her and to leslie: 'i want you two to be pals. lucy is one of my oldest friends. i knew her when she was so high, and it was i who gave her her first part, wasn't it, lucy?' 'yes. don't you remember, dick, the first night i played florette in _the brigands_? wasn't i in a fright? i never should have ventured on the stage if you hadn't pushed me on from the wings.' kate thought she had never seen anyone look so nice or heard anyone speak so sweetly. in fact, she liked her better off the stage than on. leslie had a way of raising her voice as she spoke till it ended in a laugh and a display of white teeth. the others of the company she did not yet recognize. they were still to her figures moving through an agitated dream. leslie was the first to awaken to life. the tendency of dick's conversation was to wander, but after having indulged for some time in the pleasures of retrospection he returned to the subject in point: 'well, it's a bit difficult to explain,' dick said, 'but, you see, this lady, mrs. ede, wasn't very happy at home, and having a nice voice--you must hear her sing some _angot_--and such an ear! she only heard the waltz once, and she can give it note for note. well, to make a long story short, she thought she'd cut it, and try what she could do with us.' 'you're all very kind to me, but i'm afraid i've been very wicked.' 'oh my!' said miss leslie, laughing, 'you mustn't talk like that; you'll put us all to the blush.' 'i wonder how such theories would suit beaumont's book,' said dick. 'you see,' dick continued, 'she's left hanley without any clothes except those she's wearing, and we'll have to buy everything in derby,' and he begged bret to move down a bit and allow him to take the seat next to leslie. the tenor, conductor, and second low comedian had spread a rug over their knees, and were playing nap. they shouted, laughed, and sang portions of their evening music when they made or anticipated making points, and kate was therefore left to herself, and she looked out of the window. they were passing through the most beautiful parts of staffordshire, and for the first time she saw the places that seemed to her just like the spot where the lady with the oval face used to read shelley to the handsome baronet when her husband was away doctoring the country-folk. the day was full of mist and sun. along the edges of the woods the white vapours loitered, half concealing the forms of the grazing kine; and the light shadows floated on the grass, long and prolonged, even as the memories that were now filling the mind of this sentimental workwoman. it seemed to her that she was now on the threshold of a new life--the life of which she had so long dreamed. her lover was near her, but in a railway carriage filled with smoke and with various men and women; and it seemed to her that they should be walking in sunny meadows by hedgerows. the birds were singing in the shaws; but in her imagination the clicking of needles and the rustling of silk mingled with the songs of the birds, and forgetting the landscape, with a sigh she fell to thinking of what they would be saying of her at home. she knew mrs. ede would have the whole town searched, and when it was no longer possible to entertain a doubt, she would say that kate's name must never again be mentioned in her presence. a letter! there was much to say: but none would understand. the old woman who had once loved her so dearly would for ever hate and detest her. and ralph? kate did not care quite so much what he thought of her; she fancied him swearing and cursing, and sending the police after her; and then he appeared to her as a sullen, morose figure moving about the shop, growling occasionally at his mother, and muttering from time to time that he was devilish glad that his wife had gone away. she would have wished him to regret her; and when she remembered the little girls, she felt the tears rise to her eyes. what explanation would be given to them? would they learn to hate her? she thought not; but still, they would have to give up coming to the shop--there was no one now to teach them sewing. her absence would change everything. mrs. ede would never be able to get on with hender, and even if she did, neither of them knew enough of dressmaking to keep the business going, and she asked herself sorrowfully: 'what will become of them?' they would not be able to live upon what they sold in the shop--that was a mere nothing. poor ralph's dreams of plate-glass and lamps! where were they now? mrs. ede's thirty pounds a year would barely pay the rent. a vision of destruction and brokers passed before her mind, and she realized for the first time the immense importance of the step she had taken. not only was her own future hidden, but the future of those she had left behind. the tedium of her life in hanley was forgotten, and she remembered only the quiet, certain life she might have led, in and out from the shop to the front kitchen, and up to her workroom--the life that she had been born into. now she had nothing but this man's love. if she were to lose it! leslie smiled at the lovers, and moving towards the card-players, she placed her arm round bret's shoulders and examined his hand. then the three men raised their heads. dubois, with the cynicism of the ugly little man who has ever had to play the part of the disdained lover both in real or fictitious life, giggled, leered, and pointed over his shoulder. montgomery smiled too, but a close observer would detect in him the yearnings of a young man from whose plain face the falling fruit is ever invisibly lifted. bret looked round also, but his look was the indifferent stare of one to whom love has come often, and he glanced as idly at the picture as a worn-out gourmet would over the bill of fare of a table d'hôte dinner. a moment after all eyes were again fixed on the game, and dick began to speak to kate of the clothes she would have to buy in derby. 'i can give you twenty pounds to fit yourself out. do you think you could manage with that?' 'i'm afraid i'm putting you to a lot of expense, dear.' 'not more than you're worth. you don't know what a pleasant time we shall have travellin' about; it's so tiresome bein' always alone. there's no society in these country towns, but i shan't want society now.' 'and do you think that you won't get tired of me? will you never care again for any of these fine ladies?' and her brilliant eyes drew down dick's lips, and when they entered a tunnel the temptation to repeat the kiss was great, but owing to dubois's attempt to light matches it ended in failure. dick bumped his head against the woodwork of the carriage; kate felt she hated the little comedian, and before she recovered her temper the train began to slacken speed, and there were frequent calls for dick from the windows of the different compartments. 'is the railway company going to stand us treat this journey?' shouted mortimer. 'yes,' replied dick, putting his head out, 'seven the last time and seven this; we should have more than a couple of quid.' when the train stopped and a voice was heard crying, 'all tickets here!' he said to dubois, bret, and montgomery, 'now then, you fellows, cut off; get mortimer and a few of the chorus-men to join you; we're seven short.' as they ran away he continued to leslie: 'i hope hayes won't bungle it; he's got the tickets to-day.' 'you shouldn't have let him take them; you know he's always more or less drunk, and may answer forty-two.' 'i can't help it if he does; i'd something else to look after at hanley.' 'tickets!' said the guard. 'our acting manager has them; he's in the end carriage.' 'you know i don't want anything said about it; hayes and i are old pals; but it's a damned nuisance to have an acting manager who's always boozed. i have to look after everythin', even to making up the returns. but i must have a look and see how he's gettin' on with the guard,' said dick, jumping up and putting his head out of the window. after a moment or two he withdrew it and said hastily, 'by jove! there's a row on. i must go and see what's up. i bet that fool has gone and done something.' in a minute he had opened the carriage door and was hurrying down the platform. 'oh, what's the matter?--do tell me,' said kate to miss leslie. 'i hope he won't get into any trouble.' 'it's nothing at all. we never, you know, take the full number of tickets, for it is impossible for the guard to count us all; and besides, there are some members who always run down the platform; and in that way we save a good deal of coin, which is spent in drinks all round.' but guessing what was passing in kate's mind leslie said: 'it isn't cheating. the company provides us with a carriage, and it is all the same to them if we travel five-and-thirty or forty-two.' xii the rest of the journey was accomplished monotonously, the conversation drifting into a discussion, in the course of which mention was made of actors, singers, theatre, prices of admission, 'make-ups,' stage management, and music. it was in birmingham that ashton, leslie's understudy, sang the tenor's music instead of her own in the first act of the _cloches_: and poor so-and-so, who was playing the grenicheux--how he did look when he heard his b flat go off! 'flat,' murmured montgomery sorrowfully, 'isn't the word. i assure you it loosened every tooth in my head. i broke my stick trying to stop her, but it was no bloody good.' then explanations of how the different pieces had been produced in paris were volunteered, and the talents of the different composers were discussed; and all held their sides and roared when dubois, who, kate began to perceive, was the company's laughingstock, declared that he thought offenbach too polkaic. at last the train rolled into derby, and dick asked a red pimply-faced man in a round hat if he had secured good places for his posters. 'spiffing,' the man answered, and he saluted leslie. 'but i couldn't get you the rooms. they're let; and, between ourselves, you'll 'ave a difficulty in finding what you want. this is cattle-show week. you'd better come on at once with me. i know an hotel that isn't bad, and you can have first choice--beaumont's old rooms; but you must come at once.' kate was glad to see that mr. bill williams, the agent in advance, did not remember her. she, however, recognized him at once as the man who had sent dick to her house. 'cattle-show week! all the rooms in the town let!' cried leslie, who had overheard part of mr. williams's whisperings. 'oh dear! i do hope that my rooms aren't let. i hate going to an hotel. let me out; i must see about them at once. here, frank, take hold of this bag.' 'there's no use being in such a hurry; if the rooms are let they are let. what's the name of the hotel you were speaking of, williams?' 'i forget the name, but if you don't find lodgings, i'll leave you the address at the theatre,' said the agent in advance, winking at dick. 'you're too damned clever, williams; you'll be making somebody's fortune one of these days.' kate had some difficulty in keeping close to dick, for he was surrounded the moment he stepped out on the platform. the baggage-man had a quantity of questions to ask him, and hayes was desirous of re-explaining how the ticket-collector had happened to misunderstand him. pulling his long whiskers, the acting manager walked about murmuring, 'stupid fool! stupid darned fool!' and there were some twenty young women who pleaded in turn, their little hands laid on the arm of the popular fat man. 'yes, dear; that's it,' he answered. 'i'll see to it to-morrow. i'll try not to put you in miss crawford's dressing-room, since you don't agree.' 'and, mr. lennox, you will see that i'm not shoved into the back row by miss dacre, won't you?' 'yes, dear--yes, dear; i'll see to that too; but i must be off now; and you'd better see after lodgings; i hear that they are very scarce. if you aren't able to get any, come up to the hen and chickens; i hear they have rooms to let there. poor little girls!' he murmured to williams as they got into a cab. 'they only have twenty-five bob a week; one can't see them robbed by landladies who can let their rooms three times over.' 'just as you like,' said williams, 'but you'll have the hotel full of them.' as they drove through the town dick called attention to the animated appearance of the crowds, and williams explained the advantages of the corners he had chosen; and at last the cab stopped at the inn, or rather before the archway of a stone passage some four or five yards wide. 'there's no inn here!' 'oh yes, there is, and a very nice inn too; the entrance is a little way up the passage.' it was an old-fashioned place--probably it had been a fashionable resort for sporting squires at the beginning of the century. the hall was wainscotted in yellow painted wood; on the right-hand side there was a large brown press, with glass doors, surmounted by a pair of buffalo horns; on the opposite wall hung a barometer; and the wide, slowly sloping staircase, with its low thick banisters, ascended in front of the street door. the apartments were not, however, furnished with archaeological correctness. a wall-paper of an antique design contrasted with a modern tablecloth, and the sombre red curtains were ill suited to the plate-glass which had replaced the narrow windows of old time. dick did not like the dust nor the tarnish, but no other bed and sitting-room being available, a bargain was soon struck, and the proprietor, after hoping that his guests would be comfortable, informed them that the rule of his house was that the street door was barred and locked at eleven o'clock, and would be reopened for no one. he was a quiet man who kept an orderly house, and if people could not manage to be in before midnight he did not care for their custom. after grumbling a bit, dick remembered that the pubs closed at eleven, and as he did not know anyone in the town there would be no temptation to stay out. williams, who had been attentively examining kate, said that he was going down to the theatre, and asked if he should have the luggage sent up. this was an inconvenient question, and as an explanation was impossible before the hotel-keeper, dick was obliged to wish kate good-bye for the present, and accompany williams down to the theatre. she took off her bonnet mechanically, threw it on the table, and, sitting down in an armchair by the window, let her thoughts drift to those at home. whatever doubt there might have been at first, they now knew that she had left them--and for ever. the last three words cost her a sigh, but she was forced to admit them. there could be no uncertainty now in ralph's and his mother's mind that she had gone off with mr. lennox. yes, she had eloped; there could be no question about the fact. she had done what she had so often read of in novels, but somehow it did not seem at all the same thing. this was a startling discovery to make, but of the secret of her disappointment she was nearly unconscious; and rousing herself from the torpor into which she had fallen, she hoped dick would not stop long away. it was so tiresome waiting. but soon miss leslie came running upstairs. 'dinner has been ordered for five o'clock, and we've made up a party of four--you, dick, myself, and frank.' 'and what time is it now?' 'about four. don't you think you'll be able to hold out till then?' 'oh, dear me, yes; i'm not very hungry.' 'and i'll lend you anything you want for to-night.' 'thanks, it's very kind of you.' kate fell to wondering if her kindness had anything to do with dick, and with the view to discovering their secret, if they had one, she watched them during dinner, and was glad to see that mr. frank bret occupied the prima donna's entire attention. soon after dinner the party dispersed. 'you'll not be able to buy anything to-night,' dick said, and kate answered: 'leslie said she'd lend me a nightgown.' 'and to-morrow you'll buy yourself a complete rig-out,' and he gave her five-and-twenty pounds and told her to pal with leslie, that she was the best of the lot. it seemed to her quite a little fortune, and as dick had to go to london next morning, she sent up word to leslie to ask if she would come shopping with her. the idea of losing her lover so soon frightened her, and had it not been for the distraction that the buying of clothes afforded her the week she spent in derby would have been intolerable. leslie, it is true, often came to sit with kate, and on more than one occasion went out to walk with her. but there were long hours which she was forced to pass alone in the gloom of the hotel sitting-room, and as she sat making herself a travelling dress, oppressed and trembling with thoughts, she was often forced to lay down her work. she had to admit that nothing had turned out as she had expected; even her own power of loving appeared feeble in comparison to the wealth of affection she had imagined herself lavishing upon dick. something seemed to separate them; even when she lay back and he held her in his arms, she was not as near to him as she had dreamed of being; and try as she would, she found it impossible to wipe out of her mind the house in hanley. it rose before her, a dark background with touches of clear colour: the little girls working by the luminous window with the muslin curtains and the hanging pot of greenstuff; the stiff-backed woman moving about with plates and dishes in her hands; the invalid wheezing on the little red calico sofa. the past was still reality, and the present a fable. it didn't seem true: lying with a man who was still strange to her; rising when she pleased; getting even her meals when she pleased. she could not realize the fact that she had left for ever her quiet home in the potteries, and was travelling about the country with a company of strolling actors. the spider that had spun itself from the ceiling did not seem suspended in life by a less visible thread than herself. supposing dick were never to return! the thought was appalling, and on more than one occasion she fell down on her knees to pray to be preserved from such a terrible misfortune. but her hours of solitude were not the worst she had to bear. impelled by curiosity to hear all the details of the elopement, and urged by an ever-present desire to say unpleasant things, miss beaumont paid kate many visits, and sitting with her thick legs crossed, she insinuated all she dared. she did not venture upon a direct statement, but by the aid of a smile and an indirect allusion it was easy to suggest that love in an actor's heart is brief. as long as miss beaumont was present kate repressed her feelings, but when she found herself alone tears flowed down her cheeks, and sobs echoed through the dusty sitting-room. it was in one of these trances of emotion that dick found her when he returned, and that night she accompanied him to the theatre. the piece played was _les cloches de corneville_. miss beaumont as germaine disappointed her, and she could not understand how it was that the marquis was not in love with serpolette. but the reality that most grossly contradicted her idea was that dick should be playing the part of the baillie; and when she saw her hero fall down in the middle of the stage and heard everybody laugh at him, she felt both ashamed and insulted. the romantic character of her mind asserted itself, and, against her will, forced her to admire the purple-cloaked marquis. then her thoughts turned to considering if she would be able to act as well as any one of the ladies on the stage. it did not seem to her very difficult, and dick had told her that, with a little teaching, she would be able to sing as well as beaumont. the sad expression that her face wore disappeared, and she grew impatient for the piece to finish so that she might speak to dick about taking lessons. they were now in the third act, and the moment the curtain was rung down she hurried away, asking as she went the way to the stage-door. it was by no means easy to find. she lost herself once or twice in the back streets, and when she at last found the right place, the hall-keeper refused her admittance. 'do you belong to the company?' after a moment's hesitation kate replied that she did not; but that moment's hesitation was sufficient for the porter, and he at once said, 'pass on; you'll find mr. lennox on the stage.' timidly she walked up a narrow passage filled with men talking at the top of their voices, and from thence made her way into the wings. there she was told that mr. lennox was up in his room, but would be down shortly. for a moment kate could not realize where she was, so different was the stage now from what it had been whenever she had seen it before. the present aspect was an entirely new one. it was dark like a cellar, and in the flaring light that spurted from an iron gas-pipe, the stage carpenter carried rocking pieces of scenery to and fro. the auditorium was a round blank overclouded in a deep twilight, through which kate saw the long form of a grey cat moving slowly round the edge of the upper boxes. getting into a corner so as to be out of the way of the people who were walking up and down the stage, she matured her plans for the cultivation of her voice, and waited patiently for her lover to finish dressing. this he took some time to do, and when he did at length come downstairs, he was of course surrounded; everybody as usual wanted to speak to him, but, gallantly offering her his arm, and bending his head, he asked in a whisper how she liked the piece, and insisted on hearing what she thought of this and that part before he replied to any one of the crowd of friends who in turn strove to attract his attention. this was very flattering, but she was nevertheless obliged to relinquish her plan of explaining to him there and then her desire to learn singing. he could not keep his mind fixed on what she was saying. mortimer was telling a story at which everybody was screaming, and just at her elbow dubois and montgomery were engaged in a violent argument regarding the use of consecutive fifths. but besides these distractions there was a tall thin man who kept nudging away at dick's elbow, begging of him to come over to his place, and saying that he would give him as good a glass of whisky as he had ever tasted. nobody knew who the man was, but dick thought he had met him somewhere up in the north. 'i've been about, gentlemen, in america, and in france, and i lead a bachelor life. my house is across the way, and if you'll do me the honour to come in and have a glass with me, i shall feel highly honoured. if there's one thing i do enjoy more than another, it's the conversation of intellectual men, and after the performance of to-night i don't see how i can do better than to come to you for it. but,' he continued gallantly, 'if i said just now that i was a bachelor, it is, i assure you, not because i dislike the sex. my solitary state is my misfortune, not my fault, and if these ladies will accompany you, gentlemen, need i say that i shall be charmed and honoured?' 'we'll do the honouring and the ladies will do the charming,' mortimer said, and on these words the whole party followed the tall thin man to his house, a small affair with a porch and green blinds such as might be rented by a well-to-do commercial traveller. the furniture was mahogany and leather, and when the sideboard was opened, the acrid odour of tea and the sickly smells of stale bread and rank butter were diffused through the room; but these were quickly dominated by the fumes of the malt. a bottle of port was decanted for the ladies. to the host nothing was too much trouble; his guests must eat as well as drink, and he went down to the kitchen and helped the maid-servant to bring up all the eatables that were in the house--some cold beef and cheese--and after having partaken of these the company stretched themselves in their chairs. hayes drank his whisky in silence, while montgomery, his legs thrown over the arm of his chair, tried to get in a word concerning the refrain of a comic song he had just finished scoring; but as the song was not going to be sung in any of the pieces they were touring with, no one was interested, and mortimer's talk about the regeneration of the theatre was becoming so boring that leslie and beaumont had begun to think of bedtime, and might have taken their departure if dubois had not said that all the great french actresses had lovers and that the english would do well to follow their examples. a variety of opinions broke forth, and everyone seemed to wake up; anecdotes were told that brought the colour to kate's cheeks and made her feel uncomfortable. dubois had lived a great deal in france; it was not certain that he had not acted in french, and sitting with his bishop's hat tilted on the back of his head, he related that agar had described george sand as a sort of pouncing disease that had affected her health more than all her other lovers put together. dubois was declared to have insulted the profession; dick agreed that dubois did not know what he was talking about--george sand was a woman, not a man--and montgomery, who had a sister-in-law starring in scotland, refused to be appeased until he was asked to accompany leslie and bret in a duet. the thin man, as everybody now called him, said he had never been so much touched in his life, a statement which beaumont did her best to justify by going to the piano and singing three songs one after another. the third was a signal for departure, and while montgomery vowed under his breath that it was quite enough to have to listen to beaumont during business hours, dick tried to awaken hayes. he had fallen fast asleep. their kind host said that he would put him up for the night, but the mummers thought they would be able to get him home. so, bidding the kindest of farewells to their host, whom they hoped they would see the following evening at the theatre, they stumbled into the street, pushing and carrying the drunken man between them. it was very hard to get hayes along; every ten or a dozen yards he would insist on stopping in the middle of the roadway to argue the value and the sincerity of the friendship his comrades bore for him. mortimer strove to pacify him, saying that he would stand in a puddle all night if by doing so he might prove that he loved him, and dubois entreated him to believe him when he said that to sit with him under a cold september moon talking of the dear dead days would be a bliss that he could not forego. but the comedian's jokes soon began to seem idle and flat, and the ladies proposed to walk on in front, leaving the gentlemen to get their friend home as best they could. 'you're thinking of your beds,' dick cried, and that reminded him that the hotel-keeper had told him that he shut his doors at eleven and would open them for no one before morning. 'what are we to do?' asked leslie; 'it's very cold.' 'we'll ring him up,' said dubois. 'but if he doesn't answer?' suggested bret. 'i'll jolly soon make him answer,' said dick. 'now then, hayes, wake up, old man, and push along.' 'pou-sh-al-long! how can--you--talk to me like that? yer--yer--shunting me--me--for one of those other fellows.' 'we'll talk about that in the morning, old man. now, mortimer, you get hold of his other arm and we'll run him along.' mr. hayes struggled, declaring the while he would no longer believe in the world's friendship; but with montgomery pushing from behind, the last hundred yards were soon accomplished, and the drunken burden deposited against the wall of the passage. dick pulled the bell; the whole party listened to the distant tinkling, and after a minute or two of suspense, mortimer said: 'that won't do, dick; ring again. we shall be here all night.' tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, went the bell, and a husky voice, issuing from the dark shadow of the wall, said: 'i rang for another whisky, waiter, that's all.' 'the still-room maid has gone to sleep, sir,' mortimer answered; and the bell was rung again and again, and whilst one of the company was pulling at the wire, another was hammering away with the knocker. all the same, no answer could be obtained, and the mummers consulted leslie and bret, who proposed that they should seek admittance at another hotel; dubois, that they should beg hospitality of the other members of the company; montgomery, that they should go back to the theatre. but the hotel-keeper had no right to lock them out, and they had a perfect right to break into his house, and the chances they ran of 'doing a week' were anxiously debated as they searched for a piece of wood to serve as a ram. none of sufficient size could be found, much to the relief of the ladies and dubois, who strongly advised dick to renounce this door-smashing experiment. 'oh, dick, pray don't,' whispered kate. 'what does it matter; it will be daylight in a few hours.' 'that's all very well, but i tell you he has no right to lock us out; he's a licensed hotel-keeper. are you game, mortimer? we can burst in the door with our shoulders.' 'game!' said mortimer, in a nasal note that echoed down the courtyard; 'partridges are in season in september. here goes!' and taking a run, he jumped with his full weight against the door. 'out of the way,' cried dick, breaking away from kate, and hurling his huge frame a little closer to the lock than the comedian had done. the excitement being now at boiling pitch, the work was begun in real earnest, and as they darted in regular succession out of the shadow of the buttress across the clear stream of moonlight flowing down the flagstones, they appeared like a procession of figures thrown on a cloth by a magic-lantern. mr. hayes' white stocking served for a line, and bump, bump, they went against the door. each effort was watched with different degrees of interest by the ladies. when little dubois toddled forward, and sprang with what little impetus his short legs could give him, it was difficult not to laugh, and when montgomery's reed-like shanks were seen passing, kate clung to miss leslie in fear that he would crush his frail body against the door; but when it came to the turn of any of the big ones, the excitement was great. mortimer and bret were watched eagerly, but most faith was placed in dick, not only for his greater weight, but for his superior and more plucky way of jumping. springing from the very middle of the passage, his head back and his shoulder forward, he went like a thunderbolt against the door. it seemed wonderful that he did not bring down the wall as well as the woodwork, and a round of applause rewarded each effort. hayes, who fancied himself in bed, and that the waiter was calling him at some strange hour in the morning, shouted occasionally the most fearful of curses from his dark corner. the noise was terrific, and the clapping of hands, shrieks of laughter, and cries of encouragement reverberated through the echoing passage and the silent moonlight. at last dick's turn came again, and enraged by past failures, he put forth his whole strength and jumped from the white stocking with his full weight against the door. it gave way with a crash, and at that moment the proprietor appeared, holding a candle in his hand. everybody made a rush, and picking up dick, who was not in the least hurt, they struck matches on the wall and groped their way up to their rooms, heedless of the denunciations of the enraged proprietor, who declared that he would take an action against them all. in his dressing-gown, and by the light of his candle, he surveyed his dismantled threshold, thinking how he might fasten up his house for the night. the first object he caught sight of was mr. hayes' white stocking. as he did so a wicked light gleamed in his eyes, and after a few efforts to awake the drunkard he walked to the gateway and looked up and down the street to see if a policeman were in sight. in real truth he was doubtful as to his rights to lock visitors out of their hotel, and, did not feel disposed to discuss the question before a magistrate. but what could be said against him for requesting the removal of a drunken man? he did not know who he was, nor was he bound to find out. so argued the proprietor of the hen and chickens, and mr. hayes, still protesting he did not want to be called before ten, was dragged off to the station. next morning the hotel-keeper denied knowing anything whatever about the matter. it was true he had called the policeman's attention to the fact that there was a man asleep under the archway, but he did not know that the man was mr. hayes. this story was rejected by the company, and vowing that they would never again go within a mile of his shop, they all went to see poor hayes pulled out before the beak. it was a forty-shilling affair or the option of a week, and in revenge, dick invited last night's party to dinner at a restaurant. they weren't going to put their money into the pocket of that cad of an inn-keeper. hayes was the hero of the hour, and he made everybody roar with laughter at the way in which he related his experiences. but after a time dick, who had always an eye to business, drew his chair up to mortimer's, and begged of him to try to think of some allusions to the adventures which could be worked into the piece. the question was a serious one, and until it was time to go to the theatre the art of gagging was warmly argued. dubois held the most liberal views. he said that after a certain number of nights the author's words should be totally disregarded in favour of topical remarks. bret, who was slow of wit, maintained that the dignity of a piece could only be maintained by sticking to the text, and cited examples to support his opinion. it was, however, finally agreed that whenever mortimer came on the stage, he should say, 'derby isn't a safe place to get drunk in,' and that dubois should reply, 'rather not.' owing to these little emendations, the piece went with a scream, the receipts were over a hundred, and morton and cox's operatic company, having done a very satisfactory week's business, assembled at the station on sunday morning bound for blackpool. kate and dick jumped into a compartment with the same people as before, plus a chorus-girl who was making up to montgomery in the hopes of being allowed to say on the entrance of the duke, 'oh, what a jolly fellow he is!' mortimer shouted to hayes, who always went with the pipe-smokers, and dick spoke about the possibility of producing some new piece at liverpool. dubois, mortimer, bret, and the chorus-girl settled down to a game of nap. dick, leslie, and montgomery were singing tunes or fragments of tunes to each other, and talking about 'effects' that might be introduced into the new piece. but would dick produce a new piece? the conversation changed, and it was asked if no money could be saved this trip in the taking of the tickets, and dick was closely questioned as to when, in his opinion, it would be safe to try their little plant on again. instead of answering he leant back, and gradually a pleasant smile began to trickle over his broad face. he was evidently maturing some plan. 'what is it, dick? do say like a good fellow,' was repeated many times, but he refused to give any reply. this aroused the curiosity of the company, and it grew to burning pitch when the train drew up at a station and dick began a conversation with the guard concerning the length of time they would have at preston, and where they would find the train that was to take them on to blackpool. 'you'll have a quarter of an hour's wait at preston. you'll arrive there at . and at thirty-five past you'll find the train for blackpool drawn up on the right-hand side of the station.' 'thanks very much,' replied dick as he tipped the guard; and then, turning his head towards his friends, he whispered, 'it's as right as a trivet; i shall be back in a minute.' 'where's he off to?' asked everybody. 'he's just gone into the telegraph office,' said montgomery, who was stationed at the window. a moment after dick was seen running up the platform, his big hat giving him the appearance of an american. as he passed each compartment of their carriage he whispered something in at the window. 'what can he be saying? what can he be arranging?' asked miss leslie. 'i don't care how he arranges it as long as i get a drink on the cheap at preston,' said mortimer. 'that's the main point,' replied dubois. 'well, dick, what is it?' exclaimed everybody, as the big man sat down beside kate. 'the moment the train arrives at preston we must all make a rush for the refreshment-rooms and ask for mr. simpson's lunch.' 'who's mr. simpson? what lunch? oh, do tell us! what a mysterious fellow you are!' were the exclamations reiterated all the way along the route. but the only answer they received was, 'now what does it matter who mr. simpson is? eat and drink all you can, and for the life of you don't ask who mr. simpson is, but only for his lunch.' and as soon as the train stopped actors, actresses, chorus-girls and men, conductor, prompter, manager, and baggage-man rushed like a school towards the glass doors of the refreshment-room, where they found a handsome collation laid out for forty people. 'where's mr. simpson's lunch?' shouted dick. 'here, sir, here; all is ready,' replied two obliging waiters. 'where's mr. simpson's lunch?' echoed dubois and montgomery. 'this way, sir; what will you take, sir? cold beef, chicken and ham, or a little soup?' asked half a dozen waiters. the ladies were at first shy of helping themselves, and hung back a little, but dick drove them on, and, the first step taken, they ate of everything. but kate clung to dick timidly, refusing all offers of chicken, ham, and cold beef. 'but is this paid for?' she whispered to him. 'of course it is. mr. simpson's lunch. take care of what you're sayin'. tuck into this plate of chicken; will you have a bit of tongue with it?' and not having the courage to refuse, kate complied in silence. dick crammed her pockets with cakes. but soon the waiters began to wonder at the absence of mr. simpson, and had already commenced their inquiries. approaching mortimer, the head waiter asked that gentleman if mr. simpson was in the room. 'he's just slipped round to the bookstall to get a sunday paper. he'll be back in a minute, and if you'll get me another bit of chicken in the meantime i shall feel obliged.' in five minutes more the table was cleared, and everybody made a movement to retire, and it was then that the refreshment-room people began to exhibit a very genuine interest in the person of mr. simpson. one waiter begged of dick to describe the gentleman to him, another besought of dubois to say at what end of the table mr. simpson had had his lunch. in turn they appealed to the ladies and to the gentlemen, but were always met with the same answer. 'just saw him a minute ago, going up to the station; if you run after him you're sure to catch him.' 'mr. simpson? why, he was here a minute ago; i think he was speaking about sending a telegram; perhaps he's up in the office.' the train bell then rang, and, like a herd in motion, the whole company crowded to the train. the guard shouted, the panic-stricken waiters tumbled over the luggage, and, running from carriage to carriage, begged to be informed as to mr. simpson's whereabouts. 'he's in the end carriage, i tell you, back there, just at the other end of the train.' the seedy black coats were then seen hurrying down the flags, but only to return in a minute, breathless, for further information. but this could not last for ever, and the guard blew his whistle, the actors began gagging. and, oh, the singing, the whistling, the cheers of the mummers as the train rolled away into the country, now all agleam with the sunset! tattoos were beaten with sticks against the woodwork of each compartment. dick, with his body half out of the window and his curls blowing in the wind, yelled at hayes. montgomery disputed with dubois for possession of the other window, and three chorus-girls giggled and, munching stolen cakes, tried to get into conversation with kate. but though love had compensated her for virtue, nothing could make amends to her for her loss of honesty. she could break a moral law with less suffering than might be expected from her bringing up, but the sentiment the most characteristic, and naturally so, of the middle classes is a respect for the property of others; and she had eaten of stolen bread. oppressed and sickened by this idea, she shrank back in her corner, and filled with a sordid loathing of herself, she moved instinctively away from dick. at blackpool mr. williams's pimply face was the first thing that greeted them. there was the usual crowd of landladies who presented their cards and extolled the comfort and cleanliness of their rooms. one of these women was introduced and specially recommended by mr. williams. he declared that her place was a little paradise, and an hour later, still plunged in conscientious regrets at having eaten a luncheon that had not been paid for, kate sat sipping her tea in a rose-coloured room. xiii but next morning at blackpool kate woke up languid, and seeing dick fast asleep, she thought it would be a pity to awaken him, and twisting her pretty legs out of bed, she went into the sitting-room, with the intention of looking after dick's breakfast, and found it laid out on the round table in the rose-coloured sitting-room, the napery of exceeding whiteness. the two armchairs drawn by the quietly burning fire inspired indolence, and tempted at once by the freshness of her dressing-gown and the warmth of the room, she fell into a sort of happy reverie, from which she awoke in a few minutes prompted by a desire to see dick; to see him asleep; to awaken him; to talk to him; to upbraid him for his laziness. the room, full of the intimacy of their life, enchanted her, and half in shame, half in delight, she affected to arrange the pillows while he buttoned his collar. when this was accomplished she led him triumphantly to the breakfast table, and with one arm resting on his knees watched the white shapes of the eggs seen through the bubbling water. this was the great business of the morning. he would pay twopence apiece to have fresh eggs, and was most particular that they should be boiled for three minutes, and not one second more. the landlady brought up the beefsteak and the hot milk for the coffee, and if any friend came in orders were sent down instantly for more food. such extravagance could not fail to astonish kate, accustomed as she had been from her earliest years to a strict and austere mode of life. frequently she begged of dick to be more economical, but having always lived bohemian-like on the money easily gained, he paid very little attention to what she said, beyond advising her to eat more steak and put colour into her cheeks. and once the ice of habit was broken, she likewise began to abandon herself thoroughly to the pleasures of these rich warm breakfasts, and to look forward to the idle hours of digestion which followed, and the happy dreams that could then be indulged in. before the tea-things were removed dick opened the morning paper, and from time to time read aloud scraps of whatever news he thought interesting. these generally concerned the latest pieces produced in london; and, as if ignorant of the fact that she knew nothing of what he was speaking of, he explained to her his views on the subject--why such and such plays would, and others would not, do for the country. kate listened with riveted attention, although she only understood half of what was told her, and the flattery of being taken into his confidence was a soft and fluttering joy. in these moments all fear that he would one day desert her died away like an ugly wind; and, with the noise of the town drumming dimly in the distance, they abandoned themselves to the pleasure of thinking of each other. dick congratulated himself on the choice he had made, and assured himself that he would never know again the ennui of living alone. she was one of the prettiest women you could see anywhere, and, luckily, not too exacting. in fact, she hadn't a fault if it weren't that she was a bit cold, and he couldn't understand how it was; women were not generally cold with him. the question interested him profoundly, and as he considered it his glance wandered from the loose blue masses of hair to the white satin shoe which she held to the red blaze. 'dick, do you think you'll always love me as you do now?' 'i'm sure of it, dear.' 'it seems to me, if one really loves once one must love always. but i don't know how i can talk to you like this, for how can you respect me? i've been so very wicked.' 'what nonsense, kate! how can you talk like that? i wouldn't respect you if you went on living with a man you didn't care about.' 'well, i liked him well enough till you came, dear, but i couldn't then--it wasn't all my fault; but if you should cease to care for me i think i should die. but you won't; tell me that you won't, dear dick.' at that moment the door opened; it was montgomery come to see them. kate jumped off dick's knees, and, settling her skirts with the pretty movement of a surprised woman, threw herself into a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. the musician had come to speak about his opera, especially the opening chorus, about which he could not make up his mind. 'my boy,' said dick, 'don't be afraid of making it too long. there's nothing like having a good strong number to begin with--something with grip in it, you know.' montgomery looked vaguely into space; he was obviously not listening, but was trying to follow out some musical scheme that was running in his head. after a long silence he said: 'what i can't make up my mind about is whether i ought to concert that first number or have it sung in unison. now listen. the scene is the wedding festivities of prince florimel, who is about to wed eva, the daughter of the duke of perhapsburg--devilish good name, you know. well then, the flower-girls come on first, scattering flowers; they proceed two by two and arrange themselves in line on both sides of the stage. they are followed by trumpeters and a herald; then come the ladies-in-waiting, the pages, the courtiers, and the palace servants. very well; the first four lines, you know--"hail! hail! the festive day"--that, of course, is sung by the sopranos.' 'you surely don't want to concert that, do you?' interrupted dick. 'of course not; you must think me an ignoramus. the first four lines are sung naturally in unison; then there is a repeat, in which the tenors and basses are singing against the women's voices. by that time the stage will be full. well, then, what i'm thinking of doing, when i get to the second part, you know--"may the stars much pleasure send you, may romance and love attend you," is to repeat "may the stars."' 'oh, i see what you mean,' said dick, who began to grow interested. you'll give "may the stars" first to the sopranos, and then repeat with the tenors and basses?' 'that's it. i'll show you,' replied montgomery, rushing to the piano. 'here are the sopranos singing in g, "may the stars"; tenors, "may the stars"; tenors and sopranos, "much pleasure send you"; basses an octave lower, "may the stars--may stars." now i'm going to join them together--"may the stars."' twisting round rapidly on the piano-stool, montgomery pushed his glasses high up on his beak-like nose, and demanded an opinion. but before dick could say a word a kick of the long legs brought the musician again face to the keyboard, and for several minutes he crashed away, occasionally shouting forth an explanatory remark, or muttering an apology when he failed to reach the high soprano notes. the lovesong, however, was too much for him, and, laughing at his own breakdown, he turned from the piano and consented to resume the interrupted conversation. then the plot and musical setting of montgomery's new work was discussed. the names of offenbach and hervé were mentioned; both were admitted to be geniuses, but the latter, it was declared, would have been the greater had he had the advantage of a musical education. various anecdotes were related as to how the latter had achieved his first successes, and montgomery, who questioned the possibility of a man who could not write down the notes being able to compose the whole score of an opera, maintained it was ridiculous to talk of dictating a finale. kate often asked herself if she would ever be able to take part in these artistic discussions; she was afraid not. even when she succeeded in picking up the thread of an idea, it soon got tangled with another, and she began to fear she would never know why hervé was a better composer than offenbach, and why a certain quintette was written on classical lines and such-like. she asked montgomery to explain things to her, but he was more anxious to speak of his own music, and when the names of the ladies of the company were being run over in search of one who could take the part of a page, with a song and twenty lines of dialogue to speak, dick said: 'well, perhaps it isn't for me to say it, but i assure you that i don't know a nicer soprano voice than mrs. ede's.' 'ho, ho!' cried montgomery, twisting his legs over the arm of the chair, 'how is it i never heard of this before? but won't you sing something, mrs. ede? if you have any of your songs here i'll try the accompaniment over.' kate, who did not know a crotchet from a semiquaver, grew frightened at this talk of trying over accompaniments, and tried to stammer out some apologies and excuses. 'oh, really, mr. montgomery, i assure you dick is only joking. i don't sing at all--i don't know anything about music.' 'don't you mind her; 'tis as i say: she's got a very nice soprano voice; and as for an ear, i never knew a better in my life. there's no singing flat there, i can tell you. but, seriously speaking,' he continued, taking pity on kate, whose face expressed the agony of shame she was suffering, 'of course i know well enough she don't know how to produce her voice; she never had a lesson in her life, but i think you'll agree with me, when you hear it, that the organ is there. do sing something, kate.' kate cast a beseeching glance at her lover, and murmured some unintelligible words, but they did not save her. montgomery crossed himself over the stool, and, after running his fingers over the keys, said: 'now, sing the scale after me--do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, la--that's the note; try to get that clear--sol, do!' and kate, not liking to disoblige dick, sang the scale after montgomery in the first instance, and then, encouraged by her success, gave it by herself, first in one octave and then in the other. 'well, don't you agree with me?' said dick. 'the organ is there, and there's no fluffing the notes; they come out clear, don't they?' 'they do indeed,' replied montgomery, casting a warm glance of admiration at kate; 'but i should so much like to hear mrs. ede sing a song.' 'oh, i really couldn't--' 'nonsense! sing the song of "the bells" in the _cloches_,' said dick, taking her by the arm. she pleaded and argued, but it was no use, and when at last it was decided she was to sing, montgomery, who had in the meantime been trying the finale of his first act in several different ways, stopped short and said suddenly: 'oh, i beg your pardon; you're going to sing the song of "the bells." i'll tell you when to begin--now, "though they often tell us of our ancient masters."' when kate had finished singing montgomery spun round, bringing himself face to face with dick, and speaking professionally, said: ''pon my word, it's extraordinary. of course it is a head voice, but as soon as we get a few chest notes--you know i don't pretend to be able to teach singing, but after a year's training under my grandfather beaumont wouldn't be in the same street with you.' 'yes, but as he isn't here,' replied dick, who always kept an eye on the possible, 'don't you think it would be as well for her to learn a little music?' 'i shall be only too delighted to teach mrs. ede the little i know myself. i'll come in the morning, and we'll work away at the piano; and you know,' continued montgomery, who began to regret the confession of his inability to teach singing, 'although i don't pretend to be able to do what my grandfather could with a voice, still, i know something about it. i used to attend all his singing-classes, and am pretty well up in his method, and--and--if mrs. ede likes, i shall be only too happy to do some singing with her; and, between you and me, i think that in a few lessons i could get rid of that throatiness, and show her how to get a note or two from the chest.' 'i'm sure you could, my boy; and i shall be delighted with you if you will. of course we must consider it as a matter of business.' 'oh, nonsense, nonsense, between pals!' exclaimed montgomery, who saw a perspective of long hours passed in the society of a pretty woman--a luxury which his long nose and scraggy figure prevented him from indulging in as frequently as he desired. after some further discussion, it was arranged that montgomery should call round some time after breakfast, and that dick should then leave them together to work away at do, re, mi, fa. hamilton's system was purchased, and it surprised and amused kate to learn that the notes between the spaces spelt 'face.' but it was in her singing lessons that she took the most interest, and her voice soon began to improve both in power and quality. she sang the scales for three-quarters of an hour daily, and before the end of the week she so thoroughly satisfied montgomery in her rendering of a ballad he had bought for her that he begged dick to ask a few of the 'co.' in to tea next sunday evening. the shine would be taken out of beaumont, he declared with emphasis. kate, however, would not hear of singing before anybody for the present, and she gave up going to the theatre in the evening so that she might have two or three hours of quiet to study music-reading by herself. in the morning she woke to talk of montgomery, who generally came in while they were at breakfast; and when the lesson was over he would often stop on until they were far advanced in the afternoon; and, looking at each other from time to time, they spoke of the next town they were going to, and alluded to the events of their last journey. kate would have liked to speak much of dick, but she felt ashamed, and listened with interest to all montgomery told her of himself, of the difficulties he had to contend against, of his hopes for the future. he spoke a great deal of his opera, and often sprang up in the middle of a sentence to give a practical illustration of his meaning on the instrument. but these musical digressions did not weary kate, and to the best of her ability she judged the different versions of the finale. 'give the public what they want,' was his motto, and he intended to act up to it. he had written two or three comic songs that had been immense successes, not to speak of the yards of pantomime music he had composed, and he knew that when he got hold of a good book in three acts he'd be able to tackle it. what he was doing now was not much more than a curtain-raiser; but never mind, that was the way to begin. you couldn't expect a manager to trust you with the piece of the evening until you'd proved that you could interest the public in smaller work. at this point of the argument montgomery generally spoke of dick, whom he declared was a dear good fellow, who would be only too glad to give a pal a lift when the time came. kate, on her side, longed to hear something of her lover from an outside source. all she knew of him she had learned from his own lips. montgomery, in whose head all sorts of reveries concerning kate were floating, was burning to talk to her of her lover, and to hear from her own lips of the happiness which he imagined a true and perfect affection bestowed upon human life. kate had not spoken on this important subject; and montgomery, for fear of wounding her feelings, had avoided it; but they were conscious that the restraint jarred their intimacy. one afternoon dick suddenly burst in upon them, and after some preamble told them that he had arranged to meet there some gentleman with whom he had important business to transact. montgomery took up his hat and prepared to go, and kate offered to sit with the landlady in the kitchen. 'i'm afraid you'll bore yourself, dear,' dick said after a pause. 'but i'll tell you what you might do--i shan't be able to take you out to-day. why not go for a walk with montgomery?' 'i shall be delighted; i'll take you for a charming walk up the hill, and show you the whole town.' kate had no objection to make, and she returned to the sitting-room sooner than they expected her. 'a quick-change artist,' dick said. she wore a brown costume, trimmed with feathers to match; a small bonnet crowned the top of her head, and her face looked adorably coquettish amid the big bows into which she had tied the strings. her companion was very conscious of this fact, and with his heart full of pride he occasionally jerked his head round to watch the passers-by, doubting at the same time if any were as happy as he. it was a great pleasure to be alone with kate in the open air, walking by her side, escorting her, and telling her as they walked all he knew about blackpool: that it bore the same relation to the other towns of lancashire as the seventh day does to the other six of the week; that it was the huge lancashire sunday, where the working classes of accrington, blackburn, preston, and burnley, during a week or a fortnight of the year, go to recreate themselves. 'the streets are built with large pavements,' he told her, 'so that jostling may be avoided, and there are many open spaces where people may loiter and congregate; the bonnets exhibited in the plate-glass windows, you can see, are obviously intended for holiday wear.' she stopped to look at these. 'not one,' he said, 'is as pretty as the one you're wearing.' 'it's a pretty little hat,' she answered, and he pointed to the spider-legged piers and to a high headland, a sort of green cap over the ocean. 'do you know that the fellow who owns that building has made a fortune?' said montgomery, pointing to the roofs which began to appear above the edge of the common. 'did he really?' replied kate, trying to appear interested. 'yes; he began with a sort of shanty where he sold ginger-beer and lemonade. it became the fashion to go out there, and now he's got dining-rooms and a spirit licence. we went up there last week, a lot of us, and we had such fun; we went donkey-riding, and leslie had a fall. did she tell you of it?' 'no; i've scarcely spoken to her for the last few days.' 'how's that? i thought you were such friends.' 'i like her very much; but she's always on the stage at night, and i don't like--i mean i should like--but i don't know that she would like me to go and see her.' 'and why not, pray?' 'well, i thought she mightn't like me to come and see her, because, i'm--well, on account of dick.' 'there's nothing between them now; that's all over ages ago, and she's dead nuts on bret.' kate had been nearly a fortnight with the mummers, but she had lived almost apart. she had not yet learnt that in the company she was in no opprobrium was attached to the fact of a woman having a lover, and she still supposed that because she had left her husband leslie might not like to associate with her. to learn, then, that she had only replaced another woman in dick's affections came upon her with a shock, and it was the very suddenness of the blow that saved her from half the pain; for it was impossible for a woman who saw in the world nothing but the sacrifice she had made for the man she loved, to realize the fact that dick's love of her was a toy that had been taken up, just as love of miss leslie was a toy that had been laid down. it did not occur to her to think that the man she was living with might desert her, nor did she experience any very cruel pangs of jealousy; she was more startled than anything else by the appearance of a third person in the world which for the last week had seemed so entirely her own. 'what do you mean?' she said, stopping abruptly. 'was dick in love with miss leslie before he knew me?' montgomery coloured, and strove to improvise excuses. 'no,' he said, 'of course he wasn't really in love with her; but we used to chaff him about her; that's all.' 'why should you do that, when she is in love with bret?' said kate harshly. montgomery, who dreaded a quarrel with dick as he would death, grasped at a bit of truth to help him out of his difficulty. 'but i assure you bret and leslie's affair only began a couple of months ago, when we first went out on tour. we joked dick about her to vex him, that's all. if you don't believe me, you can ask the rest of the company.' to this kate made no reply, and with her eyes upon the ground she remained for some moments thinking. the light and the matter-of-course way in which her companion spoke of the affections troubled her exceedingly, and very naïvely she asked herself if the company did not admit fornication among the sins. ''tis too bad to be taken up in that way,' he said. 'there's always a bit of chaff going on; but if it were all taken for gospel truth i don't know where we should be. i give you my word of honour that i don't think he ever looked twice at her; anyhow, he didn't hesitate between you; nor could he, for, of course, you know you're a fifty times prettier woman.' kate answered the flattery with a delightful smile, and montgomery thought that he had convinced her. but the young man was deceived by appearances. he had succeeded more in turning the current of her thoughts than in persuading her. 'you seem to think very lightly of such things,' she said, raising her brown eyes with a look that melted her face to a heavenly softness. montgomery did not understand, and she was forced to explain. this was difficult to do, but, after a slight hesitation, she said: 'then you really do believe that miss leslie and mr. bret are lovers?' 'oh, i really don't know,' he said hastily, for he saw himself drawn into a fresh complication; 'i never pry into other people's affairs. they seem to like each other, that's all.' it was now kate's turn to see that indiscreet questions might lead to the quarrels she was most anxious to avoid, and they walked along the breezy common in silence, seeing the sea below them, and far away the weedy waste of stone filled with the white wings of gulls, touched here and there with the black backs of the shrimp-fishers. 'how strange it is that the sea should go and come like that! i'd never seen it as it is now till the day before yesterday, and dick was so amused, for i thought it was going to dry up. the morning after our arrival here we sat down by the bathing-boxes on the beach and listened to the waves. they roared along the shore. it's very wonderful. don't you think so?' 'yes, indeed i do. when i was here before, i spent one whole morning listening to the waves, and their surging suggested a waltz to me. this is the way it went,' and leaning on the rough paling that guarded the precipitous edge, montgomery sang his unpublished composition. 'i never got any further,' he said, stopping short in the middle of the second part; 'i somehow lost the character of the thing; but i like the opening.' 'oh, so do i. i wonder how you can think of such tunes. how clever you must be!' montgomery smiled nervously, and he proposed that they should go over to the hotel to have a drink. 'oh, i don't like to go up there,' she said, after examining for some moments this hillside bar-room. 'there're too many men.' 'what does it matter? we'll have a table to ourselves. besides, you'd better have something to eat, for now we're out we may as well stay out. there's no use going back yet awhile;' and he talked so rapidly of his waltz--of whether he should call it the 'wave,' the 'seashore,' or the 'cliff,' that he didn't give her time to collect her thoughts. 'i can't go in there,' she said; 'why, it's only a public-house.' 'everybody comes up here to have a drink. it's quite the fashion.' the men round the doorway stared at her, and seeing some of the chorus-girls coming from where the donkeys were stationed, in the company of young men with high collars and tight trousers, she almost ran into the bar-room. 'now you see what a scrape you've led me into, i wouldn't have met those people for anything.' 'what does it matter? if it were wrong do you think i'd bring you in here? you ask dick when you get home.' a doubt of the possibility of dick thinking anything wrong clouded kate's mind, and montgomery ordered sandwiches and two brandies-and-sodas. the sandwiches were excellent, and kate, who had scarcely tasted anything but beer in her life, thought the brandy-and-soda very refreshing. the question then came of how to get out of the place, and after much hesitation and conjecturing, they slipped out the back way through the poultry-yard and stables. in front of them was a very steep path that led to the sea strand. large masses of earth had given way, and these had formed ledges which, in turn, had somehow become linked together, and it was possible to climb down these. 'do you think you could manage?' he said, holding out his hand. 'i don't know; do you think it dangerous?' 'no, not if you take care; but the cliff is pretty high; it would not do to fall over. perhaps you'd better come back across the common by the road.' 'and meet all those girls?' 'i don't see why you should be afraid of meeting them,' said montgomery, who was secretly anxious to show the chorus that if he were not the possessor, he was at least on intimate terms of friendship with this pretty woman. 'no, i'd sooner not meet them, and coming out of a public-house; i don't see why we shouldn't come down this way. i'm sure i can manage it if you'll give me your hand and go first.' the descent then began. kate's high-heeled boots were hard to walk in, and every now and then her feet would fail her, and she would utter little cries of fear, and lean against the cliff's side. it was delightful to reassure her, and montgomery profited by those occasions to lay his hands upon her shoulders and hold her arms in his hands. no human creature was in hearing or in sight, and solitude seemed to unite them, and the mimic danger of the descent to endear them to each other. the quiet and enchantment of earth and air melted into her thoughts until she enjoyed a perfect bliss of unreasoned emotion. he, too, was conscious of the day, and his happiness, touched with a diffused sense of desire, was intense, even to a savour of bitterness. like all young men, he longed to complete his youth by some great passion, but out of horror of the gross sensualities with which he was always surrounded, his delicate artistic nature took refuge in a half-platonic affection for his friend's mistress. it was an infinite pleasure, and could it have lasted for ever he would not have thought of changing it. to take her by the hand and help her to cross the weedy stones; to watch her pretty stare of wonderment when he explained that the flux and the reflux of the tides were governed by the moon; to hear her speak of love, and to dream what that love might be, was enough. along the coast there were miles and miles of reaches, and to gain the sea they were obliged to make many detours. sometimes they came upon long stretches of sand separated by what seemed to them to be a river, and montgomery often proposed that he should carry kate across the streamlet. but she would not hear of it, although on one occasion she did not refuse until he had placed his arms around her waist. escaping from him, she ran along the edge, saying she would find a crossing. montgomery pursued her, amused by the fluttering of her petticoats; but after a race of twenty or thirty yards, they found that their discovered river was only a long pool that owned no outlet to the sea, and they both stopped like disappointed children. 'well, never mind,' said kate; 'did you ever see such beautiful clear water? i must have a drink.' 'you've no cup,' he said, turning away so that she should not see him laughing. 'you might manage to get up a little in your hands.' 'so i might. oh, what fun! tell me how i'm to do it.' he told her how to hollow her hands, and waited to enjoy the result, and, forgetful that the sea was salt she lifted the brine to her lips; but when she spat out the horrible mouthful and turned on him a questioning face, he only answered that if she didn't take care she would be the death of him. 'and didn't ums know the sea was salt, and did ums think it very nasty, and not half as nice as a brandy-and-soda?' kate watched him for a moment, and then her face clouded, and pouting her pretty lips, she said: 'of course i don't pretend to be as clever as you, but if you'd never seen the sea until a week ago you might forget.' 'yes, yes, for-for-get that it--it wasn't as nice as brandy-and-soda,' cried montgomery, holding his sides. 'i wasn't going to say that, and it was very rude of you to interrupt me in that way.' 'now come, don't get cross. you should understand a joke better than that,' he replied, for seeing the tears in her eyes he began to fear that he had spoilt the delight of their day. 'i think it is unkind of you to laugh at me and play tricks on me like that,' said kate, trying to master her emotion; and as they walked under the sunset, montgomery broke long and irritating silences by apologizing for his indiscretion, but kate did not answer him until they arrived at a place where a little boy and girl were fishing for shrimps. here there was quite a little lake, and amid the rocks and weedy stones the clear water flowed as it might in an aquarium, the liquid surface reflecting as perfectly as any mirror the sky's blue, with clouds going by and many delicate opal tints, and the forms of the children's plump limbs. 'oh, how nice they look! what little dears!' exclaimed kate, but as she pressed forward to watch the children her foot dislodged a young lobster from the corner of rock in which he had been hiding. 'that's a lobster,' cried montgomery. 'is it?' cried kate, and she pursued the ungainly thing, which sought vainly for a crevice. after an animated chase, with the aid of her parasol she caught it, and was about to take it up with her fingers when montgomery stopped her. 'you'd better take care; it will pretty well nip the fingers off you.' 'you aren't joking?' she asked innocently. 'no, indeed i'm not; but i hope you don't mind my telling you.' at that moment their eyes met, and kate, seeing how foolish she had been, burst into fits of laughter. 'no, no, no, i--i don't mind your telling me that--that a lobster bites, but--' 'but when it comes to saying sea-water is not as nice as brandy-and-soda,' he replied, bursting into a roar of merriment, 'we cut up rough, don't we?' the children climbed up on the rocks to look at them, and it was some time before kate could find words to ask them to show what they had caught. the little boy was especially clever at his work, and regardless of wetting himself, he plunged into the deepest pools, intercepting with his net at every turn the shrimps that vainly sought to escape him. his little sister, too, was not lacking in dexterity, and between them they had filled a fairly-sized basket. kate examined everything with an almost feverish interest. she tore long gluey masses of seaweed from the rocks and insisted on carrying them home; the mussels she found on the rocks interested her; she questioned the little shrimp fishers for several minutes about a dead starfish, and they stared in open-eyed amazement, thinking it very strange that a grown-up woman should ask such questions. at last the little boy showed her what she was to do with the lobster. he wedged the claws with two bits of wood, and attached a string whereby she might carry it in her hand, and in silences that were only interrupted by occasional words they picked their way along the strand. kate thought of dick--of what he was doing, of what he was saying. she saw him surrounded by men; there were glasses on the table. she looked into his large, melancholy blue eyes, and dreamed of the time she would again sit on his knees and explain to him for the hundredth time that love was all-sufficing, and that he who possessed it could possess nothing more. montgomery was also thinking of dick, and for the conquest of so pretty a woman the dreamy-minded musician viewed his manager with admiration. the morality of the question did not appeal to him, and his only fear was that kate would one day be deserted. 'if so, i shall have to support her.' he thought of the music he would have to compose--songs, all of which would be dedicated to her. 'have you known dick,' she asked suddenly, 'a long time?' 'two or three years or so,' replied montgomery, a little abashed at a question which sounded at that moment like a distant echo of his own thoughts. 'why do you ask?' 'for no particular reason, only you seem such great friends.' 'yes, i like him very much; he's a dear good fellow, he'd divide his last bob with a pal.' the conversation then came to a pause. both suddenly remembered how they had set out on their walk determined to seek information of each other on certain subjects. montgomery wished to hear from kate how dick had persuaded her to run away with him; kate wanted to learn from montgomery something of her lover's private life--if he were faithful to a woman when he loved her, if he had been in love with many women before. as she considered how she would put her questions a grey cloud passed over her face, and she thought of leslie. but just as she was going to speak montgomery interrupted her. he said: 'you didn't know dick before he came to lodge in your house at hanley, did you?' kate raised her eyes with a swift and startled look, but being anxious to speak on the subject she replied, speaking very softly: 'no, and perhaps it would have been well if he had never come to my house.' there was not so much insincerity in the phrase as may at first appear. nearly all women consider it necessary to maintain to themselves and to others that they deeply regret having sinned. the delusion at once pleases and consoles them, and they cling to it to the last. 'i often think of you,' said montgomery. 'yours appears to me such a romantic story ... you who sat all day and mi-mi--' he was going to say minding a sick husband, but for fear of wounding her feelings he altered the sentence to 'and never, or hardly ever, left hanley in your life, should be going about the country with us.' kate, who guessed what he had intended saying, answered: 'yes, i'm afraid i've been very wicked. i often think of it and you must despise me. that's what makes me ashamed to go about with the rest of the company. i'm always wondering what they think of me. tell me, do tell me the truth; i don't mind hearing it. what do they say about me? do they abuse me very much?' 'abuse you? they abuse you for being a pretty woman, i suppose; but as for anything else, good heavens! they'd look well! why, you're far the most respectable one among the lot. don't you know that?' 'i suspected beaumont was not quite right, perhaps; but you don't mean to say there isn't one? not that little thing with fair hair who sings in the chorus?' 'well, yes, they say she's all right. there are one or two, perhaps; but when it comes to asking me if beaumont and leslie are down on you--well!' montgomery burst out laughing. this decided expression of opinion was grateful to kate's feelings, and the conversation might have been pursued with advantage, but seeing an opportunity of speaking of dick, she said: 'but you told me there was nothing between mr. bret and miss leslie.' 'i told you i didn't know whether there was or not; but i'm quite sure there never was between her and dick. you see i can guess what you're trying to get at.' 'i can scarcely believe it. now i think of it, i remember she was in his room the night of the row, when he turned me out.' 'yes, yes; but there were a lot of us. the principals in a company generally stick together. it's extraordinary how you women will keep on nagging at a thing. i swear to you that i'm as certain as i stand here there was never anything between them. do let us talk of something else.' they had now wandered back to the fine pebbly beach, to within a hundred yards of the pier, and above the high cliff they could just see the red chimney-stacks of the town. montgomery sang his waltz softly over, but before he arrived at the second part his thoughts wandered, and he said: 'have you heard anything of your husband since you left hanley?' the abruptness of the question made kate start; but she was not offended, and she answered: 'no, i haven't. i wonder what he'll do.' 'possibly apply for a divorce. if he does, you'll be able to marry dick.' a flush of pleasure passed over kate's face, and when she raised her eyes her look seemed to have caught some of the brightness of the sunset. but it died into grey gloom even as the light above, and she said sighing: 'i don't suppose he'd marry me.' 'well, if he wouldn't, there are lots who would.' 'what do you mean?' asked kate simply. 'oh, nothing; only i should think that anyone would be glad to marry you,' the young man answered, hoping that she would not repeat the conversation to her lover. 'i hope he will; for if he were to leave me, i think i should die. but tell me--you will, won't you? for you are my friend, aren't you?' 'i hope so,' he replied constrainedly. 'well, tell me the truth: do you think he can be constant to a woman? does he get tired easily? does he like change?' kate laid her hand on montgomery's shoulder, and looked pleadingly in his face. 'dick is an awful good fellow, and i'm sure he couldn't but behave well to anyone he liked--not to say loved; and i know that he never cared for anybody as he does for you; he as much as told me.' kate's smile was expressive of pleasure and weariness, and after a pause, she said: 'i hope what you say is true; but i don't think men ever love as women do. when we give our heart to one man, we cannot love another. i don't know why, but i don't believe that a man could be quite faithful to a woman.' 'that's all nonsense. i'm sure that if i loved a woman it wouldn't occur to me to think of another.' 'perhaps you might,' she answered; and, unconsciously comparing them with dick's jovial features, she examined intently the enormous nose and the hollow, sunken cheeks. montgomery wondered what she was thinking of, and he half guessed that she was considering if it were possible that any woman could care for him. to die without ever having been able to inspire an affection was a fear that was habitual to him, and often at night he lay awake, racked by the thought that his ugliness would ever debar him from attaining this dearly desired end. 'were you ever in love with anybody?' she asked, after a long silence. 'yes, once.' 'and did she care for you?' 'yes, i think she did at first. we used to meet at dinner every day; but then she fell in love with an acrobat--i suppose you would call him an acrobat--i mean one of those gutta-percha men who tie their legs in a knot over their heads. the child was deformed. i was awfully cut up about it at the time, but it's all over now.' the conversation then came to a pause. kate did not like to ask any further questions, but as she stared vaguely at the pale sun setting, she wondered what the acrobat was like, and how a girl could prefer a gutta-percha man to the musician. as the minutes passed, the silence grew more irritating, and the evening colder. 'i'm afraid we shall catch a chill if we remain here much longer, said montgomery, who had again begun to sing his waltz over. 'yes, i think we'd better be getting home,' kate answered dreamily. after some searching, they found a huge stairway cut for the use of bathers in the side of the cliff, and up this feet-torturing path montgomery helped kate carefully and lovingly. xiv from blackpool morton and cox's opera company proceeded to southport, and, still going northward, they visited newcastle, durham, dundee, glasgow, and edinburgh. but in no one town did they remain more than a week. every sunday morning, regardless as swallows of chiming church-bells, they met at the station and were whirled as fast as steam could take them to new streets, lodging-houses, and theatres. to kate this constant change was at once wearying and perplexing, and she often feared that she would never become accustomed to her new mode of life. but on the principle that we can scarcely be said to be moving when all around is moving in a like proportion, kate learned to regard locality as a mere nothing, and to fix her centre of gravity in the forty human beings who were wandering with her, bound to her by the light ties of _opéra bouffe_. wherever she went her life remained the same. she saw the same faces, heard the same words. were they likely to do good business? was debated when they alighted from the train; that they had or had not done good business was affirmed when they jumped into the train. soon even the change of apartments ceased to astonish her, and she saw nothing surprising in the fact that her chest of drawers was one week on the right and the following on the left-hand side of her bed. nor did she notice after two or three months of travelling whether wax flowers did or did not decorate the corners of her sitting-room, and it seemed to her of no moment whether the venetian blinds were green or brown. the dinners she ate were as good in one place as in another; the family resemblance which slaveys bear to each other satisfied her eyes, and the difference of latitude and longitude between glasgow and aberdeen she found did not in the least alter her daily occupations. montgomery came to see her every morning, and the tunefulness of the piano was really all that reminded them of their change of residence. from twelve until three they worked at music, both vocal and instrumental. dick sought for excuses to absent himself, but when he returned he always insisted that montgomery should remain to dinner. all formalities between them were abolished, and kate did not hesitate to sit on her lover's knees in the presence of her music-master. but he did not seem to care, he only laughed a little nervously. kate sometimes wondered if he really disliked witnessing such familiarities. in her heart of hearts she was conscious that there were affinities of sentiment between them, and during the music lessons they talked continually of love. the sight of montgomery's lanky face often interrupted an emotional mood, but she recovered it again when he sat looking at her, talking to her of his music. in this way he became a necessity to her existence, a sort of spiritual light. they never wearied of talking about dick; between them it was always dick, dick, dick! he told her anecdotes concerning him--how he had acted certain parts; how he had stage-managed certain pieces; of supper parties; of adventures they had been engaged in. these stories amused kate, although the odour of woman in which they were bathed, as in an atmosphere, annoyed and troubled her. as if to repay him for his kindness, she became confidential, and one day she told him the story of her life. it would, she said, were it taken down, make the most wonderful story-book ever written; and beginning at the beginning, she gave rapidly an account of her childhood, accentuating the religious and severe manner in which she had been brought up, until the time she and her mother made the acquaintance of the edes. there it was necessary to hesitate. she did not wish to tell an absolute lie, but was yet desirous to convey the impression that her marriage with mr. ede had been forced upon her; but montgomery had already accepted it as a foregone conclusion. with his fingers twisted through his hair, and his head thrust forward in the position in which we are accustomed to see composers seeking inspiration depicted, he listened, passionately interested. and when it came to telling of the mental struggle she had gone through when struggling between her love for dick and her duty towards her husband, montgomery's face, under the influence of many emotions, straightened and contracted. he asked a hundred questions, and was anxious to know what she had thought of dick when she saw him for the first time. she told him all she could remember. her account of the visit to the potteries proved very amusing, but before she told him of their fall amid the cups and saucers she made montgomery swear he would never breathe a word. 'oh, the devil! was that the way he cut his legs? he told us that he had forgotten his latchkey, and that he had done it in getting over the garden-wall.' running his hand over the piano, montgomery begged of kate to continue her story; but as she proceeded with the analysis of her passion the events became more and more difficult to narrate; and she knew not how to tell the tale how one dark night her husband sent her down to open the door to dick; but she must tell everything so that the whole of the blame should not fall upon him. she alluded vaguely to violence and to force; montgomery's face darkened and he protested against his friend's conduct. to kate it was consoling to meet someone who thought she was not entirely to blame, and the conversation came to a pause. 'and now i'm going about the country with you all, and am thinking of going on the stage.' 'and will be a success, too--that i'll bet my life.' 'do you really think so? do tell me the real truth; do you think i shall ever be able to sing?' 'i'm sure of it.' 'well, i'm glad to hear you say so, for it's now more necessary than ever.' 'how do you mean? has anything fresh happened? you're not on bad terms with dick, are you? tell me.' 'oh, not the least! dick is very good to me; but if i tell you something you promise not to mention it?' 'i promise.' 'well, we were--i don't know what you call it--summoned, i think--by a man before we left blackpool to appear in the divorce court.' for nearly half a minute they looked at each other in silence; then montgomery said: 'i suppose it was after all about the best thing that could happen.' this answer surprised kate. 'why,' she said, 'do you think it's the best thing that could happen to me?' 'because when you get your divorce, if you play your cards well, you'll be able to get dick to marry you.' kate made no reply, and for some time both considered the question in silence. she wondered if dick loved her sufficiently to make such a sacrifice for her: montgomery reflected on the best means of persuading his friend 'to do right by the woman.' at last he said: 'but what did you mean just now when you said that it was more necessary than ever that you should go on the stage?' 'i don't know, only that if i'm going to be divorced i suppose i'd better see what i can do to get my living.' 'well, it isn't my fault if you aren't on the stage already. i've been trying to induce you to make up your mind for the last month past.' 'oh, the chorus! that horrid chorus! i never could walk about before a whole theatre full of people in those red tights.' 'there's nothing indecent in wearing tights. our leading actresses play in travestie. in faust trebelli bettini wears tights, and i'm sure no one can say anything against her.' tights were a constant subject of discussion between the three, friend, mistress, and lover. all sorts of arguments had been adduced, but none of them had shaken kate's unreasoned convictions on this point. a sense of modesty inherited through generations rose to her head, and a feeling of repugnance that seemed almost invincible, forbade her to bare herself thus to the eyes of a gazing public. but although inborn tendencies cannot be eradicated, the will that sustains them can be broken by force of circumstances, and her resolutions began to fail her when dick declared that the thirty shillings a week she would thus earn would be a real assistance to them. in reality the manager had no immediate need of the money, but it went against his feelings to allow principles, and above all principles he could not but think absurd, to stand in the way of his turning over a bit of coin. 'besides, he said, 'how can i put you into a leading business all at once? no matter how well you knew your words, you'd dry up when you got before the footlights. you must get over your stage fright in the chorus. on the first occasion i'll give you a line to speak, then two or three, and then when you've learnt to blurt them out without hesitation, we'll see about a part.' these and similar phrases were dinned into her ears, until at last the matter got somehow decided, and the london costumier was telegraphed to for a new dress. when it arrived a few days after, the opening of the package caused a good deal of merriment. dick held up the long red stockings, as kate called the tights, before montgomery. it was too late now to retract. the dress looked beautiful, and tempted on all sides, she consented to appear that night in _les cloches_. so at half-past six she walked down to the theatre with her bundle under her arm. dick had not allotted to her a dressing-room, and to avoid miss beaumont, who was always rude, she went of her own accord up to number six. an old woman opened the door to her, and when kate had explained what she had come for, she said: 'very well, ma'am. i'm sure i don't mind; but we're already eight in this room, and have only one basin and looking-glass between the lot. i'm afraid you won't be very comfortable.' 'oh! that won't matter. it may be only for to-night. if i'm too much in the way i'll ask mr. lennox to put me somewhere else.' on that kate entered. it was a long, narrow, whitewashed room, smelling strongly of violet-powder and clothes. nobody had arrived yet, and the dresses lay spread out on chairs awaiting the wearers. one was a peasant-girl's dress--a short calico skirt trimmed with wreaths of wild flowers, and she regretted that she could not exchange the page's attire for one of these. 'and as regards the tights,' added the old woman, 'you'd have to wear them just the same with peasant-girls' frocks as with these trunks, for, as you can see, the skirts only just come below the knees.' at this moment the conversation was interrupted by the clattering of feet on the rickety staircase and two girls entered talking loudly; kate had often spoken to them in the wings. then some more women arrived, and kate withdrew her chair as far out of reach as possible of the flying petticoats and the scattered boots and shoes. one lady could not find her tights, another insisted on the bodice of her dress being laced up at once; three voices shouted at once for the dresser, and the call-boy was heard outside: 'ladies! ladies! mr. lennox is waiting; the curtain is going up.' 'all right! all right!' cried an octave of treble voices, and tripping over their swords, those who were ready hurried downstairs, leaving the others screaming at the dresser, who was vainly attempting to tidy the room. when kate got on the stage the first person she saw was montgomery, the very one she wished most to avoid. after having conducted the overture he had come up to find out the reason of the 'wait.' dick was rushing about, declaring that if this ever occurred again half a-crown would be stopped out of all the salaries. 'oh! how very nice we look! and they're not thin,' exclaimed montgomery, pushing his glasses up on his nose. and forgetting his difficulties as if by magic, dick smiled with delight as, holding her at arm's length, he looked at her critically. 'charming, my dear! there won't be a man in front who won't fall in love with you. but i must see where i can place you.' all the rest passed as rapidly as in a dream, and before she could again think distinctly she was walking round the stage in the company of a score of other girls. treading in time to the music, they formed themselves into lines, making place for leslie, who came running down to the footlights. there was no time for thinking; she was whirled along. between the acts she had to rush upstairs to put on another dress; between the scenes she had to watch to know when she had to go on. sometimes dick spoke to her, but he was generally far away, and it was not until the curtain had been rung down for the last time that she got an opportunity of speaking to him. as they walked home up the dark street when all was over, she laid her hand affectionately on his arm: 'tell me, dick, are you satisfied with me? i've done my best to please you.' 'satisfied with you?' replied the big man, turning towards her in his kind unctuous way, 'i should think so: you looked lovely, and your voice was heard above everybody's. i wish you'd heard what montgomery said. i'll give you a line to speak when you've got a bit of confidence. you're a bit timid, that's all.' and delighted kate listened to dick, who had begun to sketch out a career for her. her voice, he said, would improve. she'd have twice the voice in a year from now, and with twice the voice she'd not only be able to sing clairette in _madame angot_, but all schneider's great parts. he talked on and on, and in the early hours of the morning he was relating how _the brigands_ had failed at the globe, the conditions of his capitalist being that his mistress was to play one of the leading parts at a high salary, and that he was to take over the bars. that was thirty pounds a week gone; and the woman sang so fearfully out of tune that she was hissed--a pity, for the piece contained some of offenbach's best music. a casual reference to the dresses led up to a detailed account of how he had bought the satin down at the docks at the extraordinary low price of two shillings a yard, and this bargain prepared the way for a long story concerning a girl who had worn one of these identical dresses. she was now a leading london actress, and every step of her upward career was gone into. then followed several biographies. charlie ---- sang in the chorus and was now a leading tenor. miss ---- had married a rich man on the stock exchange; and so on. indeed, everybody in that ill-fated piece seemed to have succeeded except the manager himself. but no such criticism occurred to kate. her heart was swollen with admiration for the man who had been once at the head of all this talent, and the rich-coloured future he would shape for her flowed hazily through her mind. and kate grew happier as the days passed until she began to think she must be the happiest woman living. her life had now an occupation, and no hour that went pressed upon her heavier than would a butterfly's wing. the mornings when dick was with her had always been delightful; and the afternoons had been taken up with her musical studies. it was the long evenings she used to dread; now they had become part and parcel of her daily pleasures. they dined about four, and when dinner was over it was time to talk about what kind of house they were going to have, to fidget about in search of brushes and combs, the curling-tongs, and to consider what little necessaries she had better bring down to the theatre with her. at first it seemed very strange to her to go tripping down these narrow streets at a certain hour--streets that were filled with people, for the stage and the pit entrance are always within a few yards of each other, and to hear the passers-by whisper as she went by, 'she's one of the actresses.' one day she found a letter addressed to her under the name chosen by dick--a picturesque name he thought looked well on posters--and not suspecting what was in it, she tore open the envelope in presence of half-a-dozen chorus-girls, who had collected in the passage. a diamond ring fell on the floor, and in astonishment kate read: 'dear miss d'arcy,--in recognition of your beauty and the graceful way in which you play your part, i beg to enclose you a ring, which i hope to see on your finger to-night. if you wear it on the right hand i shall understand that you will allow me to wait for you at the stage-door. if, however, you decide that my little offering suits better your left hand, i shall understand that i am unfortunate. '(signed) an admirer.' 'who left this here?' asked kate of the doorkeeper. 'a tall young gent--a london man, i should think, by the cut of him, but he left no name.' 'a very pretty ring, anyhow,' said a girl, picking it up. 'not bad,' said another; 'i got one like it last year at sheffield,' 'but what shall i do with it?' asked kate. 'why, wear it, of course,' answered two or three voices simultaneously. 'wear it!' she repeated, and feeling very much like one in possession of stolen goods, she hurried on to the stage, intending to ask dick what she was to do with the ring. she found him disputing with the property man, and it was some time before he could bring himself to forget the annoyance that a scarcity of daggers had occasioned him. at last, however, with a violent effort of will, he took the note from her hand and read it through. when he had mastered the contents a good-natured smile illumined his chub-cheeked face, and he said: 'well, what do you want to say? i think the ring a very nice one; let's see how it looks on your hand,' 'you don't mean that i'm to wear it?' 'and why not? i think it's a very nice ring,' the manager said unaffectedly. 'wear it first on one hand and then on the other, dear; that will puzzle him,' 'but supposing he comes to meet me at the stage-door?' 'well, what will that matter? we'll go out together; i'll see that he keeps his distance. but now run up and get dressed.' 'now then, come in,' cried dolly, who was walking about in a pair of blue stockings. 'you're as bashful as an undergraduate.' a roar of laughter greeted this sally, and feeling humiliated, she began to dress. 'you haven't heard dolly's story of the undergraduate?' shouted a girl from the other end of the room. 'no, and don't want to,' replied kate, indignantly. 'the conversation in this room is perfectly horrid. i shall ask mr. lennox to change me. and really, miss goddard, i think you might manage to dress yourself with a little more decency.' 'well, if you call this dress,' exclaimed dolly, fanning herself. 'i suppose one must take off one's stockings to please you. you're as bad as----' dolly was the wit of no. dressing-room, and having obtained her laugh she sought to conciliate kate. to achieve this she began by putting on her tights. 'now, mrs. lennox,' she said, 'don't be angry; if i've a good figure i can't help it. and i do want to hear about the diamond ring.' this was said so quaintly, so cunningly, as the americans would say, that kate couldn't help smiling, and abandoning her hand she allowed dolly to examine the ring. 'i never saw anything prettier in my life. it wasn't an undergra--?' said the girl, who was a low comedian at heart and knew the value of repetition. 'i must drink to his health. who has any liquor? have you, vincent?' 'just a drain left,' said a fat girl, pulling a flat bottle out of a dirty black skirt, 'but i'm going to keep it for the end of the second act.' 'selfishness will be your ruin,' said dolly. 'let's subscribe to drink the gentleman's health,' she added, winking at the bevy of damsels who stood waiting, their hands on their hips. and it being impossible for kate to misunderstand what was expected of her she said: 'i shall be very glad to stand treat. what shall it be?' after some discussion it was agreed that they could not do better than a bottle of whisky. the decrepit dresser was given the money, with strict injunctions from dolly not to uncork the bottle. 'we can do that ourselves,' the girl added, facetiously; and a noisy interest was manifested in the ring, the sender and the letter. kate said that dick had advised her to wear the ring first on one hand and then on the other. 'to keep changing it from one hand to another,' cried dolly; 'not a bad idea; and now to the health and success of the sender of the ring.' 'i cannot drink to that toast,' kate answered, laying aside her glass. 'that the word "success" be omitted from the toast!' cried dolly, and the merriment did not cease until the call-boy was heard crying, 'ladies, ladies! mr. lennox is waiting on the stage.' then there was a scramble for the glass and the dresser, and dolly's voice was heard screaming: 'now then, mother hubbard, have you the sweet-stuff i told you to get? i don't want to go downstairs stinking of raw spirit.' 'i couldn't get any,' said the old woman, 'but i brought two slices of bread; that'll do as well.' 'you're a knowing old card,' said dolly. 'eat a mouthful or two, it'll take the smell off, mrs. lennox,' and the girls rattled down the staircase, arriving on the stage only just in time for their cue. 'cue for soldiers' entrance,' the prompter cried, and on they went, montgomery taking the music a little quicker than usual till kate, who was now in the big eight, clean forgot how often she had changed her ring from the left hand to the right. but she did wear it on different hands, and no admirer came up and spoke to her at the stage-door. dick was there waiting for her; she felt quite safe on his arm, and as soon as they had had a mouthful of supper they began the weekly packing. next morning it was train and station, station and train, but despite many delays they managed to catch the train, and on monday night her gracefulness was winning for her new admirers: in every town the company visited she received letters and presents; none succeeded, however, in weakening her love, or persuading her from dick. 'yet lovers around her are sighing,' montgomery chuckled, and dick began to consider seriously the means to be adopted to secure kate's advancement in her new profession. one night montgomery returned home with them after the performance, bringing with him the script, and till one in the morning the twain sat together trying to devise some extra lines for the first scene in _les cloches_. 'the scene,' dick said, 'is on the seashore. the girls are on their way to market.' 'supposing she said something like this, eh? "mr. baillie, do you like brown eyes and cherry lips?" and then another would reply, "cherry brandy most like."' 'no, i don't think the public would see the point; you must remember we're not playing to a london public. i think we'd better have something broader.' 'well, what?' 'you remember the scene in _chilpéric_ when----' the conversation wandered; and mr. diprose's version of the opera and his usual vile taste in the stage management was severely commented on. in such pleasant discussion an hour was agreeably spent; but at last the sudden extinguishing of a cigarette reminded them that they had met for the purpose of writing some dialogue. after a long silence dick said: 'supposing she were to say, "mr. baillie, you've a fine head." you know i want something she'd get a laugh with.' 'if she said the truth, she'd say a fat head,' replied montgomery with a laugh. 'and why shouldn't she? that's the very thing. she's sure to get a laugh with that--"mr. baillie, you have a fat head." let's get that down first. but what shall she say after?' and in silence they ransacked their memories for a joke which could be fitted to the one they had just discovered. after some five minutes of deep consideration, and wearied by the unaccustomed mental strain put upon his mind, dick said: 'do you know the music of _trône d'�cosse_? devilish good. if the book had been better it would have been a big success.' 'the waltz is about the prettiest thing hervé has done.' this expression of opinion led up to an animated discussion, in which the rival claims of hervé and planquette were forcibly argued. many cigarettes were smoked, and not until the packet was emptied did it occur to them that only one 'wheeze' had been found. 'i never can do anything without a cigarette; do try to find me one in the next room, kate, dear. listen, montgomery, we've got "baillie, you've a fat head." that'll do very well for a beginning; but i'm not good at finding wheezes.' 'and then i can say, "baillie, you've a fine head,"' said kate, who had been listening dreamily for a long time, afraid to interrupt. 'not a bad idea,' said dick. 'let's get it down.' 'and then,' screamed montgomery, as he perched both his legs over the arm of his chair, 'she can say, "i mean a great head, mr. baillie."' for a moment dick's eyes flashed with the light of admiration, and he seemed to be considering if it were not his duty to advise the conductor that his talents lay in dialogue rather than in music. but his sentiments, whatever they may have been, disappeared in the burst of inspiration he had been waiting for so long. 'we can go through the whole list of heads,' he exclaimed triumphantly. 'fat head, fine head, broad head, thick head, massive head--yes, massive head. the baillie will appear pleased at that, and will repeat the phrase, and then she will say "dunderhead!" he'll get angry, and she'll run away. that'll make a splendid exit--she'll exit to a roar.' dick noted down the phrases on a piece of paper, to be pasted afterwards into the script. when this was done, he said: 'my dear, if you don't get a roar with these lines, you can call me a ----. and when we play the piece at hull, i shouldn't be surprised if you got noticed in the papers. but you must pluck up courage and check the baillie. we must put up a rehearsal to-morrow for these lines. now listen, montgomery, and tell me how it reads.' xv 'rehearsal to-morrow at twelve for all those in the front scene of the _cloches_,' cried the stage-door keeper to half-a-dozen girls as they pushed past him. 'well i never! and i was going out to see the castle and the ramparts of the town,' said one girl. 'i wonder what it's for,' said another; 'it went all right, i thought--didn't you? did you hear any reason, mr. brown?' 'i 'ear there are to be new lines put in,' replied the stage-door keeper, surlily, 'but i don't know. don't bother me.' at the mention of the new lines the faces of the girls brightened, but instantly they strove to hide the hope and anxiety the announcement had caused them, and in the silence that followed each tried to think how she could get a word with mr. lennox. at length one more enterprising than the rest said: 'i must run back. i've forgotten my handkerchief.' 'you needn't mind your handkerchief, you won't see mr. lennox to-night,' exclaimed dolly, who always trampled on other people's illusions as readily as she did on her own. 'the lines aren't for you nor me, nor any of us,' she continued. 'you little silly, can't you guess who they're for? for his girl, of course!' murmurs of assent followed this statement, and, her hands on her hips, dolly triumphantly faced her auditors. 'it's damned hard, but you can't expect the man to take her out of her linen-drapery for nothing.' the old stage-door keeper, whose attention had been concentrated on what he was eating out of a jam-pot, now suddenly woke up to the fact that the passage was blocked, and that a group of musicians with boxes in their hands were waiting to get through. 'now, ladies, i must ask you to move on; there're a lot of people behind you.' 'yes, get on, girls; we're all up a tree this time, and the moral of it is that we haven't yet learnt how to fall in love with the manager. the paper-collar woman has beaten us at our own game.' a roar of laughter followed this remark, which was heard by everybody, and pushing the girls before her, dolly cleared the way. these girls, whose ambitions in life were first to obtain a line--that is to say, permission to shout, in their red tights, when the low comedian appears on the stage, 'oh, what a jolly good fellow the duke is!'--secondly, to be asked out to dinner by somebody they imagine looks like a gentleman, revolted against hearing this paper-collar woman, as they now called her, speak the long-dreamed-of, long-described phrases; and at night they did everything they dared to 'queer' her scene. they crowded round her, mugged, and tried to divert the attention of the house from her. she had to say, 'mr. baillie, you've a fine head.' _baillie (patting his crown)_: 'yes, a fine head!' _kate_: 'a fat head.' _baillie (indignantly)_: 'a fat head!' _kate (hurriedly)_: 'i mean a broad head.' _baillie_: 'yes, a broad head.' _kate_: 'a thick head.' _baillie (indignantly)_: 'a thick head!' _kate_: 'no, no; a solid head.' and so on _ad lib._ for ten minutes. the scene went splendidly. the pit screamed, and the gallery was in convulsions, and in the street next day nothing was heard but ironical references to fat and thick heads. the girls had not succeeded in spoiling the scene, for, encouraged by the applause, kate had chaffed and mocked at the baillie so winningly that she at once won the sympathy of the house. but the following night a tall, sour-faced girl, who wore pads, and with whom kate had had some words concerning her coarse language, hit upon an ingenious device for 'queering the scene!' her trick was to burst into a roar of laughter just before she had time to say, 'a fat head.' the others soon tumbled to the trick, and in a night or two they worked so well together that kate grew nervous and she could not speak her lines. this made her feel very miserable; and her stage experience being limited, she ascribed her non-success to her own fault, until one night dick rushed on to the stage as soon as the curtain was down, and putting up his arms with a large gesture, he called the company back. 'ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'i've noticed that the front scene in this act has not been going as well as it used to. i don't want anyone to tell me why this is so; the reason is sufficiently obvious, at least to me. i shall expect, therefore, the ladies whom this matter concerns to attend a rehearsal to-morrow at twelve, and if after that i notice what i did tonight, i shall at once dismiss the delinquents from the company. i hope i make myself understood.' after this explanation, any further interference with kate's scene was, of course, out of the question, and the verdict of each new town more and more firmly established its success. but if dick's presence controlled the girls whilst they were on the stage, his authority did not reach to the dressing-rooms. kate's particular enemy was dolly goddard. not a night passed that this girl did not refer to the divorce cases she had read of in the papers, or pretended to have heard of. her natural sharp wit enabled her to do this with considerable acidity. 'never heard such a thing in my life, girls,' she would begin. 'they talk of us, but what we do is child's play compared with the doings of the respectable people. a baker's wife in this blessed town has just run away with the editor of a newspaper, leaving her six little children behind her, one of them being a baby no more than a month old.' 'what will the husband do?' 'get a divorce.' (chorus--'he'll get a divorce, of course, of course, of course!') to this delicate irony no answer was possible, and kate could only bite her lips, and pretend not to understand. but it was difficult not to turn pale and tremble sometimes, so agonizing were the anecdotes that the active brain of dolly conjured up concerning the atrocities that pursuing husbands had perpetrated with knife and pistol on the betrayers of their happiness. and when these scarecrows failed, there were always the stories to fall back upon. a word sufficed to set the whole gang recounting experiences, and comparing notes. a sneer often curled the corners of kate's lips, but to protest she knew would be only to expose herself to a rude answer, and to appeal to dick couldn't fail to excite still further enmity against her. besides, what could he do? how could he define what were and what were not proper conversations for the dressing-rooms? but she might ask him to put her to dress with the principals, and this she decided to do one evening when the words used in no. had been more than usually warm. dick made no objection, and with leslie and beaumont kate got on better. 'i'm so glad you've come,' said leslie, as she bent to allow the dresser to place a wreath of orange-blossom on her head. 'i wonder you didn't think of asking mr. lennox to put you with us before.' 'i didn't like to. i was afraid of being in your way,' kate answered. 'i hope beaumont won't mind my being here.' 'what matter if she does? beaumont isn't half a bad sort once you begin to understand her. just let her talk to you about her diamonds and her men, and it will be all right.' 'but why haven't you been to see me lately? i want you to come out shopping with me one day next week. we shall be at york. i hear there are some good shops there.' 'yes, there are, and i should have been to see you before, but frank has just got some new scores from london, and he wanted me to try them over with him. there's one that's just been produced in paris--the loveliest music you ever heard in all your life. come up to my place to-morrow and i'll play it over to you. but talking of music, i hear that you're getting on nicely.' 'i think i'm improving; montgomery comes to practise with me every morning.' 'he's all very well for the piano, but he can't teach you to produce your voice. what does he know? that brat of a boy! i'll tell you what i'll do,' cried leslie, suddenly confronting kate: 'we're going to york next week. well, i'll introduce you to a first-rate man. he'd do more with you in six lessons than montgomery in fifty. and the week after we shall be at leeds. i can introduce you to another there.' 'the curtain is just going up, miss leslie,' cried the call boy. 'all right,' cried the prima donna, throwing the hare's-foot to the dresser, 'i must be off now. we'll talk of this to-morrow.' immediately after the stately figure of beaumont entered. putting her black bag down with a thump on the table she exclaimed: 'good heavens! not dressed yet! my god! you'll be late.' 'late for what?' asked kate in astonishment. 'didn't mr. lennox tell you that you had to sing my song, the market-woman's song, in the first act?' 'no, i heard nothing of it.' 'then for goodness' sake make haste. here, stick your face out. i'll do your make-up while the dresser laces you. but you'll be able to manage the song, won't you? it's quite impossible for me to get dressed in time. i can't understand mr. lennox not having told you.' 'oh yes, i shall be able to get through it--at least i hope so,' kate answered, trembling with the sudden excitement of the news. 'i think i know all the words except the encore verse.' 'oh, you won't need that,' said beaumont, betrayed by a twinge of professional jealousy. 'now turn the other cheek. by jove! we've no time to lose; they're just finishing the wedding chorus. if you're late it won't be my fault. i sent down word to the theatre to ask if you'd sing my song in the first act, as i had some friends coming down from london to see me. you know the marquis of shoreham--has been a friend of mine for years. that'll do for the left eye.' 'if you put out your leg a little further i'll pull your stocking, and then you'll be all right,' said the dresser, and just staying a moment to pull up her garters in a sort of nervous trance, she rushed on to the stage, followed into the wings by beaumont, who had come to hear how the song would go. she was a complete success, and got a double encore from an enthusiastic pit. but in _madame favart_ she had nothing to do, and wearied waiting in the chorus for another chance which never came, for after her success with the fish-wife's song in _madame angot_, beaumont took good care not to give her another chance. what was to be done? dick said he couldn't sack the principals. 'kate could play serpolette as it was never played before,' exclaimed montgomery, 'and i see no reason why she shouldn't understudy leslie.' 'but what's-her-name is understudying it.' 'why shouldn't there be two understudies?' dick could advance no reason, and once begun, the studies proceeded gaily. apparently deeply interested, dick lay back in the armchair smoking perpetual cigarettes. montgomery hammered with nervous vigour at the piano, and kate stood by his side, her soul burning in the ardours of her task. she would have preferred the part of germaine; it would have better suited her gentle mind than the frisky serpolette; but it seemed vain to hope for illness or any accident that would prevent beaumont from playing. true, leslie was often imprudent, and praying for a bronchial visitation they watched at night to see how she was wrapped up. as soon as kate knew the music, a rehearsal was called for her to go through the business, and it was then that the long-smouldering indignation broke out against her. in the first place the girl who till now had been entrusted with the understudy, and had likewise lived in the hopes of coughs and colds, burst into floods of passionate tears and storms of violent words. she attacked kate vigorously, and the scene was doubly unpleasant, as it took place in the presence of everybody. bitter references were made to dying and deserted husbands, and all the acridness of the chorus-girl was squeezed into allusions anent the divorce court. this was as disagreeable for dick as for kate. the rehearsal had to be dismissed, and the lady in question was sent back to london. sympathy at first ran very strongly on the side of the weak, and the ladies of the theatre were united in their efforts to make it as disagreeable as possible for kate. but she bore up courageously, and after a time her continual refusal to rehearse the part again won a reaction in her favour; and when miss leslie's cold began to grow worse, and it became clear that someone must understudy serpolette, the part fell without opposition to her share. and now every minute of the day was given to learning or thinking out in her inner consciousness some portion of her part. in the middle of her breakfast she would hurriedly lay down her cup with a clink in the saucer and say, 'look here, dick; tell me how i'm to do that run in--my first entrance, you know.' 'what are your words, dear?' '"who speaks ill of serpolette?"' the breakfast-table would then be pushed out of the way and the entrance rehearsed. dick seemed never to weary, and the run was practised over and over again. coming home from the theatre at night, it was always a question of this effect and that effect; of whether leslie might not have scored a point if she had accentuated the lifting of her skirt in the famous song. that was, as dick declared, the 'number of grip'; and often, at two o'clock in the morning, just as she was getting into bed, kate, in her chemise, would begin to sing: '"look at me here! look at me there! criticize me everywhere! from head to feet i am most sweet, and most perfect and complete."' there was a scene in the first act in which serpolette had to run screaming with laughter away from her cross old uncle, gaspard, and dodge him, hiding behind the baillie, and to do this effectively required a certain _chic_, a gaiety, which kate did not seem able to summon up; and this was the weak place in her rendering of the part. 'you're all right for a minute, and then you sober down into a germaine,' dick would say, at the end of a long and critical conversation. the business she learned to 'parrot.' dick taught her the gestures and the intonations of voice to be used, and when she had mastered these dick said he would back her to go through the part quite as well as leslie. leslie! the word was now constantly in their minds. would her cold get worse or better? was the question discussed most frequently between dick, kate, and montgomery. sometimes it was better, sometimes worse; but at the moment of their greatest despondency the welcome news came that she had slipped downstairs and sprained her foot badly. 'oh, the poor thing!' said kate; 'i'm so sorry. had i known that was----' 'was going to happen you wouldn't have learnt the part,' exclaimed montgomery, with his loud, vacant laugh. she beat her foot impatiently on the ground, and after a long silence she said, 'i shall go and see her.' 'you'd much better run through your music with montgomery, and don't forget to see the dresser about your dress. and, for god's sake, do try and put a bit of gaiety into the part. serpolette is a bit of a romp, you know.' 'try to put a bit of gaiety into the part,' rang in kate's ears unceasingly. it haunted her as she took in the waist of leslie's dress, while she leaned over montgomery's shoulder at the piano or listened to his conversation. he was enthusiastic, and she thought it very pretty of him to say, 'i'm glad to have had a share in your first success. no one ever forgets that--that's sure to be remembered.' it was the nearest thing to a profession of love he had ever made, but she was preoccupied with other thoughts, and had to send him away for a last time to study the dialogue before the glass. 'try to put a little gaiety into the part. serpolette is a romp, you know.' 'yes, a romp; but what is a romp?' kate asked herself; and she strove to realize in detail that which she had accepted till now in outline. xvi 'ladies and gentlemen,' said mr. hayes, who had been pushed, much against his will, before the curtain of the theatre royal, bristol, to make the following statement, 'i'm sorry to inform you that in consequence of indisposition--that is to say, the accidental spraining of her ankle--miss leslie will not be able to appear to-night. your kind indulgence is therefore requested for miss d'arcy, who has, on the shortest notice, consented to play the part of serpolette.' 'did yer ever 'ear of anyone spraining an ankle on purpose?' asked a scene-shifter. 'hush!' said the gas-man, 'he'll 'ear you.' amid murmurs of applause, mr. hayes backed into the wings. 'well, was it all right?' he asked dick. 'right, my boy, i should think it was; there was a touch of gladstone in your accidentally sprained ankle.' 'what do you mean?' said the discomfited acting manager. 'i haven't time to tell you now. now then, girls, are you ready?' he said, rushing on to the stage and hurriedly changing the places of the choristers. putting his hand on a girl's shoulder, he moved her to the right or left as his taste dictated. then retiring abruptly, he cried, 'now then, up you go!' and immediately after thirty voices in one sonority sang: '"in corneville's wide market-pla-a-ces, sweet servant-girls, with rosy fa-a-ces, wait here, wait here."' 'now, then, come on. you make your entrance from the top left.' 'i don't think i shall ever be able to do that run in.' 'don't begin to think about anything. if you don't like the run, i'll tell you how to do it,' said dick, his face lighting up with a sudden inspiration; 'do it with a cheeky swagger, walking very slowly, like this; and then when you get quarter of the way down the stage, stop for a moment and sing, "who speaks ill of serpolette?" do you see?' 'yes, yes, that will suit me better; i understand.' then standing under the sloping wing, they both listened anxiously for the cue. 'she loves grenicheux.' 'there's your cue. on you go; give me your shawl.' the footlights dazzled her; a burst of applause rather frightened than reassured her, and a prey to a sort of dull dream, she sang her first lines. but she was a little behind the beat. montgomery brought down his stick furiously, the _répliques_ of the girls buffeted her ears like palms of hands, and it was not until she was halfway through the gossiping couplets, and saw montgomery's arm swing peacefully to and fro over the bent profiles of the musicians that she fairly recovered her presence of mind. then came the little scene in which she runs away from her uncle gaspard and hides behind the baillie. and she dodged the old man with such sprightliness from one side of the stage to the other that a murmur of admiration floated over the pit, and, arising in echoes, was prolonged almost until she stepped down to the footlights to sing the legend of serpolette. the quaintly tripping cadences of the tune and the humour of the words, which demanded to be rather said than sung, were rendered to perfection. it was impossible not to like her when she said: '"i know not much of my relations, i never saw my mother's face; and of preceding generations i never found a single trace. '"i may have fallen from the sky, or blossomed in a rosebud sweet; but all i know is this, that i was found by gaspard in his wheat."' a smile of delight filled the theatre, and kate felt the chilling sense of separation which exists between the public and a debutante being gradually filled in by a delicious but almost incomprehensible notion of contact--a sensation more delicate than the touch of a lover's breath on your face. this reached a climax when she sang the third verse, and had not etiquette forbade, she would have had an encore for it alone. '"i often think that perhaps i may the heiress to a kingdom be, but as i wore no clothes that day i brought no papers out with me."' these words, that had often seemed coarse in leslie's mouth, in kate's seemed adorably simple. so winning was the smile and so coquettishly conscious did she seem of the compromising nature of the statement she was making, that the entire theatre was actuated by the impulse of one thought: oh! what a little dear you must have been lying in the wheat-field! the personality of the actress disappeared in the rosy thighs and chubby arms of the foundling, and notwithstanding the length of the song, she had to sing it twice over. then there was an exit for her, and she rushed into the wings. several of the girls spoke to her, but it was impossible for her to reply to them. everything swam in and out of sight like shapes in a mist, and she could only distinguish the burly form of her lover. he wrapped a shawl about her, and a murmur of amiable words followed her, and, with her thoughts fizzing like champagne, she tried to listen to his praises. then followed moments in which she anxiously waited for her cues. she was nervously afraid of missing her entrance, and she dreaded spoiling her success by some mistake. but it was not until the end of the act when she stepped out of the crowd of servant-girls to sing the famous coquetting song that she reached the summit of her triumph. kate was about the medium height, a shade over five feet five. when she swung her little dress as she strutted on the stage she reminded you immediately of a pigeon. in her apparent thinness from time to time was revealed a surprising plumpness. for instance, her bosom, in a walking dress no more than an indication, in a low body assumed the roundness of a bird's, and the white lines of her falling shoulders floated in long undulations into the blue masses of her hair. the nervous sensibility of her profession had awakened her face, and now the brown eyes laughed with the spiritual maliciousness with which we willingly endow the features of a good fairy. the hips were womanly, the ankle was only a touch of stocking, and the whole house rose to a man and roared when coquettishly lifting the skirt, she sang: '"look at me here! look at me there! criticize me everywhere! from head to feet i am most sweet, and most perfect and complete."' the audience, principally composed of sailors--men home from months of watery weariness, nights of toil and darkness, maddened by the irritating charm of the music and the delicious modernity of kate's figure and dress, looked as if they were going to precipitate themselves from the galleries. was she not the living reality of the figures posted over the hammocks in oil-smelling cabins, the prototype of the short-skirted damsels that decorated the empty match-boxes which they preserved and gazed at under the light of the stars? her success was enormous, and she was forced to sing 'look at me here!' five times before her friends would allow the piece to proceed. at the end of the act she received an ovation. two reporters of the local newspapers obtained permission to come behind to see her. london engagements were spoken of, and in the general enthusiasm someone talked about grand opera. even her fellow artists forgot their jealousies, and in the nervous excitement of the moment complimented her highly. beaumont, anxious to kick down her rival, declared, 'that, to say the least of it, it was a better rendering of the part than leslie's.' and on hearing this, bret, whose forte was not repartee, moved away; mortimer, in his least artificial manner, said that it was not bad for a beginning and that she'd get on if she worked at it. dubois strutted and spoke learnedly of how the part had been played in france, and he was pleased to trace by an analysis which was difficult to follow a resemblance between kate and madame judic. the second act went equally well. and after seeing the ghosts she got a bouquet thrown to her, so cheekily did she sing the refrain: 'for a regiment of soldiers wouldn't make me afraid.' she had therefore now only to maintain her prestige to the end, and when she had got her encore for the cider song, and had been recalled before the curtain at the end of the third act, with unstrung nerves she wandered to her dressing-room, thinking of what dick would say when they got home. but the pleasures of the evening were not over yet: there was the supper, and as she came down from her dressing-room she whispered to montgomery in the wings that they hoped to see him at their place later on. he thanked her and said he would be very glad to come in a little later on, but he had some music to copy now and must away, and feeling a little disappointed that he had to leave she walked up and down the rough boards, stepping out of the way of the scene-shifters. 'by your leave, ma'am,' they cried, going by her with the long swinging wings. she was glad now that montgomery had left her, for alone she could relive distinctly every moment of the performance. as the chorus-girls crossed the stage they stopped to compliment her with a few mechanical words and a hard smile. kate thanked them and returned to her dream all aglow and absorbed in remembrances of her success. the word 'success' returned in her thoughts like the refrain of a song. yes, she had succeeded. wherever she went she would be admired. there was something to live for at last. the t-light flared, and she stopped and began to wonder at the invention, so absurd did it seem; and then feeling that such thoughts were a waste of time, she took up the thread of her memories and had just begun to enjoy again a certain round of applause when beaumont and dolly goddard awoke her with the question, had she seen dick? kate tried to remember. a scene-shifter going by said that he had seen mr. lennox leave the theatre some twenty minutes ago. 'i suppose he will come back for me,' kate said; 'or perhaps i'd better go on? are you coming my way?' beaumont and dolly said they were and proposed that they should pop into a pub before closing time. kate hesitated to accept the invitation, but beaumont insisted, and as it was a question of drinking to the night's success she consented to accompany them. 'no, not here,' said beaumont, shoving the swing-doors an inch or so apart: 'it's too full. i'll show you the way round by the side entrance.' and giggling, the girls slipped into the private apartment. 'what will you have, dear?' asked beaumont in an apologetic whisper. 'i think i'll have a whisky.' 'you'll have the same, dolly?' 'scotch or irish?' asked the barman. the girls consulted a moment and decided in favour of irish. with nods and glances, the health of serpolette was drunk, and then fearing to look as if she were sponging, kate insisted on likewise standing treat. fortunately, when the second round had been drunk, closing time was announced by the man in the shirtsleeves, and bidding her friends good-bye, kate stood in the street trying to think if she ought to return to the theatre to look after dick or go home and find him there. she decided on the latter alternative and walked slowly along the street. a chill wind blew up from the sea, and the sudden transition from the hot atmosphere of the bar brought the fumes of the whisky to her head and she felt a little giddy. an idea of drunkenness suggested itself; it annoyed her, and repulsing it vehemently, her thoughts somewhat savagely fastened on to dick as the culprit. 'where had he gone?' she asked, at first curiously, but at each repetition she put the question more sullenly to herself. if he had come back to fetch her she would not have been led into going into the public-house with beaumont; and, irritated that any shadow should have fallen on the happiness of the evening, she walked sturdily along until a sudden turn brought her face to face with her lover. 'oh!' he said, starting. 'is that you, kate? i was just cutting back to the theatre to fetch you.' 'yes, a nice time you've kept me waiting,' she answered; but as she spoke she recognized the street they were in as the one in which leslie lived. the blood rushed to her face, and tearing the while the paper fringe of her bouquet, she said, 'i know very well where you've been to! i want no telling. you've been round spending your time with leslie.' 'well,' said dick, embarrassed by the directness with which she divined his errand, 'i don't see what harm there was in that; i really thought that i ought to run and see how she was.' struck by the reasonableness of this answer, kate for the moment remained silent, but a sudden remembrance forced the anger that was latent in her to her head, and facing him again she said: 'how dare you tell me such a lie! you know very well you went to see her because you like her, because you love her.' dick looked at her, surprised. 'i assure you, you're mistaken,' he said. but at that moment bret passed them in the street, hurrying towards leslie's. the meeting was an unfortunate one, and it sent a deeper pang of jealousy to kate's heart. 'there,' she said, 'haven't i proof of your baseness? what do you say to that?' 'to what?' 'don't pretend innocence. didn't you see bret passing? you choose your time nicely to pay visits--just when he should be out.' 'oh!' said dick, surprised at the ingenuity of the deduction. 'i give you my word that such an idea never occurred to me.' but before he could get any further with his explanation kate again cut him short, and in passionate words told him he was a monster and a villain. so taken aback was he by this sudden manifestation of temper on the part of one in whom he did not suspect its existence, that he stopped, to assure himself that she was not joking. a glance sufficed to convince him; and making frequent little halts between the lamp-posts to argue the different points more definitely, they proceeded home quarrelling. but on arriving at the door, kate experienced a moment of revolt that surprised herself. the palms of her hands itched, and consumed with a childish desire to scratch and beat this big man, she beat her little feet against the pavement. dick fumbled at the lock. the delay still further irritated her, and it seemed impossible that she could enter the house that night. 'aren't you coming in?' he said at last. 'no, not i. you go back to miss leslie; i'm sure she wants you to attend to her ankle.' this was too absurd, and dick expostulated gently. but nothing he could say was of the slightest avail, and she refused to move from the doorstep. then began a long argument; and in brief phrases, amid frequent interruptions, all sorts of things were discussed. the wind blew very cold; kate did not seem to notice it, but dick shivered in his fat; and noticing his trembling she taunted him with it, and insultingly advised him to go to bed. not knowing what answer to give to this, he walked into the sitting-room and sat down by the fire. how long would she remain on the doorstep? he asked himself humbly, until his reflections were interrupted by the sound of steps. it was montgomery, and chuckling, dick listened to him reasoning with kate. the cold was so intense that the discussion could not be continued for long; and when the two friends entered dick was prepared for a reconciliation. but in this he was disappointed. she merely consented to sit in the armchair, glaring at her lover. montgomery tried to argue with her, but he could scarcely succeed in getting her to answer him, and it was not until he began to question dick on the reason of the quarrel that she consented to speak; and then her utterances were rather passionate denials of her lover's statements than any distinct explanation. there were also long silences, during which she sat savagely picking at the paper of the bouquet, which she still retained. at last montgomery, noticing the supper that no one cared to touch, said: 'well, all i know is, that it's very unfortunate that you should have chosen this night of all others, the night of her success, to have a row. i expected a pleasant evening.' 'success, indeed!' said kate, starting to her feet. 'was it for such a success as this that he took me away from my home? oh, what a fool i was! success! a lot i care for the success, when he has been spending the evening with leslie.' and unable to contain herself any longer, she tore a handful of flowers out of her bouquet and threw them in dick's face. handful succeeded handful, each being accompanied by a shower of vehement words. the two men waited in wonderment, and when passionate reproaches and spring flowers were alike exhausted, a flood of tears and a rush into the next room ended the scene. xvii as soon as it was announced that miss leslie suffered so much with her ankle that she would be unable to travel, the whole company called to see the poor invalid; the chorus left their names, the principals went up to sit by the sofa-side, and all brought her something: beaumont, a basket of fruit; dolly goddard, a bouquet of flowers; dubois, an interesting novel; mortimer, a fresh stock of anecdotes. around her sofa sprains were discussed. dubois had known a _première danseuse_ at the opera house, in paris, but the handing round of cigarettes prevented his story from being heard, and beaumont related instead how lord shoreham in youth had broken his legs out hunting. the relation might not have come to an end that evening if leslie had not asked bret to change her position on the sofa, and when he and dick went out of the room a look of inquiry was passed round. 'you needn't be uneasy. i wouldn't let bret stop for anything. i shall be very comfortable here. my landlady is as kind as she can be and the rooms are very nice.' a murmur of approval followed these words, and continuing miss leslie said, laying her hand on kate's: 'and my friend here will play my parts until i come back. you must begin to-night, my dear, and try to work up clairette. if you're a quick study you may be able to play it on wednesday night.' this was too much; the tears stood in kate's eyes. she had in her pocket a little gold _porte-bonheur_ which she had bought that morning to make a present of to her once hated rival, but she waited until they were alone to slip it on the good natured prima donna's wrist. the parting between the two women was very touching, and being in a melting mood kate made a full confession of her quarrel with dick, and, abandoning herself, she sought for consolation. leslie smiled curiously, and after a long pause said: 'i know what you mean, dear, i've been jealous myself; but you'll get over it, and learn to take things easily as i do. men aren't worth it.' the last phrase seemed to have slipped from her inadvertently, and seeing how she had shocked kate she hastened to add, 'dick is a very good fellow, and will look after you; but take my advice, avoid a row; we women don't gain anything by it.' the words dwelt long in kate's mind, but she found it hard to keep her temper. her temper surprised even herself. it seemed to be giving way, and she trembled with rage at things that before would not have stirred an unquiet thought in her mind. remembrances of the passions that used to convulse her when a child returned to her. as is generally the case, there was right on both sides. her life, it must be confessed, was woven about with temptations. dick's character easily engendered suspicion, and when the study of the part of clairette was over, the iron of distrust began again to force its way into her heart. the slightest thing sufficed to arouse her. on one occasion, when travelling from bath to wolverhampton, she could not help thinking, judging from the expression of the girl's face, that dick was squeezing dolly's foot under the rug; without a word she moved to the other end of the carriage and remained looking out of the window for the rest of the journey. another time she was seized with a fit of mad rage at seeing dick dancing with beaumont at the end of the second act of _madame angot_. there were floods of tears and a distinct refusal 'to dress with that woman.' dick was in despair! what could he do? there was no spare room, and unless she went to dress with the chorus he didn't know what she'd do. 'my god!' he exclaimed to mortimer, as he rushed across the stage after the 'damned property-man,' 'never have your woman playing in the same theatre as yourself; it's awful!' for the last couple of weeks everything he did seemed to be wrong. success, instead of satisfying kate, seemed to render her more irritable, and instead of contenting herself with the plaudits that were nightly showered upon her, her constant occupation was to find out either where dick was or what he had been doing or saying. if he went up to make a change without telling her she would invent some excuse for sending to inquire after him; if he were giving some directions to the girls at one of the top entrances, she would walk from the wing where she was waiting for her cue to ask him what he was saying. this watchfulness caused a great deal of merriment in the theatre, and in the dressing-rooms mortimer's imitation of the catechism the manager was put to at night was considered very amusing. 'my dear, i assure you you're mistaken. i only smoked two cigarettes after lunch, and then i had a glass of beer. i swear i'm concealing nothing from you.' and this is scarcely a parody of the strict surveillance under which dick lived, but from a mixture of lassitude and good nature it did not seem to annoy him too much, and he appeared to be most troubled when kate murmured that she was tired, that she hated the profession and would like to go and live in the country. for now she complained of fatigue and weariness; the society of those who formed her life no longer interested her, and she took violent and unreasoning antipathies. it was not infrequent for mortimer and montgomery to make an arrangement to grub with the lennoxes whenever a landlady could be discovered who would undertake so much cooking. but without being able to explain why, kate declared she could not abide sitting face to face with the heavy lead. she saw and heard quite enough of him at the theatre without being bothered by him in the day-time. dick made no objection. he confessed, and, willingly, that he was a bit tired of disconnected remarks, and the wit of irrelevancies; and mortimer, he said, fell to sulking if you didn't laugh at his jokes. montgomery continued to board with them, the young man very uncertain always whether he would be as unhappy away from her as he was with her. he often dreamed of sending in his resignation, but he could not leave the company, having begun to look upon himself as her guardian angel; and, without consulting dick, they arranged deftly that dubois should be asked to take mortimer's place. dick approved when the project was unfolded to him, the natty appearance of the little foreigner was a welcome change after mortimer's draggled show of genius. he could do everything better than anybody else, but that did not matter, for he was amusing in his relations. whether you spoke of balzac's position in modern fiction or the rolling of cigarettes, you were certain to be interrupted with, 'i assure you, my dear fellow, you're mistaken' uttered in a stentorian voice. on the subject of his bass voice a child could draw him out, and, under the pretext of instituting a comparison between him and one of the bass choristers, montgomery never failed to induce him to give the company an idea of his register. at first to see the little man settling the double chin into his chest in his efforts to get at the low d used to convulse kate with laughter, but after a time even this grew monotonous, and wearily she begged montgomery to leave him alone. 'nothing seems to amuse you now' he would say with a mingled look of affection and regret. a shrug of the shoulder she considered a sufficient answer for him, and she would sink back as if pursuing to its furthest consequences the train of some far-reaching ideas. and in wonder these men watched the progress of kate's malady without ever suspecting what was really the matter with her. she was homesick. but not for the house in hanley and the dressmaking of yore. she had come to look upon hanley, ralph, mrs. ede, the apprentices and hender as a bygone dream, to which she could not return and did not wish to return. her homesickness was not to go back to the point from which she had started, but to settle down in a house for a while. 'not for long, dick,' she said, 'a month; even a fortnight would make all the difference. we spent a fortnight at blackpool, but we have never stayed a fortnight at the same place since.' 'i know what's the matter with you, kate,' he answered; 'you want a holiday; so do i; we all want a holiday. one of these days we shall get one when the tour comes to an end.' it did not seem to kate that the tour would ever come to an end: she would always be going round like a wheel. dick begged her to have patience, and she resolved to have patience, but one saturday night in the middle of her packing the vision of the long railway journey that awaited her on the morrow rose up suddenly in her mind, and she could not do else than spring to her feet, and standing over the half-filled trunk she said: 'dick, i cannot, i cannot; don't ask me.' 'ask you what?' he said. 'to go to bath with you to-morrow morning,' she answered. 'you won't come to bath!' he cried. 'but who will play clairette?' 'i will, of course.' 'i don't understand, kate,' dick replied. 'i only want one day off. why shouldn't i spend the sunday in leamington and go to church? i want a little rest. i can't help it, dick.' 'well, i never! you seem to get more and more capricious every day.' 'then you won't let me?' said kate, with a flush flowing through her olive cheeks. 'won't let you! why shouldn't you stay if it pleases you, dear? montgomery is staying too; he wants to see an aunt of his who lives in the town.' dick's unaffected kindness so touched kate's sensibilities that the tears welled up into her eyes, and she flung herself into his arms sobbing hysterically. for the moment she was very happy, and she looked into the dream of the long day she was going to spend with montgomery, afraid lest some untoward incident might rob her of her happiness. but nothing fell out to blot her hopes, everything seemed to be happening just as she had foreseen it, and trembling with pleasurable excitement the twain hurried through the town inquiring out the way to the wesleyan church. at last it was found in a distant suburb, and her emotion almost from the moment she entered into the peace of the building became so uncontrollable that to hide the tears upon her cheeks she was forced to bury her face in her hands, and in the soft snoring of the organ, recollections of her life frothed up; but as the psalm proceeded her excitement abated, until at last it subsided into a state of languid ecstasy. nor was it till the congregation knelt down with one accord for the extemporary prayer that she asked pardon for her sins. 'but how could god forgive her her sins if she persevered in them?' she asked herself. 'how could she leave dick and return to hanley? her husband would not receive her; her life had got into a tangle and might never get straight again. but all is in the hands of god,' and thinking of the woman that had been and the woman that was, she prayed god to consider her mercifully. 'god will understand,' she said, 'how it all came about; i cannot.' montgomery was kneeling in the pew beside her, and he wondered at seeing her so absorbed in prayer; he did not know that she was so pious, and thought that such piety as hers was not in accord with the life she had taken up and the company with which they were touring. but perhaps it was a mere passing emotion, a sudden recrudescence of her past life which would fade away and never return again; he hoped that this was the case, for he believed in her talent, and that a london success awaited her. he kept his eyes averted from her, knowing that his observation would distress her, and after church she said she would like to go for a walk and he suggested the river. in the shade of spreading trees they watched the boats passing, and in the course of the afternoon talked of many things and of many people, and it pleased and surprised them to find that their ideas coincided, and in the pauses of the conversation they wondered why they had never spoken to each other like this before. he was often tempted to hold out prospects of a london success with a view to cheering her, but he felt that this was not the moment to do so. but she, being a little less tactful, spoke to him of his music with a view to pleasing him, but he could not detach his thoughts from her, and could only tell her that he heard her voice in the music as he composed it. 'the afternoon is passing,' he said; 'it's time to begin thinking of tea.' whereupon they rose to their feet and walked a long way into the country in search of an inn, and finding one they had tea in a garden, and afterwards they dined in a sanded parlour and enjoyed the cold beef, although they could not disguise from themselves the fact that it was a little tough. but what matter the food? it was the close intimacy and atmosphere of the day that mattered to them, and they returned to leamington thinking of the day that had gone by, a day unique in their experience, one that might never return to them. the ways were filled with sunday strollers--mothers leading a tired child moved steadily forward; a drunken man staggered over a heap of stones; sweethearts chased each other; occasionally a girl, kissed from behind as she stretched to reach a honeysuckle, rent the airless evening with a scream. kate had not spoken for a long while, and montgomery's apprehensions were awakened. of what could she be thinking? 'something was on her mind,' he said to himself. 'something has been on her mind all day,' he continued, and he began to ask himself if he should put his arm around her and beg of her to confide in him. he would have done so if the striking of a clock had not reminded him that they had little time before them if they wished to catch the train, so instead of asking her to confide in him he asked her to try to walk a little faster. she was tired. he offered her his arm. 'we've just time to get to the station and no more; it's lucky we have our tickets.' the guard on the platform begged them to hasten and to get in anywhere they could. a moment afterwards they jumped into the carriage, and the train rolled with a slight oscillating motion out of the station into the open country. dim masses of trees, interrupted by spires and roofs, were painted upon a huge orange sky that somehow reminded them of an _opéra bouffe_. 'what are you crying for?' montgomery asked, bending forward. 'oh, i don't know!--nothing,' exclaimed kate, sobbing; 'but i'm very unhappy. i know i've been very wicked, and am sure to be punished for it.' 'nonsense! nonsense!' 'god will punish me--know he will. i felt it all to-day in church. i'm done for, i'm done for.' 'you've made a success on the stage. i never saw anyone get on so well in so short a time; and you're loved,' he added with a certain bitterness, 'as much as any woman could be.' 'that's what you think, but i know better. i see him flirting every day with different girls.' 'you imagine those things. dick couldn't speak roughly to anyone if he tried; but he doesn't care for any woman but you.' 'of course, you say so. you're his friend.' 'i assure you 'pon my word of honour; i wouldn't tell you so if it weren't true. you're my friend as much as he, aren't you?' and then, as if afraid that she should read his thoughts, he added: 'i'm sure he hasn't kissed anyone since he knew you. i can't put it plainer than that, can i?' 'i'm glad to hear you say so. i don't think you'd tell me a lie; it would be too cruel, wouldn't it? for you know what a position i am in: if dick were to desert me to-morrow what should i do?' 'you're in a mournful humour. why should dick desert you? and even if he did, i don't see that it would be such an awful fate.' startled, kate raised her eyes suddenly and looked him straight in the face. 'what do you mean?' she said. the abruptness of her question made him hesitate. in a swift instant he regretted having risked himself so far, and reproached himself for being false to his friend; but the temptation was irresistible, and overcome by the tenderness of the day, and irritated by the memory of years of vain longing, he said: 'even if he did desert you, you might, you would, find somebody better--somebody who'd marry you.' kate did not answer and they sat listening to the rattle of the train. at last she said: 'i could never marry anyone but dick.' 'why? do you love him so much?' 'yes, i love him better than anything in the world; but even if i didn't, there are reasons which would prevent my marrying anyone but him.' 'what reasons?' a desire that someone should know of her trouble smothered all other considerations, and after another attempt to speak she again dropped into silence. montgomery tried to rouse her: 'tell me,' he said, 'tell me why you couldn't marry anyone but dick.' the sound of his voice startled her, and then, in a moment of sudden naturalness, she answered: 'because i'm in the family way.' 'then there's nothing else for him to do but to marry you.' she knew he was at that moment his own proper executioner, but the intensity of her own feelings did not leave her time for pity. why after all shouldn't she marry dick? why hadn't she asked for this reparation before? 'i dare say you're right,' she said. 'when i tell him----' 'what! haven't you told him yet?' montgomery cried. 'no,' kate answered timidly, 'i was afraid he wouldn't care to hear it.' 'then you must do so at once,' montgomery said, and the poor vagrant musician, whom nobody had ever loved, said: 'i will speak to him about it the first time i get a chance. it would be wicked of him not to. he couldn't refuse even if he didn't love you, which he does.' the last streak of yellow had died out of the sky telling of the day that had gone by, and in a deep tranquillity of mind kate inhaled the sweetness of her luck as a convalescent might a bunch of freshly culled violets. xviii it never rains but it pours. she was called before the curtain after every act in _madame angot_ and _les cloches de corneville_, and dick told her that she would cut out all the london prima donnas, giving them the go-by, and establish herself one of the great metropolitan favourites if he could get a new work over from france. 'why a new work?' she asked, and he told her that to draw the attention of the critics and the public upon her, she must appear in a new title role, and sitting in his armchair when they came home from the theatre at night, he brooded many projects, the principal one of which was to obtain a new work from france. but which of the three illustrious composers, hervé, offenbach and lecocq, should he choose to write the music? the book of words would have to be written before the music was composed, and so far as he knew the only french composer who could set english words was hervé. it seemed to kate that he never would cease to draw forth a cigarette case, or to cross and uncross his legs. did this man never wish to go to bed? she hated stopping up after one o'clock in the morning. but, anxious to be a serviceable companion to him on all occasions, she strove against her sleepiness and listened to him whilst he considered whether her voice was heard to most advantage in offenbach or in hervé. she had not yet played the _grande duchesse_, and there were parts in that opera that would suit her very well. he would like to see her in _la belle hélène_ and the _princess of trebizond_, but the last-named opera was never a success in england, and he was not certain about the power of _la périchole_ to draw audiences in the provinces. it was pleasant to kate to hear her talent discussed, analyzed, set forth in the works of great men, but her thought had now turned from her artistic career to her domestic. she wanted to be married. it had always been vaguely understood that they were to be married, that is to say, it had been taken for granted that when a fitting occasion presented itself they would render their cohabitation legal. this understanding had satisfied her till now. in the first months, in the first year after the escape from hanley, her happiness had been so great that she had not had a thought of pressing matters further. she had feared to do anything lest she might destroy her happiness by doing so, and dick, who let everything slide until necessity forced him to take steps, had not troubled himself about his marriage, although quite convinced that he would end by marrying kate. he had treated his marriage exactly as he did his theatrical speculations. 'there is no hurry,' he answered her, and proposed that they should be married in london. 'but why in london?' he spoke of his relations and his friends. he would like kate to know his old mother. 'but, dick, dear, why not at once? we're living in a life of sin, and at times the thought of the sin makes me miserable.' out of his animal repose dick smiled at the religious argument, and being on the watch always for a sneer, the blood rushed to her face instantly and she exclaimed: 'if you did seduce me, if you did drag me away from my peaceful home, if you did make a travelling actress of me, you might at least refrain from insulting my religion.' dick looked up, surprised. kate had put down her knife and fork and was pouring herself out a large glass of sherry. she was evidently going to work herself up into one of her rages. 'i assure you, my dear, i never intended to insult your religion; and i wish you wouldn't drink all that wine, it only excites you.' 'excites me! what does it matter to you if i excite myself or not?' 'my dear kate, this is very foolish of you. i don't see why--if you'll only listen to reason----' 'listen to reason!' she said, spilling the sherry over the table, 'ah! it would have been better if i'd never listened to you.' 'you really mustn't drink any more wine; i can't allow it,' said dick, passing his arm across her and trying to take away the decanter. this was the climax, and her pretty face curiously twisted, she screamed as she struggled away from him: 'leave me go, will you! leave me go! oh! i hate you!' then clenching her teeth, and more savagely, 'no, i'll not be touched! no! no! no! i will not!' dick was so astonished at this burst of passion that he loosed for a moment the arms he was holding, and profiting by the opportunity kate seized him by the frizzly hair with one hand and dragged the nails of the other down his face. at this moment montgomery entered; he stood aghast, and kate, whose anger had now expended itself, burst into a violent fit of weeping. 'what does this mean?' montgomery said, speaking very slowly. neither answered. the man sought for words; the woman walked about the room swinging herself; and as she passed before him montgomery stopped her and begged for an explanation. she gave him a swift look of grief, and breaking away from him, shut herself in the bedroom. 'what does this mean?' dick looked round vaguely, astonished at the authoritative way the question was put, but without inquiring he answered: 'that's what i want to know. i never saw anything like it in my life. we were speaking of being married, when suddenly kate accused me of insulting her religion, and then--well, i don't remember any more. she fell into such a passion--you saw it yourself.' 'did you say you wouldn't marry her?' 'no, on the contrary. i can't make it out. for the last month her caprices, fancies, and jealousies have been something awful!' montgomery made a movement as if he were going to reply, but checking himself, he remained silent. his face then assumed the settled appearance of one who is inwardly examining the different sides of a complex question. at last he said: 'let's come out for a walk, dick, and we'll talk the matter over.' 'do you think i can leave her?' 'it's the best thing you can do. leave her to have her cry out,' and adopting the suggestion, dick picked up his hat, and without further words the men went out of the house, walking slowly arm in arm. 'i cannot understand what is the matter with kate. when i knew her first she hadn't a bad temper.' to this montgomery made no answer. he was thinking. after a pause dick continued, as if speaking to himself: 'and the way she does badger me with her confounded jealousies; i'm afraid now to tell a girl to move up higher on the stage. there are explanations about everything, and i can't think what it's all about. she has everything she requires. she hasn't been a year on the stage, and she's playing leading parts, and scoring successes too.' 'perhaps she has reasons you don't know of.' 'reasons i don't know of? what do you mean?' 'well, you haven't told me yet what the row was about.' 'tell you! that's just what i want to know myself.' 'what were you speaking about when it began?' asked montgomery, who was still feeling his way. 'about our marriage.' 'well, what did you say?' 'what did i say? i really don't remember; the row has put it all out of my head. let me think. i was saying--i mean she was asking me when we should be married.' 'and what did you say to that? did you fix a day?' 'fix a day!' said dick, looking in astonishment at his friend. 'how could i fix a day?' 'i think if i loved a woman and she loved me i could manage somehow to fix a day.' these words were spoken with an earnestness that attracted dick's attention, and he looked inquiringly at the young man. 'so you think i ought to marry her?' 'think you ought to marry her?' exclaimed montgomery indignantly; 'really, dick, i didn't think you were--just remember what she's given up for you. you owe it to her. good heavens!' 'well, you needn't get into a passion; i've had enough of passions for one day.' the impetuousness of the youth had struck through the fat nonchalance of the man, and he said after a pause: 'yes, i suppose i do owe it to her.' the apologetic, easy-going air with which this phrase was spoken maddened montgomery; he could have struck his friend full in the face, but for the sake of the woman he was obliged to keep his temper. 'putting aside the question of what you owe and what you don't owe, i'd like to ask you where you could find a nicer wife? she's the prettiest woman in the company, she's making now five pounds a week, and she loves you as well as ever a woman loved a man. i should like to know what more you want.' this was very agreeable to hear, and after a moment's reflection dick said: 'that's quite true, my boy, and i like her better than any other woman. i don't think i could get anything better. if it weren't for that infernal jealousy of hers. really, her temper is no joke.' 'her temper is all right; she was as quiet as a mouse when you knew her first. take my word for it, there are excellent reasons for her being a bit put out.' 'what do you mean?' 'can't you guess?' the two men stopped and looked each other full in the face, and then resuming his walk, montgomery said: 'yes, it's so; she told me in the train coming up from leamington.' tears glittered in dick's eyes, and he became in that moment all pity, kindness, and good-nature. 'oh, the poor dear! why didn't she tell me that before? and i'd scolded her for ill-temper.' his humanity was as large as his fat, and although he had never thought of the joys of paternity, now, in the warmth of his sentiments, he melted into one feeling of rapture. after a pause, he said: 'i think i'd better go back and see her.' 'yes, i think you'd better; fix a day for your marriage.' 'of course.' nothing further was said; each absorbed in different thoughts the two men retraced their steps, and when they arrived at the door, montgomery said: 'i think i'd better wish you good-bye.' 'no, come in, old man; she'd like to see you.' and as if anxious to torture himself to the last, montgomery entered. kate was still locked in the bedroom, but there was such an unmistakable accent of trepidation and anxiety in dick's fingers and voice that she opened immediately. her beautiful black hair was undone, and fell in rich masses about her. dick took her in his arms, and held her sobbing on his shoulder. all he could say was, 'oh, my darling, i'm so sorry; you will forgive me, won't you?' xix 'well, what are you going to give her? do you see anything you like here?' 'do you think that paper-cutter would do?' 'you can't give anything more suitable, ma'am. then there are these card-cases; nobody could fail to like them.' 'what are you going to give, annie?' 'oh, i'm going to give her the pair of earrings we saw yesterday; but if i were you i wouldn't spend more than half a sovereign: it's quite enough.' 'i should think so indeed--a third of a week's screw,' whispered dolly, 'but she ain't a bad one, and dick will like it, and may give me a line or so in _olivette_. how do you think she'll do in the part?' 'we'll talk about that another time. are you going to buy the paper-cutter?' casting her eyes in despair around the walls of the fancy-goods shop to see if she could find anything she liked better, dolly decided in favour of the paper-cutter and paid the money after a feeble attempt at bargaining. in the street they saw mortimer, who had now allowed his hair to grow in long, snake-like curls completely over his shoulders. 'for goodness' sake come away,' cried beaumont, 'i do hate speaking to him in the street, everybody stares so.' the girls turned to fly, but the heavy lead was upon them, and in his most nasal tones said: 'well, my dear young ladies, engaged in the charming occupation of buying nuptial gifts?' 'how very sharp you are, mr. mortimer,' answered dolly in her pertest manner; 'and what are you going to give? we should so much like to know.' after a moment's hesitation he said, throwing up his chin after the manner of a model sitting for a head of christ: 'my dear young lady, you must not exhibit your curiosity in that way; it's not modest.' 'but do tell us, mr. mortimer; you're a person of such good taste.' the comic tragedian considered for a moment what he could say most ill-natured and so get himself out of his difficulty. 'i tell you, young lady, i'm not decided, but i think that a copy of wesley's hymns bound up with the book of the _grand duchess_ might not be inappropriate.' 'but how do you think she'll play the countess?' asked beaumont. 'oh, we mustn't speak of that now she's going to be married,' and, thinking he could not better this last remark, mortimer bade the ladies good-bye and went off with curls and coat-tails alike swinging in the breeze. farther up the street beaumont and dolly were joined by leslie, bret, and dubois, and the same topics were again discussed. 'what are you going to give?' 'have you bought your present?' 'have you seen mine?' 'do you know who's going to be at the wedding breakfast? they can't ask more than a dozen or so.' 'have you heard that the chorus have clubbed together to buy dick a chain?' 'it's very good of them, but they'll feel hurt at not being asked to the breakfast.' 'what will the lennoxes do?' these and a hundred other questions of a similar sort had been asked in the dressing-rooms, in the wings, in the streets at every available moment since morton and cox's _opéra bouffe_ company had arrived in liverpool. everybody professed to consider the event the happiest and most fortunate that could have happened, but mortimer's words, 'there's many a slip between the ring and the finger,' recurred to them whenever the conversation came to a pause, and they hoped the marriage might yet be averted, even when they stood one bright summer morning assembled on the stage, awaiting the arrival of the bride and bridegroom. the name of the church had been kept a secret, and all that was known was that leslie--who had joined another company in liverpool--bret, montgomery, and beaumont had gone to attend as witnesses, and that they would be back at the theatre at twelve to run through the third act of _olivette_ before producing it that night. many false alarms were given, but when at last the bridal party walked from the wings on to the stage, dick's appearance provoked a little good-natured laughter, so respectable did he look in a spick-and-span new frock-coat and his tall hat. kate never looked prettier; mortimer said her own husband wouldn't know her. she wore a dark green silk pleated down the front, from underneath which a patent-leather boot peeped as she walked; a short jacket showed the drawing of her shoulders, the delicacy of her waist, and the graceful fall of the hips. she carried in her hand a bouquet of yellow and pink roses, a present from montgomery. 'now, ladies and gentlemen, i won't detain you long, but do let us run through the third act, so as to have it right for the night. montgomery, will you oblige me by playing over that sailor-chorus?' dick took the girls in sections and placed them in the positions he desired them to hold. 'now, then; enter the countess. who's in love with the countess?' 'well, if you don't know, i don't know who does,' said mortimer. 'i hear you've been swearing all the morning "till death do us part."' a good deal of laughter greeted this pleasantry and dick himself could not refrain from joining in. at last he said: 'now, kate, dear, do leave off laughing and run through your song.' 'i-i-ca-n't--can-'t; you--you--are--t-t-too funny.' 'we shall never get through this act,' said dick, who had just caught miss leslie walking off with bret into the green-room. now, miss leslie, can't you wait until this rehearsal is over?' 'they'll be late for church to-day; they may as well wait.' another roar of laughter followed this remark, and kate said: 'you'd better give it up, dick, dear; it will be all right at night. i assure you i shall be perfect in my music and words.' 'i must go through the act. the principals are responsible for themselves, but i must look to the chorus. where's that damned property-master?' on the subject of rehearsals dick was always firm, and seeing that it could not be shirked, the chorus pulled themselves together, and the act was run through somehow. then a few more invitations were whispered in the corners on the sly, and the party in couples and groups repaired to the lennoxes' lodgings. mortimer, beaumont, dick, and kate walked together, talking of the night's show. dubois crushed his bishop's hat over his eyes, straddled his ostler-like legs, and discussed wagner's position in music with montgomery and dolly goddard. a baronet's grandson, a chorus singer, told how his ancestor had won the goodwood cup half a century ago, to three ladies in the same position in the theatre as himself. bret and leslie followed very slowly, apparently more than ever enchanted with each other. for the wedding breakfast, the obliging landlady had given up her own rooms on the ground-floor. the table extended from the fireplace to the cabinet, the panels of which mortimer was respectfully requested not to break when he was invited to take the foot of the table and help the cold salmon. the bride and bridegroom took the head, and the soup was placed before them; for this was not, as dick explained, a breakfast served by gunter, but a dinner suitable to people who had been engaged for some time back. at this joke no one knew if they should laugh or not, and mortimer slyly attracted the attention of the company to bret and leslie, who were examining the cake. then all spoke at once of the presents. they were of all sorts, and had come from different parts of the country. mr. cox had given a large diamond ring. leslie had presented kate with a handsome inkstand. bret had bought her a small gold bracelet. dubois, whose fancies were light, offered a fan; beaumont, a pair of earrings; hayes, a cigarette case; dolly goddard, a paper-knife; montgomery, a brooch which must have cost him at least a month's salary. mortimer exclaimed that his wife had been behaving rather badly lately, and that in consequence he had been unable to obtain from her--what he had not been able to obtain dick did not stop to listen to. at that moment the gold chain, the present from the chorus, caught his eye. the kindness of the girls seemed to affect him deeply, and, interrupting kate, who was thanking her friends for all their tokens of good-will, he said: 'i must really thank the ladies of the chorus for the very handsome present they made me. how sorry i am that they are not all here to receive my thanks i cannot say; but those who are here will, i hope, explain to their comrades how we were pressed for space.' 'one would think you were refusing a free admission,' snarled mortimer. 'what a bore that fellow is!' whispered dick to mr. cox, the proprietor of the company, who had come down from london to arrange some business with his manager. 'i'm sure, mr. lennox, we were only too glad to be able to give you something to show you how much we appreciate your kindness,' said a tall girl, speaking in the name of the chorus. 'we must have some fizz after the show to-night on the stage. what do you think. cox?' said dick. 'and then i shall be able to express my thanks to everyone.' 'and we must have a dance,' cried leslie. 'my foot is all right now.' chairs had to be fetched in from the bedroom and even from the kitchen to seat the fifteen people who had been invited. the ladies did not like sitting together and the supply of gentlemen was not sufficient--drawbacks that were forgotten when the first few spoonfuls of soup had been eaten and the sherry tasted. the women examined mr. cox with looks of deep inquiry, but his face told them nothing; it was grave and commercial, and he spoke little to anyone except kate and her husband. the baronet's son sat in the middle of the table with the three chorus-girls, whom he continued to pester with calculations as to how much he would be worth, but for his ancestor's ambition to win the derby with scotch coast. leslie and bret were on the other side of the wedding cake, and they leant towards each other with a thousand little amorous movements. beaumont spoke of the evening's performance, putting questions to montgomery with a view to attracting mr. cox's attention. 'do you think, mr. montgomery, that to take an encore for my song will interfere with the piece?' 'i never heard of a lady putting the piece before herself,' said montgomery, with a loud laugh, for he, too, was anxious to attract mr. cox's attention, and availing himself of miss beaumont's question as a 'lead up,' he said, 'i hope that when my opera is produced i shall find artists who will look as carefully after my interests.' 'but when will you have your opera ready?' kate asked. 'my opera?' he said, as soon as she averted the brown eyes that burnt into his soul. 'it's all finished. it's ready to put on the stage when dick likes.' the ruse proved successful, for mr. cox, bending forward, said in an interested voice: 'may i ask what is the subject of your opera, mr. montgomery?' this was charming, and the musician at once proceeded to enter into a complicated explanation, in which frequent allusion was made to a king, a band of conspirators, a neighbouring prince, a beautiful daughter unfortunately in love with a shepherd, and a treacherous minister. beaumont listened wearily, and, seeing that no mention she could make of her singing would avail her, she commenced to fidget abstractedly with one of her big diamond earrings. in the meanwhile montgomery's difficulties were increasing. to follow successfully the somewhat intricate story of king, conspirators, and amorous shepherd a sustained effort of attention was necessary, and this dick, kate, and mr. cox found it difficult to grant; for in the middle of a somewhat involved bit--in which it was not quite clear whether the king or the minister had entered disguised--the landlady would beg to be excused--if they would just make a little way, so that she might remove the soup. this lady, in her sunday cap, assisted by the maid-of-all-work, from whose canvas-grained hands soap and water had not been able to extract the dirt, strove to lift large dishes of food over the heads of the company. there was a sirloin of beef that had to be placed before mortimer. then came two pairs of chickens, the carving of which dick had taken upon himself. a piece of bacon with cabbage, and a pigeon-pie, adorned the sides of the table. the cutlets were handed round; and for some time conversation gave way to the more necessary occupation of eating. even bret and leslie left off billing and cooing; the grandson of the baronet, forgetful of his family's misfortunes on the turf, dug vigorously into the pigeon-pie and liberally distributed it. the clattering of knives and forks swelled into a sustained sound, which was only broken by observations such as 'thanks, mr. lennox, anything that's handy--a leg, if you please.' 'may i ask you, montgomery, for a slice of bacon? no cabbage, thank you.' 'mr. mortimer, a little more and some gravy; that'll do nicely.' it was not until the first helping had been put away, and eyes began to wander in search of what would be best to go on with, that conversation was resumed. to mortimer, who had had a good deal of trouble with the beef, dick said, 'i hope you are satisfied with your part, mortimer, and that we shall have some good roars. the piece ought to go with a scream.' 'i think i shall knock 'em this time, old boy,' said the comic man, drawling his words slowly through his nose. 'it pretty well killed me when i read it over to myself, so i don't know what it will be when i spit it out at them.' this was deemed unnecessarily coarse, and for a moment it was feared that mortimer was as drunk as mr. hayes, whose eyes were now beginning to blink pathetically. he awoke up, however, with a start and a smile when the first champagne cork went off, and holding out his glass, said, 'shall be very glad to drink your health, a wedding only comes once in a lifetime.' mortimer tried to turn the embarrassing pause that followed this remark to his profit. the beef having kept him silent during the early part of the dinner, he resolved now to prove what a humorist he was, and by raising his voice he strove to attract the attention of the company to himself. this, however, was not easily done. dubois had begun to pinch the backside of the canvas-handed maid, who was lifting a plate of custards over his head; but these frivolities did not prevent him from discussing carlyle's place in english literature with the baronet's son on his left, and arguing from time to time with montgomery on his right against certain effects employed by wagner in his orchestration. kate laid down her spoon and stared vaguely into space and again laid her hand on dick's. the past seemed now to be completely blotted out. what more could she desire? she would go on acting, and dick would continue to love her. by some special interposition of providence all the hazards of existence over which she might have fallen had been swept aside. what broader road could a woman hope to walk in than the one that lay before her in all its clear and bland serenity? god had been good to her! and he was going to be good to her. what a tie the child would be, what an influence, what a source of future happiness! they would work for their child; a boy or girl, which? would it not give them courage to work? would it not give them strength to live? it would be something to hope for. oh, how good god had been to her; and how wicked she had been to him! her heart filled with a fervour of faith she had never felt before; and facing the gracious future which a child and husband promised her, she offered up thanksgivings for her happiness, which she accepted as eternal, so inherent did it seem in herself. 'oh, just look at him!' said kate, waking up with a start from her reveries. 'how can he make such a beast of himself?' 'don't take any notice of him, dear; that's the best way.' but mortimer, who had been vainly struggling for the last five minutes to draw beaumont from the memory of a lord, dubois from his wagnerian argument, and bret and leslie from their flirtation, now seized on poor hayes's drunkenness as a net wherein he could capture everybody. raising his voice so as to ensure silence, he said, addressing himself to mr. cox at the other end of the table, 'how very affecting he is now, how severely natural; the innocence of a young girl in her teens is not, to my mind, nearly so touching as that of a boozer in his cups. have you ever heard how he fancied the waiter was calling him in the morning when the policeman was hauling him off to the station?' mr. cox had not heard; and the whole story of how they bumped in the hotel door at derby had to be gone through. having thus got the company by the ear, mortimer showed for a long time no signs of letting them go. he went straight through his whole repertoire. he told of a man who wanted to post a letter, but not being able to find the letterbox, he applied to a policeman. the bobby showed him something red in the distance, and explained that that was the post. 'keep the red in your eye, my boy,' said the drunkard; and this he did until he found himself in a public-house trying to force his letter down a soldier's collar. he had mistaken the red coat for the pillar. this was followed by a story of a man who apologized to the trees in st. james's park, and explained to them that he had come from a little bachelor's party, until he at last sat down saying, 'this is no good; i mus-mush wait till the bloody pro-prochession has passed.' a heavy digestive indifference to everything was written on each countenance; and in the slanting rays of the setting sun the curling smoke vapours assumed the bluest tints. odours of spirits trailed along the tablecloth. disconnected fragments of conversation, heard against the uninterrupted murmur of mortimer's story-telling, struck the ear. the baronet's son was now explaining to his three ladies that no woman could expect to get on in life unless she were very immoral or very rich; dubois argued across the table with leslie and bret concerning the production of the voice: beaumont cast luminous and provoking glances at mr. cox, and tried to engage him in conversation regarding the inartistic methods of most stage-managers in arranging the processions. 'dick, dear, the cake hasn't yet been cut.' 'no more it hasn't,' dick answered, and when the white-sugared emblem of love and fidelity was distributed, the wedding party awoke to a burst of enthusiasm. everyone suggested something, and much whisky and water was spilt on the tablecloth. but matters, although they were advanced a stage, did not seem to be much expedited. the bride's health had to be drunk, and dick had to return thanks. he did not say very much, but his remarks concerning _olivette_ suggested a good deal of comment. mortimer took a different view of the question, and dubois explained at length how the piece had been done in france. leslie insisted that bret should say something; and once on his legs, to the surprise of everybody, the silent tenor became surprisingly garrulous. it was kate, however, who first guessed the reason of montgomery's despondency, and in pity for him, she made a sign to the ladies, and the room was left to the flat chests and tweed coats. montgomery prayed that this after-dinner interval would not prove a long one, for he dreaded the smutty stories. the baronet's son sprang off with a clear lead, watched by mortimer and dubois. in the way of anecdotes these two would have been rivals had it not been for the latter's fancy for more serious discussions. still, in the invention and collection of the most atrocious, they both employed the energy and patience of the entomologist. a chance word, out of which a racy story might be extracted, was pursued like a rare moth or a butterfly. dubois's were more subtle, but mortimer's, being more to the point, were more generally effective. they waited eagerly for the baronet's son to conclude, and he had hardly pronounced the last phrase when mortimer, coming with a rush, took the lead with 'that reminds me of--' dubois looked discomfited, and settled himself down to waiting for another chance. this, however, did not come just at once; mortimer told six stories, each nastier than the last. everybody was in roars except montgomery and dubois; whilst one thought of his opera, the other searched his memory for something that would out-mortimer mortimer. this was difficult, but when his turn came he surprised the company. mr. cox leaned over the table with a glass of whisky and water in his hand declaring that he had never spent so pleasant a day in his life: and thus encouraged dubois was just beginning to launch out into the intricacies of a fresh tale when montgomery, beside himself with despair, said to dick: 'it was arranged that i should play the music of my new opera over to mr. cox. if you don't put a stop to this it will go on for ever.' 'yes, my boy, it's getting a bit long, isn't it: just let dubois finish and we'll go upstairs.' the story proved a weary one; but like a long railway journey it at last drew to an end, and they went upstairs. there they found the ladies yawning and looking at the presents. kate ran to dick to ask him to arrange about the music, but beaumont had been a little before her and had taken mr. cox out on the balcony. bret was not in the room; leslie did not know the music, and in the face of so many difficulties, dick's attention soon began to wander, and kate was left to console the disappointed musician. once or twice she attempted to renew the subject, but was told that they were all going down to the theatre in half an hour, and that it had better be put off to another time. montgomery made no answer, but he could not cast off the bitter and malignant thought that haunted him, 'i'm as unfortunate in art as in love.' xx the ebb of the company's prosperity dated from kate's marriage. somehow things did not seem to go well after. in the first place the production of _olivette_ was not a success. mortimer was drunk, did not know his words, and went 'fluffing all over the shop.' kate, excited with champagne and compliments, sang the wrong music on one occasion; and to complete their misfortunes, the liverpool public did not in the least tumble to miss beaumont's rendering of the part of the heroine. the gallery thought she was too fat, the papers said she was not sprightly enough, and on wednesday night the old _cloches_ had to be put up. by this failure the management sustained a heavy loss. they had laid out a lot of money on dresses, property and scenery, all of which were now useless to them; and the other two operas were beginning to droop and lose their drawing power, having been on the road for the last three years. the country, too, was suffering from a great commercial crisis, and no one cared to go to the theatre. in many of the towns they visited strikes were on, and the people were convulsed with discussions, projects for resistance, and hopes of bettering their condition. great social problems, the tyranny of capital, and such-like, occupied the minds of men, and there was naturally little taste for the laughing nonchalance of _la fille de madame angot_ or the fooling of the baillie in the _cloches_. as forty thousand men had struck work, our band of travelling actors rolled out of leeds, and they left it bearing with them only a reminiscence of empty benches, and street-corners crowded with idling, sullen-faced men. at newcastle they were not more fortunate, at wigan they fared even worse, and at hull it was equally bad. gaiety seemed to have fled out of the north; the public-house and the platform drew away the pit and the gallery; the frequenters of the boxes and dress-circle remained at home, to talk around their firesides of their jeopardized fortunes. when the workers grow weary of work a hard time sets in for the sellers of amusement, and the fate of morton and cox's operatic company proved no exception to the rule. money was made nowhere, and every friday night a cheque for five-and-twenty pounds had to be sent down from london to make up the deficit in the salary list. nevertheless for two months matters went on very smoothly. the remembrance of large profits made in preceding years was still fresh in the minds of messrs. morton and cox, and they had not yet begun to grumble; but an unintermittent drain of twenty-five to forty pounds a week keeps a man from his sleep at night, and after a big failure in the city, in which mr. cox was muleted to the extent of a couple of thousand pounds, he wrote to dick suggesting that he had better look out for another opera. this was welcome news to montgomery; but no sooner had dick raised him to the seventh heaven of bliss, than he had to knock him down to earth again: a letter arrived from mr. cox, saying that no opera was to be put up; that it would be useless to try anything new in such bad times; they had better try to reduce expenses instead. 'reduce expenses? how are we to reduce expenses except by cutting down the salaries?' 'i'm sure i don't know,' said montgomery; 'and the expense of mounting my piece would be very slight.' without attempting to discuss so vain a question, dick said, 'i must speak to hayes.' but hayes only pulled his silky whiskers, blinked his chinese eyes, drank three glasses of whisky, and changed the position of his black bag several times, and the matter was scarcely alluded to again until the following fortnight, when dick found himself forced to write to mr. cox demanding a cheque for thirty-five pounds, to meet saturday's treasury and the current expenses of the following week. the cheque arrived, but the letter that came with it read very ominously indeed. it read as follows: 'dear mr. lennox,--i enclose you the required amount; but of course you will understand that this cannot go on. i intend running down to see you on tuesday evening. will you have the company assembled to meet me at the theatre, as i have an important explanation to make to them.' dick had too much experience in theatrical speculations not to know that this must mean either a reduction of salaries or a break-up of the tour; but as two whole days still stood between him and the evil hour, it did not occur to him to give the matter another thought, and it was not until they returned home after the theatre, to prepare for the sunday journey, that he spoke to kate of the letter he had received. their portmanteaus were spread out before them, and kate was counting her petticoats when dick said: 'i'll tell you what, kate, i shouldn't be surprised if the company broke up shortly, and we all found ourselves obliged to look out for new berths.' 'what do you mean?' she said, with a startled look on her face. 'well, only that i think that morton and cox are beginning to get tired of losing money. as you know, we've been doing very bad business lately, and i think they'll give us all the sack.' 'give us all the sack!' kate repeated. 'yes,' said dick, pursuing his own reflections 'i'm afraid it's so. it's a deuced bore, for we were very pleasant together. but i don't think i showed you the letter i got this morning. what's the matter, dear?' pale as the petticoat at her feet, kate stood with raised eyebrows and hands that twitched at the folds of her dress. 'oh, dick! what shall we do? we shall starve; we shan't have any place to go to!' 'starve!' said dick in astonishment. 'not if i know it. we shall easily find something else to do. besides, i don't care if he does break up the tour. i believe there's a good bit of coin to be made out of the pier theatre at blackpool. i've been thinking of it for some time--with a good entertainment, you know; and then there's the drama harding did for me--a version of wilkie collins's story--_the yellow mask_--devilish good it is, too. i was reading it the other day. we might take a company out with it. let me see, whom could we get to play in it?' and, sitting over his portmanteau, the actor proceeded to cast the piece, commenting as he went along on the qualifications of the artists, and giving verbal sketches of the characters in the play. 'beaumont would play virginie first rate, you know--a strong, determined, wicked woman, who stops at nothing. i'd like to play the father; mortimer would be very funny as the uncle. we'll have to write in something for you. you couldn't take the sympathetic little girl yet; you haven't had enough experience.' the expenses of scenery, properties, and posting were gone into, and while listening to the different estimates kate looked at her husband vaguely, and plunged in a sort of painful wonderment, asking herself how standing on the brink of ruin he could calmly make plans for the future. but to the actor, whose life had never run for a year without getting entangled in some difficult knot or other, the present hitch did not give the slightest uneasiness. a strange town to face and half a crown in his pocket might cause him some temporary embarrassment, but a hundred pounds at the bank, and the notoriety of having been for two years the manager of a travelling company, was to dick an exceptionally brilliant start in life, and it did not occur to him to doubt that he would hop into another shop as good as the one he had left. but as the woman had been engaged in none of these anxious battles for existence, the news of a threatened break-up of her world fell with a cruel shock upon her, and she experienced in an aggravated form the same dull nervous terror from which she had suffered in the early days when she had first joined the company, but then the full tide of love and prosperity bore their bark along, and quieted her fears. but now in the first puff of the first squall she saw herself like one wrecked and floating on a spar in a wide and unknown sea of trouble. sitting on the bed where she would never sleep again, she watched dick counting on his fingers and looking dreamily into the spaces of some impossible future, and asked herself what was to become of them. for the twentieth time since she had donned them the robes of the bohemian fell from her, and she became again in instincts and tastes a middle-class woman longing for a home, a fixed and tangible fireside where she might sit in the evening by her husband's side, mending his shirts, after the work of the day. a bitter detestation of her wandering life rose to her head, and she longed to beg of her husband to give up theatricals, and try to find some other employment; and the next day it appeared to her more than usually sinful to drive to the station as the church bells were chiming, spending the hours, that should have been passed in praying, in playing 'nap,' smoking cigarettes, and talking of wigs, make-ups, choruses, and such-like. but apparently there was no help for it, and on monday night, in her excitement, increased by the arrival of mr. cox, she could not help getting out of bed to beseech god to be merciful to them; her husband's heavy breathing often interrupted her, but it told her that he was her husband, and that was her only consolation. it astonished her that he could sleep as he did, having in front of him the terrible to-morrow, when perhaps mr. cox would cast them adrift; and she trembled in every fibre when she stood on the stairs leading to the manager's room. there was a great crowd: the chorus-girls wedged themselves into a solid mass, and murmured good-mornings to each other; mortimer told a long story from the top step; dubois tried to talk of balzac to montgomery, who listened, puzzled and interested, fancying it was a question of a libretto; whilst bret, till now silent as the dead, suddenly woke up to the conclusion that it would probably all end in a reduction of salaries. at last dick appeared and called them into the presence of mr. cox. whisky and water was on the table, and with the silky whiskers plunged in the black bag, mr. hayes fumbled aimlessly with many papers. the 'boss' looked very grave and twitched at a heavy moustache; and when they were all grouped about him, in his deepest and most earnest tones, he explained his misfortunes. for the last four months he had been forced to send down a weekly cheque of not less than five-and-twenty pounds; sometimes, indeed, the amount had run up to forty pounds. this, of course, could not go on for ever, he had not the bank of england behind him. but talking of banks, although there was no reason why he should inflict on them an account of his bad luck, he could not refrain from saying that had it not been for a certain bank he should be forced to ask them to accept half salaries. the words brought a flush of indignation to beaumont's cheeks. she made a slight movement, as if she were going to repudiate the suggestion violently, but the silence of those around calmed her, and she contented herself with murmuring to dolly: 'this is an old dodge.' 'i will leave you now,' said mr. cox, 'to consult among yourselves as to whether you will accept my proposal, or if you would prefer me to break up the tour at the end of the week, and pay you your fares back to london.' as mr. cox left the room there was a murmur of inquiry from the chorus ladies, and one or two voices were heard above the rest saying that they did not know how they could manage on less than five-and-twenty shillings a week. these objections were soon silenced by dick, who in a persuasive little speech explained that the reduction of salaries applied to the principals only. 'then why derange these ladies and gentlemen by asking them to attend at this meeting?' said mortimer. to this question dick made answer by telling the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus they might withdraw, and the discussion was resumed by those whom it concerned. beaumont objected to everything. bret spoke of going back to liverpool. dubois explained his opinions on the management of theatres in general, until dick summoned him back to the point. were they or were they not going to accept half salaries? at length the matter was decided by mortimer getting upon a chair and shouting through his nose as through a pipe: 'i don't know if you're all fond of hot weather, but if you are you'll find it to your taste in london; all the theatres are closed, and the cats are baking on the tiles.' this brought the argument to a pause, during which beaumont remembered that grouse were shot in august, and settling her diamonds in her ears, she agreed that the tour was to be continued. a few more remarks were made, and then the party adjourned to a neighbouring 'pub.' to talk of _opéra bouffes_ and bad business. the next places they visited were huddersfield and bradford, but the houses they played to were so poor that mr. cox summoned a general meeting on the sunday morning, and told them frankly that he could not go on losing money any longer; he would, however, lend them the dresses, and they might start a commonwealth if they liked. after much discussion it was decided to accept his offer, and the afternoon was spent in striving to decide how the business was to be carried on. a committee was at last formed consisting of dick, mortimer, dubois, montgomery, bret, and mr. hayes, and they settled, as they went on to halifax by an evening train, that the chorus was, hit or miss, to be paid in full, and the takings then divided among the principals proportionately to the salary previously received. in the face of the bad times it was a risky experiment, and williams, the agent in advance, was anxiously looked out for at the station. what did he think? was there a chance of their doing a bit of business in the town? were there bills up in all the public-houses? williams did not at first understand this unusual display of eagerness, but when the commonwealth was explained to him, his face assumed as grey an expression as the pimples would allow it. he shoved his dust-eaten pot-hat on one side, scratched his thin hair, and after some pressing, admitted that he didn't think that they would do much good in the place; as far as he could see, everybody's ideas were on striking and politics; the general election especially was playing the devil with managers; at least that was what the company that had just left said. this was chilling news, and, alas! each subsequent evening proved only the correctness of mr. williams's anticipations. seven-pound houses were the rule. on friday and saturday they had two very fair pits, but this could not compensate for previous losses, and in the end, when all expenses were paid, only five-and-thirty shillings remained to be divided among the principals. their next try was at oldham, but matters grew worse instead of better, and on saturday night five-and-twenty shillings was sorrowfully portioned out in equal shares. it did not amount to much more than half a crown apiece. rochdale, however, was not far distant, and, still hoping that times would mend, morton and cox's band of travelling actors sped on their way, dreaming of how they could infuse new life into their mumming, and whip up the jaded pleasure-tastes of the miners. but for the moment comic songs proved weak implements in the search for ore, and the committee sitting in the green-room, used likewise as a dressing-room by the two ladies, counted out a miserable four-and-ninepence as the result of a week's hard labour. beaumont fumed before the small glass, arranging her earrings as if she anticipated losing them; kate trembled and clung to her husband's arm, montgomery cast sentimental glances of admiration at her, and mortimer tried to think of something funny, while dubois came to the point by asking: 'well, what are you going to do with that four-and-ninepence? it isn't worth dividing. i suppose we'd better drink it.' at the mention of drinks mr. hayes blinked and shifted the black bag from the chair to the ground. 'yes, that's easily arranged,' said dick, 'but what about the tour? i for one am not going on at four-and-ninepence a week.' 'sp-pend--it--in drinks,' stuttered mr. hayes, awakening to a partial sense of the situation. everybody laughed, but in the pause that ensued, each returned to the idea that there was no use going on at four-and-ninepence a week. 'for we can't live on drink, although beaumont can upon love,' said mortimer, determined to say something. but the joke amused no one, and for some time only short and irrelevant sentences broke the long silences. at last dick said: 'well, then, i suppose we'd better break up the tour.' to this proposal no one made much objection. murmurs came from different sides that it was a great pity they should have to part company in this way after having been so long together. montgomery and dubois contributed largely to this part of the conversation, and through an atmosphere of whisky and soap-suds arose a soft penetrating poetry concerning the delights of friendship. it was very charming to think and speak in this way, but all hoped, with perhaps the exception of montgomery, that no one would insist too strongly on this point, for in the minds of all new thoughts and schemes had already begun to germinate. mortimer remembered a letter he had received from a london manager; dubois saw himself hobnobbing again with the old 'pals' in the strand; bret silently dreamed of miss leslie's dyed hair and blue eyes, and of his chances of getting into the same company. 'then, if it is decided to break up the tour, we must make a subscription to send the chorus back to london,' said dick after a long silence. nobody till now had thought of these unfortunate people and their twenty-five shillings a week, but always ready to help a lame dog over a stile, dick planked down two 'quid' and called on the others to do what they could in the same way. mr. hayes strewed the table instantly with the money he had in his pocket. mortimer spoke about his wife and mentioned details of an intimate nature to show how hard up he was; he nevertheless stumped up a 'thin 'un.' beaumont, rampant at the idea of 'parting,' contributed the same; indignant looks were levelled at her, and dick continued to exhort his friends to be generous. 'the poor girls,' he declared, 'must be got home; it would never do to leave them starving in lancashire.' kate gave a sovereign of her savings, and in this way something over ten pounds was made up; with that dick said he thought he could manage. the trouble he took to manage everything was touching. on sunday, when kate was at church, he was down at the railway station trying to find out what were the best arrangements he could make. and on monday morning when they were all assembled on the platform to bid good-bye to their fellow-workers, it was curious to see this huge man, who at a first impression would be taken for a mere mass of sensuality, rushing about putting buns and sandwiches in paper bags for his poor chorus-girls, encouraging them with kind words, and when the train began to move, waving them large and unctuous farewells with his big hat. since the first shock of the threatened break-up of the tour kate had gradually grown accustomed to the idea and now wept in silence. without precisely suffering from any pangs of fear for the future, an immense sadness seemed to ache within her very bones. all things were passing away. the flock of girls in whose midst she had lived was gone; a later train would take mortimer to london; bret was bidding them good-bye; beaumont was consulting a bradshaw. how sad it seemed! the theatre and artists were vanishing into darkness like a dream. not a day, nor an hour, could she see in front of her. 'what shall we do now?' she whispered to dick, as she trotted along by his side. 'well, i haven't quite made up my mind. i was thinking last night that it wouldn't be a bad idea to make up a little entertainment--four or five of us--and see what we could do in the manufacturing towns. lancashire is, you know, honeycombed with them. our travelling expenses would amount to a mere nothing. we must have someone to operate on the piano. i wonder if montgomery would care about coming with us.' kate thought that he would, and as she happened at that moment to catch sight of the long tails of the newmarket coat at the other side of the station, she begged dick to call to the erratic musician. no sooner was the proposition put forward than it was accepted, and in five minutes they were at luncheon in a 'pub,' arranging the details of the entertainment. 'we shall want an agent-in-advance, a bill-poster, or something of that kind,' said montgomery. 'i've thought of that,' replied dick; 'williams is our man, he'll see to all that; and i don't know if you know, but he can sing a good song on his own account.' 'can he? well, then, we can't have anyone better--and what shall we take out?' 'well, we must have a little operetta, and i don't think we can do better than offenbach's _breaking the spell_.' 'right you are,' said montgomery, pulling out his pocket-book. '_breaking the spell_, so far so good; now we must have a song or a character sketch to follow, and i don't think it would be a bad idea if we rehearsed a comedietta. what do you say to _the happy pair_?' 'right you are, pencil it down, can't do better, it always goes well; and then i can sing between "the men of harlech."' montgomery looked a little awry at the idea of having to listen to 'the men of harlech,' sung by dick, but in the discussion that followed as to what kate was to do, 'the men of harlech' was forgotten. as dick anticipated, williams declared himself delighted to accompany them in the double capacity of bill-poster and occasional singer; and after a fortnight's rehearsal at rochdale, the constellation company started on its wanderings. many drinks had been consumed in seeking for the name; many strange combinations of sound and sense had been rejected, and it was not until dick began to draw lines on a piece of paper, affixing names to the end of each, that the word suggested itself. what joy! what rapture! a rush was made to the printers, and in a few hours the following bill was produced: the constellation company. miss kate d'arcy. * | mr. r. lennox.*-------* mr. p. montgomery. | * mr. b. williams. xxi as the constellation company drove to the station, kate noticed that rochdale and hanley were not unlike, and the likeness between the two towns set her thinking how strange it was. here was the same red town, narrow streets, built of a brick that, under a dull sky, glared to a rich geranium hue. the purplish tints of hanley alone were wanting, but the heavy smoke-clouds, and the tall stems of the chimneys, were as numerous in rochdale as in her native place. and, coincidence still more marvellous, nature had apparently aided and abetted what man's hand had contrived, for in either town a line of hills swept around the sky. the only difference was, that the characteristics of rochdale were not so marked as those of hanley. the hills were not so high, nor were they in such close array as those of the staffordshire town, and the lancashire valley was not so deep and trench-like as the one that engirdles the potteries. it may be that as much smoke hung over it, but the smoke did not seem so black and poisonous, at least not to kate's eyes; and, as the train sped along a high embankment a group of factory chimneys emerged from a fold in the hills, and comparing the two landscapes it seemed to her there were more fields in the lancashire valley, water-courses, trees and hedges--stunted hedges, it is true--but she did not remember any hedges about hanley. at one moment she was minded to turn to dick and to call his attention to the likeness in the country they were travelling through to the country she had come from; had she been alone with him she might have asked him, but he was now busy talking of the comic songs and sketches in which they were to act. 'the mulligan guards' was one of the items on their programme, and she and dick were going to sing it together. this would be the first time they had ever sung together. dick had very little voice, but he was a good actor, and she thought they would be able to make a success of it. he called her attention and the attention of the other members of the constellation company to the scattered towns and villages they were passing through. 'the very country for our kind of entertainment,' he said; and all the mummers rose from their seats and gazed at the wolds and factories. under the green waste of a wold a chimney had been run up; sheds and labourers' cottages had followed, and in five years, if the factory prospered, this beginning would swell into a village, in twenty it would possess twenty thousand inhabitants; for just as in old times the towns followed the castles, so do they now follow in the wake of the factories. the mummers gaped and wondered at the arsenic green sides of the wolds, striped with rough stone walls or blackened with an occasional coalpit, the ridges fringed with trees blown thin by sea-breezes. in the distance, within the folds of the hills, tall chimneys clustered and great clouds of smoke hung listless in the still autumn air. cold rays of sunlight strayed for a moment on the dead green of the fields, pale as invalids enjoying the air for the last time before a winter seclusion. and later on, when the light mists of evening descended and bore away the landscape, the phantom shapes of the wolds took on a strange appearance, producing in kate a sensation of mobility, which to escape from, for it frightened her, she turned to dick and asked how far they were from bacup. he told her they would be there in about half an hour, and half an hour afterwards williams, who had gone on in front, met them at the station, and began at once the tale of his industry, saying that he had been in every public-house, and had stood at the corners of all the principal streets distributing bills. 'i think we shall do pretty well,' he said; 'my only bit of bad news is that i haven't been able to find any lodgings for you; there's but one hotel, and all the rooms are taken.' dick, who on such occasions always took time by the forelock, insisted on starting at once on their search--and up and down the murky streets of the manufacturing town they walked until it was time for them to repair to the mechanics' hall, where they were going to play, and get ready for the entertainment. 'the mulligan guards' proved a great success, as did also the operetta, _breaking the spell_. kate's pretty face and figure won the hearts of the factory hands, and she was applauded whenever she appeared on the stage; and so frequent were the encores that it was half-past ten before they had finished their programme, and close on eleven o'clock before they got out of the hall into the street. then the search for lodgings had to begin again. montgomery and williams, being single men, obtained beds, but kate and dick were not so easily satisfied, and they found themselves standing under a porch with the lights going out on all sides, and the prospect of spending a wet night in the street before them. at last dick bethought himself of the police station, but on applying to a policeman he was directed to the backdoor of a public-house. 'he was pretty sure,' whispered the boy in blue, 'to get put up there.' the door was opened with precaution, and they were allowed in. the place was full of people; it took them a long time to get served, and they were at length told that in the way of a room nothing could be done for them. every bed in the house was occupied. kate raised her eyes to dick, but her look of misery was anticipated by a rough-faced carter who stood at the counter. 'you bear up, little woman,' he said abruptly; 'don't yo' look so froightent. yo' shall both come up to my place, if yo' will; it isna up to much, but oi'll do th' best i can for yo'.' there was no mistaking the kindness with which the offer was made, though the idea of going to sleep at this rough man's house for the moment staggered even the mummer. but as it was now clear that they would have either to accept their new friend's hospitality, or spend the night on the doorstep, it did not take them long to decide on the former alternative. their only reason for hesitating was their inability to understand what were his motives for asking them to come to his place. then, as if divining the reason of their uncertainty, he said: 'i know yo' well, tho' yo' don't know me. i was up at the 'all to-night, and yo' did make me so laugh that i wouldna' see yo' in the streets for nothing. neaw, let it be yea or nay, master.' for answer, dick put out his hand; and when he had thanked the hospitably inclined carter, put some questions to him about the entertainment. soon the two began to 'pal,' and after another drink they all went off together. after wading down a few sloppy streets, he stopped before a low doorway, and ushered them into what looked like an immense kitchen. they saw rafters overhead and an open staircase ascending to the upper rooms, as a ladder might through a series of lofts; and when a candle had been obtained, the first thing their host did was to pull his wife out of bed, and insist on his guests getting into it, a request which the woman joined in as heartily as her husband as soon as the reason for this unceremonious awakening had been explained to her. and so wearied out were kate and dick, and so tempting did any place of rest look to them, that they could offer no opposition to the kind intentions of their host and hostess, and they slept heavily until roused next morning by a loud trampling of feet passing through their room. it was the family coming down from the lofts above, and as they descended the staircase they wished their guests a broad lancashire good-morning. and when kate and dick had recovered from their astonishment, they dressed and went out to buy some provisions, which they hoped to be allowed to cook in the rough kitchen; but when they returned with their purchases they found the carter's daughter standing before an elaborately prepared breakfast, consisting of a huge beefsteak and a high pile of cakes. 'lor, marm, why did yo' buy those things?' said the girl, disappointed. 'well,' said kate, 'we couldn't think of trespassing on you in that fashion. you must, you will, i hope, let us prepare our own breakfast.' 'feyther will never 'ear of it, i know,' said the girl; and immediately after, the carter, with his brawny arms, pushed kate and dick down into two seats at the big table. both cake and meat were delicious, and dick's appetite showed such signs of outdoing the carter's that kate, in the hope of diverting attention, commenced an interesting conversation with the buxom maiden by her side, and so successful were her efforts that a friendship was soon established between the women; and, when the morning's work was done, mary, of her own accord, sought out kate, and as she knitted the thick woollen stocking, was easily led into telling the inevitable love story. we change the surroundings, but a heart bleeds under all social variations; and in this grim manufacturing town when the bridal dress was taken out of its lavender and darkness it seemed to possess a gleam of poetic whiteness that it could not have had even if set off by the pleasant verdure of a devonshire lane. 'but you'll keep it for another; another will be sure to come by very soon,' said kate, trying to console. 'nay, nay, i'll have no other,' said the girl. 'i'll just keep the dress by; but i'll have no other.' then the talk hesitated and fell at last into a long narrative concerning tender hopes and illusions to which kate listened, as all women do, to the story of heart-aches and deceptions; and in after years, when all other remembrances of the black country were swept away, the remembrance of this white dress remained. from bacup they went to whitworth, a town in such immediate neighbourhood that it might be called a suburb of the former place, and there they played in the co-operative hall to an audience consisting of a factory man, two children, and a postman who came in on the free list. this was not encouraging; but they, nevertheless, resolved to try the place again; and next day at dinner-time, as the 'hands' were leaving the factories, they distributed some hundreds of bills. dick said he should never forget it; to watch pimply face cutting about, shoving his bills into the women's aprons, was the funniest thing he had ever seen in his life. but their efforts were all in vain. it rained, and not a soul came to see them; and, in addition to their other troubles, they found whitworth was an awkward place to stop at. dick and his wife had a room in a pub, but montgomery and williams had to walk over each evening to sleep at bacup. one day their landlady spoke of clayton-le-moors, where, she said, a fair was being held, and she advised the constellation company to try their entertainment there. this was considered as a sensible suggestion, and the four mummers started for the fair on the top of an omnibus with their wigs and dresses and make-ups stuck under their legs. the weather at least was in their favour. the sunlight rolled over the great white sides of the booths, aunt sallies were being shied at, the pubs were all open, and a huge, rollicking population, fetid with the fermenting sweat of the factories, was disporting on whisky and fresh air. never were the spirits of dejected strolling players buoyed up with a fairer prospect of a harvest. the next thing to do was to distribute the handbills, and find a place where they could set up their show, and, to conduct their search more thoroughly, they separated, after having decided on a tryst. in this way the town was thoroughly ransacked; but it was not until kate, who had gone off on her own accord, learnt from the landlord of a public-house, where she had entered to get a drink, that he had a large concert-room overhead, that there seemed to be the slightest chance of the constellation company being able to turn the joviality of the factory hands at the fair to any account. matters now seemed to be looking up, and a very neat little arrangement was entered into with the proprietor of the pub. four entertainments of ten minutes each were to be given every hour, for each of which the sum of threepence a head was to be charged, twopence to go to the artists, a penny to the landlord, who would, of course, make his 'bit' also out of the drink supplied. and what a success they had that day! not only did the factory hands come in, but they paid their threepence over and over again. they seemed never to grow tired of hearing dick and kate sing 'the mulligan guards,' and when she called out 'corps' and he touched his cap, and they broke into a dance, the delight of the workpeople knew no bounds, and they often stopped the entertainment to hand up their mugs of beer to the mummers with a 'ave a soop, mon.' from twelve o'clock in the day until eleven at night the affair was kept going; kate, dick, and williams dancing and singing in turn, and montgomery all the while spanking away at the dominoes. it was heavy work, but the coin they took was considerable, and it came in handy, for in the next three towns they did very badly. but at padiham a curious accident turned out in the end very luckily for them. there were but five people in the house, one of whom was drunk. this fellow very humorously in the middle of the entertainment declared that he was going to sing a song; he even wanted to appropriate williams's wig, and when dick, who was always chucker-out on such occasions, attempted to eject him, he climbed out of reach and lodged himself in one of the windows. from there he proceeded to call to the people in the street, and with such excellent result that they made £ in the hall during the evening. this, and similar slices of good fortune, kept the constellation company rolling from one adventure to another. sometimes a wet day came to their assistance; sometimes a dispute between some factory hands and the masters brought them a little money. their wants were simple; a bed in a pub, and a steak for dinner was all they asked for. but at last, as winter wore on, ill-fortune commenced to follow them very closely and persistently. they had been to four different towns and had not made a ten-pound note to divide between the lot of them. in the face of such adversity it was not worth while keeping on; besides, kate's expected confinement rendered it impossible to prolong their little tour much farther. for these reasons, one november morning the constellation company, hoping they would soon meet again, under more auspicious circumstances, bade each other good-bye at the railway station. williams and montgomery went to liverpool, kate and dick to make a stay at rochdale, where they had heard that many companies were coming. the companies came, it is true, but they were, unfortunately, filled up, and lennox and his wife could not get an engagement in any of them. the little money saved out of their tour enabled them to keep body and soul together for about a month; but in the fifth week they were telling the landlady lies, and going through all the classic excuses--expecting a letter every day, by monday at the very latest, etc. in the face of kate's approaching confinement this was a state of things that made even dick begin to look anxiously round and fear for the safety of the future. kate, on the contrary, although fretted and wearied, took matters more easily than might have been expected; and the changing of their last ten shillings frightened her less than had the first announcement of the possible breaking up of morton and cox's operatic company. bohemianism had achieved in her its last victory; and having lately seen so many of the difficulties of life solving themselves in ways that were inexplicable to her, she had unconsciously come to think that there was no knot that chance, luck, or fate would not untie. besides, her big dick's resources were apparently unlimited; the present weakness of her condition tended to induce her to rely more than ever upon his protection; and in the lassitude of weak hopes, she contented herself with praying occasionally that all would yet come right. but her lover, although he told her nothing of his fears, was not so satisfied. never before had he been quite so hard pressed. they now owed a week's rent, besides other small debts; all of which they were unable to pay unless they pawned the remainder of their clothes. he said it would be far better for them to go to manchester, leaving their things, to be redeemed some day, as a security with the landlady--that is to say, if they failed to get out of the house without being perceived by her. they still had half a crown, which would pay kate's railway fare, and as regards himself, dick proposed that he should do the journey on foot; he would be able to walk the distance easily in three hours, and at eleven o'clock would join his wife at an address which he gave her, with many injunctions as to the story that was to be told to the landlady. so, as the clock was striking seven one cold winter's morning, they stole quietly downstairs, dick carrying a small portmanteau. on the table of their room a letter was left, explaining that a telegram received overnight called them to manchester, but that they hoped to be back again in a few days--a week at latest. this assurance dick considered would amply satisfy the old dame, and holding the portmanteau on his shoulder with one arm, and supporting kate with the other, he made his way to the station. the day had not yet begun to break. a heavy, sluggish night hung over the town. the streets were filled with puddles and flowing mud; and kate was frequently obliged to stop and rest against the lamp-posts. she complained of feeling very ill, and she walked with difficulty. in the straggling light of the gas, dick looked at her pale, pretty features, accentuated by suffering; he felt that he had never known before how dearly he loved her, and the pity for her that filled his heart choked him when he attempted to speak: and his eyes misted with tears and he could not bring his mind to leave her. he thought of the old dodge of travelling on the luggage, but fearing that the woman to whose house they were going would not let them in unless they had at least one portmanteau to show, he determined to adhere to the original plan of sending kate on in front; and although tortured by many fears, he hid them, assuring her that their troubles would be over once they set foot in manchester: all he had to do was to go down to the theatre royal to get an engagement. and he spoke so kindly that his kindness seemed to repay her for her sufferings. for some days past she had been subject to violent nauseas and acute pains, and as she bade him goodbye out of the railway-carriage window, she had to bend and press herself against it. and feeling he must encourage her he ran along the platform till the train began to leave him behind, and he stopped out of breath with a cloud of melancholy upon his cheeks, generally so restful in a happy animalism--yet the fat hand lifted the big-brimmed black felt hat, the frizzly curls blew in the cold wind, the train oscillated and then rolled and disappeared round a bend in the line. that was all. what had been done was over, as completely as the splash made by a stone dropped into a well, and the actor awoke to a feeling that something new had again to be begun. after descending the steps of the station, he asked to be directed, and for a long time his way lay through a street, made by red brick houses with stucco porches; but at length these commenced to divide into cottages, and after many inquiries, he was shown into what he was told was an old roman road, called 'going over tindel.' the wind blew bitterly, and against a murky sky the fretted trees on the higher ridges were like veils of grey lace. walking was not dick's forte, and leaning against a farm gate, his eyes embraced the wild black scenery, and remembrances of the hanley hills drifted through his thoughts. there were the same rolling wastes, and like the pieces on a chess-board the factory chimneys appeared at irregular intervals. but these topographical similarities attracted dick only so far as they filled his mind with old memories and associations, and his thoughts flowed from the time he had stood with his wife at the top of market street to the present hour. he neither praised nor blamed himself. he accepted things as they were without criticism, and they appeared to him like a turgid dream swollen and bleak as the confused expanse of distance before him. the stupor into which he occasionally fell endured until a quick thought would strike through the mental gloom that oppressed him, and relinquishing the farm gate he would moodily resume his walk through the heavy slosh of the wet roads. as he did so the vision of kate's pain-stricken face haunted him, and at every step his horror of the danger she ran of being taken ill before arriving in manchester grew darker, and he toiled up hill after hill, yearning to be near her, desiring only the power to relieve and to help. often the intensity of his longing would force him into a run, and then the farm labourers would turn from their work to gaze on this huge creature, who stood on a hill-top wearily wiping his forehead. and then he grew sick of the long, staring, rolling landscape, with its thousand sinuosities, its single trees, its detailed foreground of scrub, hedges, brooks, spanned by small brick bridges, the melting distance, the murky sky, the belching chimneys: he asked himself if it would never end, if it would never define itself into the streets of manchester. and as he descended each incline his eyes searched for the indication of a town, until at last he saw lines of smoke, factories, and masses of brick on his left, and he hastened. all the markings of the way were looked forward to, the outlying streets seemed endless, and so great was his hurry that before he discovered he was in oldham, he had walked into the middle of the town. his disappointment was bitter indeed, almost unbearable, and for the moment he felt that he could go no farther; his courage was exhausted, it was impossible he could face that bleak mocking landscape again. besides, he was fainting for want of food. had he possessed a few pence to treat himself to a glass of beer and a bit of bread and cheese, he thought he would be able to pull himself together and make another effort; but he was destitute. still, he was forced to try again. the thought of kate burned in his brain, and after having inquired the way, with weary and aching feet he once more trudged manfully on. a fretful suspicion now haunted him that she might not find the landlady as agreeable as would under the circumstances be desirable, and he reasoned with himself as he crossed into the open country, until anxiety became absorbed by fatigue. of every passer-by did he ask the way, and as he passed the stately villas dick felt that had there been much farther to walk he would have had to beg a lift from one of the waggoners who passed him constantly driving their heavy teams. but he was now in manchester, and wondering if he had taken longer to walk than he had expected, he looked into the shop windows in search of a clock, and when he rang at the door of the lodging-house his heart beat as rapidly as the jangling bell that pealed through the house the maid who answered the door told him that she knew of no such person and was about to shut the door in his face, but dick's good-natured smile compelled her into parley, and she admitted that, having been out on an errand, she had not seen the missus since ten o'clock. a lady might have called, but she wasn't in the house now; they were as full as they could hold. 'and are you certain that a lady might have called about ten or half-past without your having seen her?' 'i was out on a herrant at that time, so i'm sure she might, for missus wouldn't mind to tell me if i wasn't to get rooms ready for her.' 'and what would your mistress do in the case of not being able to supply a lady with rooms?' 'i should think she would send round to mrs.----well--i don't remember right the name.' 'do you know the address?' 'i know it's behind the station, one of those streets where--nay--but i don't think i could direct you right.' 'then what shall i do?' 'missus will be in shortly. if you'll take a seat in the 'all--i can't ask you into any other room, they're all occupied.' there was nothing to do but to accept, and after having asked when the landlady might be expected in, and receiving the inevitable 'really couldn't say for certain, sir, but i don't think she'll be long,' he sat down in a chair, weary and footsore; there were times when struck by a sudden thought he would make a movement as if to start from his seat; but instantly remembering his own powerlessness, he would slip back into his attitude of heavy fatigue. in the dining-room the clock ticked, and he listened to the passing of the minutes, tortured by the idea that his wife was suffering, dying, and that he was not near to help, to assist, to assuage. he forgot that they were penniless, homeless; all was lost in a boundless pity, and he listened to the footsteps growing sharper as they approached, and duller as they went. at last the sound of the latchkey was heard in the lock, and dick started to his feet. it was the landlady. 'have you seen my wife?' 'yes, sir,' exclaimed the astonished woman; 'she was here this morning; all our rooms are let, so i couldn't----' 'where has she gone to, do you know?' 'well, sir, i was going to say, she asked me if i could recommend her to some quiet place, and i sent her to mrs. hurley's.' 'and will you give me mrs. hurley's address?' 'yes, sir, certainly; but if i may make so bold, you're looking very tired--may i offer you a glass of beer? and mrs. lennox is looking very bad too, she is--' 'i'm much obliged, but i've no time; if you'd give me the address....' no sooner were the words spoken than, forgetful of his aching feet, dick rushed away, and dodging the passers-by he ran until he laid hands on the knocker and bell in question. 'is mrs. lennox staying here?' he asked of the lady who opened the door. 'there was a lady of that name who inquired for rooms here this morning.' 'and isn't she here? why didn't she take the rooms?' 'well, sir, she said she was expecting to be confined, and i didn't care to have illness in my house.' 'you don't mean to tell me that you turned her out? oh, you atrocious--! if you were a man....' overpowered with rage he stopped for words, and the woman, fearing he would strike her, strove to shut the door. but dick, with his thick leg, prevented her, and at this moment they were joined by the maid, who screamed over her mistress's shoulder: 'the lady said she would come round here in a couple o' hours' time to ask for you, and i advised her to try for rooms at no. in this street. you'll find her there.' this was enough for dick, and loosing his hold on the door he made off; streets, carriages, passers-by, whirled before his eyes. 'is mrs. lennox here?' he asked so roughly when the door was opened, that the maid regretted having said yes as soon as the word had passed her lips. 'on what floor?' 'the first, sir; but you'd better let me go up first. mrs. lennox is not very well; she's expecting her husband.' 'i'm her husband.' and on that dick rushed at the staircase. a few strides brought him on to the first landing; but a sudden disappointment seized him--the sitting-room was empty. thinking instantly of the bedroom, he flung open the door, and there he saw kate sitting on the edge of the bed rocking herself to and fro. she rose to her feet and the expression of weary pain was changed to one of joy as she fell into dick's arms. 'i thought you'd never come, and they would take me in nowhere.' 'yes, my darling, i know all about it; i know all.' he laid kisses on the rich black-blue hair and the pale tired face; he felt light hands resting on him; she felt strong arms clasped about her, and each soul seemed to be but the reflection of the other, just as the sky and the sea are when the sun is at its meridian. then, at this brief but ineffable moment of spiritual unison faded words returned to them, and kate spoke of all she had suffered. she whispered the story she had told the landlady, and how she had ordered a big dinner, and everything of the best, so that they might not be suspected of being hard up. dick approved of these arrangements; but just as he smacked his lips, a foretaste of the leg of mutton in his mouth, kate uttered a sort of low cry, and turning pale, pressed her hands to her side. a sharp pain had suddenly run through her, and as quickly died away; but a few minutes after this was succeeded by another, which lasted longer and gripped her more acutely. supporting her tenderly he helped her across the room and laid her on the bed. there she seemed to experience some relief; but very soon she was again seized by the most acute pangs. it seemed to her that she was bound about with a buckler of iron, and frightened dick rang for the landlady. the worthy woman saw at a glance what was happening, and sent him off, weary as he was, to fetch a doctor and the needful assistance. xxii the doctor and nurse arrived almost simultaneously and passed into the sick-room, bidding dick, who came running upstairs a moment after, be of good cheer. the mummer took his hat from his head and stood for a moment staring vacantly at the bedroom door, as if striving to read there the secrets of life, birth, and death. then he remembered how tired he was, and with a large movement of fatigue he sat down on the sofa. a gloomy yellow sky filled the room with an oppressive and mournful twilight, and to relieve his aching feet dick had kicked off his shoes, and with his folded arms pressed against his stomach he sat hour after hour, too hungry to sleep, listening to the low moaning that came through the chinks of the door. he appeared to be totally forgotten; voices whispered on the staircase, people passed hurriedly through the sitting-room, but none asked him if he wanted anything: no one even noticed him, and when the landlady lighted the gas she uttered a cry of astonishment, as if she had discovered an intruder in the room. 'oh, lawks! mr. lennox, we'd forgotten all about you, and you sittin' there so quiet. but your wife is getting on nice; she has just had a cup of beef-tea: in about another couple of hours it will be all over.' 'is she suffering much?' 'well, sir, yes, i wouldn't consider it an easy confinement; but i think it will be all right: you'll see your wife and child alive and well to-morrow morning.' dick could not help doubting the truth of the woman's statement unless she came to his assistance with food. although almost starving, he was afraid to call for dinner lest she should ask him for some money in advance, but at that moment a cramp seized him, and turning pale he had to lean over the table to suppress the moan which rose to his lips. 'what's the matter, sir? you look quite ill,' the woman asked. 'oh, 'twas only a sudden pain,' dick said, making an effort to recover himself. 'i've eaten nothing all day--have had no time, you know.' 'then we shall have you laid up as well as your wife, and there's the leg of mutton she ordered stewing away all these hours. i'm afraid you won't be able to eat it?' absurd as the question appeared to him, dick answered adroitly: 'it will do very well, if you'll bring it up as soon as you can; i may have to go out.' this was intended as a ruse to deceive the landlady, for so tired was he that had it been to save kate's life he did not think he would have walked downstairs. he could think of nothing but putting something into his stomach, and hard and dry as the mutton was it seemed to him the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. his pain melted away with the first mouthful, and the glass of beer ran through and warmed his entire system. down the great throat the victuals disappeared as if by magic, and the unceasing cry that seemed now to fill the entire house passed almost unheeded. for a moment he would listen pityingly, and then like an animal return to his food. he cut slice after slice from the joint, and as his hunger seemed to grow upon him he thought he could finish it, and even longed to take the bone in his hand and pick it with his teeth; but he reasoned with himself; it would not do to let the landlady suspect they had no money, and as he gazed at the last potato, which he was afraid to eat, he considered what he should say in apology for his appetite; but as he sought for a nice phrase, something pleasantly facetious, he remembered that he would have to find money and at once; he must have some no later than to-morrow. there were a thousand things that would have to be paid for--the baby's clothes, the cradle, the--he tried to think of what was generally wanted under such circumstances, but the cries in the next room, which had gradually swelled into shrieks, appalled him, and involuntarily the thought struck him that there might be a funeral to pay for as well as a birth. at that moment the bell tinkled, and the maid came running up. she carried a jug of hot water and flannels in her hand, and pushing past him she declared that she hadn't a moment. the door of the bedroom was ajar; a fire burned, candles flared on the mantelpiece, a basin stood on the floor, and at times nothing was heard but a long moan, mingling with the murmuring voices of the doctor and nurse. the room seemed like a sanctuary in which some mysterious rite was being performed. but suddenly the silence was broken by shrieks so passionate and acute that all the earlier ones were only remembered as feeble lamentations. dick raised his big face from his hands, the movement threw back the mass of frizzly hair, and in the intensity of this emotion he looked like a lion. 'was this life,' he asked himself, 'or death? and by whose order was a human creature tortured thus cruelly?' but the idea of god did not arrest his attention, and his thoughts fixing themselves on the child, he asked himself, what was this new life to him? 'oh, i never will again! oh, how i hate him--i could kill him! i'll never love him, never no more.' the cry touched the fat mummer through all the years of gross sensuality, through the indigestion of his big dinner, and, struck by the sense of her words, he shuddered, remembering that it was he who was the cause of this outrageous suffering and not the innocent child. was it possible, he asked himself, that she would never love him again? he didn't know. was it possible that he was culpable? strange notions respecting the origin, the scheme, the design of the universe, flashed in dim chiaro-oscuro through his thoughts, and for a full hour dick pondered, philosopher-like, on the remote causes and the distant finalities of men and things. an hour full of moans and cries of suffering, then a great silence came, and the whole house seemed to sigh with a sense of relief. 'the baby must be born,' he said; and immediately after a little thin cry was heard, and in his heart it was prolonged like a note of gladness, and his thoughts became paternal. he wondered if it were a girl or a boy; he fancied he'd like a girl best. if she were pretty, and had a bit of a voice, he'd be able to push her to the front, whereas with a boy it would be more difficult. relinquishing his dreams at this point, dick listened to the silence. he did not dare to knock at the door, but the murmur of satisfied voices assured him that all was right. still it was very odd that they did not come out and announce the result to him. did he count for nobody? did they fancy that it was nothing to him if his wife and child were dead or alive? the idea of being thus completely unconsidered in an affair of such deep concern irritated him, and he walked towards the sofa to brood over his wrongs. should he, or should he not, knock at the door? at last he decided that he should, and, after a timid rap, tried the handle. he was immediately confronted by the nurse. 'it's all right, sir; you shall come in in a moment when the baby is washed.' 'yes, but i want to know how my wife is.' 'she's doing very well, sir; you shall see her presently.' the door was then gently but firmly closed, and dick was kept waiting, and almost collapsing he staggered into the room when the nurse called for him to come in. kate lay amid the sheets pale and inert, her beautiful black hair making an ink stain on the pillows. she stretched an exhausted hand to him, and looked at him earnestly and affectionately. to both of them their lives seemed completed. 'oh, my darling, my darling!' he murmured; and his heart melted with happiness at the faint pressure of fingers which he held within his. the nurse standing by him held something red wrapped up in flannels. he scarcely noticed it until he heard kate say: 'it's a little girl. kiss it, dear.' he awkwardly touched with his lips the tiny whining mass of flesh the nurse held forward, feeling, without knowing why, ashamed of himself. 'hearing that madam was taken all unexpected, i brought these flannels with me,' said the large woman with the long-tailed cap; 'but to-morrow i can recommend you, if you like, sir, to a shop where you can get everything required.' this speech brought dick with a cruel jerk to the brink of the atrocious situation in which he had so unexpectedly found himself. to-morrow he would have to find money, and a great deal too. how he was going to do it he did not know, but money would have to be found. 'yes, yes, i'll see to all that to-morrow,' he said, awakening from his lethargy, like a jaded horse touched in some new place by the spur, 'but now i'm so tired i can scarcely speak.' 'that's so,' said the landlady. 'these walking tours is dreadful. he's been over from rochdale to-day, not counting the runnin' about he did after his wife. you know they refused to take her in at number fifteen. but, sir, i don't well know how we shall manage. i don't see how i'm to offer you a bed. the best i can do for you is to make you up something on the sofa in the parlour.' 'oh, the sofa will do very well. i think i could sleep on the tiles; so good-night, dear,' he said as he leaned over and kissed his wife; 'i'm sorry to leave you so soon.' 'it isn't a bit too soon,' said the doctor. 'she must lie still and not talk.' on this dick was led away. the nurse and doctor consulted by the bed where the woman would lie for days, too weak even to dream, while the man went off into the manchester crowd to search for food. beyond the bare idea of 'going down to see what they were doing at the theatre,' he had no plans. the scavenger dog that prowls about the gutter in search of offal could not have less. but he felt sure that something would turn up; he was certain to meet someone to whom he could sell a piano or for whom he could build a theatre. he never made plans. there was no use in making plans; they were always upset by an accident. far better, he thought, to trust to the inspiration of the moment; and when he awoke in the morning, heavy with sleep, he felt no trepidation, no fear beyond that of how he should get his sore feet into his shoes. it was only with a series of groans and curses that he succeeded in doing this, and the limps by which he proceeded down the street were painful to watch. at the stage-door of the theatre royal a conciliatory tone of voice was mechanically assumed as he asked the porter if mr. jackson was in. but before the official could answer, dick caught sight of mr. jackson coming along the passage. 'how do you do, old man? haven't seen you for a long time.' 'what, you, dick, in manchester? come and have a drink, old man. very glad to see you. stopping long here?' 'well, i'm not quite decided. my wife was confined, you know, last night.' 'what! you a father, dick?' mr. jackson leered, poked him in the ribs, and commenced a list of anecdotes. to these dick had to listen, and in the hopes of catching his friend in an unwary moment of good-humour, he laughed heartily at all the best points. but digressive as conversation is in which women are concerned, sooner or later a reference is made to the cost and the worth, and at last mr. jackson was incautious enough to say: 'very expensive those affairs are, to be sure.' this was the chance that dick was waiting for, and immediately buttonholing his friend, he said: 'you're quite right, they are: and to tell you the truth, old man, i'm in the most devilish awkward position i ever was in my life. you heard about the breaking up of morton and cox's company? well, that left me stranded.' at the first words gaiety disappeared from mr. jackson's face, and during dick's narrative of the tour in lancashire he made many ineffectual wriggles to get away. dick judged from these well-known indications that to borrow money might be attended with failure, and after a pathetic description of his poverty he concluded with: 'so now, my dear fellow, you must find something for me to do. it does not matter what--something temporary until i can find something better, you know.' it was difficult to resist this appeal, and after a moment's reflection mr. jackson said: 'well, you know we're all made up here. there's a small part in the new drama to be produced next week; i wouldn't like to offer it as it is, but i might get the author to write it up.' 'it will do first rate. i'm sure to be able to make something of it. what's the screw?' 'that's just the point. we can't afford to pay much for it; our salary list is too big as it is.' 'what did you intend giving for it?' 'well, we meant to give it to a super, but for you i can have it written up. what do you say to two-ten?' dick thought it would be judicious to pause, and after a short silence he said: 'i've had, as you know, bigger things to do; but i'm awfully obliged to you, old pal. you're doing me a good turn that i shan't forget; we can consider the matter as settled.' this was a stroke of luck, and dick congratulated himself warmly, until he remembered that £ s. at the end of next week did not put a farthing into his present pocket. money he would have to find that day, how he did not know. he called upon everybody he had ever heard of; he visited all the theatres and ball-rooms, drank interminable drinks, listened to endless stories, and when questioned as to what he was doing himself, grew delightfully mendacious, and, upon the slight basis of his engagement for the new drama at the royal, constructed a fabulous scheme for the production of new pieces. in this way the afternoon went by, and he was beginning to give up hopes of turning over any money that day, when he met a dramatic author. after the usual salutations--'how do you do, old boy? how's business?' etc.--had been exchanged, the young man said: 'had a bit of luck; just sold my piece--you know the drama i read you, the one in which the mother saves her child from the burning house?' 'how much did you get?' 'seventy-five pound down, and two pounds a night.' at the idea of so much money dick's eyes glistened, and he immediately proceeded to unfold a scheme he had been meditating for some time back for the building of a new theatre. the author listened attentively, and after having dangled about the lamp-post for half an hour, they mutually agreed to eat a bit of dinner together and afterwards go home and read another new piece that was, so said the fortunate author, a clinker. no better excuse than his wife's confinement could be found for fixing the meeting hour at the young man's lodging, and in the enthusiasm which the reading of the acts engendered, it was easy for dick to ask for, and difficult for his friend to refuse, a cheque for £ . xxiii in about a week kate was sufficiently restored to sit up in bed. her very weakness and lassitude were a source of happiness; for, after long months of turmoil and racket, it was pleasant to lie in the covertures, and suffer her thoughts to rise out of unconsciousness or sink back into it without an effort. and these twilight trances flowed imperceptibly into another period, when with coming strength a feverish love awoke in her for the little baby girl who lay sleeping by her side. and for hours in the reposing obscurity of the drawn curtains mother and child would remain hushed in one long warm embrace. to see, to feel, this little life moving against her side was enough. she didn't look into the future, nor did she think of what fate the years held in store for her daughter, but content, lost in emotive contemplation, she watched the blind movements of hands and the vague staring of blue eyes. this puling pulp that was more intimately and intensely herself than herself developed strange yearnings in her, and she often trembled with pride in being the instrument through which so much mystery was worked; to talk to herself of the dark dawn of creation, and of the day sweet with maternal love that lay beyond, was a great source of joy; to hear the large, hobbling woman tell of the different babies she had successfully started that year on their worldly pilgrimage never seemed to weary her. she interested herself in each special case, and when the nurse told her she must talk no more she lay back to dream of the great boy with the black eyes who had so nearly been the death of his little flaxen haired mother. she felt great interest in this infant, who, if he went on growing at the present rate, it was prophesied would be in twenty years' time the biggest man in manchester. but the nurse admitted that all the children were not so strong and healthy. indeed, it was only last week that a little baby she had brought into the world perfectly safely had died within a few days of its birth, for no cause that anyone could discover; it had wilted and passed away like a flower. the tears rolled down kate's cheeks as she listened, and she pressed her own against her breast and insisted on suckling her infant although expressly forbidden to do so by the doctor. these days were the best of her life. she felt more at peace with the world, she placed more confidence in her husband than she had ever done before; and when he came in of an afternoon and sat by her side and talked of herself and of their little baby, softened in all the intimate fibres of her sex, she laid her hand in his, and sighed for sheer joy. the purpose of her life seemed now to show a definite sign of accomplishment. the only drawback to their happiness was their poverty. the fifteen pounds of borrowed money had gone through their hands like water, and god knows what would have become of them if dick had not been fortunate to make another tenner by looking after a piece given at a morning performance. what with the doctor's bills, the nurse's wages, the baby's clothes, they were for ever breaking into their last sovereign. dick spoke of their difficulties with reluctance, not wishing to distress her, but he felt he must rouse her out of the apathy into which she had fallen, and he begged of her to take the next engagement he could find for her. it seemed to him that she was now quite well, but when he pressed for a promise the first time she answered: 'yes, dick, i should like to get to work again,' but when he came to her with a proposal of work, she was quick to find excuses. the baby was foremost among them; she did not like to put the child out to nurse. 'if the child were to die, i should never forgive myself,' she would say. 'don't ask me, dick, don't ask me.' 'but, kate, we cannot go on living here on nothing. we owe the landlady for three weeks.' at these words kate would burst into tears, and when he succeeded in consoling her she would remind him that if she went back to work before she was quite well she might be laid up for a long time, which would be much worse than the loss of a miserable three or four pounds a week. to convince dick completely she would remind him that as she had been playing leading parts it would not be wise to accept the first thing she could get. 'if one lets oneself down, dick, in the profession, it's difficult to get up again.' 'well, dear,' dick would answer, 'i must try and find something to do myself. you shall not be asked again to go back to work until you feel like it. when you come to tell me that you're tired of staying at home. 'don't speak like that, dick, for it seems as if you were laying blame upon me, and i'm not to blame. you will be able to judge for yourself when i'm fit to go back to work, and one of these days you will come with the news of a leading part.' accompanying him to the door she said she would like to return to the stage in a leading part, but not in any of the parts she had already played in, but in something new. these objections and excuses brought a cloud into dick's face which she did not notice, but when he had gone she would begin to think of his kindness towards her and of what she could do to reward him. his shirts wanted mending, and as soon as they were mended she made hoods and shoes for the baby. in many little ways the old life that she thought she had left behind in hanley began to reappear, and when dick came into the room and found her reading a novel by the fire she reminded him of ralph's wife rather than of his own. while she was touring in the country she had given up reading without being aware that she had done so. she had once bought a copy of the _family herald_, hoping that it would help away the time on the long railway journey, but having herself come into a life of passion, energy and infinite variety, she could not follow with any interest the story of three young ladies in reduced circumstances who had started a dressmaking business and who were destined clearly to marry the men they loved and who loved them and who would continue to love them long after the silver threads had appeared among the gold. but now in the long lonely days spent with her baby in the lodging (dick went away early in the morning and sometimes did not return till twelve o'clock at night), a story in a copy of _the family herald_ lent to her by the landlady, on the whole a very kind and patient soul, took hold of kate's imagination, and when she raised her eyes a tear of joy fell upon the page, and in the effusion of these sensations she would take her little girl and press it almost wildly to her breast. before leaving, the nurse had given kate many directions. the baby was to have its bath in the morning; to be kept thoroughly clean, and to be given the bottle at certain times during the day and night. kate was devoted to her child, but the attention she gave it was unsustained, a desultory attention. sometimes she put too much water in the milk, sometimes too little. the christening had awakened in her many forgotten emotions, and now that she was an honest married woman, she did not see why she should not resume her old church-going ways. the story she was reading was full of allusions to the vanity of this world and the durability of the next; and her feet on the fender, penetrated with the dreamy warmth of the fire, she abandoned herself to the seduction of her reveries. everything conspired against her. being still very weak the doctor had ordered her to keep up her strength with stimulants; a table-spoonful of brandy and water taken now and then was what was required. this was the ordinance, but the drinks in the dressing-rooms had taught her the comforts of such medicines, and during the day several glasses were consumed. without getting absolutely drunk, she rapidly sank into sensations of numbness, in which all distinctions were blurred, and thoughts trickled and slipped away like the soothing singing of a brook. it was like an amorous tickling, and as her dreams balanced between a tender declaration of love and the austere language of the testament, the crying of the sick child was unheeded. once kate did not hear it for hours; she did not know she had forgotten to warm its milk, and that the poor little thing was shivering with cold pain. and when at last she awoke, and went over to the cot trying to collect her drink-laden thoughts, the little legs were drawn up, the face was like ivory, and a long thin wail issued from the colourless lips. alarmed, kate called for the landlady, who, after feeling the bottle, advised that the milk should be warmed. when this was done the child took a little and appeared relieved. shortly after a bell was heard ringing, and the landlady said: 'i think it's your husband, ma'am.' it was usual for dick, when he came in at night, to tell what kate termed 'the news.' it amused her to hear what had been done at the theatre, what fresh companies had come to town. on this occasion it surprised him that she took so little interest in the conversation, and after hazarding a few remarks, he said: 'but what's the matter, dear? aren't you well?' 'oh yes, i'm quite well,' kate answered stolidly. 'well, what's the matter? you don't speak.' 'i'm tired, that's all.' 'and how's the baby?' 'i think she's asleep; don't wake her.' but dick went over, and holding a candle in one hand he looked long and anxiously at his child. 'i'm afraid the little thing is not well; she's fidgeting, and is as restless as possible.' 'i wish you'd leave her alone; if she awakes, it's i who will have the trouble of her, not you. it's very unkind of you.' dick looked at his wife and said nothing; but as she continued to speak, the evidences of drink became so unmistakable that he said, trying not to offend her: 'i'm afraid you've been drinking a little too much of the brandy the doctor ordered you.' at this accusation, kate drew herself up and angrily denied having touched a drop of anything that day. 'how dare you accuse me of being drunk? you ought to respect me more.' 'drunk, kate? i never said you were drunk, but i thought you might have taken an overdose.' 'i suppose you'll believe me when i tell you that i've not had a teaspoonful of anything.' 'of course i believe you, dear,' said dick, who did not like to think that kate was telling him a deliberate lie, and to avoid further discussion he suggested bed. kate did not answer him, and he heard her trying to get undressed, and wondering at her clumsiness he asked himself if he should propose to unlace her stays for her. but he was afraid of irritating her, and thought it would be better to leave her alone to undo the knot as best she could. she tugged at the laces furiously, and thinking she might break them and accuse him of unwillingness to come to her assistance, he said, 'shall i----' but she cut him short. 'let me alone, let me alone!' she cried, and dick kicked off his shoes. 'how can you be so unkind, or is it that you've no thought for that poor sick child?' she said; and dick answered: 'i assure you, my dear, it couldn't be helped; the shoe slipped off unexpectedly,' and as if the world had set its face against her, kate burst into tears. at first dick tried to console her, but seeing that this was hopeless, he turned his face to the wall and went to sleep. she had not drawn the curtains of the window, and the outlines of the room showing through the blue dusk frightened her, so ghostlike did they appear. the cradle stood under the window, the child's face just visible on the pallor of the pillow. 'baby is asleep,' she said; 'that's a good sign,' and watched the cradle, trying to remember how long it was since baby had had her bottle; and while wondering if she could trust herself to wake when baby cried she began to notice that the room was becoming lighter. 'it cannot be the dawn,' she thought; 'the dawn is hours away; we're in december. besides, the dawn is grey, and the light is green, a sort of pantomime light,' she said. it seemed to her very like a fairy tale. the giant snoring, and her baby stirring in her cradle with the limelight upon her, or was she dreaming? it might be a dream out of which she could not rouse herself. but the noise she heard was dick's breathing, and she wished that ralph would breathe more easily. ralph, ralph! no, she was with dick. dick, not ralph, was her husband. it was with a great effort that she roused herself. 'it was only a dream' she murmured. 'but baby is crying. her cry is so faint,' she said; and, slinging her legs over the side of the bed, she tried to find her dressing-gown, but could not remember where she had laid it 'baby wants her bottle,' she said, and sought for the matches vainly at first, but at last she found them, and lighted a spirit lamp. 'one must get the water warmed, cold milk would kill her;' and while the water was heating she walked up and down the room rocking her baby, talking to her, striving to quiet her; and when she thought the water was warm she tried to prepare baby's milk as the doctor had ordered it. her hope was that she had succeeded in mixing the milk and water in right proportions, for the last time she had given the baby her bottle she was afraid the water was not warm enough. perhaps that was why baby was crying, or it might be merely a little wind that was troubling her. she held the baby upright, hoping that the pain would pass away with a change of position, and she walked up and down the room rocking the child in her arms and crooning to her for fully half an hour. at last the child ceased to wail, and she laid her in her cradle and sat watching, thinking that if she were to lose her baby she must go mad.... she had lost dick's love, and if the baby were taken away there would be nothing left for her to live for. 'nothing left for me to live for,' she repeated again and again, till the cold winter's night striking through her nightgown reminded her that she was risking her life, which she had no right to do, for baby needed her. 'who would look after poor baby if i were taken away?' she asked, and shaking with cold, was about to crawl into bed; but on laying her knee on the bedside she remembered that a little spirit often saved a human life; and going to the chest of drawers took out the bottle she had hidden from dick and filled a glass. the spirit diffused a grateful warmth through her, and she drank a second glass slowly, thinking of her child and husband, and how good she intended to be to both of them, until ideas became broken, and she tumbled into bed, awaking dick, who was soon asleep again, with kate by his side watching a rim of light rising above a dark chimney stack and wondering what new shows must be preparing. already the rim of light had become a crescent, and before her eyes closed in sleep the full moon looked down through the window into the cradle, waking the sleeping child. but her cries were too weak; her mother lay in sleep beyond reach of her wails, heart-breaking though they were. the little blankets were cast aside, and the struggle between life and death began: soft roundnesses fell into distortions; chubby knees were wrenched to and fro, muscles seemed to be torn, and a few minutes later little kate, who had known of this world but a ray of moonlight, died--a glimpse of the moon was all that had been granted to her. after watching for an hour or more, the moon moved up the skies; and in kate's dream the moon was the great yellow witch in the pantomime, who, before striding her broomstick, cries back: 'thou art mine only, for ever and for ever!' xxiv the passing of a funeral in our english streets is so common a sight that hearses and plumes and mutes and carriages filled with relatives garbed in crape have almost ceased to remind us that our dust too is on the way to the graveyard; and it is not until we catch sight of a man walking in the carriage way carrying a brown box under his arm that we start like someone suddenly stung and remember the mystery of life and death. even dick remembered it, and wondered as he plodded after little kate's coffin why it was that she should have been called out of the void and called back into the void so quickly. 'whether our term be but a month or ninety years, life and death beckon us but once,' he said, and he fell to envying kate her tears, tears seeming to him more comforting than thoughts, and he would gladly have shed a few to help the journey away: not a long one, however, for the lennoxes lived in an unfrequented part of the town by the cemetery. 'we shall soon be there,' he whispered, and kate, raising her weeping face, looked round. all the shops were filled with funeral emblems, wreaths of everlasting flowers, headstones with dates in indelible ink, crosses of consolation, and kneeling angels. 'if we only had money,' kate cried, 'to buy a monument to put on her grave,' and she called upon dick to admire a kneeling angel. 'it's very beautiful,' dick said, 'i wish we had the money to buy it. poor little kate! it's a pity she didn't live; she was very like you, dear.' he had been offered an engagement for kate to play the part of the countess in _olivette_, and had accepted it, hoping in the meanwhile to be able to persuade her to take it. it was rather hard to ask her to play the day after the funeral, but there was no help for it. the company would arrive in town to-morrow, and dick thought it would be a pity to let the chance slip. but her grief was so great that he had not dared to speak to her about it. 'did you ever see so many graves?' she asked. 'we shall never be able to find her when we come to seek the grave out. an angel--a headstone, at least, would be a help. oh, dick, she continued, 'to think they'll put her down into the ground, and that we shall perhaps never even see her grave again. we may be a hundred miles from here tomorrow, or after.' dick, who had had credit of the undertaker, looked around uneasily; but seeing that kate had not been overheard, he said: 'poor little thing! it's sad to lose her, isn't it? i should have liked to have seen her grow up.' the coffin was first deposited in the middle of the church, and dick twisted the brim of his big hat nervously, troubled by the service the parson in a white flowing surplice read from the reading-desk. kate, on the contrary, appeared much consoled, and prayed silently, and the parson mumbled so many prayers that dick began to consider the time it would take to learn a part of equal length. and all this while the little brown box remained like a piece of lost luggage, lonely in the greyness of this station-house-looking church; and when the mutes came to claim it kate again burst into tears. her tears reminded the parson that he was here to console, and in soft and unctuous words he assured the weeping mother that her child had only been removed to a better and brighter world, and that we must all submit to the will of god. but in the porch his attention was drawn from the weeping mother to the weather. 'a little more of this' he thought, 'and others will be doing for me what i'm now doing for others.' but there being no help for it, he followed the procession through the tombstones, his white surplice blowing, dick wondering how the little grave had been found amongst so many, but the sexton knew. the parson sprinkled earth upon the coffin, and the sound of the withdrawn ropes cut the mother's heart even more than the rattle of the earth and stones on the coffin lid. kate threw some flowers into the grave, and it seemed to dick certain that if she didn't pull herself together she would not be able to play the countess in _olivette_ on the morrow. she was so fearfully haggard and worn that he doubted if any amount of rouge would make her look the part. he would have done anything in the world for his little girl while she was alive, but now that she was dead--besides, after all, she was only a baby. for some time past this idea had occurred to him as an excellent argument to convince kate that there was really no reason why she should not go to rehearsal on the following morning. if he had not yet spoken in this way it was only because he was afraid that she would round on him, and call him a heartless beast, and he would do anything to evade a sulky look; and now, when the funeral was over and they were walking home wet, sorrowful, and tired, it was curious to watch how he gave his arm to kate, and the timidity with which he introduced the subject. at first he only spoke of himself, and his hopes of being able to obtain a better part and a higher salary in the new drama. but mention to a mummer who is lying on his death-bed that a new piece is going to be produced, and he will not be able to resist asking a question or two about it; and kate, weary as she was, at once pricked up her ears, and said: 'oh, they're going to do a new piece! you didn't tell me that before.' 'it was only decided last night,' replied dick. the spell was now broken, and when they reached home and had dinner the conversation was resumed in a strain that might be considered as being almost jovial after the mournful tones of the last few days. dick felt as if a big weight had been lifted from his mind, and the thought again occurred to him that there was no use in making such a fuss over a baby that was only three weeks old. kate, too, seemed to be awakening to the conviction that there was no use in grieving for ever. the state of torpor she had been living in--for to stifle remorse she had been drinking heavily on the quiet--now began to wear off, and her brain to uncloud itself; and dick, surprised at the transformation, could not help exclaiming: 'that's right, kate; cheer up, old girl. a baby three weeks old isn't the same as a grown person.' 'i know it isn't, but if you only knew--i'm afraid i neglected the poor little thing.' 'nonsense!' replied dick, for having an eye constantly on the main chance, he wished to avoid any fresh outburst of grief. 'you looked after it very well indeed; besides, you'll have another,' he added with a smile. 'i want no other,' replied kate, vexed at being misunderstood, and yet afraid to explain herself more thoroughly. at last dick said: 'i wish there was a part for you in the new piece.' 'yes, so do i. i haven't been doing anything for a long while now.' and thus encouraged he told her that in the so-and-so company the part of the countess might be had for the asking. 'only they play to-morrow night.' 'oh, to-morrow night! it would be dreadful to act so soon after my poor baby's death, wouldn't it?' 'i can't see why. we shall be as sorry for it in a week's time as now, and yet one must get to work some time or other.' dick considered this a very telling argument, and, not wishing to spoil its effect, he remained silent, so as to give kate time to digest the truth of what he had said. he waited for her to ask him when he would take her to see the manager, but she said nothing, and he was at last obliged to admit that he had made an appointment for to-morrow. she whined a bit but accompanied him to the theatre. the manager was delighted with her appearance. he told her that the photo that dick had forwarded did not do her justice; and, handing her the script, he said: 'now you must make your entrance from this side.' 'what's the cue?' 'here it is. i think i shall now beat a retreat in the direction of home.' 'ah! i see.' and, striving to decipher the manuscript, kate walked towards the middle of the stage. 'i haven't seen the duke for twenty-four hours, and that means misery.' 'you'll get a laugh for that if you'll turn up your eyes a bit,' said dick. then, turning to the manager, he murmured, 'i wish you'd seen her as clairette. the notices were immense. but i must be off now to my own show.' this engagement relieved the lennoxes for the time being of their embarrassments. at four they dined, at six bade each other good-bye, and repaired to their respective theatres. dick was playing in drama, kate in _opéra bouffe_; and something before a quarter to eleven she expected him to meet her at the stage-door of the prince's. on this point she was very particular; if he were a few moments late she questioned him minutely as to where he had been, what he had been doing, and little by little the jealousies and suspicions which her marriage had appeased returned, and tortured her night and day. at first the approach of pain was manifested by a nervous anxiety for her husband's presence. she seemed dissatisfied and restless when he was not with her, and after breakfast in the mornings, when he took up his hat to go out, she would beg of him to stay, and find fault with him for leaving her. he reasoned with her very softly, assuring her that he had the most important engagements. on one occasion it was a man who had given him an appointment in order to speak with him concerning a new theatre, of which he was to have the entire management; another time it was a man who was writing a drama, and wanted a collaborator to put the stage construction right; and as these séances of collaboration occupied both morning and afternoon, kate was thrown entirely on her own resources until four o'clock. the first two or three novels she had read during her convalescence had amused her, but now one seemed so much like the other that they ended by boring her; and, too excited to be able to fix her attention, she often read without understanding what she was reading: on one side the memory of her baby's death preyed upon her--she still could not help thinking that it was owing to her neglect that it had died--on the other, the thought that her husband was playing her false goaded her to madness. sometimes she attempted to follow him, but this only resulted in failure, and she returned home after a fruitless chase more dejected than ever. 'ah! if the baby had not died, there would have been something to live for,' she murmured to herself a thousand times during the day, until at last her burden of remorse grew quite unbearable, and she thought of the brandy the doctor had ordered her. since her engagement to play the countess she had forgotten it, but now a strange desire seized her suddenly as if she had been stung by a snake. there was only a little left in the bottle, but that little cheered and restored her even more than she had expected. her thoughts came to her more fluently, she ate a better dinner, and acted joyously that night at the theatre. 'there's no doubt,' she said to her self, 'the doctor was right. what i want is a little stimulant.' of the truth of this she was more than ever convinced when next morning she found herself again suffering from the usual melancholy and dulness of spirits. the very sight of breakfast disgusted her, and when dick left she wandered about the room, unable to interest herself in anything, with a yearning in her throat for the tingling sensation that brandy would bring; and she longed for yesterday's lightness of conscience. but there was neither brandy nor whisky in the house, not even a glass of sherry. what was to be done? she did not like to ask the landlady to go round to the public-house. such people were always ready to put a wrong interpretation upon everything. but mrs. clarke knew that the doctor had ordered her to take a little brandy when she felt weak. all the same, she determined to wait until dinner-time. half an hour of misery passed, and then, excited till she could bear with the craving for drink no longer, she remembered that it would be very foolish to risk her health for the sake of a prejudice. to obey the doctor's orders was her first duty--a consoling reflection that relieved her mind of much uncertainty; and ringing the bell, she prepared her little speech. 'oh! mrs. clarke, i'm sorry to trouble you, but--i'm feeling so weak this morning--and, if you remember, the doctor ordered me to take a little brandy when i felt i wanted it. do you happen to have any in the house?' 'no, ma'am, i haven't, but i can send out for it in a minute. and you do look as if you wanted something to pick you up.' 'yes,' said kate, throwing as much weakness as she could into her voice, 'somehow i've never felt the same since my confinement.' 'ah! i know well how it pulls one down. if you only knew how i suffered with my third baby!' 'i can well imagine it.' the conversation then came to a pause, and mrs. clarke, not seeing her way to any further family confidences, said: 'what shall i send for, ma'am--half a pint? the grocer round the corner keeps some very nice brandy.' 'yes, that will do,' said kate, seeing an unending perspective of drinks in half a pint. 'shall i put that down in the bill, or will you give me the money now, ma'am?' this was very awkward, for kate suddenly remembered that she had given over her salary to dick this week without keeping anything out of it. there was no help for it now, and putting as bold a face on it as she could, she told mrs. clarke to book it. what did it matter whether dick saw it or not? had not the doctor told her she required a little stimulant? henceforth brandy-drinking became an established part of kate's morning hours. even before dick was out of bed she would invent a pretext for stealing into the next room so that she might have a nip on the sly before breakfast. the bottle, and a packet of sweetstuff to take the smell off her mouth, were kept behind a large oleograph representing swiss scenery. the fear that dick might pop out upon her at any moment often nearly caused her to spill the liquor over the place; but existence was impossible without brandy, and she felt she was bound to get rid of the miserable moods of mind to which she woke. before eleven o'clock dick was out of the house, and this left kate four hours of lonely idleness staring her blankly in the face. sometimes she practised a little music, but it wearied her. she had courage for nothing now, and brandy and water was the only thing that killed the dreariness that ached in heart and head. many half-pint bottles had succeeded the first, and, ashamed to admit her secret drinking, she now paid the landlady regularly out of her own money. when funds were low, a little bill was run up, and this was produced and talked over when the two women were having a glass together of a morning. to pay these debts kate had to resort to lying. all kinds of lies had to be concocted. her first idea was to tell dick she intended to continue her music lessons. he would never, she was sure, ask her a question on the subject; but dick, who was still hard pressed for money, begged of her to wait until they were better off before incurring new expenses, and, annoyed, she fell back on the subject of clothes, and when he asked her if she could not manage to go on with what she had for a bit, it astonished him to see the mad rage into which she fell instantly. was it not her own money? had she not earned it, and was he going to rob her of it? did he only keep her to work for him? if so, she'd very soon put that to rights by chucking up her engagement; then he would be forced to keep her; she wasn't going to be bullied. in his usual kind way dick tried to calm her, explaining to her their position, telling her of his projects; but the fear of discovery was a fixed thought in her mind, and she refused to listen to reason until he put his hand in his pocket and gave her two pounds ten. this was just the sum required to pay what she owed at the ayre arms. and seeing her difficulties removed, her better nature asserted itself. she begged of dick to forgive her, pleading that she had lost her temper, and didn't know what she was saying. for an instant she thought of confessing the truth, then the idea died in a resolution to amend. it was not worth speaking of; she was getting stronger, and would soon need no more stimulants. for two days kate kept to her promise; instead of sitting at home, she called on one of the ladies of the theatre, and passed a pleasant morning with her. she paid visits to other members of the company, and went out shopping with them. but when three or four met at the corner of a street, after a few introductory remarks, a drink was generally proposed--not as men would propose it, but slyly, and with much affectation; and skirting furtively along the streets, a quiet bar would be selected, and then, 'what will you have, dear?' would be whispered softly. 'a drop of gin, dear.' on one of these occasions kate only just escaped getting drunk. as luck would have it, dick did not return home to dinner, and a good sleep and a bottle of soda-water pulled her together, so that she was able to go down to the theatre and play her part without exciting observation. and this decided her not to trust herself again to the temptation of her girl friends. she asked dick to allow her to accompany him sometimes. he made a wry face at this proposal, hesitated, and explained that his collaborator suffered no one to interrupt their séances; he was a timid man, and couldn't work in the presence of a third person. kate only sighed, but although she did not attempt to dispute the veracity of this statement, she felt that it was cruel that she should be left alone hour after hour. but she deceived herself with resolutions and hopes that she would require no more brandy. in her heart of hearts she knew that she would not be able to resist, and, docile as the sheep under the butcher's hand, she recognized her fate, and accepted it. a fresh bill was run up at the grocer's, and the mornings were passed in a state of torpor. without getting absolutely drunk, she drank sufficiently to confuse her thoughts, to reduce them to a sort of nebulae, enough to blend and soften the lines of a too hard reality to a long sensation of tickling, in which no idea was precise, no desire remained long enough to grow to a pain, but caressed and passed away. sometimes, of course, she overdosed herself, but on these occasions, when she found consciousness slipping a little too rapidly from her, she was cunning enough to go and lie down. and living, as she did, in constant fear of detection, she endowed the simplest words and looks with a double meaning, and she could not help hating dick if he asked her questions or dared to accuse her of being sleepy and heavy about the eyes. did he intend to insult her--was that it? if so, she wasn't going to stand it. one day he stood before the oleograph, apparently examining with deep interest the different aspects of the swiss scenery. in reality, his thoughts were far away, but kate, who did not know this, grew so nervous and angry, that it was with difficulty she kept calm. on half a dozen different pretexts she had tried to get him away from the picture, and fearing every moment that he would look behind it or touch it, she caught up a plate from the table and dashed it to the ground. the crash caused dick to jump round, and she began her tirade, beginning with the question, was she so utterly beneath his notice that he couldn't answer a question? almost every day a dispute of this sort arose: she was always being poked up by some new fear of discovery, and engendered, if not hatred, a fierce resentment; and to deceive herself as to the true reason she criticized his conduct and manner of life bitterly and passionately from every point of view. jealousy was natural to her, and she was more subject than ever to attacks of it. once or twice it had blazed into flame, but circumstances had quenched it for the time being. now there was nothing to oppose it, and all things served as fuel. she was conscious of no wrongdoing, she believed, and believed sincerely, that she was acting legitimately in defence of her own interests. she was certain that dick was deceiving her, and the want of moral courage in the man, which forced him to tell lies--lies in which he was sometimes found out--tended to confirm her in this belief. for a few days past she had been preparing for a quarrel, but the time for fight had not yet come, and she chafed under the delay. at last her chance came. he kept her waiting half an hour at the stage-door. where had he been? what had he been doing all this while? were the questions she put to him in many different forms as they walked home. he sought to pacify his wife, assuring her he had been detained by his manager, who wanted to speak with him concerning a new production; he told a long story regarding the arrangement of some of the processions. but kate would not accept any of these excuses, and, convinced he had been after a woman, she stuck to her opinion, and the bickering continued for an hour or more, to end as it had begun. these sudden silences were very welcome, for dick had many things to think out; and nothing more was said until they got up to their room, and then dick, as usual, forgetful of even the immediate past, began to speak of his manager's intentions regarding a new piece. but he did not get far before he was brought to a sudden standstill by a fresh explosion of wrath. 'what have i done now?' he asked. 'done! do you suppose i want to hear about that woman?' 'what woman!' 'oh! you needn't do the innocent with me!' 'really! i give you my word----' 'your word! a nice thing, indeed!' 'well, what do you want me to do?' 'to leave me in peace,' said kate, breaking the string of her stays. dick was very tired, and, without attempting to argue the point further, undressed and got into bed. in bed the quarrel was resumed; it was continued, and for an hour or more, he lying with his head turned close to the wall, hers dancing over the extreme edge of the pillow. 'why don't you go away and leave me? i cannot think how you can be so cruel, and to me, who gave up everything for you!' it was the wail of petulant anger; but as yet she showed no violence, and her temper did not overcome her until her husband, worn out by two hours of unceasing lamentations, begged of her to allow him to go to sleep. her mood was different in the morning, and it was not until she had paid a couple of visits to the blue swiss mountains that she became again taciturn. dick did not as yet suspect his wife of confirmed drunkenness; he merely thought that she had grown lately very ill-tempered, and that a jealous woman was about the most distressing thing in existence; and, anxious to avoid another scene, he hurried through his breakfast. she watched him eating in silence, knowing well he was counting the minutes till he could get away. at last she said: 'will you take me to church to-day?' 'my dear, i'm afraid i've an appointment, but i'll try to come back if i can,' and a few minutes later he slipped away, leaving her to invite the landlady to come up and have a glass with her if she felt so inclined. but feeling somewhat out of humour for the conversation of that respectable woman, she put on her hat and ran after her husband, determined to watch him. but he was already out of sight, and after roaming aimlessly about for some time she turned into a church, and sat through the whole of the service without once attempting to fix her attention on what was going on; her thoughts were on dick, but to stand and to kneel was in itself a relief, and when church was over she returned home, after visiting several public houses, slightly boozed. 'mrs. clarke, has my husband come in?' 'i haven't heard him, mrs. lennox,' was the answer that came up the kitchen stairs. this was unfortunate, for her heart that had been softening towards him tightened into bitterness, and madness was near the thought that at the moment she was patiently waiting dinner for him he might be in the arms of another woman. she told the landlady, who came upstairs a second time in hope of a sociable glass, that she might bring the soup up (they always had soup on sundays); if mr. lennox didn't choose to come in for his meals he might go without them. at that moment a ring at the door was heard, and, throwing himself in an armchair, dick said he was tired. 'i dare say you are; i can easily understand that,' was the curt reply. an expression of pain passed over his face. 'goodness me, kate!' he said in a perplexed voice. 'you don't mean to say you're angry still!' no attention was paid to the landlady, who was placing the soup on the table, and she, being pretty well accustomed to their quarrels, said with an air of indifference as she left the room: 'dinner is served. i shall bring the leg of mutton up when you ring.' no answer was made to her, and the couple sat moodily looking at each other. after a pause dick tried to be conciliatory, and in the most affectionate phrases he could select he besought kate to make it up. 'i assure you, you're wrong,' he said. 'i've been after no woman. do, for goodness' sake, make it up.' then approaching her chair, he tried to draw her toward him, but pulling herself away passionately, she exclaimed: 'no, no; leave me alone--leave me alone--don't touch me--i hate you.' this was not encouraging, but at the end of another silence he attempted to reason with her again. but it was useless; and worn and impatient he begged of her at least to come to dinner. 'if you aren't hungry, i am.' there was no answer; lying back in her chair she sulked, deaf to all entreaty. 'well, if you won't, i will,' he said, seating himself in her place. her eyes flashed with a dull lurid light, and walking close to the table, she looked at him steadily, fidgeting as she did so with the knives and glasses. 'i can't think how you treat me as you do; what have i done to you to deserve it? nothing. but i shall be revenged, that i will; i can bear it no longer.' 'bear what?' he asked despairingly. 'you know well enough. don't aggravate me. i hate you! oh yes,' she said, raising her voice, 'i do hate you!' 'sit down and have some dinner, and don't be so foolish,' he said, trying to be jocular, as he lifted the cover from the soup. 'eat with you? never!' she answered theatrically. but the interest he showed in the steaming liquid annoyed her so much that, overcome by a sudden gust of passion, she upset the tureen into his lap. dick uttered a scream, and in starting back he overturned his chair. although not scalding, the soup was still hot enough to burn him, and he held his thighs dolorously. the tablecloth was deluged, the hearthrug steamed; and, regardless of everything, kate rushed past, accusing her husband of cruelty, of unfaithfulness, stopping only to reproach him with a desire to desert her. while dick in dripping trousers asked what he had done to deserve having the soup flung over him, kate's hair became unloosened and hung down her shoulders like a sheaf of black plumes. dick thought of changing his trousers, but the intensity of her passion detained him. stopping suddenly before the table, she poured out a tumbler of sherry, and drank it almost at a gulp. it was as nauseous to her taste as lukewarm water, and she yearned for brandy. it would sting her, would awaken the dull ache of her palate, and she knew well where the bottle was; she could see it in her mind's eye, the black neck leaning against the frame of the picture. why should she not go and fetch it, and insult him with the confession of her sin? was it not he who drove her to it? so kate thought in her madness, and the lack of courage to execute her wishes angered her still further against the fat creature who lay staring at her, lying back in the armchair. she applied herself again to the sherry and swallowed greedily. 'for goodness' sake,' said dick, who began to get alarmed, 'don't drink that! you'll get drunk.' 'well, what does it matter if i do? it's you who drive me to it. if you don't like it, go to miss vane.' 'what! you've not finished with that yet? haven't i told you twenty times that there's nothing between me and miss vane? i haven't spoken to her for the last three days.' 'that's a lie!' shrieked kate. 'you went to meet her this morning. i saw you. do you take me for a fool? but oh! i don't know how you can be such a beast! if you wanted to desert me, why did you ever take me away from hanley? but you can go now, i don't want the leavings of that creature.' taken aback by what was nothing more than a random guess, dick hesitated, and then, deciding that he might as well be caught out in two lies as in one, he said, as a sort of forlorn hope: 'if you saw us you must have seen that she was with jackson, and that i didn't do any more than raise my hat.' kate made no answer; she was too excited to follow out the train of the simplest idea, and continued to rave incoherent statements of all kinds. the landlady came up to ask when she should bring up the leg of mutton, but she went away frightened. there was no dinner that day. amid screams and violent words the evening died slowly, and the room darkened until nothing was seen but the fitful firelight playing on dick's hands; but still the vague form of the woman passed through the shadows like a figure of avenging fate. would she never grow tired and sit down? dick asked himself a thousand times. it seemed as if it would never cease, and the incessant repetition of the same words and gestures turned in the brain with the mechanical movement of a wheel, dimming the sense of reality and producing the obtuse terror of a nightmare. but from this state of semi-consciousness he was suddenly awakened by the violent ringing of the bell. 'what do you want? can i get you anything?' kate did not deign to answer him. when the landlady appeared, she said: 'i want some more sherry; i'm dying of thirst.' 'you shall not have any more,' said dick, interposing energetically. 'mrs. clarke, i forbid you to bring it up.' 'i say she shall,' replied kate, her face twitching with passion. 'i say she shall not.' 'then i'll go out and get it.' 'no, i'll see you don't do that,' said dick, getting between her and the door. as he did so he turned his back to speak to the landlady, and kate, taking the opportunity, seized a handful of the frizzly hair and almost pulled him to the ground. twisting round he took her by the wrist and freed himself, but this angered and still further excited her. 'you'd better let her have her way,' the landlady said. 'i won't bring up much, and it may put her to sleep.' dick, who at the moment would have given half his life for a little peace, nodded his head affirmatively, and went back to his chair. he did not know what to do. never had he witnessed so terrible a scene before. since three or four days back this quarrel had been working up crescendo; and when the landlady brought up the sherry, kate seized the decanter, and, complaining that it was not full, resumed her drinking. 'so you see i did get it, and i'll get another bottle if i choose. you think that i like it. well, you're mistaken; i don't, i hate it. i only drink it because you told me not, because i know that you begrudge it to me; you begrudge me every bit that i put into my mouth, the very clothes i wear. but it was not you who paid for them. i earned the money myself, and if you think to rob me of what i earn you're mistaken. you shan't. if you try to do so i shall apply to the magistrate for protection. yes, and if you dare to lay a hand on me i shall have you locked up. yes, yes--do you hear me?' she screamed, advancing towards him, spilling as she did the glass of wine she held in her hand over her dress. 'i shall have you locked up, and i should love to do so, because it was you who ruined me, who seduced me, and i hate you for it.' she spoke with a fearful volubility, and her haranguing echoed in dick's ears with the meaningless sound of a water-tap heard splashing on the flagstones of an echoing courtyard. sometimes he would get up, determined to make one more effort, and in his gentlest and most soothing tones would say: 'now look here, dear; will you listen to me? i know you well, and i know you're a bit excited; if you will believe me----' but it was no use. she did not seem to hear him; indeed, it almost seemed as if her ears had become stones. her hands were clenched, and dragging herself away from him, she would resume her tigerish walk. sometimes dick wondered at the strength that sustained her, and the thrill of joy that he experienced was intense when, about two o'clock, after eight or ten hours of the terrible punishment, he noticed that she seemed to be growing weary, that her cries were becoming less articulate. several times she had stopped to rest, her head sank on her bosom, and every effort she made to rouse herself was feebler than the preceding one. at length her legs gave way under her, and she slipped insensible on the floor. dick watched for a time, afraid to touch her, lest by some horrible mischance she should wake up and recommence the terrible scene that had just been concluded, and at least half an hour elapsed before he could muster up courage to undress her and put her to bed. xxv next morning kate was duly repentant and begged dick to forgive her for all she had said and done. she told him that she loved him better than anything in the world, and she persuaded him that if she had taken a drop too much, it was owing to jealousy, and not to any liking for the drink itself. dick adopted the theory willingly (every man is reluctant to believe that his wife is a drunkard), and deceived by the credulity with which he had accepted the excuse, kate resolved to conquer her jealousy, and if she could not conquer it, she would endure it. never would she seek escape from it through spirit again. and had she remained in manchester, or had she even been placed in surroundings that would have rendered the existence of a fixed set of principles possible, she might have cured herself of her vice. but before two months her engagement at the prince's came to an end, and dick's at the royal very soon followed. they then passed into other companies, the first of which dealt with shakespearean revivals. dick played don john successfully in _much ado about nothing_, the ghost in _hamlet_, the friar in _romeo and juliet_. kate on her side represented with a fair amount of success a series of second parts, such as rosalind in _romeo_, bianca in _othello_, sweet ann page in the _merry wives_. it is true there were times when her behaviour was not all that could be desired, sometimes from jealousy, sometimes from drink; generally from a mixture of the two; but on the whole she managed very cleverly, and it was not more than whispered, and always with a good-natured giggle, that mrs. lennox was not averse to a glass. from the shakespearean they went to join a dramatic company, where houses were blown up, and ships sank amid thunder and lightning. dick played a desperate villain, and kate a virtuous parlourmaid, until one night, having surprised him in the act of kissing the manager's wife, she ran off to the nearest pub, and did not return until she was horribly intoxicated, and staggered on to the stage calling him the vilest names, accusing him at the same time of adultery, and pointing out the manager's wife as his paramour. there were shrieks and hysterics, and dick had great difficulty in proving his innocence to the angry impresario. he spoke of his honour and a duel, but as the lady in question was starring, the benefit of the doubt had to be granted her, and on these grounds the matter was hushed up. but after so disgraceful a scandal it was impossible for the lennoxes to remain in the company. dick was very much cut up about it, and without even claiming his week's salary, he and his wife packed up their baskets and boxes and returned to manchester. and there he entered into a quantity of speculations, of the character of which she had not the least idea; all she knew was, that she never saw him from one end of the day to the other. he was out of the place at ten o'clock in the morning, and never returned before twelve at night. these hours of idleness and solitude were hard to bear, and kate begged of dick to get her an engagement. but he was afraid of another shameful scene, and always gave her the same answer--that he had as yet heard of nothing, but as soon as he did he would let her know. she didn't believe him, but she had to submit, for she could never muster up courage to go and look for anything herself, and the long summer days passed wearily in reading the accounts of the new companies, and the new pieces produced. this sedentary life, and the effects of the brandy, which she could now no longer do without, soon began to tell upon her health, and the rich olive complexion began to fade to sickly yellow. even dick noticed that she was not looking well; he said she required change of air, and a few days after, he burst into the room and told her gaily that he had just arranged a tour to go round the coast of england and play little comic sketches and operettas at the pier theatres. this was good news, and the next few days were fully occupied in trying over music, making up their wardrobes, and telegraphing to london for the different books from which they would make their selections. a young man whom dick had heard singing in a public-house proved a great hit. he wrote his own words, some of which were considered so funny that at scarborough and brighton he frequently received a couple of guineas for singing a few songs at private houses after the public entertainment. afterwards he appeared at the pavilion, and for many years supplied the axioms and aphorisms that young toothpick and crutch was in the habit of using to garnish the baldness of his native speech. for a time the sea proved very beneficial to kate's health, but the never-ending surprises and expectations she was exposed to finished by so straining and sharpening her nerves that the stupors, the assuagements of drink, became, as it were, a necessary make-weight. her love for dick pressed upon and agonized her; it was like a dagger whose steel was being slowly reddened in the flames of brandy, and in this subtilization of the brain the remotest particles of pain detached themselves, until life seemed to her nothing but a burning and unbearable frenzy. she did not know what she wanted of him, but with a longing that was nearly madness she desired to possess him wholly; she yearned to bury her poor aching body, throbbing with the anguish of nerves, in that peaceful hulk of fat, so calm, so invulnerable to pain, marching amid, and contented in, its sensualities, as a gainly bull grazing amid the pastures of a succulent meadow. he was never unkind to her; the soft sleek manner that had won her remained ever the same, but she would have preferred a blow. it would have been something to have felt the strength of his hand upon her. she wanted an emotion; she longed to be brutalized. she knew when she tortured him with reproaches she was alienating from herself any affection he might still bear for her; but she found it impossible to restrain herself. there seemed to be a devil within her that goaded her until all power of will ceased, and against her will she had to obey its behests. a blow might exorcise this spirit. were he to strike her to the ground she thought she might still be saved; but, alas! he remained as kind and good-natured as ever; and to disguise her drunkenness she had to exaggerate her jealousy. the two were now mingled so thoroughly in her head that she could scarcely distinguish one from the other. she knew there were women all around him; she could see them ogling him out of the little boxes at the side of the stage. how they could be such beasts, she couldn't conceive. they stood for hours behind the scenes waiting for him, and she was told they had come for engagements. baskets of food, pork pies and tongue, came for him, but these she pitched out of the window; and she soundly boxed the ears of one little wretch, whom she had found loitering about the stage-door. kate was right sometimes in her suspicions, sometimes wrong, but in every case they accentuated the neurosis, occasioned by alcohol, from which she was suffering. still, by some extraordinary cunning, she contrived for some time to regulate her drinking so that it should not interfere with business, and on the rare occasions when dick had to apologize to the public for her non-appearance she insisted that it was not her fault; and from a mixture of vanity and a wish to conceal his wife's shame from himself, dick continued to persuade himself that his wife had no real taste for drink, and never touched it except when these infernal fits of jealousy were upon her. but the words that had come into his mind--'except when these infernal fits of jealousy are upon her'--called up many vivid memories; one especially confounded him. he had seen her frightened to cross the dressing-room lest she might fall, glancing from the table to the chair, calculating the distance. it was on his lips to ask her if she did not feel too ill to appear that day: that perhaps it would be better for him to go before the curtain and apologize to the public. but he had not dared to say anything, and to his astonishment she was able to overcome the influence of the drink (if she had taken any), and he had never heard her sing and dance better. how she had managed it he did not know. 'all the same,' he said, 'drink will get the upper hand of her and conquer her if she doesn't make up her mind to conquer it. the day will come when she will not be able to go on the stage, or will go on and fall down.' dick shut his eyes to exclude from them the horrible spectacle. she would then be an unmitigated burden on his hands. 'not a pleasant prospect', he said to himself. he had now been in the provinces for some years and had lived down the memory of many disastrous managements. he had managed the tour of the morton and cox's opera company very successfully till the crash came. 'but it will be the success that will be remembered and not the crash when i return to london. many changes must have happened in town. many new faces and many old faces that absence will make new again. if only kate were not so jealous. if i could cure her of jealousy i could cure her of drink.' and he thought of all the notices she had had for clairette, for serpolette, for olivette. he would like to see her play the duchess. at that moment his thoughts returned to the last time he had seen her, about half an hour ago; the memory was not a pleasant one, and he was glad that he had run out of the house and come down to the pier. and in the silence and solitude of the pier at midday he asked himself again why he should not return to town and take his chance of getting into a new company or being sent out to manage another provincial tour. in london he might be able to persuade his wife to go into a home, and he fell to thinking of the men and women who he had heard had been cured of drunkenness. his thoughts melted into dreams and then, passing suddenly out of dreams into words, he said: 'she will never consent to go into a home, and if she did she would only be thinking all the time that i'd put her there so that i might be after another woman.' his thoughts were interrupted by a lancinating pain in his feet, and he withdrew into the shade, and resting the heel of the right boot on the toe of the left, a position that freed him from pain for the time being, he looked round and seeing everywhere a misted sky filled with an inner radiance, he said: 'to-day will be the hottest day we've had yet, and there won't be a dozen people in the theatre; everybody will be too hot to leave their houses.' there was languor in the incoming wave. 'we shan't have five pounds in the theatre,' he muttered to himself, and catching sight of one of the directors he continued, 'and those fellows won't think of the heat, but will put down the falling off in the audience to our performance. never,' he added after a pause, 'have i seen the pier so empty,' and he wondered who the woman was coming towards him. a tall, gaunt woman of about forty-five whose striding gait caused a hooped and pleated skirt of green silk, surmounted by a bustle, to sway like a lime-tree in a breeze, wore a bodice open in front, with short sleeves, the fag end of some other fashion, but the long draggled-tailed feather boa belonged to the eighties, as did the marie stuart bonnet. her blackened eyebrows and a thickly painted face attracted dick's attention from afar, and when she approached nearer he was struck by the dark, brilliant, restless eyes. 'a strange and exalted being,' he said to himself. 'an authoress perhaps,' for he noticed that she carried some papers in her hand; 'or a poet,' he added; and prompted by his instinct he began to see in her somebody that might be turned to account, and before long he was thinking how he might introduce himself to her. 'she's forgotten her parasol; i might borrow one for her from the girl at the bar,' and the project seeming good to him he rose, and with a specially large movement of the arm lifted his hat from his head. 'you will excuse me, i hope, madam, addressing you, and if i do so it is because i am in an official capacity here, but may i offer you a parasol?' 'it's very kind of you,' she replied with a smile that lighted up her large mouth, dispersing its ugliness. 'she's got a fine set of teeth,' dick said to himself, and he answered that he would borrow a parasol for her in the theatre. 'it's very kind of you,' she returned, smiling largely and becomingly upon him. 'it's true i forgot to bring a parasol with me, and the sun is very fierce at this time. it will be kind of you,' and much gratified that his proposal had been so graciously received, he hobbled away in the direction of the theatre, to return a few moments after with the bar girl's parasol, which he had borrowed and which he opened and handed to the lady. 'might i ask,' she said, 'if you're one of the directors of the theatre?' 'no,' he answered, 'i'm an actor.' 'an actor in this theatre,' she replied. 'but they only sing trivial songs and dance in this theatre, and you look to me like one of shakespeare's imaginations. henry the eighth, almost any one of the henries. king john.' 'not romeo,' dick interposed. 'perhaps not romeo. romeo was but sixteen or seventeen, eighteen at the most. but when you were eighteen....' 'yes,' dick answered, 'i was thin enough then.' 'but you must not disparage yourself. heroes are not always thin. hamlet was fat and scant of breath. i can see you as hamlet, whereas to cast you for falstaff would be too obvious.' 'i've played falstaff,' dick replied, 'but i never could do much with the part, and i never saw anyone who could. the lines are very often too high-falutin for the character, and they don't seem to come out, no matter who plays it; the critics look on it as the best acting part, but in truth it is the worst.' 'macduff would fit you, no; lear,' the lady cried. dick thought he would like to have a shot at the king, and they were soon talking about a shakespearean theatre devoted to the performance of shakespearean plays. 'a theatre,' she said, 'that would devote itself to the representation of all the heroes in the world; those who spoke noble thoughts and performed noble deeds, thought and deed encompassing each other, instead of which we have a thousand theatres devoted to the representations of the fashions of the moment. so i'm forced to come here at midday, for at midday there is solitude and sacred silence, or else the clashing of waves. here at midday i can fancy myself alone with my heroes.' 'and who are your heroes, may i ask?' said dick. 'many are in shakespeare,' she answered, 'and many are here in this manuscript. the heroes of the ancient world, when men were nearer to the gods than they are now. for men,' she added, 'in my belief, are not moving towards the godhead, but away from it.' 'and who are the heroes that you've written about?' dick asked, and fearing she would enter into too long an explanation he asked if the manuscript she held in her hand was a play. 'no, a poem,' she answered. 'i'm studying it for recitation, one i'm going to recite after my lecture at the working men's club; and the subject of my lecture is the inherent nobility of man, and the necessity of man worship. women have turned from men and are occupied now with their own aspirations, losing sight thereby of the ideal that god gave them. my poem is a sort of abstract, an epitome, a compendium of the lecture itself.' dick did not understand, but the fact that a lady was going in for recitation argued that she was interested in theatricals, and with his ears pricked like a hound who has got wind of something, he said with a sweet smile that showed a whole row of white teeth: 'being an actor myself, i will take the liberty of asking you to allow me to look at your poem, and perhaps if you're studying for recitation i may be of use to you.' 'of the very greatest use,' the lady answered, and handed him her manuscript; 'one of a set of classical cartoons,' she added. 'humanity in large lines,' he replied. 'how quickly you understand,' she rapped out; 'removed altogether from the tea-table in subject and in metre. what have you got to say, my hero, to me about my rendering of these lines? '"the offspring of neptune and terra, daughters of earth and ocean, dowered with fair faces of woman, capping the bodies of vultures; armed with sharp, keen talons; crushing and rending and slaying, blackening and blasting, defiling, spoiling the meats of all banquets; plundering, perplexing, pursuing, cursing the lives of our heroes, ever the harpyiae flourish--just as a triumph of evil."' 'hardly anything; and yet if i may venture a criticism--would you mind passing your manuscript on to me for a moment? may i suggest an emendation that will render the recitation more easy and more effective?' 'certainly you may.' 'then,' dick continued, 'i would drop the words--"just as a triumph of evil," and run on--"flourish from childhood, ensnaring the noble, the brave, and the loyal, spreading their nets for destruction," '"harpyiae flourish in ball-rooms, breathing fierce breath that is poison over the promise of manhood, over the faith and the lovelight that glows in the hearts of our bravest for all of their kind that is weaker----" 'all that follows,' dick added, 'will be recited without emphasis until you come to these two magnificent lines: '"harpyiae stand by our altars, harpyiae sit by our hearthstones, harpyiae suckle our children, harpyiae ravish our nation," etc.' dick finished with a grand gesture. 'i think you're right. yes, i understand that a point can be given to these verses that i had not thought of before. i hope my poem touched a chord in your heart? do you approve of my manner of writing the hexameters?' 'i think the idea very fine, but----' 'but?' 'if you will permit me?' 'certainly.' 'well, there are questions of elocution that i would like to speak to you about. i've to run away now, but we're sure to meet again.' 'i'm on the pier every day at noon, or you will find me in my hotel at five. i hope you'll come, for i should like to avail myself of your instruction.' 'thank you; i hope to have the pleasure of calling upon you to-morrow afternoon. good-bye.' 'you don't know my name,' she cried after him. 'heroes are full of forgetfulness and naturally, but in this tea-table world we can't get on without names and addresses. will you take my card?' dick took the card, thanked her and turned suddenly away. 'like a man filled with disquiet,' the lady said, and she watched the burly actor hurrying up the pier. 'is this woman coming to meet him?' she asked herself as dick hurried away still faster, for in the distance the woman coming down the pier seemed to him like his wife, and if kate caught him talking to a woman on the pier all chance of doing any business with his new acquaintance would be at an end. but the woman who had just passed him by was not kate, and the thought crossed his mind that he might return to his new acquaintance with safety. but on the whole it seemed to him better to wait until to-morrow. to-morrow he would find out all about her. 'her name,' he said, and taking the card out of his pocket he read: 'mrs. forest, mother superior of the yarmouth convent, alexandra hotel, hastings.' 'mother superior of a convent! i should never have thought it. but if she is a nun, why isn't she in a habit? classical cartoons and nunneries. i think this time i've hit upon a strange specimen, one of the strangest i've ever met, which is saying a great deal, for i've met with a good few in my time. it will be better to tear up her card, for if kate should find it----' and then, dismissing mrs. forest from his mind, he wondered if he should find kate drunk or sober. 'quite sober,' he said to himself as soon as he crossed the threshold; and in the best of humours his wife greeted him, and taking his arm they went down to the pier and gave an entertainment that was appreciated by a fairly large audience. 'why didn't she ask me to come to her at five to-day?' he asked himself as he returned home with his wife. 'she may fall through my fingers,' and he would have gone straight away to mrs. forest, if he had been able to rid himself of kate. 'you'll take me out to tea, dick?' she said, and to keep her sober he took her to tea. for the nonce kate drunk would have suited him better than kate sober, and he dared not go down to the pier next morning in search of mrs. forest, it being more than likely that kate might take it into her head to sun herself on the pier, so he decided to wait; the pier was too dangerous. if he weren't interrupted by kate the directors might see them together, and they might know mrs. forest and tell her that he was a married man. no, he'd just keep his appointment with her at five. but to get rid of kate required a deep plan. it was laid and succeeded, and at five he arrived at the alexandra hotel. 'is mrs. forest in?' the hall porter told the page boy to take mr. lennox up to mrs. forest's rooms. 'all this smells money,' dick said to himself in the lift. the page boy threw open the door, and after walking through a long corridor the boy knocked at a door, and dick walked into a red twilight in which he caught sight of a green dress in a distant corner. 'i hope you're not one of those people who require the glare of the sun always. i like the sun in its proper place out of doors,' and while thinking of an appropriate answer dick strove to find his way through the numerous pieces of furniture littered over the carpet. 'come and sit on the sofa beside me.' 'if you'll allow me,' he answered, 'i will sit in this armchair. i shall be able to devote myself more completely to the hearing of your poem.' it was not polite to refuse to sit beside the lady, but dick contrived to convey that her presence would trouble his intellectual enjoyment, and the slight displeasure which the refusal had caused vanished out of the painted face. this first success almost succeeded in screwing up dick's courage to the point of asking her if he might remove the flower vase that stood on the cabinet behind him, but he did not dare, and at every moment he seemed to recognize a new scent. an odour of burning pastilles drifted from a distant corner into a zone of patchouli in which the lady seemed to have encircled herself and which her every movement seemed to spread in more and more violent flavours, till dick began to think he would not be able to hold out till the end of the lady's narrative. patchouli always gave him a headache, but the word 'opera' restored him to himself, and with lips quivering like a cat watching a sparrow he heard that the subject of her opera was derived from her own life; and telling him that it could not be understood without a relation of the events that had given it birth, she drew her legs up on the sofa, and leaning her head against the back commenced in a low, cooing, but not disagreeable voice to tell of her first love adventure. 'i might almost call my departure for bulgaria, some ten years ago, a spiritual adventure,' she said. the departure for bulgaria seemed full of interest, but from dick's point of view the leading up to the departure was unduly prolonged, and he found it difficult to listen with any show of interest to mrs. forest's assurances that until she met the bulgarian she had thought that babies were found in parsley-beds or under gooseberry-bushes, and this innocence of mind was so inherent in her that the bulgarian had not succeeded altogether in robbing her of it. 'nor, indeed, did he ever attempt to do so,' she continued. 'our friendship was founded purely on the intellect.' this admission was a disappointment to dick, who had looked forward to the story of a novel love adventure which might easily be worked into a comic opera, bulgaria offering a suitable background. with many pretty smiles he tried to lead the lady into the real story of her past, but mrs. forest insisted so well that he was fain to believe that there had been no past in her life suitable to comic opera. her bulgarian adventure had been animated by love of liberty and a noble desire to free an oppressed race from the ignoble rule of the turks; 'massacres,' she said, 'full of nameless horrors.' dick would have liked her to name these horrors, but before he could ask her to do so she was telling him of the instinct in every woman to mother something. the bulgarians had appealed to her sympathies, and she had helped to bring about their liberation by her poetry. in three years she had learnt the language and had composed two volumes of poems in it. 'i've looked out copies of my bulgarian poems for you,' and she leaned over the edge of the sofa towards a small table. the movement disarranged her skirt, and dick's eyes were regaled by the show of a thick shapeless leg, 'doubtless swarthy,' he said to himself. 'the title of the first volume,' she said, handing him the books, 'is, _songs of a stranger_. my friend the bulgarian' (and she mentioned an unpronounceable name) 'contributed a preface. the second volume is entitled, _new songs by the stranger_. you will find a translation appended to each.' dick promised that he would read the poems as soon as he got home, and begged mrs. forest to proceed with her interesting story of the war in which she had lost her great friend, her spiritual adventure, as she called him. from bulgaria she had set forth on a long journey, visiting many parts of china, returning home full of love for eastern civilization, and regret that western influence would soon make an end of it. 'but,' she said, 'when i think of my own life, my narrative seems but a faint echo of it all; only a fragment of it appears, whereas, if i could tell the whole of it----' but dick inclined to the belief that her genius was dramatic rather than narrative, and to bring the autobiography to an end, he asked her how she had come to be the mother superior of the yarmouth convent. 'if i can only get her to cut the cackle and get to the 'osses,' he said to himself, but this was not easy to do. mrs. forest had to relate her socialistic adventures, her engagement to edgar horsley. 'for three years,' she said, 'i was engaged to him, and at the end of this time it seemed to me that we must come to an understanding. he was talking of going to jamaica, and to go to jamaica with him we would have to be married. so i went down to where he was staying in the country, a cottage in somersetshire, at the end of a very pretty lane.' 'good god! if she's going to describe the landscape to me,' said dick to himself. but mrs. forest had no eye for the appearance of trees showing against the sky, and she was quickly at the cottage door, which was opened to her, she said, by a suspicious-looking woman, who said, 'i think i've heard of you. mr. horsley is out, but you can come in and wait,' 'and in about half an hour he came in and introduced me to the woman who had opened the door to me. "isabel" is all that i can remember of her name. "isabel," he said, "has been living with me for the last ten years, but if you like to come with us to jamaica you can join us." this seemed to me to be an inacceptable proposition. "what you propose to me," i said, "is unthinkable," and i left the house, and have not seen or heard of mr. edgar horsley since. i've looked at water, i've looked at poison, and i've looked at daggers.' dick asked her why she had meditated suicide and she answered: 'was not such an end to a three years' engagement sufficient to inspire in any woman a thought of suicide? and i'm very exceptional.' a great deal of mrs. forest's life had been unfolded; the only thing that remained in obscurity was how she had come to be the mother superior of the yarmouth convent, and to make that plain, she said it would be necessary to tell the story of her conversion to the catholic faith. 'but that was after the convent; the convent was intended for the reformation of dipsomaniacs, female drunkards,' she said; 'but it was afterwards that i became a roman catholic.' dick had no wish to hear what dogma it was that had tempted her, but it amused him as he returned home to think of all the strange things that mrs. forest had told him; one thing especially amused him, that her real interest in catholicism was the confessional. 'how one does get back to oneself in all these things,' he muttered as he panted up the hot steep road. 'a convent for the reformation of female drunkards,' he repeated. 'it's very strange: she can't know anything about my wife. a strange woman,' he continued, and fell to thinking if all that she had told him was the truth, or if it was one of those stories that people imagine about themselves, and imagine so vividly that after a few years they begin to believe that everything they have told has befallen them. he pulled the books from his pocket; they were evidently written in a strange language, but there were people who could learn languages and could do nothing else. her bulgarian poetry could not be better than her english, and he knew what that was like. 'i suppose as soon as she hears i'm married, and she's sure to find out sooner or later, she will be off on some other back. but is this altogether sure?' he had not walked many steps before he remembered that the lecture she was giving at the working men's club was on the chastity of the marriage state; moreover, she had admitted to him that the bulgarian adventure was a spiritual one. 'i should say she was a woman with a big temperament which must have been worth gratifying when she went away with that bulgarian; i wouldn't have minded being in his skin. she hasn't forgotten that she was once a beautiful girl, that's the worst of it, she hasn't forgotten,' and dick remembered that at parting she was a little demonstrative, saying to him on the staircase: 'but we aren't parting for long. you will be here tomorrow at my door at the same hour.' xxvi the appointment was for five o'clock, and kate would have liked to remain on the pier with dick enjoying the summer evening, but he seemed so intent on returning to their lodging that she did not like to oppose his wishes, and she allowed herself to be led all the way up the dusty town to their close, hot rooms that she might try over fredegonde's music. that he should wish to hear her voice again in this music flattered her, but she rose from the piano, her face aflame, when he began to mention an appointment. 'it's too bad of you, dick, to bring me home and then remember an appointment.' dick overflowed with mellifluous excuses which did not seem to allay kate's anger, and as he hurried down the street it occurred to him that he might have thought of a better reason than fredegonde for bringing her home. however this might be, his thoughts were now with montgomery and mrs. forest rather than with kate, and it was not till he drew the latchkey from his pocket that kate's singing of the waltz returned to him: he ascended the stairs singing it. 'i think it will work out all right.' 'what will work out all right? you're an hour later than you said you'd be.' 'never mind about the hour,' he answered and began to weave a story about his meeting with a pal from london, as he was leaving the pier the other day: he hadn't spoken to her about it before, not caring to do so until something definite had happened. 'what has happened?' kate asked, and dick, his face aglow, related how the pal had spoken of a great revival of interest in comic opera, especially in french music, and that many city men with plenty of money were on the lookout for somebody who knew how to produce this class of work and was in sympathy with the folies dramatiques tradition. kate, who believed everything that dick told her, listened with a heightened temperature. at margate the admirer of hervé's music became an american who wished to see _chilpéric, trône d'�cosse, le petit faust, l'oeil crevé, marguerite de navarre_, reproduced as they had been produced under the composer's direction when dick was stage-manager at that theatre. the american was interested in hervé; for he not only wrote the music but also the words of his operas. hervé was, therefore, the wagner of light comic opera. and if the new venture received sufficient support from the public dick would like to add other works by hervé--_la belle poule_ and _le hussard persecuté_--and having puzzled kate with many titles and an imaginary biography of this musical american he fell to telling her of blanche d'antigny, singing all the little tunes he could remember and branching off into an account of _le canard à trois becs_. this last opera was not by hervé, but the american liked it and might be persuaded to produce it later on. 'it contained a part,' he said, 'in which kate would succeed in establishing herself one of london's favourites;' but his praise of her singing and acting set her wondering if he were gulling her once more, or if he still believed in her. it might be that her continued sobriety had reawakened his old love for her, and she remembered suddenly that she had never really cared for drink, and never would have touched drink if dick had not driven her mad with jealousy. and the fact that her voice had returned to her helped her to believe that dick was sincere when he told her that she would be a better fredegonde than blanche d'antigny, who created the part originally. montgomery endorsed this view one evening; he refused to take 'no' for an answer: she must sing the score through with him, and several times he stopped playing; and looking up in her face told her he had never known a voice to improve so rapidly and so suddenly. dick nodded his acquiescence in montgomery's opinion and hoped there would be no more need to tell kate lies once she was settled in a lodging behind the cattle market. but in this he was mistaken, for in london the need to keep up the fiction of hervé's american admirer was more necessary than at margate. dick had to relate his different quests every evening. he had been after the lyceum, but was unable to get an answer from the lessee; he hoped to get one next week; and when next week came he spoke about the royalty and the adelphi and the haymarket, neglecting, however, to mention the theatre in which he hoped to produce laura's opera. 'the large stage of the lyceum would be excellently well suited,' he said, 'for a fine production of _chilpéric_,' and he besought kate to apply herself to the study of the part of fredegonde. his imagination led him into dreams of an english company going over to paris with all hervé's works, and kate obliterating the blanche d'antigny tradition. kate listened delighted, discovering in dick's praise of her singing a hope that his love of her had survived the many tribulations it had been through; and while listening she vowed she would never touch drink again. nor did her happiness vanish till morning, till she saw him struggling into his greatcoat, and foresaw the long dividing hours. but he had said so many kind things overnight that she was behoven to stifle complaint, and bore with her loneliness all day long refusing food, for without dick's presence food had no pleasure for her, however hungry she might be. she would wait contented hour after hour if she could have him to herself when he returned. but sometimes he would bring back a friend with him, and the pair would sit up talking of women and their aptitudes in different parts. as none of them were known personally to kate, the names they mentioned suggested only new causes for jealousy, and the thought that dick was living among all these women while she was hidden away in this lodging from night till morning, from morning till night, maddened her. it seemed to her that having been out all day dick might at least reserve his evenings for her; and one night she showed the man he had brought back to supper plainly that his absence would, so far as she was concerned, have been preferable to his company. 'i wouldn't have come back,' he said, 'only dick insisted;' and interrupting his regrets that she did not like him, she said: 'it isn't that i don't like you, but you're used to women who aren't in love with their husbands, and i'm in love with mine.' the friend repeated kate's words to dick, who said he hadn't a moment till the cast of the new piece was settled, and a few nights later he brought back some music which he said he would like her to try over. 'but it's manuscript, dick. why don't you bring home the printed score?' the lie that came to his lips was that the score of _trône d'�cosse_ had never been printed, and this seeming to her very unlikely she said she didn't care whether it had or hadn't, but was tired of living in islington, and would like to see something of the london of which she had heard so much. 'i've been in london all my life,' dick said, 'and i haven't been to the tower or to st. paul's. however, dear, if you'd like to see them we'll visit all these places together as soon as _chilpéric_ is produced.' with this promise he consoled her in a measure, and she watched dick depart and then took up a novel and read it till she could read no longer. she then went out for a little walk, but soon returned, finding it wearisome to be always asking the way. so forlorn and lost did she seem that even the fat landlady, the mother of the ten children who clattered about the head of the kitchen staircase, took pity upon her and told her the number of the bus that would bring her to the british museum, assuring her that she would find a great deal there to distract her attention. it did not matter to her where she went if dick wasn't with her; without dick all places were the same to her, and the british museum would do as well as any other place. she must go somewhere, and the british museum would do as well as the tower or st. paul's. there were things to be seen, and she didn't mind what she saw as long as she saw something new. she couldn't look any longer at the two pictures on the walls--"with the stream" and "against the stream," the wax fruit, the mahogany sideboard, the dingy furniture, the torn curtains; and of all she must get out of hearing of the children and the surly landlady, who a few minutes ago was less surly, and had told her of the british museum, and all the wonderful things that were to be seen there. but she hadn't the bus fare, and didn't like to ask the landlady for a few pence. as long as she hadn't any money she was out of temptation, and it was by her own wish that dick left her without money. as she walked to and fro she caught sight of his clothes thrown over the back of a chair in the bedroom; and he might have left a few pence in one of his pockets. she searched the trousers; how careless dick was: several shillings: one, two, three, four, five. five and sixpence. she would take sixpence. as she walked out of the bedroom clinking the coppers the desire to read his letters fell upon her, and yielding to it she put her hand into the inside pocket of his coat and drew from it a packet of letters and some papers, manuscripts, poems. 'now, who,' she asked, 'can have been sending him these _classical cartoons_, number four?' she read of heroes, the glory of manhood collected along the shores of the terrible river that guards the dominions of pluto. she knew nothing of pluto, but recognized the handwriting as a woman's, and the lines: 'zeus, the monarch of heaven, clothed in the form of a mortal, kneeling, caressed and caressing, drank from her lips joy and love-draughts,' caused kate to dash the manuscript from her. a letter accompanied the poem and read: 'my dear, nothing can be done without you, and if you don't come at once we shall miss getting a theatre this season, and without a theatre we are helpless.' kate did not need to read any more. the letter left no doubt that dick was engaged in an intrigue with a woman who had written some play or opera which he was going to produce, and the envelope out of which she had taken the letter bore the direction: 'richard lennox, esq., post restante, margate.' 'so it was lies all the while at margate,' she said to herself, walking about the room, stopping now and again to stare at some object which she did not see. 'there was no american, and no _chilpéric_, no _trône d'�cosse_, no _l'oeil crevé_, no _la belle poule_, no _marguerite de navarre_. lies, lies! nothing but lies! he never intended to produce one of them, or that i should play "fredegonde." lies! lies! and the great part in _le canard à trois becs_ which would establish my reputation in london. lies! he never intended to produce one of these operas,' she cried. 'he shut me up here in this lodging so that i should be out of the way while he carried on with that what's-her-name.' her brain at that instant seemed to catch fire, and snatching up some money from the mantelpiece, she rushed out of the house tumbling over the children as she made her way to the front door without hat or jacket. the sunlight awoke her and she looked round puzzled, and only just escaped being run over by a passing cart. in front of her was a public-house. drink! she went in and drank till she recovered her reason and began to lose it again. a 'bottle of gin, please,' she said, and put the money on the counter and returned to her lodging almost mad with jealousy and rage and thirst for revenge. 'no, she wouldn't drink any more, for if she were to drink any more she'd not be able to have it out with dick, and this time she would have it out with him and no mistake. if he were to kill her it didn't matter; but she would have it out with him.' as she sat by the table waiting hour after hour for him to return, her whole mind was expressed by the words--'i'll have it out with him'--and she didn't weary of repeating them, for it seemed to her that they kept her resolution from dying: what she feared most was that his presence might quell her resolution. to have it out with him as she was minded, she mustn't be drunk, nor yet too sober. he might bring home a friend with him, but that wouldn't stay her hand. montgomery too had deceived her. dick was rehearsing his opera; he had written music for that mrs. forest, and this was the end of their friendship. many hours went by, but they didn't seem long, passion gave her patience. at last a sound of footsteps caused her to start to her feet. it was dick. 'this is going to be an all-night affair,' he said to himself as soon as he crossed the threshold. 'i hope you didn't wait supper for me?' his manner was most conciliatory, and perhaps it was that conciliatory manner that inflamed her. 'business, i suppose; i know damned well what your business was: i know all about it, you and your woman, mrs. forest; the theatre she's taken for you; where you are rehearsing montgomery's opera. you cannot deny it,' she cried. 'mrs. forest is her name,' and reading in his face certain signs of his culpability her anger increased, her teeth were set and her eyes glared. dick feared she was going mad, and with an instinctive movement he put out his arms to restrain her. 'don't touch me! don't touch me!' she screamed, and struck at him with clenched fists, and then feeling that her blows were but puny she went for him like a bird of prey, all her fingers distended. 'take that, and that, and that, you beast! oh, you beast! you beast! you beast!' her shrieks rang through the house as she pursued him round the furniture; he retreating like a lumbering bull striving to escape from her claws. 'how do you like that?' she cried, as she tore at him with her nails again. 'that will teach you to go messing about after other women. i'll settle you before i've done with you.' chairs were thrown down, the coal-scuttle was upset, and at last, as dick tried to get out of the room, kate stumbled against a rosewood cabinet, sending one of the green vases with its glass shade crashing to the ground, summoning the landlady. dick spoke about his wife having had a fit. 'fit or no fit, i hope you'll leave my house to-morrow.' 'meanwhile,' dick answered, 'will you leave my room?' and he shut the door in the face of the indignant householder. kate, who had now recovered herself a little, poured out a large glass of raw gin, and to her surprise dick made no attempt to prevent her drinking it. 'as soon as she drinks herself helpless the better,' he thought, as he went into the bedroom to attend to his wounds. the scratches she had given him before their marriage were nothing to these. one side of his nose was well-nigh ripped open, and there were two big, deep gashes running right across his face, from the cheek-bone to his ear. it was very lucky, he thought, she hadn't had his eye out, and it might be as well to go round to the apothecary's and get some vaseline, some antiseptic treatment, for nails are poisonous, he added, and his eyes going round the room caught sight of his clothes in disorder. 'ah! she has been at my clothes,' and he took up the classical cartoons and his letters and put them away into his pocket, and went into the sitting room, and tried to explain to his wife that he was going out to see if he could get something from the apothecary to heal the wounds she had given him. kate did not answer. 'she's dead drunk,' he said, and it seemed to him that he couldn't do better than to undress her and put her into bed, and when he had done this he lay down upon a sofa hoping that he would wake first, and be able to get out of the house without disturbing her, leaving word with the landlady that he would come back as soon as his rehearsal was over, and make arrangements to leave her house since she didn't wish them to stay any longer. he fell asleep thinking that he might find his landlady in a different mood, and might persuade her in the morning to allow them to stay on. the vase, of course, should be paid for. there was a kindly look in her pleasant country face when she wasn't angry; his torn face might win her pity, and not wishing to increase his troubles, she would probably allow them to stay on; if she didn't he would have to find another lodging that very afternoon, which would be unfortunate, for his engagements were many. as it was he'd have to hasten to keep an appointment which he had made with mrs. forest in the national gallery. 'she really will have to make some alterations in her second act,' he said, going to the glass. kate had clawed him with a vengeance, and he'd have to tell laura how he came by his torn face; and after some consideration it seemed to him that it would be well to admit that he had received these wounds in a conflict with a wife who was, unfortunately, given to drink. it was on these thoughts he fell asleep, and overslept himself, he feared, but kate was still asleep, and without awakening her he stole downstairs to visit the landlady in her parlour, but hearing his step she bounced out of the room with a view, no doubt, to repeating the warning she had given him overnight, but the sight of his torn face brought pity into hers, and she said: 'oh, mr. lennox, i'm so sorry for you.' a little sympathetic conversation followed; and dick went off to meet laura, whom he recognized in the woman who leaned over the railings between the pillars, seemingly attracted by the view across trafalgar square. she still wore her green silk dress, the one which he had first seen her in on the pier at hastings, and the long draggled feather boa. 'she doesn't spend money on dress,' he thought as he lifted his hat with not quite the same ceremonious gesture as usual, for he didn't wish to exhibit his scars yet. 'so here you are, dick, and i waiting for you on the steps of this gallery, glorious with all the imaginations of the heroes.' 'she hasn't seen the scratches yet,' he said to himself, and turned from the light instinctively, preferring that she should make the discovery indoors, rather than out of doors. his wounds would appear less in the gallery than in the open air. 'why didn't she take a little more trouble with her make-up?' he asked himself, and then reproved himself for describing it as a make-up. 'she's not made up,' he said to himself, 'she's painted,' and he wondered how it was that she could plaster her dark skin so flagrantly with carmine, and put her eyebrows so high up in the forehead. 'yet the face,' he said, 'is a finely moulded one, and compelling when she forgets her cosmetics,' and while dick regretted that she didn't show more skill with these, he heard her telling him that she would prefer to stop and talk with him in the gallery devoted to the italian pictures than elsewhere; 'the sublime conceptions of raphael raise me above myself.' and then, as if afraid that her words would seem vainglorious to dick, she said: 'you're always in the same mood, never rising above yourself or sinking below yourself, finding it difficult to understand the pain that those who live mostly in the spiritual plane experience lest they fall into a lower plane. not that i regard you, dick, as a lower plane, but your plane is not mine, and that is why you're so necessary to me, and why, perhaps, i'm so necessary to you, or would be if i'm not. come, let us sit here in front of the raphael and talk, since we must, of comic opera. it's a pity we're not talking of the _parcoe_ who have been in my mind all the morning,' and she began to recite some verses that she had written. but, interrupting herself suddenly, she cried: 'dick, who has been scratching you? how did your face get torn like that--who's been scratching you?' and dick answered: 'my wife.' 'your wife? but you never told me that you were married.' 'if i'd told you i was married i would have had to tell you that my wife is a drunkard and is rapidly drinking herself to death, a thing that no man likes to speak about.' 'my poor friend, i didn't mean to reprove you. how did all this come about?' it wouldn't do to admit that kate had discovered laura's letters and poems in his pockets, and so he told the story of a former experience with his wife, and had barely finished it when laura begged of him to tell her how he had met his wife. and when he had told her the story, to which she listened solemnly, she answered, and there was the same gravity in her voice as in her face: 'all this comes, my dear dick, of lewdness.' 'but, laura, i was faithful to my wife.' 'but she was the wife of another man,' laura replied, 'not that that is an insuperable barrier, but you brought, i fear, lewdness into your conjugal life, and lewdness is fatal to happiness whether it be indulged within or outside the bonds of wedlock. i'm sorry,' she said, 'that you had to leave yarmouth before my lecture on the chastity of the marriage state.' 'it wouldn't have mattered,' dick replied, 'for my wife had taken to drink long before we met at hastings.' an answer that darkened laura's face despite all the paint she wore, and encouraged dick to ask her if she had never felt the thorns of passion prick her when she ran away from her convent school. she seemed uncertain what answer she should return, but only for a moment; and recovering herself quickly she maintained that it wasn't passion, which is but another name for lewdness, but imagination that had prompted this elopement, and that if she had gone to bulgaria it was to seek there a nobler life than the one she had left behind. 'it was the immortal that drew me,' she said. 'even so,' dick answered, 'the mortal seems necessary for the immortal, and to provide him with a habitation a woman must give herself to a man.' 'that,' she replied, 'is one of the penalties entailed by our first parents upon women, but one that is entailed upon a condition that you have not respected, but which i have striven always to respect myself. it would be impossible for me to give myself to a man unless i thought i was going to bear him a child.' it was on dick's lips to remind laura that a woman can always think she is going to bear a child, but he refrained, it seeming to him that his purpose would be better served by allowing laura to justify herself as she pleased, and he waited for an opportunity to speak to her about the alteration which he deemed altogether necessary in the second act. but laura was away on her favourite theme, and in the end he had recourse to his watch. 'my dear laura, i'm due at rehearsal in ten minutes from now.' 'well, let's go,' she cried. 'but, my dear, this is what i've come to tell you. the second act,'--and he explained the difficulty which would have to be removed. 'now, like a dear, good girl, will you go home and do this and bring it down to the theatre to-morrow morning at eleven so that we may have an opportunity of going through it together before rehearsal?' in the meantime, kate lay on her bed, helpless as ever, just as dick had left her; and it was not until he had given his preliminary instructions to the ballet-girls, and montgomery had struck the first notes of his opening chorus, that a ray of consciousness pierced through the heavy, drunken stupor that pressed upon her brain. with vague movements of hands, she endeavoured to fasten the front of her dress, and with a groan rolled herself out of the light; but her efforts to fall back into insensibility were unavailing, and like the dawn that slips and swells through the veils of night, a pale waste of consciousness forced itself upon her. first came the curtains of the bed, then the bare blankness of the wall, and then the great throbbing pain that lay like a lump of lead just above her forehead. her mouth was clammy as if it were filled with glue, her limbs weak as if they had been beaten to a pulp by violent blows. she was all pain, but, worse still, a black horror of her life crushed and terrified her, until she buried her face in the pillow and wept and moaned for mercy. but to remain in bed was impossible. the pallor of the place was intolerable, and sliding her legs over the side she stood, scarcely able to keep her feet. the room swam as if in a mist; she held her head with clasped hands; the top of it seemed to be lifting off, and it was with much difficulty that she staggered as far as the chest of drawers, where she remained for some minutes trying to recover herself, thinking of what had happened overnight. she had been drunk, she knew that, but where was dick? where had he gone? what had she said to him? all mental effort was agony; but she had to think, and straining at the threads of memory, she strove to follow one to the end. but it was no use, it soon became hopelessly entangled, and with a low cry she moaned, 'oh, my poor head! my poor head! i cannot, cannot remember.' but the question: what has become of dick? still continued to torture her, till, raising her face suddenly from her arm, she hitched up her falling skirts, and seeing at that moment the bottle on the table, she went into the sitting-room and poured herself out a little, which she mixed with water. 'just a drop,' she murmured to herself, 'to pull me together. it was his fault; until he put me in a passion i was all right.' spreading and definite thoughts began to emerge, and for a long time she sat moodily thinking over her wrongs, and as her thoughts wavered they grew softer and more argumentative. she considered the question from all sides, and, reasoning with herself, was disposed to conclude that it was not all her fault. if she did drink, it was jealousy that drove her to it. why wasn't he faithful to her who had given up everything for him? why did he want to be always running after a lot of other women? where was he now, she'd like to know? as this question appeared in the lens of her thought, she raised her head, and although boozed the memory of mrs. forest's letters filled her mind. 'oh yes, that's where he's gone to, is it?' she murmured to herself. 'so he's down with his poetess at the opéra comique, rehearsing montgomery's opera.' a determination to follow him slowly formed itself in her mind, and she managed to map out the course that she would have to pursue. it seemed to her that she was beset with difficulties. to begin with, she did not know where the theatre was, and she could not conceal from herself the fact that she was scarcely in a fit state to take a long walk through the london streets. the spirit drunk on an empty stomach had gone to her head; she reeled a little when she walked; and her own incapacity to act maddened her. oh, good heavens! how her head was splitting! what would she not give to be all right just for a couple of hours, just long enough to go and tell that beast of a husband of hers what a pig he was, and let the whole theatre know how he was treating his wife. it was he who drove her to drink. yes, she would go and do this. it was true her head seemed as if it were going to roll off her shoulders, but a good sponging would do it good, and then a bottle or two of soda would put her quite straight--so straight that nobody would know she had touched a drop. it took kate about half an hour to drench herself in a basin, and regardless of her dress, she let her hair lie dripping on her shoulders. the landlady brought her up the soda-water, and seeing what a state her lodger was in, she placed it on the table without a word, without even referring to the notice to quit she had given overnight; and steadying her voice as best she could, kate asked her to call a cab. 'hansom, or four-wheeler?' 'fo-four wheel-er--if you please.' 'yes, that'll suit you best,' said the woman, as she went downstairs. 'you'd perhaps fall out of a hansom. if i were your husband i'd break every bone in your body.' but kate was now much soberer, and weak and sick she leaned back upon the hard cushions of the clattering cab. her mouth was full of water, and the shifting angles of the streets produced on her an effect similar to sea-sickness. london rang in her ears; she could hear a piano tinkling; she saw dick directing the movements of a line of girls. then her dream was brought to an end by a gulp. oh! the fearful nausea; and she did not feel better until, flooding her dress and ruining the red velvet seat, all she had drunk came up. but the vomit brought her great relief, and had it not been for a little dizziness and weakness, she would have felt quite right when she arrived at the stage-door. in a terrible state of dirt and untidiness she was surely, but she noticed nothing, her mind being now fully occupied in thinking what she should say, first to the stage-door-keeper, and then to her husband. at the corner of wych street she dismissed the cab, and this done she did not seem to have courage enough for anything. she felt as if she would like to sit down on a doorstep and cry. the menacing threats, the bitter upbraidings she had intended, all slipped from her like dreams, and she felt utterly wretched. at that moment, in her little walk up the pavement she found herself opposite a public-house. something whispered in her ear that after her sickness one little nip of brandy was necessary, and would put her straight in a moment. she hesitated, but someone pushed her from behind and she went in. a four of brandy freshened her up wonderfully, enabling her to think of what she had come to do, and to remember how badly she was being treated. a second drink put light into her eyes and wickedness into her head, and she felt she could, and would, face the devil. 'i'll give it to him; i'll teach him that i'm not to be trodden on,' she said to herself as she strutted manfully towards the stage-door, walking on her heels so as to avoid any unsteadiness of gait. the man in the little box was old and feeble. he said he would send her name by the first person going down; but kate was not in a mood to brook delays, and, profiting by his inability to stop her, she banged through the swinging door and commenced the descent of a long flight of steps. below her was the stage, and between the wings she could see the girls arranged in a semicircle. dick, with a big staff in hand, stood in front of the footlights directing the movements of a procession which was being formed; the piano tinkled merrily on the o.p. side. 'mr. chappel, will you be good enough to play the "just put this in your pocket" chorus over again?' cried dick, stamping his staff heavily upon the boards. 'now then, girls, i hear a good deal too much talking going on at the back there. i dare say it's very amusing; but if you'd try to combine business with pleasure---now, who did i put in section one?' kate hesitated a moment, arrested by the tones of his voice, and she could not avoid thinking of the time when she used to play clairette; besides, all the well-known faces were there. our lives move as in circles; no matter what strange vicissitudes we pass through, we generally find ourselves gliding once more into the well-known grooves, and dick, in forming the present company, had naturally fallen back upon the old hands, who had travelled with him in the country. they were nearly all there. mortimer, with his ringlets and his long nasal drawl, stood, as usual, in the wings, making ill-natured remarks. dubois strutted as before, and tilting his bishop's hat, explained that he would take no further engagement as a singer; if people would not let him act they would have to do without him. with her dyed hair tucked neatly away under her bonnet miss leslie smiled as agreeably as ever. beaumont alone seemed to be missing, and montgomery, in all the importance of a going-to-be-produced author, strode along up and down the stage, apparently busied in thought, the tails of a newmarket coat still flapping about his thin legs; and when he appeared in profile against the scenery he looked, as he always had done, like the flitting shadow thrown by an enormous magic-lantern. kate sullenly watched them, gripping the rail of the staircase tightly. the momentary softening of heart, occasioned by the remembrance of old times, died away in the bitterness of the thought that she who had counted for so much was now pushed into a corner to live forgotten or disdained. why was she not rehearsing there with them? she asked herself. at once the answer came. because your husband hates you--because he wants to make love to another woman. then, like one crazed, she clattered down the iron spiral staircase to the stage. she did not even hear mortimer and dubois cry out as she pushed past, 'there's mrs. lennox!' in the middle of the stage, however, she looked round, discountenanced by the silence and the crowd, and, hoping to calm her, dick advised her, in whispers, to go upstairs to his room. but this was the signal for her to break forth. 'go up to your room?' she screamed. 'never, never! do you suppose it is to talk to you that i came here? no, i despise you too much. i hate you, and i want every one here to know how you treat me.' with a dull stare she examined the circle of girls who stood whispering in groups, as if she were going to address one in particular, and several drew back, frightened. dick attempted to say something, but it seemed that the very sound of his voice was enough. 'go away, go away!' she exclaimed at the top of her voice. 'go away; don't touch me! go to that woman of yours--mrs. forest--go to her, and be damned, you beast! you know she's paying for everything here. you know that you are----' 'for goodness' sake remember what you're saying,' said dick, interrupting, and trembling as if for his life. he cast an anxious glance around to see if the lady in question was within hearing. fortunately she was not on the stage. the chorus crowded timidly forward looking like a school in their walking-dresses. the carpenters had ceased to hammer, and were peeping down from the flies; kate stood balancing herself and staring blindly at those who surrounded her. leslie and montgomery, in the position of old friends, were endeavouring to soothe her, whilst mortimer and dubois argued passionately as to when they had seen her drunk for the first time. the first insisted that when she had joined them at hanley she was a bit inebriated; the latter declared that it had begun with the champagne on her wedding day. 'don't you remember, dick was married with a scratched face?' 'to judge from present appearances,' said the comedian, forcing his words slowly through his nose, 'he's likely to die with one.' at this sally three supers retired into the wings holding their sides, and dubois, furious at being outdone in a joke, walked away in high dudgeon, calling mortimer an unfeeling brute. in the meantime the drunken row was waxing more furious every moment. struggling frantically with her friends, kate called attention to the sticking-plaster on dick's face, and declared that she would do for him. 'you see what i gave him last night, and he deserved it. oh! the beast! and i'll give him more; and if you knew all you wouldn't blame me. it was he who seduced me, who got me to run away from home, and he deserts me for other women. but he shan't, he shan't, he shan't; i'll kill him first; yes, i will, and nobody shall stop me.' dick listened quite broken with shame for himself and for her; as an excuse for the absence of his wife from the theatre he had told mortimer and hayes that london did not agree with her, and that she had to spend most of her time at the seaside. all had condoled with him, and when they were searching london for a second lady, all had agreed that mrs. lennox was just the person they wanted for the part. what a pity, they said, she was not in town. at the present moment dick wished her the other side of jordan. for all he knew, she might remain screaming at him the whole day, and if mrs. forest came back--well, he didn't know what would happen; the whole game would then be up the spout. perhaps the best thing to do would be to tell montgomery of the danger his piece was in; he and kate had always been friends; she might listen to him. such were dick's reflections as he stood bashfully trying to avoid the eyes of his ballet-girls. for the life of him he didn't know which way to look. in front of him was a wall of people, whereon certain faces detached themselves. he saw dubois' mumming mug widening with delight until the grin formed a semi-circle round the jew nose. mortimer looked on with the mock earnestness of a tortured saint in a stained-glass window. pity was written on all the girls' faces; all were sorry for dick, especially a tall woman who forgot herself so completely that she threw her arms about a super and sobbed on his shoulder. but kate still continued to advance, although held by montgomery and miss leslie. the long black hair hung in disordered masses; her brown eyes were shot with golden lights; the green tints in her face became, in her excessive pallor, dirty and abominable in colour, and she seemed more like a demon than a woman as her screams echoed through the empty theatre. 'by jove! we ought to put up _jane eyre_,' said mortimer. 'if she were to play the mad woman like that, we'd be sure to draw full houses.' 'i believe you,' said dubois; but at that moment he was interrupted by a violent scream, and suddenly disengaging herself from those who held her, kate rushed at dick. with one hand she grappled him by the throat, and before anyone could interfere she succeeded in nearly tearing the shirt from his back. when at length they were separated, she stood staring and panting, every fibre of her being strained with passion; but she did not again burst forth until someone, in a foolish attempt to pacify her, ventured to side with her in her denunciation of her husband. 'how should such as you dare to say a word against him! i will not hear him abused! no, i will not; i say he's a good man. yes, yes! he is a good man, the best man that ever lived!' she exclaimed, stamping her foot on the boards, 'the best man that ever lived! i will not hear a word against him! no, i will not! he's my husband; he married me! yes he did; i can show my certificate, and that's more than any one of you can. 'i know you, a damned lot of hussies! i know you; i was one of you myself. you think i wasn't. well, i can prove it. you go and ask montgomery if i didn't play serpolette all through the country, and clairette too. i should like to see any of you do that, with the exception of lucy, who was always a good friend to me; but the rest of you i despise as the dirt under my feet; so do you think that i would permit you--that i came here to listen to my husband being abused, and by such as you! if he has his faults he's accountable to none but me.' here she had to pause for lack of breath; and dick, who had been pursuing his shirt-stud, which had rolled into the foot-lights, now drew himself up, and in his stage-commanding voice declared the rehearsal to be over. a few of the girls lingered, but they were beckoned away by the others, who saw that the present time was not suitable for the discussion of boots, tights, and dressing-rooms. there was no one left but leslie, montgomery, dick, kate, and harding, who, twisting his moustache, watched and listened apparently with the greatest interest. 'oh, you've no idea what a nice woman she used to be, and is, were it not for that cursed drink,' said montgomery, with the tears running down his nose. 'you remember her, leslie, don't you? isn't what i say true? i never liked a woman so much in my life.' 'you were a friend of hers, then?' said harding. 'i should think i was.' 'then you never were--yes, yes, i understand. a little friendship flavoured with love. yes, yes. wears better, perhaps, than the genuine article. what do you think, leslie?' 'not bad,' said the prima donna, 'for people with poor appetites. a kind of diet suitable for lent, i should think.' 'ah! a title for a short story, or better still for an operetta. what do you think, montgomery? shall i do you a book entitled _lovers in lent_, or _a lover's lent_? and leslie will--' 'no, i won't. none of your forty days for me.' 'i can't understand how you people can go on talking nonsense with a scene so terrible passing under your eyes,' cried the musician, as he pointed to kate, who was calling after dick as she staggered in pursuit of him up the stairs towards the stage-door. 'well, what do you want me to do?' 'she'll disgrace him in the street.' 'i can't help that. i never interfere in a love affair; and this is evidently the great passion of a life.' montgomery cast an indignant glance at the novelist and rushed after his friends; but when he arrived at the stage-door he saw the uselessness of his interference. it was in the narrow street; the heat sweltered between the old houses that leaned and lolled upon the huge black traversing beams like aged women on crutches; and kate raved against dick in language that was fearful to hear amid the stage carpenters, the chorus-girls, the idlers that a theatre collects standing with one foot in the gutter, where vegetable refuse of all kinds rotted. her beautiful black hair was now hanging over her shoulders like a mane; someone had trodden on her dress and nearly torn it from her waist, and, in avid curiosity, women with dyed hair peeped out of a suspicious-looking tobacco shop. over the way, stuck under an overhanging window, was an orange-stall; the proprietress stood watching, whilst a crowd of vermin-like children ran forward, delighted at the prospect of seeing a woman beaten. close by, in shirt-sleeves, the pot-boy flung open the public-house door, partly for the purpose of attracting custom, half with the intention of letting a little air into the bar-room. 'oh, kate! i beg of you not to go in there,' said dick; 'you've had enough; do come home!' 'come home!' she shrieked, 'and with you, you beast! it was you who seduced me, who got me away from my husband.' this occasioned a good deal of amusement in the crowd, and several voices asked for information. 'and how did he manage to do that, marm?' said one. 'with a bottle of gin. what do you think?' cried another. there were moments when dick longed for the earth to open; but he nevertheless continued to try to prevent kate from entering the public-house. 'i will drink! i will drink! i will drink! and not because i like it, but to spite you, because i hate you.' when she came out she appeared to be a little quieted, and dick tried very hard to persuade her to get into a cab and drive home. but the very sound of his voice, the very sight of him, seemed to excite her, and in a few moments she broke forth into the usual harangue. several times the temptation to run away became almost irresistible, but with a noble effort of will he forced himself to remain with her. hoping to avoid some part of the ridicule that was being so liberally showered upon him, he besought of her to keep up drury lane and not descend into the strand. 'you don't want to be seen with me; i know, you'd prefer to walk there with mrs. forest. you think i shall disgrace you. well, come along, then. '"look at me here! look at me there! criticize me everywhere! i am so sweet from head to feet, and most perfect and complete."' 'that's right, old woman, give us a song. she knows the game,' answered another. raising his big hat from his head, dick wiped his face, and as if divining his extreme despair, kate left off singing and dancing, and the procession proceeded in quiet past several different wine-shops. it was not until they came to short's she declared she was dying of thirst and must have a drink. dick forbade the barman to serve her, and brought upon himself the most shocking abuse. knowing that he would be sure to meet a crowd of his 'pals' at the gaiety bar, he used every endeavour to persuade her to cross the street and get out of the sun. 'don't bother me with your sun,' she exclaimed surlily; and then, as if struck by the meaning of the word, she said, 'but it wasn't a son, it was a daughter; don't you remember?' 'oh, kate! how can you speak so?' 'speak so? i say it was a daughter, and she died; and you said it was my fault, as you say everything is my fault, you beast! you venomous beast! yes, she did die. it was a pity; i could have loved her.' at this moment dick felt a heavy hand clapped on his shoulder, and turning round he saw a pal of his. 'what, dick, my boy! a drunken chorus lady; trying to get her home? always up to some charitable action.' 'no; she's my wife.' 'i beg your pardon, old chap; you know i didn't mean it;' and the man disappeared into the bar-room. 'yes, i'm his wife,' kate shrieked after him. 'i got that much right out of him at least; and i played the serpolette in the _cloches_.' '"look at me here, look at me there,"' she sang, flirting with her abominable skirt, amused by the applause of the roughs. 'but i'm going to have a drink here,' she said, suddenly breaking off. 'no, you can't, my good woman,' said the stout guardian at the door. 'and why--why not?' 'that don't matter. you go on, or i'll have to give you in charge.' kate was not yet so drunk that the words 'in charge' did not frighten her, and she answered humbly enough, 'i'm here wi-th--my hu-s-band, and as you're so im-impertinent i shall go-go elsewhere.' at the next place they came to dick did not protest against her being served, but waited, confident of the result, until she had had her four of gin, and came reeling out into his arms. shaking herself free she stared at him, and when he was fully recognized, cursed him for his damned interference. she could now scarcely stand straight on her legs, and, after staggering a few yards further, fell helplessly on the pavement. calling a cab, he bundled her into it and drove away. xxvii 'oh, dick, dear, what did i do yesterday? do tell me about yesterday. was i very violent? and those wounds on your face, i didn't do that; don't tell me that i did. dick, dick, are you going to leave me?' 'i have to attend to my business, kate.' 'ah, your business! your business! mrs. forest is your business; you've no other business but her now. and that is what is driving me to drink.' 'oh, kate, don't begin it again. i've a rehearsal----' 'yes, the rehearsal of her opera and montgomery's music. i did think he was my friend; yet he is putting up her opera to music, and all the while he was setting it you were telling me lies about _chilpéric_, saying that i was to play the fredegonde, and all the principal parts in the great hervé festival, that the american--but there was no american. it was cruel of you, dick, to shut me up here with nobody to speak to; nothing to do but to wait for you hour after hour, and when you come home to hear nothing from you but lies, nothing but lies! _chilpéric, le petit faust, l'oeil créve, trône d'�cosse, marguerite de navarre, la belle poule_. and all the music i've learnt hoping that i would be allowed to sing it; and yet you expect that a woman who is deceived like that can abstain from drink. why, you drive me to it, dick. an angel from heaven wouldn't abstain from drink. away you go in the morning to mrs. forest--to her opera.' 'but, kate, there's nothing between me and mrs. forest. she is a very clever woman, and i am doing her opera for her. how are we to live if you come between me and my business?' 'womanizing is your business,' kate answered suddenly. 'well, don't let us argue it,' dick answered. he tied his shoe-strings and sought for his hat. 'so you're going,' she said; 'and when shall i see you again?' 'i shall try to get home for dinner.' 'what time?' 'not before eight.' 'i shall not see you before twelve,' she replied, and she experienced a sad sinking of the heart when she heard the door close behind him, a sad sinking that she would have to endure till she heard his latchkey, and that would not be for many hours, perhaps not till midnight. she did not know how she would be able to endure all these hours; to sleep some of them away would be the best thing she could do, and with that intention she drew down the blind and threw herself on the bed, and lay between sleeping and waking till the afternoon. then, feeling a little better, she rang and asked for a cup of tea. it tasted very insipid, but she gulped it down as best she could, making wry faces and feeling more miserable than ever she had felt before; afraid to look back on yesterday, afraid to look forward on the morrow, she bethought herself of the past, of the happy days when montgomery used to come and teach her to sing, and her triumphs in the part of clairette; she was quite as successful in serpolette; people had liked her in serpolette, and to recall those days more distinctly she opened a box in which she kept her souvenirs: a withered flower, a broken cigarette-holder, two or three old buttons that had fallen from his clothes, and a lock of hair, and it was under these that the prize of prizes lay--a string of false pearls. she liked to run them through her fingers and to see them upon her neck. she still kept the dresses she wore in her two favourite parts, the stockings and the shoes, and having nothing to do, no way of passing the time away, she bethought herself of dressing herself in the apparel of her happy days, presenting, when the servant came up with her dinner, a spectacle that almost caused emma to drop the dish of cold mutton. 'lord, mrs. lennox, i thought i see a ghost; you in that white dress, oh, what lovely clothes!' 'these were the clothes i used to wear when i was on the stage.' 'but law, mum, why aren't you on the stage now?' kate began to tell her story to the servant-girl, who listened till a bell rang, and she said: 'that's mr. so-and-so ringing for his wife; i must run and see to it. you must excuse me, mum.' the cold mutton and the damp potatoes did not tempt her appetite, and catching sight of herself in the glass, bitter thoughts of the wrongs done to her surged up in her mind. the tiny nostrils dilated and the upper lip contracted, and for ten minutes she stood, her hands grasping nervously at the back of her chair; the canine teeth showed, for the project of revenge was mounting to her head. 'he'll not be back till midnight; all this while he is with leslie and mrs. forest, or some new girl perhaps. yet when he returns to me, when he is wearied out, he expects to find me sober and pleased to see him. but he shall never see me sober or pleased to see him again.' on these words she walked across the room to the fire-place, and putting her hand up the chimney brought down a bottle of old tom, and sat moodily sipping gin and water till she heard his key in the lock. 'he's back earlier than i expected,' she said. dick entered in his usual deliberate, elephantine way. kate made no sign till he was seated, then she asked what the news was. it was clearly out of the question to tell her that he had been round to tea with one of the girls; to explain how he had wheedled mrs. forest into all sorts of theatrical follies was likewise not to be thought of as a subject of news, and as to making conversation out of the rest of the day's duties, he really didn't see how he was to do it. miss howard had put out the entire procession by not listening to his instructions; miss adair, although she was playing the brigand of the ultramarine mountains, had threatened to throw up her part if she were not allowed to wear her diamond ear-rings. the day had gone in deciding such questions, had passed in drilling those infernal girls; and what interest could there be in going through it all over again? besides, he never knew how or where he might betray himself, and kate was so quick in picking up the slightest word and twisting it into extraordinary meanings, that he really would prefer to talk about something else. 'i can't understand how you can have been out all day without having heard something. it is because you want to keep me shut up here and not let me know anything of your going-on; but i shall go down to the theatre to-morrow and have it out of you.' 'my dear, i assure you that i was at the rehearsal all day. the girls don't know their music yet, and it puts me out in my stage arrangement. i give you my word that is all i heard or saw to-day. i've nothing to conceal from you.' 'you're a liar, and you know you are!' blows and shrieks followed. 'i shall pull that woman's nose off; i know i shall!' 'i give you my word, my dear, that i've been the whole day with montgomery and harding cutting the piece.' 'cutting the piece! and i should like to know why i'm not in that piece. i suppose it was you who kept me out of it. oh, you beast! why did you ever have anything to do with me? it's you who are ruining me. were it not for you, do you think i should be drinking? not i--it was all your fault.' dick made no attempt to answer. he was very tired. kate continued her march up and down the room for some moments in silence, but he could see from the twitching of her face and the swinging of her arms that the storm was bound to burst soon. presently she said: 'you go and get me something to drink; i've had nothing all this evening.' 'oh, kate dear! i beg of--' 'oh, you won't, won't you? we'll see about that,' she answered as she looked around the room for the heaviest object she could conveniently throw at him. seeing how useless it would be to attempt to contradict her in her present mood, dick rose to his feet and said hurriedly: 'now there's no use in getting into a passion, kate. i'll go, i'll go.' 'you'd better, i can tell you.' 'what shall i get, then?' 'get me half a pint of gin, and be quick about it--i'm dying of thirst.' even dick, accustomed as he was now to these scenes, could not repress a look in which there was at once mingled pity, astonishment and fear, so absolutely demoniacal did this little woman seem as she raved under the watery light of the lodging-house gas, her dark complexion gone to a dull greenish pallor. by force of contrast she called to his mind the mild-eyed workwoman he had known in the linen-draper's shop in hanley, and he asked himself if it were possible that she and this raging creature, more like a tiger in her passion than a human being, were one and the same person? he could not choose but wonder. but another scream came, bidding him make haste, or it would be worse for him, and he bent his head and went to fetch the gin. in the meantime kate's fury leaped, crackled, and burnt with the fierceness of a house in the throes of conflagration, and in the smoke-cloud of hatred which enveloped her, only fragments of ideas and sensations flashed like falling sparks through her mind. up and down the room she walked swinging her arms, only hesitating for some new object whereon to wreak new fury. suddenly it struck her that dick had been too long away--that he was keeping her waiting on purpose; and grinding her teeth, she muttered: 'oh, the beast! would he--would he keep me waiting, and since nine this morning i've been alone!' in an instant her resolve was taken. it came to her sullenly, obtusely, like the instinct of revenge to an animal. she did not stop to consider what she was doing, but, seizing a large stick, the handle of a brush that happened to have been broken, she stationed herself at the top of the landing. a feverish tremor agitated her as she waited in the semi-darkness of the stairs. but at last she heard the door open, and dick came up slowly with his usual heavy tread. she made neither sign nor stir, but allowed him to get past her, and then, raising the brush-handle, she landed him one across the back. the poor man uttered a long cry, and the crash of broken glass was heard. 'what did you hit me like that for?' he cried, holding himself with both hands. 'you beast, you! i'll teach you to keep me waiting! you would, would you! do you want another? go into the sitting-room.' dick obeyed humbly and in silence. his only hope was that the landlady had not been awakened, and he felt uneasily at his pockets, through which he could feel the gin dripping down his legs. 'well, have you brought the drink i sent you for? where is it?' 'well,' replied dick, desirous of conciliating at any price, 'it was in my pocket, but when you hit me with that stick you broke it.' 'i broke it?' cried kate, her eyes glistening with fire. 'yes, dear, you did; it wasn't my fault.' 'wasn't your fault! oh, you horrid wretch! you put it there on purpose that i should break it.' 'oh, now really, kate,' he cried, shocked by the unfairness of the accusation, 'how could i know that you were going to hit me there?' 'i don't know and i don't care; what's that to me? but what i'm sure of is that you always want to spite me, that you hate me, that you would wish to see me dead, so that you might marry mrs. forest.' 'i can't think how you can say such things. i've often told you that mrs. forest and i--' 'oh! don't bother me. i'm not such a fool. i know she keeps you, and she will have to pay me a drink to-night. go and get another bottle of gin; and mind you pay for it with the money she gave you to-day. yes, she shall stand me a drink to-night!' 'i give you my word i haven't another penny-piece upon me; it's just the accident--' but dick did not get time to finish the sentence; he was interrupted by a heavy blow across the face, and like a panther that has tasted blood, she rushed at him again, screaming all the while: 'oh, you've no money! you liar! you liar! so you would make me believe that she does not give you money, that you have no money of hers in your pocket. you would keep it all for yourself; but you shan't, no, you shan't, for i will tear it from you and throw it in your face! oh, that filthy money! that filthy money!' the patience with which he bore with her was truly angelic. he might easily have felled her to the ground with one stroke, but he contented himself with merely warding off the blows she aimed at him. from his great height and strength, he was easily able to do this, and she struck at him with her little womanish arms as she might against a door. 'take down your hands,' she screamed, exasperated to a last degree. 'you would strike me, would you? you beast! i know you would.' her rage had now reached its height. showing her clenched teeth, she foamed at the mouth, the bloodshot eyes protruded from their sockets, and her voice grew more and more harsh and discordant. but, although the excited brain gave strength to the muscles and energy to the will, unarmed she could do nothing against dick, and suddenly becoming conscious of this she rushed to the fireplace and seized the poker. with one sweep of the arm she cleared the mantel-board, and the mirror came in for a tremendous blow as she advanced round the table brandishing her weapon; but, heedless of the shattered glass, she followed in pursuit of dick, who continued to defend himself dexterously with a chair. and it is difficult to say how long this combat might have lasted if dick's attention had not been interrupted by the view of the landlady's face at the door; and so touched was he by the woman's dismay when she looked upon her broken furniture, that he forgot to guard himself from the poker. kate took advantage of the occasion and whirled the weapon round her head. he saw it descending in time, and half warded off the blow; but it came down with awful force on the forearm, and glancing off, inflicted a severe scalp wound. the landlady screamed 'murder!' and dick, seeing that matters had come to a crisis, closed in upon his wife, and undeterred by yells and struggles, pinioned her and forced her into a chair. 'oh, dear! oh, dear! you're all bleeding, sir,' cried the landlady; 'she has nearly killed you.' 'never mind me. but what are we to do? i think she has gone mad this time.' 'that's what i think,' said the landlady, trying to make herself heard above kate's shrieks. 'well, then, go and fetch a doctor, and let's hear what he has to say,' replied dick, as he changed his grip on kate's arm, for in a desperate struggle she had nearly succeeded in wrenching herself free. the landlady retreated precipitately towards the door. 'well, will you go?' 'yes, yes, i'll run at once.' 'you'd better,' yelled the mad woman after her. 'i'll give it to you! let me go! let me go, will you?' but dick never ceased his hold of her, and the blood, dripping upon her, trickled in large drops into her ears, and down into her neck and bosom. 'you're spitting on me, you beast! you filthy beast! i'll pay you out for this.' then she perceived that it was blood; the intonation of her voice changed, and in terror she screamed, 'murder! murder! he's murdering me! is there no one here to save me?' the minutes seemed like eternities. dick felt himself growing faint, but should he lose his power over her before the doctor arrived, the consequences might be fatal to himself, so he struggled with her for very life. at last the door was opened, and a man walked into the room, tripping in so doing over a piece of the broken mirror. it was the doctor, and accustomed as he was to betray surprise at nothing, he could not repress a look of horror on catching sight of the scene around him. the apartment was almost dismantled; chairs lay backless about the floor amid china shepherdesses and toreadors; pictures were thrown over the sofa, and a huge pile of wax fruit--apples and purple grapes--was partially reflected in a large piece of mirror that had fallen across the hearthrug. 'come, help me to hold her,' said dick, raising his blood-stained face. with a quick movement the doctor took possession of kate's arms. 'give me a sheet from the next room; i'll soon make her fast.' the threat of being tied had its effect. kate became quieter, and after some trouble they succeeded in carrying her into the next room and laying her on the bed. there she rolled convulsively, beating the pillows with her arms. the landlady stationed herself at the door to give notice of any further manifestation of fury, whilst dick explained the circumstances of the case to the doctor. after a short consultation, he agreed to sign an order declaring that in his opinion mrs. lennox was a dangerous lunatic. 'will that be enough,' said dick, 'to place her in an asylum?' 'no, you'll have to get the opinion of another doctor.' the possibility of being able to rid himself of her was to him like the sudden dawning of a new life, and dick rushed off, bleeding, haggard, wild-looking as he was, to seek for another doctor who would concur in the judgment of the first, asking himself if it were possible to see kate in her present position, and say conscientiously that she was a person who could be safely trusted with her liberty? and to his great joy this view was taken by the second authority consulted, and having placed his wife under lock and key, dick lay down to rest a happier man than he had been for many a day. the position in his mind was, of course, the means he should adopt to place her in the asylum. force was not to be thought of; persuasion must be first tried. so far he was decided, but as to the arguments he should advance to induce her to give up her liberty he knew nothing, nor did he attempt to formulate any scheme, and when he entered the bedroom next morning he relied more on the hope of finding her repentant, and appealing to and working on her feelings of remorse than anything else. 'the whole thing,' as he put it, 'depended upon the humour he should find her in.' and he found her with stains of blood still upon her face, amid the broken furniture, and she asked calmly but with intense emotion: 'dick, did he say i was mad?' 'well, dear, i don't know that he said you were mad except when you were the worse for drink, but he said--' 'that i might become mad,' she interposed, 'if i don't abstain from drink. did he say that?' 'well, it was something like that, kate. you know i only just escaped with my life.' 'only just escaped with your life, dick! oh, if i'd killed you, if i'd killed you! if i'd seen you lying dead at my feet!' and unable to think further she fell on her knees and reached out her arms to him. but he did not take her to his bosom, and she sobbed till, touched to the heart, he strove to console her with kind words, never forgetting, however, to introduce a hint that she was not responsible for her actions. 'then i'm really downright mad?' said kate, raising her tear-stained face from her arms. 'did the doctor say so?' this was by far too direct a question for dick to answer; it were better to equivocate. 'well, my dear--mad? he didn't say that you were always mad, but he said you were liable to fits, and that if you didn't take care those fits would grow upon you, and you would become--' then he hesitated as he always did before a direct statement. 'but what did he say i must do to get well?' 'he advised that you should go to a home where you would not be able to get hold of any liquor and would be looked after' 'you mean a madhouse. you wouldn't put me in a madhouse, dick?' 'i wouldn't put you anywhere where you didn't like to go; but he said nothing about a madhouse.' 'what did he say, then?' 'he spoke merely of one of those houses which are under medical supervision, and where anyone can go and live for a time; a kind of hospital, you know.' the argument was continued for an hour or more. kate wept and protested against being locked up as a mad woman; while he, conscious of the strong hold he had over her, reminded her in a thousand ways of the danger she ran of awakening one morning to find herself a murderess. yet it is difficult to persuade anyone voluntarily to enter a lunatic asylum, no matter how irrefutable the reasons advanced may be, and it was not until dick on one side skilfully threatened her with separation, and tempted her on the other with the hope of being cured of her vice and living with him happily ever afterwards, that she consented to enter dr. ----'s private asylum, craven street, bloomsbury. but even then the battle was not won, for when he suggested going off there at once, he very nearly brought another fit of passion down on his head. it was only the extreme lassitude and debility produced from the excesses of last night that saved him. 'oh, dick, dear! if you only knew how i love you! i would give my last drop of blood to save you from harm.' 'i know you would, dear; it's the fault of that confounded drink,' he answered, his heart tense with the hope of being rid of her. then the packing began. kate sat disconsolate on the sofa, and watched dick folding up her dresses and petticoats. it seemed to her that everything had ended, and wearily she collected the pearls which had been scattered in last night's skirmishing. some had been trodden on, others were lost, and only about half the original number could be found, and shaken with nervousness and lassitude, kate cried and wrung her hands. dick sat next her, kind, huge, and indifferent, even as the world itself. 'but you'll come and see me? you promise me that you'll come--that you'll come very often.' 'yes, dear, i'll come two or three times a week; but i hope that you'll be well soon--very soon.' xxviii the hope dick expressed that his wife would soon be well enough to return home was, of course, untrue, his hope being that she would never cross the doors of the house in bloomsbury whither he was taking her. the empty bed awaiting him was so great a relief that he fell on his knees before it and prayed that the doctors might judge her to be insane, unsafe to be at large. to wake up in the morning alone in his bed, and to be free to go forth to his business without question seemed to him like heaven. but the pleasures of heaven last for eternity, and dick's delight lasted but for two days. two days after kate had gone into the asylum a letter came from one of the doctors saying that mrs. lennox was not insane, and would have to be discharged. dick sank into a chair and lay there almost stunned, plunged in despair that was like a thick fog, and it did not lift until the door opened and kate stood before him again. he raised his head and looked at her stupidly, and interpreting his vacant face, she said: 'dick, you're sorry to have me back again.' 'sorry, kate? well, if things were different i shouldn't be sorry. but you see the blow you struck me with the poker very nearly did for me; i haven't been the same man since.' 'well,' she said, 'i must go back to the asylum or the home, whatever you call it, and tell them that i am mad.' 'there's no use in doing that, kate, they wouldn't believe you. here is the letter i've just received; read it.' 'but, dick, there must be some way out of this dreadful trouble, and yet there doesn't seem to be any. try to think, dear, try to think. can you think of anything, dear? i don't think i shall give way again. if i only had something to do; it's because i'm always alone; because i love you; because i'm jealous of that woman.' 'but, kate, if i stop here with you all day we shall starve. i must go to business.' 'ah, business! business! if i could go to business too. the days when we used to rehearse went merrily enough.' 'you were the best clairette i ever saw,' dick answered; 'better than paola mariee, and i ought to know, for i rehearsed you both.' 'i shall never play clairette again,' kate said sadly. 'i've lost my figure and the part requires a waist.' 'you might get your waist again,' dick said, and the words seemed to him extraordinarily silly, but he had to say something. 'if i could only get to work again,' she muttered to herself, and then turning to dick-- 'dick, if i could get to work again; any part would do; it doesn't matter how small, just to give me something to think about, that's all, to keep my mind off it. if the baby had not died i should have had her to look after and that would have done just as well as a part. but i've disgraced you in company; i don't blame you, you couldn't have me in it, and i couldn't bring myself to sing in that opera.' 'yes, you would only break out again, kate. those jealous fits are terrible. you think you could restrain yourself, but you couldn't; and all that would come of a row between you and mrs. forest would be that i should lose my job.' 'i know, dick, i know,' kate cried painfully, 'but i promise you that i never will again. you may go where you please and do what you please. i will never say a word to you again.' 'i'm sure you believe all that you say, kate, but i cannot get you a job. i may hear of something. meanwhile----' 'meanwhile i shall have to stay here and alone and no way of escaping from the hours, those long dreary hours, no way but one. dick, i'm sorry they did not keep me in the asylum, it would have been better for both of us if they had; and if i could go back there again, if you will take me back, i will try to deceive the doctors.' 'you mean, kate, that you would play the mad woman? i doubt if any woman could do it sufficiently well to deceive the doctors. there was an italian woman,' and they talked of the great italian actress for some time and then dick said: 'well, kate, i must be about my business. i'm sorry to leave you.' 'no, dick, you're not.' 'i am, dear, in a way. but if i hear of anything----' and he left the house knowing that there was no further hope for himself. he was tied to her and might be killed by her in his sleep, but that would not matter. what did matter was the thought that was always at the back of his mind, that she was alone in that islington lodging-house craving for drink, striving to resist it, falling back into drink and might be coming down raving to the theatre to insult him before the company. insult him before the company! that had been done, she had done her worst, and he was indifferent whether she came again, only she must not meet mrs. forest. on the whole he felt that his sorrow was with kate herself rather than himself or with mrs. forest. 'god only knows,' he said as he rushed down the stairs, 'what will become of her.' kate was asking herself the same question--what was to become of her? would it be possible for her to find work to do that would keep her mind away from the drink? she seemed for the moment free from all craving, but she knew what the craving is, how overpowering in the throat it is, and how when one has got one mouthful one must go on and on, so intense is the delight of alcohol in the throat of the drunkard. but there was no craving upon her, and it might never come again. every morning she awoke in great fear, but was glad to find that there was no craving in her throat, and when she went out she rejoiced that the public-houses offered no attraction to her. she became brave; and fear turned to contempt, and at the bottom of her heart she began to jeer at the demon which had conquered and brought her to ruin and which she had in turn conquered. but there was a last mockery she did not dare, for she knew that the demon was but biding his time. he seemed, however, to go on biding it, and dick, finding kate reasonable every evening, came home to dinner earlier so that the day should not appear to her intolerably long. but his business often detained him, and one night coming home late he noticed that she looked more sullen than usual, that her eyes drooped as if she had been drinking. a month of scenes of violence followed; 'not a single day as far as i can remember for a fortnight' he said one day on leaving the house and running to catch his bus to the strand, 'have we had a quiet evening.' when he returned that night she ran at him with a knife, and he had only just time to ward off the blow. the house rang with shrieks and cries of all sorts, and the lennoxes were driven from one lodging-house to another. trousers, dresses, hats, boots and shoes, were all pawned. the comic and the pitiful are but two sides of the same thing, and it was at once comic and pitiful to see dick, with one of the tails of his coat lost in the scrimmage, talking at one o'clock in the morning to a dispassionate policeman, while from the top windows the high treble voice of a woman disturbed the sullen tranquillity of the london night. and yet dick continued with her--continued to allow himself to be beaten, scratched, torn to pieces almost as he would be by a wild beast. human nature can habituate itself even to pain, and it was so with him. he knew that his present life was as a nessus shirt on his back, and yet he couldn't make up his mind to have done with it. in the first place, he pitied his wife; in the second, he did not know how to leave her; and it was not until after another row with kate for having been down to the theatre that he summoned up courage to walk out of the house with a fixed determination never to return again. kate was too tipsy at the time to pay much attention to the announcement he made to her as he left the room. besides, 'wolf!' had been cried so often that it had now lost its terror in her ears, and it was not until next day that she began to experience any very certain fear that dick and she had at last parted for ever. but when, with a clammy, thirsty mouth, she sat rocking herself wearily, and the long idleness of the morning hours became haunted with irritating remembrances of her shameful conduct, of the cruel life she led the man she loved, the black gulf of eternal separation became, as it were, etched upon her mind; and she heard the cold depths reverberating with vain words and foolish prayers. then her thin hands trembled on her black dress, and waves of shivering passed over her. she thought involuntarily that a little brandy might give her strength, and as soon hated herself for the thought. it was brandy that had brought her to this. she would never touch it again. but dick had not left her for ever; he would come back to her; she could not live without him. it was terrible! she would go to him, and on her knees beg his pardon for all she had done. he would forgive her. he must forgive her. such were the fugitive thoughts that flashed through kate's mind as she hurried to and fro, seeking for her bonnet and shawl. she would go down to the theatre and find him; she would be sure to hear news of him there, she said, as she strove to brush away the mist that obscured her eyes. she could see nothing; things seemed to change their places, and so terrible were the palpitations of her heart that she was forced to cling to any piece of furniture within reach. but by walking very slowly she contrived to reach the stage-door of the opéra comique, feeling very weak and ill. 'is mr. lennox in?' she asked, at the same time trying to look conciliatingly at the hard-faced hall-keeper. 'no, ma'am, he ain't,' was the reply. 'who attended the rehearsal to-day, then?' 'there was no rehearsal to-day, ma'am--leastways mr. lennox dismissed the rehearsal at half-past twelve.' 'and why?' 'ah! that i cannot tell you.' 'could you tell me where mr. lennox would be likely to be found?' 'indeed i couldn't, ma'am; i believe he's gone into the country.' 'gone into the country!' echoed kate. 'but may i ask, ma'am, if you be mrs. lennox? because if you be, mr. lennox left a letter to be given to you in case you called.' her eyes brightened at the idea of a letter. to know the worst would be better than a horrible uncertainty, and she said eagerly: 'yes, i'm mrs. lennox; give me the letter.' the hall-keeper handed it to her, and she walked out of the narrow passage into the street, so as to be free from observation. with anxious fingers she tore open the envelope, and read, 'my dear kate, 'it must be now as clear to you as it is to me that it is quite impossible for us to go on living together. there is no use in our again discussing the whys and the wherefores; we had much better accept the facts of the case in silence, and mutually save each other the pain of trying to alter what cannot be altered. 'i have arranged to allow you two pounds a week. this sum will be paid to you every saturday, by applying to messrs. jackson and co., solicitors, arundel street, strand. 'yours very affectionately, 'richard lennox.' kate mechanically repeated the last words as she walked gloomily through the glare of the day. 'two pounds a week.' she said, and with nothing else; not a friend, and the thought passed through her mind that she could not have a friend, she had fallen too low, yet from no fault of her own nor dick's, and it was that that frightened her. a terrible sense of loneliness, of desolation, was created in her heart. for her the world seemed to have ended, and she saw the streets and passers-by with the same vague, irresponsible gaze as a solitary figure would the universal ruin caused by an earthquake. she had no friends, no occupation, no interest of any kind in life; everything had slipped from her, and she shivered with a sense of nakedness, of moral destitution. nothing was left to her, and yet she felt, she lived, she was conscious. oh yes, horribly conscious. and that was the worst; and she asked herself why she could not pass out of sight, out of hearing and feeling of all the crying misery with which she was surrounded, and in a state of emotive somnambulism she walked through the crowds till she was startled from her dreams by hearing a voice calling after her, 'kate! kate!--mrs. lennox!' it was montgomery. 'i'm so glad to have met you--so glad, indeed, for we have not seen much of each other. i don't know how it was, but somehow it seemed to me that dick did not want me to go and see you. i never could make out why, for he couldn't have been jealous of me,' he added a little bitterly. 'but perhaps you've not heard that it's all up as regards my piece at the opéra comique,' he continued, not noticing kate's dejection in his excitement. 'no, i haven't heard,' she answered mechanically. 'it doesn't matter much, though, for i've just been down to the gaiety, and pretty well settled that it's to be done in manchester, at the prince's; so you see i don't let the grass grow under my feet, for my row with mrs. forest only occurred this morning. but what's the matter, kate? what has happened?' 'oh, nothing, nothing. tell me about mrs. forest first; i want to know.' 'well, it's the funniest thing you ever heard in your life; but you won't tell dick, because he forbade me ever to speak to you about mrs. forest--not that there is anything but business between them; that i swear to you. but do tell me, kate, what is the matter? i never saw you look so sad in my life. have you had any bad news?' 'no, no. tell me about mrs. forest and your piece; i want to hear,' she exclaimed excitedly. 'well, this is it,' said montgomery, who saw in a glance that she was not to be contradicted, and that he had better get on with his story. 'in the first place, you know that the old creature has gone in for writing librettos herself, and has finished one about buddhism, an absurdity; the opening chorus is fifty lines long, but she won't cut one; but i'll tell you about that after. i was to get one hundred for setting this blessed production to music, and it was to follow my own piece, which was in rehearsal. well, like a great fool, i was explaining to dubois the bosh i was writing by the yard for this infernal opera of hers. i couldn't help it; she wouldn't take advice on any point. she has written the song of the sun-god in hexameters. i don't know what hexameters are, but i would as soon set bradshaw--leaving st. pancras nine twenty-five, arriving at--ha! ha! ha!--with a puff, puff accompaniment on the trombone.' 'go on with the story,' cried kate. 'well, i was explaining all this,' said montgomery, suddenly growing serious, 'when out she darted from behind the other wing--i never knew she was there. she called me a thief, and said she wouldn't have me another five minutes in her theatre. monti, the italian composer, was sent for. i was shoved out, bag and baggage, and there will be no more rehearsals till the new music is ready. that's all.' 'i'm very sorry for you--very sorry,' said kate very quietly, and she raised her hand to brush away a tear. 'oh, i don't care; i'd sooner have the piece done in manchester. of course it's a bore, losing a hundred pounds. but, oh, kate! do tell me what's the matter; you know you can confide in me; you know i'm your friend.' at these kind words the cold deadly grief that encircled kate's heart like a band of steel melted, and she wept profusely. montgomery drew her arm into his and pleaded and begged to be told the reason of these tears; but she could make no answer, and pressed dick's letter into his hand with a passionate gesture. he read it at a glance, and then hesitated, unable to make up his mind as to what he should do. no words seemed to him adequate wherewith to console her, and she was sobbing so bitterly that it was beginning to attract attention in the streets. they walked on without speaking for a few yards, kate leaning upon montgomery, until a hackney coachman, guessing that something was wrong signed to them with his whip. 'where are you living, dear?' kate told him with some difficulty, and having directed the driver, he lapsed again into considering what course he should adopt. to put off the journey was impossible; dick had promised to meet him there. it was now three o'clock. he had therefore three hours to spend with kate--with the woman whom he had loved steadfastly throughout a loveless life. he had no word of blame for dick; he had heard stories that had made his blood run cold; and yet, knowing her faults as he did, he would have opened his arms had it been possible, and crying through the fervour of years of waiting, said to her, 'yes, i will believe in you; believe in me and you shall be happy.' there had never been a secret between them; their souls had been for ever as if in communication; and the love, unacknowledged in words, had long been as sunlight and moonlight, lighting the spaces of their dream-life. to the woman it had been as a distant star whose pale light was a presage of quietude in hours of vexation; to the man it seemed as a far elysium radiant with sweet longing, large hopes that waxed but never waned, and where the sweet breezes of eternal felicity blew in musical cadence. and yet he was deceived in nothing. he knew now as he had known before, that although this dream might haunt him for ever, he should never hold it in his arms nor press it to his lips; and in the midst of this surging tide of misery there arose a desire that, glad in its own anguish, bade him increase the bitterness of these last hours by making a confession of his suffering; and, exulting savagely in the martyrdom he was preparing for himself, he said: 'you know, kate--i know you must know--you must have guessed that i care for you. i may as well tell you the truth now--you are the only woman i ever loved.' 'yes,' she said, 'i always thought you cared for me. you have been very kind--oh! very kind, and i often think of it. ah! everybody has, all my life long, been very good to me; it is i alone who am to blame, who am in fault. i have, i know i have, been very wicked, and i don't know why. i did not mean it; i know i didn't, for i'm not at heart a wicked woman. i suppose things must have gone against me; that's about all.' montgomery pushed his glasses higher on his nose, and after a long silence he said: 'i've often thought that had you met me before you knew dick, things might have been different. we should have got on better, although you might never have loved me so well.' kate raised her eyes, and she said: 'no one will ever know how i have loved, how i still love that man. oftentimes i think that had i loved him less i should have been a better wife. i think he loved me, but it was not the love i dreamed of. like you, i was always sentimental, and dick never cared for that sort of thing.' 'i think i should have understood you better,' said montgomery; and the conversation came to a pause. a vision of the life of devotion spent at the feet of an ideal lover, that life of sacrifice and tenderness which had been her dream, and which she had so utterly failed to attain, again rose up to tantalize her like a glittering mirage: and she could not help wondering whether she would have realized this beautiful, this wonderful might-have-been if she had chosen this other man. 'but i suppose you'll make it up with dick,' said montgomery somewhat harshly. kate awoke from her reverie with a start, and answered sorrowfully that she did not know, that she was afraid dick would never forgive her again. 'i don't remember if i told you that i'm going to see him in manchester; he promised to go up there to make some arrangements about my piece.' 'no, you didn't tell me.' 'well, i'll speak to him. i'll tell him i've seen you. i fancy i shall be able to make it all right,' he added, with a feeble smile. 'oh! how good you are--how good you are,' cried kate, clasping her hands. 'if he will only forgive me once again, i'll promise, i'll swear to him never to-to--' here kate stopped abashed, and burying her face in her hands, she wept bitterly. the tenderness, the melancholy serenity of their interview, had somehow suddenly come to an end. each was too much occupied with his or her thoughts to talk much, and the effort to find phrases grew more and more irritating. both were very sad, and although they sighed when the clock struck the hour of farewell, they felt that to pass from one pain to another was in itself an assuagement. kate accompanied montgomery to the station. he seemed to her to be out of temper; she to him to be further away than ever. the explanation that had taken place between them had, if not broken, at least altered the old bonds of sympathy, without creating new ones; and they were discontented, even like children who remember for the first time that to-day is not yesterday. they felt lonely watching the parallel lines of platforms; and when montgomery waved his hand for the last time, and the train rolled into the luminous arch of sky that lay beyond the glass roofing, kate turned away overpowered by grief and cruel recollections. when she got home, the solitude of her room became unbearable; she wanted someone to see, someone to console her. she had a few shillings in her pocket, but she remembered her resolutions and for some time resented the impervious clutch of the temptation. but the sorrow that hung about her, that penetrated like a corrosive acid into the very marrow of her bones, grew momentarily more burning, more unendurable. twenty times she tried to wrench it out of her heart. the landlady brought her up some tea; she could not drink it; it tasted like soapsuds in her mouth. then, knowing well what the results would be, she resolved to go out for a walk. next day she was ill, and to pull herself together it was necessary to have a drink. it would not do to look too great a sight in the solicitor's office where dick had told her in his letter to go to get her money. there she found not two, but five pounds awaiting her, and this enabled her to keep up a stage of semi intoxication until the end of the week. she at last woke up speechless, suffering terrible palpitations of the heart, but she had strength enough to ring her bell, and when the landlady came to her she nearly lost her balance and fell to the ground, so strenuously did kate lean and cling to her for support. after gasping painfully for some moments kate muttered: 'i'm dying. these palpitations and the pain in my side.' the landlady asked if she would like to see the doctor, and with difficulty obtained her consent that the doctor should be sent for. 'i'll send at once,' she said. 'no, not at once,' kate cried. 'pour me out a little brandy and water, and i'll see how i am in the course of the day.' the woman did as was desired, and kate told her that she felt better, and that if it wasn't for the pains in her side she'd be all right. the landlady looked a little incredulous; but her lodger had only been with her a fortnight, and so carefully had the brandy been hidden, and the inebriety concealed, that although she had her doubts, she was not yet satisfied that kate was an habitual drunkard. certainly appearances were against mrs. lennox; but as regards the brandy-bottle, she had watched it very carefully, and was convinced that scarcely more than sixpennyworth of liquor went out of it daily. the good woman did not know how it was replenished from another bottle that came sometimes from under the mattress, sometimes out of the chimney. and the disappearance of the husband was satisfactorily accounted for by the announcement that he had gone to manchester to produce a new piece. besides, mrs. lennox was a very nice person; it was a pleasure to attend to her, and during the course of the afternoon mrs. white called several times at the second floor to inquire after her lodger's health. but there was no change for the better. looking the picture of wretchedness, kate lay back in her chair, declaring in low moans that she never felt so ill in her life--that the pain in her side was killing her. at first, mrs. white seemed inclined to make light of all this complaining, but towards evening she began to grow alarmed, and urged that the doctor should be sent for. 'i assure you, ma'am,' she said, 'it's always better to see a doctor. the money is never thrown away; for even if there's nothing serious the matter, it eases one's mind to be told so.' kate was generally easy to persuade, but fearing that her secret drinking would be discovered, she declined for a long time to take medical advice. at last she was obliged to give way, and the die having been cast, she commenced to think how she might conceal part of the truth. something of the coquetry of the actress returned to her, and, getting up from her chair, she went over to the glass to examine herself, and brushing back her hair, she said sorrowfully: 'i'm a complete wreck. i can't think what's the matter with me, and i've lost all my hair. you've no idea, mrs. white, of the beautiful hair i used to have; it used to fall in armfuls over my shoulders; now, it's no more than a wisp.' 'i think you've a great deal yet,' replied mrs. white, not wishing to discourage her. 'and how yellow i am too!' to this mrs. white mumbled something that was inaudible, and kate thought suddenly of her rouge-pot and hare's-foot. her 'make-up,' and all her little souvenirs of dick, lay securely packed away in an old band-box. 'mrs. white,' she said, 'might i ask you to get me a jug of hot water?' when the woman left the room, everything was spread hurriedly over the toilet-table. to see her, one would have thought that the call-boy had knocked at the door for the second time. a thin coating of cold cream was passed over the face and neck; then the powder-puff changed what was yellow into white, and the hare's-foot gave a bloom to the cheeks. the pencil was not necessary, her eyebrows being by nature dark and well-defined. then all disappeared again into the band-box, a drain was taken out of the bottle whilst she listened to steps on the stairs, and she had just time to get back to her chair when the doctor entered. she felt quite prepared to receive him. mrs. white, who had come up at the same time, locked uneasily around; and, after hesitating about the confines of the room, she put the water-jug on the rosewood cabinet, and said: 'i think i'll leave you alone with the doctor, ma'am; if you want me you'll ring.' mr. hooper was a short, stout man, with a large bald forehead, and long black hair; his small eyes were watchful as a ferret's, and his fat chubby hands were constantly laid on his knee-caps. 'i met mrs. white's servant in the street,' he said, looking at kate as if he were trying to read through the rouge on her face, 'so i came at once. mrs. white, with whom i was speaking downstairs, tells me that you're suffering from a pain in your side.' 'yes, doctor, on the right side; and i've not been feeling very well lately.' 'is your appetite good? will you let me feel your pulse?' 'no, i've scarcely any appetite at all--particularly in the morning. i can't touch anything for breakfast.' 'don't you care to drink anything? aren't you thirsty?' kate would have liked to have told a lie, but fearing that she might endanger her life by doing so, she answered: 'oh yes! i'm constantly very thirsty.' 'especially at night-time?' it was irritating to have your life read thus; and kate felt angry when she saw this dispassionate man watching the brandy-bottle, which she had forgotten to put away. 'do you ever find it necessary to take any stimulant?' grasping at the word 'necessary,' she replied: 'yes, doctor; my life isn't a very happy one, and i often feel so low, so depressed as it were, that if i didn't take a little something to keep me up i think i should do away with myself.' 'your husband is an actor, i believe?' 'yes; but he's at present up in manchester, producing a new piece. i'm on the stage, too. i've been playing a round of leading parts in the provinces, but since i've been in london i've been out of an engagement.' 'i just asked you because i noticed you used a little powder, you know, on the face. of course, i can't judge at present what your complexion is; but have you noticed any yellowness about the skin lately?' the first instinct of a woman who drinks is to conceal her vice, and although she was talking to a doctor, kate was again conscious of a feeling of resentment against the merciless eyes which saw through all the secrets of her life. but, cowed, as it were, by the certitude expressed by the doctor's looks and words, she strove to equivocate, and answered humbly that she noticed her skin was not looking as clear as it used to. dr. hooper then questioned her further. he asked if she suffered from a sense of uncomfortable tension, fullness, weight, especially after meals; if she felt any pain in her right shoulder? and she confessed that he was right in all his surmises. 'do tell me, doctor, what is the matter with me. i assure you i'd really much sooner know the worst.' but the doctor did not seem inclined to be communicative, and in reply to her question he merely mumbled something to the effect that the liver was out of order. 'i will send you over some medicine this evening,' he said, 'and if you don't feel better to-morrow send round for me, and don't attempt to get up. i think,' he added, as he took up his hat to go, 'i shall be able to put you all right. but you must follow my instructions; you mustn't frighten yourself, and take as little of that stimulant as possible.' kate answered that it was not her custom to take too much, and she tried to look surprised at the warning. she nevertheless derived a good deal of comfort from the doctor's visit, and during the course of the evening succeeded in persuading herself that her fears of the morning were ill-founded and, putting the medicine that was sent her away for the present, she helped herself from a bottle that was hidden in the upholstery. the fact of having a long letter to write to dick explaining her conduct, made it quite necessary that she should take something to keep her up; and sitting in her lonely room, she drank on steadily until midnight, when she could only just drag her clothes from her back and throw herself stupidly into bed. there she passed a night full of livid-hued nightmares, from which she awoke shivering, and suffering from terrible palpitations of the heart. the silence of the house filled her with terrors, cold and obtuse as the dreams from which she awakened. strength to scream for help she had none; and thinking she was going to die, she sought for relief and consolation in the bottle that lay hidden under the carpet. when the drink took effect upon her she broke out into a profuse perspiration, and she managed to get a little sleep; but when her breakfast was brought up about eleven o'clock in the morning, so ill did she seem that the servant, fearing she was going to drop down dead, begged to be allowed to fetch the doctor. but rejecting all offers of assistance, kate lay moaning in an armchair, unable even to taste the cup of tea that the maid pressed upon her. she consented to take some of the medicines that were ordered her, but whatever good they might have produced was discounted by the constant nip-drinking she kept up during the afternoon. the next day she was very ill indeed, and mrs. white, greatly alarmed, insisted on sending for dr. hooper. he did not seem astonished at the change in his patient. calmly and quietly he watched for some moments in silence. the bed had curtains of a red and antiquated material, and these contrasted with the paleness of the sheets wherein kate lay, tossing feverishly. most of the 'make-up' had been rubbed away from her face; and through patches of red and white the yellow skin started like blisters. she was slightly delirious, and when the doctor took her hand to feel her pulse she gazed at him with her big staring eyes and spoke volubly and excitedly. 'oh! i'm so glad you've come, for i wanted to speak to you about my husband. i think i told you that he'd gone to manchester to produce a new piece. i don't know if i led you to suppose that he'd deserted me, but if i did i was wrong to do so, for he has done nothing of the kind. it's true that we aren't very happy together, but i dare say that is my fault. i never was, i know, as good a wife to him as i intended to be; but then, he made me jealous and sometimes i was mad. yes, i think i must have been mad to have spoken to him in the way i did. anyhow, it doesn't matter now, does it, doctor? but i don't know what i'm saying. still, you won't mention that i've told you anything. it's as likely as not that he'll forgive me, just as he did before; and we may yet be as happy as we were at blackpool. you won't tell him, will you, doctor?' 'no, no, i won't,' said dr. hooper, quietly and firmly. 'but you mustn't talk as much as you do; if you want to see your husband, you must get well first.' 'oh yes! i must get well; but tell me, doctor, how long will that take?' 'not very long, if you will keep quiet and do what i tell you. i want you to tell me how the pain in your side is?' 'very bad; far worse than when i saw you last. i feel it now in my right shoulder as well.' 'but your side--is it sore when you touch it? will you let me feel?' without waiting for a reply, he passed his hand under the sheet. 'is it there that it pains you?' 'yes, yes. oh! you're hurting me.' then the doctor walked aside with the landlady, who had been watching the examination of the patient with anxious eyes. she said: 'do you think it's anything very dangerous? is it contagious? had i better send her to the hospital?' 'no, i should scarcely think it worth while doing that; she will be well in a week, that is to say if she is properly looked after. she's suffering from acute congestion of the liver, brought on by--' 'by drink,' said mrs. white. 'i suspected as much.' 'you've too much to do, mrs. white, with all your children, to give up your time to nursing her; i shall send someone round as soon as possible, but, in the meantime, will you see that her diet is regulated to half a cup of beef-tea, every hour or so. if she complains of thirst, let her have some milk to drink, and you may mix a little brandy with it. to-night i shall send round a sleeping-draught.' 'you're sure, doctor, there is nothing catching, for you know that, with all my children in the house----' 'you need not be alarmed, mrs. white.' 'but do you think, doctor, it will be an expensive illness? for i know very little about her circumstances.' 'i expect she'll be all right in a week or ten days, but what i fear for is her future. i've had a good deal of experience in such matters, and i've never known a case of a woman who cured herself of the vice of intemperance. a man sometimes, a woman never.' the landlady sighed and referred to all she had gone through during poor mr. white's lifetime; the doctor spoke confidingly of a lady who was at present under his charge; and, apparently overcome with pity for suffering humanity, they descended the staircase together. on the doorstep the conversation was continued. 'very well, then, doctor, i will take your advice; but at the end of a week or so, when she is quite recovered, i shall tell her that i've let her rooms. for, as you say, a woman rarely cures herself, and before the children the example would be dreadful.' 'i expect to see her on her feet in about that time, then you can do as you please. i shall call tomorrow.' next day the professional nurse took her place by the bedside. the sinapism which the doctor ordered was applied to the hepatic region, and a small dose of calomel was administered. under this treatment she improved rapidly; but unfortunately, as her health returned her taste for drink increased in a like proportion. indeed, it was almost impossible to keep her from it, and on one occasion she tried very cunningly to outwit the nurse, who had fallen asleep in her chair. waiting patiently until the woman's snoring had become sufficiently regular to warrant the possibility of a successful attempt being made on the brandy-bottle, kate slipped noiselessly out of bed. the unseen night-light cast a rosy glow over the convex side of the basin, without, however, disturbing the bare darkness of the wall, kate knew that all the bottles stood in a line upon the chest of drawers, but it was difficult to distinguish one from the other, and the jingling she made as she fumbled amid them awoke the nurse, who divining at once what was happening, arose quickly from her chair and advancing rapidly towards her, said: 'no, ma'am, i really can't allow it; it's against the doctor's orders.' 'i'm not going to die of thirst to please any doctor. i was only going to take a little milk, i suppose there's no harm in that?' 'not the least, ma'am, and if you'd called me you should have had it.' it was owing to this fortuitous intervention that when dr. hooper called a couple of days after to see his patient he was able to certify to a remarkable change for the better in her. all the distressing symptoms had disappeared; the pain in her side had died away; the complexion was clearer. he therefore thought himself justified in ordering for her lunch a little fish and some weak brandy and water; and to kate, who had not eaten any solid food for several days, this first meal took the importance of a very exceptional event. sitting by her bedside dr. hooper spoke to her. 'now, mrs. lennox,' he said, 'i want to give you a word of warning. i've seen you through what i must specify as a serious illness; dangerous i will not call it, although i might do so if i were to look into the future and anticipate the development the disease will most certainly take, unless, indeed, you will be guided by me, and make a vow against all intoxicating liquors.' at this direct allusion to her vice kate stopped eating, and putting down the fork looked at the doctor. 'now, mrs. lennox, you mustn't be angry,' he continued in his kind way. 'i'm speaking to you in my capacity as a medical man, and i must warn you against the continuous nip-drinking which, of course, i can see you're in the habit of indulging in, and which was the cause of the illness from which you are recovering. i will not harrow your feelings by referring to all the cases that have come under my notice where shame, disgrace, ruin, and death were the result of that one melancholy failing--drink.' 'oh, sir!' cried kate, broken-hearted, 'if you only knew how unhappy i've been, how miserable i am, you would not speak to me so. i've my failing, it is true, but i'm driven to it. i love my husband better than anything in the world, and i see him mixed up always with a lot of girls at the theatre, and it sends me mad, and then i go to drink so as to forget.' 'we've all got our troubles; but it doesn't relieve us of the burden; it only makes us forget it for a short time, and then, when consciousness returns to us, we only remember it all the more bitterly. no, mrs. lennox, take my advice. in a few days, when you're well, go to your husband, demand his forgiveness, and resolve then never to touch spirits again.' 'it's very good of you to speak to me in this way,' said kate, tearfully, 'and i will take your advice, the very first day that i am strong enough to walk down to the strand i will go and see my husband, and if he will give me another trial, he will not, i swear to you, have cause to repent it. oh!' she continued, 'you don't know how good he's been to me, how he has borne with me. if it hadn't been that he tried my temper by flirting with other women we might have been happy now.' then, as kate proceeded to speak of her trials and temptations, she grew more and more excited and hysterical, until the doctor, fearing that she would bring on a relapse, was forced to plead an engagement and wish her good-bye. as he left the room she cried after him, 'the first day i'm well enough to go out i'll go and see my husband.' xxix the next few days passed like dreams. kate's soul, tense with the longing for reconciliation, floated at ease over the sordid miseries that lay within and without her, and enraptured with expectation, she lived in a beautiful paradise of hope. so certain did she feel of being able to cross out the last few years of her life, that her mind was scarcely clouded by a doubt of the possibility of his declining to forgive her--that he might even refuse to see her. the old days seemed charming to her, and looking back, even she seemed to have been perfect then. there her life appeared to have begun. she never thought of hanley now. ralph and mrs. ede were like dim shadows that had no concern in her existence. the potteries and the hills were as the recollections of childhood, dim and unimportant. the footlights and the applause of audiences were also dying echoes in her ears. her life for the moment was concentrated in a loving memory of a lancashire seashore and a rose-coloured room, where she used to sit on the knees of the man she adored. the languors and the mental weakness of convalescence were conducive to this state of mental exaltation. she loved him better than anyone else could love him; she would never touch brandy again. he would take her back, and they would live as the lovers did in all the novels she had ever read. these illusions filled kate's mind like a scarf of white mist hanging around the face of a radiant morning, and as she lay back amid the pillows, or sat dreaming by the fireside in the long evenings that were no longer lonely to her, she formed plans, and considered how she should plead to dick in this much-desired interview. during this period dozens of letters were written and destroyed, and it was not until the time arrived for her to go to the theatre to see him that she could decide upon what she could write. then hastily she scribbled a note, but her hand trembled so much that before she had said half what she intended the paper was covered with blotched and blurred lines. 'it won't do to let him think i'm drunk again,' she said to herself, as she threw aside what she had written and read over one of her previous efforts. it ran as follows: 'my darling dick,-- 'you will, i am sure, be sorry to hear that i have been very ill. i am now, however, much better; indeed, i may say quite recovered. during my illness i have been thinking over our quarrels, and i now see how badly, how wickedly, i have behaved to you on many occasions. i do not know, and i scarcely dared to hope, that you will ever forgive me, but i trust that you will not refuse to see me for a few minutes. i have not, i assure you, tasted spirits for some weeks, so you need not fear i will kick up a row. i will promise to be very quiet. i will not reproach you, nor get excited, nor raise my voice. i shall be very good, and will not detain you but for a very short time. you will not, you cannot, oh, my darling! deny me this one little request--to see you again, although only for a few minutes. 'your affectionate wife, 'kate' compared with the fervid thoughts of her brain, these words appeared to her weak and poor, but feeling that for the moment, at least, she could not add to their intensity, she set out on her walk, hoping to find her husband at the theatre. it was about eight o'clock in the evening. a light, grey fog hung over the background of the streets, and the line of the housetops was almost lost in the morose shadows that fell from a soot-coloured sky. here and there a chimney-stack or the sharp spire of a church tore the muslin-like curtains of descending mist; and vague as the mist were her thoughts. the streets twisted, wriggling their luminous way through slime and gloom, whilst at every turning the broad, flaring windows of the public-houses marked the english highway. but kate paid no attention to the red-lettered temptations. docile and hopeful as a tired animal thinking of its stable, she walked through the dark crowd that pressed upon her, nor did she even notice when she was jostled, but went on, a heedless nondescript--a something in a black shawl and a quasi-respectable bonnet, a slippery stepping-stone between the low women who whispered and the workwoman who hurried home with the tin of evening beer in her hand. like one held and guided by the power of a dream, she lost consciousness of all that was not of it. thoughts of how dick would receive her and forgive her were folded, entangled and broken within narrow limits of time; half an hour passed like a minute, and she found herself at the stage-door of the theatre. drawing the letter from her pocket, she said to the hall-keeper: 'will you kindly give mr. lennox this letter? has he arrived yet?' 'yes, but he's busy for the moment. but,' the man added, as he examined kate's features narrowly, 'you'll excuse me, i made a mistake; mr. lennox isn't in the theatre.' at that moment the swinging door was thrust open, and the call-boy screamed: 'mr. lennox says you're not to let miss thomas pass to-night, and if there are any letters for him i'm to take them in.' 'here's one; will you give it to mr. lennox?' said kate, eagerly thrusting forward her note. 'say that i'm waiting for an answer.' the stage-door keeper tried to interpose, but before he could explain himself the boy had rushed away. 'all letters should be given to me,' he growled as he turned away to argue with miss thomas, who had just arrived. in a few minutes the call-boy came back. 'will you please step this way,' he said to kate. 'no, you shan't,' cried the hall-keeper; 'if you try any nonsense with me i shall send round for a policeman.' kate started back frightened, thinking these words were addressed to her, but a glance showed her that she was mistaken. 'oh! how dare you talk to me like that? you're an unsophisticated beast!' cried miss thomas. 'pass under my arm, ma'am,' said the hall-keeper; 'i don't want this one to get through.' and amid a storm of violent words and the strains of distant music kate went up a narrow staircase that creaked under the weight of a group of girls in strange dresses. when she got past them she saw dick at the door of his room waiting for her. the table was covered with letters, the walls with bills announcing, 'a great success.' he took her hand and placed her in a chair, and at first it seemed doubtful who would break an awkward and irritating silence. at last dick said: 'i'm sorry to hear, kate, that you've been ill; you're looking well now.' 'yes, i'm better now,' she replied drearily; 'but perhaps if i'd died it would have been as well, for you can never love me again.' 'you know, my dear,' he said, equivocating, 'that we didn't get on well together.' 'oh, dick! i know it. you were very good to me, and i made your life wretched on account of my jealousy; but i couldn't help it, for i loved you better than a woman ever loved a man. i cannot tell you, i cannot find words to express how much i love you; you're everything to me. i lived for your love; i'm dying of it. yes, dick, i'm dying for love of you; i feel it here; it devours me like a fire, and what is so strange is, that nothing seems real to me except you. i never think of anything but of things that concern you. anything that ever belonged to you i treasure up as a relic. you know the chaplet of pearls i used to wear when we played _the lovers knot_. well, i have them still, although all else has gone from me. the string was broken once or twice, and some of the pearls were lost, but i threaded them again, and it still goes round my neck. i was looking at them the other day, and it made me very sad, for it made me think of the happy days--ah, the very happy days!--we have had together before i took to ----. but i won't speak of that. i've cured myself. yes, i assure you, dick, i've cured myself; and it is for that i've come to talk to you. were i not sure that i would never touch brandy again i would not ask you to take me back, but i'd sooner die than do what i have done, for i know that i never will. can you--will you--my own darling dick, give me another trial?' the victory hung in the balance, but at that moment a superb girl, in all the splendour of long green tights, and resplendent with breastplate and spear, flung open the door. 'look here, dick,' she began, but seeing kate, she stopped short, and stammered out an apology. 'i shall be down on the stage in a minute, dear,' he said, rising from his chair. the door was shut, and they were again alone; but kate felt that chance had gone against her. the interruption had, with a sudden shock, killed the emotions she had succeeded in awakening, and had supplied dick with an answer that would lead him, by a way after his own heart, straight out of his difficulty. 'my dear,' he said, rising from his chair, 'i'm glad you've given up the--you know what--for, between you and me, that was the cause of all our trouble; but, candidly speaking, i don't think it would be advisable for us to live together, at least for the present, and i'll tell you why. i know that you love me very much, but, as you said yourself just now, it's your jealousy and the drink together that excites you, and leads up to those terrible rows. now, the best plan would be for us to live apart, let us say for six months or so, until you've entirely got over your little weakness, you know; and then--why, then we'll be as happy as we used to be at blackpool in the dear old times long ago.' 'oh, dick! don't say that i must wait six months; i might be dead before then. but you're not speaking the truth to me. you were just going to say that i might come back to you when the horrid girl came in. i know. yes, i believe there's something between you.' 'now, kate, remember your promise not to kick up a row. i consented to see you because you said you wouldn't be violent. here's your letter.' 'i'm not going to be violent, dick; but six months seems such a long time.' 'it won't be as long passing as you think. and now i must run away; they're waiting for me on the stage. have you seen the piece? would you like to go in front?' 'no, not to-night, dick; i feel too sad. but won't you kiss me before i go?' dick bent his face and kissed her; but there was a chill in the kiss that went to her heart, and she felt that his lips would never touch hers again. but she had no protest to make, and almost in silence she allowed herself to be shown out of the theatre. when she got into the mist she shivered a little, and drew her thin shawl tighter about her thin shoulders, and, with one of the choruses still ringing in her ears, she walked in the direction of the strand. somehow her sorrow did not seem too great for her to bear. the interview had passed neither as badly nor as well as had been expected, and thinking of the six months of probation that lay before her, but without being in the least able to realize their meaning, she walked dreaming through the sloppy, fog-smelling streets. the lamps were now but like furred patches of yellow laid on a dead grey background, and a mud-bespattered crowd rolled in and out of the darkness. the roofs overhead were engulfed in the soot-coloured sky that seemed to be descending on the heads of the passengers. men passed carrying parcels; the white necktie of a theatre-goer was caught sight of. from lambeth, from islington, from pimlico, from all the dark corners where it had been lurking in the daytime, prostitution at the fading of the light, had descended on the town--portly matrons, very respectable in brown silk dresses and veils, stood in the corners of alleys and dingy courts, scorned by the younger generation; young girls of fifteen and sixteen going by in couples with wisps of dyed hair hanging about their shoulders, advertisements of their age; the elder taking the responsibility of choosing; germans in long ulsters trafficked in guttural intonations; policemen on their beats could have looked less concerned. the english hung round the public-houses, enviously watching the arched insteps of the frenchwomen tripping by. smiles there were plenty, but the fog was so thick that even the parisians lost their native levity and wished themselves back in paris. at the crossing of wellington street she stumbled against a small man who leaned against a doorway coughing violently. they stared at each other in profound astonishment, and then kate said in a pained and broken voice: 'oh, ralph! is it you?' 'yes, indeed it is. but to think of meeting you here in london!' they had, for the second, in a sort of way, forgotten that they had once been man and wife, and after a pause kate said: 'but that's just what i was thinking. what are you doing in london?' ralph was about to answer when he was cut short by a fit of coughing. his head sank into his chest, and his little body was shaken until it seemed as if it were going to break to pieces like a bundle of sticks. kate looked at him pityingly, and passing unconsciously over the dividing years just as she might have done when they kept shop together in hanley, she said: 'oh! you know you shouldn't stop out in such weather as this: you'll be breathless to-morrow.' 'oh no, i shan't; i've got a new remedy. but i've lost my way; that's the reason why i'm so late.' 'perhaps i can tell you. where are you staying?' 'in an hotel in bedford street, near covent garden.' 'well, then, this is your way; you've come too far.' and passing again into the jostling crowd they walked on in silence side by side. a slanting cloud of fog had drifted from the river down into the street, creating a shivering and terrifying darkness. the cabs moved at walking pace, the huge omnibuses stopped belated, and their advertisements could not be read even when a block occurred close under a gas-lamp. the jewellers' windows emitted the most light; but even gold and silver wares seemed to have become tarnished in the sickening atmosphere. then the smell from fishmongers' shops grew more sour as the assistant piled up the lobsters and flooded the marbles preparatory to closing; and, just within the circle of vision, inhaling the greasy fragrance of soup, a woman in a blue bonnet loitered near a grating. 'this is bedford street, i think,' said kate, 'but it's so dark that it's impossible to see.' 'i suppose you know london well?' replied ralph somewhat pointedly. 'pretty well, i've been here now for some time.' for the last three or four minutes not a word had been spoken. kate was surprised that ralph was not angry with her; she wanted to speak to him of old times, but it was hard to break the ice of intervening years. at last, as they stopped before the door of a small family hotel, he said: 'it's now something like four years since we parted, ain't it?' the question startled her, and she answered nervously and hurriedly: 'i suppose it is, but i'd better wish you good-bye now--you're safe at home.' 'oh no! come in; you look so very tired, a glass of wine will do you good. besides, what harm? wasn't i your husband once?' 'oh, ralph! how can you?' 'why, there's no reason why i shouldn't hear how you've been getting on. we're just like strangers, so many things have occurred; i've married since--but perhaps you didn't hear of it?' 'married! who did you marry?' 'well! i married your assistant, hender.' 'what, hender your wife?' said kate, with an intonation of voice that was full of pain. a dagger thrust suddenly through her side as she went up the staircase could not have wounded her more cruelly than the news that the woman who had been her assistant now owned the house that once was hers. the story of the dog in the manger is as old as the world. through the windows of the little public sitting-room nothing was visible; everything was shrouded in the yellow curtain of fog. a commercial traveller had drawn off his boots, and was warming his slippered feet by the fire. 'dreadful weather, sir,' said the man. 'i'm afraid it won't do your cough much good. will you come near the fire?' 'thank you,' said ralph. kate mechanically drew forward a chair. it would be impossible for them to say a word, for the traveller was evidently inclined to be garrulous, and both wondered what they should do; but at that moment the chambermaid came to announce that the gentleman's room was ready. he took up his boots and retired, leaving the two, who had once been husband and wife, alone; and yet it seemed as difficult as ever to speak of what was uppermost in their minds. kate helped ralph off with his great-coat, and she noticed that he looked thinner and paler. the servant brought up two glasses of grog, and when kate had taken off her bonnet, she said: 'do you think i'm much altered?' 'well, since you ask me, kate, i must say i don't think you're looking very well. you're thinner than you used to be, and you've lost a good deal of your hair.' 'i've only just recovered from a bad illness,' she said, sighing, and as she raised the glass to her lips the gaslight defined the whole contour of her head. the thick hair that used to encircle her pale prominent temples like rich velvet, looked now like a black silk band frayed and whitened at the seam. 'but what have you been doing? have things gone pretty well with you?' said ralph, whose breath came from him in a thin but continuous whistle. 'what happened when i got my decree of divorce?' 'nothing particular for a while, but afterwards we were married.' 'oh!' said ralph, 'so he married you, did he? well, i shouldn't have expected it of him. so we're both married. isn't it odd? and meeting, too, in this way.' 'yes, many things have happened since then. i've been on the stage--travelling all over england.' 'what! you on the stage, kate?' said ralph, lifting his head from his hand. 'oh lord! oh lord! how--ha! ha! oh! but i mustn't la-ugh; i won't be able to breathe.' kate turned to him almost angrily, and the ghost of the prima donna awakening in her, she said: 'i don't see what there is to laugh at. i've played all the leading parts, and in all the principal towns in england--liverpool, manchester, leeds. the newcastle chronicle said my serpolette was the best they'd seen.' ralph looked bewildered, like a man blinded for a moment by a sudden flash of lightning. he could not at once realize that this woman, who had been his wife, who had washed and scrubbed in his little home in hanley, was now one of those luminous women who, in clear skirts and pink stockings, wander singing beautiful songs, amid illimitable forests and unscalable mountains. for a moment he regretted he had married miss hender. 'but i don't think i shall ever act again.' 'how's that?' he said with an intonation of disappointment in his voice. 'i don't know,' said kate. 'i'm not living with my husband now, and i haven't the courage to look out for an engagement myself.' ralph stared at her vaguely. 'look out for an engagement?' he repeated to himself; it seemed to him that he must be dreaming. 'aren't you happy with him? doesn't he treat you well?' said ralph, dropping perforce from his dream back into reality, 'oh yes, he has always been very good to me. i can't say how it was, but somehow after a time we didn't get on. i dare say it was my fault. but how do you get on with miss hender?' said kate, partly from curiosity, half from a wish to change the conversation. 'oh, pretty well,' said ralph, with something that sounded, in spite of his wheezing, like a sigh. 'how does she manage the dressmaking? she was always a good workwoman, but she never had much taste, and i should fancy wouldn't be able to do much if left entirely to herself.' 'that's just what occurred. it's curious you should have guessed so correctly. the business has all gone to the dogs, and since mother's death we've turned the house into a lodging-house.' 'and is mother dead?' cried kate, clasping her hands. 'what must she have thought of me.' ralph did not answer, but after a long silence he said: 'it's a pity, ain't it, that we didn't pull it off better together?' kate raised her head and looked at him quickly. her look was full of gratitude. 'yes,' she said, 'i behaved very badly towards you, but i believe i've been punished for it.' 'you told me that he married you and treated you very well.' 'oh!' she said, bursting into tears, 'don't ask me, it's too long a story; i'll tell you another time, but not now.' it appeared to kate that her heart was on fire and that she must die of grief. 'was this life?' she asked herself. oh, to be at rest and out of the way for ever! ralph, too, seemed deeply affected; after a pause he said: 'i don't know how it was, or why, but now i come to think of it i remember that i used to be cross with you.' 'it was the asthma that made you cross, and well it might;' and she asked him if he still suffered from asthma, and he answered: 'at times, yes.' 'but the cigarettes,' she said, 'used to relieve you; do you still smoke them?' 'yes, and sometimes they relieve me and sometimes they don't.' a long silence separated them, and breaking it suddenly he said: 'there were faults on both sides. on every side,' he added, 'for i don't exempt mother from blame either. she was always too hard upon you. now, i should never have minded your going to the theatre and amusing yourself. i shouldn't have minded your being an actress, and i should have gone to fetch you home every evening.' kate smiled through her misery, and he continued, following his idea to the end: 'it wouldn't have interfered with the business if you had been; on the contrary, it would have brought us a connection, and i might have had up those plate-glass windows, and taken in the fruiterer's shop.' ralph stopped. the roar of london had sunk out of hearing in the yellow depths of the fog, and for some minutes nothing was heard but the short ticking of the clock. it was a melancholy pleasure to dream what might have been had things only taken a different turn, and like children making mud-pies it amused them to rebuild the little fabric of their lives; whilst one reconstructed his vision of broken glass, the other lamented over the ruins of penny journal sentiment. then awakening by fits and starts, each confided in the other. ralph told kate how mrs. ede had spoken of her when her flight had been discovered; kate tried to explain that she was not as much to blame as might be imagined. ralph's curiosity constantly got the better of him, and he couldn't but ask her to tell him something about her stage experience. one thing led to another, and before twelve o'clock it surprised her to think she had told him so much. the conversation was carried on in brief and broken phrases. the man and the woman sat close together shivering over the fire. there were no curtains to the windows, and the fog had crept through the sashes into the room. kate coughed from time to time--a sharp, hacking cough--and ralph's wheezing grew thicker in sound. 'i'm a-fraid i shall have a b-bad night, this dre-ad-ful weather.' 'i should like to stop to nurse you; but i must be getting home.' 'you surely won't think of going out such a night as this; you'll never find your way home.' 'yes, yes, i shall; it wouldn't do for me to remain here.' they who had once been husband and wife looked at each other, and both smiled painfully. 've-ry well, i'll see you do-wnstairs.' 'oh no! you mustn't, you'll kill yourself!' ralph, however, insisted. they stood on the doorstep for a moment together, suffocating in a sulphur-hued atmosphere. 'you'll come a-nd and see me again to-to-morrow, won't you?' 'yes, yes!' cried kate; 'to-morrow! to-morrow!' and she disappeared in the darkness. xxx but on the morrow she could not leave her room, and at the end of the week the news at the bedford hotel was that mr. ede had gone away the day before without leaving any message. the porter who informed her of his departure looked her over curiously, setting her thinking that he thought mr. ede had done well to get clear of the likes of her. she had tried to make herself look tidy and thought she had succeeded, but tidy or untidy, it was all the same, nothing mattered now; she was done for. no doubt the porter was right; ralph had gone away to escape from her, which was just as well, for what more had they to say to each other: hadn't he married hender? and passing in front of a shop-window she caught sight of herself in a looking-glass. 'not up to much,' she said, and passed on into the strand mumbling her misfortunes and causing the passers-by to look after her. she had not pinned up her skirt safely, a foot of it dragged over the pavement, and hearing jeering voices behind her she went into a public-house to ask for a pin. the barmaid obliged her with one, and while arranging her skirt she heard a man say: 'well, they that talk of the evil of drinking know very little of what they are talking about. drink has saved as many men as it has killed.' kate's heart warmed to the man, for she knew a glass had often saved her from making away with herself, but never had she felt more like the river in her life than she did that morning. threepennyworth would be enough, she could not afford more; dick was only allowing her two pounds a week, and a woman had to look after the thirty-nine shillings very strictly to find the fortieth in her pocket before her next week's money was due. she felt better after having her glass; her thoughts were no longer on the river lying at the end of wellington street, but on the passengers in the strand, the swaggering mummers, male and female; the men with lordly airs and billycock hats; the women with yellow hair and unholy looks upon their faces. there were groups of men and women round a theatrical agent's place of business, all sorts of people coming and going; lawyers from the temple, journalists on their way to fleet street; prostitutes of all kinds and all sorts, young and old, fat and thin, of all nationalities, french, belgian, and german, went by in couples, in rows, their eyes flaming invitations. children with orange coloured hair sold matches and were followed down suspicious alleys; a strange hurried life, full of complexity, had begun in the twilight before the lamplighters went by. girls and boys scrambled after each other quarrelling and selling newspapers. the spectacle helped the time away between four o'clock and seven. at seven she turned into some eating-house and dined for a shilling, and afterwards there was nothing to do than wander in the strand. some of the women who preferred to pick up a living by the sale of their lips rather than by standing for hours over a stinking wash-tub were very often kindly human beings, and there was nobody else except these street-walkers with whom she could exchange a few words and invite into a drinking shop for a glass. over the counter she related her successes as clairette in _madame angot_ and serpolette in _les cloches de corneville_, and if an incredulous look came into the faces of her guests she sang to them the little ditties, proving by her knowledge of them that all she told them was true. from the drinking-shop they passed out in groups, and these women took kate to their eating-houses, and she listened to their stories, and when at the end of the week she had spent all her money sometimes these women lent her shillings and half-crowns, and when she could not return the money she had borrowed they asked her: 'why don't you do as we do?' her pretty face of former days was almost gone by this time, but traces of it still remained. 'if you would only dress yourself a little more becomingly and come along with us, you would be able to make two ends meet. with what you get from your husband you would be better off than any of us.' but she could not be persuaded, and as time moved on, and drunkenness became more inveterate, the belief that she was not utterly lost unless she was unfaithful to dick took possession of her, and she clung to it with an almost desperate insistency, saying to her friends, 'if i were to do that i should go down to the river and drown myself.' she used to hear laughter when she said these words, and the replies were that every woman had said the same thing: 'but we all come to it sooner or later.' 'not me, not me!' she replied, tottering out of the public-house. but one night, awakening in the dusk between daylight and dark, she remembered that something had befallen her that had never befallen her before. she was not sure, it may have been that she had dreamed it. all the same, she could not rid herself of the idea that last night in the public-house near charing cross a man had come in and said he would pay for the drinks, and that afterwards she had gone to one of the hotels in villiers street. if she hadn't why did she think of villiers street? she rarely went down that street. yet she was haunted by a memory, a hateful memory that had kept her awake, and had caused her to moan and to cry for hours, till at last sleep fell upon her. on waking her first thought was to inquire from the women, and she walked up and down the strand seeking them till nightfall. but they could tell her nothing of what had happened after she left them, 'dry your eyes, kate,' they said. 'what matter? your husband deserted you; aren't you free to live with whom you please?' kate felt that all they said was true enough, but she prayed that the memory of the hotel bedroom that had risen up in her mind was the memory of a dream, and not of something that had befallen her in her waking senses. it were bad enough that she should have dreamed such a thing, and on returning home she fell on her knees and prayed that what she feared had been, had not been; and she rose from her knees, her eyes full of tears, and a sort of leaden despair in her heart that she felt would never pass away. as the days went by her mind became denser, she fell into obtusities out of which she found it difficult to rouse herself. even her violent temper seemed to leave her, and miserable and hopeless she rolled from one lodging to another, drinking heavily, bringing the drink back with her and drinking in her bed until her hand was too unsteady to pour out another glass of whisky. she drank whisky, brandy, gin, and if she couldn't get these, any other spirit would serve her purpose, even methylated spirit. her bed-curtains were taken away by the landlady lest kate should set them on fire. the landlady lit the gas at nightfall and turned it out before she went to bed--'only in that way,' she said to herself, 'can we be sure that that woman won't burn us all to death in our beds. once a room is let,' she continued, 'it's hard to turn a sick woman out, especially if there's no excuse, and in this case there's none. for you see, mrs. lennox is getting two pounds a week from her husband,' mr. locker, mrs. rawson's evening friend, agreed with her; and he spoke of the recompense she would be entitled to from mr. lennox in the event of mrs. lennox's death; 'for, of course, every trouble and annoyance should be recompensed.' she agreed with him; but her eyes suddenly softening, she said: 'i haven't seen her since this morning when i took her up a cup of tea. she may like a bit of dinner. we're having some rabbit for supper, i'll ask her if she'd like a piece.' a few minutes later she returned saying she was afraid mrs. lennox was dying, and that it might be as well to send to the hospital. locker answered that perhaps it would be just as well, but on second thoughts he suggested that the husband should be communicated with. 'it isn't far to the opéra comique,' mrs. rawson answered, 'i'll just put on my hat and jacket and go round there.' 'it'll be the best way to escape responsibility,' locker said on the doorstep; but without answering she went up the strand, passing over to the other side when she came in sight of the globe theatre. 'where's the stage entrance of the opéra comique?' she asked at the bookstall at the corner of holliwell street, and was told that she would find the stage entrance in wytch street, about half-way down the street. 'the stage-doors of the globe and the opéra comique are side by side,' was cried after her. 'what does he mean by half-way down the street,' she muttered; 'he meant a quarter down,' and she addressed herself to the door-keeper, who answered surlily that mr. lennox was particularly engaged at that moment, but at mrs. rawson's words--'i believe his wife is dying'--he agreed to send up a message as soon as he could get hold of somebody to take it. at last somebody's dresser was stopped as he was about to pass through the swing-door; he agreed to take the message, and a few minutes after mrs. rawson was conducted up several little staircases and down some passages to find herself eventually in a small room in which there were three people, one a pleasant-faced man, so affable and kind that mrs. rawson thought she could have got on with him very well if she had had a chance. by him stood a tall imperious lady who rustled a voluminous skirt--a person of importance, mrs. rawson judged her to be from the deference with which a little thread-paper-man listened to her--the costumier, she learnt from scraps of conversation. 'i'm sorry,' mr. lennox said. 'all you tell me is very sad. but i'm afraid i can do nothing.' 'that's what i think myself,' mrs. rawson answered. 'i'm afraid there's nothing to be done, but i thought i'd better come and tell you. you see, when i went up with some beef-tea she looked to me like one that hadn't many days to live. i may be mistaken, of course.' 'she should have a nurse,' mrs. forest said. 'i do all i can for her,' mrs. rawson murmured, 'but you see with three children to look after and only one maid,'--the two women began to talk together and the thread-paper man took advantage of the opportunity to whisper to dick that he thought he could manage to do the flower-girls' dresses at five shillings less. 'that will be all right,' dick replied. 'i will call round in the morning, mr. shaffle.' mrs. forest held out her jacket to dick, who helped her into it. 'where are you going ... shall you be coming back again?' he asked. 'i'm going to nurse your wife, dick,' she said, picking up her long feather boa, 'and isn't all that is happening now a vindication that we did well not to yield ourselves to ourselves?--for had we done so our regrets would be now unanimous, and i shouldn't be able to go to her with clear conscience.... she's been drinking heavily again, no doubt,' mrs. forest said, turning to mrs. rawson. 'but we mustn't judge or condemn anyone, so jesus hath said. i'll go with you now, mrs. rawson, and you'll perhaps come to-morrow, dick, to see her?' 'if i could help my wife i'd go, laura, but as i've often told you, my will to help her was spent long ago; it would be of no use.' laura's eyes lit up for a moment. 'but if she asks to see me i'll go.' at these words mrs. forest's eyes softened, and he began to ask himself how much truth there was in laura's resolve to go and attend upon his wife in what was no doubt a last agony. seeing and hearing her put into his head remembrances of an actress, he could not remember which. her demeanour was as lofty as any and her speech almost rose into blank verse at times; and he began to think that she had missed her vocation in life. it might have been that she was destined by nature for the stage. 'she's more mummer than myself or kate,' he said to himself, and giving an ear to her outpourings, he recognized in them the rudiments of the grand style: and he admired her transitions--her voice would drop and she seemed to find her way back into homely speech. her soul seemed to pass back and forwards easily, and dick did not feel sure which was the real woman and which the fictitious. 'she doesn't know herself,' he said, for at that moment she had left the tripod and was sitting in imagination at the bedside in attendance, looking from the patient to the clock, administering the medicine on the exact time. when mrs. rawson spoke about the length of the day and night she answered that she would take her work with her, and bade dick not to be anxious about the changes he had asked her to make in the second act. 'they shall be made,' she said, 'and without laying myself open to any claim for demurrage.' 'demurrage' dick exclaimed. 'she shall have attendance, but a soul ready to depart shouldn't be detained in port longer than is necessary. and mrs. rawson would like to let her room to one who has not received her sailing orders, as is the case with your poor wife, dick,--that is to say, if i understand mrs. rawson's account of her illness.' 'she's not here for long,' mrs. rawson answered; 'but you mustn't think, ma'am, that i'd lay any under claim for the trouble she's been to me, only what is fair. "fair is fair all the world over," has been my maxim ever since i started letting apartments. but perhaps, ma'am, you'll be wanting a room in my house. if you do there's the drawing-room floor, which would suit you nicely. but you can't be day nurse and night nurse yourself.' laura answered that that was true, and talking of a nurse from charing cross hospital they went out of the house together. at the end of the street laura stopped suddenly. 'but she must have a doctor,' she said, and waited for mrs. rawson to recommend one, and mrs. rawson replied that the doctor that attended her and her children was out of town. 'we will ask here,' laura said, and called to the cabby to stop at the apothecary's, and the questions she put to the man behind the counter were so pertinent that mrs. rawson began to think that perhaps she had misjudged mrs. forest, who now seemed to her a sensible and practical woman. they jumped again into a cab, and after a short drive returned with a doctor, laura relating to him in the cab all they knew about his patient. 'from what you tell me it seems a bad case,' he said, and turning from laura to mrs. rawson he asked her to describe the patient. 'when i took up the beef-tea i found her that bad that i felt that i'd always have it on my conscience if i didn't let her husband know how bad his wife was----' 'i'm afraid, doctor, that she's been drinking for years,' laura interjected. 'well, as soon as i see mrs. lennox i shall be able to tell you if there is in my opinion any reasonable hope of saving her. i believe you're going to nurse mrs. lennox through this illness?' he asked laura, and she began to tell him how she had always known of this duty: years before she had ever met mr. lennox it had been revealed to her--not the exact time, but the fact that she would have to attend upon the wife of some man who would be engaged in the publication of some of her works. 'you see, her husband is producing my play _incarnation_ at the opéra comique, and i've brought some of my work with me.' she opened her bag and laid on the table the manuscript entitled _sayings of the sybil_, and the doctor listened at first not satisfied that she was altogether the nurse into whose charge he would have liked to have given mrs. lennox; but feeling that, if he were to press the necessity of a nurse on mrs. forest, she might leave, he refrained, thinking that very often people who talked eccentrically were very practical. he had known extravagant speech go with practical nursing, and hoping that mrs. forest would prove another such one, he laid down the manuscript on the table. 'but if you believe that we live hereafter, why should you deny pre-existence?' and without waiting for the doctor to answer, laura averred that she had lived at least eight times already; witnessing the dread contest of death, and dying for the cause of pan, and the light-king, and eros the immortal, 'whose i am,' she said; 'and once again, for the ninth time, i live and watch the contest--watch with joy which overcomes fear, with love that conquers death.' 'well, i hope we shall be able to conquer death in this instance,' the doctor answered, 'and with care we may save her for some time, and if--' 'ah, if,' laura interjected, and curtseying to him she led the doctor to the door. 'nothing,' she began, 'can be worse than the present state of earth-life, and in all its phases; if the human race is to be evolved into a higher degree of perfection, no weak half-measures will avail to effect the change; there must, on the contrary, be a radical change in hereditary environment.' the doctor listened a moment and, as if enchanted with the impression she had produced, laura went back to the writing-table, and settling the folds of her brown silk widely over the floor, she began to write: '"ye gods, they fail, they falter, thy hand hath struck them down. their woof the parcae alter, beware thy mother's frown! what such as i in glory compared with such as thee? would, in the conflict gory, that i had died for thee!"' at this point the inspiration seemed to desert her, and raising her pen from the paper, she bit its end thoughtfully, seeking for a transitional phrase whereby she might be able to allude to the light-god. they were in a six-shilling-a-week bedroom in the neighbourhood of the strand. the window looked on to a bit of red-tiled roofing, a cistern, and a clothes-line on which a petticoat flapped, and in a small iron bedstead, facing the light, kate lay delirious, her stomach enormously distended by dropsy. from time to time she waved her arms, now wasted to mere bones. she had been insensible for three whole days, speaking in broken phrases of her past life--of mrs. ede, the potteries, the two little girls, annie and lizzie. dick, she declared, had been very good to her. ralph, too, had been kind, and she was determined that the two men should not quarrel over her. they must not kill each other; she would not allow it; they should be friends. they would all be friends yet; that is to say, if mrs. ede would permit of it; and why should she stand between people and make enemies of them? she fell back into stupor; and next day her ideas were still more confused. in the belief that it was for the part of the baillie that dick and ralph were quarrelling she began to express her regret that there was nothing in the piece for her. nor were memories of the baby girl who had died in manchester lacking. she prayed ralph to believe that the child was not his but dick's child. she prayed and supplicated in laura's arms till laura laid her back on the pillow exhausted. 'give me something to drink; i'm dying of thirst,' the sick woman murmured faintly. laura started from her reveries, and going over to the fireplace, where the beef-tea was standing, poured out half a cup; but, owing to great difficulty in breathing, it was some time before the patient could drink it. after a long silence kate said: 'i've been very ill, haven't i? i think i must be dying.' 'death is not death,' laura answered, 'when we die for pan, the undying representative of the universe cognizable to the senses.' over kate's mind lay a vague dream, through whose gloom two things were just perceptible--an idea of death and a desire to see dick. but she was almost too weak to seek for words, and it was with great effort that she said: 'i don't remember who you are; i can think of nothing now, but i should like to see my husband once more. could you fetch him? is he here?' 'you've not been happy with him, i know, my sister; but i don't blame you. your marriage was not a psychological union; and when marriage isn't that, woman cannot set her foot on the lowest temple of eros.' 'i'm too ill to talk with you,' kate replied, 'but i loved my husband well, too well. i keep all my little remembrances of him in that box; they aren't much--not much--but i should like him to have them when i'm gone, so that he may know that i loved him to the last. perhaps then he may forgive me. will you let me see them?' she looked at the packet of letters, kissed the crumpled calico rose, the button she had pulled off his coat in a drunken fit and preserved for love, and she even slipped on her wrist the last few pearls that remained of the chaplet she wore when they played at sweethearts in _the lovers' knot_. but after the love-tokens had been put back in the box, and kate again asked mrs. forest to bring dick to her, she began to ramble in her speech, and to fancy herself in hanley. the most diverse scenes were heaped together in the complex confusion of kate's nightmare; the most opposed ideas were intermingled. at one moment she told the little girls, annie and lizzie, of the immorality of the conversations in the dressing-rooms of theatres; at another she stopped the rehearsal of an _opéra bouffe_ to preach to the mummers--in phrases that were remembrances of the extemporaneous prayers in the wesleyan church--of the advantages of an earnest, working religious life. it was like a costume ball, where chastity grinned from behind a mask that vice was looking for, while vice hid his nakedness in some of the robes that chastity had let fall. thus up and down, like dice thrown by demon players, were rattled the two lives, the double life that this weak woman had lived, and a point was reached where the two became one, when she began to sing her famous song: 'look at me here, look at me there,' alternately with the wesleyan hymns. sometimes in her delirium she even fitted the words of one on to the tune of the other. still, laura took no notice, and her pen continued to scratch, scratch, till it occurred to her that although dick's marriage had not been a psychological one, it might be as well that he should see his wife before she died; and having come to this conclusion suddenly, she put on her bonnet and left the house. the landlady brought in the lamp, placing it on the table, out of sight of the dying woman's eyes. a dreadful paleness had changed even the yellow of her face to an ashen tint; her lips had disappeared, her eyes were dilated, and she tried to raise herself up in bed. her withered arms were waved to and, fro, and in the red gloom shed from the ill-smelling paraffin lamp the large, dimly seen folds of the bedclothes were tossed to and fro by the convulsions that agitated the whole body. another hour passed away, marked by the cavernous breathing of the woman as she crept to the edge of death. at last there came a sigh, deeper and more prolonged; and with it she died. soon after, before the corpse had grown cold, heavy steps were heard on the staircase, and dick and laura entered, one with a quantity of cockatoo-like flutterings, the other steadily, like a big and ponderous animal. at a glance they saw that all was over, and in silence they sat down, their hands resting on the table. the man spoke hesitatingly in awkward phrases of a happy release; the woman listened with a calm serenity that caused dick to wonder. she would have liked to have said something concerning psychological marriages, but the appearance of the huge body beneath the bed-clothes restrained her: he wished to say something nice and kind, but laura's presence put everything out of his head, and so his ideas became more than ever broken and disjointed, his thoughts wandered, until at last, lifting his eyes from the manuscript on the table, he said: 'have you finished the second act, dear?' the end available by villanova university digital library (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrated book cover. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through villanova university digital library. see http://digital.library.villanova.edu/item/vudl: transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). motor stories thrilling adventure motor fiction no. apr. , five cents motor matt's red flier or on the high gear by stanley r. matthews street & smith, publishers, new york. [illustration: _"leaf dot alone!" yelled carl, floundering to get to the girl's aid, "dot pelongs to moder matt!"_] motor stories thrilling adventure motor fiction _issued weekly. by subscription $ . per year. entered according to act of congress in the year , in the office of the librarian of congress, washington, d. c., by_ street & smith, _ - seventh avenue, new york, n. y._ no. . new york, april , . price five cents. motor matt's red flier or, on the high gear. by the author of "motor matt." contents chapter i. stranded "uncle tommers." chapter ii. the red flier gets a load. chapter iii. the stolen runabout. chapter iv. the coat in the rumble. chapter v. matt begins a search. chapter vi. losing the box. chapter vii. a mysterious disappearance. chapter viii. spirited away. chapter ix. an unexpected meeting. chapter x. a daring plan. chapter xi. on the road. chapter xii. a close call. chapter xiii. car against car. chapter xiv. down the mountain. chapter xv. motor matt's ten-strike. chapter xvi. more trouble for the "uncle tommers." chapter xvii. conclusion. a snowball fight. secrets of trick shooting. reelfoot lake. a floating slum. wild horses of nevada. characters that appear in this story. =matt king=, concerning whom there has always been a mystery--a lad of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won for himself, among the boys of the western town, the popular name of "mile-a-minute matt." =carl pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking german lad, who is led by a fortunate accident to hook up with motor matt in double harness. "=legree=," a member of the stranded "uncle tom" company, about whom something mysterious seems to hover. "=little eva=," who turns out to be other than appearances would seem to indicate. "=eliza=," } "=uncle tom=," } other members of the unlucky road combination "=topsy=," } helped by motor matt. =brisco=, } a brace of reckless adventurers with whom matt and his =spangler=, } dutch pard have a particularly exciting inning. =o'grady=, an inn-keeper. =lem nugent=, the owner of the stolen runabout. chapter i. stranded "uncle tommers." "help! some ob yo' folks ahead, dar! unc' tawm's in de ruvver! he drapped de box, an' went in afteh hit head first lak er frawg. he's drowndin', he sholey is! by golly! legree! eliza! come back hyeh dis minyit! unc' tawm's drowndin'!" topsy was making a terrific commotion. while she screeched for help she ran circles on the river-bank, tossing her hands wildly. if she had put some of her aimless energy into helping uncle tom, the kinky-headed old negro in the water would have been a whole lot better off. he was floundering and thrashing and making a good deal of noise himself. "hit's ovah mah haid!" he spluttered. "ah's done got de crampus en mah lef' laig an' ah's monsus bad off! bl-r-r-r! dat's twicet ah's gawn down, en de nex' time ah's gwine down tuh stay. doan' put yo'se'f out none--doan' scramble so ha'd yo' lose yo' bref. hit's only a coon whut's drowndin', so take yo' time gittin' hyeh an'----" uncle tom swallowed a bucket of water, more or less, just then, and his language was submerged. "mercy sakes!" cried eliza breathlessly, hurrying back through the brush, closely tagged by little eva and legree. "do something, somebody! oh, i wish we had a rope. hang onto the box, uncle tom," she added encouragingly; "we'll get you out!" "oh, biscuits!" scoffed little eva. "stop t'rowin' yerself around like dat an' try ter float. de way yous handles yerself, uncle tom, gives me a pain. can't y' swim?" legree was carrying a blacksnake whip. "here," he yelled, posting himself on the edge of the bank and reaching out to throw the whip-lash toward the old negro, "grab hold of that and i'll snake you ashore too quick for any use." uncle tom was beyond talking, but he shook the water from his eyes, saw the whip and grabbed it. thereupon legree laid back on the handle and pulled. uncle tom was brought upright, his feet on the river-bed. the water came just above his knees, and he waded ashore. "well, de old geezer!" exploded little eva. "say, give me a pair o' high-heeled shoes an' i'll walk acrost dat roarin' torrent widou' never wettin' me kicks. how much water does it take ter drown yous, uncle tom? oh, sister, what a jolt." little eva began to laugh. "dat's right," gurgled uncle tom, splashing around on one foot to get the water out of his ear, "laff, laff an' show yo' ignunce. dat didun' git away f'um me, nohow," and he threw a small tin box on the ground in front of legree. eliza stooped and picked up the box. "you take care of that, eliza," said legree. "uncle tom must have been careless. what were you and topsy walking along by the river for?" he added, turning to the old negro. "we reckons we mout hook er fish," explained topsy, pointing to the ground where a stick with a fish-line attached to its end had been dropped. "ah'm gettin' pow'ful hongry," complained uncle tom, "en ah doan' see how we-all's gwine tuh eat if we doan' ketch er fish er kill er possum, er somepin lak dat. mah goodness, but ah'm holla cleah down tuh mah shoes. if a piece ob bresh hadun' switched dat box out'n mah han', ah wouldn't hab got en de ruvver. anybody dat wants tuh kin tote dat 'ar box. ah done had enough ob it." "cheer up, uncle tom," said eliza. "when we get to the next town we'll have something to eat." "huccome yo' allow dat, miss 'liza? whah we git de money, huh?" "i've got a ring," answered eliza, with a little break in her voice, "and i'll pawn it." "no, you don't, eliza," said legree. "i've got a watch, and i'll pawn that." "wisht i had somet'in' t' soak," said little eva. "brisco's head wouldn't be a bad t'ing, eh? say, mebby i couldn't hand dat mutt a couple o' good ones if he was handy!" legree brought his hand around and boxed the boy's ears--for "little eva," in this case, was a boy of nine. "stow it," growled legree, who happened to be the boy's father. "you can talk a lot without saying much, kid. come on, everybody," he added. "the quicker we get to fairview the quicker we eat. you and topsy keep in the road, uncle tom, and don't lag behind." "how's ah gwine tuh git dried off?" fretted uncle tom. "de rheumatix is li'ble tuh come pesterin' erroun' if ah ain't mouty keerful wif mahse'f." "walk fast, uncle tom," said legree, starting back toward the road. "ah kain't walk fast," said the old man; "hit's all ah kin do tuh walk at all, kase ah's mighty nigh tuckered. dishyer walkin'-match is monsus tough on er ole man, sho' as yo's bawn. ain't dey no wagons in dis country? whaffur dey got er road if dey ain't got no wagons? ah'd give a mulyun dollahs if ah had it fo' a mu-el en a wagon." topsy pushed close to uncle tom's side, grabbed his wet sleeve and helped him along. in a few minutes they broke away from the river-bank into the road. little eva didn't seem to mind walking. he pranced along with a pocket full of stones, and every once in a while he stopped to make a throw at a road-runner or a chipmunk. trees and brush lined the road on each side, growing so thickly that it was impossible to see very far into the timber. eliza and legree, talking over the difficulties in which they found themselves and trying to plan some way for surmounting them, were pretty well in advance, while uncle tom and topsy were pretty well in the rear. little eva was dodging around in between, now and then shying at something with a stone. the strange little party had not proceeded far before the boy heard a noise in the brush. heedless of what he might find in such a wild country, he jumped into the thicket. and then he jumped out again, yelling like a comanche. "run!" he piped frenziedly, tearing along the road. "dere's somet'ing chasin' me an' it's as big as a house an' has a mout' like a church door. sprint! sprint fer yer lives!" the other four gave their immediate attention to little eva, and then changed it to something that rolled out of the undergrowth directly behind them. "a bear!" yelled legree. "hunt a tree, kid! everybody climb a tree!" this is exactly what everybody proceeded to do. little eva shinned up a sapling, legree gave eliza a boost into a scrub oak, and then started for a neighboring pine himself, and uncle tom displayed a tremendous amount of reserve force, considering his age and his recent experience. "ah knows dis trip is gwine tuh be de deaf ob me," he fluttered, getting astride a limb and hugging the trunk of the tree with both arms. "mah goodness!" he chattered, craning his neck to get a good look at the cause of the disturbance. "go 'way f'um hyeh, you! we-all doan' want no truck wif you." the bear was a grizzly--not a large grizzly, but plenty large enough. there were lots of bigger bears in that part of arizona, but this was the biggest one fate had to run in among those unlucky "uncle tommers." having gained a position about half-way up and down the line of treed actors, the bear sat down in the road and proceeded to enjoy the situation. "are you all right?" sang out legree from the top of the pine: "is everybody all right?" "if bein' hung up like dis is wot yous call all right, dad," answered little eva, "den it's a lead pipe dat we's all t' de good. but, say, i ain't feelin' real comfertable in me mind." "shoo dat animile away, mistah legree," begged topsy. "hit ain't right tuh make us stay hyeh lak dis when we's all tiah'd out." "go right up to de beah, legree," suggested uncle tom, "en tie dat whip erroun' his neck an' strangle de life outen him. beah meat is mighty nigh as good as possum, an' we kin git fo' er five dollahs fo' de pelt." "oh, dear!" murmured eliza. "i do wish he'd go away. i guess he's thinking more about making a meal off of us than letting us make one from him." "dey trabbles in paihs," called uncle tom in trembling tones, by way of enlivening the situation. "hit's lak snakes, en wherebber yo' finds one yo' sholey is gwine tuh fin' anudder." "ah hears de odder!" screamed topsy. "he's champin' down de road lak er singed cat. heah him! oh, mah golly! we's all as good as daid--we's all gwine tuh be et up." strange noises were coming from along the back track, coming rapidly and growing louder and louder. "dat odder one's bigger 'n a efelunt!" palpitated uncle tom, climbing a couple of limbs higher. "all ah hopes is dat he ain't big enough tuh reach up en take me outen de tree. ah's a gone niggah, ah feels hit en mah bones." the bear heard the approaching noise, and it seemed to puzzle him. he sniffed the air, shook his head forebodingly, and then dropped down on all fours and ambled into the brush. the next moment, to the astonishment of the four actors, a sparkling red automobile rushed into sight, coming from the direction of ash fork and headed toward fairview. a youth in leather cap and jacket was in the driver's seat; beside him was a young german in a "loud" suit and a red vest. "pretzel!" yelled little eva; "i'm a jay if it ain't pretzel!" "saved!" cried eliza. the big red touring-car came to a halt in about the same place where the bear had recently held the fort. the faces of the two boys in the car were pictures of amazement as they stared at the odd assortment of actors hanging in the trees. "vell, py shinks," exclaimed the dutch boy, "dis vas a jeerful pitzness und no mistake. it iss der fairst time i efer knowed it bossiple to pick actor-peoples oudt oof der drees. vat you t'ink oof dot, motor matt?" chapter ii. the red flier gets a load. motor matt didn't know what to think. the queerest lot of people he ever saw were dropping out of the trees and hurrying toward the automobile. first, there was a young woman of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a dust-coat and gauntlets. there was a look of intense relief on her pretty face. following her came a tall, slimly built man, whose clothes suggested the ruffian, but whose face was anything but vicious. he carried a blacksnake whip. a boy trailed after the man. he wasn't a handsome boy, by any means, but his eyes were bright and sharp and he had a clever look. from the other way along the road came an old darky in tattered, soggy clothes. a young negro girl hurried along beside him. "well," breathed motor matt, "if this ain't a brain-twister i don't want a cent. who are they, carl? one of them seems to know you." "sure i knows him," spoke up the boy. "got wise t' carl pretzel in denver. 'pretzel an' pringle, musical marvels.' w'ere's pringle, dutch?" "don't say someding aboudt him," answered carl. "i haf scratched him off my visiding-list, yah, you bed you. pringle iss some pad eggs, und ve don'd ged along mit each odder. matt, dis vas liddle efa, who blays mit a ungle dom's capin gompany. ven he geds his leedle curly-viggies on, he looks fine--schust like some girls, yes. who iss der odder peobles, efa?" "dis is me fader, dutch," answered the boy; "he's de guy wot licks uncle tom in de show. de loidy is eliza, an' say, she's got 'em all skinned w'en it comes t' jumpin' acrost de river on cakes of ice. dat's uncle tom, scramblin' into de auto wit'out waitin' f'r an invite, an' de goil is topsy." "young man," said legree, stepping forward and addressing motor matt, "we're what's left of brisco's uncle tom's cabin company. brisco took all the funds and left us in the lurch at brockville, the station west of ash fork. the constable took our tent, and properties, and even the bloodhounds. we were left with the clothes we stood in, and that's all. marks, and st. clair, and the rest, made a raise and rode back to denver in the train. they didn't have enough to help us out, and so we've started to walk as far as flagstaff. when we get there, we're going to get up some sort of an entertainment and see if we can't pull down enough hard cash to see us through to denver. brisco owes all of us money. barrin' the kid, here, he beat each one of us out of more'n a hundred dollars. but we're goin' to get him; you see if we don't." a grim look came to legree's face. "veil," said carl, "be jeerful und don'd vorry. i haf der same kindt oof pad luck, den i met oop mit modor matt und der luck dook a shange. meppy yours vill dake a shange, too." "we're going to albuquerque," spoke up matt, "and if you don't mind being crowded we can give you a lift as far as flagstaff." a long breath of satisfaction broke from uncle tom. "dat's fine," said he. "dis niggah am sholy tuckered. why doan' yo'-all git intuh de wagon? dat beah am li'ble tuh come snoopin' an' pesterin' back." "pear?" cried carl. "vat you say, huh? iss dere a pear aroundt here?" "dat's no dream, dutch," answered the boy. "wot did yous t'ink it was chased us up dem trees?" "everythin's been goin' wrong with us ever since we hit brockville," said legree. "a lot more'll happen, too, but i reckon we're done with the bear. this machine scared the brute away. how'll you have us in the car, motor matt?" "little eva, as you call him," said matt, laughing a little as he looked at the boy, "had better get in front here with carl. that will leave four of you for the tonneau. it won't be long until we get to fairview, and we'll stop there for dinner." "um-yum," said topsy; "golly, but dat sounds good! dinnah! heah dat, unc' tawn?" uncle tom smacked his lips and rolled up the whites of his eyes. "doan' say a wo'd, chile," he cautioned. "dis seems jess lak er dream, dis ride in de debble-wagon, de dinnah, en all. yo' speak too loud, ah's fearin' ah's done gwine tuh woke up." with his load of stranded actors aboard, all rejoicing in the good luck that had brought matt and carl along with the automobile at that particular time, the young motorist cranked up, threw in the clutch and started. hardly were they under good headway when a sharp cry came from eliza. "stop! the box! i dropped it when i got up into that tree." matt stopped the red flier. "pox?" cried carl; "vat iss dot?" "dat's whut got me into de ruvver," said uncle tom. "ah 'lows dat box is er heap mo' trouble dan hit's worf." "if we ever get hold of brisco," returned legree, "it'll be that box that does it for us. wait here a minute, motor matt, and i'll go back and get it. i think i know right where it is." legree got out of the car, went back along the road, and vanished among the bushes. "is der money in der pox?" asked carl. "we don't know what's in it," answered eliza. "dot's keveer. how vill dot pox helup you ged holt oof prisco?" "brisco always kept it by him," went on eliza, "so we know he thinks it's valuable. he told legree, once, he wouldn't lose the box for ten thousand dollars." "how did you come to get hold of it?" inquired matt. "that's the queer part of it. brisco left the brockville hotel during the night----" "an' i picked it up by de door, next mornin'," chimed in the boy. "brisco must have dropped it when he made dat getaway. it was blacker dan a stack o' black cats, dat night, an' he wasn't able t' use his lamps." "when marks, and harris, and st. clair, and the rest of the company left brockville," continued eliza, "they told us to keep the box and not give it up until brisco paid over what he owed. we lost our wages and everything else we had except the clothes on our backs." "dot's me," spoke up carl; "i vas fixed der same vat you are. den, pympy, modor matt come along mit himseluf, shpoke some jeerful vorts mit me, dook me for a bard, und luck made a shange. meppy dot iss how it vill be mit you." "seems lak he was a long time findin' dat dere box," said uncle tom. "ah's honin' fo' dat hotel in fairview, an' fo' dat dinnah, an' fo' to dry dese clothes. mistah legree is a monstus long time, an' no mistake." "stay here, all of you," said matt, getting out of the car. "i'll go back and see if i can help find the box. if it's so important, it won't do to leave it behind." "i'll go 'long wit' yous," chirped the boy. before he could get out of the car, the sharp, incisive note of a revolver echoed from the bushes at the trail-side, close to the place where legree had vanished into them. eliza stifled a scream. "mah goodness!" fluttered topsy. "somebody's done gone tuh shootin'!" "it wasn't dad, dat's a cinch!" cried the boy. "he didn't have no gun!" "stay there!" called matt to the boy, as he whirled and hurried on. "stand ready to crank up the machine, carl," he added, "in case we have to start in a hurry." matt had dropped into the troubles of these forlorn "uncle tommers" with bewildering suddenness. he hadn't had the remotest notion that there was going to be any violence, or shooting, and the report of the revolver had sent a thrill of alarm through him. had brisco been tracking the unfortunate actors, and had he attempted to make way with the tin box just as legree was about to secure it? as matt drew closer to the thicket, he heard sharp and angry voices. one voice he recognized as belonging to legree, and the other struck a strangely familiar note in his ear. he had heard that voice somewhere before--but where? there were only two voices taking part in the talk, but the man who had intercepted legree was armed. matt knew it would stand him in hand to be cautious, so, instead of turning directly from the road into the brush, he darted for the timber some distance beyond the scene of the altercation. then, making his way back warily, he pushed through the bushes. he made very little noise--so little that his approach was not heard by either of the two men. legree, however, was standing in such a position that he could not help seeing matt. he was facing the other man, and the latter had his back to the young motorist. there was something familiar about that back, but even yet matt could not recall who the man was. the fellow was roughly dressed. in his right hand he was holding a revolver, pointing it squarely at legree, and in his left hand he was holding a small tin box. "if ye think ye can fool hank brisco," the man with the weapon was saying, "ye're far wide o' yer trail. he's got a ottermobill, now, what kin shoot through the kentry like a cannon-ball, an' i reckon thar'll be some cain raised on this part o' the range afore many moons. you take my advice an' hike out o' here without tryin' ter make hank any trouble, er----" just at that moment motor matt's opportunity came. flinging himself forward suddenly, he grabbed the revolver out of the ruffian's hand. "bully for you, matt!" cried legree. the next instant legree's blacksnake whip had curled itself about the ruffian's left wrist, girdling the skin like a loop of fire. the man roared out an oath. the pain must have been intense, for his fingers curled away from the box and he caught his wrist with his other hand. matt stared. when the ruffian had turned and rushed into the woods, cursing and vowing vengeance, matt continued to stare. "ever seen that man before, matt?" asked legree, surprised at the boy's manner. "i should say so!" exclaimed matt. "let's get back to the car. you've got back the box, but we haven't seen the last of this--not by a long shot." chapter iii. the stolen runabout. shouts of relief went up from those in the red flier at sight of matt and legree sprinting down the road, legree with the box and matt with the revolver. "hoop-a-la!" jubilated carl; "be jeerful, eferypody. here dey come alretty, und mit more as dey vent to ged!" "fo' de lan' sake!" chattered topsy; "ah sholy expected some one had done been kilt." "git right in de kyah," urged uncle tom, "so we kin git erway f'om dis hyeh place. beahs, en robbahs, en oddah spontaneous excitements is monstus tryin' to er niggah wif er empty stummick. ah doan' lak shootin' nohow." "was dat some guy t'rowin' a bullet at yous, dad?" inquired little eva. "how close did he come t' ringin' de bell?" "how many were there?" cried eliza; "are they following us?" matt jumped into his seat, and legree scrambled for the tonneau. "take this, legree," called matt, and dropped the revolver over the back of the seat. carl, who had been posted at the front of the machine, had already "turned over" the engine. as she took the spark carl crawled to his place beside matt, and the red flier glided away. the young motorist was silent for a while, listening as legree told how he had gone searching for the box and found it in the hands of a scoundrel whom he had never seen before. the unknown had fired a revolver, but it had been more to intimidate legree and keep him at a distance, for the bullet had not come anywhere near him. legree finished with an account of how matt had come up behind the ruffian and had saved the day. "dot's der vay modor matt does pitzness," said the admiring carl. "you bed my life he vas some virlvinds ven he leds himseluf oudt." "the name of the man who ran off and left your company stranded was hank brisco, was it?" asked matt. "that was his name, matt," replied legree. "but who was that tough-looking citizen that had me cornered, there in the thicket?" "i'll have to tell you something that happened to carl and me, a few days ago, in order for you to understand that part of it," answered matt. "this touring-car belongs to mr. james q. tomlinson, a wholesale jeweler who lives in denver. he and his driver, gregory, have been touring the southwest in it. a gang of thieves, among whom was a fellow called hank, and another called spangler, robbed mr. tomlinson on the trail, several miles west of ash fork. carl and i got mixed up in the trouble, and we had some exciting times racing the red flier against a high-powered runabout that the thieves stole from a wealthy cattleman named lem nugent. "mr. tomlinson recovered his stolen property and went on to albuquerque with his driver, gregory, hiring me to take the touring-car from ash fork to albuquerque. that's how we happened to come along in time to help you out, mr. legree." "if this man, tomlinson, got back his stolen property," asked legree, "what became of the thieves?" "two of them, hank and spangler, got away with the cattleman's car. the stolen runabout can go like a blue streak, and is lighter and faster than the red flier. now, the man that tried to get the tin box, back there in the thicket, was none other than spangler; and the other villain, who was called by the name of 'hank,' was the fellow who left you in the lurch at brockville." "shiminy grickets, how t'ings vill turn oudt mit demselufs, vonce und again!" clamored carl. "domlinson vould like more as he can dell to haf dose fellers ketched, and nuchent vants pooty pad dot he geds his car pack some more. he vill gif fife huntert tollars to any vone vat vill findt der car, und he vill gif fife huntert more for hank, und der same for spangler." carl leaned toward matt with his eyes almost popping from his head. "bard," he asked, "can ve scoop it in?" "i'd like to get back that runabout for mr. nugent," said matt, "but i don't know as we ought to take the time to go fooling along on our way to albuquerque." "vell, misder domlinson say dot dere vasn't any hurry." "he also said," continued matt, "that he wouldn't trust this car with everybody. if we should get to tearing around after hank and spangler, and damage the flier, we would find ourselves in a hole." "you hadn't better bother trying to take us to flagstaff, then," put in legree, "for as long as we've got this tin box brisco is going to keep on trying to get hold of it. if he chases us with that stolen runabout, which you say is a faster car than the red flier, you're goin' to run some risks with this machine." "if we work it right," said matt, "i guess we can get you people to flagstaff without being bothered much by hank and spangler. it's queer, though, to have it turn out that those two scoundrels are mixed up in these troubles of yours." "ah's done had trouble enough," wailed uncle tom, "en ah doan' know how ah could stand any mo'. ah's er pretty ole niggah tuh go traipsin' erroun' afteh robbahs, en drappin' intuh rivvers, an' climbin' trees tuh sabe my hide from beahs. all de same, ah 'lows some ob dat money fo' ketchin' dat 'ar brisco would come mouty handy. but mistah legree, yo' listen hyeh. if brisco sets sich er pow'ful store by dat 'ar box, mebby he'd buy hit offen de lot ob us, payin' us whut he owes jess tuh git holt ob hit. why not, sah, entah intuh prognostications wif him wif de view ob settlin' ouah compunctions in er pleasin' manner?" a shadow of a grin wreathed itself around legree's lips. "well, uncle tom," he answered, "it's hard to prognosticate with a chap who's so hard to find as brisco is." "vere vas hank vile spangler vas looking for der pox, matt?" asked carl. "that's a conundrum, carl." "und vere vas der runaboudt?" "another conundrum." "vell, ditn't spangler ride to der blace vere he come for der din pox in der runaboudt?" "i didn't see anything of the machine, but i was afraid it was somewhere around--which is the reason i was in such a hurry to make a fresh start for fairview." "ve don'd vas shased py der runaboudt, anyvay, und dot means dot it vasn't some blace around vere spangler vas." "chee!" came from little eva, as he pointed ahead. "dere's de burg wot we're headin' fer. i'm a jay if it don't look almost big enough fer two 'r t'ree people t' live in." from the rising ground on which the red flier and its passengers found themselves, at that moment, fairview could be fairly viewed. perhaps there were twenty-five or thirty houses in the place, the main street being bordered by half a dozen stores. "doan' yo' go an' tell me dar ain't no hotel," faltered uncle tom. "no matter how small a town is, uncle tom," returned eliza, "travelers can always find a place to stay. our hardest work will be, i think, to discover some one who will lend money on our jewelry." "i'll furnish the jewelry, eliza," said legree. "this watch of mine is worth enough, i think, to furnish us with food and lodging while motor matt gives us a lift to flagstaff." "if you're out of cash," spoke up matt, in his usual generous style, "i'll foot the bills. some time, when you get on easy street, you can pay me back." uncle tom's anxiety over the prospect fell from him like a wet blanket. "yo's a gemman, mistah motah matt," he declared, "yo' is what ah calls a puffick gemman. ah'm mos'ly independent in dese money mattahs--dis is de fust time since ah can remembah dat ah habn't had all ob two dollars in mah clo's--so hit is mouty spognoocious tuh mah pride, sah, to be fo'ced tuh accept a loan. still, sah, ah brings mahse'f to hit bekase yo' is so willin' an' so spendacious. in retu'n fo' dat, mistah motah matt, ah becomes on de spot yo' official mascot. yassuh. ah takes yo' luck en mah own han's, an' evah time what yo' do anyt'ing, ah agrees tuh make yo' a winnah." "much obliged, uncle tom," laughed matt. "go on wif yo'!" cried topsy. "why didun' yo' mascot dat 'ar company so dat brisco couldn't do lak what he done? mascot! yah, yah, yah!" "laff," returned uncle tom tartly, "laff an' show yo' ignunce! what yo' unnerstan' about luckosophy an' mascots? yo' mouty triflin' an' tryin', dat's what yo' is. wait twell yo' see what ah does fo' motah matt." during this talk, the red flier had glided down a long slope into the little town. it did not take long to traverse the main street, and as they jogged onward all eyes looked carefully for a hotel. finally they saw a sign with a picture of something that looked like a four-leaved clover. under the picture were the printed words, "shamrock house." "dat 'ar fo'-leaved clovah means luck," averred uncle tom. "it's supposed to be a shamrock, uncle tom," said eliza, "and not a clover-leaf." "ah knows dat," went on uncle tom, "but hit sho' means luck. ah done got de feelin'." motor matt and carl pretzel "got the feeling," too, for around at one side of the hotel they saw another automobile. there was no one around the car. carl nearly dropped off his seat. "vas i plind mit meinseluf," he whispered, "or iss it der real t'ing vat i see? matt, dere iss der shtolen runaboudt, mit nopody aroundt! fife huntert tollars saying it righdt oudt loud, 'come, oh, come, somepody und pick me oop!'" matt was astounded; yet there was not the least doubt about the runabout being the same car that had been stolen. "is that the automobile brisco ran away with?" demanded legree, leaping energetically out of the tonneau. "that's the one!" declared matt. "then come with me, matt, you and carl," said legree, starting for the hotel door. "keep behind, though. i'm armed, now, and can meet brisco in his own way if he shows fight." chapter iv. the coat in the rumble. matt, while following legree toward the front of the hotel, was doing some quick thinking to account for this surprising discovery of the runabout. very likely brisco and spangler were planning to recover the tin box. it must have been these plans that had brought them eastward from the vicinity of ash fork. spangler had been dropped on the road to intercept the stranded players and get the box, while brisco had come recklessly into fairview. possibly brisco had been compelled to come into town after gasoline and oil. "ah doan' want tuh be erroun' if dar's goin' tuh be any shootin'," palpitated uncle tom, rolling out of the tonneau with more haste than grace. "ah used tuh be a reg'lar fire-eatah, en mah youngah days, but ah dun kinder got ovah hit. topsy, yo' an' miss 'liza come right along wif me, dis instinct. we'll go off whah dar's er safe place fo' me tuh do mah mascottin' fo' motah matt." eliza and topsy hurriedly descended from the car. little eva was already on the ground, but instead of going around the hotel with eliza, topsy, and uncle tom, he strolled over to the runabout. in their excitement, the others did not miss the boy. there were two windows in the hotel office--one in the front wall, a dozen feet from the door, and one just around the corner in the side wall. the window in the side wall overlooked the runabout. matt, doing some quick figuring, jumped at the conclusion that brisco, taken by surprise by legree, would make a bolt through one of the windows, both of which were open. close to the front window an eave-spout entered a rain-water barrel. matt did not believe brisco, if he tried to escape by a window, would come out at the front, but at the side, where he would be nearer the runabout. with this idea in mind, matt placed carl behind the water-barrel, while he went around the corner. through the window on that side the young motorist stole a cautious look. two men were leaning over a counter in the office. one was plainly an irishman, and the proprietor of the place, and the other was as plainly hank brisco. matt knew brisco too well to be mistaken in him. neither brisco nor the irish proprietor had heard the approach of the red flier, nor the entrance of legree into the office. with a grim smile on his face, and the revolver in his hand, legree was leaning against the wall, just inside the door, waiting for brisco to turn around. "begorry," the proprietor was saying, "fifty cints a gallon f'r th' gasoline is all i'm afther chargin' yez. oi know av robbers around here who'd be chargin' yez a dollar a gallon, but that's not the way wid terence o'grady. fifty cints is th' most oi'll take from yez. fifteen gallons at fifty cints is sivin-fifty; then wan dollar f'r oil makes eight-fifty. eight-fifty from tin laves wan an a half, an' there yez are. will yez shtay f'r dinner? faith, we've as foine a male t'day as yez iver put tooth in, an' a dollar is all ut will cost yez." "i reckon i'll stay, o'grady," replied brisco, picking his change off the counter and sliding it into his pocket. then he turned, and met the leveled weapon of legree. brisco's astonishment was ludicrous to behold. and o'grady was fully as startled. "phat th' blazes d'yez mean by thot?" and o'grady jumped over the counter and stood glaring at legree. "i'll explain," said legree, with a coolness that filled matt with admiration, "but while i'm talking, o'grady, don't get between the point of this weapon and that man, there." "is ut a hould-up?" demanded o'grady. "not at all. the man behind you knows me, and he knows that he owes me a hundred and twenty dollars." "i don't know anything of the kind," replied brisco, every whit as cool as legree. "you've made a mistake, my man; and, besides, even if i did owe you money, you're trying to collect it in the wrong way." "roight yez are!" put in o'grady. "shtick thot pisthol in yer pocket an' go off wid yez. this is a dacint, rayspectible hotel, an' guns ain't allowed in th' place at all, at all. av yez don't hike, begorry, oi'll call in th' town marshal." "call the marshal," said legree; "he's the man i'd like to have here. that fellow who just bought gasoline and oil at this place is one of the gang who robbed tomlinson, the denver jeweler, over west of ash fork, and stole the automobile belonging to nugent, the cattleman----" brisco began to laugh. "what do you think of that, o'grady?" he cried. "why, that car you just helped me fill with gasoline is tomlinson's car! i'm taking it east for him. who this man is, or what game he's trying to play, is more than i know." brisco was edging around toward the side window. "look out, mr. legree!" called matt, through the opening. "he's trying to get where he can drop out here." matt's words caused brisco and o'grady to swerve their glances in his direction. a glint darted into brisco's eyes at sight of matt. hank brisco had good reason to remember the young motorist. "this looks like a put-up job, o'grady," said brisco, still keeping the whip-hand of himself. "well, begob," cried o'grady, "no pack av blackguards can come into th' shamrock hotel an' shtir up throuble f'r me customers. clear out av here," he added, brandishing his fists, "or oi'll be afther gittin' busy wid me hands." "is that man the one who helped rob tomlinson, matt?" asked legree, nodding his head toward brisco. "he's the one," answered matt. "i'd know him anywhere. don't let him----" just at that moment, o'grady, wofully deceived, but thinking he was doing exactly what was right, kicked a chair at legree. the chair struck legree's shins with a force that hurled him back against the wall. "now, then," roared o'grady to brisco, "make a run av it! oi'll take care av this boonch av meddlers!" with that, he hurled himself upon legree and the two began to struggle, falling over the chair and dropping heavily on the floor. they were directly across the doorway, and brisco sprang for the front window and pushed himself through it. "shtop a leedle!" whooped carl, dodging around the rain-water barrel; "you don'd got avay so easy as dot, und---- himmelblitzen!" brisco had grabbed the barrel. that happened to be the dry season and the barrel was empty. giving it a whirl, he threw it against the dutch boy with a force that took him off his feet. thrashing his arms wildly, carl laid himself down on the rolling barrel and went caroming off toward the road. meantime, matt, seeing that brisco was making for the window guarded by carl, had rushed around to the front of the hotel. he reached the scene of the scrimmage just in time to be grabbed by o'grady. the racket in the office had brought o'grady's chinese cook from the kitchen; and, while the chinaman continued the tussle with legree, the proprietor of the hotel had rushed out to see what more he could do for the man who had paid him so well for gasoline and oil. "oi've got yez, yez meddlin' omadhoun!" shouted o'grady. "oi'll tach yez t' come interferin' wid dacint people!" with that he flung his arms around motor matt and hung to him with all his strength. "hang onto him, o'grady!" cried brisco, dashing for the runabout. "niver yez fret!" panted the irishman reassuringly; "good-by t' yez. next toime yez come we'll give yez betther treatment; there won't be so many hoodlums around t'----" "let go!" shouted matt. then, suddenly freeing his hands, he struck the deluded irishman a quick blow. o'grady's hands relaxed for an instant. that instant gave motor matt his opportunity, and he tore himself free. about the same moment, legree, hatless, angry, and chagrined, came running out of the office. "where's brisco?" he demanded. just then the question was answered by brisco himself. the runabout, leaping around the corner of the hotel, shot toward the road, a mocking laugh from brisco trailing out behind. "not this time, legree!" called brisco, over his shoulder. "look out for me, from now on--you and motor matt!" the runabout was headed westward. in the rumble behind, lying partly over the rumble-seat, was a dust-coat. it undoubtedly belonged to brisco, and he must have thrown it aside while attending to the automobile, a few minutes before. while motor matt and legree stood staring at the receding car, the coat lifted a little and a hand was waved. "great scott!" cried matt; "it's that boy." legree, far from showing any consternation, leaned against the wall of the building and laughed softly. matt was amazed. "what's the matter with you, legree?" he demanded. "i'm just enjoying a situation that has a bad outlook for brisco," was legree's queer answer. "it has a bad outlook for the boy, too," said matt. "don't worry about little eva. i know him better than you do, and he'll take care of himself." at this moment the chinaman came out of the hotel office and handed the revolver to o'grady. "oi've had about all oi want av this rough-house!" shouted o'grady, his temper badly warped by the disturbance and the blow matt had dealt him. "yez will shtay roight here, bedad, until oi can have th' chink go afther th' town marshal. go f'r jennings, ping," he added, flourishing the weapon in the faces of matt and legree, "an hustle. we'll make this slab-soided roosther laugh on t'other soide av his face befure we're done wid him." chapter v. matt begins a search. carl, having untangled himself from the barrel, brushed off his clothes and rubbed his sore spots, came bristling up to o'grady. "you vas grazy," he cried, "so grazy as i don'd know. oof you hatn't fooled mit us, t'ings vould haf peen tifferent. ve lose vone t'ousant tollars py vat you do! yah, so helup me! pud avay der gun und ged reasonaple." "huccome dat 'ar resolver change han's lak what ah see?" inquired uncle tom, stepping gingerly around the corner of the hotel. "didun' ah do yo no good, mascottin' fo' yo', motah matt?" eliza and topsy followed uncle tom, peering about them excitedly and evidently expecting to find brisco a prisoner. "something went crossways, uncle tom," said matt. "brisco got away, and he took the stolen car with him. mr. o'grady, here, the proprietor of the hotel, didn't understand the case and helped the wrong side." by that time o'grady was himself beginning to think that he had made a mistake. the sight of the big red touring-car, and of the odd assortment of passengers who had arrived in it, afforded him food for thought. so he was thinking, lowering the revolver meanwhile and grabbing ping, the chinaman, by the queue to keep him from going after the marshal. "where did th' lot av yez come from?" o'grady finally inquired. "ash fork," replied legree. "them colored folks come wid yez?" "yes." "well, mebby oi did make a bobble, oi dunno. tell me something more about ut." briefly as he could, legree told of the robbery of mr. tomlinson and of the stealing of the cattleman's car, then wound up the recital by describing how brisco had run off and left his theatrical company, and how motor matt had picked up those who were tramping along the road and was giving them a lift as far as flagstaff. o'grady seemed to take more stock in motor matt than in any of the others. he watched the boy out of the tails of his eyes while listening to legree. "faith," said he, "yez are a har-r-d hitter, me lad. oi'm feelin' th' rap yez give me this minyit, an' me jaw'll be lame f'r a wake; but sure oi desarved ut av so be oi'm raysponsible f'r th' mon gittin' away. a good custhomer he was, an' oi make ut a rule t' trate good custhomers wid ivery consideration. oi supplied him wid gasoline out av me private barrel, an' sint th' chinee f'r oil which oi let him have at double th' proice oi paid f'r ut. by th' same token, oi felt loike tratin' th' mon white, d'yez see? now, av yez won't say annythin' more about th' fracas, sure oi won't, an' we'll let bygones be bygones. was yez all thinkin' av takin' dinner at th' shamrock?" "dat 'ar was de notion we had, boss," spoke up uncle tom eagerly. "then, begorry, oi'll make yez a special rate av sivin dollars f'r th' six av yez." "i'll give you three," said matt. "t'ree ut is," was the prompt rejoinder. "th' ladies can go t' th' parlor, an' th' gintlemen will foind a wash-bench by th' kitchen dure. hurry up wid th' meal, ping," the proprietor added to the chinaman. o'grady handed the revolver to legree, excused himself and went into the hotel. "it don't take him long to forget the trouble he made us," remarked legree, with a wink. "he's wise, too, in being willing to overlook the matter if we are." motor matt couldn't understand legree. he didn't appear to be worried in the least about the boy; on the contrary, he seemed pleased with the situation. "where's the kid?" inquired eliza. "he went away with brisco," replied legree. startled exclamations came from eliza, uncle tom, and topsy. "don't fret about him," went on legree, with a calm confidence that was too deep for matt, "for he'll come back. i'll have to stay here and wait for him, of course, and if matt feels as though he has to pull out for flagstaff before the kid gets here, why, we'll have to come along the best we can." "the boy's in danger," said matt, "and i'm not going to leave fairview until i try to do something for him." "don't go to any trouble, matt," returned legree, "for i tell you again the kid's able to look out for himself. this work of his may result in the capture of brisco and the recovery of the stolen car. after we eat, i'm going to find a cot, lie down, and take a snooze. i've got that coming to me, i think, considering what i've been through to-day. let's hunt up that wash-bench and get ready for dinner." matt was in a quandary. he knew, by his own experience, that brisco was a desperate man, and legree's firm conviction that the boy would keep out of trouble looked like the craziest kind of misjudgment. following the dinner, to which they all did ample justice, uncle tom curled up on a door-step in the sun, legree found a hammock in the shade, and eliza and topsy disappeared inside the hotel. matt led carl off to the red flier. "it's a queer layout, carl," said matt, nodding his head in the direction of the hotel. "hasn't it struck you that way?" "vell," returned carl, running his fingers reflectively through his mat of tow-colored hair, "i vas making some reflections on der soobjeck. leedle efa don't seem to cut mooch ice mit legree, hey? or meppy he cut a whole lot dot ve don'd know aboudt." "you knew the boy in denver?" went on matt. "yah, aber i forged vat his name vas, or vat he dit. und i ditn't know vedder he hat a fader." "well, i don't think we ought to go on to flagstaff until we find out something as to what becomes of the boy." "me, neider; aber how ve find oudt, hey?" "we'll take the flier and see if we can't track the runabout." "und oof ve come too close py der runaboudt, den vat?" "we'll take some old bottles along. if the runabout shows up and tries to chase us, we'll make a run of it and smash the bottles in the road behind us." carl chuckled. that was an expedient to which motor matt had already had recourse--and with brilliant success. "pully! i vill go findt der pottles, matt, vile you ged der macheen retty." carl went off toward a junk-pile back of the wood-shed. by the time matt had made the red flier ready, carl was back with an armful of bottles. "ve vas on der high gear dis drip, you bed you," observed carl, dumping the bottles into the tonneau. "i like dose oxcidements, yah, so. it vas goot for der nerfs und makes a fellow jeerful like nodding." as they got into the car, ready for the start, eliza came hurrying out of the hotel. she carried the box in her hand and made straight for the automobile. "where are you going, matt?" she asked breathlessly. "we're not intending to run off and leave you," matt laughed. "we want to see if we can't find out something about little eva, as you call him. it don't seem right to let the boy be carried off like this and not try to do something to help him." "he's a queer kid," said eliza thoughtfully. "he and legree were only with the company about two months, and they both had a queer way about them, sometimes. but if legree isn't worried i don't know why we ought to be." "i don't know, either," said matt, "but i am, all the same. carl and i are going to see if we can't follow the trail of the runabout for a ways. i don't think we'll be gone more than an hour or two." "may i go along?" "why, yes, if you want to; but hadn't you better leave that box here?" "legree told me to keep it by me all the time," answered the girl. "probably he didn't intend for you to take it out into the hills. well, never mind. if it's so mighty valuable i guess legree would be taking care of it himself. jump in, eliza." the girl climbed into the tonneau, and carl closed the door. matt started at low speed, getting into the road at the same place where brisco had driven the runabout. the trail of the broad wheels was well defined in the dust, and led along the course followed by the red flier in coming into town. "prisco vent oudt like ve come in," said carl. "i'm vonderin' in my mindt oof he vent pack py ash fork?" "give it up, carl," answered matt. "i don't know where he went. there's a whole lot about this business that's the rankest kind of guesswork." "sure! liddle efa vas foolish mit himseluf for gedding indo der car; und he vas foolish some more for shtaying der car in ven he mighdt chump it off. aber meppy he hat his reasons, hey?" "he must have had a reason for doing such a reckless thing, but he don't know brisco so well as we do." "he ought to, matt," spoke up eliza; "he was with the company for two months." "at that time," matt answered, "brisco had the best part of his character uppermost. carl and i have seen the worst side of him, and he's the biggest scoundrel out of jail." "vorse as dot!" averred carl. the tracks of the car led up the slope, out of the valley that contained the town, and on along the ash fork road. matt held the flier down to an easy pace. for several miles the little party had a pleasant ride, without any excitement whatever. but there was plenty of excitement in store, and when it arrived it came suddenly. a turn in the wooded road brought those in the car abruptly into a long, straightaway stretch. the instant they were able to look along the trail beyond the turn, a thrill shot through the nerves of all of them. three mounted men were coming toward the car at a tearing clip. evidently they had heard the pounding of the motor and had put their horses to top speed. "prisco!" shouted carl; "und dere iss spangler, too. durn aroundt, matt! durn aroundt so kevick as der nation vill let you! shiminy grickets, aber dis vas sutten!" motor matt had recognized two of the riders as brisco and spangler, even before carl had given his frightened yell. where had brisco exchanged his seat in the runabout to the saddle of the horse? and why had he changed, and where had he left the car? all this darted through the young motorist's mind as he halted the flier, reversed, and began backing to make the turn. chapter vi. losing the box. matt had not dreamed of being pursued by horsemen. the red flier would have no difficulty in running away from anything on hoofs, and certainly she could leave these three riders behind providing she could turn and get under headway before being overhauled. brisco, spangler, and the other man were dangerously close before matt got the red flier turned the other way. just back from the bend there was a grassy hill, along the foot of which the road ran smoothly. it was an excellent place for speed, and matt jumped from first to second, and from second to third with masterful quickness, considering the fact that he had to be careful about stripping the gear. as the car leaped away, like a spirited horse under the spur, brisco was alongside the tonneau. a scream from eliza called the attention of both boys. matt, of course, was busy with his driving and could not turn to see what was the matter. carl, however, got on his knees in his seat, face to the rear. what he saw brought an angry shout from his lips. brisco, leaning from his saddle, was reaching over the side of the tonneau. he had caught hold of the tin box, and eliza, hanging to it with both hands, was struggling to keep him from securing it. "leaf dot alone!" yelled carl, floundering to get to the girl's aid; "dot pelongs to modor matt!" carl was excited, but it wasn't excitement alone that caused him to say the box belonged to matt. he knew brisco was after a box he had once owned himself, and carl had a hazy idea that if he said the box belonged to matt it might be left alone. the gathering speed of the car carried it away from brisco; and, as brisco's one hand was stronger than the girl's two, the box remained with him. carl got into the tonneau, head over heels and with a crash like the breaking of a dozen windows--for he fell into the heap of useless bottles. when he picked himself up, the three riders, with jeering laughs, had pointed their horses the other way. "it's gone, matt!" cried the girl wildly; "the box is gone! brisco snatched it out of my hands!" "vat a luck it iss!" growled carl, holding one hand to his face, where it had been cut by a piece of glass. "i got pack here so kevick as i couldt, miss eliza, aber dot prisco feller was kevicker as me. donnervetter! matt, ve come oudt to look for dot poy und ve lose der pox! dot vill be some nice t'ings to dell legree." "oh," cried the girl, half-crying; "i shouldn't have come! even if it was all right for me to come i ought to have left the box at the hotel. now we'll never be able to get our money from brisco!" matt slowed down the car and took a look rearward. the three men were out of sight beyond the turn. "don't worry about it, eliza," said matt. "if any one is to blame, i'm the one. there's something queer about that tin box. if it's so valuable, why didn't legree take care of it himself? why did he trust it to you?" "before i had it," returned the girl, "uncle tom was carrying it. he lost it in the river, and had to jump in after it." "more carelessness on legree's part! uncle tom, as i figure it, is about the most irresponsible member of your party, and yet legree allowed him to carry a box which, brisco had said, was worth ten thousand dollars. it don't look reasonable to me." "dot's vat it don'd!" exclaimed carl. "aber prisco vanted dot pox pooty pad to go afder it like vat he dit. meppy it vas vort' a lod to him, und nodding to legree and der rest oof der parn-shtormers." "just because it _was_ valuable to brisco is the very reason i should have been more careful with it," went on the girl. "we might have made him pay us what he owed us, and then we could all have gone back to denver. now--now----" the girl began to cry. "say," wheedled carl, "i vouldn't do dot. you don'd helup nodding novay oof you cry. don'd fret aboudt der olt pox. matt und me vill gif you der money to go py tenver. jeer oop a liddle." "take my word for it, eliza," said matt, as the girl lifted her head and got better control of her feelings, "that box isn't worth a whole lot or legree wouldn't have taken chances with it like he did. i'm sorry brisco got away with it, of course, and i'm going to hurry back to fairview and do something i ought to have done before--and that is, find an officer and put him on brisco's track." "dot von't amoundt to nodding, matt," said carl, climbing back into the front seat. "prisco vill ged off der horse und indo der runaboudt und der officer mighdt as vell dry to ketch some shtreaks oof greased lighdning." "it may be, carl," speculated matt, "that the runabout has broken down. i don't believe brisco and spangler would be able to fix the machine if anything very serious got the matter with it. perhaps they had to leave the car and take to horses." "vat's deir game, anyvay? dot's vat i vant to know. oof deir game vas to ged der pox, den it vas all ofer, und ve don'd haf nodding to do mit brisco und spangler some more. py shinks! dot knocks us oudt oof a t'ousand tollars, matt." "all legree was keeping the box for," quavered the girl, "was so that brisco would follow us and try to get it. that would give us a chance to make brisco pay what he owed us." "legree ought to have hung onto the box himself," insisted matt. "prisco iss too schlick for legree," asserted carl. "i wish i understood what brisco and legree are up to," muttered matt. "there's more to this than appears on the surface." "yah, i bed you," agreed carl, wagging his head. "oof i knew as mooch as i vould like, den i vould tell you all aboudt it, vich i don'd. den dere iss efa. his monkey-doodle pitzness makes der t'ing vorse." a quarter of an hour later the red flier drew up in its old berth alongside the hotel. eliza got out and ran hurriedly to tell legree what had happened to the tin box. "i'm sorry for eliza," said matt, climbing slowly over the brakes as he got out of the car. "she's a nice girl, and it's too bad she has to feel all cut up over the way the box was taken from her. i've got a notion that legree is fooling them all--and you and me into the bargain, carl." "how you t'ink so, matt?" asked carl, opening his eyes wide. "i don't know how he's doing it, or why he's doing it, but it's just a hunch i've got." "how long ve going to shtay here?" "i don't want to pull out until we learn something more about this business. there are parts of it that have a crooked look to me." at that moment legree issued from the hotel. he did not act at all excited, although he must certainly have learned from eliza what had happened. "eliza's been telling me what a time you've had," said he. "the principal thing is that brisco has left the car and got onto a horse. i was surprised to hear that. i can't imagine why a rascal, who's as badly wanted as he is, should leave a swift automobile and take to horseback." "i should think, mr. legree," remarked matt, "that you would be more interested in the loss of that box than in anything else." "not at all. in fact, i haven't thought so much of that box since the lot of us left ash fork. it was a good thing to hang onto, but it wasn't so terribly important. i've told eliza not to feel bad over what happened. i'd feel worse myself if the kid hadn't got away in that runabout, like he did." all that legree said merely made the whole situation darker for matt. and for carl, too. the dutch boy stood blinking at legree, and running his fingers through the tangle of tow he called his hair. "you were keeping the box in the hope that brisco would came after it and give you a chance at him, weren't you?" demanded matt. "yes," answered legree. "well, now that brisco has got the box you can't expect him to come after it." "hardly," and legree gave a short laugh. noting the perplexity of the two boys, he went on: "you miss one point, matt, in sizing up this situation. we're not done with brisco--not by a long chalk. it isn't the box, but what was in it, that brisco is anxious to get." "wasn't there anything in the box?" queried matt. "no, and there hasn't been since we left ash fork. i opened the box on the q. t. in that town and took out what it contained. that object is in my possession. i intend to stay in this town, matt, until brisco is captured. i don't care anything about spangler; brisco is the man i want. if you've got time, you can stay and help me; and you can keep all you get for recovering the runabout for yourself." "what will you get for your work?" "why, i'll send brisco over the road. _the contents of that box will do it!_" matt and carl were dumfounded. the situation was clearing a little, but not much. chapter vii. a mysterious disappearance. "do you know this cattleman in ash fork who had the runabout stolen from him?" asked legree. "i know him by sight," answered matt; "i'm not acquainted with him." "are you sure that he will pay five hundred dollars for the recovery of his automobile?" "he said he would, and he's able to do it. and he offers to pay five hundred dollars apiece for the capture of brisco and spangler." "then there's a chance for you to make fifteen hundred. i'd advise you to stay here and do it." matt leaned against the car and went into a brown study. mr. tomlinson had not required him to get to albuquerque in a hurry. he could take a reasonable amount of time for the trip. but mr. tomlinson _did_ expect the car to be brought safely to its destination. would matt in any way endanger the car by staying a short time in fairview? that was the question that bothered him. "i t'ink, matt," said carl, "dot i could use some oof dot fifdeen huntert. vy nod shtay und dry dem a virl?" "if i stay, legree," observed matt, "i won't be called on to use the red flier for chasing brisco and spangler, will i? the car doesn't belong to me and i can't take any chances with it." "you can do as you please about that, matt. i'm after brisco. if you get spangler and the runabout, you'll have to do it in your own way. spangler and brisco, though, seem to be working together, just now, so my work ought to help you." "why not get an officer here and----" "do you want to divide with an officer what the cattleman is willing to pay?" "you know a lot that you're not telling me, legree," said matt quietly. "well," grinned legree, "when it comes to that, i know a lot that i'm not telling anybody--just now. you've heard more from me than any one else--excepting the kid." "i think i'll lay over here until to-morrow," said matt. "hoop-a-la!" exulted carl. "be jeerful, everypody. i t'ink, matt," he added, "dot i vill infest my haluf oof dot fifdeen huntert tollars in gofermend ponds, und----" "don't invest it till you get it, carl," interposed matt dryly. "pull off your coat, now, and we'll wash up the car and fill the tanks." for two hours the boys were more than busy. while in motor matt's hands, the machine was always as carefully groomed as a race-horse. not only that, but after the day's run he made it a point to go over the machinery with a wrench and pliers, tightening up everything that had worked loose and making sure that every part was in complete working order. the water-tank was filled. ten gallons of gasoline were needed for the gasoline reservoir, but before he bought any from o'grady, matt tested it carefully with a hydrometer. finding it nearly the same grade as he had been using, he funneled it into the tank, not only straining it through wire gauze but through thin chamois skin as well. the oil supply was also replenished. when the boys were through, the red flier was as spick and span as when it had come from the shop. not only that, but it was fit to take the road at a moment's notice and make a record run. to matt's regret, there was no place in town where the car could be housed for the night. there were two or three old barns, but they were so foul and unclean that he would not take the machine into them. he preferred to leave it outdoors all night, sleeping in the tonneau and guarding against tampering. when supper was announced, carl watched the car while matt ate; and when matt had finished, carl went in for his own meal. uncle tom, feeling much better now that his physical necessities had been relieved, walked out to the car with matt when he left the dining-room. there was something on the old negro's mind. he seemed flustered and backward about getting at it. finally he broached the astonishing proposition, leading up to it by degrees. "ah's done let out ob er job by de scan'lous actions ob dat 'ar brisco, marse matt," said he moodily. "hard luck, uncle tom," answered matt sympathetically. "where do you live when you're at home?" "ah's one ob dem 'ar rolling stones, en ah ain't had no home sense ah was knee-high tuh a possum, no, suh. fo' de las' few houahs, marse matt, ah's been kind ob cogitatin' en mah haid an' i 'bout come tuh de conclusion dat yo' outlook in life is juberous, yassuh. yo's a puffick gemman, but yo' take so many chances dat yo' prospecks am sholy juberous." "how can i help that, uncle tom?" asked matt, enjoying immensely the old darky's vagaries. "ah knows how dat kin be fixed, sah," went on uncle tom. "what yo' has got tuh hab is a official mascot, sah, tuh be wif yo' all de time an' wuk off de hoodoo. ah 'lows, sah, dat i could fill dat job. how much yo' willin' tuh pay fo' an official mascot by de monf?" that was too much for motor matt. laying back in the tonneau he laughed till he shook. "doan' laff, marse matt," begged the old fraud; "hit's a mouty complexus bizness. tu'n hit ober in yo' mind, sah, en if yo' t'ink ah'm wuth mah bo'd an' keep, jess considah ah'm engaged." "why, uncle tom," said matt, "i haven't much more than enough to board and keep myself, so i guess my prospects will have to continue to be 'juberous.'" "doan' say dat, sah; t'ink it ober. ah'll hold mahse'f open fo' de engagemunt." uncle tom stumped back into the house, and matt kicked off his shoes and snuggled down under a blanket which o'grady had furnished him. half an hour later, carl came out with a blanket of his own. "what are you going to do, carl?" asked matt, rousing up and peering at his friend through the gloom. "dis iss some games vot two can blay ad, my poy," chuckled carl. "i vill shleep py der machine mit you." "go on!" scoffed matt. "what's the use of denying yourself a good bed when you can just as well have one?" "vell, i dredder shtay mit you. don'd say nodding, pecause it vasn't any use. my mindt iss made oop, yah, you bed you." "all right, then," said matt. "curl up on the steering-wheel and enjoy yourself." the front seat, of course, was divided into two sections, so it was impossible for carl to stretch himself out in it; however, he wrapped his blanket around him and crowded down between the seat and the dash, head and shoulders over the foot-board on one side, and his feet tangled up in the foot-pedals and levers on the other. just as matt was getting to sleep a wild _honk, honk!_ brought him up like a shot out of a gun. "what's that?" called matt. "dot vas my feets," explained carl coolly. "i hit dem against dot rupper pag vat makes a noise. oof der car vas vider, den i vouldn't be too long for der blace vat i am. meppy i puy somet'ing else don gofermend ponds mit dot money. meppy, yah--so----" and carl's words drifted off into a snore. matt settled down again, and this time nothing disturbed him. carl had some bad dreams that night. he thought his feet were caught in a giant clothes-wringer, and that a locomotive was hitched to his head. some one would run him through the wringer, flattening him out up to the knees, and then the locomotive would back up and pull him out again. when his dreams had tired him out with that set of incidents, they shut him up in a little tin box, and three men on horseback played football with him; other experiences, too numerous to mention, followed, and at the wind-up carl thought he dropped several miles through the air and smashed through a skylight. starting up with a groan, he rubbed his eyes and looked around. it was morning. carl was sitting up on the ground, chilled and chattering. at first he thought that skylight episode was not a dream, and he looked up to see the place he had come through. instead of seeing anything so unsubstantial, his eyes encountered the face of legree. "you sleep like a log, carl!" exclaimed legree. "where's motor matt? what's become of the automobile?" then, in a flash, carl's hazy mind connected with the tangible things surrounding him when he went to sleep. "vy," he cried, struggling to his feet and staring around, "i vas in der car mit modor matt! i vent to shleep in it mit him." "i know you did; but where are matt and the car now?" carl rubbed his eyes again, and then took a more careful look about him. he was standing in the very place where the car had stood. but there was no sign of the car! and no sign of motor matt! the blanket carl had taken into the red flier with him was lying crumpled on the ground, a dozen feet away. "vell, py shinks!" gasped carl. "i don'd like dot. i don'd like some shokes vere sooch a monkey-doodle pitzness iss made mit me. modor matt nefer made dot shoke." "there's no joke, carl," answered legree; "i wish to gracious it _was_ a joke. the red flier left here some time during the night. no one heard it. no one knew it was gone until i looked out of the window of my room. you were lying on the ground here, but neither the car nor matt were in sight. do you think matt would pull out and leave you?" "leaf me? matt? vell, he vas my bard, und how you figure oudt dot he do dot? no, py shinks! oof he ain'd here he vas dook off, und oof he vas dook off id vas dot prisco und spangler vat dit it!" with that, carl went over to the well and sat down. he was still confused, but slowly the realization of what had happened was growing upon him. and as the realization grew, his temper mounted with it. chapter viii. spirited away. carl was not the only one who had been troubled with dreams that night. motor matt floundered through one of the worst nightmares he had ever had. the whole scheme of the thing was rather vague, but mighty depressing. he seemed to be engaged in some tremendous struggle, striking away and countering a thousand or more huge fists that leaped at him out of the gloom. one by one he put the clenched hands out of business, and when he had conquered the last of them he opened his eyes in bewilderment. the humming of a motor was in his ears. it was the red flier's motor, he could tell that instinctively. the stars were overhead, the cool, damp smell of the night was all around, and the glow of the acetylene lamps was glimmering and dancing in advance. the car was moving briskly through the silence. matt had a queer, sick feeling at the pit of his stomach. counting out the time he raced the limited train on his motor-cycle, collided with a freight-wagon and was laid up for a fortnight, he had never been confined to his bed for a week in his life. he wondered what ailed him, and his mind was sluggish and slow in working out the problem. he had felt just as he did then once before. that was the time he had been drugged and taken out of phoenix to keep him from racing with the prescott champion, o'day. had he been drugged now? if so, why, and by whom? by degrees the cool air cleared his befogged brain. he went back over the chain of events, picking it up where he had dropped it. the queer party of stranded actors--the arrival at fairview--the escape of brisco from the hotel--the ride into the hills to look for the boy--the pursuit by the horsemen and the loss of the tin box--all these events dragged through matt's mind. he and carl had gone to sleep in the automobile. why was the car moving? had carl, giving rein to some wild impulse, cranked up the car and started for a night ride? matt stirred. "carl!" he called, "what are you trying to do?" matt became aware, then, that there was some one beside him in the tonneau. "carl, hey?" came a jeering voice, as a strong hand reached over and pushed matt back in the seat. "ye got another guess comin'. thar ain't no dutchman along, this trip." "tuned up, has he?" asked a voice from the front seat. "yep; he's got back ter airth, hank." "surprised?" the man in front laughed hoarsely as he asked the question. "waal, kinder. he thought his dutch pard was erlong." matt, while this talk was going forward, realized with a shock that the two men in the car were brisco and spangler. brisco was in the driver's seat, and spangler was in the tonneau. with a quick gathering of all his strength, matt flung himself toward the door of the tonneau. his first unreasoning impulse was to get away from his captors. the car must have been going forty miles an hour, and the roadside was lined with sharp stones. if matt had succeeded in his desperate attempt, he could hardly have escaped without serious injury; but his rash move was nipped in the bud. spangler, who was in the tonneau for the purpose, grabbed matt and hurled him back into the seat. "none o' that!" he growled. "want ter break yer bloomin' neck? not as i keer much about yer neck, but hank an' me hev got diff'rent plans fer ye." matt was still dizzy and weak. the nausea at his stomach was leaving him slowly, but it made him feel as limp as a rag and utterly helpless. "did you men run away with this car?" he asked. "looks that-away, don't it?" returned spangler. "where's carl?" "didn't hev no time ter bother with the dutchman, so we left him behind." "was he hurt?" "hurt? nary, he wasn't hurt. we ain't opinin' ter hurt anybody this trip so long as we hev our way. the dutchman was snoring like a house afire. all we did was ter lift him out o' the keer an' lay him on the ground. we give him a smell o' somethin' on a han'kercher, jest ter make him snooze a leetle harder, that's all." "you drugged both of us, then?" "that was the easiest way ter keep ye from makin' er noise." "where are you taking me?" "ye'll know afore long." it was a rugged road they were traveling, and the red flier negotiated it with many a juggling bump. mountainous rocks, half-screened by bushes and trees, glided by, and there were dusky gashes and seams, and now and then a splash of falling water. rougher and rougher grew the trail, and the reckless driving of brisco caused matt's nerves to thrill with fears for the car. "you'll rack the car to pieces if you keep driving like that!" matt called sharply. "what's it to you?" taunted brisco. "it means a whole lot to me. this car belongs to mr. tomlinson, and i've promised to take it safely to albuquerque." "be hanged to you and mr. tomlinson!" snarled brisco. "we'll fix this car before we're done with it. if you ever take it to albuquerque, you'll have to scoop up the pieces and tote 'em there in a lumber-wagon. that's part of what we're going to do to play even with you and him!" matt's heart skipped a beat, and a cold chill ran through his body. could the villains really mean to destroy the red flier? "you'd better think well about what you do," warned matt. "if you ruin this car, mr. tomlinson will never let up on you till he puts you where you belong." spangler brought his hand around in a sweeping blow. matt dodged the hand so that the stroke was only a glancing one. "shut up!" he cried savagely. "ye ain't here ter make any threats, 'r throw any bluffs." at that moment, brisco brought the car to a stop, putting on the brakes so suddenly that the wheels locked and slid. "i reckon this'll be far enough," said brisco, turning in his seat. "make him get out, spang." "hear that?" cried spang. "open the door and git down." "what's this for?" returned matt, making no move to obey. for answer, spangler, with an oath, seized him by the collar and jerked him roughly out of the tonneau. matt was unable to make any resistance. as he stood in the road, the jagged uplifts by which he was surrounded seemed to swim about him in circles. spangler got back in the car, as matt staggered to a big boulder and leaned against it, and brisco backed the car around until it was headed along the back course. "wait!" cried matt, as a thought of what all this might mean to him took shape in his brain. "we're going to wait--and for just about a minute," returned brisco. "are you going to steal that car?" asked matt, "just as you stole nugent's?" "you're too much of a meddler," snapped brisco. "if you could go along and mind your own business, you'd be a whole lot better off. you had to tangle up with tomlinson, back there at ash fork, and you hadn't any call to butt in. if it hadn't been for you, we'd 'a' won out on that game and been all to the good. i don't reckon we'd have bothered you at all, though, if you'd been content to carry out your orders and push on to albuquerque. but you couldn't do that; oh, no. you're trying to be first aid to the weak and down-trodden wherever you run into them, so you had to mix up with that bunch of stranded actors. "when i drove the runabout into fairview after gasoline and oil, i dropped spangler off to lay for the tramps and get that tin box. you had to butt in, as per usual. i got away from fairview by the skin of my teeth, picked up spang at the place where he was waiting, and we went on to where our other pard had some horses. we side-tracked the runabout there, and slid back toward fairview, intending to push through the timber--a move we couldn't make in the car. then"--and here a swirling oath dropped from brisco's lips--"we dropped into your little trap." "what trap?" demanded matt. "oh, no, you don't know a thing about that, do you? you weren't moseying out there just to give us a chance to lift that tin box, were you? and you hadn't the least notion it was empty, had you? if you hadn't turned that trick, my bantam, we wouldn't have turned this one. we're going to settle with you, all right. this is a part of the country that isn't traveled once a week, and you're seventy-five miles from fairview. by the time you get back to town, we'll have got what was in that box, and have smashed the red flier into a heap of jack-straws. i know a nice little cliff alongside the road, and when we're through with the car we'll lash the wheel, open her up and let her go over the edge! i reckon that'll cook your goose with tomlinson. he didn't calculate you were going to use his car transporting a lot of stranded actors, and mixing up in their affairs on the way to albuquerque." for a space, motor matt's heart stood still. "you wouldn't dare do that!" he shouted. "wouldn't i?" and a reckless, mocking laugh came with the words. "from what you know of me don't you think i would? hope you'll have a nice, easy walk to fairview, motor matt! there'll be some surprises in store for you when you get there. good-by!" spangler also shouted a jeering farewell. the car got in motion, the humming slowly decreased, and the glow of the tail light winked suddenly into darkness. motor matt had been abandoned. but, worse than that, the two scoundrels who had spirited him away from fairview were bent on the wanton destruction of mr. tomlinson's car! chapter ix. an unexpected meeting. motor matt came nearer being utterly cast down, at that moment, than ever before in his life. weak and sick as he was, perhaps his discouragement was not to be wondered at. sinking down at the foot of the boulder against which he had been leaning, he began finding fault with himself. it was all right to pick up the stranded actors and carry them on to fairview. that was merely a kindness for which no one could blame him. but to jump into their troubles, at a time when he was engaged in work for mr. tomlinson and was not, strictly speaking, his own boss, that gave the affair another look. now, because of his desire to help legree, eliza, and the rest, there he was, hung up in the hills seventy-five miles from fairview, with the red flier in brisco's hands and pointed for the scrap-heap. mr. tomlinson would be perfectly justified in laying the destruction of the car to matt's own disregard of orders. and it was mr. tomlinson who had selected matt to take the red flier to albuquerque because he was satisfied the car would receive better care in his hands than in any other! there was enough in these reflections to make motor matt dissatisfied with himself. but he was not, and never had been, a "quitter." and the one cry of his soul had always been for fate to keep him from joining the ranks of the "quitters." as a matter of fact, motor matt was a self-reliant american boy, and there was never the least danger of his going over to the useless crowd of mistakes and failures. naturally, he might make a misplay now and then--running behind just enough to keep him "gingered up" for ultimate success in the big things. while he crouched at the foot of the boulder, the cool air clearing his brain and the sick feeling leaving him, he fell to planning for turning the tables against his enemies. what was there he could do, afoot and seventy-five miles from town? at first, the prospect seemed utterly hopeless; but matt knew that a brave heart and a firm will had time and again snatched victory from seeming defeat. he would start for fairview. possibly, although the road was not much traveled, he might have the good luck to encounter some freighter who would give him a lift. without losing a moment longer, he got up and started off in the direction taken by brisco and spangler. he wondered, as he swung along, what carl would think when he came to himself and found the car missing--and matt gone with it. and what would legree think? and eliza? but what those in fairview might think was a minor consideration. the great point was the recovery of the red flier before the car's captors could wreck the machine. brisco was the only one of the two scoundrels who could run a car, and even brisco's knowledge was superficial. an hour's instruction, from the driver of nugent's runabout, was all brisco had had. brisco now had two stolen cars and he could run only one of them--unless, indeed, the third man he had picked up knew something about motors. matt, perhaps, had walked a mile through the gloomy hills, when he heard a noise as of some one in the road ahead. he halted, half-fearing that brisco and spangler were coming back. but that could not be, he reasoned. if they had wanted to come back, they would have used the car--and the noise matt heard was of footsteps. he listened, straining his ears and eyes. only one man was coming. he could not see, but hearing alone told him there was but one. backing into the deep shadow of a nest of boulders, he continued to wait. the man, whoever he was, was coming hurriedly. sometimes he ran, and occasionally he stumbled. as he drew closer, matt saw that he was a small man, and as he came closer still the figure resolved itself into that of a mere boy. "hello!" called matt, stepping out into the road again. the figure gave a startled jump. "chee!" it cried. "say, who's dat?" matt's pulses quickened, and a glow of hope ran through him. "hello, kid!" he shouted. "what're you doing here?" "i'm a jay if it ain't motor matt!" came delightedly from the boy as he dashed forward. "how's dis f'r a come-off? say, it sure knocks de wind out o' me! where'd yous come from, yerself? was yous on dat automobile wid brisco an' spang?" by then the boy was close enough to grab matt's hand and give it a shake. "yes," answered matt; "i was on the car with them and they let me out and turned back." "how'd de mutts come t' git yous on de mat, hey?" matt explained how he had been spirited away. "well, on de level," breathed the boy, "dat's de rummest move i ever connected wit'. raw? oh, sister!" "now tell me something about yourself," said matt. "why did you get into that car? and where have you been since you left fairview?" "easy, cull! t'ings is bein' pulled off in such a bunch it's hard t' straighten dem out. le's do de ham-restin' act, right here on dis nice bunch o' rocks, while we chin a little." they sat down, side by side. "you must have had some reason, eva, for hiking out with brisco like you did, and----" "cut out de 'eva.' fergit de styge name. i was on'y dat back o' de tin lamps, an' no more of 'em fer mine. call me josh. not dat i'm a josher, understan', 'cause i ain't. an' here's somet'in' else i'm battin' up t' yous: dere's a few t'inks rattlin' around in me block dat i can't let yous in on. not bekase i ain't willin' meself, but bekase it ain't on de program. see? "first off, matt, i crowded into dat car becase de idee looked good t' me. dat's all yous is t' know about dat f'r now. i rode t' w'ere brisco stopped de car an' took on spang--about de place w'ere dad an' yous had de set-to on account o' dat box. "den we moved on ag'in, me still under de coat an' wonderin' how long i could keep shy o' de lamps o' dem two dubs. you can bet yer lid, matt, i didn't breathe on'y when necessary. i was de sly boy, all right. w'en we pulled up ag'in, we was clost t' t'ree horses, all saddled an' bridled, an' wit' a beer-faced guy on one o' dem. "de runabout was backed into de brush, an' brisco an' spang got onto two o' de horses an' all t'ree o' dat strong-arm bunch pulled deir freight back down de road. it was right den i wished dat i knowed how t' work dem cranks an' t'ings so'st i could make dat car go w'ere i wanted. but i didn't know de tail lamp from de carburetter, so i jess had t' lay low an' wait. "w'en dem jays got back, dere was yer uncle john right under de coat, same as usual, an' still holdin' his breat'. if one o' de mugs lifted de coat, i was plannin' to work me pins an' head right into de weeds, like anot'er bear was on me trail. "but dey didn't look under de coat, none of dem. dey was too mad. chee! but dey was r'iled! blatter, blatter, blatter, dey went, swearin' like a plumber wot's burned hisself wit' his torch. say, de air was blue an smelt like de odder place. if dey'd piped me off den, dey'd have took me skelp, all right. "from de spiel dey was givin' each odder, i hooked onto de infermation dat dey'd got de box an' dat dere wasn't not'in' in it--w'ich i knowed all de time. dey was crowdin' all deir swear-words onto motor matt. yous had fooled dem, dey said, an' dey was goin' t' saw off even if it took a leg. "brisco give de mug on de horse his orders to go t' some place w'ere brisco an' spang would go foist an' wait. wid dat we started up ag'in--me on de job an' still sayin' me prayers back'ards, for'ards, an' sideways. i couldn't see where we went, but we was goin' f'r a hunderd years, seemed like, i was dat worked up t'inkin' i might git nabbed. den we stopped, backed t'roo some brush, an' stopped ag'in, dat time t' stay. "i had drawn into me shell, listenin' w'ile brisco an' spang was rammin' around de place w'ere we was. after a w'ile, deir bazoos seemed t' move off, an' i stuck out me coco an' piped de layout. "we was in a well. anyways dat's how it looked. de well was about fifteen feet acrost, steep rocks all around an' on'y one place w'ere dere was a break. de break was choked up wit' brush, an' i'm wise right off dat we'd backed t'roo it w'en we come into de well. "i see anot'er nice little clump of brush off t' de right, an' it looked so invitin' dat i slipped out from under de coat an' ducked f'r it. "i was in dat clump w'en de odder bloke, who dey called klegg, blowed in t'roo de break wid de hosses; an' i was still dere w'en night come down, an' de t'ree of dem lighted up de runabout an' went away w'id it. "couldn't git in de back seat den, kase klegg was dere, so dey bumped off into de night an' left me in de well wit' de t'ree horses. "i kinked me thinker all up t'ryin' t' guess whedder i'd better stay right dere or borry one o' dem horses an' ride some place. well, i didn't ride, not knowin' any good place t' ride to. couldn't even make a guess which way de town was. "i went out t'roo de brush an' moseyed around in de dark till _chugetty-chug!_ along come dat runabout ag'in an' backed t'roo de brush into de well. but dere was on'y one man in it, an' it was klegg. w'ere was brisco an' spang? dat was wot fretted me. w'ile i was frettin', along comes dat red tourin'-car. i made out brisco in front, an' spang in de rear--an' dere was some odder mug in de rear wot i couldn't get next to. de tourin'-car went on past de well. "chee, but i was rattled! wot was happenin', i says t' meself, an' w'y was it happenin'? de tourin'-car come back ag'in an' in it was brisco an' spang, but de odder guy had been left somew'ere. de tourin'-car was backed into de well, w'ere de runabout had gone, an' i started dis way t' see wot i could find. say, matt, i was knocked stiff w'en i found yous! great, ain't it, how luck takes a shoot, once in a w'ile? if dat---- wot's de matter w'id yous? w'ere yous goin'?" matt had jumped up, grabbed josh by the arm and was pulling him down the road. "come on!" said he. "we haven't got any time to lose!" chapter x. a daring plan. "say," panted josh, as he and matt traveled rapidly along the road, "put me wise to dis move, can't yous? wot's in yer block, matt?" "do you know what brisco intends to do with the red flier?" asked matt. "he's layin' in a supply o' benzine-buggies t' start a garage, 'r somet'ing, ain't he?" "he ran off with that touring-car just to play even with me, josh. he says i've meddled with his affairs long enough, and that he's going to run the red flier over a cliff just to pay me back for using the car to help you people." "wouldn't dat frost yous?" muttered josh. "and he said i was seventy-five miles from fairview," went on matt, "and that by the time i had walked to the town he would have finished his business there." "brisco has got anodder guess comin'. he ain't so warm. dad can show him a t'ing 'r two, an' don't yous fergit dat. chee! dat guy's de limit. but wot's yer game, cull?" "you say that both cars are in that 'well,' as you call it?" "dat's w'ere dey was w'en i started for here." "well, i'm going to get the red flier away from that outfit!" matt spoke as confidently as though he had merely remarked that he was going over to the hotel after his dinner. "say, cull," returned the boy, "i like yer nerve, all right, an' i marks yous up f'r de entry, but how yous goin' t' git under de wire? dere's t'ree o' dem guys, an' dey've got a lot o' artillery. how we goin' t' git away wit' de car if dey don't want us to?" "i don't know," replied matt, "but we've got to do it somehow." "yous is a reg'lar lollypaloozer, motor matt, an' i'd back yous t' win any ole day, but dis looks like too big a load. but yous can count on me. dad'll tell yous dat i'm big f'r me age an' no mutt in a getaway, so jest set yer pace an' i'll push on de reins." "how far is it to the place where the automobiles were left?" "we're close t' dere now. i'm wonderin' w'y brisco dropped yous widin a short walk o' de hang-out--dat is, if he was fixin' t' stay at de place?" "i don't know," answered matt; "but that's what he did and it's enough for me. i've got to recover that car, josh. if i don't, and if anything happens to it, i'd look nice making my report to tomlinson, wouldn't i?" "if yous hadn't picked up dat bunch o' tramps on de road yous wouldn't have got into dis fix." "i'm not sorry i helped you out, josh." "sure not. yous ain't dat kind, motor matt. all de same, yous would have been peggin' along to'rds albuquerque, nice as yous please, if it hadn't been for dat crowd o' uncle tommers. dere'll be doin's in fairview in de mornin', w'en dad finds out yous ain't w'ere yous ought t' be." "what can your father do?" "he can do a lot w'en he gits started. don't yous never t'ink he's a slow one, matt." matt knew that legree could keep a cool head in a pinch, but, for all that, he didn't see how he could do anything when he didn't have money enough even to pay his board-bill. "mr. tomlinson has a lot of confidence in me," said matt; "and, if that car is wrecked, i'll have----" "sh-h-h!" whispered josh, coming to a wary halt and laying a hand on matt's arm. "look ahead, dere. see dat black splotch on de side o' de hill by de road?" "yes," answered matt, straining his eyes in the direction indicated. "dat's de brush dat hides de openin'. are we bot' goin' t' blow in dere an' try t' make a run wit' de red car?" "we can't do the trick in such a hurricane way as that. we've got to lay some other plan. i'll go in and look the ground over, josh, and maybe i can get hold of an idea." "i'll try t' git holt o' one, too, w'ile i'm waitin' fer yous. don't make much noise w'ile yous is in de bushes, matt, or dem terriers'll pepper yous." "i'm going to sneak into the place as quietly as i can. i don't think they'll hear me." leaving the boy a little way from the dark patch of verdure clinging to the face of the hill, matt went on carefully. as he approached closer to the vague blot it gradually took form under his eyes. the wall of the hill seemed to be cracked through from crest to base and wrenched apart until it formed a narrow opening. up both sides of the opening grew the bushes, their branches spreading out and forming a thick screen. on account of the darkness, matt could not make a very close examination of the queer fissure, but he saw enough to convince him that nature had contrived a secure retreat for brisco and spangler. the bottom of the opening, matt judged, was all of ten feet in width. dropping down on his hands and knees, he began crawling through the middle of the break, parting the bush branches from in front of him as he advanced. so wary was he that he made very little noise. he had gone perhaps a dozen feet through the brushy tangle, when a glow of light struck on his eyes. this acted as a sort of beacon, and served to guide him the rest of the way. a dozen feet more brought him to the opposite side of the opening and to the edge of the bushes. crouching silently on the ground he proceeded to survey the peculiar niche in front of him. josh's description, likening the place to a "well," was quite appropriate. the niche was circular in form and its walls arose steeply to a height of at least fifty feet. in the shadow of the walls the place was very dark, but the glowing lamps of an automobile enabled matt to see enough to send a chill of disappointment through him. there was only one automobile in the niche! and that one was the runabout! brisco and spangler must have emerged and gone off somewhere with the red flier. had they taken it away to destroy it? the three horses were not far from the runabout. they were secured to some bushes, and could be heard pawing and stamping. matt could also hear something else, and that was the snoring of a man in deep sleep. after a moment's hesitation he continued to creep onward, redoubling his care and vigilance. he was upon the man before he was fairly aware of it, one of his groping hands coming in contact with an outstretched foot. the snoring ceased with an explosive grunt and matt drew back breathlessly. the man did not rouse up. shifting his position slightly he continued to snore. making a détour, matt got around the man--whom he knew was not brisco or spangler, and consequently must be klegg--and reached the runabout. pausing there, the young motorist let his mind circle about this new phase of the situation. if he couldn't get the red flier, why not take the runabout? that would afford himself and josh a quick means for making the return trip to fairview. besides, no matter what happened to the red flier, there was something to be gained in getting the runabout away from the thieves. close to the car was a heap of horse-trappings. matt felt about among the saddles, bridles and blankets until he had found two coiled riatas. could he, by quick work, get one of the ropes around klegg's hands before he was thoroughly awake and able to struggle? josh would have been of use in such an attempt, and matt decided that he could not make it successfully unless he did have the other to help. he would go back after josh, he decided; but first he would look over the runabout and make sure it was ready for the road. laying the ropes in the front of the car, he arose to his feet, softly removed the tail lamp from its bracket, and flashed it into the rumble. the coat, used so cleverly by the boy, was still there, crumpled on the floor as though by a man's feet. passing on to the forward part of the car, the pencil of light jumped from point to point, matt's eyes following critically. everything seemed to be shipshape and in good order. a small object on one of the front seats caught the youth's attention. it was pushed well back into the angle where the back joined the seat, and matt picked it up and held it in the glow of light. it was a small bottle, and the label bore the written word, "chloroform." matt stifled an exclamation. undoubtedly it had been some of that bottle's contents which had helped brisco and spangler get the better of him, in fairview, and run off with the touring-car. then a startling expedient darted through matt's mind. turn about was fair play. with the aid of the drug he could clear a passage for the runabout, and without resort to any violence. setting the lamp down on the front seat, matt drew the cork of the bottle, took a handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wet it with the chloroform. then, re-corking the bottle and laying it aside, he went down on his hands and knees and started toward klegg. a lightening of the sky over the steep walls that hemmed in the niche told of coming day. the darkness would be a help to matt and josh in getting to the road and away, and if advantage was to be taken of night matt knew he would have to hurry. but he was well equipped to carry out his plans now, and lost no time in getting about them. chapter xi. on the road. kneeling beside klegg, matt leaned over and held the saturated handkerchief close to his face. the fumes were strong, and seemed to strangle him. with a gurgling grunt he shifted his position. matt moved the handkerchief and again held it over his face. this time klegg sputtered a little, but did not change his position. evidently the narcotic was beginning to have its effect. after a moment, matt allowed the handkerchief to drop on klegg's face. he left it there for two or three minutes and then threw it aside. klegg was breathing heavily and seemed to be completely under the influence of the drug. catching hold of the blanket on which the man was lying, matt began to pull it toward the wall of the niche. "chee!" whispered a voice close to matt's side. "wot kind of a smell is dat, cull? wot yous done to klegg?" "i thought you were going to wait outside, josh?" answered matt. "dat's wot i t'ought, but yous was so long in comin' dat i took de notion t' come in an' look yous up. wot's de play?" "i found a bottle of chloroform in the runabout, and it must have been out of that same bottle that brisco took the stuff that put me to sleep. thought i'd see how it worked on klegg." "yous is a jim dandy, matt!" laughed josh delightedly. "but w'ere's brisco an' spang?" "they're not here, and neither is the touring-car." "tough luck! yous figgerin' on makin' a getaway wit' de runabout?" "yes. we might use that for a quick run to fairview and get the sheriff to hunt up brisco and spangler. i'll go with the sheriff and use the runabout. it's a faster car than the flier, and we may be able to catch the two thieves before they wreck mr. tomlinson's car." "yous has got a head on yous, matt, an' no mistake," said the boy admiringly. "an' yous pulled all dis off yerself! well, say, if yous ain't a winner dis heat yous ought t' be. dat's right--on de level an' no stringin'. dad would like t' have a guy like yous t' work wit' all de time. an' so would little eva, de child wonder. but it's gittin' daylight, matt, an' if we're goin' t' pull our freight, let's be at it." it was already light enough so that they could see without the lamps. these were extinguished, and then matt put the tail lamp back in its place, started the engine and got into the driver's seat. on the low gear they moved slowly across the bottom of the niche. josh was still laughing softly to himself. "chee, cull, but i'd like t' be around w'en brisco an' spang find dat klegg feller!" he chuckled. "dat would be as good as a circus. dis is almost too good t' be true, ain't it?" "it will be, josh," replied matt, "if i can only get back the red flier." "dem coves'll be careful o' dat odder machine when dey find dis one has been took away from dem." "i know that--providing they find out the runabout is gone before they destroy the flier." setting the runabout at the bushes, matt drove through the undergrowth, josh keeping the branches out of his face while he attended to the steering. "on de road ag'in!" jubilated the boy, as they emerged from the mouth of the opening and turned to the left. "all i wish is," answered matt, "that i knew we were going right." "dere's on'y two ways t' go, cull. one's up to'rds w'ere you was dropped by brisco an' spang, an' t'odder's de way we're headin'. it's a cinch we're hittin' it off about proper. w'ere d' youse t'ink dem odder mutts went wid de tourin'-car?" "i'm afraid they took it off to carry out their threat and make junk of it." "i hope yous ain't got it right. if dey did dat, it 'u'd put yous in a bad hole. yous couldn't make tomlinson take dis car f'r de odder, could yous?" "hardly. this car belongs to nugent, in ash fork." something was rattling about the car, and it got onto matt's nerves. halting for a moment, he located the difficulty. the screw-cap of the gasoline-tank was loose. taking a wrench out of the tool-box he tightened the cap, then dropped the wrench in the rumble and returned to his seat. "yous don't like t' hear anyt'ing rattle, hey?" queried josh. "makes me nervous," laughed matt. "now hold onto your teeth, josh. i'm going to let her out!" "de quicker we kin go de better. let's see how fast de ole gal kin travel." they whirled around a turn in the narrow valley. the unexpected was lying in wait for them, for they came upon spangler, on foot and walking toward the niche. josh gave a startled yell. spangler, dumfounded at sight of the runabout, charging toward him with motor matt and the boy in front, stood as though rooted to the ground. "down, josh!" cried matt, advancing the spark; "get down behind the dashboard!" as matt spoke he sounded the horn. spangler climbed out of the way with more haste than grace, and the runabout dashed past him. "yi-yip-ee!" tuned up the boy, waving his hand mockingly. "d'radder do dat dan git run down, hey?" "drop!" yelled matt, and in a tone that made josh crumple down between the seat and the dash. bang! matt had expected a bullet, and he was not disappointed. but it went wide. bang! the next one came closer, but still left a safe margin. there was no more shooting. wondering at it, josh rose up and looked backward. "now wot d'youse t'ink o' dat!" he cried. "wot's dat mug doin' dat for?" "what's he doing?" asked matt. "w'y he's hustlin' a big stone into de middle o' de road. see 'im work! chee! wot's de meanin' o' dat?" the car whipped around another turn, wiping spangler and his strange activities out of sight. josh dropped down on the seat. "that's got a bad look," said matt, coaxing the runabout to a still faster gait. "we've got to get out of this as quick as we can." "chee!" cried the boy, holding to the seat with both hands, "we're goin' fast enough. gid-ap! wow! wot a spurt! don't let anyt'ing slip a cog, cull. if de ole benzine-buggy hit a rock an' stopped, i'd go right on f'r a couple o' miles afore i landed. oh, wot a clip! we've got de cannonball limited licked t' a frazzle!" then they took another turn, the rear wheels skidding and matt deftly catching the motor up and sending the car onward. the runabout did not follow the curve of the road, but made an angling turn--a hair-raising stunt copied after oldfield, the daredevil racer. josh gave a yell, and came within a hair of being heaved over matt and into the road. then, with a muttered exclamation, matt cut off the power, applied the brakes and quickly reversed, backing for the side of the road. it all happened so quick that it took the boy's breath. "wot's dat fer?" he asked. matt was whirling the wheel and starting the car on the back track. "brisco is heading us off," he answered--"brisco in the red flier!" josh turned to stare along the road. matt was right. brisco, still a long distance off, was whooping it up in their direction. "wouldn't dat crimp yous?" gasped the boy, awed at the gathering perils. "dey've got us f'r fair, matt! w'y didn't yous keep on an' give brisco de go-by?" "there wasn't room enough in the road to pass!" flung back matt. "dat's w'y spang was rollin' dem stones in de road! he knew dat brisco was comin', and dat he'd git us between him an' de rock-pile. chee! we're it, dis time, an' no mistake." matt, his face white and set and his gray eyes snapping, was leaning over the steering-wheel, watching every foot of road as they swept over it. "we've got to pass that rock-pile before it gets too big!" said he through his teeth. "den w'ere'll we go?" "anywhere, just so we keep away from brisco. this car is a faster one than the red flier. we can show him our heels at any stage of the game." they fairly flew, and rocks rushed past them as though hurled by some giant hand. "there'll be some danger when we get to the place where spangler is waiting, josh," said matt. "i'll slow down and you can get out, if you want to." "wot d'youse take me fer?" cried the boy. "i'm wid yous, matt, win 'r lose. see? make yer ole play. if uncle josh ain't wit' yous at de finish, den call him a quitter an' mark him off'n yer callin'-list." hurling onward, and skidding around the turns, matt kept straining his eyes constantly ahead. their source of peril was now wrapped up in spangler. if his pile of boulders did not block the road completely--if there was a chance for the runabout to get past the stones, or over them, there was still a fighting chance for escape. half a minute later, as the car reached out for the place where spangler had been at work, matt's heart went down into his boots. spangler was nowhere in sight, but he had worked to good purpose. a few big boulders were cunningly placed so as to make the road impassable. with a despairing cry, matt brought the runabout to a quick stop. chapter xii. a close call. "pile out, josh, and get busy with those rocks!" yelled matt. it was a forlorn hope, for the pounding of the red flier could be heard around the turn, coming up hand over fist. long before the way could be cleared, brisco would be upon them. and what had become of spangler. where had he gone? and _why_ had he gone? that was a conundrum, and matt had no time to give to conundrums just then. josh, eager to do all he could, was tugging and straining at the rocks. "it won't do, josh!" shouted matt. "run for those boulders at the side of the road and wait for me." to think quickly in an emergency was motor matt's long suit. many a time his cool head had helped him out of a bad difficulty. while he was shouting to the boy he was running back to the car. snatching the wrench from where he had dropped it in the rumble, matt went to work with lightninglike energy on the cap of the gasoline-reservoir. in record time he had the cap off. bending down he scooped up a handful of sand from the road and dumped the most of it into the reservoir, then, as quickly as he had removed the cap, he replaced it, flung the wrench into the car and jumped for the boulders. hardly was he back of the big stones that clustered along that edge of the valley, when the red flier shoved her nose through a cloud of dust and came scorching onward. brisco must have been astounded to see the runabout, deserted and at a halt in the road. the way, of course, was blocked for him as well as for the runabout, and he halted the red flier at a good distance from the other machine, leaped out and came running to the other car. the stones in the road probably gave him a pretty good idea of what had happened, for he immediately began looking around him as though expecting to see some one--possibly matt and josh. "spang!" he whooped. "where are you, spang?" "here!" answered spangler, appearing suddenly around the bend. "what you been doing?" demanded brisco. "the dickens is ter pay, an' no mistake!" stormed spang. "that young cub of a motor matt found out whar we'd cached the runabout, an' blamed if he didn't go in an' snake it right out from under klegg's----" "thunder!" broke in brisco. "don't you reckon i _saw_ the whelp? he was bearing down on me like a hurricane, slamming the runabout through for all she was worth." "he went past here gally-whoopin'," answered spang, "while i was makin' fer that hole in the hill. come mighty nigh runnin' me down at that. i got out o' the way, faced around an' sent a couple o' bullets arter him, but the brat's too lucky ter stop any lead----" "depends on who throws the lead," snarled brisco. "i kin throw it with ary man that walks! but i didn't take time ter throw much. i calculated the runabout would come up ferninst you, hank, afore it got out o' the valley, an' that king would have ter turn around an' chase back this way. so what does i do but begin pilin' stones whar they'd do the most good. jest got enough down ter do the biz, an' went ter see what had happened ter klegg. great jumpin' sand-hills! what d'ye think that infernal kid done ter him?" "what?" fumed brisco. "doped him, by thunder! doped him out er the same bottle we used last night! klegg's up thar in the notch, dead ter the world!" "what did you leave the hang-out for?" roared brisco angrily. "didn't i tell you, when i left, to stay there with klegg? if you'd done as i said, this wouldn't have happened." "i come out ter see if that kid was moseyin' down the valley," was the sullen rejoinder from spang. "ye said i was ter watch out an' make sure he didn't blunder outer the notch." "well, you made sure, didn't you?" taunted brisco. "where'd legree's kid spring from? how'd he come to be along with king?" "how'd i know? think i'm a mind-reader?" "deuced funny thing! he was with king, and i'd like to know where he came from, and how he got here. there's a nigger in the fence, i'll bet. where'd those boys go?" "i don't know that, nuther." "did they pass you and go up the valley?" "nary, they didn't!" "then they must be hiding around here somewhere! let's get 'em. if i lay hands on motor matt again he won't get off so easy." there was only one place in that vicinity where any one could hide, and that was among the scattered rocks not far from where the runabout was standing. brisco and spangler, making a hasty survey of the surroundings, at once hit upon the boulders as the place for them to look. "they're over thar," cried spangler, "an' i'll bet money on it." as he spoke, he started at a run for the side of the valley, pulling a revolver as he went. "don't do any shooting," called brisco, starting after spangler, "just grab 'em and hold 'em." "we'll tie king in that thar automobile when we run it over the cliff!" yelped brisco viciously. "we'll l'arn him ter play his tricks on _us_!" matt and josh had heard all this conversation. they were not standing still, either, but were busily finding some place where they could stow themselves away. a fight with the two armed men was to be avoided, if possible. matt knew that he and josh would stand little chance in such a one-sided combat; and matt had formed plans which he was eager to be carrying out. a little way up the steep hillside there was a ledge, with a recess back of it. matt's quick eye picked out the spot, and he climbed briskly, hauling josh along after him. the boulders shielded them from view while they were getting to the ledge, and matt pushed josh into the recess, and then rolled into it himself. from this position matt was able to peer over the ledge and keep track of the movements of brisco and spangler. "are they comin' dis way, cull?" whispered the boy. "yes," answered matt. "got deir guns ready, eh?" "of course, josh. scoundrels like brisco and spangler always draw and shoot if you give 'em half a chance." "dey're hot at de two of us, an' dey'll sure lay out ter do us up." "we'll have to fight, if they force it on us." "wot kin we do?" "there's a stone on the ledge. if they come too close i'll push it down on them." "better give dat dere stone a push right off, bekase----" "hist!" cautioned matt. silence fell between the boys. matt drew in his head, fearing he would be seen. he listened intently, however, and could tell by the scrambling feet below just how near brisco and spangler were coming. when they came too close, matt was intending to push the stone down on them. "beats the deuce where those whelps went to!" grumbled the voice of brisco. "they must be here. thar wasn't any place else they could go. i wasn't gone from the road more'n five minits, hank." "they wouldn't have had time to get past you?" "nary, they wouldn't. they're here, i tell ye; they must be." "the whole side-hill is under our eyes. if you can see the cubs you can do better than i can." "seems like there was a shelf up thar a ways. mebby they're on the shelf?" "gammon! that shelf isn't wide enough for a chipmunk to sit on." "anyways, i'm goin' up an' take a look." matt got ready to push out and roll the stone off the shelf. before he could do that, however, a shout from brisco halted him. "say, you! there were three horses in the hang-out with klegg!" "what o' that?" answered spangler. "why, those boys have gone there and are getting the horses." "how could they go thar, hank? they didn't pass me." "they might have got there when you didn't see them. while we're wasting time here, i'll bet something handsome they're getting out those horses. come on! don't lose another second fooling around among those rocks!" "waal, i don't reckon----" "come on, i say!" roared brisco. the two men were heard scrambling down the slope, getting farther and farther away. back in the little recess matt could hear the boy chuckling and talking to himself. "come on, josh!" whispered matt, starting up. "be careful, though! this is our day for luck, all right." "well, i guess!" answered the boy, rolling over the ledge. "chee, but dey're a pair o' dough-heads. good t'ing f'r us, too. what next, matt?" "we'll get to the red flier, turn it the other way along the trail, and ride back to fairview." "oh, lucy!" giggled josh. "fer a kid dat ain't had not'in' t' eat since yesterday mornin' i'm feelin' some fine! we gits de red flier, after all, an' dem guys is beat, hands down." they were proceeding down the hillside while josh was talking. when matt reached the boulders that lined the road, he looked out. brisco and spangler, hurrying as fast as their legs could carry them, were just vanishing around the bend. "now for the red flier--and fairview!" said matt, running out from among the boulders and laying a direct course for the red car. "dat's de talk, cull!" laughed josh, hustling along after matt. certainly it looked as though they were to have everything their own way, for a while at least--but they were not so lucky as they thought. chapter xiii. car against car. it may be that matt and josh made too much racket getting down the rocks, or that brisco had a premonition that something was wrong. be that as it might, however, yet brisco and spangler turned back a minute after they had gone charging around the bend. motor matt, at that moment, was bending to the crank of the red flier, and it was josh who excitedly announced the approach of their two enemies. the boy had done his jubilating too soon, and the sight of brisco and spangler filled him with panic. "oh, chee!" he fluttered. "dey're after us, matt, like a couple o' grizzlies! wow! let's duck f'r de rocks agin!" "get into the car!" shouted matt, giving the crank a whirl. one beauty of the red flier was the quickness with which the machine caught up its cycle; and it had been the same with matt's twin-cylinder motorcycle. half a turn of the pedal was enough for the little _comet_, and one pull of the crank did the business for the red car's motor. while the machine popped its defiance of brisco and spangler, motor matt ran around and vaulted into his old familiar place. he felt at home--much more so than he had when driving the runabout. neither brisco nor spangler wasted any time with their revolvers. both knew that the runabout was a faster machine than the red flier, and both felt confident that a quick start after the boys and a few minutes' chase would tell the tale. spangler scrambled into the car. brisco slipped as he rounded the front of the runabout to turn over the engine, fell sprawling and hit his head on the handle of the crank. he was not very much hurt, apparently, although from his flow of language his temper must have been severely injured. besides, he had lost ten seconds--no very serious matter, considering the usual speed of the runabout--but brisco was anxious for a rapid start and a quick finish for the chase. as he yanked the lever savagely, the popping from up the road sounding like the rapid discharge of a gatling gun. motor matt had turned the red flier with his customary celerity, and was off on the high gear with the muffler cut out. "by thunder," howled the frantic spangler, "oncet i ketch that motor matt i'll wring his neck fer him!" "i'll help you," answered brisco vindictively. there was a patch of skin gone from his forehead and a little dribble of red was flowing down his cheek. "if they wasn't out o' sight," growled spangler, "i'd pepper 'em." "what's the use of peppering them?" scowled brisco. "we'll climb right over 'em in less'n five minutes." "do it!" cried spangler, as they shot ahead recklessly. "do what?" asked brisco, just missing a boulder by a hair's breadth. "why, climb over 'em," snorted spangler. "run 'em down an' shove 'em inter the rocks! let's hev a smash, with that young whelp right in the middle of it. he's made us trouble enough!" "don't be a fool, spang!" returned brisco. "if we ran into them we might smash the runabout. we've got use for this machine--after we clean up on legree and this motor matt." "that's so, too," said spangler. "we may hev use fer it even if ye don't clean up on legree. with another pair o' shoes an' tubes, an' a place whar we kin keep a supply o' gasoline an' oil, an' them steel bottles o' compressed air, we could circle all around through this here southwestern kentry, takin' our toll wharever we wanted ter pick it up." "sure we could, and we _will_!" "i'm glad o' one thing," observed spangler. "what's that?" "why, thar won't be any more glass throwed in the road, same as thar was during t'other chase we had with that red flier. king had a lot in the red car, if ye remember, an' i dumped it all out." "we'll nip 'im this time," said brisco, through his teeth. "we got ter, that's what. if we don't---- tear an' ages, hank! be keerful!" the runabout had been hurled at a curve. there was no lessening of the speed, and the entire machine slid sideways to the edge of the road, banging into the rocks with a force that pitched spangler against the dashboard. he came within one of going clear over upon the hood. "get back in your seat and hang on!" yelled brisco. "we haven't commenced to run yet." after that spangler had no time to talk--he was too busy holding himself in the car. meanwhile the red flier had been streaking it through the hills, josh keeping a pair of keen eyes on the back track, and matt giving his entire attention to the road ahead. "chee, wot a bump!" cried josh. he had seen the runabout skid across the road, take a welt at the rock wall and then leap onward like a bullet from a gun. "what's the matter?" shouted matt. he had to shout, for the wind of their flight caught the words out of his teeth and flung them, a mere wisp of sound, far to rearward. "brisco tried t' knock over a hill wit' his hind wheels," yelled josh, "an' spang tried t' turn a handspring over de bonnet. wow! but dey're goin some, matt!" "so are we," screamed matt, "fifty-eight miles an hour." "ever race dat runabout afore?" "yes." "w'ch winned?" "the flier--by a fluke. i scattered glass in the road--the runabout got into it and went lame." "got any glass along now?" "yes, in the tonneau; but----" "none dere now, cull." "then brisco must have thrown it out. it'll all right, though. this is going to be our race." "we'd better keep our lamps skinned f'r fairview. it's on'y seventy-five miles from w'ere we started, an we're goin' so fast we might run past de place an' never see it." josh felt hilarious. his panic was leaving him and his usual nerve was coming back. "how's the runabout coming?" roared matt. "gainin'!" whooped the boy. "oh, sister, how she's comin'! wisht i had some glass." "she'll never catch us, josh!" "how's dat?" "because i've fixed her so she won't." "i hope yous ain't shy in yer calkilations, matt. dem blokes'll sure kill us if we drops into deir hands." "watch her, josh! tell me when her speed slackens, or when anything goes wrong." "she ain't slackenin' none yet, an' nuttin' ain't gone wrong." "well, watch and tell me." matt couldn't understand why the runabout wasn't beginning to develop trouble in the vicinity of the needle-valve. but it would come, sooner or later. some of the sand was bound to get through the supply-pipe in time. the valley had widened considerably, and now it began to develop dips and rises which afforded matt opportunity for nursing the motor and preventing overheating. he could cut off the power on the down grades and give the throbbing cylinders a breathing spell. brisco had no such fine ability or discrimination. he took everything on the high gear. "still gainin'!" announced josh. "how far are they behind?" "a hundred feet. it's a wonder dey don't shake some bullets out o' deir guns dis way. one of 'em's tootin' his bazoo at us." "what does he say? can you hear?" "he says ter stop 'r he'll put a bullet into one o' our tires. chee! if he does dat----" matt snatched one hand from the steering-wheel. honk, honk! he answered derisively. sping! the warning report was followed by the whistle of a bullet. it did not come anywhere near the red flier, but spatted harmlessly into the valley wall. josh laughed wildly and waved his hand. the spirit of the race was surging through his veins and had wiped out all sense of fear. "wow!" he shouted. "yous ought t' seen dat! spang has been holdin' on t' de seat wit' bot' hands, but he let go wit' one t' fire at us. de runabout jumped sideways an' he lost his pepper-box overboard. come clost t' goin' hisself! say, i wisht he had!" the runabout was devouring the distance in remarkable style. it was now only twenty-five feet behind, and so near that the sand and pebbles kicked up by the flying rear wheels of the red car struck in the faces of brisco and spangler. spangler lowered his head. brisco jerked the goggles down over his eyes. "stop!" he roared, "or i'll run into you!" honk, honk! tooted matt defiantly. brisco swore and gritted his teeth. with his temper at fever heat, what did he care how he injured the runabout just so he evened his score with motor matt? closer and closer came the runabout. josh measured the decreasing distance with his eyes. "ten feet! five, matt, _five_! she's up t' us, now--look out!" not knowing what was to happen, josh curled over the back of the seat and hung on with both hands. there was a slight jar, followed by a sudden slewing on the part of the runabout, a quick lessening of speed and the whirr of a racing engine. "dey're stoppin'!" shouted the boy; "somet'ing has gone wrong wid de odder car!" "i knew _something_ would happen!" shouted matt, as he slowed his speed a little to give the red flier a bit of a rest. chapter xiv. down the mountain. "dat engine o' deirs went wrong just at de right time t' save our bacon, matt," said josh. matt tossed a look backward. the runabout was at a stop, and brisco was on the ground, tinkering frantically. "if he knows what to do," said matt, "he'll be able to come on again. but he'll have more trouble; and he'll continue to have trouble until he takes time to overhaul his fuel-tank." "what did yous do?" asked the boy. "mixed a handful of sand with his gasoline." "w'en?" "while we were hung up in front of those rocks spangler had laid for us." "didn't dat geezer see yous?" "i got out of the way before brisco showed up; and spangler, at the time, was away looking for the man in the notch." "chee, but you're a wonder! motor matt heads de percession an' carries de banner! yous t'ought o' all dat while i was hustlin' t' git behind dem rocks! did yous t'ink we was goin' t' have a race?" "i didn't know but we might. anyhow, i thought it good policy to fix the machine so it wouldn't be reliable. what's the news from the rear, josh?" "brisco is gittin' back in his seat." "is he coming on?" "dat's wot." "fast as ever?" "i don't see no diff'rence in de runnin'." "well, something is sure to go wrong, just as it did before. one grain of sand clogged the needle-valve, josh, and there's a thousand more grains to come down the supply-pipe. face around a minute. the road forks here. which one shall we take? do you remember coming this way?" the boy flopped around in his seat. the red flier was rushing toward a place where the road forked. both roads were bordered by rocky walls, and both had the appearance of being equally well traveled--which wasn't saying much for the travel, at that. "i don't remember nuttin'," answered the boy, "bein' scart stiff all de w'ile i was in de runabout. i'd say go t' de right. dat's always a good t'ing t' do." "if we had the least notion which way fairview lay we could shape our course a little better. but we don't know, so we'll take chances and go to the right." there was a slowing of speed while matt made the turn. for a long distance this fork was a straightaway stretch and fairly level. matt and josh were congratulating themselves on the fact that they had made a fortunate choice, when suddenly they whirled out on a vista that surprised them. at the end of the straightaway stretch, a sudden angle brought the side of a steep mountain under the boy's eyes. the road could be seen clinging to the mountain's side, describing horseshoe after horseshoe--edging its way between dizzy chasms and high cliffs. "wow!" gasped josh, and collapsed in his seat. "right here's w'ere we fall off de eart'." matt took another look behind. the runabout, with the stern, relentless face of brisco over the wheel, was surging toward them. "here we go!" called matt. "hang on, josh!" "i'm glued! yous can't shake me!" the boy was game, and matt flung the red flier at the mountainside and down the ribbon of treacherous road. there were places where a cliff overhung the trail, and the wheels on the left almost scraped the rocks, while those on the right barely tracked on the brink of a gulf. the boy's face went white, but his eyes glimmered brightly. he looked back from time to time and saw the runabout sliding after them. a quick fear had rushed to matt's brain. oddly enough, it was not a fear for his own safety, for he knew the red flier and knew what he could do with it; but the runabout! if that trickle of sand cut off the power and caused the machine to slew ever so slightly, it would go over the chasm's edge and carry brisco and spangler with it! the world would have been better off, perhaps, if such a mishap had come to pass; but matt did not want it that way. his own instrumentality in the matter would have been too hideously clear. and yet, if something did not happen to the runabout, the machine might collide with the red flier and drive it over the brink. matt knew he must keep ahead. never had he driven more masterfully than then. his nerves were steady, his brain alert, and every inch of that curving, treacherous down grade was covered by his eyes. it was more like falling down a hill than riding down. the red flier quivered like a thing of life, seeming to realize what was expected of it, and responding nobly. far off, over the level plain at the mountain's foot, could be seen the little cluster of houses that represented fairview. it glowed in the morning sun like a toy village on a toy map. as the road curved, struck a short straightaway, then curved again, the town swept vividly into view and again as quickly vanished. at the most desperate part of the trail a rock had crumbled from the wall and rolled to the edge of the chasm. there it lay, almost under the nose of the rushing car. the boy cast a despairing look into motor matt's set, determined face. all he saw was a swift gleam of the gray eyes. crash! the car, skilfully guided so that it touched the inward side of the boulder, forced it from the edge and sent it bounding and smashing downward into the gulf. a sharp breath tore through the boy's lips. confidence again took possession of him. after that escape, what difficulty could come up that motor matt was not able to conquer? matt seemed to be made of steel. with one foot on the brake and both hands on the wheel, he kept rigidly to his work. "how're they making it behind, josh?" he called. the boy knelt in his seat and looked back up the steep incline. fortune was riding with brisco that day. but for that he must have been hurled from the trail in a dozen places. driving a car was comparatively new work for him, and the chances are that never before had he been on such a dangerous piece of road. yet he was naturally a man of iron nerve, and would not hold back where motor matt led. spangler, from his appearance, was as frightened a man as there ever was in arizona. a gray pallor had spread over his face, and his eyes were fairly popping from his head. gripping his seat with both hands, he braced himself with his feet against the forward dip of the car. "dey're slidin' after us, cull," reported the boy. "gaining?" "dat's wot, but not like dey did on de level road." "the foot of the mountain is just ahead of us. can we get there before they overtake us?" "well, mebby we kin, but i wish de foot o' de mountain was half a mile nearer dan wot it is." facing about in his seat, josh looked at the foot of the mountain for himself. they were dropping toward it swiftly. there were no more curves--nothing but a straight fall, a shoot between bordering rocks and then a cheerful reach of road over the plain. "we're in luck t' git out o' dis widout a broken neck," said josh. "chee, but dat level place looks good t' me." "the flier's a dandy car!" declared matt. "she's got a dandy driver, an' dat's no dream. w'ere'd we been widout motor matt at de steerin'-wheel? yous is a four-time winner, an' dere's odders dat'll hear me say it." "the runabout will be hot after us as soon as we hit the level ground again." "dey'll never ketch us, cull. i don't care how hot dey come, wit' yous handlin' de flier." with a final spurt the red car rushed through the rocks, and, for the first time since it had taken that up-and-down trail, both ends were on a level. as they glided out onto the plain, matt cast a look backward. there was a feeling of relief came over him at sight of the runabout charging through the rocks at the mountain's foot. but, as he looked, and just as the runabout was on the point of striking level ground, there was a jerk to the left, a crash, and a sudden stop. brisco pitched forward over the wheel, shot clear past the hood, and doubled up and rolled along the stony trail. spangler went out on the left side, ricochetting into the air and turning a couple of grotesque somersaults. like brisco, when he dropped, he lay still. a sharp breath escaped matt's lips. turning the red flier, he started back until he had come almost upon the silent form of brisco; then he brought the flier to a halt and jumped out. "chee, moses!" muttered josh, awed by the abrupt termination of the chase. "do yous t'ink dem guys is killed, matt?" "that's what we've got to find out," flung back matt, hurrying to brisco and kneeling down beside him. human enmity seemed a paltry thing to matt as his hand went groping over brisco's breast, feeling for the heart-beats. a thrill of satisfaction shot through him as he found that brisco was alive. hurrying on to spangler, he was immensely relieved to find that worthy sitting up in the road and drawing a hand over his dazed eyes. "what--what happened?" faltered spangler. "nothing to what's going to happen now, spangler," answered matt, and picked up the second and last revolver which the ruffian had had about him. "there ought to be some ropes in the runabout, josh," called matt. "go and get them." chapter xv. motor matt's ten-strike. josh hustled for the runabout. one of the coiled ropes matt had put in the car was hanging over a lamp, and the other had been thrown into the road. taking the one off the lamp, the boy hurried back to the place where matt was training the revolver on spangler. "fine bizness!" laughed josh. "wot d'yous want me t' do, matt? put a bow-knot on his lunch-hooks?" "stand up, spangler!" ordered matt. spangler got lamely to his feet. he was still confused and bewildered. "somethin' hit us," he mumbled. "from the way i was throwed it must hev been a landslide. whar's hank? is he killed?" "brisco will get along, i guess," said matt. "put your hands behind you, spangler." just then, for the first time, it began to dawn on spangler that matt was making a prisoner out of him. the ruffian, although practically uninjured, had been badly shaken up. nevertheless, he was in condition to resist, and he leaped backward, swearing. "if ye think ye kin rope, down an' tie me," he cried, "jest bekase that thar machine bucked an' dumped me inter the road, ye got another----" "come this way!" cut in matt. the words, hard and keen, jumped at spangler like so many knife-points. motor matt meant business, and showed it in every movement. spangler stepped forward. "that's far enough," snapped matt. "now put those hands behind you." with the open end of his own gun staring him in the face, there was nothing for spangler to do but to obey. his hands went meekly behind him. "can you tie a good hard knot, josh?" asked matt. "t'ink i ain't good f'r nuttin'?" protested the boy. passing behind spangler, he used the free end of the rope for a few moments and then stepped back with the rest of the coil in his hands. "if he gits dem mitts out o' dat he's a good 'un," announced josh. "w'ere d'yous want him, matt?" "in the red flier. step lively, spangler. we've got to look after brisco." "get ap!" clucked josh, shaking the rope. with a black scowl on his face, the baffled spangler made his way to the touring-car. "get in on the back seat," went on matt. spangler obeyed the order. "now, josh," pursued matt, "cut the rope and tie a piece of it around his feet." the boy finished the work expeditiously, and when he and matt drew away from the red flier they left spangler helpless and fuming in the tonneau. brisco was still lying where he had fallen, and he was still unconscious. matt made a more thorough examination of him. his pulse was stronger and, so far as matt could discover, there were no broken bones. "wot keeps 'im in a trance?" asked the boy. "he's stayin' a long time in de land o' nod for not havin' nuttin' wrong wit' 'im." "pick up his revolver, josh," returned matt briskly, "and then sit down beside him and wait till he gets his wits back. don't let him get away from you." "get away from me? not on yer life, cull. i'd radder take dis mutt into fairview dan pull down a t'ousan' in de long green. dad wants _him_." paying no attention to the boy's rather obscure remark, matt went to the runabout. he was expecting to find the machine badly smashed, and was happily disappointed. both front lamps were broken, and the mud-guard over the right wheel forward had been ripped away. the guard had fallen between the wheel and the rock, and undoubtedly had kept the wheel from being dished. the tire was punctured and the jolt had disabled the motor. for all that, however, the machine, with a few temporary repairs, could travel on its own wheels if not under its own power. brisco had not yet corralled his wits. aided by josh, matt dragged the man off to one side, where he would be out of the way; then, cutting about six feet of rope from the other riata, he threw it down where josh could get at it. "when brisco wakes up, josh," said matt, "just hold him steady till we put that rope on him." "wot yous goin' t' do, matt?" inquired the wondering josh. "yous is busier dan a monkey wit' his hand in a coconut." "we're going to haul the runabout into fairview," said matt. "but i've got to patch her up first." getting into the red flier, matt backed her as close to the disabled car as he could; then, hitching onto the runabout with the ropes, he pulled it down onto the level plain. with a jack taken from the touring-car he swung the runabout's wheel off the ground. the mud-guard, having been ripped off, was not in his way. after locating the puncture and marking it with chalk, he unscrewed the wing-nuts, pushed out the security-bolt, and then, with levers, dug out the inner tube. perhaps he was an hour getting the hole patched up, tire back in place and reinflated. when he was through, the runabout was ready to be dragged to fairview. "how's brisco?" asked matt, putting on his leather coat, which he had thrown off while working with the runabout. "same as wot he was, cull," replied josh. "he ain't twitched an eye-winker." "he may be shamming," said matt, "in the hope of making a bolt for his liberty. we'll put him in the tonneau. you can ride with him and watch him every minute. i'll take spangler in front with me." "we're goin' t' take de hull outfit into fairview?" grinned josh. "that's the idea." "a whale of an idee it is, too, an' no stringin'. reg'lar line-up o' crooks an' stolen automobiles, wit' motor matt in charge o' de bunch. wow! it's de biggest come-easy dat i ever mixed up wit'. mebby dere won't be rejoicin' w'en we goes pokin' into town wit' all dis load. well, i guess yes." between them, matt and josh succeeded in carrying brisco to the touring-car and getting him into the tonneau. spangler, having been transferred to one of the front seats, had been chewing the cud of reflection. "looky here, motor matt," said he, "ye ain't got no call ter kerry me ter fairview. think o' klegg, down an' out an' mebby dyin' back thar in that notch. if anythin' happens ter him ye'll be responsible. better turn me loose an' let me go back an' take keer o' him." "don't do so much worrying over klegg," answered matt. "i intend to have him looked after. just as soon as we get to fairview i'll have the sheriff, or some other officer, go to the notch and see that klegg gets all the attention he deserves." "waal, even at that, ye ain't got no call ter lug me inter town. i ain't done a thing. brisco was the feller that had it in fer you. it's him ye want ter git even with, an' not me." "you didn't have a hand in robbing mr. tomlinson, did you?" said matt sarcastically. "there are a lot of other things you've done, too, and i'm going to turn you over to lem nugent, the man who owns the runabout, as soon as we reach fairview. it won't take long to get nugent up from ash forks." "yous is a game loser, i don't t'ink," scoffed the boy. "w'ere's yer nerve, spangler?" "say," said spangler, giving his attention to josh, "where did you butt inter this game?" "i rode out o' fairview wit' brisco," grinned josh. "he give me a ride." "give ye a ride?" echoed spangler. "sure, on'y he didn't know it. i was under de coat in de back o' de runabout; an' i was still dere w'en yous mutts went t' dat hole in de wall. 'course yous didn't see me. yous was too mad at motor matt t' see anyt'ing." the whole situation rushed over spangler with demoralizing clearness. he was able to understand how josh and matt, by the exercise of pluck and brains, had succeeded in balking the plans of brisco. spangler swore heartily. it seemed to be his only method for easing his feelings. "the worst move we ever made," he muttered savagely, "was takin' motor matt out o' town last night. i didn't want ter do it, but brisco had made up his mind, an' that settled it. we ain't got no one ter blame but ourselves fer what's happened. go on. the quicker we git ter fairview an' hev this thing over with, the better i'll be suited." spangler, resigning himself to the situation, sank back in his seat. matt went around to the rear of the car to make the ropes attaching it to the runabout more secure. as near as he had been able to discover there was a level road all the way to fairview. they were coming into the town from the north and east, and not along the ash fork road, where there was a hill to be descended in order to reach the valley. having reassured himself about the ropes, matt returned to the side of the red flier and mounted the running-board. looking over the side of the tonneau, he swept his gaze over brisco's unconscious face. "i can't understand what keeps him that way, josh," said matt. "mebby he's badly shook up inside," answered the boy. "wot he needs is a doctor." "well, he'll have one before long. stay right beside him and watch him every minute. if he's playing possum with us, we want to make sure he don't gain anything by it." "i'm right on de job," said josh. matt climbed into his seat and started on the low gear. there was a creaking of the ropes as they took the pull, and the runabout started. everything worked smoothly, and matt, with a load worth fifteen hundred dollars, set his face toward fairview. chapter xvi. more trouble for the "uncle tommers." the disappearance of motor matt and the red flier made carl pretzel not only bewildered but furiously angry. he was angry at brisco and bewildered to account for the way he had pulled off his night raid. "oof dot feller inchures a hair oof modor matt's headt," wheezed carl, shaking his fist in the air, "i vill camp by his drail, py chimineddy! i vill go on some var-paths! i vill make him be sorry for vat he dit, yah, so helup me!" leaving carl to rant and vow vengeance, legree rushed over to the railroad-station and sent a message. the message, owing to financial embarrassment on the part of legree, had to go collect. "lem nugent, ash fork. "come at once to fairview. important developments regarding your automobile. motor matt." legree signed the message with matt's name because he knew the cattleman wouldn't know anything about a man named legree; and he also felt sure that motor matt's name would secure the cattleman's instant attention. on his way back to the hotel he inquired for the sheriff. fairview was too small to have a sheriff, but the town had a deputy sheriff. the deputy, however, was just then attending his father's golden-wedding, in flagstaff, the marshal had gone with him, and the town was without an officer. as if this was not sufficiently discouraging, when legree got back to the hotel he found a very disquieting state of affairs. the uncle tommers had been chased out of the hostelry by o'grady and ping pong, his chinese cook. they were gathered in a forlorn group in front, and carl pretzel was with them. "mistah o'grady, sah," uncle tom was saying with all the dignity he could work up, "ah's de official mascot ob motah matt. while ah's been stayin' in yo' 'stablishment, ah's been mascottin' fo' him. he will come back, yo' ma'k what ah say. gib us ouah breakfus en yo' sho gits yo' money!" "begorry, yez have got into me f'r all yez are goin' to," yelled the proprietor. "it's a passel av thramps yez are, iv'ry wan av yez! av th' marshal was in town, oi'd have yez all in th' cooler. get out, befure oi sic th' dog on yez! scatther!" "what's the matter here?" demanded legree, pushing to the front. "py chincher," flared carl, "dot irish feller t'inks ve vas vorkin' some shkin games on him. he vas grazier as a pedpug, und he von't gif us some preakfast." "en we's all hongry es sin," piped uncle tom plaintively. "ah been mascottin' fo' motah matt twell ah's dat fagged ah dunno whut ah's about, no, sah." "i tried to get him to take my ring, legree," put in eliza, "but he won't. he says we're only a lot of dead beats, and never intend to pay him." "ah tole him," spoke up topsy, "dat ah'd wuk in his kitchum fo' de price ob a breakfus, an' he wouldn' hab it. ah's honest, dat's whut ah is. ah nebber stole a cent fum anybody en mah life." "see here, o'grady," remarked legree, "motor matt has money and he has offered to pay our expenses while we're stopping with you. i'll have money myself in a few days, and then i'll pay you. you're not taking any chances on this crowd." "faith, an' yez are roight about thot," scowled o'grady. "oi'm takin' no more chances wid yez. motor matt! why, he run aff lasht noight! sure, he did! he shneaked away so he wouldn't have t' pay me f'r yer kape. oi'm keen enough t' see thot!" "py shinks," whooped carl, dancing around and waving his fists, "don'd you say dod some more. i can lick der feller vat says somet'ings aboudt modor matt like dot. ven he say he pay, he mean vot he say, und he do it, too. yah, you bed you! modor matt vas my bard, und he don'd vas leafing a bard in der lurch like vat you say." "av motor matt is yer pard," said o'grady, "bedad but it's sthrange yez haven't money. git out, oi say! oi'm done wid yez." "i tell you," went on legree, "i'll have money myself in a few days." "yez can't make me belave any cock-an'-bull shtory like thot. niver again will oi take in anny wan widout baggage. shoo! clear out befure oi git violent." in o'grady's present temper there was no reasoning with him, so legree marshaled his comrades and led them off to a neighboring wood-pile, where they all sat down disconsolately. "ah's been accustomed tuh bettah treatment," mourned uncle tom. "ah's got de bigges' notion dat evah was tuh put a hoodoo on dat hotel. ah could do hit, but ah restrains mahse'f till ah gits odahs fum motah matt." "go 'long wif sich talk!" cried topsy, out of patience. "'peahs lak yo' done put dat hoodoo on de rest ob us. nuffin' ain't gone right sence we left dat 'ar brockville place." "there'll be some one here from ash fork before long, who, maybe, will help us," said legree. "just be as patient as you can, friends, and we'll hope for the best." "all de patience in de worl', mistah legree," answered uncle tom, "'doan' fill a pusson's stummick. mah goodness, ah didun' know ah was so pesterin' hongry." "i tell you somet'ing," said carl, "oof i knowed vich vay modor matt vas, i vould go und findt him. i vas madt as some vet hens ofer dis pitzness. here ve vas, hung oop on a vood-pile mit nodding to eat, und not knowing vere modor matt vent mit himseluf. chonny hartluck iss hanging aroundt mit us." leaving his disconsolate friends, legree went back to the railroad-station. there he waited for four hours for the local train from ash fork. he was rewarded, however, by seeing a big man get off the train, stop on the platform, and look around expectantly. legree walked up to the arriving passenger. "mr. nugent?" he asked. "you've hit it," replied the cattleman, staring the stranded actor up and down with an unfavoring eye. "ah! well, sir, my name's legree. i suppose you're looking for motor matt?" "another bull's-eye for you. i came here on a telegram from motor matt saying that there had been important developments concerning my automobile that was stolen from me near ash fork. where's motor matt?" "he is unavoidably absent just now," answered legree, "but i am confidently expecting him to appear at any moment. to be frank with you, sir, i sent that telegram and signed motor matt's name to it." the cattleman became indignant. "you're pretty fresh, seems to me!" said he. "what business had you doing a thing like that?" "because i wanted you here. your car was in town yesterday. one of the thieves brought it in for a supply of gasoline and oil. motor matt and i tried to capture the thief, but he got away from us and took the car with him." "who are you, if you haven't any objection to answerin' a straight question?" demanded the cattleman. "step into the waiting-room with me for a few moments," replied legree, "and i'll explain." they went into the waiting-room and were gone possibly five minutes. when they came out on the platform once more, nugent seemed to have developed a vast amount of confidence in legree. "why didn't you tell motor matt what you've told me?" asked the cattleman. "i wasn't telling anybody that, mr. nugent," answered legree, "and i wouldn't be telling you now if i hadn't wanted to fix things with o'grady so that i and my friends can continue to remain at his hotel." "i know o'grady," said nugent. "come along with me and i'll fix things up for you." they went to the hotel at once. o'grady, tilted back against the wall in front, was smoking a pipe and keeping a sharp eye on the wood-pile. uncle tom, with a red bandanna over his face, was leaning back against the wood and was apparently asleep. all the rest were hovering listlessly about, waiting patiently for something to happen. the sight of lem nugent, who was known throughout all that part of the country, wrought a great change in o'grady. the cattleman and the actor were approaching together, and seemed to be on cordial terms. "o'grady," said nugent, after he had exchanged greetings with the proprietor, "this gentleman is a friend of mine, and his friends are my friends, understand? take them all in and give them the best you've got. and don't bleed me, you shyster. i'll stand the damage, but i won't be robbed." "whativer yez say goes wid me, lem," said o'grady. "come on, all av yez," he cried, standing up and motioning toward the wood-pile. "oi'll have th' chink put a male on th' table f'r yez to wanst." uncle tom may have been asleep, but he heard those welcome words and was up like a shot. "ah was mascottin fo' dat very t'ing," he admitted, as he ran toward the hotel. "layin' back dar wid mah bandannah ober mah face, ah was wukin' lak er hiahed man, yassuh. now, den, yo' topsy, yo' see what ah kin do when ah lays mahse'f out!" just as they were starting into the hotel, a shout from carl brought them all to a halt and an about-face. "hoop-a-la!" yelled carl, dancing around and throwing his cap in the air. "look vonce ad vat's coming! vat dit i say? here vas a drain oof cars, mit modor matt pringing dem in. ach, himmel, i peen so habby as i can't dell! modor matt iss coming!" under the startled eyes of those in front of the hotel two cars could be seen coming along the road. the red flier, with matt and three passengers, was in the lead, and towing behind was the runabout. "my car, by thunder!" shouted nugent, starting for the road. "and spangler is with motor matt," cried the amazed legree, "and brisco, and the kid! how in blazes do you think that happened?" a disgusted look crossed uncle tom's face. "how yo' t'ink dat happened!" he muttered sarcastically; "en me a-mascottin' fo' motah matt all de time!" chapter xvii. conclusion. whether o'grady really thought motor matt had taken french leave during the night or not, is a question. certainly he was as surprised to see matt traveling into town as were any of the rest of them. all those around the hotel flocked to the road. "hello, matt!" called nugent, reaching up his hand. "it looks like you'd been accomplishing something." matt's acquaintance with the cattleman had been of exceedingly brief duration, and never before had he been hailed by him in that cordial tone. "how are you, mr. nugent?" he returned, taking the cattleman's hand. "how did you happen to come over this way?" "got a telegram from you----" "from me?" echoed matt. "i sent it, matt," put in legree, "and signed your name to it. when you disappeared last night i knew something had to be done, and that there ought to be a man with money to do it. so i sent for nugent." "it's all right, my boy," said nugent, "and i'm tickled to death because i came. you're bringing in my car, i see, and the two fellows that took it away from me. good! if we don't put 'em through for their crooked work, my name ain't nugent." "you'll have to send for a doctor for brisco," said matt. "he's been unconscious for two hours, and i don't know whether he's badly hurt or not. you see----" at that moment brisco proved that he was far from being badly hurt. with a jump he got out of the tonneau and started at a run toward the edge of town. uncle tom happened to be in his way, and was knocked heels over head. "dere he goes!" yelled josh excitedly. "clear out o' de way so i kin git a shot at 'im!" but josh was not allowed to carry out his warlike intentions. legree took after the escaping ruffian, overhauled him before he had gone far, grabbed him by the shoulders, and hurled him to the ground. o'grady, rushing to legree's assistance, lent a willing hand. brisco had been a good customer of o'grady's, but the situation had changed somewhat since the uncle tommers had been staying at the shamrock hotel. "i reckon, matt," remarked lem nugent dryly, "that the fellow ain't very badly hurt. how did you happen to get hold of the scoundrels?" "they were chasing us," answered matt. "we were in the red flier and they were in your car. brisco ran into the rocks, and he and spangler were thrown out. neither of them seemed very much hurt, and josh and i captured spangler before he had fully got back his wits. brisco appeared to be all right, but he was unconscious. i had an idea that he might be shamming. probably he came to himself just as we got here, and thought the best thing for him to do would be to make a break." "his break didn't help him any," said legree, as he and o'grady came marching back with brisco between them. "go up to my room, josh," legree went on, "and get those two plates. you'll find 'em under the northeast corner of the carpet. front room, boy." "dat's me," answered josh, handing brisco's weapons to his father and bounding away. "i'm going to tell you people something," proceeded legree, "that will no doubt surprise you. and i think," he finished grimly, "that brisco will be as much surprised as anybody." josh presently returned with a couple of flat, square packages. leaving o'grady to take care of brisco, legree took the packages in his hands. "a crook by the name of denver denny, alias james trymore," went on legree, "escaped from the authorities at denver and came to this part of the country. denver denny was a clever counterfeiter, and worked in conjunction with hank brisco. at least, following the output of the 'queer' as it trailed along in the wake of that uncle tom's cabin company, i came to that conclusion. "denny owned a set of very fine plates for the manufacture of bogus five-dollar silver certificates. when he was captured in denver those plates were nowhere to be found. i conceived the notion that they might be in brisco's possession, and in order to make sure, i became letter-perfect in the part of legree, and josh here got the part of little eva by heart, and we arranged to join brisco's company of barn-stormers. "we were with them for some time, watching brisco all the while. brisco was not shoving any of the 'queer' while we were with him, and i was inclined to think that i had made a mistake in connecting him with denny's operations. however, brisco had a little tin box, of which he was very choice and careful. his solicitude for that box aroused my curiosity. when brisco pulled out between two days in denver, and left his company stranded, by some freak of chance he dropped the box. josh found it. we opened the box in ash fork and found these two packages in it." legree lifted the two flat parcels so all could see. "i knew perfectly well that brisco would come after his box, so i continued to play the part of a stranded actor, hoping to get my hands on him. "fate was kind to us," and here legree turned and dropped a friendly hand on the young motorist's shoulder, "by bringing motor matt along. he came to the front gallantly and helped us. i should have captured brisco sooner or later, even without his aid, but he has closed the affair in hurricane fashion and saved the government lots of trouble." everybody, uncle tommers, matt, carl, and brisco and spangler, were astounded. nugent was the solitary exception, for legree had revealed his identity to the cattleman in the railroad-station. "these are the plates," went on legree. "brisco had them in the tin box." "and you are----" began matt, staring at legree. "a secret service man in the employ of the government." a cry of fierce anger escaped brisco. he made a fierce attempt to get at legree, but o'grady restrained him. "faith," said o'grady, with cheerful disregard of his past actions, "oi knowed yez was a bad egg th' minyit oi set eyes on yez." "dis," remarked uncle tom, with immense pride, "is de best job ob mascottin' whut ah's done yit!" "better give up, brisco!" called spangler from the touring-car. "they've got it on us an' we'll have ter take our medicine." "got it on us, yes," stormed brisco, "but they wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been for motor matt." "not so quick, i'll admit," said legree amiably, "but i'd have caught you sooner or later, brisco. in my report i shall have something to say to the head of the department about motor matt. i'd like to hear, though, just how he happened to make this haul." "josh helped me," said matt. "not enough so yous could notice it," returned josh promptly; "motor matt was de man on de job from start t' finish. yous take it from little eva, an' no stringin'." the boy turned to matt with a wide grin. "yous is wise t' why i went off wit' brisco in dat runabout now, ain't yous? i wanted t' find out w'ere he had 'is hang-out so dad could turn a trick fer de gov'ment. but yous cut out dad, matt." "listen, vonce," cried carl, who had been trying for some time to get in a few words, "matt's der pest efer. he prings luck venefer he goes mit anypody. yah, dot's righdt. i know, pecause he prought luck mit me." uncle tom was disposed to butt in with an objection, but the cattleman had something to say. "there's fifteen hundred of my money goes to somebody for all this," said he. "who gets it, matt?" "divide it up between all of us," answered the boy generously. "the uncle tommers need it." a shout of delight went up from the actor contingent. "you can leave josh in the division," said legree, "but cut me out of it. i'm working for uncle sam." just at that moment the chinaman stepped to the door and announced dinner. "we'll talk all this over while we eat," said nugent. "come on, everybody." * * * * * motor matt and carl, having lost more time in fairview than they could well afford, started for albuquerque early in the afternoon. eliza, topsy, and uncle tom, now well supplied with money, were to proceed to denver by train. the secret service man and josh were to remain in fairview for a few days with their prisoners, and then to take them to denver for trial. "matt," said carl seriously, as the red flier leaped onward toward albuquerque, "i vas a lucky feller to hook oop mit you. vone oof dose tays, oof you don'd go pack on me, i vill vear tiamonts!" "i'll never go back on you, carl," laughed matt; "but i'm a little 'juberous' about the diamonds." the end. the next number ( ) will contain motor matt's clue; or, the phantom auto. a night mystery--dick ferral--la vita place--the house of wonder--sercomb--the phantom auto again--surrounded by enemies--the kettle begins to boil--ordered away--a new plan--a daring leap--desperate villiany--tippoo--in the nick of time--a startling interruption--the price of treachery--the luck of dick ferral. motor stories thrilling adventure motor fiction new york, april , . terms to motor stories mail subscribers. (_postage free._) single copies or back numbers, c. each. months c. months c. months $ . one year . copies one year . copy two years . =how to send money=--by post-office or express money-order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. at your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage-stamps in ordinary letter. =receipts=--receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. if not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once. ormond g. smith, } george c. smith, } _proprietors_. street & smith, publishers, - seventh avenue, new york city. a snowball fight. by horatio alger, jr. the snow had fallen to the depth of six inches during the night, filling in the yards and covering the door-steps, throughout the town of conway. among those who hailed the arrival of the snow with joy was frank taylor, a boy of fourteen, the son of the widow taylor, who lived in a miserable little tenement not far from the mill. why he was glad to see the snow will soon appear. early in the morning he shoveled a path to the street, and then putting his shovel over his shoulder, said to his mother: "i'm going over to squire ashmead's to see if he doesn't want me to shovel paths in his yard." "he's got a boy of his own," said mrs. taylor; "perhaps he will do it." frank laughed. "sam ashmead is proud and lazy," he said. "you won't catch him shoveling paths. i think i shall get the job. i want to earn something so that you need not sit all day sewing. it is too hard for you." "i ought to think myself lucky to get employment at all," said the widow. "i wish i could get steady work somewhere," said frank; "but i've tried and tried, and it seems impossible." "willing hands will not want work long," said his mother. "i hope not, mother. but i must be going, or somebody will get the start of me." while frank is on his way to squire ashmead's, a few words of explanation may be given. his mother had been a widow for two years. her husband had been a man of some education, having at times taught school, but he had never succeeded in laying up any money, and his widow was left almost penniless. frank, who was a stout boy, and a good boy as well, had earned something by doing odd jobs, but had failed to obtain permanent employment. the burden of their joint support, therefore, was thrown upon his mother, who was very industrious with her needle, but was compelled to labor beyond her strength. all this troubled frank, who felt that, as a stout, strong boy, he ought to bear at least half the expense. in due time he reached squire ashmead's, and was glad to see that the snow remained undisturbed. he rang the bell, and asked if he might shovel the paths that were necessary. squire ashmead was absent in new york, to which city he had gone the morning previous on business, but his wife agreed to employ frank. he went to work with a will, and soon had a path dug from the front door to the gate. a path was also required from the back door to the stable, which was situated in the rear of the house. this was quite a distance, and as frank wished to do the work thoroughly, it required considerable time. he was about half through this portion of his task when a snowball whistled by his ear. looking round quickly, he saw sam ashmead standing at the corner of the house, engaged in making a fresh snowball. "don't fire any more snowballs, sam ashmead," said frank. "i shall, if i please," said sam. "i haven't time to fire back now," said frank. "wait till i get through, and we'll have a match if you like." "but i don't like," said sam scornfully. "do you think i would have a match with a beggar like you?" "i am no beggar, sam ashmead," said frank, "and if i were i don't think i would beg of you." "oh, you're mighty proud," sneered sam, "considering that you live in an old hut not half as good as our stable." "yes, i am poor, and i live in a poor house," said frank calmly, "but that isn't a crime that i know of. some time i shall live in a better house, i hope." so saying, he went back to work, and began shoveling the snow vigorously. he did not anticipate any further attack from sam, but in this he soon found himself mistaken. in the course of a minute he felt a pretty hard blow in the center of his back, and looking round saw sam ashmead laughing insolently. "how does that feel?" asked sam. "that's the second snowball you've fired at me," said frank quietly, but there was a light in his eyes as he spoke. "i advise you not to fire another if you know what is good for yourself." "so you threaten me, do you? suppose i fire again, what's going to happen?" demanded sam, with an unpleasant sneer. "i think you will be sorry for it," said frank. sam hesitated a moment, but only a moment. he was a year older than frank, and larger in size. certainly he ought to be a match for him. but he did not believe that frank would have the audacity to touch him, the son of squire ashmead, the richest man in the village. he therefore deliberately made another snowball, and firing it, struck frank in the back of his head. frank no sooner felt the blow than he threw down his shovel, and ran toward his assailant. "keep off, you beggar!" said sam. "it's too late," said frank. "i warned you not to fire again." sam placed himself in an attitude of defense, but found himself seized violently round the middle, and before he fairly knew what was going to happen he was lying in a snow-bank with frank standing over him. he struggled to his feet mad with rage, and "pitched into" frank, as the boys express it, and endeavored to retaliate in kind. but frank was watchful and wary, and evading the attack, seized him again when his strength was half spent, and sam found himself once more occupying an involuntary bed in the snow. a third struggle resulted in the same way. sam was furious, but he saw that frank was more than a match for him. just then a servant called out from the door: "master sam, your mother says it's time for you to be going to school." to tell the truth, sam was rather glad of the summons, as it gave him an excuse for retiring from the contest. "i'll be even with you yet," he said, shaking his fist at frank. "i'll let my father know how you insulted me, you young beggar!" "if anybody has been insulted, i have," said frank. "you must remember that you began it." sam scowled vindictively, and brushing the snow from his coat went into the house. before frank finished the path at the back of the house he was gone to school. mrs. ashmead sent out fifty cents to frank for his morning's work, with which he went home, well satisfied, wishing that he might earn as much every day. he wondered a little whether sam would tell his father what had occurred between them. he did not speak of it to his mother, for she was nervous, and would be troubled by it, as she received considerable work to do from the ashmead family which she might fear would be taken away. on the afternoon of the next day, however, frank received a note, which proved to come from squire ashmead. it ran as follows: "frank taylor: please call at my office to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. james ashmead." this note frank thought best to show to his mother. "what does it mean, frank? have you any idea?" she asked. frank thereupon told her the story of his difficulty with sam. "it may be about that," he said. "oh, dear," said the widow. "i'm afraid he's very angry. i hope you will apologize, frank." "no, mother," said frank, "i don't see why i should. i only defended myself from a bully. i should be ashamed to do anything else. i didn't hurt him, and didn't intend to, but i wanted to teach him that he couldn't insult me without having to pay for it." "i am afraid some harm will come of it," said the widow anxiously. "don't trouble yourself, mother," said frank soothingly. "if we do only what's right, god will take care of us." still it was with some anxiety that frank made his way the next morning to the office of squire ashmead. this gentleman was the agent of a large manufactory in the town, of which also he was a considerable owner, so that he received an income of over ten thousand dollars a year, which made him the most prominent and influential citizen in the town. when frank entered the office, squire ashmead was conversing with a stranger on business. "sit down," he said, turning to frank. "i will be at leisure in a moment." "well," he said, after the stranger had departed, "sam tells me you and he have had a little difficulty." "yes, sir," said frank. "i would like to explain how it occurred." "very well. go on." it will be unnecessary to give the explanation, as it was strictly in accordance with the facts. "do you blame me for what i did?" asked frank, at the end. "no, i do not," said the squire. "sam acted like a bully, and was properly punished. let that pass. now let me ask you how you and your mother are getting along?" "poorly, sir," said frank. "if i could have steady work, it would be different, but that i cannot get. it troubles me to see my mother work so hard all day. i think it is too much for her." "how would you like to come into my office?" frank's eyes sparkled. "i should think myself very lucky, sir, to get so good a chance." "i want some boy whom i can trust, who can grow up to the business, and after a time relieve me of a portion of my cares. i would take sam, but i am sorry to say, though he is my own son, that he would not answer my purpose. i have heard good accounts of you from your teacher and the people in the village. i will take you at a salary of six dollars a week, to be increased from time to time if you will suit me. can you come monday morning?" "yes, sir," said frank, "and i will do my best to give you satisfaction." "very well, my lad. good morning." frank left the office, feeling as if his fortune was made. his mother, who was awaiting the result of the interview anxiously at home, was overwhelmed with astonishment at the unexpected good fortune of her son. sam was disagreeably surprised, and tried to shake his father's resolution, but squire ashmead was a sensible man, and not to be moved. frank commenced his duties the next monday. he was so faithful that he was rapidly advanced, and at twenty-one was receiving twelve hundred dollars a year. at twenty-five, on the sudden death of squire ashmead, he succeeded to his agency, and now lives with his mother in the mansion at which he once thought himself lucky to be permitted to shovel the paths. as for sam, he squandered the handsome property received from his father, and died at thirty from the effects of intemperate habits. secrets of trick shooting. when a champion rifle shot fires blindfolded at a wedding-ring, or a penny held between his wife's thumb and finger, or, seated back to her, shoots, by means of a mirror, at an apple upon her head or on a fork held in her teeth, the danger of using a bullet is obvious. none, of course, is needed; the explosion is enough. the apple is already prepared, having been cut into pieces and stuck together with an adhesive substance, and a thread with a knot at the end, pulled through it from the "wings," so that it flies to bits when the gun is fired, is "how it is done." generally, the more dangerous a feat appears the more carefully is all danger guarded against. in the "william tell" act the thread is often tied to the assistant's foot. when, again, the ash is shot off a cigar which the assistant is smoking, a piece of wire is pushed by his tongue through a hollowed passage in the cigar--thus thrusting off the ash at the moment of firing. a favorite but simple trick is the shooting from some distance at an orange held in a lady's hand. great applause is invariably forthcoming when the bullet drops out on her, cutting open the fruit. it is inserted by hand earlier in the evening. another popular trick is that of snuffing out lighted candles. half a dozen are placed in front of a screen in which as many small holes are bored, one against each candlewick. at the moment of firing, a confederate behind the screen sharply blows out each candle with a pair of bellows. this trick was accidentally exposed one evening by a too zealous assistant. the lady in the gallery pulled the trigger, but the rifle failed to go off; the candle, however, went out just the same. in most instances, where a ball or other object has to be broken on a living person's head, blank cartridge is used and the effect produced by other means. a special wig, with a spring concealed in it, worked by a wire under the clothes, is generally used, the confederate manipulating the spring simultaneously with the firing of the rifle. as the ball is of extremely thin glass, a mere touch suffices to shatter it. in these exhibitions some of the rifle "experts" invite gentlemen from the audience to testify that the weapon is indeed loaded. the cartridge shown looks very well, but it is a shell of thin wax blackened to resemble a leaden bullet. it would not hurt a fly. reelfoot lake. the physical history of reelfoot lake, of night-rider fame, is not without a certain interest of its own. the lake came into existence as the result of a series of earthquakes, which began in december, , and continued until june, . some authorities say that the earthquakes merely heaved up a great ridge of land across the path of the reelfoot river, which runs into the mississippi, and that this dam caused the water to back up and broaden out and form a lake; but the favorite account in the neighborhood is to the effect that the ground sank, springs were opened up, neighboring creeks diverted from their course, and the overflowing water of the mississippi rushed in during the flood season of the spring of . it is said that for an hour and a half the waters of the mississippi flowed up-hill while filling up the depression caused by the earthquakes. both accounts likely have this much of truth in them that the entire configuration of the ground was changed by the earthquakes. big lake, west of the mississippi, in arkansas, is said to have been formed in the same way at the same time. reelfoot lake is sixteen or eighteen miles long, very irregular in shape, and covers from , to , acres of land. it varies in width from a mile in some places to four or five miles in others. the northern end is extended by a series of sloughs and bayous into kentucky. the most distinctive feature of the lake's appearance, the feature which first impresses and stays longest with the observer's fancy, is a certain grotesque effect, as if a set of crazy men had been operating a pile-driver there for the last century, for the trunks, stumps, and stark branches of dead trees stick out of it everywhere in desolate parody of some such human handiwork; far below the surface the fish dart among the boles and branches where the squirrels frolicked a hundred years ago. there are beautiful spots here and there, but the effect, as a whole, is not beautiful; at its best, when the mist rises and myriad protruding tree trunks are white and ghostly in the moonlight, it is weird; the general remembrance is of something uncouth. it is a kind of sloven lake that has preferred to sit down with its hair uncombed all day long, but at night it does manage to achieve a touch of wizard dignity. a floating slum. stand beside the imperial custom-house at canton and let the eye range down the river toward hongkong. as far as the sight can reach lie boats, boats, and again boats. these are no ordinary craft, mere vessels of transport plying hither and thither, but the countless homes of myriad chinese, in which millions of human beings have been born, have lived, and have died. they are the dwellings of the very poor, who live in them practically free from rent, taxes, and the other burdens of the ordinary citizen. the tankia--which means boat-dwellers--as the denizens of these floating houses are called, form a sort of caste apart from the rest of the cantonese. the shore-dwellers regard them as belonging to a lower social order; and indeed they have many customs, peculiar to themselves, which mark them as a separate community. how the swarming masses of them contrive to support existence is a mystery, but their chief mode of employment is in carrying merchandise and passengers from place to place. wild horses of nevada. horses are cheap in nevada. on the government ranges, where they are protected by game-laws, droves of wild horses exist which in the aggregate are said to amount to fifteen thousand. formerly there was a law in nevada permitting the shooting of these wild horses for their hides, but there were hunters who were not particular, and the ranchers found their domestic horses disappearing if they let them out on the range. so their shooting was prohibited, and since that time the droves have grown to be exceedingly troublesome. they can be domesticated, but they are not needed there, and it costs too much to ship them east. it seems a pity that, while so many sections could use them to advantage, the transportation problem makes it impossible to get them at a price which they are worth. _especially important!!_ motor stories _a new idea in the way of five-cent weeklies._ boys everywhere will be delighted to hear that street & smith are now issuing this new five-cent weekly which will be known by the name of motor stories. this weekly is entirely different from anything now being published. it details the astonishing adventures of a young mechanic who owned a motor cycle. is there a boy who has not longed to possess one of these swift little machines that scud about the roads everywhere throughout the united states? is there a boy, therefore, who will not be intensely interested in the adventures of "motor matt," as he is familiarly called by his comrades? boys, you have never read anything half so exciting, half so humorous and entertaining as the first story listed for publication in this line, called "=motor matt; or, the king of the wheel=." its fame is bound to spread like wildfire, causing the biggest demand for the other numbers in this line, that was ever heard of in the history of this class of literature. here are the titles to be issued during the next few weeks. do not fail to place an order for them with your newsdealer. no. . motor matt; or, the king of the wheel. no. . motor matt's daring; or, true to his friends. no. . motor matt's "century" run; or, the governor's courier. no. . motor matt's race; or, the last flight of the _comet_. large size pages splendid colored covers price, five cents per copy at all newsdealers, or sent postpaid by the publishers upon receipt of the price. _street & smith, publishers, new york_ _the best of them all!!_ motor stories it is new and intensely interesting we knew before we published this line that it would have a tremendous sale and our expectations were more than realized. it is going with a rush, and the boys who want to read these, the most interesting and fascinating tales ever written, must speak to their newsdealers about reserving copies for them. =motor matt= sprang into instant favor with american boy readers and is bound to occupy a place in their hearts second only to that now held by frank merriwell. the reason for this popularity is apparent in every line of these stories. they are written by an author who has made a life study of the requirements of the up-to-date american boy as far as literature is concerned, so it is not surprising that this line has proven a huge success from the very start. here are the titles now ready and also those to be published. you will never have a better opportunity to get a generous quantity of reading of the highest quality, so place your orders now. =no. .--motor matt; or, the king of the wheel.= =no. .--motor matt's daring; or, true to his friends.= =no. .--motor matt's century run; or, the governor's courier.= =no. .--motor matt's race; or, the last flight of the "comet."= to be published on march nd =no. .--motor matt's mystery; or, foiling a secret plot.= to be published on march th =no. .--motor matt's red flier; or, on the high gear.= to be published on april th =no. .--motor matt's clue; or, the phantom auto.= to be published on april th =no. .--motor matt's triumph; or, three speeds forward.= =price, five cents= to be had from newsdealers everywhere, or sent, postpaid, upon receipt of the price by the publishers _street & smith, publishers, new york_ * * * * * * transcriber's note: added table of contents. retained some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. "motorcycle" vs. "motor-cycle"). retained some inconsistent spellings in dialect (e.g. "becase" vs. "bekase"). page , added missing comma after ""vell, py shinks." added missing apostrophe after "doan" in "why doan' yo'-all git." removed unnecessary quote after "matt stopped the red flier." page , removed unnecessary quote after "legree was about to secure it?" page , changed "as she pointed" to "as he pointed." page , "would came after it" looks like a typo but has been retained in case it is intentional dialect. page , replaced ligature in "phoenix" with "oe." ligature is retained in html edition. page , removed unnecessary quote before "matt's pulses quickened." page , added missing period after "josh turned to stare along the road." page , changed "mat" to "matt" in "matt was intending to push the stone." page , the sentence "as he yanked the lever savagely, the popping from up the road sounding like the rapid discharge of a gatling gun." seems incorrect, but it is reproduced as originally printed. transcriber's note italic text is denoted by _underscores_. the oe ligature has been replaced by 'oe' or 'oe'. obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. more detail can be found at the end of the book. note.--_three hundred copies of this edition printed on fine deckle-edge royal vo paper. the fifty portraits are given in duplicate, one on japanese and the other on plate paper, as india proofs._ _each of these copies is numbered._ _no._ ........ "their majesties' servants" dr. doran, f.s.a. volume the second ballantyne press ballantyne, hanson and co. edinburgh and london [illustration:(frontispiece, garrick and his wife)] "_their majesties' servants_" annals of the english stage from thomas betterton to edmund kean by dr. doran, f.s.a. _edited and revised by robert w. lowe_ with fifty copperplate portraits and eighty wood engravings _in three volumes_ volume the second london john c. nimmo , king william street, strand mdccclxxxviii contents. chapter i. page mrs. oldfield chapter ii. from the death of anne oldfield to that of wilks chapter iii. robert wilks chapter iv. enter garrick chapter v. garrick, quin, mrs. porter chapter vi. rivalry; and enter, spranger barry chapter vii. the old dublin theatre chapter viii. garrick and quin; garrick and barry chapter ix. the audiences of - chapter x. exit, james quin chapter xi. england and scotland chapter xii. margaret woffington chapter xiii. colley cibber chapter xiv. england and ireland chapter xv. ryan, rich, o'brien chapter xvi. susanna maria cibber chapter xvii. reappearance of spranger barry--retirement of mrs. pritchard chapter xviii. the last years of garrick and barry chapter xix. david garrick chapter xx. spranger and anne barry chapter xxi. kitty clive, woodward, and shuter chapter xxii. samuel foote list of copperplate portraits. volume ii. engraved by messrs. annan & swan, london. page i. garrick and his wife { painted by zoffany, the } playing piquet { property of henry graves, } _frontispiece_ { esq., pall mall } ii. mrs. oldfield from a rare mezzotint by simon iii. robert wilks { from the original painting by } { j. ellys } iv. theophilus cibber from the worlidge collection v. david garrick vi. george anne bellamy vii. mr. mossop from the original by mortimer viii. peg woffington painted by j. haytley ix. mrs. yates from a rare engraving x. mrs. cibber xi. mrs. pritchard xii. mr. macklin xiii. spranger barry xiv. kitty clive { from the original at strawberry } { hill } xv. samuel foote painted by f. colson, xvi. tate wilkinson from the original by f. atkinson list of illustrations on wood. volume ii. engraved by del. orme & butler, london, and printed on japanese paper by ed. badoureau, london. page . mrs. oldfield . goodman's fields theatre . peg woffington--from a painting by pond . garrick's birthplace, hereford . ipswich theatre--in which garrick made his first appearance . a pit admission check--goodman's fields theatre . james lacy . garrick and mrs. abington in the "suspicious husband" . woodward in "every man in his humour" . quin as coriolanus . old theatre royal, edinburgh-- - . mrs. garrick--painted by hogarth . theophilus cibber--drawing by hogarth . theatre royal, dublin . rich as harlequin-- . theatre royal, drury lane . david garrick--from a miniature by louisa lane . garrick's house, hampton . garrick between tragedy and comedy . mr. and mrs. barry in "tamerlane" . kitty clive's house, twickenham . mr. foote as mrs. cole in "the minor" list of tailpieces on wood. volume ii. page . mrs. clive as mrs. heidelberg . mr. clarke as antonio . mrs. yates as lady macbeth . mr. macklin as shylock . mr. king as lord ogleby . mr. powell as lovewell . mr. powell as cyrus . mr. garrick as macbeth . mr. garrick as sir john brute . mr. shuter as justice woodcock . mrs. yates as mandane [illustration: mrs. oldfield.] chapter i. mrs. oldfield. artists who have been wont to look into the _vicar of wakefield_, _gil blas_, and last century comedies, for picturesque subjects, would find account in referring to the lives of our actresses. here is not a bad picture of its class. the time is at the close of the seventeenth century; the scene is at the mitre tavern in st. james's market, kept by one mrs. voss. it is a quiet summer evening, and after the fatigues of the day are over, and before the later business of the night has commenced, that buxom lady is reclining in an easy chair, listening to a fair and bright young creature, her sister,[ ] who is reading aloud, and is enjoying what she reads. her eyes, like kathleen's in the song, are beaming with light, her face glowing with intelligence and feeling. even an elderly lady, their mother, turns away from the picture of her husband, who had ridden in the guards, and held a commission under james ii.--she turns from this, and memories of old days, to gaze with tender admiration on her brilliant young daughter; who, be it said, at this present reading, is only an apprentice to a seamstress in king street, westminster. but the soul of thalia is under her bodice, into a neater than which, anadyomene could not have laced herself. she is rapt in the reading, and with book held out, and face upraised, and figure displayed at its very best, she enthrals her audience, unconscious herself that this is more numerous than she might have supposed. on the threshold of the open door stand a couple of guests; one of them has, to us, no name; the other is a gay, rollicking young fellow, smartly dressed, a semi-military look about him, good humour rippling over his face, combined with an air of astonishment and delight. this is captain farquhar. his sight and hearing are wholly concentrated on that enchanted and enchanting girl, who, unmindful of aught but the "scornful lady," continues still reading aloud that rattling comedy of beaumont and fletcher. how the mother listened to it all is not to be told; but nearly a century later queen charlotte could listen to her daughters reading "polly honeycombe," and no harm done. we may fancy the young reader at the mitre, whose name is anne oldfield, in that silvery voice for which she was famed, half in sadness and half in mirth, reading the lines in which the lady says:-- "all we that are call'd woman, know as well as men, it were a far more noble thing to grace where we are graced, and give respect there where we are respected: yet we practise a wilder course, and never bend our eyes on men with pleasure, till they find the way to give us a neglect. then we too late perceive the loss of what we might have had, and dote to death." captain farquhar, at whatever passage in the play, betrayed his presence by his involuntary applause. the girl looked towards him more pleased than abashed; and when the captain pronounced that there was in her the stuff for an exquisite actress, the fluttered thing clasped her hands, glowed at the prophecy, and protested in her turn, that of all conditions it was the one she wished most ardently to fulfil. from that moment the glory and the mischief were commenced. the tall girl stood up, her large eyes dilating, the assured future lady betty modish and biddy tipkin, farquhar's own sylvia and mrs. sullen, the violante and the lady townley that were to set the playgoing world mad with delight; the andromache, marcia, and jane shore, that were to wring tears from them; the supreme lady in all, but chiefest in comedy; and that "genteel," for which she seemed expressly born. farquhar talked of her to vanbrugh, and vanbrugh introduced her to rich, and rich took her into his company, assigned her a beginner's salary, fifteen shillings a week, and gave her nothing to do. she had a better life of it at the seamstress's in king street. but she had time to spare and leisure to wait. she was barely fifteen, when, in , she played alinda, in vanbrugh's adaptation from beaumont and fletcher, the "pilgrim." the next three or four years were those of probation; and when, in the season of - , cibber assigned to her the part of lady betty modish, in his "careless husband," the town at once recognised in her the most finished actress of such difficult yet effective parts of her day. the gentle alinda suited the years and inexperience of mrs. oldfield; her youth was in her favour, and her figure, but therewith was such great diffidence, that she had not courage enough to modulate her voice. cibber watched her; he could see nothing to recommend her, save her graceful person. but there reached his ear occasional silver tones, which seemed to assure him of the rare excellence of the instrument. still, like "the great mrs. barry," her first appearances were failures; and such were those of sarah siddons, in after years. warmed by encouraging applause, however, the promise ripened, and with opportunity, the perfection that came was demonstrated both to watchful cibber and an expectant public. in the company was at bath, where queen anne might have been seen in the pump room in the morning,--later in the day, at the play. but the joyous and brilliant queen of comedy was _not_ there. mrs. verbruggen, the mrs. mountfort of earlier days, was ill in town, nursing a baby, whose birth ultimately cost the life of the mother. there was a scramble for her parts. each of the more influential actresses obtained several; but to young and unobtrusive mrs. oldfield, there fell but one,--the mediocre part of leonora, in "sir courtly nice." cibber reluctantly ran over the scenes with her, at her request, in which the knight and the lady meet. he was careless, from lack of appreciation of the actress; _she_ was piqued, and sullenly repeated the words set down for her. there was, in short, a mutual distaste. _but_, when the night came, colley saw the almost perfect actress before him, and as he says,--"she had a just occasion to triumph over the error of my judgment by the almost amazement that her unexpected performance awaked me to; so sudden and forward a step into nature i had never seen. and what made her performance more valuable was, that i knew it all proceeded from her own understanding,--untaught and unassisted by any one more experienced actor." any other player but cibber, in his place, would have laid anne oldfield's success to the instruction he had given her at rehearsal. colley cibber had then in his desk the unfinished manuscript of his "careless husband;" it had long lain there, through the author's hopelessness of ever finding an actress who would realise his idea of lady betty modish. he had no longer any doubt. he at once finished the piece, brought it on the stage, and silent as to his own share in the triumph, attributed it all, or nearly all, to mrs. oldfield. "not only to the uncommon excellence of her action; but even to her personal manner of conversing." i must repeat what cibber tells us, that many of the sentiments were mrs. oldfield's, dressed up by him, "with a little more care than when they negligently fell from her lively humour." respecting what cibber adds, that "had her birth placed her in a higher rank of life, she had certainly appeared to be, in reality, what in the play she only excellently acted,--an agreeably gay woman of quality, a little too conscious of her natural attractions," i will remark that, as she really appeared to be so, her birth (she was a gentleman's daughter) could not prevent her from appearing so. and cibber avows, what the testimony of walpole confirms, that he had "often seen her in private societies, where women of the best rank might have borrowed some part of her behaviour without the least diminution of their sense of dignity." in , the merit of mrs. oldfield was not recognised by gildon, who, in his "comparison between the two stages," classes her among "the rubbish," of which the stage should be swept. of mrs. verbruggen (mountfort), he speaks as "a miracle." he could not see that oldfield would be her successor, and would, in some parts, even excel her. by the year , however, she had risen to be on an equality with such a brilliant favourite as mrs. bracegirdle, whom, in the opinion of many, her younger competitor surpassed. the salary of the latter then, and for some years later, was not, however, a large one, if measured by modern rule. four pounds a week, with a benefit,--in all, little more than £ a year, cannot be called excessive guerdon. her own benefit was always profitable; but i am sorry to add, that this joyous-looking creature, apparently brimful of good nature, was very reluctant to play for the benefit of her colleagues. subsequently, her revenue from the stage-salary and benefit averaged about £ a year. a remark of hers to cibber, shows how she entered into the spirit of her parts. cibber had replaced dicky norris, who was ill, in the part of barnaby brittle, in the "amorous widow," in which mrs. oldfield played barnaby's wife. the couple are a sort of george dandin and his spouse. when the play was over, cibber asked her, in his familiar way, "nancy, how did you like your new husband?" "very well," said she; "but not half so well as dicky norris." "how so?" asked cibber. "you are too important a figure," she answered; "but dicky is so diminutive, and looks so sneaking, that he seems born to be deceived; and when he plays with me, i make him what a husband most dislikes to be, with hearty good will." genest cites cibber, chetwood, and davies, in order to describe her adequately. "after her success in lady betty modish," he says, "all that nature had given her of the actress seemed to have risen to its full perfection; but the variety of her powers could not be known till she was seen in variety of characters which, as fast as they fell to her, she equally excelled in. in the wearing of her person she was particularly fortunate; her figure was always improving, to her thirty-sixth year; but her excellence in acting was never at a stand. and lady townley, one of her last new parts, was a proof that she was still able to do more, if more could have been done for her." davies, after noticing her figure and expression, says of her "large speaking eyes," that in some particular comic situations she kept them half shut, "especially when she intended to give effect to some brilliant or gay thought. in sprightliness of air and elegance of manner, she excelled all actresses, and was greatly superior in the clear, sonorous, and harmonious tones of her voice." how are wilks and the inimitable she photographed for posterity? "wilks's copper captain was esteemed one of his best characters. mrs. oldfield was equally happy in estifania. when she drew the pistol from her pocket, pretending to shoot perez, wilks drew back, as if greatly terrified, and in a tremulous voice, uttered, 'what, thine own husband!' to which she replied, with archness of countenance and a half-shut eye, 'let mine own husband then be in 's own wits,' in a tone of voice in imitation of his, that the theatre was in a tumult of applause." [illustration: (mrs. oldfield)] from cibber, again, we learn that she was modest and unpresuming; that in all the parts she undertook, she sought enlightenment and instruction from every quarter, "but it was a hard matter to give her a hint that she was not able to improve." with managers she was not exacting; "she lost nothing by her easy conduct; she had everything she asked, which she took care should be always reasonable, because she hated as much to be grudged as to be denied a civility." like mrs. barry, she entered fully into the character she had to represent, and examined it closely, in order to grasp it effectually. when the "beaux' stratagem" was in rehearsal ( ), in which she played mrs. sullen, she remarked to wilks, that she thought the author had dealt too freely with mrs. sullen, in giving her to archer, without such a proper divorce as would be a security to her honour. wilks communicated this to the author. "tell her," said poor farquhar, who was then dying, "that for her peace of mind's sake, i'll get a real divorce, marry her myself, and give her my bond she shall be a real widow in less than a fortnight." mrs. oldfield was the original representative of sixty-five characters. the greater number of these belong to genteel comedy, as it is called, a career which she commenced as peculiarly her own, in , when chance assigned to her the part of leonora, in "sir courtly nice." her wonderful success in this, induced cibber to trust to her the part of lady betty modish, in the "careless husband," the comedy which he had put aside in despair of finding a lady equal to his conception of the character. her mere conversation in that play intoxicated the house. at a later period, her audiences were even more ecstatic at her lady townley,--an ecstasy in which the managers must have shared, for they immediately added fifty guineas to her salary. it was just the sum which the benevolent actress gave annually to that most contemptibly helpless personage, savage. her highest salary never, i believe, exceeded three hundred guineas; but this was exclusive of benefits, occasions on which gold was showered into her lap. humour, grace, vivacity,--all were exuberant on the stage, when she and wilks were playing against each other. indeed, one can hardly realise the idea of this supreme queen of comedy wearing the robe and illustrating the sorrows of tragedy. she, for her own part, disliked the latter vocation. she hated, as she said often, to have a page dragging her tail about. "why do not they give these parts to porter? she can put on a better tragedy-face than i can." earnest as she was, however, in these characters before the audience, she was frolicsome at rehearsal. when "cato" was in preparation, mrs. oldfield was cast for marcia, the philosophical statesman's daughter. addison attended the rehearsals, and swift was at addison's side, making suggestions, and marking the characteristics of the lively people about him. he never had a good word for woman, and consequently he had his usual coarse epithet for mrs. oldfield, speaking of her as "the drab that played cato's daughter;" and railing at her for her hilarity while rehearsing that passionate part, and, in her forgetfulness, calling merrily out to the prompter, "what next? what next?" yet this hilarious actress played cleopatra with dignity, and calista with feeling. she accepted with great reluctance the part of semandra, in "mithridates," when that tragedy was revived in ; but chetwood says she performed the part to perfection, and became reconciled to tragedy by reason of her success. in these characters, however, she could be excelled by others, but in lady betty modish and lady townley she was probably never equalled. in the comedy of lower life she was, perhaps, less original; at least, anthony aston remarks, that in free comedy she borrowed something from mrs. verbruggen's manner. when wilks, as lord townley, exclaimed "prodigious!" in the famous scene with his lady, played by mrs. oldfield, the house applied it to her acting, and broke into repeated rounds of applause. "who should act genteel comedy, perfectly," asks walpole, "but people of fashion that have sense? actors and actresses can only guess at the tone of high life, and cannot be inspired with it. why are there so few genteel comedies, but because most comedies are written by men not of that sphere. etherege, congreve, vanbrugh, and cibber wrote genteel comedy, because they lived in the best company; and mrs. oldfield played it so well, because she not only followed, but often set the fashion. general burgoyne has writ the best modern comedy for the same reason; and miss farren is as excellent as mrs. oldfield, because she has lived with the best style of men in england. farquhar's plays talk the language of a marching regiment in country quarters. wycherley, dryden, mrs. centlivre, &c., wrote as if they had only lived in the _rose tavern_; but then the court lived in drury lane, too, and lady dorchester and nell gwyn were equally good company." in this there is some injustice against mrs. centlivre, for whose name should be supplied that of aphra behn. walpole judges more correctly of the comic writers of the seventeenth century, when he places molière "senor moleiro," as downes absurdly calls him, at the head of them all. "who upon earth," he says, "has written such perfect comedies? for the 'careless husband' is but one; the 'non-juror' was built on the 'tartuffe,' and if the man of mode (etherege) and vanbrugh are excellent, they are too indelicate; and congreve, who beat all for wit, is not always natural, still less, simple." it has been said of mrs. oldfield, that she never troubled the peace of any lady at the head of a household; but i think she may have marred the expectations of some who desired to reach that eminence. she early captivated the heart of mr. maynwaring. he was a bachelor, rich, connected with the government, and a hard drinker, according to the prevailing fashion. he was cymon subdued by iphigenia. he loved the lady's refinement, and she kept his household as carefully as if she had been his wife, and presided at his table with a grace that charmed him. there was something of beauty and the beast in this connection, but the end of the fable was wanting; the animal was never converted to an azor, and a marriage with zemira was the one thing wanting. when maynwaring died, society almost looked upon her as an honest widow. indeed, it had never rejected her. the standard of morals was low, and when the _quasi_ widow accepted the proposal of general churchill to place her at the head of his establishment, as she had been in that of mr. maynwaring, no one blamed her. marriage, indeed, seems to have been thought of, and queen caroline, who did not at all disdain to stoop to little matters of gossip, one day remarked to mrs. oldfield, who had, i suppose, been reading to a court circle, "i hear, mrs. oldfield, that you and the general are married?" "madam," said the actress, playing her very best, "the general keeps his own secrets!" the two love passages in the life of anne oldfield were, in short, founded on sentiment and not on interest. the duke of bedford offered her more brilliant advantages than the general or the squire; but the disinterested actress spurned them, and kept sisterhood with duchesses. she was to be seen on the terrace at windsor, walking with the consorts of dukes, and with countesses, and wives of english barons, and the whole gay group might be heard calling one another by their christian names. in later days, kitty clive called such fine folk "damaged quality;" and later still, the second mrs. barry did not value such companionship at a "pin's fee;" but anne oldfield drew from it many an illustration, which she transported to the stage. during her last season, her sufferings were often so acute that when the applause was loudest, the poor actress turned aside to hide the tears forced from her by pain. she never gave up till the agony was too great to be endured, and then she refused to receive a salary which, according to her articles, was not to be discontinued in illness. she lingered a few months in her house in lower grosvenor street; the details of her last moments, as given by pope, mingle a little truth with much error and exaggeration:-- "'odious! in woollen? 'twould a saint provoke!' were the last words that poor narcissa spoke. 'no, let a charming chintz and brussels lace wrap my cold limbs and shade my lifeless face; one would not sure be frightful when one's dead. and, betty, give this cheek a little red!'" betty was the ex-actress, mrs. saunders, who resided with narcissa. she had quitted the stage in , and, says mr. urban, "attended mrs. oldfield constantly, and did the office of priest to the last." poor narcissa, after death, was attired in a holland night-dress, with tucker and double ruffles of brussels lace, of which latter material she also wore a head-dress, and a pair of "new kid gloves." this, another writer calls being "buried in _full dress_." the report seems to have been founded on mrs. oldfield's natural good taste in costume. flavia, such is her name in the _tatler_, "is ever well drest, and always the genteelest woman you meet; her clothes are so exactly fitted that they appear part of her person." it was in the above described dress that the deceased actress received such honour as actress never received before, nor has ever received since. the lady lay in state in the jerusalem chamber, a distinction not unfrequently, indeed, conceded to persons of high rank and small merit, but which, nevertheless, seemed out of place in the case of anne oldfield; but had she been really a queen, the public could not have thronged more eagerly to the spectacle. the solemn lying in state of an english actress in the jerusalem chamber, the sorrow of the public over their lost favourite, and the regret of friends in noble, or humble, but virtuous homes, where mrs. oldfield had been ever welcome, contrast strongly with the french sentiment towards french players. it has been already said, that as long as clairon exercised the power, when she advanced to the footlights, to make the (then standing) pit recoil several feet, by the mere magic of her eyes, the pit, who enjoyed the terror as a luxury, flung crowns to her, and wept at the thought of losing her; but clairon infirm was clairon forgotten, and to a decaying actor or actress a french audience is the most merciless in the world. the brightest and best of them, as with us, died in the service of the public. monfleury, mondory, and bricourt, died of apoplexy, brought on by excess of zeal. molière, who fell in harness, was buried with less ceremony than some favourite dog. the charming lecouvreur, that oldfield of the french stage, whose beauty and intellect were the double charm which rendered theatrical france ecstatic, was hurriedly interred within a saw-pit. bishops might be exceedingly interested in, and unepiscopally generous to, living actresses of wit and beauty, but the prelates smote them with a "maranatha!" and an "avaunt ye!" when dead. even bossuet would attend the theatre to learn grace and elocution from them and their brethren: but when he had profited by the instruction, he denounced them all as "children of the devil!" louis xviii., however, put an effectual check on the unseemly practice of treating as dead dogs the geniuses who had been idolised when living. when the priests of the church of st. roch closed its doors against the body of rancourt, brought there for a prayer and a blessing, paris rose against the insulters; and the king, moved by christian charity, or dread of a paris riot, sent his own chaplain to recite the prayer, give the benediction, and to show that an honest player was not a something less than a fellow-creature. after the lying in state of mrs. oldfield, there was a funeral of as much ceremony as has been observed at the obsequies of many a queen. among the supporters of the pall were lord hervey, lord delawarr, and bubb dodington, afterwards lord melcombe. the first used to ride abroad with mrs. oldfield, as mrs. delaney has recorded. lord delawarr was a soldier who became a great "beau," and went a philandering. his wife and the countess of burlington headed the faustina party at the opera against the faction which supported cuzzoni. there were anthems, and prayers, and sermon; and dr. parker, who officiated, remarked, when all was over, to a few particular friends, and with some equivocation, as it seems to me, that he "buried her very willingly, and with much satisfaction." her sons maynwaring and churchill were present, and the contemporary notices say that she had no other children. her friends were apt to express a different opinion; and mrs. delaney, in one of the very first passages in her _autobiography_ says:--"at six years old i was placed under the care of mdlle. puelle, a refugee of a very respectable character, and well qualified for her business. she undertook but twenty scholars at a time, among whom were lady catherine knollys, daughter to the" (self-styled) "earl of banbury, and great aunt to the present lord; miss halsey, daughter to a very considerable brewer, and afterwards married to lord temple, earl of cobham; lady jane douglas, daughter of the duke of douglas, and miss dye bertie, a daughter of mrs. oldfield the actress, who, after leaving school, was the _pink of fashion_ in the _beau monde_, and married a nobleman." whom did this mysterious diana marry?[ ] this daughter is not mentioned in mrs. oldfield's will; but to the two sons mrs. oldfield bequeathed the bulk of a fortune which she had amassed more by her exertions than by the generosity of their respective fathers. she was liberal, too, in leaving memorials to numerous friends; less so in her bequests to old relations of her sempstress and coffee-house days. a very small annuity was narcissa's parting gift to her mother, who long survived her. in such wise went her money; but whither has the blood of oldfield gone? when winnifred, the dairymaid, married into the family of the bickerstaffes, she is said to have spoilt their blood, while she mended their constitutions. the great actress herself was at least an honest man's daughter, a man of fair descent. her son, colonel churchill, once, unconsciously, saved sir robert walpole from assassination, through the latter riding home, from the house, in the colonel's chariot instead of alone in his own. unstable churchill married a natural daughter of sir robert, and _their_ daughter mary married, in , charles sloane, first earl of cadogan. the son of this mary is the present earl, the great grandson of charming anne oldfield. when churchill and his wife were travelling in france, a frenchman, knowing he was connected with poets or players, asked him if he was churchill the famous poet. "i am not," said mrs. oldfield's son. "ma foi!" rejoined the polite frenchman, "so much the worse for you!" i have seen many epitaphs to her memory, but there is not one which is so complete and beautiful as the following, which tells the reader that she lies amid great poets, not less worthy of praise than they, whose works she has illustrated and ennobled. it records the apt universality of her talent, which made her seem not _made_, but born for whatever she undertook. in tragedy, the glory of her form, the dignity of her countenance, the majesty of her walk, touched the rudest spectator. in comedy, her power, her graceful hilarity, her singular felicity, were so irresistible, that the eyes never wearied of gazing at her, nor the hands of applauding her. "hic juxta requiescit tot inter poetarum laudata nomina, anna oldfield. nec ipsa minore laude digna, quippe quæ eorum opera. in scenam quotidies prodivit, illustravit semper et nobilitavit. nunquam ingenium idem ad parties diversissimas habilius fuit. ita tamen ut ad singulas non facta sed nata esse videretur, in tragoediis formæ splendor, oris dignitas, incessus majestas, tanta vocis suavitate temperabantur. ut nemo esset tam agrestis, tam durus spectator, quin in admirationem totus raperetur. in comoedia autem tanta vis, tam venusta hilaritas, tam curiosa felicitas ut neque sufficerent spectando oculi, neque plaudendo manus." i have said that her last original part was sophonisba. among the last words she uttered in it, when mortal illness was upon her, were these:-- "and is the sacred moment then so near, the moment when yon sun, these heavens, this earth shall sink at once, and straight another state, new scenes, new joys, new faculties, new wonders, rise, on a sudden, round?" these words were first spoken by her, on the last day of february . on the rd of the following october she died, in her forty-seventh year. a week later, dr. parker "buried her very willingly, and with much satisfaction!" [illustration: mrs. clive as mrs. heidelberg.] footnotes: [ ] her niece. [ ] she married j. cator.--_doran ms._ [illustration: goodman's fields theatre.] chapter ii. from the death of anne oldfield to that of wilks. between the season of - , and that of - , great changes took place. it is correct to say, that the stage "declined;" but if we lose mrs. oldfield in the former period, we find some compensation at the beginning of the latter, by first meeting, in fielding and hippisley's booth, at bartholomew and southwark fairs, with one who was destined to enthral the town,--modest mrs. pritchard, playing loveit, in a "cure for covetousness." meanwhile, mrs. porter reigned supreme; but the stage was deprived, for more than a year, of the presence of her whom mrs. oldfield loved to address as "mother," by an accident which dislocated her thigh. even after her recovery, the tragedy queen was forced to walk the stage with a crutched stick, which, like a true artist, she turned to account in her action. of actors of eminence, the greatest whom the stage lost was wilks, airy and graceful down to the last;--of him, who died in , i will speak more fully presently. death also carried off quaint, squeaking, little norris, the excellent comic actor, popularly known as "jubilee dicky." after norris went boheme, the pillar of the lincoln's inn fields, a dignified and accomplished tragedian, whose lear was full of antique grandeur and pathos;--it was, perhaps, the only character in which the former young sailor's quarter-deck walk was not discernible. colley cibber, too, must be reckoned among the departed, since he retired from the stage, at the end of the season - , but occasionally returned to it. he was disheartened by the break-up in the old partnership, and the manifest close of a period of prosperity. booth had sold half of his share in the patent to a rich and silly amateur actor--highmore. wilks's widow, who inherited her husband's share, was represented by attorney; colley was uneasy at having to encounter new partners, and he ultimately sold _his_ share to highmore, for three thousand guineas. while the stage failed in players, it was not upheld by the poets. the gentlemen of the inns of court hissed charles johnson's "medea," and did not even applaud the satirical allusion contained in it to pope. the town was weary of classical pieces. the "eurydice" of mallet--who had been gate-keeper at the edinburgh high school, and had picked up learning enough to enable him to efficiently exercise the office of tutor in the duke of montrose's family--fared no better,[ ] despite mrs. porter. the piece was as hard and as dry as granite; but the author thought it had as much pathos as his ballad of "william and margaret." in the prologue, tragedy was especially recommended to the patronage of ladies, because therein the character of women is exalted; while in the comedies of the day it was debased. but the epilogue, spoken by miss robinson, in boy's clothes--"born for this dapper age--pert, short, and clever"--showed that the poet did not much care for the female character. jeffreys' "merope" had no better success. his cousins of the chandos family may have laughed at the young collegian's bathos; but on the second night there was not audience enough to make a laugh comfortable; and the curtain did not rise.[ ] critics complained that all tragic action on our stage turned on love; and jeffreys contrived to make three couple of nymphs and swains sigh or swear in this story of mother and son! "who could believe," says voltaire, "that love could have been introduced into such a story? but, since the times of charles ii., love has taken possession of the english stage; and one must acknowledge that no nation in the world has painted that passion so badly." but voltaire, you will remember, also said that shakspeare was "a savage!" a gloucestershire squire, named tracy, tried his hand on "periander," and failed, though he was guiltless of a false quantity; unlike addison's learned friend, frowde, who tripped in his penultimates, with the alacrity of hughes! it was not altogether because our ancestors were weary of classical tragedies, that a short, fat, one-eyed, and well-to-do dissenter and jeweller, of moorgate street, reaped such a triumph, with his modern and domestic tragedy, "george barnwell." _mr._ lillo had previously written a ballad-opera, "sylvia;" but now he aimed to show the hideousness and consequence of vice. "george barnwell" was first acted at drury lane, at the beginning of the midsummer holidays of . theophilus cibber played the hero; mrs. butler, milwood. the audience looked for fun, and took the old ballad,--there was the flutter of a thousand copies in the house, to compare it with the play. pope was present, and expressed an opinion that the language was often too elevated for the personages;[ ] and the hearers thought only of the story as illustrated by lillo, and every eye was weeping. it was the first fairly honest attempt made to amend, from the stage, the vices and weaknesses of mankind; and it certainly, in some degree, succeeded. it enlisted the sympathies of honest women. "the distresses of great personages," says a lady, in the _gentleman's magazine_, "have ceased to affect the town," and "none but a prostitute could find fault with this tragedy." fault, however, was found; but the objection was answered in this way;--that "lowness of action was disallowed in a tragedy, but not lowness of character: the _circumstances_ here are all important." one critic holds the story to be improbable; but contemporary journals furnish a parallel. a mercer's apprentice, who sleeps in his master's shop, admits a milwood, who at a later hour refuses to leave, unless he will cut off satin enough, to make her a robe. great distress! but, at a happy moment, a virtuous porter arrives, who, on hearing the circumstances, and perhaps having seen the tragedy, lays hold of the lady, who had no more drapery about her than lady godiva, claps her into a sack, carries her off, and shoots her into a cart full of grains, standing unguarded. the naughty person is suffocated, if i remember rightly; but the honour of the apprentice is saved!! "george barnwell" brought domestic tragedy into fashion, and charles johnson closed his dramatic career with "coelia, or the perjured lover," which was a warning to young ladies. coelia has a _bad_ and a _good_ lover,--warring principles! she prefers the former, with ruin for a consequence. he lodges her in a bagnio, where she is swept up by the watch, in the arrest of all the inmates, and taken to bridewell. thence her very heavy father takes her home, while the good lover kills the bad one in a duel; but the latter politely requests that the avenger will consider coelia as having been his lawful wife. the lady, however, dies in her father's arms; the curtain comes down with a "tag," and then on tripped the epilogue, to ridicule all those present who were disposed to profit by the moral of the drama! theophilus cibber's "lover" was a sort of pendant to the "nonjuror,"--granger being in the habit of going regularly to church, and daily breaking the ten commandments. the only enjoyment the audience had,--who fought for or against the piece till blood flowed abundantly,--was in the epilogue, in which mrs. theophilus cibber smartly satirised the failings of her lord! the audience relished it amazingly. these were the principal novelties of the period about which i am treating; but i must add, that at the haymarket, and at goodman's fields, where giffard had created in ayliffe street a commodious theatre, far superior to the old throwster's shop, which had served an early dramatic purpose, in leman street, sterling old plays, with operettas and burlesques, were played at irregular seasons. fielding especially distinguished and sometimes disgraced himself. he had not yet struck upon the vein which made him the first and most philosophical of english novelists; but he rose from his squibs and farces to the achievement of the "miser," in itself an adaptation, but done by a master hand, and with a double result of triumph,--to the author, and to griffin, the clergyman's son, who played lovegold. there were smaller attempts by smaller men, but these i omit, to record the failure of quin in lear,--a character which it was temerity to touch, so soon after boheme had ceased to _be_ the king. mills made as great a mistake, when, at nearly sixty, he played for the first time--hamlet. the public cared more for the pantomimic "harlot's progress," got up by theophilus cibber for drury lane, where this piece, preceded by "george barnwell," must have been as edifying to both sexes as going to church,--a result in which hogarth had full share with lillo. i have noticed the actors departing and departed, and the appearance in a booth of mrs. pritchard, a name yet to be famous and respected--like mrs. betterton's. so during this period i find a young player, delane, at goodman's fields, who will advance to the first rank; but also a greater than he, macklin, quietly playing any little part given him at lincoln's inn fields, and securing his firm standing ground by the ability with which he acquitted himself at that house, when, in , he was suddenly called upon to play brazencourt,[ ] in fielding's "coffee house politicians." he had only four lines to speak; but those he spoke so well, that the true actor was at once discerned. one may fancy the tone and manner in which the rascal exclaimed:--"i was forced to turn her off for stealing four of my shirts, two pair of stockings, and my common prayer book." with such small opportunity, mr. maclean, as he was then called, led up to shylock and sir pertinax macsycophant! macklin was the last of the great actors who played at lincoln's inn fields; and he did not leave covent garden until _after_ the appearance there of braham, who was yet among us but yesterday. the first-named house had never rivalled the success of drury lane, but rich had gained enough to enable him to build a new house, and the last play acted in the fields was ravenscroft's "anatomist," one of the worst of a second-rate author of king charles's days. this was on december , . except for a few nights, irregularly, the old house never opened again. it was the third theatre which had occupied the site since . in it was converted into a barrack. as late as , it was copeland's china repository, when the old stage door and passage, through which quin had so often passed, still existed. there had been a long expressed desire for a new theatre; that is, not merely a new edifice, but a new system. the proposal embraced prospective delights for authors, such as they had hitherto never dreamed of. in the published prospectus it was stated that actors and authors should be excluded from the management, which was to be entrusted to individuals, who, at least, knew as little about it, namely, men of quality, taste, figure, and of a fortune varying from ten to twelve hundred pounds. a committee was to be appointed, whose duty it would be, among others, to provide for the efficient reading of new plays, and for their being listened to with reverence and attention. it was calculated that the annual profit of such a theatre would amount to £ a year, and that out of it an annuity of £ might be set aside for every author who had achieved a certain amount of success. in the following year, the _weekly miscellany_ and the _grub street journal_ were very eager on the subject of theatrical reform. the former complained that high comedy and dignified tragedy had deserted the stage; remarked that plays were not intended for tradesmen! and denounced pantomimes and harlequinades as infamous. the journal was rather practical than reflective. old exeter change was then to let, and the journal proposed that it should be converted into a theatre; adding a suggestion, which required above a century and a quarter to be carried into realisation, namely, that a college should be founded for decayed actors. this college was to form the two wings of the theatre; which wings were to be inhabited respectively by the _emeriti_ among actors, and destitute actresses, whose new home was to be within sound of the old stirring echoes of their joyous days. the direction of the establishment was to be confided to a competent governor and officers selected from among the decayed nobility and gentry; and the glory and profit resulting were calculated at a very high figure indeed! on one result the _grub street_ congratulated itself with unctuous pride. if the stage were reformed, the universities and inns of court would supply actors. _gentlemen_, said the _grub street_, with some arrogance, were reluctant to go among the scamps on the stage. then, as for actresses, _grub_ rudely declared that every charity school could supply a dozen wenches of more decent education and character, of better health, brighter youth, more brilliant beauty, and more exalted genius, than the common run of hussies then on the stage; and a season's training, he added, would qualify them for business. this was a hard hit at men, among whom there were many well born; and at women, who, whatever they lacked, possessed the happy gifts of health, youth, beauty, and genius; but _grub street's_ cynicism was probably founded on the fact, that he was not invited by the men, nor smiled on by the women. a reform before the curtain was, however, now as loudly called for as behind it. one of the greatest grievances complained of this year was the insolence of the footmen. occupying their masters' places, they lolled about with their hats on, talked aloud, were insolent on rebuke from the audience, and when they withdrew, on their masters' arrival, to their own gallery, they kept up a continual tumult there, which rendered their presence intolerable. what with the fine gentlemen on the stage, and their lacqueys, selected for their size, personal good looks, or fine hair, in the gallery, the would-be attentive audience in the pit were driven well nigh to desperation. much of this last grievance was amended when covent garden theatre was opened on the th of december . the first piece acted was congreve's "way of the world;" fainall by quin, mirabel by ryan, who, with walker, hippisley, milward, chapman, and neal, mrs. younger, mrs. bullock, and mrs. buchanan, formed the principal members of the company. gay was not now alive to increase his own and rich's fortune in this elegant and well-appointed theatre; but rich produced gay's operatic piece "achilles," which represented the hero when lying disguised as a girl. by the treatment of the subject, gay did not manifest the innocency to which he laid claim, nor show himself either in wit a man, or in simplicity a child. theobald's adaptation of webster's "duchess of malfy" (bosola, by quin; the duchess, mrs. hallam), brought no credit on "king log." generally, indeed, the novelties were failures, or unimportant. the only incident worth recording is the debut of miss norsa, as polly. but before greeting new comers, let us say a word or two of greater than they who have gone--of wilks dead, and, by and by, of cibber withdrawn. the loss of such actors seemed irreparable; but during this past season there had been a lad among the audience at either house, who was to excel them all. meanwhile, he studied them deeply, and after times showed that the study had not been profitless to this boy of sixteen, whose name was david garrick. quin's most brilliant days lay between this period and the ripening into manhood of this ardent boy. before we accompany him through that time of triumph, let us look back at the career of wilks. footnotes: [ ] "eurydice" was played about thirteen times, and was thought worthy of revival in . [ ] this is the story told in the _biographia dramatica_, but genest says "merope" was acted three times. [ ] pope said "in a _few_ passages." [ ] genest doubts this story, and gives very strong grounds for doing so. vol. iii. pp. - . [illustration: peg woffington.] chapter iii. robert wilks. in mr. secretary southwell's office, in dublin, there sits the young son of one of the pursuivants of the lord lieutenant; he is not writing a _précis_, he is copying out the parts of a play to be acted in private. his name is robert wilks, and the wise folk of rathfarnham, near dublin, where he was born in , shake their heads and declare that he will come to no good. the prophecy seemed fulfilled when the irish wars between james and william forced him, an unwilling volunteer, into the army of the latter. as clerk to the camp he is exempt from military duty; but he tells a good story, sings a good song, and the officers take him for a very pretty fellow. anon, he is back in the old dublin office. at all stray leisure hours he may, however, be seen fraternising with the actors. he most affects one richards; he hears richards repeat his parts, and he speaks the intervening sentences of the other characters. this he does with such effect that richards swears he is made for an actor, and the young government clerk, fired by the fame of betterton, is eager to leap from the stool, which his father considered the basis of his fortune, and to don sock and buskin. his old comrades of the camp were then about to vary the monotony of life at the castle, by getting up a play to inaugurate the new theatre, re-opened, like the temple of janus, at the restoration of peace. judicious and worthy ashbury was the only professional player. young wilks had privately acted with him as the colonel in the "spanish friar." ashbury now offered to play iago to his othello, and the officers were well pleased to meet again with their old clerk of the camp. the tragedy was acted accordingly. "how were you pleased?" asked richards, who thought wilks took it as a pastime. "i was pleased with all but myself," answered the government clerk, who was thoroughly in earnest. wilks had gone through many months of probation, watched by good joseph ashbury, and honest richards, when one morning the latter called on the young actor, with an introductory letter to betterton in his hand. wilks accepted the missive with alacrity, bade farewell to secretaries and managers, and in a brief space of time was sailing over the waters, from the pigeon house to parkgate. the meeting of wilks and betterton, in the graceful costume of those days, the young actor travel-worn, a little shabby, anxious, and full of awe; the elder richly attired, kind in manner, his face bright with intellect, and his figure heightened by the dignity of a lofty nature and professional triumph, borne with a lofty modesty, is another subject for a painter. betterton instructed the stranger as to the course he should take, and, accordingly, one bright may morning of ,[ ] a handsome young fellow, with a slight irish accent, presented himself to christopher rich as a light comedian. he was a native of dublin county, he said, had left a promising government clerkship, to try his fortune on the irish stage; and, tempted by the renown of betterton, had come to london to see the great actor, and to be engaged, if that were possible, in the same company. christopher rich was no great judge of acting, but he thought there was something like promise of excellence in the easy and gentleman-like young fellow; and he consented to engage him for drury lane, at the encouraging salary of fifteen shillings a week, from which half a crown was to be deducted for instruction in dancing! this left wilks twelve and sixpence clear weekly income; and he had not long been enjoying it, when he married miss knapton, daughter of the town clerk of southampton. young couple never began life upon more modest means; but happiness, hard work, and good fortune came of it. for a few years, commencing with ,[ ] wilks laboured unnoticed, at drury lane, by all save generous betterton, who seeing the young actor struggling for fame, with a small salary, and an increasing family, recommended him to return to ashbury, the dublin manager, who, at betterton's word, engaged him at £ a year,[ ] and a clear benefit. "you will be glad to have got him," said betterton to ashbury. "you will be sorry you have lost him," said he, to christopher rich. _sorry!_ in three or four years more, rich was imploring him to return, and offering him golconda, as salaries were then understood. but wilks was now the darling of the dublin people, and, at a later period, so universal was the desire to keep him amongst them, that the duke of ormond, lord lieutenant, issued a warrant to prohibit his leaving the kingdom. but, on the other hand, £ per week awaited him in london. it was nearly as high a salary as betterton's![ ] wilks, however, caring less for the terms than for the opportunity of satisfying his inordinate thirst for fame, contrived to escape, with his wife. with them came a disappointed actor, soon to be a popular dramatist, farquhar; who, in the year , after opening the season with his "love and a bottle," produced his "constant couple," with wilks as sir harry wildair. on the night of wilks's first appearance, in some lines written for him by farquhar, and spoken by the _debutant_, the latter said:-- "void of offence, though not from censure free, i left a distant isle, too kind to me;" and confessing a sort of supremacy in the london over the _dublin_ stage, he added:-- "there i could please, but there my fame must end, for hither none must come to boast--but mend." this the young actor did apace. applauded as the latter had been the year before, in old parts, the approbation was as nothing compared with that lavished on him in this his first original character. from the first recognition of vizard down to the "tag" with which the curtain descends, and including even the absurd and unnatural scene with angelica, he kept the audience in a condition of intermittent ecstasy. the piece established his fame, gave a name to norris, the frequently mentioned "jubilee dicky," and made the fortune of rich. it seems to have been played nearly fifty times in the first season. in its construction and style it is far in advance of the comedies of aphra behn and ravenscroft; and yet it is irregular; not moral; as often flippant as witty; improbable, and not really original. madam fickle is to be traced in it, and the denouement, as far as lurewell and standard are concerned, is borrowed from those of plautus and terence. wilks, now the great favourite of the town, justified all betterton's prognostications. like betterton, he was to the end convinced that he might become more perfect by study and perseverance. taking the extant score of judgments recorded of him, i find that wilks was careful, judicious, painstaking in the smallest trifles; in comedy always brilliant, in tragedy always graceful and natural. for zeal, cibber had not known his equal for half a century; careful himself, he allowed no one else to be negligent; so careful, that he would recite a thousand lines without missing a single word. the result of all his labour was seen in an ease, and grace, and gaiety which seemed perfectly spontaneous. his taste in dress was irreproachable; grave in his attire on the streets, on the stage he was the glass of fashion. on the stage, even in his last season, after a career of forty years, he never lost his buoyancy, or his young graces. from first to last he was perfection in his peculiar line. "whatever he did upon the stage," says an eminent critic, quoted by genest, "let it be ever so trifling, whether it consisted in putting on his gloves, or taking out his watch, lolling on his cane, or taking snuff, every movement was marked by such an ease of breeding and manner, everything told so strongly the involuntary motion of a gentleman, that it was impossible to consider the character he represented in any other light than that of reality; but what was still more surprising, that person who could thus delight an audience, from the gaiety and sprightliness of his character, i met the next day in a street hobbling to a hackney-coach, seemingly so enfeebled by age and infirmities that i could scarcely believe him to be the same man." the grace and bearing of wilks were accounted of as natural in a man whose blood was not of the common tap. "his father, edward wilks, esq., was descended from judge wilks, a very eminent lawyer, and a gentleman of great honour and probity. during the unhappy scene of our civil wars he raised a troop of horse, at his own expense, for the service of his royal master." a brother of the judge was in monk's army,[ ] with the rank of colonel, and with more of honest intention than of commonplace discretion. the civil wars took many a good actor from the stage, but they also contributed the sons and daughters of many ancient but impoverished families to the foremost rank among distinguished players. some of the daughters of these old and decayed houses thought it no disparagement to wed with these players, or to take humble office in the theatre. wilks's first wife, miss knapton, was the daughter of the town clerk of southampton, and steward of the new forest, posts of trust, and, at one time, of emolument. the knaptons had been yorkshire landholders, the estate being valued at £ a year; and now we find one daughter marrying wilks, a second espousing norris, "jubilee dicky," and a third, anne knapton, filling the humble office of dresser at drury lane, and probably not much flattered by the legend on the family arms, "_meta coronat opus_." [illustration: (robert wilks)] the greatest trouble to wilks during the period he was in management, arose from the "ladies" of the company. there was especially mrs. rogers, who, on the retirement of mrs. barry and mrs. bracegirdle, played the principal serious parts. it was the whim of this lady to act none but virtuous characters; her prudery would not admit of her studying others. in the epilogue to the "triumphs of virtue," in which she played the innocent bellamira, she pronounced with great effect the lines, addressed to the ladies, for whose smiles, she said, "i'll pay this duteous gratitude; i'll do that which the play has done; i'll copy you. at your own virtue's shrine my vows i'll pay, and strive to live the character i play." in this, however, she did not succeed; but mrs. rogers congratulated herself by considering that her failure saved wilks's life, who, when a widower, protested that he should die of despair if she refused to smile upon him; but, as cibber remarks, mrs. rogers "could never be reduced to marry." her ambition was great, for she not only looked on herself as the successor of mrs. barry and mrs. bracegirdle; but when the lively and graceful mountfort (mrs. verbruggen) died, in giving birth to an infant, mrs. rogers aspired to the succession of her parts also. wilks, then in power, preferred mrs. oldfield. a public clamour ensued; but, says victor, somewhat confusedly, "mr. wilks soon reduced this clamour to demonstration, by an experiment of mrs. oldfield and mrs. rogers playing the same part, that of lady lurewell in the "trip to the jubilee;" but though obstinacy seldom meets conviction, yet from this equitable trial the tumults in the house were soon quelled (by public authority), greatly to the honour of mr. wilks. i am," adds the writer, "from my own knowledge, thoroughly convinced that mr. wilks had no other regard for mrs. oldfield but what arose from the excellency of her performances. mrs. rogers' conduct might be censured by some for the earnestness of her passion towards mr. wilks, but in the polite world the fair sex has always been privileged from scandal." as great a tumult ensued when mrs. oldfield was cast for andromache, a character claimed by her rival, who, being refused by wilks, "she raised a posse of profligates, fond of tumult and riot, who made such a commotion in the house, that the court hearing of it, sent four of the royal messengers and a strong guard to suppress all disorder." cibber laments having "to dismiss an audience of £ from a disturbance spirited up by obscure people, who never gave any better reason for it than it was their fancy to support the idle complaint of one rival actress against another in their several pretensions to the chief part in a new tragedy." a green-room scene, painted by colley cibber, reveals to us something of the shadowy side of wilks's character, while that of booth and mrs. oldfield stand out, as it were, "in the sun." court and city in had demanded the revival of vanbrugh's "provoked wife," with alterations, to suit the growing taste for refinement. these alterations had taken something from the sprightliness of the part of constant, which wilks had been accustomed to play, and cibber proposed to give it to booth, for whom its gravity rendered it suitable. wilks, who was eager to play every night, at first looked grave, then frowned; as cibber hinted, that if he were to play in every piece, a sudden indisposition on his part might create embarrassment, he sullenly stirred the fire; but when the chief manager suggested that as he had accomplished all he could possibly aim at in his profession, occasional repose would become him more than unremitting labour, he took cibber's counsel and booth's acquiescence for satire, and retorted with a warmth of indignation which included some strong expletives not to be found in the best poets. cibber then accused him of inconsistency, and expressed indifference whether he accepted or rejected the part which he then held in his hand, and which wilks at once threw down on the table whereupon the angry player sate, with crossed arms, and "knocking his heel upon the floor, as seeming to threaten most when he said least." booth, good-naturedly, struck in with a cheerful comment, to the effect that, "for his part, he saw no such great matter in acting every day, for he believed it the wholesomest exercise in the world; it kept the spirits in motion, and always gave _him_ a good stomach." at this friendly advance mrs. oldfield was seen laughing behind her fan, while wilks, after a few hesitating remarks, which showed some little jealousy of booth, proposed that mrs. oldfield should herself select which of the two she would have play with her. he would be glad to be excused if she selected another. "this throwing the negative upon mrs. oldfield," says cibber, "was indeed a sure way to save himself; which i could not help taking notice of, by saying, it was making but an ill compliment to the company, to suppose there was but one man in it fit to play an ordinary part with her. here mrs. oldfield got up, and turning me half round, to come forward, said with her usual frankness, 'pooh! you are all a parcel of fools to make such a rout about nothing!' rightly judging that the person most out of humour would not be more displeased at her calling us all by the same name." finally, wilks accepted the part, at mrs. oldfield's suggestion, and all went well. irascible as he was, yet he was more remarkable for his zeal and industry, for the carefulness with which he superintended rehearsals, and for the elaborate pains-concealing labour, which distinguished him on the public stage. cibber renders him full measure of justice in this respect, and generously confesses: "had _i_ had half his application i still think i might have shown myself twice the actor that, in my highest state of favour, i appear to be." cibber, indeed, has painted his colleague wilks with great elaboration. from colley we learn that wilks excelled powell, and that hot-headed powell challenged him to the duello in consequence. so painstaking was the young irishman, that in forty years he was never once forgetful of a single word in any of his parts. "in some new comedy he happened to complain of a crabbed speech in his part which, he said, gave him more trouble to study than all the rest of it had done." the good-natured author cut the whole of the speech out; but "wilks thought it such an indignity to his memory that anything should be thought too hard for it, that he actually made himself perfect in that speech, though he knew it was never to be made use of." cibber praises his sober character, but hints at his professional conceit, and somewhat overbearing temper; and he calls him "bustle master-general of the company." if he was jealous and impatient, "to be employed on the stage was the delight of his life;" and of his unwearied zeal, unselfishly exercised for the general good, cibber cannot speak too highly. nothing came amiss to wilks that was connected with the stage. he even undertook the office of writing the bills of performance; but he charged £ a year for the trouble. in the plaintive and tender, this light comedian excelled even booth, who used to say that wilks lacked ear and not voice to make a great tragedian.[ ] wilks's greatest successes were in his friend farquhar's heroes,--sir harry wildair, mirabel, captain plume, and archer. he played equally well, but with less opportunity for distinction, the light gentlemen of cibber's comedies. in don felix, in mrs. centlivre's "wonder," he almost excelled the reputation he had gained in sir harry. "when wilks dies," farquhar once remarked, "sir harry may go to the jubilee." of the above characters he was the original representative, as he was of some fourscore others of less note,--among them dumont, in "jane shore," for which he may be said to have been cast by mrs. oldfield. "nay!" she cried to him, in her pretty way; "if you will not be my husband, i will act alicia, i protest." and accordingly, the two most brilliant and gleesome actors of their day, enacted married tribulation, and kept their wreathed smiles for the crowd which clustered round them at the wings. few men ever loved acting for acting's sake more than wilks. at the same time, no one ever warned others against it with more serious urgency. he had a nephew, who was in fair prospect of such good fortune as could be built up in an attorney's office. how little the young fellow merited the fortune, and how ill he understood the duties and advantages of attorneyship he manifested fully, by a madness for appearing on the stage. no counsel availed against his resolution; and, in , wilks despatched him to dublin, with a letter to ashbury, the manager. "he was bred an attorney," wrote the uncle, despondingly, "but is unhappily fallen in love with that fickle mistress, the stage; and no arguments can dissuade him from it. i have refused to give him any countenance, in hopes that time and experience might cure him; but since i find him determined to make an attempt somewhere, no one, i am sure, is able to give him so just a notion of the business as yourself. if you find my nephew wants either genius or any other necessary qualification, i beg you will freely tell him his disabilities; and then it is possible he may be more easily persuaded to return to his friends and business, which i am informed he understands perfectly well." young wilks proved as poor an actor as he probably was an attorney; but his uncle received him at drury lane, after a year's novitiate in dublin, where he played, at first, better "business" than quin himself. but he never advanced a step, and died at the age of thirty, having never obtained above that number of shillings a week. and for that, he deserted his vocation as an attorney, in the practice of which he might have gained, if not earned, at a low estimate, twice that amount in a single morning. there was a pious young duke of orleans, who, to keep a fair character, was obliged to assume the fashionable vices of his day. wilks, with all his love of home, was a fine gentleman among the fine gentlemen. his appreciation of matrimony was shown by the haste with which he espoused the widow fell, daughter of charles ii.'s great gun-founder, browne, in april , after losing his first wife in the previous year. during the first union, he must have trod the stage with many a heart-ache, while he was exciting hilarity, for eleven of his children died early, and the airy player was for ever in mourning. his stepson, fell, married the granddaughter of william penn, and brought his bride to the altar of st. paul's, covent garden, not to be married, but christened. wilks and his wife were the gossips to the pretty quakeress; and the former, probably, never looked more imposing than when he pronounced the names of the fair episcopalian,--_gulielma maria_. betterton used to rusticate in berkshire; booth, at cowley; cibber, at twickenham; his son, at brook green. wilks, too, had his villa at isleworth. he is said to have kept a well-regulated and extremely cheerful home. he had there seen so much of death that we are told he was always prepared to meet it with decency. his generosity amounted almost to prodigality. "few irish gentlemen," says his biographer, "are without indigent relatives." wilks had many, and they never appealed to him in vain. he died, after a short illness and four doctors, in september ,[ ] leaving his share in the drury lane patent, and what other property he possessed, to his wife. throughout his life, i can only find one symptom of regret at having abandoned the irish secretary's office for the stage. "my successor in ireland," he once said to cibber, "made by his post £ , ." exceeding benevolence is finely exhibited in an incident connected with farquhar. when the latter was near the end of his gay yet chequered career in ,--death, the glory of his last success, and the thought of his children pressing hard upon him, he wrote this laconic, but perfectly intelligible, note to wilks:--"dear bob,--i have not anything to leave thee, to perpetuate my memory, but two helpless girls; look upon them, sometimes; and think of him that was, to the last moment of his life, thine,--george farquhar." farquhar's confidence in his friend was like that of la fontaine, who, having lost a home, was met in the street by a friend who invited him to _his_. "i was going there!" said the simple-minded poet. wilks did not disappoint farquhar's expectations. wilks could be as modest as he was generous. after playing, for the first time, the ghost to booth's hamlet,[ ] the latter remarked, "why, bob, i thought you were going to knock me down. when i played the ghost to mr. betterton's hamlet, awe-stricken as he seemed, i was still more so of him." "mr. betterton and mr. booth," said wilks, "noble actors, could always play as they pleased. i can only play to the best of my ability."[ ] once only do i find wilks in close connection with royalty,--namely, when he took, by command, the manuscript of "george barnwell" to st. james's, and read that lively tragedy to queen anne.[ ] on some like occasion, king william once presented booth with five pounds for his reward, but history does not note the guerdon with which wilks retired from the presence of "great anna!"[ ] [illustration: mr. clarke as antonio.] footnotes: [ ] all dates regarding wilks are difficult to determine; but as his appearance in othello, previously referred to, took place at the end of the irish revolution--(hitchcock says in december )--this date, , must be wrong. besides, rich does not seem to have obtained a footing in the theatre till march . [ ] see previous note. [ ] chetwood says sixty pounds. [ ] it was apparently the same salary as betterton's. [ ] chetwood says that he commanded a troop in the king's army. [ ] in the d edition dr. doran adds:--"he was not altogether original; for the _tatler_, in , advises him to 'wholly forget mr. betterton, for that he failed in no part of othello but when he has him in view.' thomson says of him, as the hero in sophonisba, 'whatever was designed as amiable and engaging in masinissa, shines out in mr. wilks's action.'" [ ] " oct. . robert wilks in the church on the north side of the north aisle, under the pews nos. and " (_reg. burials, st. paul, covent garden_).--_doran ms._ [ ] this should be "playing _hamlet_ to booth's _ghost_," which makes all speculations whether booth played hamlet or not unnecessary. in point of fact, i do not think he ever did. [ ] dr. doran adds, in the d edition: "a writer in the _prompter_, however, says that booth would have been too solemn for the lighter parts of hamlet, 'if he had ever played the character.' wilks's hamlet was good only in the light and gayer portions, and in the scene in which at ophelia's feet, hamlet watches the king, wilks's reading was perfection. in 'i say away!--go on; i'll follow thee!' he addressed the whole line to the ghost with a flourish of his sword; whereas, the first three words should be spoken to the two friends who struggle to keep him from following the apparition." [ ] queen caroline ( d edition). [ ] caroline dorothea ( d edition). [illustration: garrick's birthplace, hereford.] chapter iv. enter garrick. great was the confusion in, and small the prosperity of, the theatres after the death of wilks, and withdrawal of cibber. highmore, now chief patentee, opened drury; but theophilus cibber, with all the principal drury lane performers, except mrs. clive (for miss raftor was now the wife of judge clive's brother), mrs. horton, and mrs. bridgewater,[ ] opened the haymarket against him, under the title of "comedians of his majesty's revels." highmore had recourse to the law to keep the seceders to their engagements, and harper, a deserter to the haymarket, was prosecuted as a stroller; but the law acquitted him, after solemn discussion. highmore's chief actor was macklin, who first appeared as captain brazen, cibber's old part in the "recruiting officer," and he subsequently played marplot, clodio, teague, brass, and similar characters, with success; but he was cast aside when the companies became reconciled. there was no other actor of note in the drury lane company, where good actresses were not wanting. mrs. clive alone furnished perpetual sunshine, and mrs. horton warmed the thin houses by the glow of her beauty. no piece of permanent merit was produced, and, sad change in the drury lane annals, the patentee was at a heavy weekly loss. [illustration: (theophilus cibber)] on the first night that the seceders opened the haymarket, st september[ ] , with "love for love," mrs. pritchard played nell, in the after-piece ("devil to pay"). the _daily post_ had already extolled the "dawning excellence" she had exhibited in a booth, and prophesied that she would charm the age. she played light comic parts throughout the season; but her powers as a tragedian do not seem to have been suspected. mrs. pritchard thus entered on her long and honourable career, a married woman, with a large family, and an excellent character, which she never tarnished. cibber's daughter, mrs. charke, played a round of male parts during the same season,[ ] roderigo, in "othello," being one of them. in the march of , the seceders closed the haymarket, and joined the wreck of the old company at drury lane, on which mrs. pritchard, like macklin, was laid aside for a time. but while those eminent players were "under a cloud," there appeared miss arne, whose voice charmed all hearers, whose beauty subdued theophilus cibber, but who was not yet recognised as the tragic actress, between whom and mrs. pritchard and mrs. yates, critics, and the town generally, were to go mad with disputation. meantime, no new drama was produced at covent garden, which lived in the public memory a month; but quin shed a glory on the house, and quite eclipsed the careful, but heavy and decaying actor, mills, who aspired to the parts which booth's death had left unappropriated. in macbeth and othello, thersites, cato, apemantus, and gonzales, in the "mourning bride," he had at least no living rival. the contest for superiority had commenced before booth's death; but mills was never a match for quin, and his name has not been preserved among us as that of a great actor. as it is otherwise with quin, let us recapitulate some details of his previous career, before we accompany him over that period which he filled so creditably, till he was rudely shaken by the coming of garrick. the father of james quin was a barrister of a good irish family, and at one time resided in king street, covent garden, where james was born in . mrs. quin happened to be the wife of two husbands. the first, who had abandoned her, and who, after years of absence, was supposed to be dead, re-appeared after quin's birth, and carried off the boy's mother as his own lawful wife.[ ] thereby, the boy himself was deprived of his inheritance; the quin property, which was considerable, passed to the heir at law, and at the age of twenty-one, the young man, intelligent but uneducated, his illusions of being a _squireen_ in ireland being all dissipated, and being specially fitted for no vocation, went at once upon the stage. his time of probation was first spent on the dublin boards, in , where he played very small parts with such great propriety, that in the following year, on the recommendation of chetwood, the prompter, he was received, still as a probationer, into the company then acting at drury lane. booth, cibber, mills, and wilks were the chief players at that theatre, and the young actor was at least among noble professors. among, but not of them, he remained for at least two seasons, acting the walking gentlemen, and fulfilling "general utility," without a chance of reaching a higher rank. one night, however, in , when the run of the revived "tamerlane" was threatened with interruption by the sudden illness of the most ferocious of bajazets, quin was induced, most reluctantly on the foolish fellow's side, to read the part. in doing this with conscientiousness and judgment, he received such testimonies of approval, that he made himself master of the words by the following night, and when the curtain fell, found himself famous. the critics in the pit, and the fine gentlemen who hung about the stage, united in acknowledging his merits; the coffee-houses tossed his name about pleasantly as a novelty, and mr. mills paid him the compliment of speedily getting well. when mr. mills resumed bajazet, young quin sank down to the dervise; and though, subsequently, his cast of characters was improved, his patience was so severely tried, that in the succeeding season he passed over to the theatre in lincoln's inn fields. modestly entering there in the part of benducar, in "don sebastian,"[ ] he at once established himself in the public favour, and before the close of the season - , the chivalry of his hotspur, the bluntness of his clytus, the fire of his bajazet, the grandeur of his macbeth, the calm dignity of his brutus, the unctuousness of his falstaff,[ ] the duplicity of his maskwell, and the coarse comedy of his sir john brute, were circumstances of which the town talked quite as eagerly as they did of the quadruple alliance, and the musket shot which had slain the royal swede in the trenches before frederickshall. it was quin's success in bajazet at drury lane that really cost bowen his life. i have noticed the subject before, but it will admit of some further detail. bowen had taunted quin with being tame in bajazet, and quin retorted by speaking disparagingly of bowen in jacomo in the "libertine," preferring johnson in that part. bowen was the more deeply stung as he prided himself on his acting in jacomo, and the company agreed with the adverse critic. the quarrel, commenced by envy, was aggravated by politics. bowen boasted of his honesty and consistency, a boast, the worthlessness of which was speedily shown by quin's remark, that bowen had as often drunk the duke of ormond's health as he had refused it. the disputants parted angrily, only to meet more incensed. they met, on the invitation of bowen, and passed from one tavern to another, till they could find a room which less suited quin's purpose than that of his irate companion--that of "fighting it out." indeed, the younger player seems to have been hardly aware of his elder's definite purpose; for when they entered the room bowen fastened the door, clapped his back to it, drew his sword, and threatened to run quin through the body if he did not out with his rapier and defend himself. remonstrance from the latter was of no avail, and he drew simply to keep bowen off. but the latter impetuously pressed forward till he ultimately fell mortally wounded. before his death, however, which occurred within three days, he justly and generously took the blame of the whole transaction upon himself. this, with corroborative evidence, secured the acquittal of quin on his trial for manslaughter. so died poor, foolish bowen, at the age of fifty-two, leaving a widow, for whom the public had not sufficient sympathy to render her "benefit" profitable, and a son, known in the london streets as "ragged-and-tough," and whose exploits, recorded in the _old bailey calendar_, sent him to the colonies to found in another hemisphere a line of bowens more honest and less angry than the latter scions of the race in england. this was a transition period, terminated by the coming of garrick. quin passed over to drury lane, tempted by the annual £ offered by fleetwood, a wealthy personage, who had purchased the chief share in the patent. "no actor," said rich, "is worth more than £ a year," and declining to retain quin at the additional required outlay, he brought forward a "citizen," named stephens, to oppose him. stephens had caught the exact sound of booth's cadences and much of his manner. for a time audiences were delighted, but the magic of mere imitation soon ceased to attract; and quin decidedly led the town in old characters, but with no opportunity yet offered him of a "creation." mrs. clive enchanted her hearers at drury lane, while mrs. horton took her beauty and happy assurance to covent garden. a greater than either, mrs. pritchard, played mere walking ladies, and made no step in advance till , when she acted lady townley at the haymarket. old cibber longing again for a smell of the lamps, and a sound of applause, played a few of his best parts during this season, and macklin slowly made progress according to rare opportunity. covent garden chiefly depended on ryan; but suddenly lost his services when they could be least spared. he was returning home, on the th of march , when he was shot by a ruffian in queen street, lincoln's inn fields, who robbed him of his sword. "friend," said the generous actor, who was badly wounded in the face and jaw-bone, "you have killed me; but i forgive you!" in about six weeks, however, he was sufficiently recovered to appear again, after a general sympathy had been shown him, from the prince of wales down to the gallery visitors. drury lane, too, lost, but altogether, an useful actor, hallam. he and macklin had quarrelled about a theatrical wig, and impetuous macklin, raising his stick, thrust with it, in such blind fury, that it penetrated through hallam's eye to the brain, and the unfortunate player died the next day. an old bailey jury let the rasher, but grief-stricken man, lightly off under a verdict of "manslaughter." from being a queen of song, mrs. cibber, the second wife of theophilus, first took ground as an actress this season,[ ] at drury lane, in aaron hill's adaptation of voltaire's "zara." mrs. cibber was the sister of dr. thomas arne, the composer of "artaxerxes," and daughter of an upholsterer in the neighbourhood of covent garden. handel thought so well of her that he arranged one of his airs in the "messiah" expressly to suit her voice. her ambition, however, was to be a tragic actress, and colley cibber, who had sternly opposed her marriage with his son, overcome by her winning ways, not only was reconciled to her, but instructed her in her study for zara, and some part of her success was owing to so accomplished a teacher. milward played lusignan, a part in acting which a young actor, named bond, overcome by his feelings, died on the stage, while blessing his children.[ ] this occurred at a private theatre, in great villiers street, where the tragedy was represented, by sanction of the author, or, as reed would have it, of the stealer of it from voltaire. bond was not the only actor who died in harness this year. obese hulett, rival of quin, in falstaff, proud of the strength of his lungs, which he was for ever exercising to the terror of those who suddenly experienced it, in making some extraordinary effort of this sort, broke a blood-vessel, and straightway died, when only thirty-five years of age; and he was buried at the expense of his stage-manager, giffard, who rented lincoln's inn fields, for awhile, of rich. the success of mrs. cibber stirred rich at covent garden, and when she acted hermione, the old but able mrs. porter played the part against her, at the latter house, as she also did zara.[ ] mrs. horton was opposed to her in the part of jane shore.[ ] in high comedy, mrs. cibber attempted indiana, in the "conscious lovers," and forthwith covent garden put up the same piece. but the latter house was inferior in its company; there was no one there to shed sunshine like mrs. clive. delane and walker together were not equal to quin. of novelty, covent garden produced nothing. giffard's young troop, on the other hand, in the east, and afterwards at lincoln's inn fields, produced much that was worthless, not excepting another levy on voltaire by hill, in his "alzira." indeed, the new authors of this period were more remarkable than their pieces. mrs. cooper, now forgotten, was the widow of an auctioneer; and stirling, author of the "parricide," is, perhaps, better remembered in maryland, where he was a "popular parson," than he is here. what is known of him here, indeed, is not favourable. when he and concanen came together from ireland, to live by their pens, as political writers, they tossed up as to the "side" they should take. as it fell to concanen to support, and to stirling to abuse the ministry, the former was enabled to acquire an ample fortune as attorney general of jamaica, his seventeen years' tenure of which, matthew owed to the appreciation of him by the duke of newcastle. but matthew was a wit, and a gentlemanlike fellow; whereas the rev. jack stirling, whose "parricide" was hissed at goodman's fields,[ ] was an unsuccessful parson, who did very well for a transatlantic minister. the haymarket was open in the spring and summer of , under fielding, with his "great mogul's company of comedians." fielding, greatly improved by many failures, found the town in laughter; and lillo drowned it in tears. at "pasquin," that hot, fierce, hard-hitting, mirth-moving satire, london "screamed," night after night, for nearly two months; and at the "fatal curiosity," that most heart-rending of domestic dramas, the same london wept as if it had the tenderest feelings in the world. in it cibber's daughter, erratic mrs. charke, condescended to play a female part; and davies, the bookseller and dramatic historian, the part of her son, young wilmot. by such means and appliances did the stage support itself through this year, in which mrs. pritchard is seldom heard of, and yates and woodward are only giving promise of the sir bashful constant and mercutio, to come. and now we reach - , with quin especially eminent in shakspeare's characters, mrs. cibber, stirring the town as statira, monimia, or belvidera, and mrs. clive--who had quarrelled with her as to the right to play polly--beaming like sunshine through operatic farce and rattling comedy, as gaily as if her brow had never known a frown. the old colleague of quin--mills (the original representative of characters so opposite as zanga and aimwell, pylades and colonel briton), died all but on the stage, which lost in him a heavy "utility," whose will was better than his execution. a lady "utility," too, withdrew after this season,--mrs. thurmond, the original representative, also, of opposite characters, to wit--myris, in young's "busiris," and lady wronghead. the same drury to which these were lost, gained this season a new author, in the person of dodsley,--whose life is comprised in the words,--footman, poet, bookseller, honest man. as yet, he is only at the second step,--a poor poet; when he published books instead of writing them, he became a wealthy, but remained, as ever, a worthy fellow. it is due to this ex-lacquey to say, that in his satirical piece, the "toy shop," and in his hearty little drama, the "king and the miller of mansfield," both helped towards the stage by pope, dodsley gave wholesome food to satisfy the public appetite; and the man who had not long before stripped off a livery, showed more respect for decency than any wit or gallant of them all. he was the only successful author of the season at drury. the rev. mr. miller broke a commandment, in his "universal passion,"--stolen from shakspeare and molière; and classical mr. cooke manifested no humour in converting terence's "eunuchus," into a satirical farce, the "eunuch, or the derby captain,"--levelled at those english _emeriti_ whose regiments were disbanded after the peace of utrecht, and who sipped their derbyshire ale at a famous tavern in covent garden. the chief incident before the curtain was a riot, caused by the footmen who had been excluded from their gallery, on the night of macklin's benefit,-- th may . but of this incident i shall speak in another page. of mrs. pritchard there is barely an appearance; her great opportunity had not yet arrived. at covent garden there was no new piece, but something better,--a revival of shakspeare's "king john," in which delane played the king, and walker, falconbridge,--a character for which he was personally and intellectually fitted, and in which, as in hotspur, he gained more laurels than he ever acquired by his macheath. they who pursued novelty might find it with giffard's company, playing at the lincoln's inn fields, where, however, the only successful piece was "king charles i.," a tragedy by havard, a young actor, already known by his "scanderbeg," and who succeeded to the place left vacant by mills. giffard played charles, a character which is rather exaggerated by the author, who acted juxon. chesterfield said, in reference to this piece, that "the catastrophe was too recent, too melancholy, and of too solemn a nature to be heard of anywhere but in the pulpit." however this may be, the way in which the tragedy was composed was anything but solemn. desultory havard had been commissioned by giffard to write the piece. it was done to order, and under constraint; for the patron locked up the poet in a garret, near lincoln's inn, during a certain number of hours, daily, from which he was not suffered to emerge till he had repeated, from behind the door, to giffard, who was on the landing, a certain number of newly-written lines,--till the whole was completed, when the poet became free. at the haymarket, fielding and satire reigned, but not supreme,--for his pieces were as often hissed as applauded; but the political allusions in "tumble-down dick, or phaeton in the suds," pleased, and those in the "historical register for ," made the audience laugh, and sir robert walpole, satirised as quidnunc,[ ] winced. the government had for some time contemplated a restriction of the licence of the stage. hitherto, the lord chamberlain could stop a play in its career. it was now proposed to establish a licenser, according to whose report the chamberlain might prohibit the play from entering on a career at all. the proposal arose out of an officious act of giffard's, who took the manuscript of a satirical piece, called the "golden rump," to the minister, at which piece the latter was so shocked, that the bill for gagging the stage was at once proceeded with. it was indecorously hurried through the commons and tossed to the lords, at the close of the session of . there it met the sturdy opposition of chesterfield. he looked upon the bill as an attempt, through restraining the licence of the stage, to destroy the liberty of the press; for what was seditious to act, it would be seditious to print. and, if the printing of a play could be stopped, there would soon be a gag on pamphlets and other works. the very act of giffard showed that the players were anxious not to come in collision with government; and the existing laws could be applied against them if they offended. but those laws were not applied, or mr. fielding would have been punished for his "pasquin," wherein the three great professions--religion, physic, and law--were represented as inconsistent with common sense. chesterfield thought that the same law might have been put in force against havard, for his "king charles i." if ministers dreaded satire or censure all they had to do was so to act as not to deserve it. if they deserved it, it would be as easy to turn passages of old plays against them, as to make them, in new. when the roman actor, diphilus, altered the words "nostrâ miseriâ tu es magnus!"--a phrase from an old play--the eyes of the audience were turned on pompeius magnus, who was present; and the speaker was made to repeat the phrase a hundred times. augustus, indeed, subsequently restored "order" in rome; but god forbid that order should be restored here, at such a price as was paid for it in rome! false accusations, too, could be lightly made. molière complained that "tartuffe" was prohibited on the ground of its ridiculing religion, which was done nightly on the italian stage; whereas he only satirised hypocrites. "it is true, molière," said the prince de conti, "harlequin ridicules heaven and exposes religion; but you have done much worse,--you have ridiculed the first minister of religion." against the power of prohibition being lodged in one single man, chesterfield protested, but in vain. one consequence, he said, would be, that all vices prevalent at court would come to be represented as virtues. he told the lords that they had no right to put an excise upon wit; and said, finely, "wit, my lords, is the property of those who have it,--and too often the only property they have to depend on. it is, indeed, but a precarious dependence. thank god!" he said, "we, my lords, _have a dependence of another kind_!" such is the substance of his famous but unavailing remonstrance. the bill, not to protect morality, but to spare the susceptibilities of statesmen and place-men, passed; and the result was a "job." in the ensuing spring, chetwynd was appointed, under the chamberlain, licenser of plays, with a salary of £ per annum; and to help him in doing little, odell was named a deputy-licenser, with £ yearly;--and therewith the job was consummated; and the deputy-licenser began to break the law he was appointed to see strictly observed. when the act was passed, his most sacred majesty, who commanded unsavoury pieces occasionally to be played before him, prorogued the parliament, after lamenting the spirit of insubordination and licentiousness which pervaded the community! the government made use of its authority, by prohibiting plays, and the public took their revenge, by hissing those that were licensed. among the prohibited, were brooke's "gustavus vasa;" thomson's "edward and eleanora;" and fielding's "miss lucy in town;"[ ]--the first, as dangerous to public order; the second, as too freely alluding to royal family dissensions; the third (after it had been licensed) as satirising "some man of quality!" to these must be added "arminius," by paterson, thomson's deputy in his post of surveyor of the leeward islands. the deputy had copied out his principal's "edward and eleanora;" and as "arminius" was in the same hand, it was forbidden, as being, probably, an equally objectionable piece by the same author! the prohibition applied to it was profitable; for he published his play by subscription, and gained £ by it,--not for the reason that it was a good, but because it was a forbidden drama.[ ] audiences amused themselves by hissing the permitted plays, sometimes with the additional luxury of personal feeling against the author,--as in the case of the rev. mr. miller's "coffee house," "art and nature," and "hospital for fools." thomson was fortunate in saving his "agamemnon" from the censors, for it is not unworthy of ranking with the "iphigenia" of racine; and its merit saved it. mallet was still more lucky with his "mustapha;" and the audience were too pleased to hiss a piece, the licensers of which were too dull to perceive that sultan solyman and his vizier, rustan, were but stage portraits of george ii. and sir robert walpole. they had no such tenderness for the "parricide" of william shirley,--a gentleman who understood the laws of trade better than those of the drama. a french company, at the haymarket, were of course hissed out of the country. there was no ill-will against them, personally. it was sufficient that the licensing act authorised them to play, and the public would not tolerate them, accordingly! if they bore with lillo's "marina," it was, perhaps, because it was a re-cast of "pericles;" and if they applauded his licensed "elmeric," the reason may have been, that the old dissenting jeweller, who set so brave an example in writing "moral" pieces, was then dead; and the "author's nights" might be of advantage to his impoverished family. but there were licensed dramas at which the public laughed too heartily, to have cared to hiss, or which so entranced them that they never thought of it. thus, dodsley's merry pieces, "sir john cockle," and the "blind beggar;" carey and lampe's hilarious burlesque-opera, the "dragon of wantley," and its sequel, "margery;" with "orpheus and eurydice," one of rich's burlesques and pantomimes--the comic operatic scenes not preceding, but alternating with those of the harlequinade--in which, by the way, the name of grimaldi occurs as pantaloon,--rode riotously triumphant through the seasons, which were otherwise especially remarkable, by numerous revivals of shakspeare's plays, according to the original text; and not less so by that of milton's "comus," in which graceful mrs. cibber played and sang the lady, and sunny kitty clive gladdened every heart, as euphrosyne. as far as new pieces are concerned, thus stood the stage till garrick came. in further continuing to clear it for his coming, i have to record the death of bowman, the best dressed old man at eighty-eight, and the cheeriest that could be seen. my readers, i hope, remember him, in the chapter on betterton. miller is also gone,--a favourite actor, in his day, whose merit in irish characters is set down in his _not_ having a brogue, which, at that period, was unintelligible to english ears. miller played a wide range of characters; and he married for the very singular reason that, being unable to read the manuscript copy he had to get by heart, his wife might read it to, and beat it _into_, him. bullock, too, the original boniface and gibby; and harper, the original jobson; and ben. griffin, quaint in simon pure, comic and terrific in lovegold; with milward, the original lusignan; and ben jonson, always correct and natural,--have now departed. with them has gone mrs. hallam, an actress of repute,--the original duchess of malfy, in the revival of webster's tragedy of horrors. by her death, the boards of old drury were relieved from a load of fourteen stone weight!--almost as great as that of mademoiselle georges. of those that were left, quin was the great chief; but he received a rude shock from macklin, when the latter, after playing roxana, in a burlesque of the "rival queens," achieved his first triumph, by taking shylock from low comedy, and playing it as a serious character.[ ] the managers were as nervously afraid of a riot as those of the ambigu were, when frederic lemaître, making no impression as the villain, robert macaire, during the first act of "l'auberge des adrets," played it through the rest of the piece as a comic part! in either case, the greatest success ensued, but that of macklin was most honestly earned; and he took rank forthwith as one of the noble actors of his time. turning to other players, i find mrs. pritchard progressing from lady macduff to isabella,--from lucy to viola and rosalind. walker meets a rival in the macheath of mellifluous beard. woodward and yates are rising to fame. young mrs. cibber disappears for awhile, carrying with her the charms that strike the sight, and the merit that wins the soul. there is a terrible scandal in the cause of her disappearance. "pistol," her worthless husband, has something more than pushed her into temptation, that he may make money by the offence to which he is the prompter. the public voice condemns him; a jury awards him damages, which show their contempt for his "sense of honour;" and the lady, running away from the house in which he had shut her up, while he was absent, playing that congenial character, scrub--took for her better friend the man who had fallen in love with her through her husband's contrivance. as if to compensate for the loss of mrs. cibber's honied tones, the stage was wakened to a new delight, by the presence of margaret woffington. this irish actress made her first appearance at covent garden, on the th of november, , as sylvia, in the "recruiting officer;" and when, a few nights later, she played sir harry wildair,--the ecstatic town were ready to confess, that in the new and youthful charmer they had at once recovered both mrs. oldfield and robert wilks. and yet this enchantress, so graceful, so winning, so natural, so refined, had commenced her public career as one of the children who were suspended by a rope from the ancles of madame violanti, when that wonder of her day exhibited her powers in dublin on the tight-rope. loth to leave entirely, colley cibber now and then, at £ a night, played a round of characters, always to crowded houses, but most so when he enacted some of his old beaux and fops. his richard did not so well please; and one night, when playing this character, he whispered to victor that he would give £ to be in his easy chair again, by his fireside. there was a richard at hand who was likely to drive him there, and keep all others from the stage. the season of - opened at drury, on september , with "love for love," and the "mock doctor." the additions to the company, of note, were delane, theophilus cibber, and mrs. woffington. quin was absent starring in ireland. covent garden opened on october th with the "provoked wife." on the th of the latter month, while drury was giving "as you like it," and covent garden was acting the same piece, the little theatre in ayliffe street, goodman's fields, announced the "life and death of king richard iii.," "the part of king richard by a gentleman who never appeared on any stage." at last! the hour and the man had come. throughout this season no new piece was produced at either of the patent theatres,[ ] so influenced were they by the consequences of this first appearance of a nameless actor at goodman's fields. of course, the new actor was david garrick. footnotes: [ ] bridgewater, not mrs. bridgewater. [ ] should be th september. [ ] it would be more accurate to say that she played several "breeches" parts. [ ] although dr. doran states this as if it were undoubtedly accurate, it is not certain that it is so. it is only one of several stories to account for quin's requiring to earn a living on the stage. [ ] i can find no authority for this. he made his first appearance as hotspur on th january . he played benducar on th september . [ ] he did not play falstaff until - . [ ] should be "next season." ryan's accident and hallam's death took place in - ; mrs. cibber's appearance in - . [ ] bond was not an actor, but apparently a distressed author. davies expressly says that he was aged and infirm. it is scarcely correct to say that he died on the stage. he fainted on the stage and died the next morning. [ ] mrs. cibber did not play hermione. "the distressed mother" was played on d march for theophilus cibber's benefit, when mrs. cibber played andromache. the zara which mrs. porter acted was quite a different part from aaron hill's zara, being the part in congreve's "mourning bride." [ ] i cannot trace that mrs. cibber ever played jane shore. alicia was her part. [ ] it was played five times. [ ] should be quidam. [ ] it is very questionable whether this farce was prohibited. there is nothing in the bills to show that it was; and the _biog. dram._, which says it was prohibited after having been played for some nights, is probably wrong. fielding published "a letter" to the lord chamberlain, on the subject of this farce; but the point of it is, why was "miss lucy" licensed, when less objectionable matter was condemned? [ ] dr. doran must refer to brooke, who made £ by publishing "gustavus vasa." paterson, i think, was not likely to be equally lucky. [ ] macklin played roxana on th may, ; shylock on th february, . [ ] "miss lucy in town" was produced at drury lane this season. [illustration: ipswich theatre.] chapter v. garrick, quin, mrs. porter. he had selected the part of richard iii., for reasons which now appear singular. "he had often declared," says davies, "he would never choose a character that was not suitable to his person; for, said he, if i should come forth in a hero, or in any part which is generally acted by a tall fellow, i shall not be offered a larger salary than s. a week. in this," adds the biographer, "he glanced at the follies of those managers who used to measure an actor's merit by his size." on that th of october , there was no very great nor excitedly expectant audience at goodman's fields. the bill of the day first promises a concert of vocal and instrumental music, to begin exactly at six o'clock; admission by tickets "at s., s., and s." between the two parts of the concert, it is further announced that the historical play of the "life and death of richard iii.," with the ballad-opera of "the virgin unmasked," would be "performed _gratis_ by persons for their diversion." the part of king richard, "by a gentleman who never appeared on any stage," is an announcement, not true to the letter; but the select audience were not troubled therewith. from the moment the new actor appeared they were enthralled. they saw a richard and not an actor of that personage. of the audience, he seemed unconscious, so thoroughly did he identify himself with the character. he surrendered himself to all its requirements, was ready for every phase of passion, every change of humour, and was as wonderful in quiet sarcasm as he was terrific in the hurricane of the battle-scenes. above all, his audience were delighted with his "nature." since betterton's death, actors had fallen into a rhythmical, mechanical, sing-song cadence. the style still lingers among conservative french tragedians. garrick spoke not as an orator, but as king richard himself might have spoken in like circumstances. the chuckling exultation of his "so much for buckingham!" was long a tradition on the stage. his "points," indeed, occurred in rapid succession. we are told that the rage and rapidity with which he delivered "cold friends to me! what do they in the north, when they should serve their sovereign in the west?" made a wonderful impression on the audience. hogarth has shown us how he _looked_, when starting from his dream; and critics tell us that his cry of "give me another horse!" was the cry of a gallant, fearless man; but that it fell into one of distress as he said, "bind up my wounds," while the "have mercy, heaven," was moaned piteously, on bended knee. the battle-scene and death excited the utmost enthusiasm of an audience altogether unused to acting like this. the true successor of betterton had, at last, appeared. betterton was the great actor of the days of charles ii., james ii., william, and of anne. powell, verbruggen,[ ] mills, quin, were unequal to the upholding of such a task as betterton had left them. booth was more worthy of the inheritance; but after him came the true heir, david garrick, the first tragic actor who gave extraordinary lustre to the georgian era. and yet, for seven nights, the receipts averaged but about £ a night; and garrick only slowly made his way at first. then suddenly the town was aroused. the western theatres were abandoned. "mr. garrick," says davies, "drew after him the inhabitants of the most polite parts of the town. goodman's fields were full of the splendour of st. james's and grosvenor square. the coaches of the nobility filled up the space from temple bar to whitechapel." among these, even bishops might have been found. pope came up from twickenham, and without disparaging betterton, as some old stagers were disposed to do, only "feared the young man would be spoiled, for he would have no competitor." quin felt his laurels shaking on his brow, and declared that if this young man was right, he and all the old actors must be wrong. but quin took courage. dissent was a-foot, and he compared the attraction of garrick to the attraction of whitfield. the sheep would go astray. the throwster's shop-theatre was, in his eyes, a sort of conventicle. it would all come right by-and-bye. the people, he said, who go to chapel will soon come to church again. meanwhile let us trace the new actor through his first and only season in the far east. during that season, from the th of october , to the th of may , garrick acted more comic than tragic characters; of the latter he played richard (eighteen times), chamont, lothario, the ghost in "hamlet" (giffard, the manager, playing the dane), aboan, king lear, and pierre. in comedy, he played clodio ("love makes a man"), fondlewife, costar pearmain, witwoud, bayes, master johnny ("school boy"), lord foppington ("careless husband"), duretete, captain brazen, and two characters in farces, of which he was the original representative; jack smatter in "pamela," and sharp in the "lying valet." this is, at least, a singular selection. [illustration: (david garrick)] the most important of his comic essays in his first busy season, when he frequently played in tragedy and farce, on the same night, without affecting to be wearied, was in the part of bayes. his wonderful powers of mimicry, or imitation, were not known till then; and in displaying them, his bayes was a triumph, although other actors excelled him in that part, as a whole. his great scene was at the rehearsal of his play, when he corrected the players, and instructing them how to act their parts, he gave imitations of the peculiarities of several contemporary actors. garrick began with delane, a comedian of merit, good presence, and agreeable voice, but, we are told, a "declaimer." in taking him off, garrick retired to the upper part of the stage, and drawing his left arm across his breast, rested his right elbow upon it, raising a finger to his nose; he then came forward in a stately gait, nodding his head as he advanced, and in the exact tone of delane, spoke the famous simile of the "boar and the sow." this imitation is said to have injured delane in the estimation of the town; but it was enjoyed by no one more than by tall and handsome hale of covent garden, where his melodious voice was nightly used in the character of lover. but when hale recognised himself in the soft, plaintive accents of a speech delivered without feeling, he was as disgusted as giffard, who was so nettled by garrick's close mimicry of _his_ striking peculiarities that he is said to have challenged the mimic, fought with him, and wounded him in the sword-arm. ryan, more wisely, let garrick excite what mirth he might from the imitation of the hoarse and tremulous voice of the former; and quin, always expecting to be "taken off," was left untouched, salient as were his points, on the ground, according to murphy, of quin's excellence in characters suited to him. from a salary of £ a night, garrick went up at once to half profits. the patent theatres remained empty when he played at goodman's fields, and accordingly the patentees, threatening an application to the law in support of their privileges, shut up the house, made terms with giffard, and garrick was brought over to drury lane, where his salary was speedily fixed at £ per annum, being one hundred more than that of quin, which hitherto had been the highest ever received by any player. his first appearance at drury lane was on may , , when he played gratuitously for the benefit of harper's widow, taking what was then considered the inferior part of chamont, in the "orphan," of which he made the principal character in the play. with bayes, on the th,[ ] lear and richard, each part played once, he brought his preliminary performances at drury to a close. in june, , after playing triumphantly during the brief remainder of the spring season at drury lane, garrick, in company with mrs. woffington, crossed, by invitation, to dublin. during an unusually hot summer he drew such thickly-packed audiences that a distemper became epidemic among those who constantly visited the ill-ventilated theatre, which proved fatal to many, and which received the distinction of being called the garrick fever. of course, garrick had not equally affected all the judges. neither gray nor walpole allowed him to be the transcendent actor which the town generally held him to be, from the first night of his appearance. "did i tell you about mr. garrick, that the town are horn-mad after?" writes gray to chute; "there are a dozen dukes of a night at goodman's fields, sometimes; and yet i am stiff in the opposition." in may, , walpole writes in like strain to mann:--"all the run is now after garrick, a wine-merchant, who is turned player at goodman's fields. he plays all parts, and is a very good mimic. his acting i have seen, and may say to you, who will not tell it again here, i see nothing wonderful in it; but it is heresy to say so. the duke of argyll says he is superior to betterton." the old lord cobham, who was then at stowe nursing jemmy hammond, the poet, who was then dying for love of the incomparable miss dashwood, was of the same opinion with the duke; but they could only contrast betterton in his decline with garrick in his young and vigorous manhood. in november of the last-named year, mrs. pendarves (delany) saw the new actor in richard iii. "garrick acted," she says, "with his usual excellence; but i think i won't go to any more such deep tragedies, they shock the mind too much, and the common objects of misery we daily meet with are sufficient mortification." this lady, too, records the great dissensions that raged among critics with respect to his merits. before we accompany this great actor in his career of thirty years and upwards, let us close the present chapter by looking back over the path he has already passed, and which comes towards us, singularly enough, from versailles, and the cabinet of the great king! yes! when louis xiv., on the nd of october, , signed the revocation of the edict of nantes, he lost , protestant subjects, filled spitalfields, soho, st. giles, and other parts of england, with , able artizans, and gave david garrick to the english stage! the grandfather of david was among the fugitives. that he moderately prospered may be believed, since his son ultimately held a captain's commission in the english army. captain garrick married a lady named clough, the daughter of a lichfield vicar; and the most famous son of this marriage, david, was born at hereford, his father's recruiting quarters, in february, . in the same city was born nell gwyn, if that, and not margaret simcott, be her proper name. her great grandson, lord james beauclerk, was not yet bishop of the place when garrick was born, but a much more dramatic personage, philip bisse, _was_. this right reverend gentleman was the audacious individual who, catching the duchess of plymouth in the dark, kissed her, and then apologised, on the ground that he had mistaken her for a maid of honour. the lively duchess, who was then the widow of charles fitz-charles, natural son of charles ii., by catherine peg, married the surpliced corydon. their life was a pleasant comedy; and under this very dramatic episcopate was roscius born. his boyhood was passed at lichfield, where he became more remarkable for his mania for acting than for application to school studies. at the age of eleven years, chief of a boyish company of players, he acted kite, in the "recruiting officer," in which one of his sisters represented the chambermaid, and to which master samuel johnson refused to supply an introductory address. from lichfield he made a trip to lisbon, and therewith an attempt to fix himself in a vocation. his failure was no source of regret to himself. his uncle, a wine-merchant in the portuguese capital, was not disposed to initiate the volatile lad into the mysteries of his craft, and david returned to lichfield, with such increase of taste for the drama, that "several of his father's acquaintances," says davies, "who knew the delight which he felt in the entertainment of the stage, often treated him with a journey to london, that he might feast his appetite at the playhouse." by this singular liberality, the ardent youth was enabled to see old mills and wilks, the two cibbers, ryan (of whose richard, garrick always spoke with admiration), and quin. booth was then stricken with the illness which ultimately killed him, and garrick thus failed to study the greatest of actors between the era of betterton and the coming time of garrick himself. of actresses the most important whom he saw, were mrs. porter, mrs. cibber, with whom he was destined to rouse the passions of many an audience, and miss raftor, who, as mrs. clive, was afterwards to rouse and play with his own. this ardent youth returned to lichfield with more eager desire than ever to achieve fame and fortune on the stage. to supply what had been lacking in his education, he became the pupil of samuel johnson; but master and scholar soon wearied of it, and they together left lichfield for london, garrick with small means and great hopes, johnson with means as small, and his tragedy of "irene." the resources of david were speedily increased by the death of his uncle, who bequeathed him a thousand pounds, with the interest of which david paid the cost of instruction which he received from the rev. mr. colson. other opportunities failing, he joined with his brother peter in the wine trade, in durham yard, where, said foote, in after years, and with his characteristic ill-nature, "david lived, with three quarts of vinegar in the cellar, calling himself a wine-merchant." had the father of david been at home, instead of on service at gibraltar, the latter would probably have been a templar student; but garrick hated the study of the law, and, out of deference to his mother, the vicar's daughter, he refrained from appearing on the stage; but when both parents had passed away, within the same year, garrick, who had studied each living actor of mark, and even recorded his judgment of them, anonymously and honestly, in the public papers, left the stock in trade at durham yard to his senior partner and brother. in , a diffident young gentlemen, calling himself lyddell,[ ] made his first appearance on the stage; at ipswich. he selected the part of aboan for two reasons: that it was a secondary character, and that aboan was a "black." the attempt presented less difficulty, for the first reason; and failure need not be followed by recognition, seeing that his features would be half-concealed under "colour." the attempt, however, was fairly successful, but not a triumph. david went earnestly into training. he played every species of character, solemn tragedy heroes, high and low comedy, and even that incarnation of the monkey in man, as alphonse karr calls him, the bustling, glittering, active, and potent harlequin. his career of a few months at ipswich was as the preparatory canter of the high-mettled racer over the course. all who witnessed it augured well of the young actor; and giffard, the manager, agreed to bring him out in london in the autumn of the same year, , at that theatre, in goodman's fields, which had been made, twelve years previously, out of a throwster's shop. it had been opened, without competent licence, by odell, the dramatist, and subsequently deputy licenser of plays under the famous act which walpole introduced and chesterfield opposed. odell was so conscientious, or so prudent, that in consequence of a sermon preached against the theatre, in one of the aldgate churches, he sold his interest to giffard, who enlarged the house, and opened it in . after a struggle of three seasons' duration, the determined opposition of the eastern puritans drove him to lincoln's inn fields. he returned, however, at the end of two years; and maintained his position with varying fortunes, till at length, in , he brought mr. lyddell,[ ] now mr. garrick, from the banks of the orwell to the neighbourhood of the old gate, where the statues of love and charity still stood, and near which, crowds soon awoke such echoes as had not been heard in the vicinity since the godlike effigies were first erected. in the season of - , garrick acted about eighty nights,--hamlet, thirteen times; richard and bayes, eleven; archer, nine; lear, six; fondlewife and hastings, four; chamont, three; plume, clodio, and pierre, twice; abel drugger, once; wildair, created by him in fielding's "wedding day," lothario, millamour,[ ] and sharp, occasionally.[ ] of _these_, wildair was a decided failure. quin played against him at covent garden, richard, chamont, lear, and pierre, but in these he proved no competitor. he fell back on his general repertory, and, among many other characters, played falstaff, macbeth, othello, and brutus, none of which garrick assumed this year. garrick's fondlewife was opposed by that of hippisley at covent garden, and that of cibber, the younger, at lincoln's inn fields. his hamlet was encountered by that of ryan, at covent garden, to quin's ghost; and a counter-attraction to his lothario was set up in those of ryan and of the silly amateur, highmore, the latter at lincoln's inn fields. from all competition, garrick came out triumphant. of lincoln's inn fields, this was the "positively final" season. giffard managed the house with judgment, but he lost there some of the wealth which he had acquired at goodman's fields, and out of which he purchased the ground on which he built coventry court, locality of gloomy reputation, near the haymarket. dulwich college was a wiser investment of money acquired in the theatre. covent garden lost, this year, a great actress in mrs. porter, who commenced her theatrical career as theatrical attendant to mrs. barry, and was one of the old players of king william's days. among the most marked of her original representations were araminta, in the "confederacy;" hermione, lucia, in "cato;" alicia, in "jane shore;" lady woodville, in the "nonjuror;" leonora, in the "revenge;" and lady grace, in the "provoked husband." few details of her life are known. genest combines the testimonies of victor and davies in describing mrs. porter as the genuine successor of mrs. barry, to whom the former had long played the "confidantes" in tragedy, and from the great mistress learned her noble art. we are told that mrs. porter was tall and well made, of a fair complexion, but far from handsome; her voice, which was naturally tender, was by labour and practice enlarged into sufficient force to fill the theatre, but by that means a tremor was contracted to which nothing but custom could have reconciled the audience. she elevated herself above all personal defects by an exquisite judgment. in comedy, her acting was somewhat cold and inefficient; but in those parts of tragedy where the passions predominate, she seemed to be another person, and to be inspired with that noble and enthusiastic ardour which was capable of raising the coldest auditor to animation. she had a dignity in her mien, and a spirited propriety in all characters of rage; but when grief and tenderness possessed her, she subsided into the most affecting softness. she acted the tragic parts of hermione and belvidera with great applause. booth, who was no admirer of mrs. oldfield in tragedy, was in raptures with mrs. porter's belvidera. she excelled particularly in her agony, when forced from jaffier, in the second act, and in her madness. after the dislocation of her limb, and in advanced age, she still acted with vigour and success. in queen elizabeth ("albion queens"), she turned the cane she used on account of her lameness, to great advantage. after signing mary's death warrant, she "struck the stage," says davies, "with such characteristic vehemence that the audience reiterated applause." on valentine's night, , the prince and princess of wales were present at her farewell benefit, when she played this queen elizabeth, under august patronage. the fine old lady seems to have fallen into some distress, for in she published, by five shillings subscriptions, for her benefit, the comedy of "the mistakes, or the happy resentment," which had been given to her by pope's lord cornbury, the son, but not destined to be the heir, of the last of the hydes, who bore the title of earls of clarendon. he was a dull writer, but so good a man, that walpole says, in reference to pope's line-- "disdain what cornbury disdains"-- "it was a test of virtue to disdain what he disdained." after his death, by falling from a horse in france, the decayed tragedy queen published the play. the old and favoured servant of the public modestly says, that her "powers of contributing to their amusement are no more," but that she "always retains a grateful sense of the indulgence she had received from those who have had the goodness to accept her inclination and endeavours to please, as real merit." nothing could be more modest, but the truth is that this was written _for_ mrs. porter by horace walpole. the subscription list was well filled,--the countess cowper, whose letters figure in mrs. delany's memoirs, taking fourscore copies. let us now return to the renewed struggles of the rival houses, made fiercer by the rise of a new actor. footnotes: [ ] verbruggen died before betterton. [ ] should be on the th. [ ] davies and murphy both give the name as "lyddal." [ ] lyddal. [ ] should read:--"millamour, created by him in fielding's 'wedding day,' lothario, wildair." [ ] this list is very inaccurate. it is obviously taken from genest, iv. , but dr. doran has mistaken the meaning of genest's list, which includes only those nights for which the bill is not given in the text. the record should stand thus:--hamlet, fifteen times; richard and bayes, fourteen; archer, eleven; lear, seven; fondlewife and hastings, five; chamont, four; plume, five; clodio, four; pierre, three; abel drugger, four or five times, it cannot be decided which. then the schoolboy must be added to the list of occasional characters; and it should be noted that there are no bills for april st, nd, and rd. [illustration: a pit admission check.] chapter vi. rivalry; and enter, spranger barry. hitherto, under the mismanagement of the lazy and reckless patentee, fleetwood, drury lane had fallen to a level with sadler's wells--tumblers and rope-dancers being put forward as the chief attractions. even after garrick's accession, gross mismanagement continued, and drove the principal actors, whose salaries were often unpaid, into open rebellion. they sought permission from the lord chamberlain, the duke of grafton, to open the theatre in the haymarket on their own account. but the grandson of charles ii. sneered at the fact of an actor earning £ a year, when a relative of his own, in the navy, repeatedly exposed his life, in the kings service, for half that sum. the duke put constraint on them to return to their allegiance to fleetwood. the latter dictated hard terms to most of them, except to garrick, and he flatly refused to receive macklin at all. this exclusion brought on a remarkable theatrical riot. the confederate actors had agreed to triumph or to fall together. to allow macklin to be sacrificed to the resentment of fleetwood, was a betrayal on their part of the compact. macklin appealed to the town, and roscius would have been driven from the stage but for fleetwood's hired pugilists, who pummelled one portion of the audience into silence, and enabled the whole house to enjoy, after all, what they most cared for--the acting of garrick, undisturbed. in this season, - , roscius did not appear till the th of december,[ ] when he acted bayes. between that night, and the close of the season, on the st of may, he played in all seventy times. his most marked success was in macbeth, in the tragedy "written by shakspeare," when he had mrs. giffard for his lady; he repeated this part thirteen times. covent garden opposed to him, first quin, in davenant's alteration of shakspeare, and subsequently sheridan, who on the st of march , made his first appearance at covent garden, in opposition to garrick, as hamlet. the force of the two theatres will be better understood, perhaps, if i show the exact amount of the opposition brought to bear against each other. garrick's richard was met by that of ryan; the lord and lady townley of garrick and mrs. woffington, by those of ryan and mrs. horton; the hamlet and ophelia of the former two, by those of ryan (and afterwards of sheridan) and mrs. clive. garrick and mrs. giffard, in "macbeth," were opposed, first by quin, then by sheridan and mrs. pritchard, who played everything, from the thane's wife to kitty pry. to oppose to him an amateur, like highmore, in lothario, was absurd; quin's lear had no weight against the mad old king by his young rival; and mrs. charke's plume, one of the many male characters which cibber's daughter loved to play, was pale, compared with that of the universal actor. all the above were honourable competitors; but there also appeared this season an actor, who became garrick's personal enemy--namely, foote. the latter commenced his career at the haymarket, february , , as othello, to the iago of macklin, who had opened that house with a "scratch company," including "pupils"--while he was disengaged at drury lane. foote also played hamlet,[ ] to the ghost and first gravedigger of macklin; and did not find his vocation, as he thought, in such parts as lord foppington. at both patent houses the "beggars' opera" was produced; at drury, the macheath and polly were blakes and miss budgell, an illegitimate daughter of eustace budgell; at the garden, cashell's macheath gave way to that of beard, while the polly and lucy of kitty clive and mrs. pritchard, at the same theatre, charmed the auditors for a time, and gave them pleasant memories for a long period to come. the literature of the stage did not make progress this season. classical cooke selected an assize case of murder in kent, and spoiled its terrible simplicity in his "love the cause." to havard's cold, declamatory tragedy, "regulus," garrick gave warmth and natural eloquence; but even _his_ zaphna, admirable as it was in "mahomet," would not have saved the rev. mr. miller's adaptation from voltaire, had that part of the public who hated the adapter, known to whom they were indebted for it. miller ended his uneasy life, during the run of the play, a representation of which, after his death, contributed a hundred pounds to the relief of his widow and children. in the season of - , the old opposition was feebly sustained on the part of covent garden, but with some novelty appended--especially in the case of a ballad-singer like cashell, attempting hamlet against garrick![ ] further, the king john of the latter in shakspeare's play was opposed to old cibber's alteration of the same piece, produced at covent garden, as "papal tyranny," in which quin played the king, and toothless, nerveless cibber, pandulph. the indulgent audience pitied the quavering old player. garrick's king john was a fine, but not the most perfect of his performances; he was happy in such a constance as mrs. cibber. quin congratulated himself on having such a hubert as bridgewater, the ex-coal-dealer. the value of cibber's mangling of shakspeare, got up to abuse the pope, because of the pretender, may be conjectured by a single instance--that john is too shy to hint at the murder of arthur till hubert has "shut the window-shutters." the modesty of the mangler may be more than guessed at from the fact, that cibber--in his own words--"endeavoured to make it more like a play than i found it in shakspeare!" quin, to witness his rival's impersonation of othello to the iago of macklin, went to drury, in company with bishop hoadley's son, the doctor. foote, in the previous february, had announced that his othello would "be new dressed, after the manner of his country." garrick, on his entrance, looked so ill in quin's jealous eyes, that he compared him to hogarth's black boy, and said to hoadley, "why doesn't he bring in the tea-kettle and lamp?" great as quin was in mere declamation, garrick excelled him in the address to the senate.[ ] victor describes the falling into, and the recovery from, the trance, as "amazingly beautiful;" but he honestly told garrick that the impersonation was short of perfection. murphy states that garrick had the passions at command, and that in the sudden violence of their transitions he was without a rival. garrick attempted scrub with less success, and quin had no reason to be disquieted by his rival's sir john brute. quin's othello was a favourite with the town; but in that part garrick had a more formidable rival in sheridan, and the most formidable in barry. the only original character he played this season was tancred, in thomson's "tancred and sigismunda," a play too sentimental and stilted, too poor in incident, and too little varied in character, in spite of its occasional richness and sweetness, to interest an audience, in these days. it was otherwise, at the time of its first appearance, when with garrick, tancred; sheridan, siffredi; delane, osmond; and mrs. cibber, sigismunda; the town sighed, wept, and moaned over the love trials of the celebrated pair. garrick's tancred is warmly eulogised by davies, who describes garrick and mrs. cibber as "formed by nature for the illustration of each other's talents. in their persons," he says, "they were both somewhat below the middle size. he was, though short, well made; she, though in her form not graceful, and scarcely genteel, was, by the elegance of her manners and symmetry of her features, rendered very attractive. from similarity of complexion, size, and countenance, they could have been easily supposed brother and sister; but in the powerful expression of the passions, they approached to a still nearer resemblance. he was master of all the passions, but more particularly happy in the exhibition of parts where anger, resentment, disdain, horror, despair, and madness predominated. in love, grief, and tenderness, she greatly excelled all competitors, and was also unrivalled in the more ardent emotions of jealous love and frantic rage, which she expressed with a degree of sensibility in voice, look, and action, that she never failed to draw tears from the most unfeeling." a change of proprietorship in the drury lane patent afforded garrick an excuse for repairing to dublin. his rival, sheridan, invited him, not concealing his dislike, but professing readiness to meet all his requirements. with some difficulty the terms were arranged, and garrick appeared in various characters, alternating them with sheridan, and playing frequently with a new actor, young barry, who was afterwards to become the most dreaded and the most brilliant of his rivals. for a long series of years the irish stage had been, with rare exceptions, in a pitiable condition. at one time three houses were open, with a public only sufficient for one. managing committees of noblemen made the confusion worse confounded, and seven managers, known as the "seven wise men," only exhibited their folly and incapacity. there were performers of merit at from twelve shillings to a guinea a week, who seldom obtained half their salaries. on one occasion, we hear of the acting managers coming down to the theatre, one evening, when, on comparing notes, they were all found to be dinnerless, for want of cash and of credit. with the first money that was paid at the doors they obtained a loin of mutton, with the next they sent for bread, and with a third supply they procured the generous beverage they most required; and then dined behind the scenes while the performance was in progress. sheridan's management produced a thorough reformation; and when garrick appeared, on the th of december , as hamlet, the sensation was extraordinary; but it was increased when garrick, barry, and sheridan acted in the same plays--the "orphan" and the "fair penitent." then, the enthusiasm was unbounded. in the latter play, barry is said to have so distinguished himself in altamont as to have raised that character to a level with those of lothario and horatio, played respectively by garrick and sheridan. this was the most successful season ever known in dublin. during its progress garrick played but one character he had never played before,--orestes,[ ] and that he never repeated in england. his objection to wear the old classical costume, or what then passed for it, was extreme. his sojourn in dublin was otherwise not void of incident. there was one thin house, and that by command of a leading lady of fashion, on the night of his playing faulconbridge to sheridan's king john. the part of constance belonged by right to that sparkling young beauty, mrs. bellamy. garrick thought her too youthful to enact the mother of arthur, and he persuaded sheridan to give the part to an older actress, mrs. furnival. the angry bellamy flew to lay her wrongs before the most influential woman then in dublin, the hon. mrs. butler, whose word, throughout the irish world of fashion, passed for law. mrs. butler espoused the suppliant's case warmly, and issued her decree, prohibiting the world over which she ruled from visiting the theatre on the night "king john" was to be played. as she gave excellent dinners and exquisite balls, she was obeyed by all ages and both sexes, and the "quality," at least, left the actors to play to empty boxes. garrick had recovered from the attendant mortification, when he asked mrs. bellamy to play jane shore to his hastings, for his benefit. the lady declined. if she was too young for constance, she was too young for jane shore. garrick applied to mrs. butler to use her influence, but it availed nothing. he addressed a high-flown letter to mrs. bellamy: "to my soul's idol, the beautified ophelia;" but the epistle fell into wrong hands and found its way into the papers. [illustration: (george anne bellamy)] roscius, before leaving ireland, paid homage to the hon. mrs. butler, by taking leave of her in a formal visit. with equal formality, as the visitor was about to depart, the lady placed in his hands a small packet. it contained, she said, her own sentiments and convictions, and, in presenting it to mr. garrick, all that she requested was, that he would abstain from too curiously inquiring into its contents until he had sailed out of dublin bay. the actor had vanity enough to lead him to think that, within the mysterious packet might be enclosed some token of affection, perhaps an acknowledgment of love. he obeyed the lady's injunctions till the ship, which was conveying him to holyhead, had passed the hill of howth, then, "by your leave, fair seal!" and he arrived at the heart of the mystery. carefully unfolded, he found a copy of _wesley's hymns_ and of _swift's discourse on the trinity_. in his disappointment he is said to have flung both books into the sea; but i think he may have had better taste, and that he took mrs. butler's remembrances with him to london. before proceeding to chronicle the leading events of the next london season, it remains to be stated that in the last season at covent garden, there was one first appearance of note; that of george anne bellamy, on the d of november, , as monimia, in the "orphan." rich persuaded this gifted but self-willed girl to become an actress, greatly to the displeasure of quin, who objected to perform chamont to such a child. in the first three acts her terrors rendered her so incapable, that old quin's objections seemed justified; but, recovering her power with her courage, the brilliant young creature played with such effect that quin embraced her after the act-scene dropped, pronounced her "divine," and declared that she was of the "true spirit." she sensibly strengthened a company already strong, in mrs. pritchard, mrs. clive, and mrs. horton. on the th of april, , shuter, from richmond, appeared at covent garden, in the "schoolboy," under the designation of _master_ shuter. at the haymarket, theophilus cibber revived some of shakspeare's plays, and produced his daughter jane in juliet and other parts; but colley compelled him to withdraw his daughter, and the lord chamberlain forced him to close an unlicensed house, which, however, his eccentric sister, mrs. charke, contrived to keep open for a while, playing there captain macheath and other male characters before she attempted to pass herself off on the world, or hide herself from it, as a man. there is this irregularity in the season of - , that neither garrick, nor quin, nor mrs. cibber was engaged at either house. the public was more concerned with the scottish rebellion than with the drama. loyal lacy, who had succeeded the incapable fleetwood in the patent, applied for leave to raise men in defence of king and government; and the whole company of drury lane players expressed their willingness to engage in it. the spirit which some hundred years before had animated the loyal actors, now moved delane, and luke and isaac sparks, with barrington--all three newly come from ireland--mills, with orthodox havard, bridges, giffard, yates, macklin, neale, and foote. the ladies, clive, woffington, macklin, mother and daughter, mrs. giffard, and the rest, applauded the loyal confederacy. the "nonjuror" was revived with luke sparks as dr. wolf, because of its political allusions. macklin in six weeks wrote his "henry vii., or the popish impostor," and distributed it act by act for study, and he sent the pretender, perkin warbeck, to execution without much succouring king george. ford's ultra-monarchical piece, on the same subject, was revived at goodman's fields, and covent garden rehearsed another to no effect, as the rebellion was over before the piece could suppress it. the "massacre at paris," with its story of the pretensions of the duke de guise (ryan) and its famous protestant prologue, was among the covent garden revivals. the scottish rebellion being over, theophilus cibber congratulated the audience thereon at drury; and mrs. pritchard, at the garden, after acting arpasia in "tamerlane," recited an exulting prologue, which dodsley printed in his best type. both houses gave benefits for the "veteran scheme" at guildhall, for which scheme mrs. cibber offered to play three nights, _gratis_, but was snubbed by a hyper-protestant in the papers. the handsome catholic actress indignantly replied, that her love for king george was not diminished by her faith in the romish religion. the whole matter ended merrily by george ii. and the entire royal family repairing to covent garden, where "macbeth" was performed, and a rebel and regicide put to death to the great satisfaction of the royal, noble, gentle, and simple audience there congregated. i do not know which of the new comers, named above, so struck lady townshend, that she told horace walpole, in september, , "she had seen a new fat player, who looked like everybody's husband." walpole replied, "i could easily believe that from seeing so many women who looked like everybody's wives!" in all other respects, there is little worthy of notice, save that, at the close, when all was jubilee again, and charles edward no longer an object of fear, garrick re-appeared in london. he arrived in town in may, . rich and lacy were both eager to engage him, but the former succeeded, and garrick closed the season at covent garden, by playing six nights at £ per night. thus he gained more in a week than betterton, ere he was a "master," had gained in a year. lacy, meanwhile, had secured barry, and the town were eager to hear him of the silver-tongue. garrick generously said of him, in answer to a query respecting the merits of the irish actor, that he was the most exquisite lover that had ever been seen on the stage. barry proved the truth of this criticism, by excelling garrick in romeo, in which the latter was so fervent, the former so winning and so seductive. before we proceed to notice the coming struggle, let us cast back a glance at the stage from whence this master came. footnotes: [ ] there is some obscurity about this date. garrick's handbill in answer to macklin's "case" says that the latter was published in order to prejudice him _that night_, and the bill is dated th december ; but, in succeeding advertisements, the disturbance is alluded to as "tuesday night's" riot. now tuesday was certainly the th, not the th. [ ] it is extremely improbable that foote was the unnamed "gentleman" who played hamlet on this occasion. [ ] cashell's hamlet was a personal eccentricity on his benefit night; not an attempt on the part of the theatre to oppose garrick. [ ] very doubtful. the statement rests on victor's authority. [ ] faulconbridge and iago seem also to have been new characters this season. [illustration: james lacy.] chapter vii. the old dublin theatre. but for a murder in the house of a mrs. bungy, dublin would not have had its famous old theatre in that locality, which the popular voice _would_ call by the name of _smock alley_ (from the handsome hussies who lived there), long after mrs. bungy's house and those adjacent to it had been swept away, and the newer and finer edifices were recorded as standing in "orange street." the first theatre in this questionable locality was erected soon after the restoration; but at the period named, this house and theatricals, generally, were opposed with as much bitterness in dublin as in edinburgh. i learn from gilbert's "history of dublin" that, in , the chapter of christchurch expressed its horror at "one of the stipendiaries of the church having sung among the stage-players in the play-house, to the dishonour of god's service and disgrace to the members and ministers of the church." the ultra-religious portion of the dublin community hated the theatre, with all their hearts, and to such persons two little incidents occurred to the play-house in smock alley, which must have been peculiarly pleasant to their humane yet indignant hearts. one was, that in , the gallery of the above-mentioned house being over-crowded, fell into the pit. the consequences, of course, were lamentable, but, you see, those godless players were acting jonson's "bartholomew fair," and what could be expected when that satire on the super-righteous was raising a laugh in the throats of the philistines? again, in , a part of the same house fell in during a representation of shadwell's "libertine," and nothing could seem more natural than this catastrophe, to the logical bosoms of the upright; for at the devil's jubilee, satan himself was present, and carried home with him the lost souls of his children. even the play-going public grew a little suspicious of the stability of the building, but they were re-assured by the easy certificate of a "surveyor-general," who asserted that there was no chance of a failure in the holdfasts and supports of the edifice, _for several years_! in half-a-dozen years, however, the house was down; and, in seven months, the new house was open to an eager public. the latter, however, were not quite so eager to enter as the managers were to receive them. "so eager were they to open, that they began to play before the back part of the house was tiled in, which, the town knowing, they had not half an audience the first night, but mended leisurely by degrees."[ ] it was in the old house that elrington, the great support of drury lane when booth was indisposed, ruled supreme in the hearts and houses of his enthusiastic irish admirers. his old patrons never forgot him. "i have known," says one already quoted, "tom elrington in the part of bajazet to be heard all over the blind quay; and i do not believe you could hear barry or mossop out of the house." we are here, however, anticipating events. let us return to chronological order. in the old houses, heavy classical tragedy seems to have been most popular; and when dublin was tired of it, the company took it to edinburgh. rough times of war closed the house; but when william's authority was firmly established, theatrical matters looked up again, and in march, , ashbury, who, with mr. and mrs. betterton, had instructed the princess anne how to speak and act semandra, in "mithridates," when that piece was played at whitehall, opened the house with "othello," playing iago to the moor of robert wilks. among this early company are also to be noted booth, estcourt, norris, bowen, and trefusis, contributions from england, and the latter so admirable for dancing the rustic clown, that general ingoldsby once handed him a £ note from his box, and gave him a second when joe went up to the castle to thank him,--the general not recognising him till trefusis imitated his dialect and action of the night before. the ladies were not in force; mrs. knightly, mrs. ashbury, and mrs. hook, were the principal under ashbury, who added the names of quin and the two elringtons, and mrs. thurmond, to his company, before he closed a management of about thirty years. in that period, ashbury raised the irish stage to a prosperous and respectable position. his son-in-law, thomas elrington, succeeded him in the management. under ellington's rule, young stirling first awaked the irish muse to tragedy, and charles shadwell furnished the house with half-a-dozen pieces of very inferior merit. meanwhile, in , madame violanti opened a booth, with her wondrous rope-dancing, and her lilliputian company, whose representation of the "beggar's opera" excited a perfect sensation. the macheath was a miss betty barnes; polly, miss woffington; peachum, master isaac sparks; and filch, master barrington,--all of these were, subsequently, players of more or less renown. up to this time, the best native actor was wilks, now we have peg woffington; in appeared the handsome, young delane, of trinity college; his graceful figure, full-toned voice, added to his zeal and application (both too short-lived), rendered him an unusual favourite. in the same company were mr. and mrs. ward, whose daughter, born at clonmel, was the mother of "the kembles." elrington died in . he was the first actor who played zanga in dublin; much to the admiration of dr. young, who thought mills mouthed and growled the character overmuch. after elrington's death, disorder sprung up. smock alley was opposed by a new theatre, erected in rainsford street, in the "earl of meath's liberty," and beyond the jurisdiction of the mayor. at the former, the company, including, occasionally, some of the best actors from london, was better than the house which was so decayed, that a new, a much grander, but in every other way a less efficient house, was erected in aungier street, at which the tall, cold beauty, the ex-quakeress, mrs. bellamy, mother of george anne bellamy, was a principal actress. a committee of noblemen managed this house, with the usual result of enormous loss. dublin having more theatres than could prove profitable, the old theatre in smock alley was pulled down; but a new one was erected, which was opened in december , with "love for love."[ ] in which don duart was played by cashel, subsequently a popular macheath. he was one of the many actors who have died, or received their death-stroke, on the stage. while acting frankly, in the "suspicious husband," at norwich, in , he was smitten by apoplexy and died in a few hours. the theatre royal in aungier street had its real opponent in this house, opened by licence of the lord mayor, in the more central position, in smock alley. the house in rainsford street was soon closed. london performers, who were sure of profitable benefits, went over to both houses; but i much prefer to remark that, at aungier street, in february , margaret woffington, her childhood being past, first appeared as an actress, in the part of ophelia. her beauty, grace, her ease, simplicity, her pretty singing, her coquetry, and the wonderful "finish" of the male characters she afterwards assumed, gave a fortune to the theatre, which was only checked by the famine of the severe winter - , during which the houses were closed for three months. this theatre in aungier street had a company so powerful, including quin, delane, and mrs. cibber, at the close of the london season, that, on its re-opening, in , smock alley, with elrington, isaac sparks, and mrs. furnival,[ ] could not successfully compete with it; but, in june , duval, the proprietor, by engaging giffard, mrs. woffington, and garrick, turned the scale, and during three of the hottest months of the hottest summer ever known, attracted crowds to smock alley, and spread fever over the city! after success, and when the great players had disappeared, came re-action, empty houses, tumblers, rope-dancers, equestrianism,--and nightly losses. on the th of january , however, the town felt a new sensation, afforded by the acting of a "young gentleman" in richard, at smock alley. the mithridates of the debutant was as successful as richard, and then the young actor was known to be the son of dr. sheridan, a young man of three-and-twenty, whose appearance on the stage brought great vexation to all his friends. but also much reputation to himself in richard, brutus, hamlet, othello, cato, and the highest walks of comedy. a curious incident carried sheridan to the rival house in aungier street. one night in july , his robe for cato was not forthcoming from the smock alley wardrobe, and sheridan refused to play without it. theophilus cibber was there among the london birds of passage. he was cast for syphax, and his offer to read the part of cato and play his own was accepted. cato and syphax are never on the stage together; but in the second act, theophilus must have been put to it, for there, syphax enters close upon the heels of the retiring cato. how the "numerous and polite audience" enjoyed the piece thus represented, i cannot say; a paper war ensued, and sheridan passed to the other house. but two houses could not exist, and an agreement was at length made to consolidate the two companies, and to open at aungier street, whereupon the rejected actors, of course, opened smock alley, and thence came confusion worse confounded, till sheridan, quarrelling with the proprietors at aungier street, passed back to smock alley, and did something towards retrieving its fortunes. but he was ill seconded, and in march, , flushed by his new honours, he crossed the channel and appeared at covent garden. and now, instead of two companies in one house, dublin saw one company alternately playing in two houses, with little profit, till on the night of february th, , "othello" was given at smock alley, the part of othello by spranger barry (iago, wright; desdemona, mrs. bailey). his noble person, his harmonious voice, his transitions from love to jealousy, from tenderness to rage, enchanted the audience, though in some respects the performance was unfinished. his principal characters were othello, pierre, hotspur, lear, henry v., orestes, and that once favourite comedy-character with young tragedians, bevil, jun. barry filled the house every night he played; but, i suppose, a feature of irish management, he played only occasionally. foote, in this his first irish season, drew a few good houses, but barry was the chief attraction. he was opposed by the old ejected comedians, who opened a temporary house in capel street, which, however, was soon closed. under mismanaging committees of noblemen, three dozen in number, with seven wise men for a quorum, affairs went ill, and sheridan was, at length, invited from england to take sole government, and restore order and profit where anarchy and poverty reigned. this sheridan effected, by degrees, aided by his judgment, industry, zeal, perseverance, and unflinching honesty. during his first season, - , he produced, first, miss bellamy, on november th, at aungier street, in the "orphan," to the castalio of barry, and his own chamont; and in the following month garrick appeared as hamlet. in the "fair penitent" garrick, barry, and sheridan played together to the calista of mrs. furnival; and "all for love" was cast with antony, barry; ventidius, sheridan; cleopatra, miss bellamy; octavia, mrs. furnival; garrick and sheridan played richard and hamlet alternately, and each in turn played iago to barry's othello. the following season brought barry to england, where he laid the foundations of a great professional glory which endured as long as garrick's, though it was somewhat tarnished and enfeebled, yet still second only to garrick's towards its close. footnotes: [ ] this refers to the new smock alley, . [ ] should be, "love makes a man." [ ] and thomas wright, who seems to have been principal actor. [illustration: garrick and mrs. abington in the "suspicious husband."] chapter viii. garrick and quin; garrick and barry. this new actor, spranger barry, who has come to london to wrestle, as it were, with garrick, is now in his twenty-seventh year, and has been but two years, brief noviciate, on the irish stage. he had previously followed, with some reluctance, the vocation of his father, that of silversmith; but, respectable and lucrative as it was, the stage had more attraction for him, and thither he went in pursuit of fame and fortune, nor missed the object he pursued so steadily. his success in ireland was great at a time when there was a body of players there, which for ability has certainly never been surpassed. spranger was very well connected, and it was by the counsel of his kinsman, sir edward barry, that he turned his face towards london, and resolved to try a fall there with david garrick. his first appearance was at drury lane, october , ,[ ] in the character of othello; iago, macklin; cassio, mills; roderigo, yates; desdemona, mrs. ridout; emilia, mrs. macklin. what aspirant entering on a struggle of a similar nature now, would be gratified with such notice as the press, in the _general advertiser_, awarded to the new actor, on this occasion? "barry performed othello before a numerous and polite audience, and met _with as great applause as could be expected_." and the triumph _was_ as great as the player could have hoped for. in some things, barry profited by the suggestions and teaching of macklin; and the fact that for nearly eighty nights, about half of which were given to othello, lord townley, and macbeth, barry drew crowded houses, will show that a new and dangerous rival had sprung up in garrick's path, at the moment he was contending with a skilled and older rival at covent garden. in the earlier part of the season, garrick had played hamlet, king lear, richard, archer, bayes, and chamont; quin had played richard, with no success; cato, bajazet, and sir john brute. the two met together for the first time in the same piece, on the th of november , in the "fair penitent;" horatio, quin; lothario, garrick; altamont, ryan; calista, mrs. cibber. this was the greatest theatrical event that had occurred for years; and when the actor of the old school, and he of the new met on the stage, in the second act, the audience who now first saw them, as they had long wished to see them, face to face, absolutely disconcerted them by a hurricane of greeting--a perfect storm of gratulation, expressed in every way that applause can be given, but in louder and longer peals than had ever been heard by actors of that "generation." when it had passed, every word was breathlessly listened to; every action marked. some were won by the grand emphasis and the moral dignity of quin; others by the grace, spirit, and happy wickedness of garrick. between them, it was difficult to award the palm of supreme distinction to either--and mrs. cibber was, for once, forgotten. they subsequently played together falstaff and hotspur; and hastings and glo'ster, repeatedly, in "jane shore." glo'ster was one of quin's "strut and whisker parts," and garrick had such advantage over him in hastings, that "the scale was now completely turned in garrick's favour." was it from fear that garrick declined to play jaffier to quin's pierre? it could not have arisen from fatigue, as alleged, for garrick wrote a capital farce, "miss in her teens," and played fribble in it, and then _created_ ranger, in dr. hoadley's "suspicious husband," in which quin declined the part of mr. strictland, and gave to bridgwater the one opportunity which he seized, of being considered an actor. in ranger, garrick surpassed even what old playgoers could recollect of comic excellence. his "neck or nothing; up i go!" became a popular saying, and the rendering it was a tradition on the stage, from his days to the days of elliston, the gentlemanly impudence, and the incomparable grace of whose ranger is still remembered by many among us. the originality of style and expression in this comedy displeased quin. he was a conservative, and disliked innovation; contemptuously called the piece a speaking pantomime--forgetful that the old comedies were often much more farcical (which is what he meant) in their incident, and when a name for it was being discussed, suggested scornfully "the hat and ladder." some of hoadley's friends kindly foretold failure, in order to afford consolation after a kind. thence the epigram of one of them:-- "dear doctor, if your comic muse don't please, turn to your tragic and write recipes." not merely as a character piece, but for construction of plot, simplicity and grace of style, and comparative purity of speech and action, the "suspicious husband" is the best comedy the eighteenth century had, up to this time, produced. it has a good story clearly and rapidly developed, and the persons of the drama are ladies and gentlemen, and not the dully-vivacious ruffians and the unclean hussies of the aphra behn, the etherege, and sedley period. the writer was a "royal physician," and son to the famous bishop who, for his opposition to civil and ecclesiastical tyranny, was treated as if he were an infidel. the bishop did not go to witness his son's play; but as all the hoadleys had a theatrical turn, i feel sure he and his family read it, with many a cheery laugh, in the old room at chelsea. george ii. certainly did so at windsor, and saw it, too, at the garden, and was so well pleased with his physician, the author, that he gratefully sent him the handsome fee of £ . garrick came off so well in his contest with quin, that he probably had no fears of trying the fall to which he was challenged, with barry. for this struggle spranger barry passed over to drury lane, to wrestle with david on his own ground. drury may be called peculiarly his, for, by purchasing a share in the patent, he now commenced that career of management which lasted during his theatrical life, and the brilliancy of which was spoken of in every part of the world where an interest was felt in the intellectual enjoyments of the people. the drury lane season of - found garrick joint-patentee with lacy; garrick directing the stage without interference, and receiving between six and seven hundred a year, as an actor, exclusive of his profits as part-proprietor. garrick's company included barry, macklin, delane, havard, mills, yates, barrington, sparks, lowe; and mrs. pritchard, mrs. cibber, mrs. woffington, mrs. clive, and other bright but lesser stars. in this season the chief attractions were macklin's shylock, barry's hamlet, othello, and pierre; and in less degree, his bajazet, henry v., and orestes. garrick drew full houses by archer and abel drugger, lear and richard, sir john brute and plume, hamlet and macbeth; but the greatest attraction of all was when garrick and barry played together, as chamont and castalio ("orphan") hastings and dumont ("jane shore"), lothario and horatio ("fair penitent"), and jaffier and pierre. against such attractions as were here presented, with the addition of mrs. woffington as sir harry wildair, and mrs. clive, in all that was light, airy, impertinent, and tuneful--covent garden was more than usually weak. the latter, however, depended on the "beggar's opera," on ryan and delane,[ ] the younger cibber, the giffards, and especially mrs. horton; woodward was in ireland. quin had withdrawn to bath. garrick's triumphs had soured him. he desired to be asked back, but rich would not humour him. the one wrote, "i am at bath; yours, james quin:" and the other answered, "stay there and be d----d; yours, john rich." the old actor returned, however, to play othello, without fee, on occasion of a "charity benefit." drury lane alone produced a new piece, with new characters for garrick and barry, namely, moore's "foundling," in which garrick played young belmont with great _éclat_; barry, sir charles raymond, with dignity and tenderness, and macklin, a knavish fop, faddle, with wonderful power. moore, like gay, had originally served in a draper's shop, and like gay, wrote "fables,"--"for the female sex." his "foundling" bears some resemblance to the "conscious lovers;" but there is more art in the construction of the plot, and it is far purer than that piece which was written to inaugurate an era of purity. in the part of faddle, he satirised a well-known individual, named russell, who was the delight of ladies of _ton_, because of his good looks, crowning impudence, and his "imitations" of opera-singers. these qualities made him a guest, for whom ladies contended; and some displeasure arose, in aristocratic breasts, at macklin's close mimicry of the man,--who, after all, on being arrested for a debt of £ , was left to pine, starve, and finally to die mad, in the fleet prison. such was the fate of this once favourite of fashion. with the season of - , came increase of opposition between the two houses. at drury lane, garrick and barry played alternately hamlet and macbeth--the hamlet of garrick drawing by far the greater crowds. in the same pieces they played--barry, henry v., garrick, the chorus; garrick, horatio, barry, lothario; garrick, othello, barry, iago;[ ] and mahomet by barry to the demetrius of garrick in johnson's "irene." garrick also revived "a new way to pay old debts," in which king, springing from a coffee house, acted allworth with great spirit and delicacy. it is strange that garrick failed to perceive the golden opportunity he might have had as sir giles; he assigned the part to an inferior actor named bridges, and preferred playing fribble in "miss in her teens." garrick's greatest triumph this season was in playing benedick to the beatrice of mrs. pritchard. the town had not had so exquisite a delight for many a long day; and garrick's happiness would have been supreme, but for the fact that barry and mrs. cibber produced as great a sensation, though of another quality, in romeo and juliet. this last piece was not repeated,[ ] to the great annoyance of barry; and garrick, at the close of the season married the pretty violetti to the intense disgust of mrs. woffington, who now joined rich. at covent garden quin, delane, ryan, mrs. woffington, mrs. horton, and miss bellamy, were the chief attractions. quin played many parts which garrick would not attempt. of those played by both actors, quin is said to have surpassed garrick in sir john brute. but the most exciting event of this season was the abduction of miss bellamy, while playing lady fanciful to quin's brute. a gentleman named metham begged to be allowed to speak with her in the hall of the theatre, and thence carried her off and bore her away, little loth, i think, in his carriage. quin explained the matter to the audience, who enjoyed it as a good thing done and a pleasant thing to hear of. while the houses were thus contending, foote was filling the little theatre in the haymarket with an entertainment of his own; but there were authors of a higher class offering more intellectual pieces to the town. fourteen years before, when samuel johnson was keeping school near lichfield, he wrote his tragedy "irene," which, in its rough state, he brought to london, when he and garrick came up together in search of fortune. with poet, as with actor, the aspects of life had improved; but most with the latter. johnson, now about forty, had been long known for his _london_, and had at this time put the finishing touches to his _vanity of human wishes_. garrick produced his friend's tragedy, and johnson was present on the first night in gala dress, but not to be crowned, as voltaire was, when the lively old frenchman attended the representation of _his_ "irene." for nine nights, yielding the poet three benefits--garrick, demetrius; barry, mahomet; and mrs. cibber and mrs. pritchard as aspasia and irene, exerted themselves--with indifferent success. there is no local colour in this turkish piece; the language and sentiment are elevated, but they are never oriental in form or spirit. the unities are strictly preserved, but not nature; and therewith the piece was set aside, and johnson never tried the drama again. in this season, too, kindly, over-speculating, fanciful aaron hill, brought his efforts to a close, with "merope;"--and creditably, although he challenged comparison with corneille, and in some things was allowed to have stood it with advantage. the piece was successful, but the author did not live to profit by it.[ ] his family were weeping for his death, while audiences were shedding tears at the acting of garrick, dorilas; and mrs. pritchard, merope. not only did this tragedy long hold the stage, but the subject of a mother suffering because of a lost son, was so agreeable, it would seem, that browne, whitehead, and home, adopted it in "barbarossa," "creusa," and "douglas." covent garden, too, had its classical tragedy, in "coriolanus," brought forward by quin, after his friend thomson's death. quin played the hero of thomson's play; ryan, tullius; delane, galesus; mrs. woffington, veturia; and miss bellamy, volumnia. this tragedy is worth reading, if it be only to see how very civil and colloquial the hot leader of the volsci could be made by the scottish poet in kew lane. in shakspeare's tragedy, we have the annals of a life put into action. in thomson's, as in laharpe's "coriolan," we have a single incident diluted through five acts;--the secession from rome, and its consequences, forming the staple of a play which ends with a tag of trotting rhymes, which are as natural, and not half so amusing, as if the grave speaker of them had danced a hornpipe in his _cothurni_. in - , symptoms were discernible of a break up in the drury lane company. mrs. cibber, at odds with garrick, withdrew; and barry, not allowed to play romeo, was often indisposed to act in other plays. so it was said: but he publicly protested against any feigned indisposition. he repeated many of his old parts with garrick, and created publius horatius to garrick's horatius, in whitehead's "roman father." at covent garden, delane exerted his dying efforts fruitlessly against barry; and woffington opposed woodward in sir harry wildair. the above tragedy, by the son of a cambridge baker, and one of clare hall's most honoured fellows, was not the only novelty produced at drury;--whither william shirley brought from portugal, where he had written it in his leisure hours, his "edward, the black prince." garrick played edward; barry, ribemont; and mrs. ward, marianne. it will suffice, as a sample of shirley's insight into the prince's character, to say, that he makes edward, for love of marianne, desert to the french side! a more absurd violation of history was never perpetrated by poet.[ ] in the way of novelty, excepting pantomimic trifles, covent garden offered no sign. the latter house made no acquisitions such as drury found in king and in palmer. dyer, however, proved a useful actor, beginning his career with tom errand, and bringing with him his wife, the daughter of mrs. christopher bullock, the daughter of wilks. on the other hand, the garden lost delane, whose first appearance at goodman's fields, in ,[ ] was temporarily menacing to the supremacy of quin, as garrick's was permanently so, some years later. he was a graceful and clever actor, but there was only one character of note of which he was the original representative--mahomet. with this season also departed the actress whom wilks and booth looked upon as the legitimate successor of mrs. oldfield, namely, mrs. horton. steele highly praised her for her acting lady brumpton in his "funeral." long after youth was passed she retained a luxuriant beauty, which was the envy of less richly endowed ladies. she loved homage rendered to her charms, and was grateful for it, however humble he who paid it. in her best days all young london was sighing at her feet, and in the meridian of her sunny time she invited adoration by the most exquisite coquetry. about this time her powers began so to decay that rich only estimated her worth at £ per week. between mrs. woffington and mrs. pritchard she suffered shipwreck. mrs. horton was an artificial actress, the other two were of an opposite quality; mrs. pritchard especially captivated the public by her natural and intelligible style of speaking. davies says,--mrs. horton had a small annuity, and that garrick and lacy added to it by giving her a "part of a benefit." she had, however, other resources. when lord orford patronised lord luxborough, eldest son of knight, of south sea company notoriety, people could not account for it, but horace walpole could. "lord luxborough," he writes to mann, "keeps mrs. horton the player; _we_ (orford) keep miss norsa, the player. rich, the harlequin, is an intimate of all; and to cement the harlequinity, somebody's brother (excuse me if i am not perfect in such genealogy) is to marry the jewess's sister." in this wise did the stage in those days act upon politics. the miss norsa, above-named, had been a singer, of some repute, and orford, then lord walpole, had taken her off the stage with the concurrence of her parents, to whom he gave a bond by which he engaged to marry her as soon as his wife should die! his wife, however, happily outlived him. horace walpole, writing to mann from houghton, in , says:--"lord walpole has taken a dozen pictures to stanno, a small house, about four miles from hence, where he lives with my lady walpole's vicegerent. you may imagine that her deputies are no fitter than she is to come where there is a modest, unmarried girl." this girl was maria walpole, daughter of sir robert, and subsequently the wife of colonel churchill, one of mrs. oldfield's sons. six-and-thirty years had mrs. horton been on the stage ( - ), and in all that time she was the original representative of only one character, mariana, in the "miser." and now we come to the famous romeo and juliet season, that of - , in which garrick and barry were the rival romeos, miss bellamy and mrs. cibber the opposing juliets. barry, by passing to covent garden, was enabled to play with quin, in "othello," the "orphan," "jane shore," "henry v.," "julius cæsar," "distressed mother," "fair penitent," "tamerlane," and "king john." in these, barry's faulconbridge was alone a failure, and quin held his own so well that his terms for the season were £ , the largest sum ever yet received by english actor; but his richard was as little a success as barry's faulconbridge. garrick, mrs. pritchard, and miss bellamy appeared together in "zara;" at the other house,[ ] barry, mrs. cibber, and mrs. woffington, in the "conscious lovers." mrs. cibber, as indiana, made a great point by her delivery of such simple words as these: "sir, if you will pay the money to a servant, it will do as well!" barry and mrs. woffington in lord and lady townley, and quin and mrs. woffington in "macbeth," were among the attractions of covent garden, added to which was rich's harlequin; but for that also garrick found a rival in woodward, who played the motley hero as he played everything, with care and effect. but all these matters were as nothing when compared with the rival romeos and juliets. they appeared on the same night, at their respective houses, the th of september, . at covent garden, the public had romeo, barry; mercutio, macklin; juliet, mrs. cibber. at drury, romeo, garrick; mercutio, woodward; juliet, miss bellamy. on the first night barry spoke a poor prologue, in which it was insinuated that the arrogance and selfishness of garrick had driven him and mrs. cibber from covent garden. garrick, ready to repel assault, answered in a lively, good-natured epilogue, delivered saucily by mrs. clive. it was considered a wonderful circumstance that this play ran for _twelve_ nights successively; garrick played it thirteen, to show that he was not beaten from the field! at that period the londoners, who were constant playgoers, demanded a frequent change of performance; and the few country folk then in town felt aggrieved that one play should keep the stage during the whole fortnight they were in london. thence the well-known epigram:-- "'well, what's to-night?' says angry ned, as up from bed he rouses; 'romeo again!' he shakes his head: 'a plague on both your houses!'" contemporary journals, indeed, affirm that the audiences grew thin towards the end of the fortnight, but this seems doubtful, as barry's twenty-third representation, in the course of the season, was given expressly on account of the great number of persons who were unable to obtain admission to his twenty-second performance. there is no doubt that mrs. cibber had the handsomer, more silver-tongued, and tender lover. she seemed to listen to him in a sort of modest ecstasy; while miss bellamy, eager love in her eyes, rapture in her heart, and amorous impatience in every expression, was ready to fling herself into romeo's arms. in barry's romeo, the critics laud his harmony of feature, his melting eyes, and his unequalled plaintiveness of voice. in the garden scenes of the second and fourth acts, and in the first part of the scene in the tomb, were barry's most effective points. garrick's great scenes were with the friar and the apothecary. miss bellamy declared that in the scene with the friar alone was garrick superior to barry; macklin swore that barry excelled his rival in every scene. the juliets, too, divided the public judgment. some were taken by the amorous rapture, the loveliness, and the natural style of bellamy; others were moved by the grander beauty, the force, and the tragic expression of distress and despair which distinguished mrs. cibber. perhaps, after all, the truest idea of the two romeos may be gathered from the remark of a lady who did not pretend to be a critic, and who was guided by her feelings. "had i been juliet," she said, "to garrick's romeo,--so ardent and impassioned was he, i should have expected that he would have _come up_ to me in the balcony; but had i been juliet to barry's romeo, so tender, so eloquent, and so seductive was he, i should certainly have _gone down_ to him!" respectively, barry acted romeo twenty-three, garrick nineteen times this season,--a season of which there is nothing more to be said, save that garrick created the part of gil blas, in moore's comedy of that name, and that he produced mallet's version of "alfred"--playing the king. at this time, the poets were not inspired, or managers could dispense with them, so attractive were the old actors in old pieces, with new actors--shuter, palmer, and miss macklin--aiding them. thus, in the season - , covent garden, save in a burletta called the "oracle," relied on its stock-pieces; and drury only produced foote's farce, "taste," in which worsdale, the painter, who kept, starved, beat, and lived upon laetitia pilkington, played lady pentweazle, with humorous effect;--and "eugenia," a tragedy, by the rev. dr. francis, the father of sir philip, in which there was the coarseness of sentiment, but none of the beauty of language or tenderness of feeling of otway. yet it was approved by chesterfield, who sneered at the pit and gallery as "common people who must have objects that strike the senses, and are only moved by the sufferings they see, and even then must be dyed with the blood." but this is untrue, although my lord said it, for johnson's "irene" failed because of the strangling of the heroine in presence of the audience; and it was only tolerated, during its brief run, after the killing was described and not performed. [illustration: (mr. mossop)] i have said that the managers relied on the actors and not on the poets. in return, the actors exerted themselves to the very utmost. mrs. cibber was as much stirred by miss bellamy as barry by garrick, and the reverse. in "jane shore," for instance, mrs. cibber, who played alicia to the jane of pretty and modest miss macklin, seemed, on the th of october especially, to be inspired "with something more than mortal." though alicia had always been looked on as one of her very best characters, yet this night's performance she never equalled, before nor since. in this season, barry acted romeo twelve, garrick only six times; but the latter introduced a new opposition to his formidable rival, in the persons of mossop and ross, both from ireland. mossop first appeared in richard, which he repeated seven times with great applause. his zanga was still more successful; indeed, he has never been excelled in that character. six times he played horatio to garrick's lothario, and charmed the town more frequently by his grand theseus to mrs. pritchard's phædra. in macbeth, othello, wolsey, and orestes, he also displayed great powers. ross, a gentlemanlike actor, made his _début_ in young bevil, by garrick's advice, and acted lord townley, altamont, and castalio,--the latter to garrick's chamont, with great effect. garrick, no doubt, would have reluctantly seen himself eclipsed by either of those players; but because inferior actors sought to flatter him by calling mossop a ranter, and ross a sniveller, and epigrammatists declared indifference to both, it is not conclusive that the flattery pleased or the sneer delighted him. garrick had his own peculiar triumphs. his kitely, to woodward's bobadil, yates's brainworm, shuter's master stephen, ross's young knowell, and palmer's wellbred, gave new life to ben johnson's comedy of character. thenceforward was associated the name of captain bobadil with that of the scholar from merchant tailors'--harry woodward. but this has brought us into a new half-century, let us pause and look back at the audiences of that which has gone by. [illustration: mrs. yates as lady macbeth.] footnotes: [ ] should be october . [ ] delane was not at covent garden. he did not leave drury lane till next season. [ ] dr. doran has reversed the cast of these two plays. garrick played lothario and iago; barry, horatio and othello. [ ] this is a most extraordinary statement. it was acted nineteen times. [ ] he lived for nearly a year. "merope" was produced april : hill died february . [ ] it is a character named arnold who joins the french for love of marianne. dr. doran has misread a somewhat obscure sentence in genest's description of the plot. [ ] . [ ] probably the "mourning bride"--(zara by mrs. pritchard)--is meant. "zara" does not seem to have been played. [illustration: woodward in "every man in his humour."] chapter ix. the audiences of - . mr. isaac bickerstaffe has laid it down as a rule that it is the duty of every person in a theatrical audience to show his "attention, understanding, and virtue." to the insuperable difficulty of the task may, perhaps, be attributed the carelessness of audiences on this point. how is a man, for instance, to demonstrate his virtue in the public assembly? steele answers the query--by showing a regard for it when exhibited on the stage. "i would undertake," he says, "to find out all the persons of sense and breeding by the effect of a single sentence, and to distinguish a gentleman as much by his laugh as his bow. when we see the footman and his lord diverted by the same jest, it very much turns to the diminution of the one or the honour of the other. but," he adds, "though a man's quality may appear in his understanding and taste, the regard to virtue ought to be the same in all ranks and conditions of men, however they make a profession of it under the names of honour, religion, or morality." steele was gratified by an audience who sympathised with the distress of an honest but unlucky pair of lovers. he thinks that the roman audience which broke into an ecstasy of applause at the abnegation of self displayed in the friendship of pylades and orestes, showed qualities which justly made of the roman people the leaders of mankind. as if appreciation of the semblance of good were the same thing as the exercise of it. the same people applauded as lustily when they saw the life-blood spilt of the vanquished gladiator. again, he discovers a surpassing excellence in an athenian audience,--famed of old for applauding the virtues which the lacedemonians practised. that audience was roused to the utmost fury by the speech of a man who professed to value wealth far above good name, family, or natural affection. the uproar was so great that the author was compelled to come forward and ask the forbearance of the house till the last act of the piece, in which he promised that this wretched fellow would be brought to condign punishment. mr. bickerstaffe very much questions whether modern audiences would be moved to such a laudable horror. it would be very undesirable that they should: or that a person should swing out of the house in disgust, as socrates did when he attended the first representation of a tragedy by his friend euripides,--and was excited to anger by a remark of hippolitus, to the effect that he had "taken an oath with his tongue but not with his heart." the maxim was indefensible, but the action of the play required it; and socrates had been truer to his friend had he remained till the _dénouement_, and not have hurried away while that friend's play was being applauded. on the duties of audiences, mr. bickerstaffe is a little loose, but we may readily acquiesce in one of his sentiments. "when we see anything divert an audience, either in tragedy or comedy, that strikes at the duties of civil life, or exposes what the best men in all ages have looked upon as sacred and inviolable, it is the certain sign of a profligate race of men, who are fallen from the virtue of their forefathers, and will be contemptible in the eyes of their posterity." this was said when audiences thought only of the quality of the actor, and troubled not themselves with that of the maxims uttered, unless these had some political tendency, or allusion to well-known popular circumstance. the _tatler_ lived before the time when the stories of regulus and virginia were turned into burlesque, and children received their first impressions of alfred and of tell through the caricature of extravaganza. but there was much that was illegitimate in those legitimate days. if a play was not likely to attract, an audience was advertised, in order to draw one. the promised presence of royalty, naturally enough, helped to fill the house; but so would that of a leash of savages, or a quack doctoress. of the latter class, there was the clever and impudent mrs. mapp, the bone-setter, who came into town daily from epsom, in her own carriage, and set bones, or explained her principle in doing so, at the grecian coffee house. the lincoln's inn field managers invited her to honour their house and the performance with her presence, and the astute old lady was well aware that her presence thus granted would be a profitable advertisement of herself. that presence i find announced at the above theatre on the th october, , with that of taylor, the oculist, at lincoln's inn fields. the play was the "husband's relief," but the full house was owing to mrs. mapp being there. in honour of this "bone-setter," near whom also sat ward, the worm doctor, a song was sung on the stage,--as the national anthem when a sovereign sanctions the doings of the evening. of this chant i give the first and last verses:-- "ye surgeons of london, who puzzle your pates, to ride in your coaches and purchase estates, give over, for shame, for your pride has a fall, and the doctress of epsom has outdone you all. derry down. * * * * * "dame nature has giv'n her a doctor's degree, she gets all the patients and pockets the fee; so if you don't instantly prove her a cheat, she'll loll in her chariot, while you walk the street. derry down!" let us now glance at the example set to audiences by greater folk than mrs. mapp. george i. understood english better than he could speak it, and he could make ready application of passages to contemporary events connected with himself or others. shakspeare's "henry viii." was frequently played before him, both at hampton court and at drury lane; and there was a speech in that play which never escaped his marked notice. it is that addressed by wolsey to his secretary, cromwell, after the king has ordered the cardinal to write letters of indemnity, into every county where the payment of certain heavy taxes had been disputed. "a word with you," says the cardinal:-- "let there be letters writ to every shire, of the king's grace and pardon.--the grieved commons hardly conceive of me. let it be noised, that through _our_ intercession, this revokement and pardon comes.--i shall, anon, advise you further in the proceeding." cibber, who narrates the incident, states that "the solicitude of this spiritual minister in filching from his master the grace and merit of a good action, and dressing up himself in it, while himself had been author of the evil complained of, was so easy a stroke of his temporal conscience that it seemed to raise the king into something more than a smile whenever that play came before him. and i had a more distinct occasion to observe this effect, because my proper stand on the stage, when i spoke the lines, required me to be near the box where the king usually sat. in a word, this play is so true a dramatic chronicle of an old english court, and where the character of harry viii. is so excellently drawn, even to a humorous likeness, that it may be no wonder why his majesty's particular taste for it should have commanded it three several times in one winter." so far cibber; we hear from another source that on one occasion when the above lines were spoken, the king said to the prince of wales, who had not yet been expelled from court, "you see, george, what you have one day to expect." when george i., wishing to patronise the english actors, in , ordered the great hall at hampton court to be converted into a theatre, he desired that it might be ready by june, in order that the actors in their summer vacation might play before him three times a week. the official obstacles prevented the hall being ready before september, when the actors had commenced their london season, and were, therefore, enabled to play before the king only seven times. the performances were under the direction of steele, whose political services had been poorly recompensed by granting him certain theatrical privileges. the troop commenced on the rd of the month with "hamlet;" they subsequently played "sir courtly nice," the "constant couple," "love for money," "volpone," and "rule a wife and have a wife." the king could not have been an indifferent scholar if he could readily apply passages, and quickly comprehend others, in plays like these; or could follow cibber in sir courtly, laugh at the jokes of pinkethman in crack, feel the heartiness of miller, in hothead, be interested in the testimony of johnson, sympathetic with the surly of thurmond, enjoy the periods of booth in farewell, or the aristocratic spirit of mills in lord bellguard. the ladies, too, in some of the plays acted before him,--leonora, by mrs. porter, and violante, by mrs. younger,--had also some phrases to utter, which might well puzzle one not to the matter born. but george i. must have comprehended all, for he so thoroughly enjoyed all, that steele told lord sunderland, the grandson of sacharissa, and the son-in-law of marlborough, that the king liked the entertainment "so terribly well, my lord, that i was afraid i should have lost all my actors; for i was not sure the king would not keep them to fill the place at court, which he saw them so fit for in the play." in the old days, a play acted before the sovereign at whitehall, cost that sovereign but the poor fee of £ , the actors playing at their own house, in the afternoon, previous to having the honour of acting before the court at night. to the performers at hampton court their ordinary day's wage was given, with their travelling expenses, for which they held themselves ready to act there at a day's warning. the lord chamberlain found the wax-lights, and furnished the "household music," while the players' wardrobe and "traps" generally were conveyed from old drury down to hampton in a "_chaise marine_" at his majesty's expense. the cost of the seven plays amounted to £ ; but king george generously threw in a couple of hundred more, as a guerdon to the managers, who had professed that the honour of toiling to afford his majesty pleasure was sufficient recompense in itself! the king did not believe a word of it; and the duke of newcastle, then lord chamberlain (and subsequently the original of foote's matthew mug, in the "mayor of garratt"), paid the money into the hands of the delighted cibber, who was astounded at the chamberlain's modesty, which kept him from arrogating to himself, like cardinal wolsey, the merit which belonged to his royal master. how things went between audience and actors in the hampton court theatre is admirably told by cibber himself:--"a play presented at court, or acted on a public stage," he says, "seem to their different authors a different entertainment. in the common theatre the guests are at home, where the politer forms of good breeding are not so nicely regarded. every one there falls to, and likes or finds fault, according to his natural taste or appetite. at court, where the prince gives the treat and honours the table with his own presence, the audience is under the restraint of a circle where laughter or applause raised higher than a whisper would be stared at. at a public play they are both let loose, even till the actor is sometimes pleased with his not being able to be heard for the clamour of them. but this coldness, or decency of attention at court, i observed, had but a melancholy effect upon the impatient vanity of some of our actors, who seemed inconsolable when their flashy endeavours to please had passed unheeded. their not considering where they were quite disconcerted them, nor could they recover their spirits till, from the lowest rank of the audience, some gaping _joan_ or _john_, in the fulness of their hearts, roared out their approbation." these little ebullitions appear to have amused the grave king, for cibber hints that they raised a smile on the royal countenance, and he suggests that such a fact was entirely natural and reasonable. he adds, "that an audience may be as well too much reserved as too profuse of their applause. for though it is possible a betterton would not have been discouraged from throwing out an excellence, or elated into an error, by his auditors being too little or too much pleased; yet as actors of his judgment are rarities, those of less judgment may sink into a flatness in their performance for want of that applause which, from the generality of judges, they might, perhaps, have some pretence to; and the auditor, when not seeming to feel what ought to affect him, may rob himself of something more that he might have had, by giving the actor his due, who measures out his power to please, according to the value he sets upon the hearer's taste or capacity; but, however, as we were not here itinerant adventurers, and had properly but one royal auditor to please, after that honour was attained to, the rest of our ambition had little to look after." and now what of this george's successor as an "auditor?" among the unmerited censures which have been flung at charles ii., the most conspicuous and the least reasonable is that the grossness of the dramas produced in his days was owing to his bad taste exhibited in his fondness for french comedy. had the poets of that period imitated that comedy, they would not have offended as they did, for, taken altogether, french comedy was remarkable for its freedom from utter, abounding, and continual coarseness. i think that george ii. was more blameworthy than his predecessor charles, for he encouraged the representation of immoral dramas, and commanded the restoration of scenes which actors had begun to deem too indecent for acting or expression. for didactic plays the monarch had no stomach; but he savoured ravenscroft's beastly comedies--the very worst of them did he the most delight in, and helped to keep them on the stage when actors and audiences were alike disgusted with them. this perverted taste was strong upon him from the first. when prince of wales, he witnessed the acting of "venice preserved," but, discovering subsequently, on reading the old edition of the play, there were scenes in it which are flattered by merely being designated as "filthy," he sent for the "master" of one of the houses, and commanded that the omitted scenes should be restored. they are those which chiefly lie between aquilia and antonio, characters which never take part in modern representations of otway's tragedy. the former part was given to mrs. horton, who, though she was something of the quality of the creature she represented, was not only young and beautiful, but was draped in a certain mantle of modesty which heightened the charms of her youth and her beauty; and she must have had a painful task, less than the younger pinkethman had who played antonio, in thus gratifying the low predilections of the graceless prince, who then gave _ton_ to audiences. george ii., when prince of wales, found bartholomew fair as much to his taste as the theatres. in , he, and a gay posse of companions, went down the thames, in barges, to blackfriars, and thence to the fair. at the conclusion of the fun for the night, they entered the old king's arms inn, joyously supped there, and got back to st. james's by four o'clock in the morning. some years later, prince frederick, george ii.'s son, who valued the stage in much the same measure as his father did, also visited the fair by night. he went amid a little army of yeomen of the guard, and under a blaze of torches, and cries of "make way there for the prince," from a mob who were delighted to see among them the heir apparent, in a bright ruby-coloured frock coat, thickly laced with gold. there was a gallant company, too, of gentlemen, all coated and laced, and besworded like the prince; but the finest and fussiest, and happiest personage there, was the important little man who marshalled the prince the way that he should go, and ushered him to and from the booths, where short solemn tragedies were played, with a disjointed farce between the acts. this important individual was mr. manager rich, and he was as happy at this night's doings, as if he had gained something more substantial by them than empty honour. on the d of may ,[ ] the audience at drury lane, with the prince of wales and his bride among them, witnessed some unexpected addition to the entertainment promised them. the footmen chose that night for an attempt to recover their old and abused privilege of occupying the upper gallery, _gratis_. one body of them entered the gallery by force, a second fought their way through the stage-door to dictate terms to the manager, and an active corps in plush kept the house in alarm by their shouts for a redress of grievances. amid the fighting that ensued the terrified part of the audience dispersed. colonel de veil, with the "authorities," came to read the riot act, but no respect was paid either to dignitary or document, whereupon a battle-royal followed, in which plush was ingloriously defeated, with a loss of eighteen finely-liveried and thickly-calved combatants, who, battered, bruised, and bleeding, were clapped into newgate for safe keeping. in the latter part of the life of george ii., he took advantage of his position to make loud remarks on the performances at which he was present. one night, at drury lane, he commanded farquhar's "beaux' stratagem" and fielding's "intriguing chambermaid." he was amused with the foigard of yates, and the cherry of miss minors. in the second piece, kitty clive played her original part of lettice--a part in which she had delighted the town, which could then be delighted by such parts, for seventeen years. walpole, writing of this incident to mann, says: "a certain king that, whatever airs you may give yourself you are not at all like, was last week at the play. the intriguing chambermaid in the farce says to the old gentleman: 'you are villainously old, you are sixty-six, you cannot have the impudence to think of living above two years.' the old gentleman in the stage-box turned about in a passion, and said, 'this is d----d stuff!' and the royal critic was energetically right." on some occasions there were more kings in the house than he of england. four were once there among the audience, and as far as their majesties were concerned, rather against their will. these poor majesties were american indian chiefs, to whom the higher sounding title of "kings" was given by way of courtesy. the irish actor, bowen, had contrived to secure their presence at his benefit when "macbeth" was performed, and a dense mob was gathered, not so much to hear shakspeare as to see the "kings." the illustrious strangers were placed in the centre box, and as they were invisible to the occupants of the galleries an uproar ensued. wilks blandly assured the rioters that the kings were really present, as announced. the galleries did not care; they had paid their money, they said, to see them, and the kings they would have or there should be no play. after some negotiating and great tumult the managers placed four chairs upon the stage, to which the four indian kings gravely descended from their box amid a chorus of "hurrahs!" from the late dissentients, with whose noisy enthusiasm the imperturbable gravity of the chiefs contrasted strangely. they listened seriously to the play, and with as much intelligence to the epilogue, which was specially addressed to them, and in which they were told that as sheba's queen once went to adore solomon, so they had been "winged by her example" to seek protection on britannia's shore. it then proceeded, with some abuse of grammar, thus:-- "o princes, who have with amazement seen so good, so gracious, and so great a queen; who from her royal mouth have heard your doom secur'd against the threats of france and rome; awhile some moments on our scenes bestow;" which was a singular request to make when the play was over! one of the greatest honours ever rendered to a dramatist by royalty, was conferred by queen caroline, wife of george ii., on mottley. the poet was but a poet by courtesy; his two stilted tragedies were soon forgotten, and a better fate has not attended his other productions. what merit gained for him the favour of so great a queen was never known. mottley's father was an active jacobite; but the son was a seeker of places, for which he obtained more promises than were realised. yet for this obscure person, whose benefit night was announced as to take place soon after the queen's drawing room had been held, that queen herself, in that very drawing room (the occasion being the prince of wales's birthday), sold mottley's tickets, delivering them with her own royal hand to the purchasers, and condescending to receive gold for them in return. the money was handed over to that gravest of the hanoverian officials, colonel schurtz, privy-purse to the prince, who presented the same to the highly-honoured, and, perhaps, much astonished poet, with a handsome guerdon added to it by the prince himself. it is due to the audiences at oxford, where the actors played in their brief season twice a day, that it should be said, that the taste of the university was superior to that of the metropolis. whatever modern dramatists might assert with respect to shakspeare, and however the "more politely written comedies" might be acceptable to a licentious london pit, oxford asserted the superiority of shakspeare and ben jonson, "for whose masterly scenes," says cibber, "they seemed to have as implicit a reverence as, formerly, for the ethics of aristotle." the flash, and tinsel, and even the sterling metal mixed up with the dross of the modern illustrative comedy, had no attractions for an oxford audience. of modern tragedy they only welcomed "cato;" but that was written by an oxford man, and after the classic model, and to see this, the play goers clustered round the doors at noon, and the death of cato triumphed over the injuries of cæsar everywhere. on the taste of english audiences generally, dryden remarks, in his _essay on dramatic poesy_, that, "as we who are a more sullen people come to be diverted at our plays, so the french, who are of an airy and gay temper, come hither to make themselves more serious. and this i conceive to be why comedies are more pleasing to us and tragedies to them." this appears to me as false as his assertion that rhymed plays were in their nature and fashion peculiarly english! a few years later the "polite taste" of audiences was censured freely by edmund curll, who was very irate that "nothing would go down but ballad-opera and mr. lun's buffoonery;" but this taste was attributed by him to an imperfect education. "as for breeding," that delicate gentleman remarks, "our brewers are now arrived at such a height of _finesse_ and _elegance_, that their children are sent into france for education. but for this, as a lord mayor himself said, there ought to be some grains of allowance." cibber relates an incident illustrative of the ferocity of enamoured and rejected beaux among the audience. one of these, in the year , had incurred the strongly-expressed contempt of a young actress, whom colley does not further designate, for some insulting language addressed to her as she was seated in a box. this fellow took his revenge by outraging the lady, on the stage, and, when she appeared, he interrupted her performance "with such loud and various notes of mockery, as other young men of honour in the same place have sometimes made themselves undauntedly merry with." this disappointed beau, however, went further, and threw at the lady "such trash as no person can be supposed to carry about him, unless to use on so particular an occasion." a champion of the insulted actress called her assailant "a fool, or a bully," whereupon the latter challenged him to hyde park, and proved himself craven to boot, by asking for his life. "whether he mended it or not," says cibber, "i have not yet heard; but his antagonist, a few years after, died in one of the principal posts of the government." the critics were not more tender to a new play, particularly when provoked by sarcasms against their judgment in the prologue, than the above offender was to a well-conducted actress. "they come to a new play," cibber tells us, "like hounds to a carcase, and are all in a full cry, sometimes for an hour together, before the curtain rises to throw it amongst them. sure, those gentlemen cannot but allow that a play, condemned after a fair hearing, falls with thrice the ignominy, as when it is refused that common justice." this was a new race of critics, unknown to earlier times, and their savageness had the effect of deterring gentlemen from writing plays. "they seem to me," says colley, "like the lion whelps in the tower, who are so boisterously gamesome at their meals that they dash down the bowls of milk brought for their own breakfasts." we meet with one instance of forbearance being asked from the critics, not on the ground that the piece had merit, but that, as a prince of the blood was in the house, he should be allowed to listen to the nonsense undisturbed. the piece was cibber's pastoral opera, "love's riddle," produced at drury lane, in january . the public were offended at the recent prohibition of the second part of the "beggar's opera," cibber was looked upon as having procured the prohibition for the sake of his own piece, and a cabal of pit rioters hooted the play, and were only momentarily silent while miss raftor was singing, whose voice had well nigh saved this operatic drama. on the second night, which was even more riotous than the first, frederick, prince of wales, was present, and it was in order that he might be decently bored, and not deprived of what he had never seen, the fun of a playhouse riot, that cibber addressed the pit, and undertook that the piece should be withdrawn after that night, if they would only remember in whose presence they were, and allow the drama to be quietly played out. with this understanding the rioters withdrew, the piece went dully on, and, at the close of it, a lord in waiting was sent behind the scenes to compliment cibber and to express the prince's approval of his conduct on that night. the pit was always the great court of appeal, and on one occasion cibber showed much courage and good sense, and a due appreciation of his calling as an actor. at the theatre in dorset gardens, where the drury lane company occasionally played, and on an evening when he was announced for one of his best parts, a set of rope-dancers were advertised as about to make their first appearance. cibber's scorn was roused by this companionship, and what he did may be best told in his own words. "i was hardy enough," he says, "to _go into the pit_, and acquainted the spectators near me that i hoped they would not think it a mark of my disrespect to them if i declined acting upon any stage that was brought to so low a disgrace as ours was like to be by that day's entertainment." in this he had the support of his fellow-actors, and the public approved; and the acrobats were dismissed by the reluctant manager. the pit was at this period supreme and severe, and as the witlings used to make remarks on, or exchange them with, the more audacious beauties in the boxes, so now did they exercise a cruel humour in making sarcastic application of the words of a part to the actress who delivered them. by these they pointed out the flaws in her character, her deficiency in beauty, or her effrontery in assuming virtues which did not belong to her. i do not find that any special evening was considered particularly "fashionable" till towards the close of cibber's managerial career at drury lane, which, by good administration, had become so much in fashion, he says, "with the _politer part_ of the town, that our house, every saturday, seemed to be the appointed assembly of the first ladies of quality. of this, too," he adds, "the _common_ spectators were so well apprised, that, for twenty years successively on that day, we scarcely ever failed of a crowded audience, for which occasion we particularly reserved our best plays, acted in the best manner we could give them." from the restoration till late in the reign of queen anne, those "politer" folks, as cibber,--or the "quality," as chesterfield would have called them, had been accustomed to arrogate to themselves the privilege not merely of going behind the scenes but crowding at the wings, and, at last, invading the stage itself, while the play was being acted. through this mob the players had to elbow their way; and where all illusion was destroyed, difficult must have been the task, but marvellous the triumph, of those actors who could make grief appear sincere, and humour seem spontaneous and genuine. this mob was not a civil and attentive crowd, but a collection of impertinent persons, who buzzed and moved about, and changed salutations with the audience, or addressed the players--the chief of whom they must often have supremely exasperated. the "decency of a clear stage" was one of cibber's great objects, and when his importunity and the decree of queen anne drove the erratic part of the audience back to their proper position in the house, a change for the better was effected, by which all parties were gainers. this decree was issued in january , and it prohibited "the appearance of any of the public on the stage whatever might be their quality, the wearing of masks in any part of the house, entering the house without previous due payment, and the acting of anything on the stage contrary to religion and good manners." previously to the appearance of this decree, persons were employed to take down profane words uttered by the performers, who were thereupon prosecuted, and, on conviction, fined. the authors who penned the phrases, for omitting which the actor would have been mulcted, were neither molested nor censured. cibber contrasts french and english audiences to the disadvantage of the latter; but i think he is wrong in his conclusions. "at the tragedy of 'zaire,'" he says, "while the celebrated mdlle. gossin was delivering a soliloquy, a gentleman was seized with a sudden fit of coughing, which gave the actress some surprise and interruption, and, his fit increasing, she was forced to stand silent so long that it drew the eyes of the uneasy audience upon him; when a french gentleman, leaning forward to him, asked him if this actress had given him any particular offence, that he took so public an occasion to resent it? the english gentleman, in the utmost surprise, assured him, so far from it, that he was a particular admirer of her performance; that his malady was his real misfortune, and that if he apprehended any return of it, he would rather quit his seat than disoblige either the actor or the audience." colley adds, that he had seen this "publick decency" of the french theatre carried so far "that a gentleman in their _second loge_, or middle gallery, being observed to sit forward himself, while a lady sat behind him, a loud number of voices called out to him from the pit--_place à la dame! place à la dame!_ when the person so offending, either not apprehending the meaning of the clamour, or possibly being some john trot, who feared no man alive, the noise was continued for several minutes; nor were the actors, though ready on the stage, suffered to begin the play till this unbred person was laughed out of his seat, and had placed the lady before him." this, however, was but the mere arrogance of the pit, towards which, had the lady stood for a moment, with her back turned, the polite gentlemen there would have roared lustily, as under similar circumstances they do at the present time, "_face au parterre!_" and as for the tenderness of the old french audiences for their actors, i have already given some taste of its quality, and have only to add here, that the french magistrates were once compelled to issue a decree wherein "every person is prohibited from doing any violence in the theatre de bourgogne, in paris, during the time any piece is performing, as likewise from _throwing stones_, dust, or anything which may put the audience into an uproar, or create any tumult." the decree of for keeping the stage clear does not appear to have been universally observed, for, on the opening of the first theatre in covent garden, in december , i find it announced that, on account of the great demand for places, the pit and boxes were laid together at _s._, the galleries at _s._ and _s._, and to prevent the stage from being crowded, admission thereto was raised to half a guinea. in the former year, to appear at the theatre in a red coat and a laced hat, indicated a rural beau who was behind his time, and had not yet laid aside a fashion as old as the days of great nassau. dress, however, was indispensable. swift writes to stella, on the st of august , "dilly and i walked to kensington, to lady mountjoy, who invited us to dinner. he returned soon to go to the play, it being the last that will be acted for some time. he dresses himself like a beau, and no doubt makes a fine figure." no doubt that dillon ashe was dressed in his best that night, on which he went to drury, and saw "love's a jest," with pack in sam gaymood, and mrs. porter as lady single. as the government procured the passing of the licensing act less for the sake of morality than to save administration from the shafts of satire, so the public took it unkindly of them, but unreasonably revenged themselves on innocent authors. no secret was made of the determination of playgoers to damn the first piece that should be stigmatised with the license of the lord chamberlain. that piece happened to be the "nest of plays," by hildebrand jacob, represented at covent garden, in january , which was damned accordingly. but the public sense of wrong was not yet appeased. the "parricide" subsequently was condemned, solely because it was a licensed piece. "that my enemies," says william shirley, the author, "came resolved to execute before trial, may be gathered from their behaviour ere the play began, for at five o'clock they engaged and overthrew the candles in the music-room, and called a council of war, whether they should attack the harpsichord or not; but to your good fortune," he adds, addressing rich, "it was carried in the negative. their expelling ladies from the pit, and sending for wine to drink, were likewise strong indications of their arbitrary and violent dispositions." it is to be observed, however, of a few condemned pieces of this period, that the authors rather abused their opportunity of ascribing their ill fortune solely to the unpopularity of the licensing act. the ushering of ladies out of the pit was one of the formal indications that serious mischief was afoot. this was the first ceremony observed at drury lane in january , when the riot took place consequent on the non-appearance of a french dancer, madame chateauneuf. when the ladies had been sent home, a noble marquis suggested, and warmly recommended, that it would be well and proper to set fire to the house! this atrocious proposal was considered but not adopted. the aristocratic rioters contented themselves with destroying the musical instruments, fittings, and costly adornments, sweeping down the panel partitions of the boxes, and finally pulling down the royal arms. the offence, however, was condoned, on the most noble marquis sending £ to the manager, who submitted to defray the remainder of the cost of reparation rather than further provoke his excellent patrons. the mixture of ferocity and gallantry in the audiences of these times was remarkable. when miller, most unlucky of clergymen, produced his farce of the "coffee-house," he caused the temple to heave with indignation. under the temple gate there was a coffee-house, kept by mrs. yarrow and her daughter, and as there was not only a similar pair in miller's piece, but a woodcut on the title-page of the printed copy, which bore some likeness to the snug little place where templars loved to congregate, those gentlemen took offence as at an insult levelled at their fair hostesses, and went down in a body to the theatre, whence they procured the expulsion of the piece. nor did they ever suffer a subsequent play of miller's to succeed. the templars never forgave him his unintentional caricature of the buxom hostess, and hebe her daughter, who presided over the aromatic cups dispensed by them beneath the temple gates. in contests like these, where opposition was expected, it was no unusual thing for one or both parties to hire a body of professional "bruisers." the side which possessed the greatest number of these bashi-bazouks generally carried the day. when the town took sides, in , in the quarrel between garrick and macklin, where the right was altogether with the former, dr. barrowby headed a phalanx of sturdy macklinites; but garrick, or garrick's friends, sent against them a formidable band of thirty boxers, who went in, cracked skulls, cleared the pit, and established tranquillity! it is curious to mark, at a time when audiences bore with gross wit, and were accustomed, on slight provocation, to resort to acts of violence, how sensitive they were on other points. poor hughes, who died on the first night of the representation of his "siege of damascus," in , was compelled to remodel the character of phocyas, a christian who turns moslem, as the managers considered that the audience would not tolerate the sight of him after his apostasy. so charles killigrew, master of the revels, cut out the whole of the first act from cibber's adaptation of "richard iii." on the ground that the jacobite portion of the audience, in the distress of king henry, would be painfully or angrily reminded of the sorrows of king james. after all, susceptible as audiences occasionally were, the sensibilities of the gallery remained untouched, or evidence of the fact was offered in an exaggerated form. when dryden's cleomenes, or rowe's jane shore, used to complain of the hunger under which they suffered, it was the humour of the "gods" to fling bread down upon the stage by way of showing their sympathy, or their want of it. "all the parts will be played to the best advantage, the whole of the company being now in town," was no unusual bait thrown out to win an audience. sometimes the house would fill to see, on great occasions, the foremost folk in the land, fops and fine ladies occupying the amphitheatre erected on the stage, and the players acting between a double audience. what should we think now of an author taking a benefit, obtaining at it the presence of the heir to the throne, and delivering an oration on the condition and merits of the royal family and the state of the nation as regarded foreign and domestic relations? yet this is what durfey did, to the delight and edification of his hearers, at drury lane, in . on other occasions plays were given "for the entertainment of the new toasts and several ladies of quality," whereat crowds flocked to behold the pretty nymphs whose names consecrated the flowing bumpers of the beaux, and the married ladies who had enjoyed that honour in their earlier days. "the boxes still the brighter circles were; triumphant toasts received their homage there." at other times, there were less friendly and admiring gatherings; and epilogues laudatory of eugene and marlborough filled the house with friends and foes of those illustrious men, and furnished reasons for very unreasonable conflicts. a flourish of the pen, too, in the _tatler_ or _spectator_, could send half the town to fight for vacant benches; and it was remarked that there was scarcely a comedian of merit who had not been recommended to the public in the former journal. but to see these, there often only thronged "poets free o' th' house, and beaux who never pay." these non-paying beaux were as troublesome to players as to audience. in vain were they warned off the stage, where, indeed, half-a-guinea could always find admission for them, even after the managers had decreed that the way should be barred, though potosi itself were offered for a bribe. in , half-a-dozen tipsy beaux, with one among them of the degree of an earl, who was wont to be tipsy for a week together, raised a riot, to avenge an affront, in the theatre in lincoln's inn fields. his lordship crossed the stage, while macbeth and his lady were upon it, to speak to a boon companion, who was lolling at the opposite wing. there, too, stood rich, the manager, who told the peer that, after such an act of indecorum, he should never be admitted behind the scenes again. the earl looked up, and, steadying himself, administered to rich a smart slap on the face, which rich returned with interest. swords flashed forth in a minute from half-a-dozen scabbards, whose laced and lordly owners solemnly decreed that rich must die. but quin, and ryan, and walker, rushed to the rescue, with their own weapons naked in their hands. with aid of some other members of the company, they, made front, charged the coxcombs, and drove them headlong out at the stage door and into the kennel. the beaux waxed wroth; but executing a great strategic movement, they stormed the front of the house, and rushing into the boxes, they cut and thrust right and left, broke the sconces, slashed the hangings, and were proceeding to do further mischief,--"fire the house!" was ever a favourite threat with these bullies--when doughty quin, and a body of constables and watchmen, flung themselves on the rioters, and carried all they caught before the magistrates, by whom they were committed for trial. ultimately, the affair was compromised; but there is evidence that the actors were intimidated, inasmuch as they issued a declaration that they would "desist from acting till proper care be taken to prevent the like disorders for the future." the house was closed for nearly a week; and, to prevent such outrages in future, the angry king, who took an interest in theatrical matters, ordered that a guard should attend during the performances at either house. this was the origin of the attendance of soldiers,--a custom which ceased at the patent theatres only a few years since.[ ] in the sight of an exceedingly "free" people, the guard was an insult, which the mob, and not the beaux, resented. it was a popular pastime to pelt them, till the terrors of the prison-gate house terminated the folly. the mob, indeed, loved a riot quite as dearly as the "quality," and were especially ungallant to the aspiring young ladies on the stage. west's tragedy of "hecuba" entirely failed at drury lane, in , through the vandalism of the galleries, who, as capricious as my lords below, hissed the "young actresses" from beginning to end; and yet those "young actresses" were mrs. cibber, and other "darlings" of the town. colley cibber once pleaded the gracious presence of a prince in order to win propriety of conduct from an audience; at other times, the more gracious presence of a poet won respect. this was the case on that hot night in june ,[ ] when "george barnwell" was first played at drury lane. the audience had supplied themselves with the old ballad on the subject of that famous apprentice lad,--intending to make ludicrous contrast between the story there and that in the tragedy; but pope was present, serious and attentive, and the rough critics, taking their cue from him, followed his example; at least, they threw away their ballads, took out their handkerchiefs, and wept over the fate of the wicked lad, so admirably played by that prince of scamps, theophilus cibber. such a warning did he hold out to evildoers, that influential people of quality and reflecting city merchants used occasionally, for years, to "command" the playing of this tragedy, as wholesome instruction for apprentices in particular, and a wicked young public, generally. among the influential part of the audience, may be numbered the ladies. it was at their particular request that the part of bookish, in fielding's "old man taught wisdom," was omitted after the first night, on account of some rude sentiments, touching the superiority of man over woman,--or of bookish over lucy! considering how women, and audiences generally, were roughly handled in prologues and epilogues, the deference otherwise paid to the latter seems singular. for instance: the company at the haymarket, in , announced that they would "continue to act on tuesdays and fridays, as long as they shall deserve the favour of the town." the most exacting portion of the audience, however, was to be found in the footmen. from the earliest times, they had been famous for their "roaring;" and dryden speaks of them as a nuisance, than which there was no greater, except "their unpaying masters." these masters had small chance of hearing the play, unless their lacqueys gave permission. the plan of opening the upper gallery to these fellows, _gratis_, in , was an aggravation rather than a palliative of the evil; but the privilege, although at various times suspended, was not finally abolished till about . as many as three hundred of the party-coloured tribe have been known to unite, armed, in support of the privilege which they invariably abused. of authors present at the condemnation of their own pieces, and of the philosophy, or lack of it, with which they bore their calamity, i shall have to speak presently; but i am tempted to notice here, as illustrations of the audience side of the theatre, the appearance of dramatists in state, witnessing the triumphs of their pieces. when the "conscious lovers" was first played at drury lane, in , steele sat in what was called burton's box,--an enclosed part in the centre of the first gallery, where places were kept at pit prices. from this lofty elevation, steele enjoyed the success of a piece which respected decency throughout, and he awarded approval to all the actors concerned, except griffin, who played cimberton. fielding laughed at this novel comedy, as being "as good as a sermon;" and later writers have ridiculed the author for preferring to show what manners ought to be, rather than what they are; but steele's play--a _leetle_ dull though it be--was creditable to him, and a benefit to the stage. political application of passages in plays was frequently and eagerly made by the audiences of those days,--though walpole records an incident of lack of observation in this respect, as well as of readiness. when his father, sir robert, was threatened with impeachment, in , horace ridiculed the want of frankness on the part of the ministry. "the minds of the people grow much more candid," he says; "at first, they made one of the actors at drury lane repeat some applicable lines at the end of 'henry iv.;' but, last monday, when his royal highness (the prince of wales) had purposely bespoken 'the unhappy favourite,' for mrs. porter's benefit, they never once applied the most glaring passages; as, where they read the indictment against _robert, earl of essex_, &c. &c." we have seen kings at the play in presence of their people; and poets were often there, receiving as warm welcome as kings. when thomson's "agamemnon" was first played, pope was present, and he was received, we are told by johnson, "with a general clap." this shows how familiar london audiences were with their great men, and that the same men must often have exhibited themselves to the same audiences;--the londoners being then the great playgoers. on the same night, the author of the drama was himself seated, not near pope, but in the centre of the gallery, surrounded by some friends. there, as soon as mrs. cibber and mrs. furnival entered and spoke, he began to accompany them, by audible declamation, which his friends had some difficulty in checking. johnson, when "irene" was played, was more dignified and more calm. he sat forward in a conspicuous side box, solemnly dressed for the occasion, his wig new curled, a bright scarlet waistcoat--gold laced, purchased for the nonce,--and a tranquil, majestic look about him, which the pit frequently contemplated with approval. the poet was being judged by the people. but poet and people were there to heed the players; and let us now follow their example. [illustration: mr. macklin as shylock.] footnotes: [ ] should be th of may . [ ] it is occasionally revived.--_doran ms._ [ ] . [illustration: quin as coriolanus.] chapter x. exit, james quin. the opposition between garrick and barry was well sustained during the season of - . the former had a forcible second and substitute in mossop, and an attractive lady to woo in comedy, or slay in tragedy, in miss (or mrs.) bellamy; but a more accomplished still in mrs. pritchard. at the garden, barry was at his very best in health and acting, and mrs. cibber in the full bloom of her beauty and powers. it was a pity that such a pair of lovers should be separated, "for no two persons were so calculated to assist each other by voice, manner, and real feeling, as they were;" but, as wilkinson records, "at the close of this season they separated, never to meet again on the same stage." meanwhile, fashion patronised garrick and mrs. pritchard, rather more lavishly than the rival pair. each had their especial triumphs in new pieces. garrick and mrs. pritchard, in moore's "gamester," first played on the th february (beverley, garrick; lewson, mossop; stukely, davies; mrs. beverley, mrs. pritchard), and barry and mrs. cibber in jones's "earl of essex," produced at the garden, february st. admirable as garrick was in beverley, mrs. pritchard carried off the chief honours, so natural, so terribly real, and so apparently unconscious of the audience was she in her acting. she was quite "at home" in this prose tragedy; the severe lesson in which, however, after terrifying, began to displease hearers, who did not relish the caustic laid to their darling vice. let me also mention here young's tragedy, the "brothers," written thirty years before, previous to his ordination, amended by lady wortley montagu, and now played in march . as soon as young surrendered this piece to the players, for the benefit of the society for the propagation of the gospel, he was immersed in the very thickest of theatrical squabbles, to the disgrace of his clerical profession. george anne bellamy, that capricious beauty on whom the delighted town showered fortune, who rode one day in gilded chariots, and the next was lying on the lowest of the steps at westminster bridge, wrapped in misery, and contemplating suicide; the irresistible bellamy was then the idol of the world of fashion, and young readily acceded to her request that she might read "the brothers" to the players. the request rendered garrick furious, although it was grounded on the young lady's personal knowledge of the author. the green-room was in an uproar. roscius claimed the principal part for mrs. pritchard; and when george anne poutingly offered to surrender the character assigned her by the doctor, young vehemently opposed it with an emphatic, "no, no!" mrs. bellamy accordingly read the piece, and assumed the liberty of criticising it. she expressly objected to the line, "i will speak to you in thunder," as not being in a concatenation with the delicacy of the fine lady who utters it. the reverend author protested that it was the most forcible line in the piece; but mrs. bellamy thought it would be more so if it were improved by the introduction of "lightning" as well as thunder. the good doctor was something nettled at the lady's wit; and he declared that "the brothers" was the best piece he had ever written. "i am afraid, doctor," rejoined the lady, pertly, "that you will do with me as the archbishop of toledo did with gil blas on a similar occasion. but i cannot help reminding you of a tragedy called the 'revenge!'" the author took the remark in considerable dudgeon; but the sparkling young actress, who sincerely esteemed him, exerted all her powers to smooth the plumes that her wit had ruffled; and she did this with such effect, that the doctor, after offering to cancel the line objected to, invited himself to dine with her, and did so in company with garrick and rough quin. "the brothers" was acted to thin houses for eight nights, and then quietly shelved. the author realised £ by it; to which adding from his private purse £ more, he gave the handsome sum of £ to the society for the propagation of the gospel. the author was displeased alike with the town and with the players. the truth is, however, that the fault lay as much with himself as with either. the play was not original, but taken without acknowledgment, from various sources. a great portion is almost literally translated from the french piece, _persée et démétrius_. many of the speeches are taken piecemeal from livy. the contest in the third act is splendidly phrased; but the _dénouement_ is so confused and incomplete, that young was obliged to add an epilogue to explain what was supposed to take place at and after the fall of the curtain! garrick substituted a coarse epilogue which was spoken by sprightly kitty clive, who loved to give coarseness all its point; but it could not save the piece, and it seriously offended the author. since then, "the brothers" has descended into that oblivion which fittingly enfolds nearly all the classical tragedies of the last century. it is not without its beauties; but it does not picture the period it affects to pourtray. the "sir" and "madam" sound as harshly as the "_citizen agamemnon_," which the french republic introduced into racine's plays; and the epithets are only one degree less absurd than the "_oui, milor_," which voltaire's beersheba addresses to king david. barry's jaffier, played for the first time on the st of november , placed him on an equality with garrick in that character; but he was not so great in this as in jones's tragedy, the "earl of essex," which he played on the st of february, to smith's southampton, and the countess of rutland of mrs. cibber. one sentence in this tragedy, uttered by barry, seems to have had an almost incredible effect. when the earl, pointing to the countess of rutland in a swoon, exclaimed, "oh, look there!" barry's attitude and pathetic expression of voice were such that "all the critics in the pit burst into tears, and then shook the theatre with repeated and unbounded applause." the bricklayer poet, whom chesterfield brought from drogheda, only to ultimately die, half-starved, in a garret near covent garden, attributed the success of the piece to his own powers, whereas it was due to the wonderful acting of barry and mrs. cibber alone. with this season james quin disappeared from the stage. for a year or two he had not acted. the triumphs of garrick, followed by those of barry, drove from the scene the old player who, for nearly forty years, belonged to the now bygone school of betterton, but particularly of booth, whose succession he worthily held, rather than of garrick. james quin stands, however, worthily among, if not on a level with, those actors of two different eras, having something of each, but yet distinct from either. such a man deserves a few words in addition to those i have already written. the theatrical life of quin embraces the following dates. james quin began his career in dublin in , and ended it at bath in . his first character was abel in the "committee;" his last, hamlet, played at bath (whither he had retired), not for his own benefit, but for that of his friend, ryan.[ ] of doing kindnesses to friends, james quin was never weary; and if he _did_ say that garrick in othello looked like the black boy in hogarth's picture he was only temporarily jealous of roscius. quin was a careless dresser of his characters; and he had a sharp sarcasm, but not a lasting ill-feeling, for those who pretended to better taste, and gave it practical application. i have already spoken of quin's early life; his english birth, his irish breeding, his disputed legitimacy, and his succession to an estate, from which he was debarred by the rightful proprietors. necessity and some qualifications directed him to the dublin stage, where he played under ashbury, queen anne's old master of elocution. quin, then about one-and-twenty, gave such promise that chetwood the prompter recommended him "to try london," where at drury lane, during three seasons, he played whatever character he was cast for, and made use of opportunity whenever that character happened to be a prominent one. in quin passed to lincoln's inn fields, where for four years[ ] he was the great support of that house.[ ] i have previously noticed his misadventure with bowen the actor, whom he slew in honest self-defence under great provocation. it was kind-hearted, but hot-blooded, quin's hard fate to kill two actors. a subordinate player named williams was the decius to quin's cato. williams, in delivering the line "cæsar sends health to cato," pronounced the last name so affectedly--something like "keeto"--that quin in his impatience could not help exclaiming, "would he had sent a better messenger!" this greatly irritated the little welsh actor--the more that he had to repeat the name in nearly every sentence of his scene with cato, and quin did not fail to look so hard at him when he pronounced the name that the secondary player's irritation was at the highest when the scene concluded; and decius turned away, with the remark-- "when i relate, hereafter, the tale of this unhappy embassy, all rome will be in tears." that tale, williams went and told in the green-room, where he waited for quin, who came off at the end of two scenes more, after uttering the word "death." it was what he brought, without meaning it, to the irascible welshman, who attacked him on the not unreasonable ground that quin had rendered him ridiculous in the eyes of the audience; and he demanded the satisfaction which gentlemen who wore swords were in the habit of giving to each other. quin treated the affair as a mere joke, but the welsh actor would not be soothed. after the play, he lay in wait for the offender in the covent garden piazza, where much malapert blood was often spilt. there quin could not refuse to defend himself, however ill-disposed he was to accept the combat, and after a few passes, williams lay lifeless on the flag-stones, and quin was arrested by the watch. ultimately, he was absolved from blame, and no further harm came of it than the lasting regret of having shed the blood of a fellow-creature. at a later period, quin was well-nigh slaying a more ignoble foe than williams, namely, theophilus cibber, whose scoundrelly conduct towards his beautiful and accomplished wife, quin alluded to, under a very forcible epithet applied to her husband. out of this incident arose a quarrel, and swords were again drawn in the piazza, where quin and cibber slashed each other across the arm and fingers, till they were parted by the bystanders. in , quin, with the company from the "fields," established himself in the new theatre in covent garden, whence, after two seasons, he passed to drury lane, where he continued till ; after which, with some intervals, he again enrolled himself at the "garden," where he remained till he quietly withdrew, in . of his rivalry with garrick, i have already said something. if he was vanquished in that contest, he was not humiliated, though i think he was a little humbled in spirit. his great merit is, nevertheless, incontestable. his cato and brutus were good; he was excellent in henry viii., volpone, glo'ster, apemantus, ventidius, the old batchelor, and "all the falstaffs." he was happy only in a few speeches of pierre, especially, "i could have hugged the greasy rogues, they pleased me so!" and his execration of the senate. his plain dealer is commended, and the soliloquies of zanga are eulogised. his macheath and some other operatic parts, he played and sung extremely well. his failures were macbeth, othello, richard, lear, chamont, and young bevil. his continuing to play these in opposition to garrick and barry censures his judgment. davies says, he often gave true weight and dignity to sentiment by a well-regulated tone of voice, judicious elocution, and easy deportment. the expression of the tender, as well as of the violent, emotions of the heart was beyond his reach. the plain and the familiar rather than the striking and the vigorous, became him whose action was either forced or languid, and whose movements were ponderous or sluggish. from the retirement of booth till the coming of garrick, quin can scarcely be said to have had a rival, unless it were the clever but lazy delane, whose self-indulgence was not accompanied by the energy and industry which went with that of quin. as delane fell before quin, so did quin fall before the younger energy, and power, and perseverance, of garrick. james's prophecy that the latter, in founding a new religion,--like whitfield, would be followed for a time, but that people would all come to church again, was not fulfilled. nevertheless, it produced a very fair epigram:-- "pope quin, who damns all churches but his own, complains that heresy affects the town. that whitfield garrick now misleads the age, and taints the sound religion of the stage. 'schism,' he cries, 'has turn'd the nation's brain!' 'but eyes will open, and to church again!' thou great infallible, forbear to roar, thy bulls and errors are rever'd no more. when doctrines meet with gen'ral approbation, it is not heresy, but reformation." quin has left some reputation as a humourist. biographers give the name of his tutor in dublin, but they add that quin was illiterate, a character which is hardly established by the best of his _bons mots_. that he was not well read, even in the literature of that profession, of which he was so distinguished a member, is certain; but he boasted that he could read men more readily than books, and it is certain that his observation was acute, and the application of what he learned thereby, electrically prompt. if he was inexorable in enforcing the payment of what was due to him, he was also nobly generous with the fortune he amassed. meanness was not among the faults of quin. the greatest injury has been done to his memory by the publication of jests, of a very reprehensible character, and which were said to be his, merely to quicken their sale. he lived in coarse times, and his jokes may have been, now and then, of a coarse quality; but he also said some of the finest things that ever fell from the lips of an intellectual wit. of all quin's jests, there is nothing finer than two which elicited the warm approval of horace walpole. bishop warburton, in company at bath, spoke in support of prerogative. quin said, "pray, my lord, spare me; you are not acquainted with my principles. i am a republican; and, perhaps, i even think that the execution of charles i. might be justified." "ay!" said warburton, "by what law?" quin replied: "by all the laws he had left them." walpole saw the sum of the whole controversy couched in those eight monosyllables; and the more he examined the sententious truth the finer he found it. the bishop thought otherwise, and "would have got off upon judgments." he bade the player remember that all the regicides came to violent ends,--a lie, but no matter. "i would not advise your lordship," said quin, "to make use of that inference, for, if i am not mistaken, that was the case of the twelve apostles." archbishop whately could not have more logically overthrown conclusions which discern god's anger in individual afflictions. there is little wonder, then, that warburton disliked quin; indeed there was not much love lost between the two men, who frequently met as guests in the house of ralph allen, of prior park, bath,--the original of fielding's squire allworthy, and the uncle (walpole says the father) of warburton's wife. the bishop, seldom courteous to any man, treated quin with an offensively patronising air, and endeavoured to make him feel the distance between them. there was only a difference in their vocations, for quin, by birth, was, perhaps, rather a better gentleman than warburton. the latter once, at allen's house, where the prelate is said to have admonished the player on his too luxurious way of living (the bishop, however, loving custard not less than the actor did john dory), requested him, as he could not see him on the stage, to recite some passages from dramatic authors, in presence of a large company then assembled in the drawing-room. quin made some little difficulty; but after a well-simulated hesitation consented, and stood up to deliver passages from "venice preserved;" but in reciting the lines "honest men are the soft easy cushions on which knaves repose and fatten," he so pointedly directed his looks, at "honest men" to allen, and at "knaves" to warburton, that the company universally marked the application, and the bishop never asked for a taste of the actor's quality again. and yet he is reported to have imitated this very act, with less warrant for it. when dr. terrick had been recently (in ) promoted from peterborough to the see of london, a preferment coveted by warburton, the latter preached a sermon at the chapel royal, at which the new bishop of london was present, amid more august members of the congregation. warburton took occasion to say that a government which conferred the high trusts of the church on illiterate and worthless objects betrayed the interests of religion;--and on saying so, he stared terrick full in the face. there was no man for whom quin had such distaste as this unpleasant bishop of gloucester, who published an edition of _shakspeare_. when this was announced, the actor remarked in the green-room of old drury, "he had better mind his own bible, and leave ours to us!" quin was undoubtedly open to censure on the score of his epicurism. he is said to have so loved john dory as to declare, that for the enjoyment of it, a man "should have a swallow from here to the antipodes, and palate all the way!" and we are told that if, on his servant calling him in the morning, he heard that there was no john dory in the market, he would turn round, and lazily remark, "then call me again to-morrow." but these are tales more or less coloured to illustrate his way of life. there is one which has more probability in it, which speaks of another incident at bath. lord chesterfield saw a couple of chairmen helping a heavy gentleman into a sedan, and he asked his servant if he knew who that stout gentleman was? "only mr. quin, my lord, going home, as usual, from the 'three tuns.'" "nay, sir," answered my lord, "i think mr. quin is taking one of the three home with him, under his waistcoat!" his capacity was undoubtedly great, but the over-testing it occasionally affected his acting. an occasion on which he was playing balance, in the "recruiting officer," mrs. woffington acting sylvia, his daughter, affords an instance. in the second scene of the second act he should have asked his daughter, "sylvia, how old were you when your mother _died_?" instead of which he said "_married_." sylvia laughed, and being put out of her cue, could only stammer "what, sir?" "pshaw!" cried the more confused justice; "i mean, how old were you when your mother _was born_?" mrs. woffington recovered her self-possession, and taking the proper cue, said, "you mean, sir, when my mother died. alas! so young, that i do not remember i ever had one; and you have been so careful, so indulgent to me, ever since, that indeed i never wanted one." in his latest days, his powers of retort never failed him. he was in that closing season when a fop condoled with him on growing old, and asked what the actor would give to be as young as _he_ was? "i would almost be content to be as foolish!" was quin's reply. old hippisley, who, from a candle-snuffer became a favourite low comedian, owed much of his power of exciting mirth to a queer expression in his distorted face, caused by a scar from a severe burn. having some intention to put his son on the stage, he asked quin's advice as to the preparatory measures. "hippy," said quin, "you had better begin by burning him." nobody bore with his sharp sayings more cheerfully than mrs. woffington. we all know his remark, when margaret, coming off the stage as sir harry wildair, declared that she believed one half the house thought she was a man. less known is his comment when, on asking her why she had been to bath, she answered saucily, "oh, for mere wantonness!" whereon quin retorted with, "and have you been cured of it?" he was one of the few men who could stand a fall with foote, and come off the better man. foote, who could not endure a joke made on himself, broke friendship with quin on account of such offence. ultimately, they were reconciled; but even then foote referred to the provocation. "jemmy, you should not have said that i had but one shirt, and that i lay a-bed while it was washed!" "sammy," replied quin, "i never _could_ have said so, for i never knew that you had a shirt to wash!" in the roughest of quin's jests there was no harm meant, and many of his jokes manifested the kindliness of his heart. here is an obscure actor, dick winston, lying,--hungry, weary, and disengaged,--on a truckle bed, in the neighbourhood of covent garden. he had wilfully forfeited an old engagement, turned itinerant, starved, and had returned, only to find his old place occupied. he is on his back, in utter despair, as mr. quin enters, followed by a man carrying a decent suit of clothes; and the great actor hails him with a "now, dick, how is it you are not up and at rehearsal?" quin had heard of his distress, got him restored to his employment, and took this way of announcing it. winston dressed himself in a state of bewilderment; a new dress and a new engagement,--but no cash wherewith to obtain a breakfast!" mr. quin," said he, unhesitatingly, "what shall i do for a little ready money, till saturday arrives?" "nay!" replied quin; "i have done all i can for you; but as for money, dick, you must put your hand in your own pocket." quin had put a £ note there! again; when ryan asked, in an emergency, for a loan, the answer from quin was, that he had nothing to lend; but he had left ryan £ in his will, and ryan might have that, if he were inclined to cheat the government of the legacy duty! frederick, prince of wales, was not half such a practically good patron to thomson, as james quin was. when the bard was in distress, quin gave him a supper at a tavern, for half of which the poet expected he would have to pay; but the player designed otherwise. "mr. thomson," said he, "i estimate the pleasure i have had in perusing your works at £ at least; and you must allow me to settle that account, by presenting you with the money." what are the small or the great faults of this actor of "all the falstaffs," when we find his virtues so practical and lively? in return, the minstrel has repaid the good deed with a guerdon of song. in the _castle of indolence_, he says: "here whilom ligg'd th' aesopus of the age; but, call'd by fame, in soul ypricked deep, a noble pride restored him to the stage, and roused him like a giant from his sleep. even from his slumbers we advantage reap: with double force th' enlivened scene he wakes, yet quits not nature's bounds. he knows to keep each due decorum: now the heart he shakes, and now with well-urged sense th' enlightened judgment takes." the actor had a great regard for the poet, and was not only active in bringing forward his posthumous tragedy, "coriolanus," in which quin played the principal character, in , but spoke the hon. george lyttleton's celebrated prologue with such feeling, that he could not restrain his tears; and with such effect, that the audience were moved, it is said, in like manner:-- "he lov'd his friends;--forgave this gushing tear; alas! i feel i am no actor here;" and quin's eyes glistened, as he went through the noble eulogy of a poet, whose "muse employ'd her heaven-taught lyre, none but the noblest passions to inspire; not one immoral, one corrupted thought, one line, which, dying, he could wish to blot." the last night quin played as an engaged actor, was at covent garden, on the th of may ; the play was the "fair penitent," in which he acted horatio to the lothario of barry, and the calista of mrs. cibber. after this he quietly withdrew, without leave-taking, returning only once or twice to play for the benefit of a friend. in his later years, his professional income is said to have reached £ a year. he was the first english actor who received £ a night, during a part of his career. the characters he created were in pieces which have died off the stage, save comus, which he acted with effective dignity in the season of - ;--a part in which mr. macready distinguished himself, during his memorable management of drury lane. quin's social position, after leaving the stage, was one congenial to a man of his merits, taste, and acquirements. he was a welcome guest at many noble hearths--from that of ducal chatsworth to that of modest allen's at prior park. at the former he and garrick met. there had not been a cordial intimacy between the two as actors; but as private gentlemen they became friends. this better state of things was owing to the kindly feeling of quin. the two men were left alone in a room at chatsworth, and quin made the first step towards a reconciliation by asking a question the most agreeable he could put--inquiring after mrs. garrick's health. in this scene the two men come before me as distinct as a couple of figures drawn by meissonier--quaint in costume, full of character and life, pleasant to look at and to remember. quin was garrick's guest at hampton, when he was stricken in with the illness which ultimately proved fatal. he died, however, in his own house in bath. "i could wish," he said the day before, "that the last tragic scene were over; and i hope i may be enabled to meet and pass through it with dignity." he passed through it becomingly on the st of january ; and garrick placed the following lines on the old actor's tomb in the abbey--a pyramid of sienna marble, bearing a medallion portrait of quin, resting on a sarcophagus, on which the inscription is engraved, supported by the mask of thalia and the dagger of melpomene. "that tongue which set the table in a roar, and charmed the public ear, is heard no more; clos'd are those eyes, the harbingers of wit, which spake, before the tongue, what shakspere writ. cold is that hand which, living, was stretch'd forth at friendship's call, to succour modest worth. here lies james quin. deign, reader, to be taught, whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought, in nature's happiest mould however cast, to this complexion thou must come at last." kind-hearted people have remarked that garrick never said so much to, or of, quin when he was alive. perhaps not. he struggled with quin for mastery--vanquished him; became his friend, and hung up over his grave a glowing testimony to his talent and his virtues. this was in the spirit of old chivalry. what would kind-hearted people have? was it not well in garrick to speak truthfully of one dead whom, when living, he thus with pleasant satire described as soliloquising at the tomb of duke humphrey at st. albans-- "a plague on egypt's art, i say! embalm the dead! on senseless clay rich wines and spices waste! like sturgeon, or like brawn, shall i bound in a precious pickle lie, which i can never taste? let me embalm this flesh of mine with turtle fat, and bordeaux wine, and spoil th' egyptian trade! than humphry's duke more happy i, embalm'd alive, old quin shall die a mummy ready made." as a tailpiece to this sketch, i cannot, i think, do better than subjoin foote's portrait of quin, which, i will hope, was not drawn to disparage any of quin's great survivors, but in all honesty and sincerity. "mr. quin's deportment through the whole cast of his characters is natural and unaffected, his countenance expressive without the assistance of grimace, and he is, indeed, in every circumstance, so much the person he represents, that it is scarcely possible for any attentive spectator to believe that the hypocritical, intriguing maskwell, the suspicious superannuated rake, the snarling old bachelor, and the jolly, jocose jack falstaff are imitated, but real persons. "and here i wish i had room and ability to point out the severe masterly strokes with which mr. quin has often entertained my imagination, and satisfied my judgment, but, under my present confinement, i can only recommend the man who wants to see a character perfectly played, to see mr. quin in the part of falstaff; and if he does not express a desire of spending an evening with that merry mortal, why, i would not spend one with him, if he would pay my reckoning." "with a bottle of claret and a full house," it may well be concluded, from all concurrent testimony, quin was, in fat jack, unapproachable. in the traditions of the stage, he still remains _the_ falstaff, though henderson was subsequently thought to have equalled him in many of the points of that character. finally, quin's will is not uninstructive as an illustration of the actor's character. there is, perhaps, not a friend he had possessed, or servant who had been faithful to him, who is forgotten in it. various are the bequests, from £ to a cousin practising medicine in dublin, to £ and a share of the residue to a kind-hearted oilman in the strand. to one individual he bequeaths his watch, in accordance with an "imprudent promise" to that effect. james quin did not like the man, but he would not break his word! _requiescat in pace!_ [illustration: mr. king as lord ogleby.] footnotes: [ ] quin's last appearance was for ryan's benefit; but it was at covent garden, and he played falstaff-- th march . [ ] i think this must be a misprint for fourteen years. [ ] in the second edition dr. doran says: "after he passed to lincoln's inn fields, rich designed to bring forward the 'merry wives of windsor,' but no one seemed daring enough to undertake falstaff. 'i will venture it,' said quin, 'if no one else can be found.' 'you!' cried rich, 'you might as well try cato after booth. the character of falstaff is quite another character from what you think. it is not a little snivelling part that any one can do; and there isn't any man among you that has any idea of the part but myself!' ultimately quin 'attempted' the part; his conception of it was admirable, and the house willingly flung itself into a very storm of hilarious jollity." [illustration: old theatre royal, edinburgh.] chapter xi. england and scotland. in - mrs. cibber returned to drury; she played juliet to garrick's romeo, and with him in every piece that admitted of their playing together. but barry gained in miss nossiter a juliet, not, indeed, equal to mrs. cibber, but one who increased his own ardour and earnestness in romeo, his tenderness and anxiety in jaffier, and his truth and playfulness as florizel, inasmuch as that they were mutually in love, and all the house was in the secret. miss nossiter, however, did not realise her early promise. contemporary critics speak of the novice as being of a delicate figure, graceful in the expression of distress, but requiring carefulness in the management of her voice, and a more simple elocution. one of her judges curiously remarks:--"she frequently alarmed the audience with the most striking attitudes." the critic recovers from _his_ alarm when speaking of another _debutante_ (mrs. elmey), who acted desdemona to barry's othello. "no part," he says, "has been better represented in our memory," and "we scarce knew what it was before she acted it." of poor miss nossiter there is little more recorded than that, at the end of a brief career, she died, after bequeathing to barry, the romeo, for whom more than miss nossiter professed to be dying,--£ . mossop succeeded quin, at drury lane, with credit.[ ] foote left "entertaining" at the haymarket to play the cibber parts in comedy, and he was ably seconded by woodward, mrs. pritchard, and kitty clive. miss bellamy and shuter passed to the garden, the latter increasing in favour each night, as opportunity afforded. with the exception of minor pieces, and a revival of "king john," in which garrick was an unlikely faulconbridge, and mossop a superb tyrant, the audiences were taken back to heavy classical tragedies. drury played glover's "boadicea," a criticism of which is amusingly given by walpole. "there is a new play of glover's, in which boadicea (pritchard) rants as much as visconti screams; but, happily, you hear no more of her after the third act, till, in the last scene, somebody brings a card with her compliments, and she is very sorry she cannot wait upon you, but she is dead. then there is a scene between lord sussex and cathcart, two captains" (Ænobarbus and flaminius--mossop and havard), "which is most incredibly absurd; but yet the parts are so well acted, the dresses so fine, and two or three scenes pleasing enough, that it is worth seeing." archbishop herring thought the last two acts admirable. "in the fifth particularly, i hardly ever felt myself so strongly touched." of a second tragedy, crisp's "virginia," walpole says it flourished through garrick's acting. murphy states that "the manner in which garrick uttered two words, crowned the play with success; when in a low tone of voice that spoke the fulness of a broken heart, he pronounced, 'thou traitor!' the whole audience was electrified, and testified their delight by a thunder of applause." it was, however, a poor play, even for a custom-house officer, who, by the way, made appius (mossop) propose to marry virginia. marcia was played by mrs. graham; garrick did not think much of her; but we shall hear of her again as the great mrs. yates. the third classical tragedy was whitehead's "creusa," founded on the _ion_ of euripides. walpole praises the interest, complexity, yet clearness and natural feeling of the plot. "it is the only new tragedy that i ever saw and really liked. the circumstance of so much distress being brought on by characters, every one good, yet acting consistently with their principles towards the misfortunes of the drama, is quite new and pleasing." as a reading play, i think "creusa" is the greatest success whitehead has achieved. on the other hand, m'namara morgan's romantic tragedy "philoclea" owed much of its ephemeral success to the fire, grace, beauty, and expression of barry and miss nossiter (pyrocles and philoclea), the two lovers. the house literally "sighed like furnace" for very sympathy. the rev. mr. genest says truly, "that the play is a poor play, but that the epilogue is not bad;"--it is a mass of uncleanness, worthy of the ravenscroft whom genest admired. as for dr. francis's "constantine," in which barry and mrs. bellamy played constantine and fulvia, it was a failure; but, _therefore_, mrs. bellamy recommended the author to the patronage of fox; and it is certain that the father of sir philip francis owed his promotion to the suffolk rectory of barrow to lord holland. there is something amusing in the idea of george anne bellamy indirectly nominating to church benefices! in the season of - , garrick was relieved by the absence of barry, who left rich for dublin, taking miss nossiter with him, at a salary of £ for both, for the season, and predicting ruin to rich. the latter falsified the prediction, by bringing out sheridan in all his best parts against garrick, and in "coriolanus," against mossop. sheridan and dyer also played romeo, greatly to the benefit of barry; but rich got well through his season with the above, and in spite of a tragedy, called "appius," the ill success of which was reasonably attributed by the author, moncrieff, to the fact that sheridan had lopped off the fifth act; pantomime supplied its place. garrick, in addition to his old parts, created achmet in "barbarossa;" mossop playing the tyrant, and mrs. cibber, zaphira. his other novelties were the "fairies," and the masque of britannia;" the latter apropos to the war. i do not know if dr. browne, the vicar of great horkesley, could have civilised the yet uncivilised dominion of russia, as catharine invited him to do; but he assuredly wrote a poor yet lucky tragedy, for it has lived while better have sunk into oblivion. it is "merope" re-cast and dressed. "there is not one new thought in it," wrote walpole; "and, which is the next material want, but one line of perfect nonsense. 'and rain down transports in the shape of sorrow!' to complete it, the manners are so ill-observed, that a mahometan princess-royal is at full liberty to visit her lover in newgate, like the banker's daughter in 'george barnwell.'" walpole's criticism on the "fairies" is not less smart. "garrick has produced a detestable english opera, which is crowded by all true lovers of their country. to mark the opposite to italian opera, it is sung by some cast singers, two italians, a french girl, and the chapel-boys; and to regale us with sauce, it is shakspeare's 'midsummer night's dream;' which," he adds, as if he inherited the feelings of pepys with regard to this poetical play, "is forty times more nonsensical than the worst translation of any italian opera books." at the short summer season in the haymarket, where theophilus cibber and his eccentric sister, mrs. charke, were at the head of "bayes's" new-raised company of comedians, there appeared on the st of august, , miss barton, in miranda, to cibber's marplot. besides this, and other comic characters, miss barton acted desdemona. not many years before this she was a shoeless flower-girl, purer looking than any of her own roses, in st. james's park. we shall hear of her anon, under a name than which there is not a brighter in theatrical annals--the name of abington. the season of - was remarkable for the fact that garrick made three very absurd assaults on shakspeare, by producing _emendations_ of the "winter's tale," "taming of the shrew," and the "tempest," cutting, clipping, adding, taking away, and saying the while:-- "'tis my chief wish, my joy, my only plan, to lose no drop of that immortal man!" this season was also remarkable for the riot consequent on his producing the "chinese festival," when the public, hating the french, with whom we were at war, insisted on his asking pardon for the introduction of swiss, germans, and italians! garrick proudly answered, that if they would not allow him to go on with his part (archer), he would never, _never_, again set foot on the stage! it was, further, famous for the failure of "athelstan," by dr. browne, which fell, though it was a better tragedy than "barbarossa." the disappointed author, it will be remembered, destroyed himself.[ ] still more famous was this season, for the fray between the rival queens, woffington--roxana, and bellamy--statira; when the superb dresses of the latter drove poor peg into such fury, that she nearly stabbed her rival in downright earnest. failing in her attempt, she stabbed her with words, and taunted bellamy with having a minister (henry fox) who indulged her in such extravagances. "and you," retorted the other "gentle creature," "have half the town who do not!" but not for these things, nor for foote's satirical farces against murphy, nor for murphy's against foote, was the season so famous, as it was for being that in which barry, now returned to covent garden, entered the lists once more against garrick, after playing a round of his most successful characters, by acting king lear with miss nossiter as cordelia, which part mrs. cibber played to garrick's king. in this contest garrick carried away the palm. barry was dignified, impressive, pathetic, but unequal, failing principally in the mad scenes, which appear to have been over-acted. it was precisely there where garrick was most sublime, natural, and affecting. there was no rant, no violence, no grimacing. the feeble, miserable, but still royal old man was there; slow of motion, vague of look, uncertain, forgetful of all things save of the cruelty of his daughters. it was said for barry that he was "every inch a king;" for garrick, that he was "every inch king lear." the wits who admired the latter repeated the epigram-- "the town has found out diff'rent ways, to praise the different lears; to barry they give loud huzzas! to garrick--only tears."[ ] others quoted the lines alluding to garrick's jealousy-- "critics attend! and judge the rival lears; while each commands applause, and each your tears. then own this truth--well he performs his part who touches--even garrick to the heart." drury lane, in - , offers little for remark. miss pritchard appeared in juliet--only to show that talent is not hereditary; and garrick ventured king lear, with a little less of tate, and a little more of shakspeare; he was as resolute, however, against introducing the fool as he was with respect to the gravediggers in hamlet. on the other hand, he acted don felix. gracefully as garrick played the part, walpole said "he was a monkey to lord henry fitzgerald" (who played this character admirably in private). the violante of miss macklin was acted with astonishing effect. when garrick was weary, his parts were "doubled" by handsome holland, the son of the chiswick baker, and destined to carry grief to the honest heart of miss pope. the dramatic poets raised no new echoes in drury this season--some farces excepted. one of these was the "reprisal," by smollet, who showed that if he could not write a good tragedy at nine-and-twenty, he could dash off a lively farce at seven-and-thirty. with this farce the ablest of novelists and harshest of critics closed his theatrical career. the second farce was foote's "author," in which he and mrs. clive acted mr. and mrs. cadwallader, and the former exultingly held up to ridicule one of his most intimate friends, mr. apreece, taking care to have him among the audience on the first night! at the other house, barry failed in richard iii.; but the treasury recovered itself by the production, in march, of "douglas," in which barry, six feet high, and in a suit of white puckered satin, played norval to the lady randolph of mrs. woffington. the originals of those parts, when the piece was first played in edinburgh, in the previous december, were digges and mrs. ward. this piece was the glory of the scottish stage, and a scandal to great part of the community. before the curtain rises let me say a few words on the growth of that stage. there have been stringent rules in scotland with regard to the theatre, but they have been accompanied by much general toleration. the regent murray cheerfully witnessed the performance of a drama; and the general assembly, in ,[ ] though they prohibited all dramas founded on scripture, permitted the representation of "profane plays." the licensers were the kirk session, before which body the piece was first read; and if license was accorded for its being acted, stipulation was made that nothing should be added to the text which had been read, and that "nae swearing, banning, nor nae scurrility shall be spoken, whilk would be a scandal to our religion and for an evil example to others." when, however, james vi. manifested a wish to see the english company which arrived in edinburgh in , by granting it a license to act, the general kirk session of the city denounced all players and their patrons--the former as unruly and immodest, the latter as irreligious and indiscreet. this opposition led to a conference between the session and the angry king, at which the former were obliged to withdraw their denunciations, which had been made from all the pulpits; and they authorised all men "to repair to the said comedies and plays without any pain, reproach, censure, or slander, to be incurred by them." individual ministers were sorely discontent with such proceedings of the session; and this feeling increased, when a play, "marciano, or the discovery," was acted in , "with great applause, before his majesty's high commissioner, and others of the nobility, at the abbey of holyrood house, on st. john's night." in the preface of this very play, the drama in scotland was likened to a "drunken swaggerer in a country church!" it does not appear that any regular theatre existed in edinburgh previous to , when the brothers fountain held from charles ii. the patent of "masters of the revels, within the kingdom of scotland."[ ] the fountains not only erected a playhouse, but they subsequently sought to suppress all balls and entertainments held in the dancing-masters' schools, as discouraging to the playhouse, which "the petitioners had been at great charge in erecting." accordingly, such balls, unless duly licensed, were suppressed. as mr. robert chambers remarks in his _domestic annals of scotland_, "it sounds strange to hear of a dancing-master's ball in our city, little more than a month after the battle of bothwell bridge, and while a thousand poor men were lodging on the cold ground in the greyfriars' churchyard!" there was no regular theatrical season,--players came and went according to the chances of profit afforded by the presence of great personages in the capital. in , the duke and duchess of york were sojourning there; and just at that time, thirty joyous-looking folk were being detained by the customs' authorities at irvine, in ayrshire, where they had landed, and where they were in difficulty, on questions of duties on the gold and silver lace of their wardrobe. laced clothes were then highly taxed; but, said the gay fellows, who, in truth, were actors, with actresses from the theatre in orange street, dublin, "these clothes, mounted with gold and silver lace, are not for our wear, but are necessary in our vocation, and are, therefore, exempt." they had to petition the privy council, which body, submitting to the plea of the actors, that "trumpeters and stage-players" were exempted from the act, sent a certificate to the tax-collector at irvine, to let them pass free, and come up and act "agrippa, king of alba, or the false tiberinus," and other dramas, before all lieges in edinburgh, who were inclined to listen to them. this incident reminds me of an anecdote of talma, which was communicated to me by a french actor. talma was stopped, like the irish players at irvine, at the custom-house on the belgian frontier, as he was on his way to fulfil an engagement at brussels. his theatrical costumes were undergoing examination, when an official irreverently spoke of them as "habits de polichinelle." the tragic actor was offended. "_habits de polichinelle!_" said he, "they are of the utmost value. that lace is worth fifty francs a yard, and i wear it constantly in private." "and must therefore pay for it," said the sharp belgian official; "punch's clothes might pass untaxed, but mr. talma's laced coats owe a duty to the king," which he was forced to acquit. with the fall of the stuarts and the establishment of presbytery, a sour feeling against the stage prevailed in scotland. mr. r. chambers attributes a later improved feeling to the southern gentlemen who were sent northward to hold office, and who took with them tastes which were gradually adopted; at first by episcopalians, and later by presbyterians themselves. there is a smith's shop near holyrood, which, in , was part of a tennis court, which, in that year, and just before the outbreak, was converted into a theatre. it was well attended, and furiously denounced; even solemn kirk folk flocked to listen to the old and modern playwrights, despite the threats of their ministers that, from all such, they would withhold the "tokens to the sacrament of the supper." the presbytery of edinburgh fulminated every species of menace against the new stage and its upholders, but the latter had a fatally amusing comment to make on such fulminations. only the year previously, three of these very ministers, mitchell, ramsay, and hart, sent as a deputation to congratulate george i. on his accession, rested on their way at kendal, where there was a little theatre, whither these good men repaired to see congreve's "love for love" acted, and thought nobody would tell of their backsliding! the scottish tennis court theatre did not prosper even so well as that in lincoln's inn fields. eleven years after the above date, although we hear of a performance of otway's "orphan," with a prologue by allan ramsay, it is in "private;"[ ] but adverse critics are informed, that they will have to support their opinions, by the duello, in the king's park. in the same year, , anthony aston, that erratic actor, "after a circuit round the queen of isles," as another prologue by mr. allan ramsay said of him, re-appeared in edinburgh with a theatrical company. "the dastards said, 'he never will succeed:' what! such a country look for any good in, that does not relish plays, nor pork, nor pudding!" aston had to contend against the utmost efforts of the clergy and magistracy. nevertheless, ruling elders, who were peers of the realm, lords of session and other amateurs, went and wept at graceful westcombe and handsome mrs. millar, in the "mourning bride," and a son of bishop ross, and master of the beaux' coffee house, charged a commission of a penny on every playhouse ticket sold in his establishment. then, even lord grange, the most profligate ruffian in all scotland, was alarmed for scottish morals, when he heard that allan ramsay had founded a circulating library, and was lending out english playbooks. the magistrates, moved by that arch-villain, grange,--than whom there was not a man so given to drink, devilry, and devotion,--sent inspectors to learn from ramsay's books the names of his subscribers. allan had timely warning; and he destroyed his list before the obnoxious jurors presented themselves. the pulpits re-echoed with denunciations against acting and episcopacy, and _men_ who were carried to the theatres in sedans,--oh! what had come to scottish thews and sinews, when such a spectacle as this was to be seen in old edinburgh! in and , shakspeare was in the ascendant at the theatre at the tailors' hall, in the cowgate, varied by the works of gay, congreve, and mrs. centlivre; pantomime, ballet and farce; with excellent scenery, and machinery,--the troop occasionally visiting dundee, montrose, and aberdeen. dramatic taste spread to schools, where the pupils began to act plays. while this was confined to "cato," "julius cæsar," and the like, there was no harm done; but when the perth schoolboys, at candlemas , took to acting "george barnwell," the kirk session once more bestirred itself, and shut up the house built by allan ramsay, in carrubber's close.[ ] subsequently, ryan, the actor, laid the first stone of a new theatre in the canongate, which was opened in , but without sanction of law, which, however, was not so rigorous as in earlier days, when lord somerville, to screen a principal performer from stern pains and penalties, engaged him in his household, as butler! to this theatre, in , the rev. john home, then thirty-two years of age, brought his tragedy of "douglas." he had been the successor of blair (of the _grave_), in the living of athelstanford; and had left it, to fight against the pretender, at falkirk, where he was captured. the reverend warrior ultimately escaped to england. collins dedicated to him his _ode on the superstitions of the highlands_. home returned northward, full of the love of poetry, and powerful in the expression of it. his great dramatic essay was a grievous offence against the laws of his church, to the practical duties of which he had again surrendered himself. had it not been that sarah ward was willing to help author and friends, even the reading of "douglas" would never have come off. sarah lent her sitting-room in the canongate, to home; and digges was present and silent, for once, with mrs. ward, to enact audience. the characters were thus cast; and a finer group of intellectual persons sitting as they could best catch the light, in an obscure room of the canongate, cannot well be imagined. lord randolph (or barnard, according to the original cast) was read by robertson; glenalvon, by the greater historian, david hume; old norval, by the famous dr. carlyle, the minister of musselburgh; and douglas, by home, in right of authorship. lady randolph was allotted to professor ferguson; and the part of anna was read by dr. blair, the minister of the high church, and author of the once popular sermons! but the presbyteries of edinburgh and glasgow speedily denounced author, play, dramatists, and dramas generally, as instruments and children of satan; and excommunicated, not only home, but actors and audiences, and all abettors and approvers! the triumph of the play compensated for everything. the nation confirmed the sentiment of the critic in the pit, whose voice was heard in the ovation of the first night, exultantly exclaiming, "weel, lads, what do ye think o' wully shakspeare noo?" the tragedy was offered to garrick, who refused it. mrs. cibber, in lady randolph, would extinguish norval! rich accepted it, as readily as garrick had declined it; and in march london confirmed the judgment of the city in the north. gray declared that home had retrieved the true language of the stage, which had been lost for a century. the prince of wales conferred a pension on the expelled minister, and sheridan sent to home a gold medal, worth ten guineas. just a century before home was denounced by the presbytery, adam seaton, dwelling near john o'groats, where cromwell's troops were encamped, on their way to the orkneys, was condemned to make public confession in the kirk, for "having masking playes in his house for the inglishe men." this extract from the old session record of the parish of canisby (quoted in calder's _history of caithness_), shows how the drama "looked up," in remote scottish localities, in spite of the decree of . a presbyterian, lending his house to amateur, or professional, actors in cromwell's army, is a novel illustration in the history of the stage. much might be said thereon; but margaret woffington, the original lady randolph in england, now retires from the scene, and waits the telling of her story. footnotes: [ ] i do not understand what is meant here. mossop could not be said, in any sense, to succeed quin. [ ] this conveys a very wrong impression. "athelstan" was played thirteen times; that is, it was a great success at the time. dr. browne did not destroy himself until ten years after "athelstan's" production. [ ] these lines were written by berenger, deputy-master of the horse. [ ] march - ; that is, as we should say, march . [ ] the fountains had their patent as early as . [ ] this performance took place in ; four years after the above date, not eleven. [ ] there was no connection between these two events, as the theatre in carrubber's close was not built till . [illustration: mrs. garrick.] chapter xii. margaret woffington. that good-tempered woman, who is looking with admiration at the pretty and delicate child who is drawing water from the liffey, is madame violante. she is mistress of a booth for rope-dancing and other exhibitions in dame street. as the young girl turns homeward, with the bowl of water on her head, the lady follows, still admiring. the object of her admiration is as bright and as steady as a sunbeam. if she be ill-clad, she is exquisitely shaped, and she will live to lend her dresses to the two miss gunnings, to enable them to attend a drawing-room at the castle; their first steps towards reaching the coronets of countess and duchess that were in store for them. this child, meanwhile, enters a shabby huckster's shop, kept by her widowed mother, on ormond quay. the father was a working bricklayer, and married the mother when she was as hard-working a laundress. there is another child in this poor household, a sister of the water-bearer, fair, but less fair than she. when madame violante first saw mary and margaret woffington, she little dreamed that the latter would be the darling of london society, and the former the bride of a son of one of the proudest of english earls. margaret woffington, born in ,[ ] was very young when madame violante induced her mother to let her have the pretty child as a pupil. the foreign lady was of good repute, and margaret became an apt pupil, performed little tricks while her mistress was on the rope, learned french thoroughly, and acquired graces of person, style, and carriage, by which she gained fortune, and reaped ruin. as a child, she played macheath,[ ] in madame's booth, when the "beggar's opera" was acted there by children. from the age of seventeen to twenty, she was on the more regular dublin stage, charming all eyes and hearts by her beauty, grace, and ability in a range of characters from ophelia to sir harry wildair.[ ] rich at once engaged her, at a moderate salary, and, in , brought her out, at covent garden, as sylvia to ryan's plume and the younger cibber's brazen. a successful _coup d'essai_ emboldened her to try sir harry. she played it night after night for weeks, and wilks was forgotten. it is said she so enraptured one susceptible damsel, that the young lady, believing sir harry to be a man, made him an offer of marriage. walpole was among the last to be pleased. "there is much in vogue, a mrs. woffington," he writes, in ; "a bad actress, but she has life." walpole's friend, conway, confesses that "all the town was in love with her;" but to conway's eyes she was only "an impudent irish-faced girl." even these fastidious gentlemen became converted, and, at a later period, walpole records her excellent acting in moore's "foundling," with garrick, barry, and mrs. cibber. her lothario was not so successful as her sir harry; but her high-born ladies, her women of dash, spirit, and elegance, her homely, humorous females, in all these she triumphed; and triumphed in spite of a voice that was almost unmanageable for its harshness. [illustration: (peg woffington)] margaret and garrick were very soon on very intimate terms. in the summer of , they were together in dublin, and on their return, according to a tradition of the stage, garrick and mrs. woffington, living together, alternately supplied the expenses of the household, each being at the head of the latter during a month. in garrick's term the table is said to have been but moderately furnished; whereas during the beautiful margaret's month there was a banquet and brilliant company daily; all the fashionable men about town being delighted at an invitation from the irish actress. johnson used to be among those visitors, and he noticed the difference in the quality of the housekeeping, after his usual fashion. "is not this tea stronger than usual, madam? it's as red as blood!"[ ] it was margaret's month, and the liberal lady smiled. that garrick ever entertained thoughts of marrying margaret, i very much doubt, despite the story, said to have been told by the lady to murphy, that he had gone so far as to buy the wedding-ring, and try it on her finger. in the early part of the few years which elapsed between garrick's _début_ in london and his marriage with eva maria violetti, he lived in such affectionate intimacy with the charming irish actress, as to address to her the song beginning with "once more i'll tune the vocal shell, to hills and dales my passion tell, a flame which time can never quell, which burns for you, my peggy!"[ ] notwithstanding this homage, the lady's infidelities were so numerous, that whatever may have been her wrath or disappointment, she had no right to expect that of so inconstant a mistress of _one_ home, garrick was likely to make the wife of another. however this may have been, it remains undeniable that garrick preserved, to his last days, a pair of silver buckles which once belonged to that peggy, who, from first to last, enthralled more hearts than any actress since the days of elizabeth barry;--from those of young fellows with the down just budding on their lips, to what was left of those of old owen mac swiney and older colley cibber, between which two ancient danglers, people compared margaret to susanna between the two elders. in good truth, her company was sought after "by men of the first rank and distinction;" and "persons of the gravest character, and most eminent for learning," felt honoured by her acquaintance, and were charmed with her conversation. she founded her avowed preference of the company of men to that of women, on the alleged fact that the latter never talked but of satins and silks. she herself was endowed with a good understanding, which was much improved by contact with intellectual society, and by much reading. in short, it seems to have been impossible to resist this clever, vivacious, affable, and good-natured creature; one who laughed most unaffectedly at the joke which touched her own character nearest; whose errors are forgotten in her much-abounding and still-enduring charity, and who not only faithfully kept that part of the decalogue which says, "thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's _wife_," but provided a home for her neighbours' wives, through many generations, by building the asylum for them, which still exists at teddington. "mes enfans, sauvez-vous par la charité!" margaret woffington was the most beautiful and the least vain of the women of her day. whatever character she had to play, she identified herself therewith; and did it happen to be that of an old or ordinary woman, she descended to the level of circumstances, and hid every natural beauty beneath wrinkles and stolidity, according to the exigencies of the part. her sister, mary woffington, whom many living persons remember well, failed comparatively as an actress; but she achieved better fortune as a woman than her more able and attractive sister. by marriage she connected herself with walpole's family, and walpole, whose mother was the daughter of a timber-dealer, was disgusted. "i have been unfortunate in my own family," says walpole to mann, in ; "my nephew, captain cholmondeley, has married a player's sister." this last was mrs. woffington's sister, mary. captain, subsequently the reverend robert cholmondeley, was the second son of the earl cholmondeley, who obtained houghton, by marrying walpole's only legitimate sister, mary. at the match between the captain and the player's sister the earl was greatly incensed, and he went to mrs. woffington to tell her as much. but margaret so softened him by her winning ways, and won him by her good sense, and subdued him to her will, that he, at last, called her his "dear mrs. woffington," and declared that he was happy at his son's choice, in spite of his having been "so very much offended previously." this aroused margaret's spirit a little. "offended previously!" she exclaimed, "i have most cause to be offended now." "why, dear lady?" asked the earl. "because," replied the actress, "i had one beggar to support, and now i shall have two!" of this marriage, mrs. woffington lived to see five of the nine children born. one of these, married to sir william bellingham, bart., carried the woffington blood back to one of the oldest families in ireland. another of margaret woffington's nieces was maid of honour to the princess of wales; who, when driving with her royal mistress through leatherhead, in , was killed by the upsetting of the carriage. mary woffington (the hon. mrs. cholmondeley) survived till . to see margaret woffington and smith in sylvia and plume was an ecstasy, _he_ being so graceful and vivacious, while _she_ charmed her audiences in both the dresses worn by sylvia, rendering, says the _dramatic censor_, "even absurdities pleasing by the elegance of her appearance and the vivacity of her expression." mrs. bellamy was so overcome by her acting jocasta in that awful drama of "oedipus," that she fainted on the stage when playing eurydice to her. some persons set this down to affectation; but george anne was not a lady likely to affect a swoon for the sake of complimenting a rival actress.[ ] mrs. woffington was the only player who acted sir harry wildair with the spirit and elegance of the original--wilks, to whom garrick and woodward were, in this part, inferior. she was excellent in lady plyant, and admirable in the representation of females in high rank and of dignified elegance. millamant, lady townley, lady betty modish, and maria, in the "nonjuror," were exhibited by her with that happy ease and gaiety, and with such powerful attraction, that the excesses of these characters appeared not only pardonable, but agreeable. her jane shore did not admit of competition with mrs. oldfield's; but that and hermione were full of merit notwithstanding. in male attire the elegance of her figure was most striking; but i cannot suppose that her lady randolph, of which she was the original representative in london, in any one point approached that of mrs. crawford (barry), or of mrs. siddons. indeed her voice unfitted her for tragic parts. she called it her "bad voice!" margaret woffington's independence was one of the great traits in her character. about six years before mrs. cibber left the stage[ ] she was often too indisposed to act; and at short notice mrs. woffington was advertised to play some favourite part of her own instead. once, when thus advertised, she pleaded illness, and would not go to the theatre. the next night, as mrs. woffington came on, as lady jane grey, she was greeted with a hurricane of hisses for having failed to appear the evening before. they even called upon her to "beg pardon!" _then_ her complexion glowed with angry beauty, her eyes flashed lightning, and she walked off the stage magnificently scornful. it was with great difficulty she was induced to return, and when she _did_, the imperious fair one calmly faced her excited audience with a "_now then!_" sort of look. she expressed her willingness to perform her duty, but it was for them to decide; "on or off; it must be as you please; to me it is a matter of perfect indifference!" the audience petted this wayward creature, and the contending parties were friends for ever after. margaret and kitty clive got on as ill together as the former and mrs. cibber. the green-room was kept alive by their retorts, joyous by their repartees, or uncomfortable by their dissensions. but there were no two dramatic queens who hated each other so cordially within the theatre as margaret and george anne bellamy. in rivalry or opposition on the stage, they entered into the full spirit of their parts, felt all or more than they said, and not only handled their daggers menacingly, but losing control of temper sometimes, used them more vigorously than law or good manners would allow. after a career in london of undiminished popularity, she passed over to dublin for three seasons, - , where she was equally the popular idol, drew thousands of pounds, had a salary, first of £ , then of £ for the season, was enthroned at the beef steak club by sheridan, addressed verses, free enough to be what they were not--her own, to the lord lieutenant, and altogether ruled "the court, the camp, and the grove." victor extols all her tragic parts, save jane shore; and mrs. delaney confirms his account of her lady townley, as being better than any the town had seen since mrs. oldfield's time; adding, that she pronounced well, and spoke sensibly; but that her voice was not agreeable, and that her arms were ungainly. of her maria ("nonjuror"), mrs. delaney says that the effect in dublin was marred by the immoderate size of mrs. woffington's hoops! it was at this time she took a step which was sharply canvassed,--that of forsaking the church in which she was born, and putting her arm, as it were, under that of protestantism. she went a long way, and in strange companionship too, in order to take this step. she and sheridan made a pleasant excursion, on the occasion, through mullingar to longford and carrick on shannon, and on, by lough allen and drumshamboe, till they stood on the verge of the pot of the shannon. murphy fancies that as roman catholics could not then legally wear a sword, she renounced her old faith that she might carry one, in male characters, without offending the law! this is sheer nonsense.[ ] but whatever took her to the little village on the mountain side, it is impossible to conceive a more striking contrast than the one between this magnificent district, where occasionally an eagle may be seen sweeping between quilca and sliev na eirin, with covent garden or smock alley! i do not know if at that period, as till lately, the primate of ireland had a little shooting-box on a platform of the mountain, but to the modest residence still existing of the protestant pastor, sheridan and margaret took their way; and there the brilliant lady enrolled herself as a member of the church by law established. the influences which moved her to this were simply that _she_ would not lose her chance of an estate for the sake of the old religion in which she had been baptized. her ex-admirer, mac swiney, had left her heiress to his estate of £ a year; and that the bequest might be legal, and the succession uncontested, the frail margaret qualified for prospective fortune by declaring herself a protestant, in the presence of competent witnesses. she returned to the "garden" in the season - , going through all her best characters in that, and the two succeeding, and her final seasons. the last male part she acted was lothario; the last original part she created was lady randolph (which, however, had been previously played in edinburgh by mrs. ward), and in rosalind, paralysis put an end to her professional career. just previously, her lothario had not been highly esteemed; and barry, in the memorable suit of white puckered satin, had produced all the effect in "douglas." this affected her spirits. then she was annoyed at young tate wilkinson, whom foote had just brought on the stage, and who had audaciously imitated the worst parts of margaret's voice. almost the only unkind act that can be laid to mrs. woffington's charge, was her consequent attempt to induce rich not to enter into an engagement with wilkinson. her scorn drove the unfortunate young gentleman, for his story was a sad one, from the green-room, despite the interference of shuter. one night, as she was playing clarissa in the "confederacy," she saw wilkinson in a stage-box with captain forbes, and unable to control her rage, she came close to the box, and absolutely made him shrink back by the sneering sarcasm with which she flung at him one of her speeches. a rude woman in the box above mimicked her peculiar voice so well, as clarissa turned away, that mrs. woffington thought it came from wilkinson. that night she swept through the green-room, a beautiful fury, and the next day, at rich's levee, she assailed tate with terrible eloquence, prophesied evil to him, wished the evil she prophesied, and altogether manifested little of the kindly nature which was, in truth, her own. soon followed thereon the fatal d of may . the play was "as you like it," in which she acted rosalind. young tate wilkinson was standing at the wing as she passed on to the stage, and on her way she complimented him, ironically, on his recent success as a debutant. wilkinson watched and studied her throughout the piece, till she came off early in the fifth act, and suddenly complained of being ill. wilkinson offered his arm, leaning on which she retired to the green-room, rallied, went on, changed her dress, again trod the stage, defiantly of fate, and again yielded to the coming blow; but only for a moment. once more she recovered, her self-will being so great, and she began the lines of the epilogue. she had just uttered, with fearful gaiety, the words:--"if i were among you, i'd kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me----," when that once saucy tongue became paralysed. a last flash of courage impelled her to an attempt to proceed; but it was vain, and at the sense that she was stricken, she flung up her hands, uttered a wild shriek in abject terror, and staggering towards the stage door, fell into the arms stretched to receive her; and amid indescribable confusion of cheering and commiserating cries, margaret woffington disappeared from the stage, for ever. in november of that year, a fine gentleman asked, "what has become of mrs. woffington?" "she has been taken off by colonel cæsar," answered another fine gentleman. "reduced to _aut cæsar aut nullus_," said the smart lord tyrawley. "she is gone to be married," said kitty clive; "colonel cæsar bought the license at the same time colonel mostyn bought his." at this time, poor margaret, in the meridian of her beauty, somewhat weary of her calling, ashamed, it is said, of her life, was slowly dying at "teddington, in twickenhamshire," as walpole loved to call it. so slowly, that the end did not come till . in the interval, margaret woffington is said to have lived to good purpose. unreasonably exalted as her character has been, it is impossible to contemplate it at its close without respect. charity, good works, sorrow for the past, hope,--all the magdalen was there in that beautiful wreck. in a playful time she and colonel cæsar had agreed that the survivor of the two should be the heir of the other; but margaret would not let a jest do injury to her family and to the poor. of her few thousands, she left the greater part to her sister; her mother she had pensioned and protected; to the poor of teddington, among whom she reposes, she left well-endowed almshouses. the poor, at least, may bless the memory of that once bright young creature, whom madame violante saw drawing water from the liffey. those almshouses form a better relic of margaret woffington than the poor stage-jewels which her dresser, mrs. barrington, a respectable actress, hoped to inherit. these were claimed by, and surrendered to, the hon. mrs. cholmondeley, and were carried to ireland by that lady's daughter, on her marriage with sir william bellingham. such is the story of one, of whom an anonymous contemporary has written,--"mrs. woffington is a downright cheat, a triumphant plagiary. she first steals your heart, and then laughs at you as secure of your applause. there is such a prepossession arises from her form; such a witchcraft in her beauty, and to those who are personally acquainted with her, such an absolute command, from the sweetness of her disposition, that it is almost impossible to criticise upon her." with this criticism, i leave margaret woffington to the tender judgment of all gentle readers. but while margaret woffington is slowly dying, here is a funeral passing through berkeley square. "mr. colley cibber" is the name often pronounced in the crowd. it is one of which we have, for some time, lost sight; let us return to it, before we pass on to that of other conspicuous men. [illustration: mr. powell as lovewell.] footnotes: [ ] she was probably born some years earlier. wilkinson says she was about forty-four when she gave up the stage--that is, in . [ ] this is a popular error. miss betty barnes (afterwards mrs. workman) was the macheath; woffington played polly. [ ] she made her first appearance in a speaking part on th february , but she had been engaged as a dancer for some years previously. [ ] the correct form of the story is that garrick grumbled at the strength of the tea, remarking that it was as red as blood. [ ] these verses were really written by sir charles hanbury williams. [ ] this is very fanciful. mrs. bellamy does not hint that mrs. woffington had anything to do with her faint. in fact she sneers at her playing of jocasta. [ ] this incident occurred in january , about fifteen years before mrs. cibber left the stage. [ ] murphy's statement is not made seriously; it is simply a joke. [illustration: theophilus cibber. (hogarth.)] chapter xiii. colley cibber. in the year , the coffee-house politicians, the fine gentlemen, the scholars, and the gossips generally, were in no lack of themes for discussion. in bow street, the quidnuncs congratulated themselves, from april to december, at the resolution of the commons, whose members had rebuked the lords for daring to alter an impost laid on sugar, to the effect that in all aids given to the king by the commons, the tax levied might be agreed to, but it could not be altered by the lords. knots of shabby-looking clergymen were constantly to be seen in mr. brent, the mercer's, shop, discussing the arrangements just made for the sustenance of london incumbents, burnt out by the great fire. upstairs, in the long-room over mr. brent's shop, the "wits' room" at wills', the company never wearied of hearing major mohun, the actor, speak of lord fairfax who was just dead. there was much gossip, too, both there and about town, touching my lord manchester, lately deceased, the parliamentary general who had helped to restore monarchy. if he was the servant of two masters, some persons thought he had been sufficiently punished by being the husband of five wives. the critics were more genially engaged in canvassing the merits of casaubon, the learned prebendary of canterbury, who had recently laid aside his critical acumen with his mortal coil. the artists were canvassing the merits of a monument which was that year beginning to rear its head on fish street hill. the architect was sir christopher wren. a foreign sculptor from holstein was, at that moment, preparing designs for the _basso relievo_ now on the pedestal. this sculptor lived in southampton street, bloomsbury, where, on the th of november , while arranging the completion of his figures, his lady upstairs,--she was of a cavalier family, and had the blood of william of wyckham in her veins,--presented him with a living figure, the counterfeit presentment of its father. the child thus born, as it were, with the london monument, was named colley cibber. how colley fared at school, stood his own ground, and was envied by the dunces he beat, in a double sense,--how he was determined to succeed in life, and _did_ succeed, and was therefore denounced, as an ass or a knave, by those who failed, or who hated him for his success, or who feared the sarcasms which he himself delivered, without fear,--is known to us all. the success of colley cibber, throughout life, may be ascribed to three circumstances; the acuteness with which he detected opportunity, the electric rapidity with which he seized it, and the marvellous unerring tact by which he turned it to profit. by this he was distinguished, despite some easy negligence and luxurious idleness, from his earliest days; and from his first to his last consequent triumph, he paid for each in the malevolence of those who envied him his victories and denied his merit. when a lad at grantham free school, he alone accepted the magisterial proposal to compose a funeral oration, in honour of the dead king, charles ii. he gained such glory by his achievement that his fellows sent him to coventry. for succeeding better than any of them in writing an ode in honour of the new king, an ode which he modestly owns to have been as execrable as anything he composed half a century later, when poet-laureate, they ostracised the bard whom they could not equal in song. colley was satisfied with his glory, and treated his young adversaries with all the mingled good-nature and audacity with which he subsequently treated his better armed enemy, mr. pope. when he "met the revolution," in , at nottingham, failing to obtain military employment, he gladly availed himself of an opportunity to wait behind lady churchill's chair, as she sat at table with the princess anne. half a hundred years later he refers to the friend he acquired by thus performing lacquey to her; and he happily caps a climax of glorious compliment to the then duchess of marlborough, by flatteringly alluding to something that pleasantly distinguished her above all the women of her time,--a distinction which she received not from earthly sovereigns, but "from the author of nature;" that of being "_a great grandmother without grey hairs_." he failed, indeed, in obtaining a commission, as he did in an attempt to enter the church; but for those failures cibber was, in no wise, responsible. had he grasped a pair of colours we should have heard of him, honourably, in flanders. had he received ordination, he would at least have as well known how to push his way as the reverend philip bisse, who kissed the countess of plymouth in the dark, affecting to take her for a maid of honour, and who thereby gained that lively widow for a wife, and through her the bishoprics, successively, of st. davids and hereford. colley being alike debarred from ascending the pulpit, or leading to the imminently deadly breach, turned to the sock and buskin, alternately donning the one or the other, for nothing; but watching his opportunity, and never failing to take advantage of it. he gladly, after a term of hungry probation, accepted the little part of the chaplain, in the "orphan;" and when the old comedian goodman swore there was the stuff for the making of a good actor in the young fellow, the tears came into cibber's eyes; but they were tears of joy, for he recognised that his good time had commenced, and he watched opportunity more indefatigably than ever. meanwhile he was happy on ten, and fifteen shillings a week, with food, and raiment, and lodging, under his father's roof, and an ardent desire that he might one day play lover to mrs. bracegirdle. when the ambitious young fellow had induced his sire to allow him £ a year, in addition to the £ a week which he then gained on the stage, colley made love to a young lady off the stage, and married at the age of twenty-two. he and his wife were as happy as any young couple that ever took a leap in the dark. this is his own testimony; but beyond that darkness he looked eagerly, watching still for opportunity. it came when congreve's "double dealer" was to be played before queen mary. kynaston had fallen suddenly ill, and who could learn and play the part of lord touchwood in a few hours? congreve looks at cibber, and the young actor looks confidently at congreve. he undertakes the task, fired by the thought of promotion, and of performing before a crowned head. his success was perfect. congreve was delighted, and the salary of the ecstatic comedian was raised some few shillings a week. his young wife danced round him for joy at this glimpse of golconda. the company of actors began to dislike him, after the fashion of his grantham schoolfellows. little recked colley cibber what men thought of him, provided only the thought helped him towards fortune. at a pinch, he supplied a new prologue, for the opening of a season at drury lane, the prosperity of which was menaced by an opposition from the new theatre in lincoln's inn fields. the poet begged hard that he might have the speaking of his own piece, but he was not accounted actor good enough for that, and thus he lost, not by error of his own, a particular opportunity. but the master slipped a couple of guineas into his hand, and declared that he, colley, "was a very ingenious young man." cibber was consoled; he had, at all events, profited by the opportunity, of making way with his "master." to be sure, said colley, "he knows no difference between dryden and durfey;" but that also made no difference to colley. some weeks subsequently the "old batchelor" was suddenly substituted for the previously announced tragedy of "hamlet." when all the parts had been distributed to the principal actors, cibber, ever vigilant and ever ready, quietly remarked that they had forgotten one of the most telling parts in the whole play, fondlewife. it was dogget's great part. in it he was unapproachable. he was not a member of the company. who could or would dare to face a public whose sides were still shaking with laughter at dogget's irresistible performance of this character? no one knew the part; midday was at hand; the curtain must go up by four; the play could _not_ be changed. what _was_ to be done? colley, of course, offered himself to do it, and his offer was treated with contempt;[ ] but the managers were compelled to accept it. here was a golden chance which had golden results for cibber. he played the part at night, in dress, feature, voice, and action, so like to the incomparable dogget himself, that the house was in an uproar of delight and perplexity,--delight at beholding their favourite, and perplexity as to how it could possibly be he. for there sat dogget himself, in the very centre of a forward row in the pit; a stimulant rather than a stumbling-block to cibber; and the astonished witness of the newly-acquired glory of this young actor, who always seemed ready to undertake anything, and who was always sure of accomplishing whatever he undertook. "it would be too rank an affectation," he writes, "if i should not confess that to see him there, a witness of my reception, was to me as consummate a triumph as the heart of vanity could be indulged with." surely, this persevering fellow merited success; but still were his playfellows like his schoolfellows. they envied and decried him. if he solicited a part, he was put by, with the remark that _it was not in his way_. he wisely replied that any part, naturally written, should be in the way of every man who pretended to be an actor. the managers thought otherwise, and left colley--but not to despair. he had just discerned another opportunity, and, _more suo_, he clutched it, worked it to a noble end, and with it achieved a double and a permanent triumph--triumph as author as well as actor. for many years there had not been a comedy written but at the expense of husbands. they were the dupes and dolts of the piece; were betrayed and dishonoured; cudgelled and contented in their abject debasement. audiences had had something too much of this, and cibber was the first to perceive it. he himself was not yet sufficiently enlightened to discover that the majority in all theatrical audiences were gasping for a general purer air of refinement, and were growing disgusted with the mire in which such writers as ravenscroft, and others with more wit than he, plunged and dragged them. cibber, at all events, made the first step out of this slough, by producing his "love's last shift." it was not readily accepted, but it forced its way to that consummation, by the testimony borne to its merits by competent judges. it was played in january .[ ] its grossness is scarcely inferior to that of comedies most offending in this way, and which were produced both earlier and later. nevertheless, it marks an epoch. there was no comically outraged husband in it. the style is still that of the old, free, coarse-comedy, in all the other persons of the drama. the women lack heart and natural affection; the men are unrefined and uncivil, and both converse too much after the intolerable mode which was not yet to be driven from the sadly-abused stage. sentiment there is, indeed, after a sort; but when it is not smart and epigrammatic, it is repulsively low and selfish. amid the intrigues of the piece, there stands glitteringly prominent the first of the brilliant series of cibber's fops, sir novelty fashion. this character he wrote for his own acting, and his success in it established him as an actor of the first rank. the interest of the audience in sir novelty does not centre in him as an unprincipled rake (he is, however, sufficiently unscrupulous), as it is attracted towards him as a "beau," a man of fashion, who professes to see nothing tolerable in himself, solely in order to extort praise for his magnificence from others. he is "ugly, by gad!" he is a "sloven!" if he wears hundreds of yards of trimming, it is to encourage the poor ribband-weavers. if all the eminent tailors in town besiege his house, it is to petition him for the pattern of his new coat. he is the first man who was ever called "_beau_," which title he professes to prefer to "right honourable," for the latter is inherited, while the former is owing to his surprising mien and unexampled gallantry. he does not make love to a lady; his court is paid by indicating to her why she should love _him_. he judges of a man of sense by the fashion of his peruke; and if he enters a lady's apartment in an unpowdered periwig, she may rest assured that he has no designs on her admiration. sir novelty is one of those fine gentlemen who go to both theatres on the same evening; he sits with his back to the stage, and is assured that he looks like a gentleman; for, is he not endowed with a "fertile genius for dress?" southerne, who had read this play and liked it, was fearful of cibber's own part in it. "young man," said he, "i pronounce thy play a good one. i will answer for its success, if thou dost not spoil it by thine own action!" when the play was over, nell gwyn's old friend, sackville, now earl of dorset, lord chamberlain, and the "best good man with the worst-natured muse," declared that "love's last shift" was the best first play that any author, in his memory, had produced; and that for a young fellow to show himself such an actor, and such a writer, in one day, was something extraordinary. colley, always modest, but not through vanity, nicely alludes to dorset's known good-nature, and sets down the compliment not to his deserts, but to dorset's wish to "encourage a young beginner." cibber himself pronounced his comedy puerile and frothy. it is due to cibber to say that in this piece his own part of sir novelty is never so prominent as to interfere unfairly with the other personages. the piece itself, gross as it is, had a tendency towards reforming the stage. cibber's self-imposed mission in this direction was consummated when he produced his "careless husband." this was one of two works of colley which walpole pronounced to be worthy of immortality. the other was the "apology" for his life. the progress towards purity, made between cibber's first comedy and the last i have named above, is nothing less than marvellous. in the "careless husband" he produced a piece at which the most fastidious ladies of _those_ times might sit, and listen to, unmasked. i say "listen," for the comedy is a merely conversational piece, sparkling with wit, and with fewer lines to shock the purer sense than many an old play which still retains a place upon the stage. the descriptions here are as clever as the dialogue is spirited. if evil things come under notice, they are treated as people of decency would treat them, often gracefully, never alluringly. the incidents, told rather than acted, are painted, if i may so speak, with the consummate skill, ease, and distinctiveness of a most accomplished artist. the finest gentlemen are less vicious here than they are temporarily foolish; and one has not been long acquainted with lady easy before the discovery is made that she is the first pure and sensible woman that has been represented in a comedy since a world of time. there is good honest love, human weaknesses, and noble triumphs over them, in this piece. if mr. pope sneered at the author as a "dunce," which he was not, mr. pope's neighbour, horace walpole, has registered him rightly as a "gentleman," and traced his great success in describing gentlemen to the circumstance of his constant and familiar intercourse with that portion of "society." in this piece, there is the most perfect of cibber's beaux, written for his own acting; and it is to be observed, that as time progressed and fashion changed, so did he observe the progress, and in his costume illustrate the change. lord foppington is a different man from sir novelty fashion; my lord _does_ make love to a lady. with a respectful leer, he stares full in her face, draws up his breath, and cries, "gad, you're handsome!" he is married, too, and has just sufficient regard for his wife to wish himself sun-burnt if he does not prefer her to his estate. he talks french enough to cite an _à la_ what d'ye call it; has horace enough at his memory's ends to show his breeding, by an apt quotation; and evidences his gentlemanly feeling, albeit a _fine_-gentlemanly feeling, on witnessing the happy union of the two wayward lovers,--lord morelove and lady betty modish,--by the very characteristic exclamation:--"stap my breath, if ever i was better pleased since my first entrance into human nature!" the example of comparative purity, set in this piece, was not immediately followed; but for that, cibber is not to blame. the "careless husband" was produced in , and nearly seventy years elapsed before the period when garrick positively refused to pollute the boards of drury lane, by reproducing thereon, on lord mayors' days, one of the most filthy of the filthy plays of ravenscroft.[ ] the critics of cibber's time were unreasonable. because he was sometimes an adapter, they called him an adapter always; and the reviewers, sick, sorry, nay maddened at his success, declared of his most original comedy, that it was "not his own." but they never had the wit to discover whence he had stolen it. he took the adverse criticism with philosophy and good-humour,--as he took most things. by the last, he once saved ten shillings a week of his salary. rich announced the intended reduction to him, with the remark, that even then he would have as much as goodman ever had,--whose highest salary was forty shillings a week. "aye!" said cibber, laughing, "and goodman was forced to go on the highway, to help him to live!" to save colley from the same desperate course, rich made no reduction in his salary. we obtain from croker's _boswell_, an instance of cibber's care in perfecting a piece, and his readiness in adapting passing incidents to suit his purpose. mrs. brett, the divorced countess of macclesfield, and long thought to be the mother of savage, the poet, was the second wife of that colonel brett, whose opinion as to what would best please the town was eagerly sought after by authors and actors. his first wife, a great leader of fashion, had taken the handsome fellow from the hands of bailiffs, married him, and ultimately left him a wealthy widower. for the taste and judgment of the second mrs. brett, cibber had the highest respect; and he consulted her on every scene of the "careless husband," as he wrote it. at some one of these consultations, he probably heard of the too great civility of the colonel to his wife's maid, both of whom mrs. brett once found fast asleep in two chairs. the lady was satisfied to leave token of her presence, by casting her lace handkerchief over her husband's neck. of the otherwise painful incident she never took any notice; and let us hope that the colonel profited by the silent rebuke, as sir charles easy did. however this may be, cibber incorporated the incident into his play, where it heightens the interest of one of the most interesting scenes. cibber was essentially a comic actor. his richard partook very much of the manner of his sir novelty fashion; and his "a horse! a horse!" used to excite the hilarity of his audience. he avows, gracefully enough, that his want of a strong and full voice soon cut short his hopes of making any figure in tragedy. he adds, with some conceit, and more affected modesty, "i have been many years since convinced, that whatever opinion i might have of my own judgment or capacity to amend the palpable errors that i saw our tragedians most in favour to commit, yet the auditors who would have been sensible of such amendments (could i have made them) were so very few, that my best endeavour would have been but an unavailing labour, or what is yet worse, might have appeared, both to our actors and to many auditors, the vain mistake of my own self-conceit; for so strong, so very near indispensable, is that one article of voice, in the forming of a good tragedian, that an actor may want any other qualification whatsoever, and yet will have a better chance for applause than he will ever have, with all the skill in the world, if his voice is not equal to it." colley admirably explains this, by adding, ... "i say, for _applause_ only; but applause does not always stay for, nor always follow, intrinsic merit. applause will frequently open, like a young hound upon a wrong scent; and the majority of auditors, you know, are generally composed of babblers, that are profuse of their voices, before there is anything on foot that calls for them. not but, i grant, to lead, _or mislead, the many_, will always stand in some rank of a necessary merit; yet, when i say a good tragedian, i mean one, in opinion of whose real merit the best judges would agree." cibber is so perfect as a critic, he so thoroughly understands the office and so intelligibly conveys his opinions, that it were well if all gentlemen who may hereafter aspire to exercise the critical art, were compelled to study his _apology_ as medical students are to become acquainted with their _celsus_. no one should be admitted to practise theatrical criticism who has not got by _heart_ cibber's descriptions of betterton and mrs. oldfield; or who fail on their being examined as to their proficiency in the _canons of colley_. then, if there be one circumstance more than another for which cibber merits our affectionate regard, it is for the kindly nature with which he tempers justice, and the royal generosity which he displays in attributing certain alleged excellences in his own acting, to his careful study of the acting of others. if cibber played sparkish and sir courtly nice with applause, it was entirely owing, so he nobly avows, to the ideas and impressions he had received from mountfort's acting of those characters. although his richard was full of defects, yet he attracted the town by it. he assigns this attraction to the fact of his attempting to reproduce the style and method of one of the greatest of richards,--sandford.[ ] while praising others he is ever ready to disparage himself; and he as heartily ridicules his insufficient voice, his meagre person, and his pallid complexion, as any enemy might have done for him. he exalts the spirit, ease, and readiness of vanbrugh, and denounces the puerility and frothy stage-language of his own earlier dramas, accepting heartily congreve's judgment on "love's last shift," which "had in it a great many things that were like wit, that in reality were _not_ wit." he courageously pronounces the condemnation of his "love in a riddle," to be the just judgment of an enlightened audience. in the casting of a play, colley was contented to take any part left to him, after the other great men had picked, chosen, rejected, and settled for themselves; and a couple of subordinate characters in the "pilgrim" were as readily undertaken by him and as carefully acted as his richard, sir francis, or master slender. to his own alteration of shakspeare's "richard iii.," he alludes with some diffidence. there is no trace of self-complacency in his remarks. colley's adversaries, however, have denounced him for this act as virulently as if he had committed a great social crime. but whatever may be said as to our old friend's "mangling of shakspeare," the piece which he so mangled has ever since kept the stage, and it is cibber's and not shakspeare's "richard" which is acted by many of our chief players, who have the coolness, at the same time, to protest that their reverence for shakspeare's text is a pure homage rendered to a divine inspiration. there were actors of cibber's days who disliked to play villains like richard, lest the audience should mistake the counterfeit for the real character. but if people thought cibber vicious because he played a vicious fellow to the life, he took it as a compliment. his voice was certainly too weak and piping for tragedy, but as he philosophically remarks, "if the multitude were not in a roar, to see me in cardinal wolsey, i could be sure of them in alderman fondlewife. if they hated me in iago, in sir fopling they took me for a fine gentleman. if they were silent at syphax, no italian eunuch was more applauded than i when i sung in sir courtly. if the morals of Æsop were too grave for them, justice shallow was as simple and as merry an old rake as the wisest of our young ones could wish me." cibber had a fine perception of the good and the true. that the "beggar's opera" should beat "cato" by a run of forty nights does not induce him to believe that any man would be less willing to be accounted the author of the tragedy than of the opera, the writer of which, he says with some humour, "i knew to be an honest, good-natured man, and who, when he had descended to write more like one in the cause of virtue, had been as unfortunate as others of that class." colley had quite as just a perception of the different value of fair and unfair criticism. of theatrical criticism, in the proper sense of the word, there was, in those days, none. but this lack of effective criticism was not caused by incapacity for the task on the part of writers; as may be seen in the admirable critical sketches in cibber's "life." indeed, the capability existed from a remote period,--a fact acknowledged by those who have read sir thomas overbury's finished summary of the character of an "actor." in place of criticism, however, there was a system of assault by the means of unfounded reports. _mist's journal_ was foremost in attacking cibber and his colleagues, but "they hardly ever hit upon what was _really_ wrong in us," says colley, who took these would-be damaging paragraphs, founded upon hearsay, with perfect indifference. wilks and booth were much more sensitive, and preferred that public answer should be made; but cibber, secure, perhaps too secure, he says, in his contempt for such writers, would not consent to this. "i know of but one way to silence authors of that stamp," he says, "which was, to grow insignificant and good for nothing, and then we should hear no more of them. but while we continued in the prosperity of pleasing others, and were not conscious of having deserved what they said of us, why should we gratify the little spleen of our enemies, by wincing to it, or give them fresh opportunities to dine upon any reply they might make to our publicly taking notice of them?" cibber cared not for _mist's journal_ while such a man as sheffield, duke of buckingham, made a friend of him. to this duke, a dull earl once expressed his opinion that mr. cibber was not sufficiently "good company" for his grace. "he is good enough for me," said the duke; "but i can believe that he would not suit _you_." a peer who, at least, had wit enough to enjoy quin's society, had the ill-manners to say, "what a pity it is, mr. quin, you are an actor!" "why," said ever-ready james, "what would you have me be?--a lord?" cibber, like quin, was proud of his vocation. colley originated nearly eighty characters during his career, from to his retirement in . among them are the grand old fops, the crafty or the inane old men, the dashing soldier, and the impudent lacquey. in tragedy, he was nearly always wrong. of middle size, fair complexion, and with a shrill voice, apt to crack, and therefore to make him ridiculous in serious parts, he was, of "shape, a little clumsy," says one sketcher of his character,--while "his shape was finely proportioned," is the account of a second. mr. urban says that when cibber had to represent ridiculous humour, there was a mouth in every nerve, and he was eloquent, though mute. "his attitudes were pointed and exquisite; his expression was stronger than painting; he was beautifully absorbed by the character, and demanded and monopolised attention; his very extravagances were coloured with propriety." that the public highly appreciated him is clear from the enthusiasm with which they hailed his occasional returns to the stage, between and , when he finally withdrew, after acting pandulph in his "papal tyranny." his shallow, in those occasional days, was especially popular. "his transition from asking the price of ewes, to trite but grave reflections on mortality, was so natural, and attended by such an unmeaning roll of his small pigs'-eyes, that perhaps no actor was ever superior in the conception and execution of such solemn insignificancy." the general idea of cibber has been fixed by the abuse and slander of pope. in the dissensions of these two men, cibber had the advantage of an adversary who keeps his temper while he sharpens his wit, and maintains self-respect while courteously crushing his opponent;[ ] but even pope, who so hated cibber, could praise the "careless husband;" and a man, lauded by pope, who detested him; by walpole, who despised players; and by johnson, who approved of his "apology," must have been superior to many of his contemporaries. he wrote the best comedy of his time, was the only adapter of shakspeare's plays whose adaptation survives--to show his superiority, if not over the original poet, at least over all other adapters; and of all borrowers from the french, not one reaped such honour and profit as he did by his "nonjuror," which also still lives in "the hypocrite." of all english managers, he was the most successful and prosperous--only to be approached in later days by garrick. of all english actors, he is the only one who was ever promoted to the laureateship, or elected a member of white's club. none laughed louder than he did at the promotion, or at those friends of his to whom it gave unmixed dissatisfaction. if a sarcasm was launched at him from the stage, on this account, he was the first to recognise it, by his hilarity, in the boxes. further, when necessity compelled him to plead in person in a suit at the bar, his promptitude, eloquence, and modest bearing, crowned by success, demonstrated what he might have accomplished, had he been destined to wear the wig and gown. to sum up all--after more than forty years of labour, not unmixed by domestic troubles, he retired, with an ample fortune, to enjoy which he had nearly a quarter of a century before him. such a man was sure to be both hated and envied--though only by a few. of cibber's being elected to white's club house, davies sneeringly remarks:--"and so, i suppose, might any man be who wore good clothes, and paid his money when he lost it. he fared most sumptuously with mr. arthur (the proprietor) and his wife, and gave a trifle for his dinner. after he had dined, when the club-room door was opened, and the laureate was introduced, he was saluted with the loud and joyous acclamation of, 'oh, king coll! come in, king coll! welcome, king colley!' and this kind of gratulation," adds davies, "mr. victor thought was very gracious and very honourable!" considering the time, about , such a greeting had nothing offensive in it. if there had been, cibber was just the man to resent it, at the sore cost of the offender, whether the latter were chesterfield or devonshire, cholmondeley or rockingham, sir john cope, mrs. oldfield's general churchill, or, the last man likely to be so audacious--bubb doddington himself. among them all, colley kept his own to the last. a short time before that last hour arrived, horace walpole hailed him, on his birthday, with a good morrow, and "i am glad, sir, to see you looking so well." "egad, sir," replied the old gentleman--all diamonded, and powdered, and dandified, "at eighty-four, it's well for a man that he can look at all." therein lay one point of cibber's character,--the making the best of circumstances. and now he crosses piccadilly, and passes through albemarle street, slowly, but cheerfully, with an eye and a salutation for any pretty woman of his acquaintance, and a word for any "good fellow" whose purse he has lightened or who has lightened his, at dice or whist. and so he turns into the adjacent square, and as his servant closes the door, after admitting him, neither of them wots that the master has passed over the threshold for the last time a living man. in december i read in contemporary publications that there "died at his house at berkeley square, colley cibber, esq., poet laureate." the year of his death was as eventful as that of his birth. in its course byng was shot, and calmet died; the duke of newcastle became prime minister, clive won the battle of plassy, and the duke of cumberland surrendered hanover and a confederate army to the french by the treaty of closter-seven. within cibber's era the stuart had gone, nassau had been, and the house of brunswick had succeeded. this house was never more unpopular than at the time of cibber's death, for one of its sons had permanently tarnished his military fame; but great as the public indignation was at the convention of closter-seven, there was a large fraction of the london population, at least, who ceased to think of it, while colley cibber was carried to sleep with kings and heroes in westminster abbey. the general conclusion arrived at seems to have been that he was a well-abused man, who would speedily be forgotten. to this, it may be replied, that in spite of the abuse, often little merited, he was an eminently successful man throughout life; and accomplished a career, achieved (and scattered) a fortune, and built up a fame which will always render him an object of interest. a little too careless, perhaps; rather too much given to gambling and philandering; somewhat more than might be of the young beau about him, even in his old days, when, however, he was happy and resigned under a burthen of years which few men bear with content or resignation. at the period of colley cibber's death, his daughter-in-law, mrs. susanna cibber, was enchanting the town with her isabella played to garrick's biron; and barry and mrs. bellamy were raising melodious echoes within the walls of covent garden. his son, theophilus cibber, was hanging about the town without an engagement and in a fine suit of clothes. colley had once thus seen him, and had saluted him with a contemptuous "i pity you!" "you had better pity my tailor!" said the son, who was then challenging garrick to play with him the same parts alternately! then, while the body of the poet laureate was being carried to westminster abbey, there was, up away in a hut in then desolate clerkenwell, and starving, colley's own daughter, charlotte charke. seven and twenty years before she had first come upon the stage, after a stormy girlhood, and something akin to insanity strongly upon her. her abilities were fair, her opportunities great, but her temper rendered both unavailable. she appears to have had a mania for appearing in male characters on, and in male attire off, the stage. by some terrible offence she forfeited the recognition of her father, who was otherwise of a benevolent disposition; and friendless, she fought a series of battles with the world, and came off in all more and more damaged. she starved with strollers, failed as a grocer in long acre, became bankrupt as a puppet-show proprietor in james street, haymarket; re-married, became a widow a second time, was plunged into deeper ruin, thrown into prison for debt, and released only by the subscriptions of the lowest, but not least charitable, sisterhood of drury lane. assuming male attire, she hung about the theatres for casual hire, went on the tramp with itinerants, hungered daily, and was weekly cheated, but yet kept up such an appearance that an heiress fell in love with her, who was reduced to despair when charlotte charke revealed her story, and abandoned the place. her next post was that of valet to an irish lord, forfeiting which, she and her child became sausage-makers, but could not obtain a living; and then charlotte charke cried "coming, coming, sir!" as a waiter at the king's head tavern, mary-le-bone. thence she was drawn by an offer to make her manager of a company of strolling players, with whom she enjoyed more appetite than means to appease it. she endured sharp distress, again and again; but was relieved by an uncle, who furnished her with funds, with which she opened a tavern in drury lane, where, after a brief career of success, she again became bankrupt. to the regular stage she once more returned, under her brother theophilus, at the haymarket; but the lord chamberlain closed the house, and charlotte charke took to working the wires of russell's famous puppets in the great room, still existing in brewer street. there was a gleam of good fortune for her; but it soon faded away, and then for nine wretched years this clever, but most wretched of women, struggled frantically for bare existence, among the most wretched of strollers, with whom she endured unmitigated misery. and yet cibber's erring and hapless daughter contrived to reach london, where, in , she published her remarkable autobiography, the details of which make the heart ache, in spite of the small sympathy of the reader for this half-mad creature. on the profits of this book she was enabled to open, as _landlord_, a tavern at islington; but, of course, ruin ensued; and in a hut, amid the cinder heaps and worse refuse in the desolate fields, she found a refuge, and even wrote a novel, on a pair of bellows in her lap, by way of desk! here she lived, with a squalid handmaiden, a cat, dog, magpie, and monkey. humbled, disconsolate, abandoned, she readily accepted from a publisher who visited her, £ for her manuscript. this was at the close of the year , and i do not meet with her again till , two years after her father's death, when she played marplot, in the "busy body," for her own benefit, at the haymarket, with this advertisement:--"as i am entirely dependent on chance for a subsistence, and desirous of settling into business, i humbly hope the town will favour me on the occasion, which, added to the rest of their indulgences, will be ever gratefully acknowledged by their truly obliged and obedient servant, charlotte charke." she died on the th of april . her father was then sleeping in westminster abbey; her brother theophilus was at the bottom of the irish sea, with a shipful of irish peers, english players, pantomimists, and wire-dancers: and her sister-in-law, susanna cibber, was playing juliet to garrick's romeo, and approaching the time when she was to be carried to westminster also. cibber had other daughters besides that audacious charlotte, who is said to have once given imitations of her father on the stage; to have presented a pistol at, and robbed him on the highway; and to have smacked his face with a pair of soles out of her own basket. again may it be said, happy are the women who have no histories! let us part kindly with this poor woman's father--a man who had many virtues, and whose vices were the fashions of his time. of him, a writer has sarcastically remarked, that he praised only the dead, and was for ever attacking his contemporaries! he who refrained from evil-speaking against those who could no longer defend themselves, and who flung the shafts of his wit and satire only at those who had tongues wherewith to reply, was in that much a true and honest fellow. "mr. cibber, i take my leave of you with some respect!" it is none the less for the satire of the "craftsman," who ordered the players to go into mourning for the defunct manager; the actresses to wear black capuchins, and the men of the company "dirty shirts!" footnotes: [ ] cibber did not offer to do it; he was indeed rather forced into the part. his own words are:--"i durst not refuse." [ ] january - ; that is, . [ ] "the london cuckolds" ceased to be an institution on lord mayor's day within fifty years of this time. [ ] there is every reason to believe that sandford never played richard; and, indeed, the play does not seem to have been produced once during his career. cibber says he founded his playing on the general style of sandford, trying to act as he thought sandford would have done. [ ] cibber certainly kept his temper, but he can hardly be said to have been specially courteous, when his most powerful weapon was a story of pope's misadventure in a house of ill-fame. [illustration: dublin theatre royal.] chapter xiv. england and ireland. the season of - was the last of the series during which barry opposed garrick. at the close of it, spranger proceeded to dublin, taking with him, from drury lane, versatile woodward, to retain whom garrick would not increase his salary. at drury, garrick brought out home's "agis," with a cast including himself, mossop, and mrs. cibber; mrs. pritchard, and mrs. yates! the piece failed notwithstanding.[ ] walpole would not praise it, and the angry author would never speak, or even bow to him, afterwards. gray compared this piece to an antique statue which home had painted white and red, and dressed in a negligée, made by a york mantua-maker! other critics found in "agis," charles i. treacherously dealt with by the scots, whereby the author had intended to punish his nation for its bigotry with regard to the drama generally, and "douglas" in particular. walpole added that home was a goose for writing a second tragedy at all, after having succeeded so well with the first. it was unfortunate for this critic that "agis" was written _before_ "douglas," though it followed in succession of representation. murphy, who had been a student at st. omer's, a clerk in a city bank, an unsuccessful actor, and a political writer; who, moreover, was refused a call to the bar by the benchers of the temple and gray's inn, on the ground of his having been a player! but who was admitted by the less bigoted benchers of lincoln's inn,--feeling his way towards comedy illustrative of character, by farces descriptive of foibles, very humorously satirised the quidnuncs who then abounded, in his "upholsterer, or what next?" in which garrick acted pamphlet, as carefully as he did ranger or king lear. but garrick's chief concern was to replace woodward, and in this he as nearly succeeded as he could expect, by engaging an irish actor, o'brien, who, in the early part of - made his appearance as captain brazen, and, by the graceful way in which he drew his sword, charmed all who were not aware that his father was a fencing-master. he exulted in light comedy and young tragic lovers, for half-a-dozen years, after which he became the hero of a romance in life, and began to be ashamed of his calling. the great incident of the season was the acting of antony, by garrick, to the cleopatra of mrs. yates, but they gained even more laurels as zamti and mandane in the "orphan of china," a tragedy, wherein small matters are handled in a transcendental style. but mandane lifted mrs. yates to an equality with mrs. cibber; and walpole, who spoke of murphy, sneeringly, as a "writing actor," did him the justice to add that he was "very good company." then, foote played shylock! wilkinson delighted everybody by his imitations, save the actors whom he mimicked, and garrick took the "pupille" of the gallo-irish fagan, and polished it into the pretty little comedietta, the "guardian," in which his heartly showed what a man of genius could make of so small a part. mozeen, who had left the law for the stage, found a bright opportunity for miss barton in his "heiress;" and dr. hill showed the asinine side of his character by describing his farce of the "rout" as by "a person of honour!"-- "for physic and farces, his equal there scarce is; his farces are physic, his physic a farce is!" so wrote garrick of hill, who was a clever man, but one who lacked tact and judgment, and got buffeted by men who had not a tithe of his zeal and industry. his chief defect lay in his intolerable conceit. [illustration: (mrs. yates)] dodsley's "cleone," rejected by garrick, became the distinction of the covent garden season of - . ross played sifroy, and mrs. bellamy the heroine. as a counter-attraction, garrick essayed marplot, in vain. "cleone" is a romantic tragedy. the time is that of the saracenic invasion of the south of france, and the story bears close resemblance to the legend of st. genevieve, where a faithful young wife and mother suffers under unmerited charges of treason to her absent husband and her home. the author extended his drama from three acts to five, at the suggestion of pope. dr. johnson subsequently looked upon it as the noblest effort made since the time of otway! and lord chesterfield contributed advice which shows that stage-french was not of the best quality in those days. "you should instruct the actors," he said, "not to mouth out the _oy_ in the name of sifroy as though they were crying _oysters_." "people," writes gray to mason, "who depised 'cleone' in manuscript, went to see it, and confess '_they cried so!_'" dodsley, after some flatness, "piled the agony" skilfully, and mrs. bellamy made hearts ache and eyes weep, for many successive glorious and melancholy nights. the stage lost mrs. macklin this year, such an "old woman" as it was not to see again till the period of mrs. davenport. in october ,[ ] too, theophilus cibber satisfied people that he was not born to be hanged. with lord drogheda and his son, harlequin mattocks,[ ] miss wilkinson the wire-dancer, and a shipload of frippery, he was crossing the irish sea from parkgate to dublin, when the vessel was caught in a gale, and went down with all on board. such was the end of a fair player and a sad rogue. somewhere off the scottish coast, whither the ship had been blown, perished ancient pistol, and the original george barnwell. his sire, wife, and sister bore the calamity which had fallen upon him with philosophical equanimity. on the retirement of barry from london, garrick travelled abroad, for a year, to recruit his health.[ ] all the intervening time, till barry returned, has the appearance of a season of truce. no great tragic actor arose to seize the wreath of either of the absent tragedians, though the town was seduced from its respective allegiances, for a moment, by the advent and bright promise of young powell; and walpole was eager to recognise a greater than garrick in the aspiring city clerk. walpole was accustomed to describe garrick as a mere machine, in whom the power to express shakspeare's words with propriety, was absurdly held to be a merit! "on the night of powell's first appearance, the audience," says walpole, "not content with clapping, stood up and shouted." walpole adds, that powell had been clerk to sir robert ladbroke, and "so clever in business, that his master would have taken him in as a partner; but he had an impulse for the stage. his figure is fine, and voice most sonorous, as they say, but i wait for the rebound of his fame, and till i can get in, but at present all the boxes are taken for a month." walpole suppresses the fact that garrick had not only selected powell as his substitute, in his absence, but had carefully instructed him in the part of philaster, and thereby helped him to the triumphant position which the younger actor, then twenty-eight years of age, held during the first of his few seasons, from to , the year of poor powell's death. no new tragic poet of eminence now arose, nor did any old one increase his reputation. home is supposed to have been thinking of the siege of berwick when, in his "siege of aquileia," he pourtrayed our edward under the figure of maximin. brooke's boasted purity of language and sentiment in _his_ "earl of essex" was playfully crushed by johnson. "who rules o'er freemen should himself be free," was a line cited for its beauty, by sheridan, the actor. "who drives fat oxen should himself be fat," was the stupid comment of the lexicographer. farce flourished within this period,--supplied by the rev. mr. townley, garrick, foote, colman, and murphy, the last of whom increased his fame by such comedies as the bustling, and yet monotonously bustling, "all in the wrong," and the "way to keep him." the authors of this period sought to correct faults and not to laugh at them. this, perhaps, gives a didactic turn to the plays of murphy and mrs. sheridan, which renders them somewhat heavy when compared with the comedies of those who were rather among the wits, than the teachers, of their days. but a new brilliancy, too, was to be found in the later writers. colman's "jealous wife," in which garrick and mrs. pritchard were the mr. and mrs. oakley, and the "clandestine marriage," principally colman's, but in which garrick had a share, were full of this brilliancy. with the exception of hoadley's "suspicious husband," no modern comedy had such success as these. every great actor still tries mr. oakley, and the noblest of old beaux has been the heritage only of the most finished of our comedians, from king, with whom it originated, down to farren, with whom it seems to have died. while the insolence of servants and the weaknesses of masters were satirised in "high life below stairs," a piece which george selwyn was the gladder to see, as he was weary of low life above stairs--the disinterestedness of irish wooers was asserted in macklin's "love à la mode;" rascality, generally, was pummelled in foote's "minor;" novel-reading was proved to be perilous, in "polly honeycomb;" sharpers were exposed in reed's "register office;" platonic love was shown to be not without its dangers, in "the deuce is in him," and so on, with other pieces, than which none raised more laughter than the "mayor of garratt," in which weston exhibited, in jerry sneak, the type of henpecked husbands, and foote in matthew mug, a portrait of the duke of newcastle. then whitehead, in his "school for lovers," wrote a dull play on society to show that society was dull; and mrs. sheridan, in the "discovery," pointed to the absurdity of young married people being unhappy. opera was making way at both houses, but especially at covent garden, where, with a few other novelties of no note, arne's "artaxerxes," superbly set, was as superbly sung, by tenducci, beard, and arne's famous pupil, miss brent. bickerstaffe's "love in a village" followed, warbled by beard and miss brent, as hawthorn and rosetta, and made joyous by shuter's justice woodcock. the same writer's "maid of the mill" succeeded, in which mattocks played lord aimworth; beard, giles; and miss brent, polly,[ ] the latter with a joyousness that never dreamed of the coming penury and hunger. managers, however, catered drolly for the public. thus, on the th of october , when mossop acted richard iii., signor grimaldi relieved the tragedy, by dancing comic dances between the acts! garrick, nevertheless, was not idle. during barry's absence, david added to his original characters, lovemore, in "the way to keep him," Æmilius ("siege of aquileia"); oakley ("jealous wife"), sir john dorilant ("school for lovers"), farmer ("farmer's return"), alonzo ("elvira"), and sir anthony branville ("discovery"). in the last, he exhibited a new style, in a new character. "he seemed utterly to have extinguished his natural talents, assuming a dry, stiff manner, with an immovable face, and thus extracted from his pedantic object (who assumed every passion, without showing a spark of any in his action or features) infinite entertainment." barry, meanwhile in ireland, found that sheridan had had a chequered time of it there. at one period, a course of prosperity; at another, he was the victim of gentlemen, from whose rude wooing he protected his actresses. the wooers called him "scoundrel-player." sheridan answered that he was "as good a gentleman" as those who called him scoundrel; and, consequently, his life was not safe from these ruffians, who interrupted the performances, but against whom the collegians took side with the player. it was not until some blood was spilt, and the lord chief justice, ward, had condemned a young savage, named kelly, to pay £ fine and suffer three months' imprisonment, that peace was restored. at this trial, kelly's counsel remarked, he had seen a gentleman-soldier and a gentleman-tailor, but had never seen a gentleman-player. "sir," said sheridan, with dignity, "i hope you see one now!" sheridan lost money, year after year, by paying excessive salaries to woodward, the macklins, and to operatic companies. macklin and mossop, together, nearly drove sheridan mad; he was glad to be rid of both, and to find greater attraction in the beautiful mrs. woffington, who used to petition for kisses, once a year, and must have found little difficulty in procuring what she asked for, on her benefit nights. at that time, nearly one hundred persons in the lord lieutenant's household claimed free admission, the government allowing £ a year, as the price for which it was purchased! but prosperity attended sheridan's management, nevertheless, till he neglected the stage for claret, toasts, songs, and aristocratic fellowship. therewith came a quarrel with his public. the latter had _encored_ a speech delivered by digges, in "mahomet," which contained a passage applicable, in a hostile sense, to the viceregal court. sheridan forbade digges repeating this speech a second time, on the next representation, and digges declining to do so, when the audience demanded it, the latter, in inconceivable rage, pulled the interior of the house to pieces, destroyed all the properties they could reach, broke up the wooden fittings, and flinging the box-doors upon them, set fire to the whole mass! the building was rescued with difficulty. after a time it was repaired, and sheridan let it to victor and sowdon, who in the season of - engaged barry and miss nossiter; and it is to be remarked that of all the characters he played macbeth was the most, and henry v. the least, attractive. romeo stood midway in profit between those two. mossop was the hero of the succeeding season, with profit to the management, after which sheridan resumed the control; but not till he had been compelled to undergo a great humiliation. fearing for the safety of his house, he consented to make public apology for his previous conduct in the management, and sheridan was then patronised by the public, till barry and woodward, in october , opened a new theatre in crow street, and divided the patronage and the passions of the town. at crow street, there were barry, young mrs. dancer, whom he afterwards married, mossop, king, woodward, and others. at smock alley, mrs. abington alone was a sufficient counter-attraction. but when mossop passed over to manage smock alley, and the countess of brandon patronised him, in return for his permitting her to cheat him at cards, and mrs. bellamy joined the same troop, then barry was put on his mettle; he secured mrs. abington and shuter; and the town became as divided, and as furious and unreasonable, as if they were at issue on some point of religious belief. mrs. bellamy was arrested by a partisan of the adverse house, simply that she might be prevented from acting at the other; and the players were so often seduced from their engagements by the respective managers that the performers were sometimes called to go on the stage of one theatre when they were actually dressing at another! if mossop chose "othello" for his benefit one night, barry was sure to have it for his own, on the same or the following evening. in short, the rival managers went on ruining each other. they exerted themselves, however, indefatigably, barry playing even macheath, and other operatic characters. he and mossop, formed extravagant engagements with every great actor, save garrick, whom they could win over, down to clever dogs, and intelligent monkeys. at the end of a seven years' struggle, barry found that dublin could not support two theatres, and leaving mossop in possession of the field, he returned to london, having ruined himself and woodward, and lost everything he possessed but his gentle humour, his suavity, his plausibility, and his hopes. as a sample of dublin theatrical life, in barry's time, i cite the following passage from gilbert's _history of dublin_, and therewith close the subject for the present. "dublin was kept in a state of commotion by the partisans of the rival theatres. as already noticed, the countess of brandon, with her adherents, attended constantly at smock alley, and would not appear at crow street; but barry's tenderness in making love on the stage, at length brought the majority of the ladies to his house. of the scenes which commonly occurred during this theatrical rivalry, on nights when some leading lady had bespoken a play, and made an interest for all parts of the house, particularly by pit and gallery tickets among her tradespeople, we have been left the following notice: the lady of the night goes early into the box-room to receive her company. this lady had sent out pit and gallery tickets to all her tradespeople, with the threatenings of the loss of her custom if they did not dispose of them; and the concern she was under, when the time was approaching for the drawing up the curtain, at the sight of a thin pit and galleries, introduced the following entertainment. the lady was ready to faint; and after smelling bottles were applied, she cried out, 'she was ruined and undone! she never would be able to look dear mr. b. in the face any more, after such a shocking disappointment.' at many of these repeated lamentations, the box-keeper advanced and said: 'i beg your ladyship will not be so disheartened; indeed, your ladyship's pit will mend and your ladyship's galleries, too, will certainly mend, before the play begins!' at which the lady cried, 'out, you nasty flattering fellow! i tell you i'm undone, ruined, and undone! that's all. but i'll be revenged. i am resolved. i'll pay off--no--i'll turn off all my saucy tradesmen to-morrow morning.'" during barry's absence, some excellent actors took their last farewell of the english stage. of these i will speak in the next chapter. [illustration: mr. powell as cyrus.] footnotes: [ ] it was played eleven times. [ ] should be october . [ ] should be maddox. mattocks was a singer and actor. [ ] i presume dr. doran does not mean that garrick went abroad immediately on barry's departure. barry went to ireland in ; garrick did not travel till . [ ] patty. [illustration: rich as harlequin.] chapter xv. ryan, rich, o'brien. perhaps the last of the players who had been contemporary with betterton, died when richard ryan[ ] departed this life, at his house in crown court, westminster, in august . westminster claims him as born within the abbey precincts, paul's school for a pupil, and a worthy old irish tailor for a son, of whom he was proud. garrick confessed that ryan's richard was the one which, in its general features, he took as the model of his own, and addison especially selected him to play marcus in his "cato." he was but a mere boy when he first appeared with betterton (who was playing macbeth) as seyton, wearing a full-bottomed wig, which would have covered two such heads as his. between this inconvenience, and awe at seeing himself in presence of the greatest of english actors, the embarrassed boy hesitated, but the generous old actor encouraged him by a look, and young ryan became a regularly engaged actor. from first to last he continued to play young parts, and his colonel standard, in , was as full of the spirit which defies age, as his marcus, in , was replete with the spirit which knows nothing _of_ age. easy in action, strong, but harsh of voice, careless in costume and carriage, but always earnest in his acting, he obtained and kept a place at the head of actors of the second rank, which exposed him to no ill feeling on the part of the few players who were his superiors. quin loved him like a brother; and it is singular that there was blood on the hands of both actors. quin's sword despatched aggressive bowen and angry williams to hades; and ryan, put on his defence, slew one of the vapouring ruffians of the day, to the quiet satisfaction of all decent persons. on june , , the summer season at the lincoln's inn fields house had commenced with "tartuffe." after the play, ryan was supping at the sun, in long acre; he had taken off his sword, placed it in the window, and was thinking of no harm to any one, when he saw standing before him, flushed with drink, weapon in hand, and all savagely athirst for a quarrel and a victim, one kelly, whose pastime it was to draw upon strangers in coffee-houses, force them to combat, and send them home more or less marred in face or mutilated in body. kelly stood there, not only daring ryan, but making passes at him, which meant deadly mischief. the young actor took his sword from the window, drew it from the scabbard, and passing it through the bully's body, stretched him on the floor, with the life-blood welling from the wound. the act was so clearly one induced by self-protection, that ryan was called to no serious account for it. he had like to have fared worse on that later occasion, when, after playing scipio, in "sophonisba," he was passing home down great queen street, and a pistol-shot was fired at him by one of three or four footpads, another of whom seized his sword. in this fray his jaw was shattered. "friend, you have killed me; but i forgive you," said ryan, who was picked up by the watch, and committed to surgical hands, from which he issued, after long suffering, something the worse for this serious incident in his life. ryan was the "esteemed ryan" of numerous patrons, and when a benefit was awarded him, while he yet lay groaning on his couch, royalty was there to honour it, and an audience in large numbers, the receipts from whom were increased by the golden guerdons forwarded to the sufferer from absent sympathisers. perfect recovery he never reached, but he could still portray the fury of orestes, the feeling of edgar, the sensibility of lord townley, the grief and anger of macduff, the villainy of iago, the subtilty of mosca, the tipsyness of cassio,[ ] the spirit of young harry, the airiness of captain plume, and the characteristics of many other parts, with great effect, in spite of increasing age, some infirmities, and a few defects and oddities. i have already noticed how quin, in his old days, declined any longer to play annually for ryan's benefit, but offered him the £ sterling quin had bequeathed to him in his will. brave old actor! dr. herring, who was then archbishop of canterbury, had not in him a truer spirit of practical benevolence than james quin manifested in this act to dick ryan,[ ]--who died in . in the following year, died rich, the father of harlequins, in england. he has never been excelled by any of his sons, however agile the latter may have been. rich (or lun, as he called himself) was agile, too, but he possessed every other qualification; and his mute harlequin was eloquent in every gesture. he made no motion, by head, hand, or foot, but something thereby was expressed intelligibly. feeling, too, was pre-eminent with this expression; and he rendered the scene of a separation from columbine as graceful, to use the words of davies, as it was affecting. not only was he thus skilled himself, but he taught others to make of silent but expressive action the interpreter of the mind; hippisley, nivelon, la guerre, arthur, and lalauze, are enumerated by davies, as owing their mimic power to the instructions given to them by rich, whose action was in as strict accordance with the sentiment he had to demonstrate, as that of garrick himself. the latter, in his prologue to "harlequin's invasion," in which garrick introduced a speaking harlequin, thus alluded to the then defunct hero:-- "but why a speaking harlequin? 'tis wrong, the wits will say, to give the fool a tongue. when lun appeared, with matchless art and whim, he gave the pow'r of speech to ev'ry limb. tho' mask'd and mute, convey'd his quick intent, and told, in frolic gestures, all he meant. but now the motley coat, and sword of wood, require a tongue, to make them understood." to introduce the speaking harlequin was, however, only to restore to speech one of the most loquacious fellows who ever wore motley. for, as colman had it, poor harlequin-- "once spoke, and france and italy admired each joke. but roundhead england, all things who curtails, who cuts off monarchs' heads and horses' tails, by malice led, by rage and envy stung, put in his mouth a gag, and tied his tongue." rich thought himself so much a better actor than mimic, that he was ten times happier when giving foolish instruction to a novice training for hamlet, than when he was marshalling his corps of pantomimists, and admirably teaching them to say everything, and yet be silent. a man like john rich, of course, had his little jealousies. he was angry when the combination of garrick and quin filled his house and treasury, and when the season of - yielded him a profit of nearly £ , to which his wand of harlequin had contributed little or nothing. he was wont to look at the packed audience, through a hole in the green curtain, and then murmur, "ah! you are there, are you? much good may it do you!" the avidity of the old public, however, to witness harlequinades, was even more remarkable than that of the present day. then, pantomimes went through, not merely a part of one, but several seasons. theobald's "harlequin sorcerer," which had often filled lincoln's inn fields, was even more attractive at covent garden, above a quarter of a century later. the company assembled at mid-day, and sometimes broke the doors open, unless they were opened to them, by three o'clock, and so took the house by storm. those who could not gain admittance went over to drury lane, but garrick found them without heart for tragedy; the grown-up masters and misses had been deprived of their puppet show and rattle, and were sulky accordingly. booth, wilks, and cibber came under the somewhat dirty censure of hogarth, who ridiculed them in a well-known unsavoury engraving for producing harlequin jack sheppard. booth tolerated these harlequinades, and garrick acted in like fashion; remarking--"if you won't come to lear and hamlet, i must give you harlequin;" and he perhaps gave them the best the stage ever had, save rich, in woodward, who had worn the party-coloured jacket before, but who, in "queen mab," and in speaking harlequins, exhibited an ability, the effect of which is illustrated in a contemporary print, wherein you see all the great actors of the day in one scale, and harlequin woodward in the other, who makes them kick the beam. from the very first, however, the poets made protest against the invasion of the stage by foreign dancers and home-born harlequins; and cibber quotes rowe as complaining, or asking, in a prologue to one of his first plays-- "must shakspeare, fletcher, and laborious ben, be left for scaramouch and harlequin?" one of the most curious features connected with pantomime, and which certainly dignified harlequin, was the assumption of that character by such sterling actors as woodward and o'brien. the _london magazine_, a century ago, wished "that so eminent an actor as woodward might never be permitted to put on the fool's coat again." rich thought himself, indeed, as good an actor as they; but, though the son of a gentleman, he was illiterate: sometimes said turbot for _turban_; talked of _larning_ wilkinson to be a player; told signora spiletta always to lay her emphasis "on the _adjutant_;" and said to tate, "you should see _me_ play richard!" nevertheless john rich was supreme in his own particular line. his "catching the butterfly," and his "statue scene" were salient portions of his harlequin, which people went to see because of their excellence. still finer was that in which harlequin is hatched from the egg by the heat of the sun. jackson calls it a masterpiece in dumb show; "from the first chipping of the egg, his receiving of motion, his feeling of the ground, his standing upright, to his quick harlequin trip round the empty shell, through the whole progression every limb had its tongue, and every motion a voice which spoke with most miraculous organ to the understandings and sensations of the observers." there was this difference between rich and garrick in their conduct towards authors. garrick would decline with courteous commendation a manuscript he had never looked at; but rich kept a drawer full of such copy, and when an author demanded his piece, rich would tell him to take which he liked best, he would probably find it better than his own. rich's good-humour seldom failed him, though he was warm of temper; he was less witty than foote, but he was of a better nature. one night, during his proprietorship of covent garden, a man, rushing down the gallery, fell over into the pit. he was nearly killed; but rich paid all the medical and other expenses, and the poor fellow, when his broken bones were whole again, called on the manager and expressed his gratitude for the kindness shown to him. "well, sir," said rich, "you must never think of coming into the pit, in that manner, again!" and, to prevent it, rich gave him a free admission. we should altogether misjudge rich if we looked on him as the founder of the modern, miserable, purposeless, storyless harlequinade. this sort of entertainment deteriorated soon after his death. in , walpole saw the pantomime of "robinson crusoe," and his comment is, "how unlike the pantomimes of rich, which are full of wit, and coherent, and carried on a story." rich left covent garden to his son-in-law, beard, the vocalist. beard's first wife was lady henrietta herbert, daughter of the earl of waldegrave, and this match was a happy one, though lord wharncliffe incorrectly recorded of beard that he was "a man of indifferent character." beard held covent garden, for himself and second wife, under a not unpleasant restriction. rich directed that the property should be sold, whenever £ , could be got for it; and for that handsome sum the house was ultimately made over to colman, harris, and their partners. beard and lady herbert remind me of another _mésalliance_. in the studio of catherine read, the portrait painter, a good deal of love-making was carried on. here is a february morning of , and a young couple, all the handsomer for a bracing walk through the eager and nipping air, are conversing confidentially in one corner of the room while discreet miss read plies her work in another. the lady is lady susan fox strangways; the gentleman owns a villa at dunstable, and is one of the airiest actors of the theatre royal, drury lane, mr. o'brien. subsequently, the lady's father, stephen fox, the first earl of ilchester, opening his post-bag, hands a letter to lady susan from lady sarah bunbury, his daughter's dearest friend. the letter was really from o'brien, who imitated lady sarah's writing. the intrigue was discovered, and the father's wrath was so overwhelming, that lady susan promised that the affair should proceed no further, if she were only permitted to take a last farewell. she waited a few days for this final meeting, till she became of age, when, released from lock and key, she went on foot, escorted by a lacquey, to breakfast with lady sarah, and to call on miss read by the way. in the street, she sent the footman back, for a particular cap in which she was to be painted; a few moments after he was out of sight, a couple of chairmen were carrying her to covent garden church, where mr. o'brien was waiting for her, and, the wedding ceremony being performed, the happy and audacious pair posted down to the bridegroom's villa at dunstable. only the night before he had played 'squire richard, in the "provoked husband." this ended o'brien's brief theatrical career of about eight years;[ ] and therewith departed from the stage the most powerful rival woodward ever encountered upon it; the original actor of young clackit, in the "guardian;" lovel, in "high life below stairs;" lord trinket, in the "jealous wife;" beverley, in "all in the wrong;" colonel tamper, in the "deuce is in him," &c. in one character o'brien must have exhibited extraordinary humour--sir andrew aguecheek. he was playing it on the th of october , a period when it was the custom to have two sentinels posted on either side of the stage, and one of these fellows was so overcome by sir andrew's comicality, that he laughed till he fell, to the infinite amusement of all who witnessed the circumstance. o'brien's marriage caused a sensation in the fashionable world, and brought sorrow to some parties. on april the th, , walpole writes to mann:--"a melancholy affair has happened to lord ilchester; his eldest daughter, lady susan (strangways), a very pleasing girl, though not handsome, married herself, two days ago, at covent garden church, to o'brien, a handsome young actor. lord ilchester doated on her, and was the most indulgent of fathers. 'tis a cruel blow." three days later, walpole writes to lord hereford, "poor lady susan o'brien is in the most deplorable situation, for her adonis is a roman catholic, and cannot be provided for out of his calling." sir francis delaval, one of the rich amateur actors of his time, touched by her calamity, "made her a present of--what do you think?" asks horace, "of a rich gold stuff! the delightful charity! o'brien comforts himself, and says it will make a shining passage in his little history!" as o'brien had not the means whereby to live without acting, his wife's noble family thought it would be no disgrace, to _hide_ the disgrace which had fallen upon it, by providing for the young couple--at the public expense. accordingly, a grant of lands in america was procured for them, and thither they went. on christmas day , charles fox writes of his cousin, to sir george macartney:--"we have heard from lady susan since her arrival at new york. i do not think they will make much of their lands, and i fear it will be impossible to get o'brien a place." when charles fox wrote this he was about fifteen, and looked as handsome as he does in the famous picture at holland house, which contains also the portraits of lady susan, who married the actor, and lady sarah lennox (bunbury), who did _not_ marry the king. the board of ordnance ultimately provided for o'brien, and the player and his aristocratic wife were away between seven and eight heavy years beyond the atlantic. weary of their banishment they returned to england, without leave asked of the board. o'brien was not the only officer in england without leave. in the _last journals of horace walpole_, which i edited in , the journalist says:--"general conway was labouring to reform that department (the board of ordnance), and had ordered all the officers under it to repair to their posts, those in america particularly, who had abandoned their duty. o'brien received orders, among the rest, to return, but he refused. conway declared they would dismiss him. lord and lady holland interposed; but conway was firm, and he turned out o'brien." lord ilchester, albeit ashamed of his son-in-law, was not ashamed to write to lord north, soliciting a place for o'brien; but lord north did not even reply to the letter. it is just possible that the player was a proximate cause of fox's withdrawal from the administration, and his becoming in permanent opposition to the court. fox had spoken against lord north, and the latter endeavoured to conciliate him. "he weakly and timidly called him aside, and asked him if he had seen maclean, who had got the post which had been asked for o'brien, and who would make o'brien his deputy; but this fox received with contempt." let me remark here, that in "blood," young o'brien was the equal of lady susan. in the days of charles i., stephen fox, her ancestor, was bailiff to sir edward nicolas, the king's secretary, at winterbourne, wilts; where stephen (not yet _sir_ stephen) occasionally officiated as clerk of the parish. at that time the direct ancestor of our lucky actor was a member of that ancient family of those o'briens, who generally contrived to take opposite sides in every quarrel. william o'brien's grandfather was faithful to the cause of james ii., and on the capitulation of limerick, made his way to france, where he served in the irish brigade, under o'brien, viscount clare. that brigade, many of whose members "took to the road" in france, in order to support themselves, turned out first-rate fencing-masters, who lived by teaching. such was the father of our o'brien, and such was the family history of the actor; and surely the descendant of king brien of the tributes was of as good blood as the daughter of a house, the first worthy, that is to say unfortunate, member, of which was parish clerk in a wiltshire village. o'brien failing to obtain a post, or to enjoy the laborious luxury of a sinecure, turned his attention to writing for the stage, and on the night of december , , he produced two pieces--at drury lane, his comedy of "the duel;" at covent garden, his comedietta "cross purposes." the first is an adaptation of the "philosophe sans le savoir," in which barry did not more affect his audience than i have seen baptiste _ainé_ do, on the french stage. "the duel," however, failed, through the mawkish, sentimental, scenes which the adapter worked in, at the suggestion of some of his noble relatives, who spoiled his play, but made him pecuniary compensation for its ill-fortune. "cross purposes," also an adaptation--from "les trois frères rivaux," was more lucky. it was levelled at the follies of the day, and every one was amused by the light satire. in the first piece, barry was sublime in his affectation of cheerfulness, on his daughter's wedding-day, while his son is engaged in a duel fought under paternal sanction. in the second, shuter as grub, and quick as consol, made the house as hilarious, as barry, in the scenes in which he was engaged, made his audience sympathetic. mrs. cibber, addressing mrs. woffington, in the "dialogue in the shades," speaks of o'brien and powell as the only actors of eminence who had appeared since margaret's time. o'brien was entirely in woodward's line, from mercutio to harlequin. i collect from genest, that after his aristocratic connections made a placeman of him, o'brien grew ashamed of his vocation. "if we may judge from ... what i was told in , when i resided in his neighbourhood, o'brien had, since he left the stage, wished to sink the player, and to bury in oblivion those years of his life which are the most worth being remembered--ashamed, perhaps, of a profession which is no disgrace to any one who conducts himself respectably in it, and in which to succeed, is, generally speaking, a proof of good natural abilities, and a diligent application of them--_ex quovis ligno non fit mercurius_. it is not everybody that can make even a moderate actor." o'brien left the stage after playing squire richard, and subsequently he became "william o'brien, of stinsford, county of dorset, esq." his wife died on the th of august , on which night the haymarket company acted the "poor gentleman!" before barry reappeared in london, the stage suffered more serious losses than these. at one, garrick uttered a cry--as of anguish, at the falling away of the brightest jewel of the stage. footnotes: [ ] should be lacy ryan. [ ] i think dr. doran must have confused cassio and cassius, in which latter ryan was excellent. [ ] lacy ryan. [ ] he was on the stage not quite six years. [illustration: theatre royal, drury lane.] chapter xvi. susanna maria cibber. "mrs. cibber dead!" said garrick, "then tragedy has died with her!"[ ] when he uttered this, on the st of january , he little knew that a young girl, named sarah kemble, then in her twelfth year, was a strolling actress, playing juvenile tragedy, and light opera, was reciting or singing between the acts, and was preparing herself for greatness. let us look back to the early time and the room over the upholsterer's shop, in king street, covent garden, where tom arne and his sister, susanna maria, are engaged in musical exercises. tom ought to have been engrossing deeds, and that fair and graceful, and pure-looking girl, to be thinking of anything but coming out in lampe's opera, "amelia," the words by carey. the old roman catholic upholsterer had been sorely tried by the heterodox inclinations of his children. they lived within sound of the musical echoes of the theatres, and thereof came dr. arne, the composer, and his sister, the great singer, the greater and ever youthful actress. in , susanna maria arne appeared successfully in lampe's serious opera, "amelia," which was "set in the italian manner," and brought out at what was called the "french theatre," in the haymarket. miss arne was then about twenty years of age, with a symmetry of figure and a sweetness of expression which she did not lose during the four-and-thirty years she continued on the stage. in the venus of her early days, she was as beautiful as the venus populari, whose mother was dione, and her psyche was as timid, touching, and inquiring, as she who charmed the gods from the threshold of olympus. it is not pleasant to think that on a young creature so fair, bright, pure, and accomplished,--an honest man's honest daughter, such a sorry rascal as ancient pistol,--theophilus cibber, in fact, should have boldly cast that one of his two squinting eyes, which he could bring to bear with most effect upon a lady. when, as a newly-married couple, they stood before colley cibber, they must have looked like beauty and the beast! beauty soon overcame the elder cibber's antipathy. colley could not withstand the new magic to which he was subjected; and when it was first proposed that the brilliant vocalist should become a regular actress, colley, however much he may have shaken his head at first, favoured the design, and gave all necessary instructions to his winning, beautiful, and docile daughter-in-law. can you not see the pair in that first floor in russell street? half the morning, she has been repeating zara, never wearied by cibber's frequent interruptions. perseverance was ever one of her great characteristics; and she carries herself, and sweeps by with her train, and speaks meltingly or sternly, in grief or in anger, her voice silvery and, with its modulation, under command,--a voice in the very sound of which there were smiles or tears, sunshine or storm;--all this she does, or exercises, at colley's sole suggestions, you suppose. not a bit of it! susanna cibber has a little will of her own; and she is quite right, for she has as much intellect as will, and docile as she is when she sees the value of colley's teaching, she supports her own views when she is satisfied that these are superior to the ideas of the elderly gentleman who, standing in an attitude for imitation, to which she opposes one of her own, lets the frown on his brow pass off into a smile, as he protests, "fore-gad!" that the saucy thing could impart instruction to himself. on the th of january , the great attempt was made, and mrs. cibber came out as zara, to the lusignan of milward, the nerestan of her husband, and the selima of mrs. pritchard, who had not yet reached the position which this young actress occupied at a bound, but beyond which mrs. pritchard was destined yet to go. for fourteen consecutive nights, susanna drowned houses in tears, and stirred the very depths of men's hearts, even her husband's, who was so affected that he claimed, and obtained, the doubling of the salary first agreed on for his wife. theophilus, of course, did not keep the money; he spent it all, to his great, temporary, satisfaction. his wife's next appearance was in comedy,--indiana ("conscious lovers"), where the neat simplicity of her manners, and the charm which she seemed to shed on even commonplace expressions, formed a strong contrast to the more solemn but stilted dignity of her tragedy queens, the glory of which faded before the perfection of her ophelia. for this character, her voice, musical qualities, her figure, and her inexpressibly sweet features, all especially suited her. wilkinson states that no eloquence could paint her distressed and distracted look, when she said: "lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be!" charming in all she undertook, all her critics pronounced her unapproachable in ophelia, and through all the traditions of the stage, there is not one more abiding than that which says that mrs. cibber was identified with the distraught maiden. her juliet, constance, belvidera, exhibited rare merits, while as alicia, in the mad scene, "the expression of her countenance, and the irresistible magic of her voice, thrilled to the very soul of her whole audience," says murphy. wilkinson was powerless when attempting to mimic the voice and expression of mrs. cibber. the tone, manner, and method of garrick, quin, mrs. bellamy, mrs. crawford (barry), nay, even the very face of mrs. woffington, he could reproduce with wonderful approach to exactness. but mrs. cibber's excellence baffled him. he remembered her and it, but he could not do more than remember. "it is all in my mind's eye," he would say, with a sigh at his incapacity. [illustration: (mrs. cibber)] in fine ladies and in sprightly comedy,--save in the playful delivery of epilogues,--mrs. cibber comparatively failed. among her original characters were the lady, in "comus," sigismunda, arpasia, in johnson's "irene," zaphira, in "barbarossa," and coelia, in whitehead's comedy, the "school for lovers." in these, as in all she played, i collect from various sources, that mrs. cibber was distinguished for unadorned simplicity, artless sensibility, harmony of voice, now sweetly plaintive, now grandly powerful, and eyes that in tender grief seemed to swim in tears; in rage, to flash with fire; in despair, to become as dead. her beauty did not so much consist in regularity of feature as in variety and power of expression; with this, she had symmetry of form: and this, indeed, is true beauty. she preserved these gifts which age lightly touched, and to the last it was impossible to look at her figure and not think her young, or view her face and not consider her handsome. mrs. cibber would, perhaps, have been one of the happiest women of her day, had she not been cursed with a husband who was no more made for her than caliban for miranda. theophilus could not appreciate her but as a gold winner, and he so abused the treasure, of which he was every way unworthy, as to expose her to temptations by which that unhanged villain hoped to profit; but by yielding to which she got rid of her "most filthy bargain," lost nothing in the public esteem, and acquired a protector and a home,--neither of which she ought to have wanted. there she enjoyed all the becomingnesses of life, save one; and she continued to act with better heart, but under physical infirmities, which her physicians could not understand, nor her applauding audiences believe in, till death struck her down in the very midst of her labours. she was not only of good heart to the last, but apparently as little affected by age as by her domestic trials. she wore spectacles? yes! i confess that much. there she sits, somewhat past fifty, at garrick's house, spectacles on nose, reading her part of coelia, in the "school for lovers." now coelia is but sixteen, and some one suggests, only seeing those spectacles, that it would be better to call her at least twenty-three. mrs. cibber looked up smilingly through her "glasses," quietly dissented, and when the piece was acted, she played the young and gentle coelia with such effect, that no one present thought of mrs. cibber being older than the part represented her to be. king george iii. has the reputation of having killed mrs. cibber, indirectly. his majesty commanded the "provoked wife," in which she was to play lady brute. ill health, for which physicians could not account, had reduced her strength; but the roman catholic actress was determined to perform the duty expected from her, to that most protestant king. but she never trod the stage again. the career which had commenced in , closed in january ;[ ] and in the month following all that was mortal of this once highly, but, perhaps, fatally gifted lady, was entombed in the cloisters of westminster abbey, not within the edifice, like mrs. oldfield, opposite congreve's monument, but in the cloisters, whither had preceded her aphra behn, mrs. bracegirdle, and the father of the restored english stage, "mr. betterton, gentleman." rather more than seven years had then elapsed since theophilus cibber had gone down, twelve fathoms deep, to the bottom of the irish sea; and about the same time, short of a month or so, had gone by since colley cibber had been brought hither to rest in the neighbourhood of defunct, but once real, kings and queens. the voice of mrs. cibber, the soul of mrs. pritchard, and the eye of garrick, formed a combination which in one actor would, according to walpole, render him superior to all actors the world had seen or could see. hitherto it has _not_ been seen. gentle as mrs. cibber was, she could master garrick himself. "she was the greatest female plague belonging to my house," he once said, with the memory on him of the strong language of kitty clive, and the rough thrusts of other heroines. these he could parry, but not susanna cibber. "whatever her object, a new part or a new dress, she was always sure to carry her point by the acuteness of her invention, and the steadiness of her perseverance." her misfortunes in life brought some affronts upon her. thus, in october , she was at bath, with mr. sloper, the "protector" of whom i have spoken, and their daughter, "miss cibber." the whole party went to the rooms, where the young lady was led out to dance. she was followed by another couple, of whom the lady protested against miss cibber being allowed to dance there at all. there would have been more modesty in this second young lady if she had been silent. there ensued a fracas, of course. mrs. delaney, in a letter to mrs. dewes, says that "mr. cibber" collared mr. collett, abused him, and asked if he had caused this insult to be put _on his daughter_? mr. "sloper" must be meant, for theophilus was then dead. the affront was the result of directions given by that very virtuous personage, beau nash, then being wheeled about the room. some discourse was held with the shattered beau, but nothing came of it; and pretty miss cibber never danced, or was asked to dance, at bath again. this brings us back to the mother, from whom i am pleased to part with a pleasanter incident. dr. delaney once sat enraptured, as he listened to her at dublin, singing in the "messiah;" and, as she ceased, he could not help murmuring on behalf of the accomplished singer, "woman, thy sins be forgiven thee!" _amen!_ and so passes away "the fair ophelia," in that character, at least, never to be equalled. from scotland yard, where she died, the way was not long to westminster abbey cloisters. with what rites she was committed to the earth, i cannot say; but a paper on the doors of the roman catholic chapel, in lincoln's inn fields, that day, requested you, "of your charity," to "pray for the soul of mrs. susanna maria cibber!" _amen_ again! she was a woman more sinned against than sinning, and so well respected, that mr. and mrs. garrick visited her and mr. sloper at the country house of the latter, at woodhay; where ophelia taught her parrot snatches of old tragedy, and exhibited the bird to her laughing friends. the highest salary this "tragic muse" ever received was £ for sixty nights; and this £ per night was often earned under such tremor and suffering, that mrs. cibber would exclaim, with the applause ringing in her ears, "oh! that my nerves were made of cart-ropes!" but we must leave her, for an actor who re-enters, and an actress who departs. footnotes: [ ] another version, and a better, of his saying is:--"barry and i still remain, but tragedy is dead on one side." [ ] should be december . her name is in the bill for the last time on th december . [illustration: david garrick] chapter xvii. reappearance of spranger barry--retirement of mrs. pritchard. after playing some nights at the opera house, in , and with foote at the little house in the haymarket, where thalia and melpomene reigned on alternate nights, in , barry and mrs. dancer,--the former after an absence of ten years,--appeared at drury lane, in october of the last-named year. direct rivalry with garrick there was none: for the latter and mrs. pritchard acted together on one night; barry and mrs. dancer played their favourite characters the next; while king, dodd, palmer, parsons, mrs. abington, mrs. clive, and miss pope, led in comedy. the two great tragedians acted in the same company till , when barry passed to covent garden, where he remained till his death, in ,--a few months only before that of woodward, and about half a year subsequent to the retirement of garrick, from drury lane and the stage. "i hear the stage in england is worse and worse," wrote fox to fitzpatrick, from nice in . i do not know what foundation there was for such a report, save that the school of sentimental comedy had then come in and established itself,--the founder being kelly, an honest, clever, irish ex-staymaker, and his essay being made with "false delicacy" (cecil, king; lady betty lambton, mrs. abington). mrs. pritchard, too, had then just retired, leaving the tragic throne to be contended for by mrs. yates and mrs. dancer, who subsequently reigned as mrs. barry, and who, as mrs. crawford, was finally superseded by mrs. siddons. so firmly as well as suddenly had sentimental comedy come into fashion, that when goldsmith's "good-natured man" (croaker, shuter; honeywood, powell--who disliked his part; miss richland, mrs. bulkley) was produced in , at covent garden, it nearly failed, through the scene of the bailiffs, which was considered too farcical for genteel comedy! the age was rapidly becoming almost too fastidious. the reaction was carrying it too far; and the moral mrs. sheridan's first comedy, "the dupe," was condemned,[ ] for offences which it was said to contain against decorum. even johnson disapproved of the bailiffs, in goldsmith's comedy, though he was the first to enjoy the rich humour of the lower characters in "she stoops to conquer." the sage did not spare sarcasm. "are you going to make a scholar of him?" asked goldsmith, in reference to the petted boy who waited on johnson. "aye, sir," was the reply, "scholar enough to write a bailiff scene in a comedy!" garrick now rested entirely on his old triumphs; but he acted repeatedly with mrs. barry. romeo dropped from the repertory of garrick and barry; but lear and macbeth were played by each of them to the cordelia and lady of barry's wife, whose versatility was remarkable, for she was the first, the best, and the richest-brogued of widow bradys, as she was the most touching and dignified of lady randolphs. as lord and lady townley, the barrys drew great houses; but garrick was not disturbed, for his ranger and his hamlet drew greater still; and none of the original characters played by barry during this, his last engagement at drury lane, reached a popularity which could ruffle garrick's peace of mind. these were rhadamistus, in "zenobia;" ronan, in "fatal discovery;" tancred, in "almida;" timon, in cumberland's version of "timon of athens;" aubrey, in the "fashionable lover;" evander (to his wife's euphrasia), in the "grecian daughter;" melville, in the "duel;" and seraphis, in "sethona." of these, evander showed the actor's mastery over the feelings of his audience; aubrey was distinguished for its grave, and melville for its touching, dignity. with his admirers, he was still the "silver-tongued barry," and the "silver-toned lover;" but the thick-and-thin adherents to garrick repeated these phrases satirically, in allusion only to the _silversmith_, who was spranger barry's father. voltaire had written a criticism against shakspeare's hamlet, which garrick adopted; and, mangling the bard whom he professed to love, he put "hamlet" on the stage without the grave-diggers and without osrick! this mutilation passed for shakspeare, until john bannister restored the original, on playing the dane, for his own benefit, in . yet, so irreverent to the spirit of garrick did this proceeding seem to old wrighton, that when bannister came off the stage, the elder player said to him: "well, sir, if ever you should meet with mr. garrick in the next world, you will find that he will never forgive you for having restored the grave-diggers to hamlet!"[ ] the most serious event, however, of this time, was the retirement of mrs. pritchard--a more serious loss to the stage, perhaps, than the death of mrs. cibber. she had well earned repose, after five-and-thirty years of most arduous labour. in , mrs. pritchard, a young and well-reputed married woman, was acting at our suburban fairs, but how much earlier, as miss vaughan, does not appear. her slender cultivation, or rather her total want of education, is no proof that she was not of a respectable family; and the pertinacity of her brother, a clever low comedian, henry vaughan, in pursuing a claim to property left by a relative, mr. leonard, of lyon's inn, shows that there was one quality connected with the family which the world respects. mrs. pritchard did not at once win, but long worked for her fortune. her husband held a subordinate post in the theatre, till her talents raised him above it. her history, in one point, resembles betterton's; it was a life of pure, honest, unceasing labour; she was too busy to afford much material for further record. in another point, it resembled mrs. betterton's, in the unobtrusive virtue of her character. while margaret woffington was pretending to lament over the temptations to which she yielded, and george anne bellamy yielded without lamenting, honest mrs. pritchard neither yielded nor lamented. it is true, she was not so inexpressibly beautiful as margaret, not so saucily seductive as george anne, but she carried with her the lustre of rectitude, and the beauty of honesty and truth; living, she was welcomed wherever virtue kept home; and dying, she left fairly-acquired wealth, a good example, and an irreproachable name to her children. at first she fought her way very slowly, but played everything, from nell to ophelia; and throughout her career she originated every variety of character, from selima, in "zara," to tag, in "miss in her teens;" from mrs. beverley, in the "gamester," to clarinda, in the "wedding day;" from hecuba to mrs. oakley. we are so familiar with the prints of her as hermione and lady macbeth, and to hear of her awful power in the latter, as well as of the force and dignity of her merope, creusa, and zara, her almost too loud excess of grief in volumnia, and the absolute perfection of her two queens, katherine and gertrude, that we are apt to remember her as a tragedian only. her closet-scene, as the queen in "hamlet," was so fine and finished in every detail that its unequalled excellence remains a tradition of the stage, like the ophelia of mrs. cibber. there was a slight tendency to rant,[ ] and some lack of grace in her style, which, according to others, marred her tragedy. on the other hand, there is no dispute as to her excellence in comedy, particularly before she grew stout; and, indeed, in spite of her becoming so, as in millamant, in which, even in her latest years, her easy manner of speaking and action charmed her audience, though elegance of form and the beauty of youth were no longer there. [illustration: (mrs pritchard)] as a perfectly natural actress, she was admirable in such parts as mrs. oakley, doll common, and the termagant, in the "'squire of alsatia." with such characters she identified herself. i find her less commended in artificial ladies like clarissa and lady dainty; and for queens of fashion, like lady townley and lady betty modish. yet, although she only pleased in these high-bred personages, she was "inimitably charming" in rosalind and beatrice, in estifania and clarinda, in mrs. sullen and lady brute; and in all characters of intrigue, gaiety, wit, playfulness, and diversity of humour. i may sum up all by repeating that her distinguishing qualities were natural expression, unembarrassed deportment, propriety of action, and an appropriateness of delivery which was the despair of all her contemporaries, for she took care of her consonants, and was so exact in her articulation, that, however voluble her enunciation, the audience never lost a syllable of it. mrs. pritchard and mrs. abington were selected, at various periods, to represent the comic muse, and nothing can better indicate their quality and merits. garrick, quin, mrs. cibber, and mrs. pritchard, acting in the same piece, at covent garden! no wonder that walpole, in , says, "plays only are in fashion," and calls the company, which included woodward, ryan, and mrs. horton, as "the best company that, perhaps, ever were together." in mrs. pritchard's beatrice, as in mrs. clive's bizarre, garrick, as benedict to the first, and duretete to the second, had an antagonism on the stage which tested his utmost powers. each was determined to surpass the other; but walpole intimates that mrs. pritchard won in _her_ contest, and states that garrick hated her because her beatrice (which he preferred to miss farren's) had more spirit and originality than his benedict. walpole also praised her maria ("nonjuror"), and only smiled at her jane shore when she had become so fat, that for her to talk of the pangs of starvation seemed ridiculous. but the highest mark of his, never easily won, estimation of this great actress consisted in his refusal to allow his "mysterious mother" to be acted, as mrs. pritchard was about to leave the stage, and there was no one else who could play the countess. walpole knew her as a neighbour as well as a player, for mrs. pritchard purchased ragman's castle, a villa on the thames, between marble hill and orleans house, which she bought against an opposing bidder, lord lichfield, and resided in it till walpole took it of her, for his niece, lady waldegrave. the actress was occasionally his guest, and he testifies to the becomingness and propriety of her behaviour; but sneers a little at that of her son, the treasurer of drury lane, as being better than he had expected. johnson said that it was only on the stage mrs. pritchard was inspired with gentility and understanding; but churchill exclaims, "pritchard, _by nature_ for the stage designed, in person graceful, and in sense refined, her wit, as much as nature's friend became, her voice as free from blemish as her fame, who knows so well in majesty to please, attempered with the graceful charms of ease?" and contrasting her great qualities with the increasing figure which, perhaps, offended, in her later years, "the eye's too curious sense," churchill adds, "but when perfections of the mind break forth, honour's chaste sallies, judgment's solid worth, when the pure, genuine flame by nature taught, springs into sense and every action's thought, before such merit all objections fly, pritchard's genteel, and garrick six feet high." i believe that the french actress, rachel, was so ignorant of the true history of that which she represented, that, to her, all the events, in the various pieces in which she played, happened in the same comfortable chronological period "once upon a time." one of the greatest actresses of the garrick period, in some respects perhaps _the_ greatest, was equally ignorant. mrs. pritchard, it is said, had never read more of the tragedy of "macbeth" than her own part, as it was delivered to her in manuscript, by the prompter, to be got "by heart." quin was nearly as ignorant, if a questionable story may be credited. previously to garrick's coming, the "macbeth" which was played as shakspeare's was really davenant's, with locke's music. when garrick announced that, for the future, he would have shakspeare's tragedy and not davenant's opera acted, no man was more surprised than quin; "why!" he exclaimed, "do you mean to say that we have not been playing shakspeare all this while?" quin had less excuse than mrs. pritchard,--for how was that poor lady--"the inspired idiot," johnson styled her--a strange sort of person, who called for her "gownd," but whose acquired eloquence was beautiful and appropriate,--how was poor mrs. pritchard to know anything of the chronology of the story, when garrick played the thane in a modern gold-laced suit, and she herself might have called on the princess amelia, in her dress for the thane's wife? nevertheless, the incomparable two were as triumphant as if they had been dressed according to time and place. nor were they less so in two other characters which they dressed to the full as much out of propriety, though not of grace,--namely, benedict and beatrice. i have alluded to the essay made by miss pritchard. let me add that when the young lady first appeared as juliet, mrs. pritchard as her mother, lady capulet, led her on the stage. the scenes between them were heightened in interest, for lady capulet hovered about juliet with such maternal anxiety, and juliet appealed by her looks so lovingly to her mother, for a sign of guidance or approval, that many of the audience were moved to tears. the house was moved more deeply still on an after night,--the th of april ,--the night of mrs. pritchard's final farewell, when garrick played macbeth in a brown court suit, laced with gold, and she the "lady," with a terrible power and effect such as even the audiences in those days were little accustomed to. her "give _me_ the daggers!" on that night was as grand as her "are you a man?" and when the curtain descended, such another intellectual treat was not looked for in that generation. there was a "tremendous house," to which she tremblingly delivered a poetical address, written by garrick, in which she said-- "in acted passion tears must seem to flow, but i have that within that passeth show." her old admirers stood by their allegiance, and even mrs. siddons' lady macbeth, in long after years, could not shake it. lord harcourt, no lukewarm friend of mrs. siddons, missed in _her_ lady macbeth "the unequalled compass and melody of mrs. pritchard." in the famous sleep-walking scene, his lordship still held mrs. siddons to be inferior,--there was not the horror in the sigh, nor the sleepiness in the tone, nor the articulation in the voice, as in mrs. pritchard's, whose exclamation of "are you a man?" was as much superior in significance to that of mrs. siddons, as the "was he alive?" of mrs. crawford's (barry's) lady randolph was, in the depth of anxious tenderness. mrs. pritchard retired to bath to enjoy her hard-earned leisure; but met the not uncommon fate of those who withdraw from toil, to breathe awhile, and repose, in the autumn of their days. a trifling accident to her foot took a fatal turn, and in the august of the year in which she withdrew, she closed her honoured and laborious career. her name, her example, and her triumphs all deserve to be cherished in the memory of her younger sisters, struggling to win fame and resolved not to tarnish it. garrick's respect for her was manifested in the remark once made at the mention of her name: "_she_ deserves everything we can do for her." mrs. pritchard's daughter failed to sustain the glory of her mother's name. the season of - was the last for both ladies, as it was for mrs. pritchard's son-in-law, the first and more coxcombical of the two john palmers. mrs. palmer was short, but elegant and refined; unequal to tragedy, except, perhaps, in the gentle tenderness of juliet; she was a respectable actress in minor parts of comedy, such as harriet ("jealous wife"), and fanny ("clandestine marriage"), of which she was the original representative. palmer died three months before his mother-in-law, at the early age of forty, leaving bright stage memories as the original representative of the duke's servant in "high life below stairs," sir brilliant fashion, brush ("clandestine marriage"), &c. his widow remarried with mr. lloyd, a political writer, and a _protégé_ of lord north. the inheritance of mrs. cibber and mrs. pritchard was to be won by a young girl, who, about the time of mrs. pritchard's death, was playing ariel and other characters in barns and hotel-rooms,--namely, sarah kemble,--subsequently siddons. miss seward saw the three great actresses; the first two in her younger days. she never forgot the clear, distinct, and modulated voice of mrs. pritchard, nor the pathetic powers, the delicate, expressive features, and the silvery voice, sometimes too highly pitched, of mrs. cibber. mrs. pritchard's figure, we are told, was then "coarse and large, nor could her features, plain even to hardness, exhibit the witchery of expression. she was a just and spirited actress; a more perfectly good speaker than her more elegant, more fascinating contemporary. mrs. siddons has all the pathos of mrs. cibber, with a thousand times more variety in its exertion, and she has the justness of mrs. pritchard, while only garrick's countenance could vie with her's in those endless shades of meaning which almost make her charming voice superfluous, while the fine proportion and majesty of her form, and the beauty of her face, eclipse the remembrance of all her consummate predecessors." tate wilkinson states, in his memoirs, that mrs. siddons always reminded him of mrs. cibber, in voice, manner, and features. but before we address ourselves to sarah kemble, we have to chronicle the last years of two great actors, with whose period she is connected by having played with the greater of the two,--garrick and barry. [illustration: mr. garrick as macbeth.] footnotes: [ ] on th december . [ ] in the memoirs of bannister a speech to this effect is attributed to waldron. [ ] this is scarcely accurate. the fault referred to was that of "too loud and profuse expression of grief;" or, as garrick put it, "she was apt to _blubber_ her grief." [illustration: garrick's house, hampton.] chapter xviii. the last years of garrick and barry. during the remainder of the period that garrick and barry continued at the same house, the stage seemed to languish as their career drew to a close. barry's energies slackened, and garrick studied no new part. within the same period old havard died, after a service of utilities and some authorship, which extended to nearly threescore years.[ ] if power may be judged by effects, havard was a powerful writer, for his "charles i.," when acted at york, excited such painful emotions in a young lady named terrot that she died of it. kitty clive now retired, and holland died, it is said, of small-pox; but he was more affected by powell's death. after this event he was standing in the green-room, talking mournfully of his comrade. "the first time we played together in private," he said, "i acted iachimo to his posthumus. when i first appeared in public, we performed the same characters; and they were the last we ever played together!" "and you are dressed for iachimo, as you tell it," added a listener. holland smiled sadly; and soon after he slept with his old play-fellow, posthumus; dying at the age of forty. love, in falstaff only inferior to quin, died also about this time. under that pseudonym he saved his father, the city architect, it was supposed, the disgrace that might attach to him, if his son called himself by his proper name (dance) on the stage. covent garden, in losing powell, lost one who was as ignorant as mrs. pritchard, but he had fine stage inspirations. of the acquisitions made at this time, the most notable was that of lewis, who first appeared at covent garden in the season of - as belcour, and in light tragic parts. playgoers felt that the old school of actors was breaking up, and the poets did little to render the finale illustrious. it was the dramatic era of kelly and goldsmith, both of them needy irishmen, and hard-working literary men, having many things in common, except talent, but being especially antagonistic as the upholders--kelly of sentimental, goldsmith of natural comedy. kelly was the victor at first, for his "false delicacy," of which few now know anything, brought him a little fortune, while goldsmith's "good-natured man" would have made shipwreck but for shuter's energy and humour. as i look over the records of this time, i cannot but remark how many of the dramatic poets toiled in vain. taking, for instance, the tragic writers--hoole, the watchmaker's son, is still an honoured name as a translator of the italian poets, but his "cyrus" and "timanthes" are wrapped in oblivion. some among us may still read the story of _hindostan_ written by one whose own story was as strange as that of _gil blas_, and who, driven upon the world as an adventurer, in consequence of a duel, in which he was a principal, rose from the condition of a common sailor to be secretary to the governor of bencoolen, and a lieutenant-colonel. i allude to the scotchman, dow, at whose "zingis" the public laughed, more than they shuddered,[ ] and whose "sethona" even the two barrys could not render endurable, despite magnificent acting.[ ] home fared as badly as dow. there was a strong prejudice at this season against scotchmen, and home was obnoxious as a client of lord bute's. his "fatal discovery," an ossianic subject, was mounted with roman costumes and greek scenery, and the audience threatened to burn the house down if the piece was not withdrawn![ ] the silver tongue of barry could not charm them into patience. equally unsuccessful was home's "alonzo,"[ ] the hero of which does not appear till the play is half over. home sat by barry's bed-side as the tragedy was being acted, and mrs. barry sent every half hour to say how she was, hoping the best and doing her utmost. but what could even that great actress do for a piece of which the story, as walpole remarks, is that of david and goliath, worse told than it would have been if sternhold and hopkins had put it into metre? his criticism is made in his happiest vein: "a gentlewoman embraces her maid, when she expects her husband. he goes mad with jealousy, without discovering what he ails, and runs away to persia, where the post comes in from spain, with news of a duel that is to be fought, the lord knows when. as persian princes love single combat as well as if they had been bred in lucas's coffee-house, nobody is surprised that the prince of persia should arrive to fight a duel, that was probably over before he set out. the wife discovers the prince to be her own husband, and the lad her own son, and so, to prevent mischief, stabs herself, and then tells the whole story, which it was rather more natural to do first. the language is as poor as the plot. somebody asked me what prose home had ever written. i said i knew none but his poetry." then, to a version of voltaire's "orestes," mrs. yates, as electra, could not give life; and when craddock gave to her all the profits he derived from his tragedy of "zobeide," he showed his sense of that lady's value. kelly could give her nothing, for he gained nothing by his "clementina," at which the audience yawned more than they hissed.[ ] managers seemed to understand little of the requirements of the public taste; and colman still kept the fool from "king lear," as being "such a character in tragedy as would not be endured on the modern stage." in our own time, however, it has been not only endured, but enjoyed. one of the pleasantest of stage memories is connected with the fool, as acted by miss p. horton, now mrs. german reed. garrick taxed all barry's powers, for he imposed on him the part of tancred, in perhaps the most insufferable of the tragedies of this time, the "almida" of mallett's daughter, madame celisia, which garrick brought out only because her husband had been hospitable to him in italy! cumberland laid as heavy a charge on him in his emendation of "timon," in which there was more of cumberland and less of shakspeare than the public could welcome. walpole lets pass murphy's imbroglio of "alzuma," and his over-rated "grecian daughter," the success of which was due to the barrys alone, as evander and euphrasia; but he records his impression of mason's "elfrida," which may joyously close the tragic register of this period. "it is wretchedly acted," he writes to the author (mason), in february ,[ ] "and worse set to music. the virgins were so inarticulate, that i should have understood them as well if they had sung choruses of sophocles. orgar (clarke) had a broad irish accent. i thought the first virgin, who is a lusty virago, called miss miller, would have knocked him down; and i hoped she would. edgar (bensley) stared at his own crown, and seemed to fear it would tumble off." miss catley looked so impudent, and so _manifestly_ unlike the british virgin whom she was supposed to represent, "you would have imagined she had been singing the 'black joke,' only that she would then have been more intelligible. smith did not play athelwold ill. mrs. hartley is made for the part (elfrida), if beauty and figure would suffice for what you write; but she has no one symptom of genius. still, it is very affecting, and does admirably for the stage, under all these disadvantages. the tears came into my eyes, and streamed down the duchess of richmond's lovely cheeks." those great folk must have been easily moved, or mrs. hartley must have had more talent than walpole will acknowledge. of her beauty there is no doubt, nor of its effects. in hull's poor tragedy, "henry ii.," she played rosamond to the henry of smith; and this handsome couple went on making love to one another, on the stage, till they believed in it, and fairly ran away together. when smith, in his older and wiser days, was living in well-endowed retirement, at bury st. edmunds, a remark made by him, affirming the fidelity of his married life, caused his excellent wife to look up at him. he blushed; murmured something of having forgotten "_one_ slip," and never boasted again. he had the grace of repentance. of comedies, and operas, and farces that have been forgotten, i will say nothing. mrs. lennox showed more dramatic power in her novels, and mrs. griffiths more good purpose in her hints to young ladies, than they did in their plays. o'brien found his pieces condemned, through his adoption of the suggestions of his aristocratic friends. bickerstaffe, ex-page to lord chesterfield, in dublin, and an ex-officer of marines, not yet compelled to fly the country in dishonour, gained less renown by "lionel and clarissa" (mattocks and miss macklin), of the entire originality of which he boasted, than he did by the "padlock" (mungo, by dibdin), which he borrowed from the spanish; or by the "hypocrite" (cantwell, by king), which was a refitting of cibber's "nonjuror," with the addition of maw-worm. kelly's sentimental comedies were only tolerated by the wilks party, whom he had offended by his political writings, when they were brought forward under an assumed name, but they had not merit enough of their own to live. even cumberland's "west indian" (belcour, king; major o'flaherty, moody), and his "fashionable lover" (lord abberville, dodd; aubrey, and augusta aubrey, by the barrys), have departed from the scene, with his "brothers." all cumberland's _dénouements_ may be conjectured before the curtain falls on his second acts. of the "brothers," george montagu writes to walpole: "i am glad it succeeds, as he has a tribe of children, and is almost as extravagant as his uncle, and a much better man." cumberland lacks that most at which he most aims, facility to delineate character. he has less power of style than purity of sentiment. of his fifty-four pieces, one alone, the "wheel of fortune," survives. in all, he exhibits more regard for modesty than he furnishes matter for amusement. but the one comedy of this period, which has gloriously survived all the rest, and which is being acted as i write, is goldsmith's "she stoops to conquer." there is nothing in it of the mawkishness of kelly nor of the pompous affectation of cumberland. it was so _natural_, that those who did not despair, doubted of it; and the author himself had not the courage to believe in its success, though johnson and a faithful few alone augured triumph. after a world of difficulty, the night of performance arrived at last,--the th of march . from the shakspeare tavern, johnson led a band of friends to covent garden, where he sat in the front of a side box; and as he laughed, the applause increased. but the friendly approvers were occasionally indiscreet, despite the instructions of cumberland, who very kindly asserts, that the success of the comedy was owing to the exertions of those _claqueurs_,--predetermined to secure a triumph! it came, that triumph,--and to a rare son of genius; one, who showed that drollery was compatible with decency, and that high comedy could exist without scoundrelly fine gentlemen to support it. it gave good opportunities, also, to rising actors, who, on the refusal of smith to play young marlow, and of woodward to play tony lumpkin, were cast for those parts,--namely, lee lewes and little quick. goldsmith did not venture to go down to covent garden till the fifth act was on, and then he heard the one solitary hiss, which was the exception to the universal applause, and which has been variously ascribed as issuing from the envious lips of kelly or of kenrick. sentimental comedy, ridiculed by foote at the haymarket, in his "handsome house maid, or piety in pattens," was dethroned, for a period, by goldsmith's comedy. it was time. sentiment had been carried to its utmost limits a month or two before, in a little piece called "rose." in this operatic drama, we find lord gainlove (vernon) celebrating his twenty-first birthday, by inviting every marriageable lady within five miles. each of them is to bring a rose; and my lord is to marry her who brings one that cannot decay. the roses are brought by all, save serina (mrs. smith), who, on being questioned, remarks, that the only rose which never decays is virtue; and that _she_ brings the imperishable flower! she is raised to the rank of lady gainlove, forthwith! to a similar school belongs the "maid of kent," of francis godolphin waldron. the piece has more of talk than of action in it. waldron was a respectable actor, a worthy bookseller, and an honest treasurer of the theatrical fund. a simple man--he once announced, in the country, that he would play richard in humble imitation of the inimitable mr. garrick! waldron was a roman catholic, and on publishing an appendix to his edition of ben jonson's "sad shepherd," he had the courage to recall public attention to the poems of father southwell, the martyr, of which he gave some specimens. through him, and later editors, southwell has become as one of those true and familiar friends who are cherished for their virtues, and are not questioned on account of their creeds. perhaps one of the most important improvements in stage arrangements was made at covent garden, on the d of october , when macklin first appeared as macbeth. the taste of the nation, according to whitehead, depended on garrick; but garrick, like his predecessors, had been accustomed to dress the thane in the uniform of a modern military officer. shakspeare, in his mind's eye, saw the persons of this drama all in native costume, for malcolm recognises rosse, at a distance, for his countryman, by his dress. macklin, bearing this in mind, dressed all the characters in scottish suits; but unfortunately, he himself is said to have looked more like a rough old scotch bagpiper, than the thane of cawdor, and king of scotland. he hoped to snatch a triumph from garrick, from barry, and from smith; and, indeed, in his scene with the witches, his interview with his wife, his hypocrisy after the king's death, his bearing with the murderers, and in contrasts of rage and despondency, he gained great applause. in the other scenes he failed. on the first two nights there was occasionally a little sibilation, which macklin attributed to reddish and sparks, whose friends headed a riot, which was ended by macklin, on his third appearance in the character,[ ] being driven from the stage, with much attending insult. a few nights later he was announced for shylock and sir archy mac sarcasm; but he could not obtain a hearing. bensley, woodward, and colman treated with the enraged audience, in obedience to whose commands mr. macklin was declared to be discharged from the theatre. against five of the rioters macklin entered an action, and lord mansfield intimated that a jury would give heavy damages against men who had gone to the theatre with a preconceived resolution, not of judging of the merits, but of ruining an actor. lord mansfield ordered the case to be referred to a master, with directions that liberal satisfaction be made; but macklin interposed, offering to stop all further proceedings, if the defendants would pay the costs, spend £ in tickets for his daughter's benefit, the same sum for his own, and a third for the advantage of the manager. and this was agreed to. "you have met with great applause to-day, mr. macklin," said lord mansfield; "you never acted better." [illustration: (mr. macklin)] let us now follow garrick and barry to the close of their professional courses, in and , and make record of the principal productions which were brought forward during the last brilliant years of the first, and the majestic decline of the latter. at drury lane, came first burgoyne's "maid of the oaks," as "fine as scenes could make it, and as dull as the author could not help making it," says walpole. this was followed by cumberland's "choleric man," the author of which, when accused of stealing a portion of it from shadwell's "squire of alsatia," protested he had never seen that play! dr. franklin was as reluctant to acknowledge how much his "matilda" owed to voltaire's "duc de foix." all walpole's affirmations that a better tragedy than jephson's "braganza" had not been seen for fifty years, could not give life to a heavy tragedy, by a man of such a comic turn of mind, that he was called "the mortal momus." these pieces, with others of less note, were brought forward at drury lane, where garrick appeared for the last time as don felix, in the "wonder," on the th of june . he had been accustomed to take his share in the country dance with which this comedy used to end, with unabated vigour, down to the latest period; and he delighted in thus proving that his strength and spirits were unimpaired. on this final night the dance was omitted, and garrick stepped forward, in front of a splendid and sympathising audience, to take his one and final farewell. for the first time in his life he was troubled, and at this emotion, the house was moved too, rather to tears than to applause. he could pen farewell verses for others, but he could neither write nor deliver them for himself. in a few phrases, which were perhaps not so unpremeditated as they appeared to be, he bade his old world adieu! they were rendered in simple and honest prose. "the jingle of rhyme, and the language of fiction, would but ill suit my present feelings," he said; and his good taste was duly appreciated. of this season at drury lane, i will only notice here a link which connects this old time with the present, in the fact, that in the course of it the name of _kean_ (moses kean, the uncle of edmund) appears to glumdalca, and mrs. siddons made her first appearance in london, as portia, to king's shylock. meantime, at covent garden, the town damned, condoned, and finally crowned the "rivals" of sheridan; who showed that a young fellow of twenty-three could write a comedy, remarkable for wit, good arrangement of plot, and knowledge of men and manners. hoole's dull "cleonice," and hull's as dull adaptation of thomson's "edward and eleonora," were followed by the gayest and most popular of operas--sheridan's "duenna," which was acted seventy-five times in one season, eclipsing the glory even of the "beggar's opera." but the audiences were dulled again by mason's "caractacus," the acting of which walpole styles "a barbarous exhibition." the chief part (given to clarke), he cruelly says, "will not suffer in not being sputtered by barry, who has lost all his teeth." in garrick's last season, he _looked_ youthful parts as well as ever he did. it was the reverse with barry, who gave up douglas for old norval, and who was so ill, while dressing for jaffier, that acting it seemed impossible; and yet the great player, at whom walpole sneers, entered on the stage only to be inspired; he was warmed by the interest of the scene, and, brightening with the glow of love and tenderness, communicated his feelings to all around--but he fell almost into insensibility on reaching the green-room. he played evander to mrs. barry's euphrasia, on the th of december [ ]--the last time on which his name appeared in the bills. death took him, and shuter, and woodward, close upon one another; but garrick and kitty clive retired to enjoy a season of luxurious rest--garrick at hampton, and mrs. clive, between margaret woffington's grave, and horace walpole's mansion at teddington. the great actor, in his retirement, used to smile when his friends told him he had surpassed betterton. whether the smile showed he accepted the flattery or differed from the opinion, i do not know; but garrick would remark, that booth, in "cato," had never been excelled; and yet, when quin first played the part, the pit rang with "_booth outdone!_" and _encored_ the famous soliloquy,--an honour never enjoyed by either betterton or garrick. let us now accompany the latter to hampton, and, sojourning with him there, look back over his past career. footnotes: [ ] i think dr. doran must mean twoscore years. havard made his first appearance in ; his last in . [ ] "zingis" was played eleven or twelve times, an indubitable proof of success. [ ] played nine times. [ ] yet it was played ten times! [ ] "alonzo" was a fairly successful play, being acted eleven times. [ ] this conveys a very wrong impression, and is founded upon a reported speech of one particular person, who, when asked whether he had hissed, said, "how could i? a man can't hiss and yawn at the same time." the piece ran for nine nights, so kelly must have made some money by it, and he got £ from the booksellers for the copyright. [ ] the letter is dated th november . [ ] should be his fourth appearance. [ ] it should be th november . [illustration: garrick between tragedy and comedy.] chapter xix. david garrick. when garrick commenced his career as actor, he was twenty-five years of age, and, according to pond's portrait, a very handsome fellow. in the first burst of his triumph, cibber thought the new player "well enough," but foote, with the malice that was natural to him, remarked, "yes, the hound has something clever, but if his excellence was to be examined, he would not be found in any part equal to colley cibber's sir john brute, lord foppington, sir courtly nice, or justice shallow." this was said, not out of justice to cibber, but out of ill-will against garrick. how he affected the town may be seen in the criticism of the _daily post_. "his reception was the most extraordinary and great that was ever known upon such an occasion, and we hear that he obliges the town this evening, with the same performance." the figure of betterton looking down upon him from between shakspeare and dryden, on the ceiling of the theatre, may have stimulated him. garrick's hamlet placed him indisputably at the head of his profession, and his abel drugger and archer fixed his pre-eminence in both low and light comedy. in the former comic part, he "extinguished" theophilus cibber, whose grimaces had been the delight of the gallery. garrick's abel was awkward, simple, and unobtrusive; there was neither grimace nor gesticulation in it, and he "convinced those who had seen him in lear and richard that there was nothing in human life that such a genius was not able to represent." walpole never liked him; and he laughed at the "airs of fatigue which garrick and other players give themselves after a long part;"--comparing their labour with that of the speaker and of some members of the house of commons. the fine gentleman depreciated the fine actor systematically, but at the close of a score of years' familiarity with his acting, he rendered a discriminating judgment on him. "good and various," the player was allowed to be, but other actors had pleased walpole more, though "not in so many parts." "quin in falstaff, was as excellent as garrick in lear. old johnson far more natural in everything he attempted. mrs. porter surpassed him in passionate tragedy. cibber and o'brien were what garrick could never reach, coxcombs and men of fashion. mrs. clive is, at least, as perfect in low comedy, and yet, to me, ranger was the part that suited garrick the best of all he ever performed. he was a poor lothario, a ridiculous othello, inferior to quin in sir john brute and macbeth, and to cibber in bayes; and a woeful lord hastings and lord townley. indeed, his bayes was original, but not the true part; cibber was the burlesque of a great poet, as the part was designed, but garrick made it a garretteer. the town did not like him in hotspur, and yet i don't know if he did not succeed in it beyond all the rest. sir charles williams and lord holland thought so too, and they were no bad judges." it was less fair criticism when walpole wrote, with reference to garrick, "i do not mention the things written in his praise;--because he writes most of them himself." this last charge was also made in a pamphlet, said to have been by foote. it is there asserted that garrick had considerable share in the property, and great influence in the management, of the _public advertiser_, the _gazetteer_, the _morning post_, and the _st. james's chronicle_. the critical and monthly reviews, he found _means_ (we are told) to keep in his interest. the _gentleman's magazine_ and _london review_ alone withstood him. quin and mossop, living,--he is said to have hated; dead,--to have offered to bury their remains with unusual honours. the barrys, king, lee, mrs. abington, and others, he is said to have mimicked in private; by similar mimicry in public, he is accused of having broken delane's heart, and he is also charged with having ruined powell, by binding him to beggarly-paid service, under a bond of £ , and by exacting the heavy penalty when the terms were infringed. he is charged with damning his brethren with faint praise, and ridiculing the monotony of mrs. cibber's action; _he_ who said that tragedy had died with her! it was laid as a meanness on him that he would not engage great actors,--at a time both the barrys were in his company, drawing houses as great as could be drawn by his own powers. wilkinson has asserted the youthfulness of his look and action to the last, but his anonymous detractors, while they allowed that, as ranger, he mounted the ladder nimbly, professed to see that he was old about the legs. is he a lover? they mock his wrinkled visage and lack-lustre eye, in which softness, they say, was _never_ enthroned; his voice is hoarse and hollow, his dimples are furrows, his neck hideous, lips ugly, "the upper one, especially, is raised all at once like one turgid piece of leather." in such wise, was he described just before he left the stage; and to embitter his retirement, he is told that his worst enemy has got famous materials for his "life!" garrick was proud of his abel drugger, but he was ready to acknowledge the superiority of weston in that part, whose acting was described by garrick as the finest he ever saw.[ ] to this pleasant piece of criticism was added a £ note, on weston's benefit night. and yet, from first to last, did his enemies deny that garrick was influenced by worthy motives. walpole describes him, unjustly, as jealous (even after his retirement) of rising young players; and horace writes, in , "garrick is dying of yellow jaundice, on the success of henderson, a young actor from bath. _enfin donc désormais_, there must never be a good player again! as voltaire and garrick are the god and goddess of envy, the latter would put a stop to procreation, as the former would annihilate the traces of all antiquity, if there were no other gods but they." i have quoted what walpole said of the actor in his first year;--this is what he says of him in his last: "i saw lear the last time garrick played it, and as i told him, i was more shocked at the rest of the company than pleased with him,--which i believe was not just what he desired; but to give a greater brilliancy to his own setting, he had selected the very worst performers of his troop; just as voltaire would wish there were no better poets than thomson and akenside." this is not true. garrick played with gentleman smith and bensley; yates, parsons, and palmer; mrs. abington, mrs. yates, and, for a few nights, mrs. siddons. because garrick never allowed his judgment to be overpowered by his emotions, intense as they were, johnson thought there was all head and no heart in his acting. while david was once playing lear, johnson and murphy were at the wing, conversing in no subdued tone. as garrick passed by them, he observed, "you two talk so loud, you destroy my feelings." "punch has _no_ feelings," growled asper, contemptuously. by pen, as well as by word of mouth, did johnson wound the self-esteem of his friend. although boswell asserts that garrick never forgave the pointed satire which johnson directed against him, under the pseudonym of prospero, the records of the actor's life prove the contrary. that it was something he could never entirely forget is true, for the assault was made under circumstances by which its bitterness was much aggravated. garrick had, just before, manfully exerted himself to render johnson's "irene" successful. and on the th february , on the morning of the night on which garrick was to play tancred, there appeared a paper in the _rambler_, from johnson's pen, in the two personages of which, no one could be mistaken. they are described as coming up to town together to seek a fortune, which had been found by one of them, prospero, who was "too little polished by thought and conversation to enjoy it with elegance and decency!" asper then describes a visit he reluctantly pays to prospero's house. he is tardily admitted, finds the stairs matted, the best rooms open, that he may catch a glance at their grandeur, while his friend conducts him into a back room, suited for inferior company--where asper is received with all the insolence of condescension. the chairs and carpets are covered, but the corners are turned up that asper may admire their beauty and texture. he did "not gratify prospero's folly with any outcries of admiration, but coldly bade the footman let down the cloth." the host gives the guest inferior tea, talks of his jeweller and silversmith, boasts of his intimacy with lord lofty, alludes to his chariot, and ladies he takes in it to the park, and exhibits his famous dresden china, which he "always associates with his chased tea-kettle." "when i had examined them a little," says asper, "prospero desired me to set them down, for they who were accustomed only to common dishes seldom handled china with much care." asper takes credit for much philosophy in not dashing prospero's "baubles to the ground;" and when the latter begins to affect a preference for the less distinguished position of one with whom he was "once upon the level," asper quits the house in disgust. this attack was ungracious and cowardly, on one side, as it was undeserved on the other. i can fancy it disturbed garrick's performance of tancred on that night; the _rambler_ was universally read, and the application could not fail. but it disturbed nothing else. years later, when johnson visited garrick at his hampton villa, the spirit of asper was softened in his breast, and he was justified in the well-known remark he made, as he contemplated the beauty and grandeur around him:--"these are the things, davy, that make death terrible!" it must not be forgotten, however, that johnson, at last, allowed no one to abuse davy but himself, and he then always mentioned that "garrick was the most liberal man of his day." so great, indeed, was his honesty, too, that garrick, having entered thoughtlessly into some bargain, carried it out with the remark, that "terms made over our cups must be as strictly observed as if i had agreed to them over tea and toast." his gallantry, also, was indisputable. when mrs. yates invited him to her house to discuss a treaty touching "£ a year, and finding her own clothes," he answered, "i will be as punctual as i ought to be to so fine a woman, and so good an actress." one of the critical years in the life of garrick--of whom chesterfield always strangely asserted, that although he was the best actor the world had ever seen, or could see, he was _poor in comedy_!--was , when he and quin first appeared together at covent garden in the "fair penitent:" the night was that of the th of november. "the 'fair penitent,'" says davies, "presented an opportunity to display their several merits, though the balance was as much in favour of quin as the advocate of virtue is superior in argument[ ] to the defender of profligacy.... the shouts of applause when horatio and lothario met on the stage together, in the second act, were so loud and so often repeated before the audience permitted them to speak, that the combatants seemed to be disconcerted. it was observed that quin changed colour, and garrick seemed to be embarrassed; and it must be owned that these actors were never less masters of themselves than on the first night of the contest for pre-eminence. quin was too proud to own his feelings on the occasion; but mr. garrick was heard to say, 'faith, i believe quin was as much frightened as myself.'" davies, who praises mrs. cibber in the heroine, states that competent judges decided that quin found his superior on this occasion. by striving to do too much, he missed the mark at which he aimed. "the character of horatio is compounded of deliberate courage, warm friendship, and cool contempt of insolence.[ ] the last quin had in a superior degree, but could not rise to an equal expression of the other two. the strong emphasis which he stamped on almost every word in a line, robbed the whole of that ease and graceful familiarity which should have accompanied the elocution and action of a man who is calmly chastising a vain and insolent[ ] boaster. when lothario gave horatio the challenge, quin, instead of accepting it instantaneously, with the determined and unembarrassed brow of superior bravery, made a long pause, and dragged out the words, 'i'll meet thee there!' in such a manner as to make it appear absolutely ludicrous." he paused so long before he spoke, that somebody, it was said, called out from the gallery, "why don't you tell the gentleman whether you will meet him or no?" but there is no one who gives us so lively a picture of the principal actors in this piece as cumberland, who tells us that "quin presented himself, upon the rising of the curtain, in a green velvet coat embroidered down the seams, an enormous full-bottomed periwig, rolled stockings, and high-heeled, square-toed shoes. with very little variation of cadence, and in a deep full tone, accompanied by a sawing kind of action, which had more of the senate than the stage in it, he rolled out his heroics with an air of dignified indifference that seemed to disdain the plaudits that were showered upon him. mrs. cibber, in a key high pitched but sweet withal, sang, or rather recitatived, rowe's harmonious strain. but when, after long and eager expectation, i first beheld little garrick, then young and light, and alive in every muscle and every feature, come bounding on the stage, and pointing at the wittol altamont and the heavy-paced horatio (heavens! what a transition), it seemed as if a whole century had been swept over in the space of a single scene; old things were done away, and a new order at once brought forward, bright and harmonious, and clearly destined to dispel the barbarisms and bigotry of a tasteless age too long attached to the prejudices of custom, and superstitiously devoted to the illusions of imposing declamation." foote's imitation of garrick's dying scene in lothario was an annoyance to garrick and a delight to the town, particularly at the concluding words:--"adorns my tale, and che-che-che-che-che-cheers my heart in dy-dy-dy-dying." garrick was again superior to quin, when playing hastings to his gloucester in "jane shore." davies describes quin as "a good commonwealth-man," for taking an inferior character, one which the actor himself used to designate as one of his "whisker-parts,"[ ] a phrase which shows that he dressed the duke as absurdly as he did horatio. quin had his turn of triumph when he played falstaff to garrick's hotspur. the former character he kept as his own, as long as he remained on the stage; but after a few nights, garrick resigned hotspur, on the ground of indisposition, to careful havard. the two great actors agreed to appear together as orestes and pyrrhus, and cassius and brutus; but garrick did not like the old costume of greece or rome, and the agreement never came to anything. it was long the custom to compare the french actor lekain with garrick. the two had little in common, except in their resolution to tread the stage and achieve reputation by it. lekain was born in , the year in which baron departed the stage. he was the son of a goldsmith, and had gained wide notice as a maker of delicate surgical instruments, when a passion for the stage led him, as in garrick's case, to playing frequently in private, especially in voltaire's little theatre, in the rue traversière, now known as the rue fontaine molière. on this stage lekain exhibited great powers, with defects, which were considered incurable; but he was only twenty years of age, and he could then move, touch, and attract the coldest of audiences. voice, features, and figure were against him, and yet ladies praised the beauty of all, so cunning was the artist. he played orosmane, in "zaire," before louis xv., and the king was angry to find that the actor could _compel_ him to weep! when voltaire first heard him, he threw his arms round lekain, and thanked god for creating a being who could delight voltaire by uttering bad verses! and yet voltaire dissuaded him from taking to the stage; but when voltaire saw in him the hero of his own tragedies, then poet and player lived but for one another, thought themselves france, and that the eyes of the world were upon them. voltaire addressed lekain as "monsieur le garrick of france, in merit though not in purse!" and as "my very dear and very great support of _expiring tragedy_!" when he wrote this in , there was a boy seven years old in paris, who, seventeen years later, began the most splendid career ever run by french actor,--as seïde, in voltaire's "mahomet,"--talma! garrick and lekain equally respected the original text of an author; but the former, more readily than the latter, adopted so-called "emendations." when marmontel _improved_ the bold phrases of old rotrou's "venceslas," lekain repeated the improvements at rehearsal, but at night he kept to the original passages of the author, and thus created confusion among his fellow-actors, who lost their _cues_. in this, garrick deemed him unjustifiable. lekain, like betterton, never departed from the quality of the part he was playing, even when off the stage. garrick, like charles young, would forget lear, to set a group in the green-room laughing at some good story. lekain treated his paris audiences with contempt. he would affect fatigue after playing less than a dozen times in a single winter, and then pass from one country town to another, acting twice a day! he received a salary from paris while he was acting at brussels. he could not play a hundred different parts like garrick, who identified himself with all; but he carried about with him a repertory of eight or nine characters, with half that number of costumes and a turban; and with these parts, painfully learnt and elaborately acted, he enthralled his audiences. voltaire protests that lekain's means were as great, and his natural truthfulness of acting as undeniable as garrick's; "but, oh! sublime garrick!" exclaims mercier, "how much more extended are thy means; how different thy truthfulness!" this truthfulness was the result of anxious care. garrick spent two whole months in rehearsing and correcting his benedick, and when he played it, all the gaiety, wit, and spirit seemed spontaneous. in fribble, he imitated no less than eleven men of fashion, so that every one recognised them; and in dancing mrs. woffington could not excel him. "garrick," says mrs. delaney, "is the genteelest dancer i ever saw." one of garrick's distinguishing characteristics was his power of suddenly assuming any passion he was called on to represent. this often occurred during his continental travels, when in the private rooms of his various hosts,--princes, merchants, actors,--he would afford them a taste of his quality; scrub or richard, brute or macbeth, and identify himself on the instant with that which he assumed to be. clairon, the famous french actress, almost worshipped him for his good-nature, but more for his talent, particularly on the occasion when, in telling the story of a child falling from a window, out of its father's arms, he threw himself into the attitude, and put on the look of horror, of that distracted father. the company were moved to honest tears, and when the emotion had subsided, clairon flung her arms round his neck, kissed him heartily, and then, turning to mrs. garrick, begged her pardon, for "she positively could not help it!" of the french players, garrick said that sophie arnould was the only one who ever touched his heart. to a young englishman of french descent, subsequently lord north's famous antagonist, colonel barré, whom he met in paris, he said, on seeing him act in private, that he might earn a thousand a year, if he would adopt playing as a profession. french _ana_ abound with illustrations of garrick's marvellous talent, exercised for the mere joke's sake. how he deceived the driver of a _coucou_ into believing his carriage was full of passengers, garrick having presented himself half a dozen times at the door, each time with a different face; how he and preville, the french actor, feigned drunkenness on horseback; and how garrick showed that his rival, drunk everywhere else, was not drunk enough in his legs. but the greatest honour garrick ever received was in his own country, and at the hands of parliament. he happened to be sole occupant of the gallery in the commons, one night of , during a very fierce discussion between two members, one of whom, noticing his presence, moved that the gallery should be cleared. burke thereupon sprang to his feet, and appealed to the house; was it consistent with becomingness and liberality to disturb the great master of eloquence? one to whom they all owed so much, and from whom he, burke, had learned many a grace of oratory? in his strain of ardent praise, he was followed by fox and townshend, who described the ex-actor as their great preceptor; and ultimately, garrick was exempted from the general order that strangers leave the house! senators hailed him as their teacher, and the greatest of french actors called him "_master!_" it was grimm's conclusion, that he who had not seen garrick, could not know what acting was. garrick alone had fulfilled all that grimm's imagination could conceive an actor should be. the player's great art of identification astounded him. in different parts he did not seem the same man; and grimm truly observed, that all the changes in garrick's features arose entirely from inward emotion;--that he never exceeded truth; and that, in passion alone, he found the sources of distinction. "we saw him," he says, "play the dagger scene in 'macbeth,' in a room, in his ordinary dress, without any stage illusion; and as he followed with his eyes the air-drawn dagger, he became so grand, that the whole assembly broke into a general cry of admiration. who would believe," he asks, "that this same man, a moment after, counterfeited, with equal perfection, a pastry-cook's boy, who, carrying a tray of tartlets on his head, and gaping about him at the corner of the street, lets his tray fall in the kennel, and at first stupefied by the accident, bursts at last into a fit of crying?" such was he who fairly frightened hogarth himself, by assuming the face of the defunct fielding! garrick's assertion, that a man must be a good comic actor to be a great tragedian, gave m. de carmontelle the idea of a picture, in which he represented garrick in an imposing tragic attitude, with a comic garrick standing between the folding-doors, looking with surprise, and laughing at the other. while the ever-restless actor was sitting for this, he amused himself by passing through imperceptible gradations, from extreme joy to extreme sadness, and thence to terror and despair. the actor was running through the scale of the passions. grimm approvingly observed, that garrick's "studio" was in the crowded streets. "he is always there," writes grimm; and, no doubt, garrick perfected his great talents by the profound study of nature. of his personal appearance, the same writer remarks: "his figure is _mediocre_; rather short than tall; his physiognomy agreeable, and promising wit; and the play of his eyes prodigious. he has much humour, discernment, and correctness of judgment; is naturally _monkeyish_, imitating all he sees; and he is always graceful!" such is the account by a member of a society, whose kindness was never forgotten by the english actor. the desire to see him there again was as strong as mrs. woffington's, who, being reminded by sir c. hanbury williams, that she had seen garrick that morning, exclaimed, "but that's an age ago!"[ ] st. petersburg caught from paris the garrick fever; but the offer of the czarina catherine, to give garrick two thousand guineas for four performances, could not tempt him to the banks of the neva. denmark was fain to be content with his counterfeit presentment; and a portrait, painted in london, by order of the king was hung up in the royal palace at copenhagen. i have alluded to some things his enemies laid to his charge. they are small matters when they come to be examined; and the more they are examined, the less obnoxious does garrick seem to censure. i find more instances of his generosity than of his meanness--more of his fairness of judgment than of his jealousy. he was ever ready to play for the benefit of his distressed brethren. when macklin lost his engagement under fleetwood, garrick offered to allow him £ per week out of his own salary till he found occupation. he saw, when his own triumph was in its freshness and brilliancy, the bright promise of barry; and pointed out its great merits, and predicted his future success. to insure that of young powell, he gave him frequent instruction; and when he brought the soon-forgotten dexter from dublin, he not only gave him "first business," and useful directions, but expressed his convictions that, with care and diligence, he would stand in the foremost rank of actors. the commonest incidents have been tortured to depreciate garrick's character. when, in , sheridan's "duenna" was in the course of its first run of seventy-five nights, the name of the author was extraordinarily popular. at this juncture garrick did further honour to that name by reviving the "discovery," by sheridan's mother, and acting the principal part in it himself.[ ] the carpers immediately exclaimed, that the mother had been revived in opposition to the son. they did not even take the low ground of the revival being adopted as a source of profit on account of the author's family name. even mrs. siddons's disparagement of garrick tells in his favour. she played two or three nights with him, but her first appearances were comparatively failures. garrick observed some awkward action of the lady's arms, and he gave her good advice how to use them. but mrs. siddons, in telling the story, used to say: "he was only afraid that i should overshadow his nose." years subsequently walpole remarked this very action of the arms, which garrick had endeavoured to amend! to those who object that garrick was personally vain, it may suffice to point out that he was the first to allude to his own defect of stature. in the prologue to the tragedy of "hecuba," written and spoken by himself, he mentions the high-soled buskins of the ancient stage; and adds-- "then rais'd on stilts, our play'rs would stalk and rage, and at three steps stride o'er a modern stage; each gesture then would boast unusual charms, from lengthen'd legs, stuff'd body, sprawling arms! your critic eye would then no pigmies see, but buskins make a giant e'en of me." if he esteemed little of himself personally, he had, on the other hand, the highest estimation of his profession. in this he bears a resemblance to montfleury, who, being asked, when his marriage articles were preparing, how he wished to be described, answered: that ancestry conferred no talent, and that the most honourable title he desired to be known by, was, that of "_actor to the king_." garrick was often severe enough with conceited aspirants, who came to offer samples of their quality, to whom he listened while he shaved, and whom he often interrupted by imitative _yaw, yaws_! but when convinced there was stuff in a young man, garrick helped him to do his best, without thought of rivalry. it is pleasant thus to contemplate him preparing wilkinson, in , for his attempt at tragedy, in bajazet, to the arpasia of mrs. pritchard.[ ] garrick heard him recite the character in his own private room; gave him some valuable advice; presided at the making up of his face; and put the finishing strokes of the pencil, to render the young face of one and twenty as nearly like that of the elder oriental, as might be. it may be said that this was a cheap sort of generosity, but it was characteristic of kindliness of heart. he could make other and nobler sacrifices; on the last night he ever trod the stage, with a house crammed, with a profusely liberal audience, garrick made over every guinea of the splendid receipts, not to his own account at his bankers, but to that of the theatrical fund. after this, his weaknesses may surely be forgotten. he may have been as restless and ignorant as macklin has described him; as full of contrasts and as athirst for flattery as the pencil of goldsmith has painted him; as void of literary ability as johnson and walpole asserted him to be; and as foolish as foote would have us take him for; his poor opinion of shuter and mrs. abington may seem to cast reproach upon his judgment; and his failure to impress jedediah buxton, who counted his words rather than attended to his acting, may be accepted as proof that he was a poor player (in jedediah's eyes); but the closing act of his professional life may be cited in testimony of a noble and unselfish generosity. it was the crowning act in a career marked by many generous deeds, but marred by many crosses, vexations, and anxieties. colman, even before he quarrelled with garrick, assailed him as a "grimace-maker," a "haberdasher of wry faces," a "hypocrite who laughed and cried for hire," and so forth; but garrick, in return, wrote verses in praise of colman's translation of _terence_; and when these had softened the translator's resentment, garrick chose the most solemn and most joyous day, christmas, , to write better verses, in which he states that failing in health, assailed by enemies, treated with ingratitude, and weary of his vocation as he is, that joyous season is made doubly joyous by the restoration of their friendship. garrick could yield, too, to the most exacting of his rivals. when barry rather unjustly complained that garrick only put him up to play on unlucky days--when operas, or concerts, or lady's drums, were a counter attraction, david kindly bade him select his own days; he himself would be content to play singly on the others. "well, sir!" said barry, "i certainly could not ask more than you grant!" vanity, it has been said, was one of garrick's weak points; but he was not so proud of the prince of hesse talking with him at ranelagh, as people were of mr. garrick telling them what the prince had said. his courtesy, discretion, justice, and firmness are illustrated in a thousand ways, in his correspondence. his best actresses vexed him to the heart; but he never lost his temper or his politeness with the most vexing or capricious of them all. his counsel to young actors grasping at fame, was of the frank and useful nature which was likely to help them to seize it; and his reproof to foolish and impertinent players,--like the feather-brained cautherley,--was delivered with a severity which must have been all the more stinging, as its application was as dignified as it was merciless. as for garrick's professional jealousy, he seems to me to have had as little as was consonant with human nature. i know of no proprietor of a theatre, himself an actor, who collected around him such a brilliant brotherhood of actors as garrick did; yet, when any one of these left him, or was dismissed by him, the partizans of the retiring player raised the cry of "_jealousy_!" when mallet was writing his _life of the duke of marlborough_, he dexterously enough intimated to roscius that he should find an opportunity of noticing in that work the great actor of the later day. the absurdity of this must have been evident to garrick, who immediately replied, "my dear friend, have you quite left off writing for the stage?" as mallet subsequently offered to garrick his reconstruction of the masque of "alfred," which he had originally written in conjunction with thomson, and garrick produced the piece, it has been inferred that the latter took the bait flung for him by the wily scot. it seems to me that garrick perceived the wile, but produced the play, notwithstanding. there was, perhaps, weakness of character rather than frankness, in the way he would allude to his short stature,--in his obviating jokes on his marriage, by making them himself, or getting his friend, edward moore, to make them, not in the most refined fashion. sensitive to criticism no doubt he was; but he was more long-suffering under censure than quin, who pummelled poor aaron hill in the court of requests, because of adverse comments in the _prompter_. sensitive as garrick was, he could reply to criticism merrily enough. another hill, the doctor and dramatist, had attacked his pronunciation, and accused him of pronouncing the _i_ in _mirth_ and _birth_ as if it were an _u_. on which garrick wrote:-- "if 'tis true, as you say, that i've injured a letter, i'll change my note soon, and i hope, for the better. may the just rights of letters as well as of men, hereafter be fixed by the tongue and the pen; most devoutly i wish that they both have their due, and that i may be never mistaken for u." again, if he were vain, he could put on a charming appearance of humility. lord lyttleton had suggested to him that, as a member of parliament, he might turn his powers of eloquence to patriotic account. such a suggestion would have fired many a man's ambition--it only stirred garrick to write the following lines: "more than content with what my labours gain; of public favour tho' a little vain; yet not so vain my mind, so madly bent, to wish to play the fool in parliament; in each dramatic unity to err, mistaking time, and place, and character! were it my fate to quit the mimic art, i'd 'strut and fret' no more, in _any_ part; no more in public scenes would i engage, or wear the cap and mask, on any stage." burke said of garrick, that he was the first of actors, because he was the most acute observer of nature that burke ever knew. garrick disliked characters in which there was a "lofty disregard of nature;" yet he resembled mrs. siddons in believing that if a part seemed at all _within_ nature, it was not to be doubted but that a great actor could make something out of it. garrick's repertory extended to less than one hundred characters, of which he was the original representative of thirty-six. compared with the half century of labour of betterton, and the number of his original characters, garrick's toil seems but mere pastime. in his first season, on that little but steep stage at goodman's fields, so steep, it is said, that a ghost in real armour, ascending on a trap, once lost his balance and rolled down to the orchestra, garrick seems to have been uncertain whether his vocation lay more with tragedy or with comedy. in that season he repeated his comic characters eighty-four times; he appeared but fifty nights in a repetition of half-a-dozen tragic parts.[ ] in the sum of the years of his acting, the increase of number is slightly on the side of the latter, while, of his original characters, twenty belong to tragedy, and sixteen to comedy. after he had been two-and-twenty years on the stage, garrick undertook no new study. of his original characters, the best remembered in stage traditions are, sharp, in the "lying valet," tancred, fribble, ranger, beverley, achmet ("barbarossa"), oroonoko (in the altered play), lovemore ("way to keep him"), and oakley, in the "jealous wife." of these, only beverley and oakley can be said to still survive. of garrick and his labours i have now said enough; let us follow him thither where he found repose from the latter, in company with one whom many of us, who are not yet old, may remember to have seen in our early youth, the mrs. garrick who is said to have told edmund kean that he could not play abel drugger, and to have been answered by edmund, "dear madam, i know it!" in june , lord chesterfield, who, in his irish viceroyalty, had neglected garrick, just as in london he ignored sheridan whom he had patronised in dublin, wrote to his friend dayrolles, "the parliament is to be prorogued next tuesday, when the ministers will have six months leisure to quarrel, and patch up, and quarrel again. garrick and the violetti will likewise, and about the same time, have an opportunity of doing the same thing, for they are to be married next week. they are, at present, desperately in love with each other. lady burlington was, at first, outrageous; but, upon cooler reflection upon what the violetti, if provoked, might say or rather invent, she consented to the match, and superintends the writings." later in june, walpole touches on the same subject to mann, announcing the marriage itself "first at a protestant, then at a roman catholic chapel. the chapter of this history," he adds, "is a little obscure, and uncertain as to the consent of the protecting countess, and whether she gives a fortune or not." this eva maria violetti was a dancer, who, three years previously to this marriage, was enchanting the town with her "poetry of motion." the sister countesses of burlington and talbot competed for her with "sullen partiality." the former carried her to chiswick, wore her portrait,[ ] and introduced her to her friends. lady carlyle entertained her; and the prince of wales paid his usual compliment, by bidding her take lessons of desnoyers, the dancing master, and prince's companion,--which eva maria did not care to do. the public were curious to know who this beautiful young german dancer was, in whom lord and lady burlington took such especial interest. that she was nearly related to the former was a very popular conjecture. however this may have been, she was, in many respects, garrick's good genius, presiding gracefully over his households in the adelphi and at hampton. "mr. garrick," whose early residence was, according to the addresses of his letters, "at a perriwig maker's, corner of the great piazza, covent garden," saw good company at hampton, where walpole cultivated an intimacy with him, for mrs. clive's sake, as he pretended. here is the actor at home, on august th, . "i dined to-day at garrick's," writes walpole to bentley; "there were the duke of grafton, lord and lady rochford, lady holdernesse, the crooked mostyn, and dabreu, the spanish minister; two regents, of which one is lord chamberlain, the other groom of the stole, and the wife of a secretary of state. this being _sur un assez bon ton_, for a player. don't you want to ask me how i liked him? do want, and i will tell you. i like _her_ exceedingly; her behaviour is all sense, and all sweetness too. i don't know how, he does not improve so fast upon me; there is a great deal of parts, and vivacity, and variety, but there is a great deal, too, of mimicry and burlesque. i am very ungrateful, for he flatters me abundantly; but, unluckily, i know it." fifteen years later, mrs. delaney describes a day at garrick's house at hampton, and speaks as eulogistically of the hostess. "mr. garrick did the honours of his house _very respectfully_, and, though in high spirits, seemed sensible of the honour done them. nobody else there but lady weymouth and mr. bateman. as to mrs. garrick, the more one sees her, the better one must like her; she seems _never_ to depart from a perfect propriety of behaviour, accompanied with good sense and gentleness of manners; and i cannot help looking on her as a _wonderful creature_, considering all circumstances relating to her." the above words referring to garrick are held by lady llanover, the editor of mrs. delaney's correspondence, to be "high testimony to garrick's tact and good-breeding, as few persons in his class of life know how to be '_respectful_,' and yet in '_high spirits_,' which is the greatest test of real refinement." this is severe, oh! gentlemen players; but the lady forgot that mr. garrick was the son of an officer and a gentleman. walpole warned people against supposing that he and garrick were intimate. when the actor and his wife went to italy:--"we are sending to you," wrote horace to mann, "the famous garrick and his once famous wife. he will make you laugh as a mimic; and as he knows _we_ are great friends, will affect great partiality to me; but be a little upon your guard, remember he is an _actor_." it is clear that garrick, down at his villa, insisted on being treated as a gentleman. "this very day," writes walpole to mason, september ,[ ] , "garrick, who has dropped me these three years, has been here by his own request, and told mr. raftor how happy he was at the reconciliation. i did not know we had quarrelled, and so omitted being happy too." lord ossory's intimacy with garrick was one of the strictest friendship. lord ossory speaks of him, gibbon, and reynolds, who were then his guests, as all three delightful in society. "the vivacity of the great actor, the keen, sarcastic wit of the great historian, and the genuine pleasantry of the great painter, mixed up well together, and made a charming party. garrick's mimicry of the mighty johnson was excellent." garrick was the guest of earl spencer, christmas , when he was attacked by his last and fatal illness. he was carried to his town house, no. adelphi terrace, where dr. cadogan asked him if he had any affairs to settle. garrick met the intimation with the calm dignity of quin: "i have nothing of that sort on my mind," he said, "and i am not afraid to die." physicians assembled around him out of pure affection and respect; heberden, warren, and schomberg. as the last approached, garrick, placidly smiling, took him by the hand, faintly murmuring, "though last, not least in our dear love." but as the crowd of charitable healers increased, the old player who--wrapped in a rich robe, himself all pale and feeble, looked like the stricken lusignan, softly repeated the lines in the "fair penitent," beginning with, "another and another still succeeds." on january th, , garrick expired. young bannister, the night before, had played his old part of dorilas to the merope of miss younge. the great actor was solemnly carried to westminster abbey by some of the noblest in the land, whether of intellect or of rank. chatham had addressed him living, in verse, and peers sought for the honour of supporting the pall at his funeral. the players, whose charitable fund he had been mainly instrumental in raising to near £ , stood near their master's grave, to which the statue of shakspeare pointed, to do him honour. amid these, and friends nearer and dearer still, the greatest of english actors, since betterton, was left in his earthly sleep, not very far from his accomplished predecessor. they who had accused him of extravagance were surprised to find that he had lived below his income. they who had challenged him with parsimony, now heard of large sums cheerfully given in charity, or lent on personal security; and the latter often forgiven to the debtor. "dr. johnson and i," says boswell, "walked away together. we stopped a little while by the rails of the adelphi, looking on the thames, and i said to him with some emotion, that i was now thinking of two friends we had lost, who once lived in the buildings behind us--topham beauclerk and garrick." "ay, sir," said he tenderly, "and two such friends as cannot be supplied."[ ] and mrs. garrick? she wore her long widowhood till , dying then in the same house on the adelphi terrace. she was the honoured guest of hosts whom all men honoured; and at the bishop of london's table held her own against the clever men and women who held controversy under porteus's roof. eva maria garrick twice refused lord monboddo, who had written a book to show that humanity was merely apedom without the tail. the widow of roscius was higher in the social scale than the wife of a canny scotch lord of session, with an uncanny theory. as i take leave of garrick, i remember the touching scene which occurred on the last night but one of his public performances. his farewell to the stage was made in a comic character; but he and tragedy parted for ever the night before. on that occasion he played lear to the cordelia of miss younge. as the curtain descended, they lay on the stage hand in hand, and hand in hand they rose and went, garrick silently leading, to his dressing-room; whither they were followed by many of the company. there stood lear and cordelia, still hand in hand, and mute. at last garrick exclaimed, "ah, bessie, this is the last time i shall ever be your father; the _last time_!" and he dropped her hand. miss younge sighed too, and replied affectionately, with a hope that before they finally parted he would kindly give her a father's blessing. garrick took it as it was meant, seriously; and as miss younge bowed her head, he raised his hands, and prayed that god would bless her! then slowly looking round, he murmured, "may god bless you all!" and divesting himself of his lear's dress, tragedy, and one of her most accomplished sons, were dissevered for ever! in new drury, such compliment was not paid to garrick as was offered to betterton in new lincoln's inn fields theatre; on the ceiling of which house was painted a noble group of poets--shakspeare, rare ben, beaumont, fletcher, and some of later date. these were on a raised terrace, and a little below them, looking up, stood betterton, with whom they were holding conference. worthier homage was never rendered to departed merit! from him to whom it was rendered, and from garrick who deserved no less, let us now turn to one who, lingering somewhat longer on the stage, yet earlier passing from the scene of life, claims a parting word,--silver-toned barry. [illustration: mr. garrick as sir john brute.] footnotes: [ ] this is very doubtful. cooke, who tells the story, merely says that garrick pronounced weston's abel drugger "one of the finest pieces of acting he ever saw." [ ] these two words--"in argument"--are not in davies's fourth edition. [ ] davies (fourth edition) has "vice."' [ ] davies (fourth edition) has "audacious." [ ] "strut-and-whisker parts" is the expression used. [ ] this is a very mild version of the story, which may be found in john taylor's "records of my life." lord darnley, not sir hanbury williams, was the hero. [ ] on th january . garrick was the original representative of sir anthony branville, the part alluded to. [ ] it is in connection with this preparation that wilkinson gives the peculiarly indecent specimen of garrick's humour. [ ] i cannot reconcile these figures with the bills. [ ] walpole's expression is "is having her picture," which, as i understand it, does not mean wearing her portrait. [ ] september . [ ] full justice has been done to garrick's character by modern dramatic historians, and notably by mr. percy fitzgerald. [illustration: mr. and mrs. barry in "tamerlane."] chapter xx. spranger and anne barry. outside the five-and-thirty years of barry's professional life, little is known of him. as of betterton, it may be said, he laboured, loved, suffered losses, and died. it is the sum of many a man's biography. spranger's professional career is traced in preceding pages; but i may add to it, that dublin is to this day, and with reason, proud of spranger barry, and of margaret woffington; for mere human beauty they have never been surpassed; for talents and for genius, with respect to their profession, they have not often been equalled. spranger of the silver tongue, was the only actor who ever shook garrick on his throne; but lacking the fulness of the perfection of garrick, barry only shook him for an instant; he never dethroned him. he is remembered as the vanquished wrestler is remembered, who has wrestled his best, given a heavy fall or two, has succumbed in the last grapple, and is carried from the arena on loving arms, amid the acclamations of the spectators, and with the respect of his conqueror. in the irish silversmith's accomplished son, born in , there was very good blood, with some of the disadvantages attached to that possession. of fine personal appearance and bearing, an aristocratic expression, and a voice that might win a bird from the nest, spranger barry had expensive and too magnificent tastes. he was a gentleman; but he lived as though he were the lord of countless thousands, and with an income on which an earl might have existed becomingly, with moderate prudence, spranger barry died poor. from the very first, barry took foremost ground; and mrs. delaney may well expatiate on the delight of seeing garrick, barry, and sheridan together in one piece. such a triad as those three were, when young, in the very brightest of their powers, and achieving triumphs which made their hearts beat to accomplish something higher still, perhaps, never rendered a stage illustrious. from to , barry was, in some few characters, the best actor on our stage. after the above period, came the brilliant but ruinous irish speculation with woodward. during the time of that disastrous dublin management, barry's powers were sometimes seriously affected. he has been depicted as reckless; but it is evident that anxieties were forced upon him, and a proud man liable to be seized by sheriffs' officers, ere he could rise from simulated death upon the stage, was not to be comforted by the readiness of his subordinates to murder the bailiffs. mrs. delaney had been enraptured with him in his earliest years; but she found a change in him even as early as . the gossiping lady thus exhibits to us the interior of crow street, one night in february, of the year just named, when, despite the lady's opinion, the handsome and manly fellow was not to be equalled in the expression of grief, of pity, or of love. "now what do you think? mrs. delaney with _ditto_ company went to the _mourning bride_ to see the new playhouse; and mrs. fitzhenry performed the part of zara, which i think she does incomparably. the house is very handsome, and well lighted; and there i saw lady kildare and her two blooming sisters, lady louisa conolly (the bride) and lady sarah lennox,"--(the latter lady reckoned among the first loves of george iii.),--"who i think the prettiest of the two. lord mornington" (afterwards father of the duke of wellington) "was at the play, and looked as _solemn_ as one should suppose the young lady he is engaged to" (miss hill) "would have done!... the play, on the whole, was tolerably acted, though i don't like _their celebrated_ mr. barry; he is tall and ungainly, and does not speak sensibly nor look his part well; he was osmyn. almyra was acted by a very pretty woman, who, _i think_, might be made a _very good actress_. her name is dancer." barry _did_ make her an excellent actress, and his wife to boot. nevertheless, the dublin speculation failed; and i find something characteristic of it among the properties enumerated in the inventory of articles made over by barry to his successor, ryder. for instance:--"chambers, with holes in them;" "house, very bad;" "one stile, broke;" "battlements, torn;" "garden wall, very bad;" "waterfall, in the dargle, very bad." the same definition is applied to much more property; with "woods, greatly damaged;" "clouds, little worth;" "wings, with holes, in the canvas;" or, "in bad order." "mill, torn;" "elephant, very bad;" and barry's famous "alexander's car," is catalogued as "some of it wanting." indeed, the only property in good order, comprised eighty-three thunderbolts! of barry's wardrobe, he seems to have parted only with the "bonnet, bow, and quiver, for douglas;" but mrs. barry's was left in crow street. it consisted of a black velvet dress and train; nine silk and satin dresses, of various hues, all trained; numerous other dresses, of inferior material; and "a pair of shepherd's breeches," which boaden thinks were designed "for the dear woman's own rosalind, no doubt." the only known portraits of barry represent him as timon and macheath. they were taken before he entered upon his last ten years, in london;--years of gradual, noble, but irresistible decay. like betterton, barry suffered excruciatingly from attacks of gout; but, like betterton, and john kemble in this respect resembled them both,--he performed in defiance of physical pain: mind triumphing over matter. on the th of october , he played jaffier to the pierre of aikin, and the belvidera of his wife. he was then only fifty-seven years of age; but there was a wreck of all his qualities,--save indomitable will. the noble vessel only existed in ruins, but it presented a majestic spectacle still. barry, on the stage, was almost as effective as he had ever been; but, off the charmed ground, he succumbed to infirmity and lay insensible, or struggling, or waiting mournfully for renewal of strength between the acts. he continued ill for many weeks, during which his chief characters passed into the hands of lewis, the great-grandson of harley's secretary, erasmus lewis, but himself the son of a london linendraper. lewis, who had now been three years on the london stage, played hamlet, and norval, chamont, mirabel, young bevil, and lord townley; but on the th of november, barry roused himself, as if unwilling that the young actor, who had excelled mossop in dublin, should overcome, in london, the player who had competed, not always vainly, with garrick. on that night, as i have already recorded, he played evander to his wife's euphrasia, in the "grecian daughter;" but he never played or spoke on the stage again. on january th, , he died, to the great regret of a world of friends and admirers, and to the awakening of much poetry of various quality. one of the anonymous sons of the muse, in a quarto poem, remarks:-- "scarcely recovered from the stroke severe, when garrick fled from our admiring eyes, resolv'd no more the drama's sons to cheer, to make that stroke more fatal,--barry dies. he dies: and with him sense and taste retreat; for, who can now conceive the poet's fire? express the just? the natural? the great? the fervid transport? or the soft desire?" the poet then fancies gathering around the player's tomb, led thither by the tragic muse,--the moor, "with unrivall'd grace;" ill-fated antony; injured theseus; feeble lusignan; woe-stricken evander; heart-bleeding jaffier; and, chief of all, romeo, with "melting tears," "voice of love and soothing eloquence." thalia, too, brings in bevil and townley;-- "and oh! farewell, she cries, _my graceful son_!!" graceful, but pathetic as he was graceful. this was especially the case when, in his younger days, he played with mrs. cibber,--castalio to monimia,--at which a comic actor, once looking on, burst into tears, and was foolish enough to be ashamed of it. no two (so critics thought) played lover and mistress, wife and husband, as they did. mrs. cibber, said these critics, who forgot her beatrice to garrick's benedick, could, with equal, though different effect, be only the daughter or sister to garrick;--cordelia to garrick's lear, but a juliet to barry's borneo, a belvidera to his jaffier. when mrs. bellamy acted with him, the effect was less complete. colley cibber was in the house on the night of his first appearance as othello--did what he was not accustomed to do,--applaud loudly; and is said to have preferred barry, in this character, to either betterton or booth. in orestes, barry was so incomparable, that garrick never attempted the part in london. his alexander lost all its bombast, in his hands, and gained a healthy vigour; while, says davies, "he charmed the ladies repeatedly, by the soft melody of his love complaints, and the noble ardour of his courtship." the grace of his exit and entrance was all his own; though he took lessons in dancing, from desnoyers, to please the prince of wales. barry was a well-informed man, had great conversational powers, and told an irish story with an effect which was only equalled by that with which he acted sir callaghan o'brallaghan. in that accomplishment and this character, garrick owned that barry was not to be approached; but, said the former, "i can beat barry's head off in telling all stories, but irish ones." it was in pathos on the stage, not in humour off it, that barry excelled. "all exquisitely tender or touching writing," says an anonymous contemporary, "came mended from his mouth. there was a pathos, a sweetness, a delicacy, in his utterance, which stole upon the mind, and forced conviction on the memory. every sentiment of honour and virtue, recommended to the ear by the language of the author, were rivetted to the heart by the utterance of barry." excessive sensibility conquered his powers. his heart overcame his head; but garrick never forgot himself in his character. barry felt all he uttered, before he made his audience feel; but garrick made his audience feel, and was not overcome by his own emotions. churchill describes the lofty and admired barry as possessing a voice too sweet and soft for rage, and as going wrong through too much pains to err. the malignant bard alludes to the "well-applauded tenderness" of his lear; to the march of his speeches, line by line; to his preventing surprise by preparatory efforts; and to his artificial style, manifest alike in his passions as in his utterance. this dark portrait was limned with the idea that it would please garrick, whom it could _not_ please. the two actors respected each other. "you have already," writes barry, in , to garrick, "made me happy by your friendship. it shall be the business and pleasure of my life to endeavour to deserve it; and i would willingly make it the basis of my future fortune." this feeling never waned. above a score of years later, barry writes: "i hear you are displeased with me, which i beg leave to assure you, i shall feel much more than all the distresses and disappointments that have happened to me." previous to the earlier date lord chesterfield had said of barry, "he is so handsome, he will not be long on the stage; some rich widow will carry him off." at the later date, barry was in london, with the widow, but not a rich widow, he had brought from dublin. the only good result of his otherwise unlucky sojourn there as theatrical manager, was in his second marriage, with mrs. dancer. the lady was admirably trained by him; and when garrick saw mrs. barry play the irish widow, in his own farce, after superbly enacting a tragic part, he could not help exclaiming, sincerely as he admired mrs. cibber, pritchard, and yates--"she is the heroine of heroines!" in his later days, when infirmity pressed him painfully, barry occasionally lost his temper for a moment. once this occurred when miss pope's benefit interfered with that of mrs. barry, and he wrote an angry letter to garrick, the ill-temper in which is indicated by garrick's indorsement: "--from barry; he calls miss pope '_trumpery_!'" lacy told davies that the barrys' salary was £ a year (but the cost of their dresses fell heavily on them). "mr. barry is only paid when he plays," said garrick to miss pope; and this explains barry's own remark, "i have lost £ by the death of the princess louisa." [illustration: (spranger barry)] in costume and in stage diet, barry was the reverse of mossop. near ninety years ago, the former played othello in a gold-laced scarlet suit, small cocked hat, and knee-breeches, with silk stockings, which then displayed his gouty legs. his wife, as desdemona, wore, more correctly, a fascinating italian costume, and looked as captivating as the decaying actor looked grotesque. barry did not vary his diet according to the part he had to play. it was his invariable custom, after acting, to sup on boiled fowl. his house, first in broad street, then in norfolk, and lastly in cecil street, was visited by the good among the great. such was henry pelham, himself an inelegant but frank speaker in parliament, who had a great admiration for barry's graceful elocution. the actor was in possession of all his powers, and his voice was at its sweetest, when he had this honest statesman for friend. henry pelham died in , when barry and miss nossiter were playing romeo and juliet, with the relish of real lovers. long before that, however, player and minister had been friends, but it was the player, the mark antony, of the stage, whose vain-glory made wreck of their friendship. pelham invited himself to sup with barry, and the actor treated his guest as one prince might another. he invariably did the honours of his table with great elegance; but on this occasion there was a magnificent ostentation which offended pelham. "i could not have given a more splendid supper myself," he remarked; and he would never consent to be barry's guest again. of the nineteen characters, of which he was the original actor, there stands out, more celebrated than the rest, mahomet, in johnson's "irene;" young norval, in london (in the white puckered satin suit); and evander, in the "grecian daughter." the last was a masterpiece of impersonation, and barry drew tears as copiously in this part as ever his great rival did in king lear, in which, by the way, garrick's too frequent use of his white pocket-handkerchief was looked upon by the critics as bathos, with respect to the act; and an anachronism, with regard to the article! "were interred, in a private manner, in the cloysters, westminster, the remains of spranger barry, late of covent garden theatre." such is the simple farewell, a week after his death, of the public papers, to young douglas, old evander, the silver-toned actor. macklin was one of the funeral procession from cecil street to the cloisters. looking into the grave, he murmured, "poor spranger!" and when some one would fain have led the old man away, he said mournfully, "sir, i am at my rehearsal. do not disturb my reverie!"[ ] mrs. barry survived her great husband nearly a quarter of a century. although that great husband did not found a school of acting, he had his imitators. a barry school required a manly beauty, and an exquisitely-toned voice, such as fall to the lot of few actors. nevertheless, in , a successor was announced in the person of an irish player, middleton, whose real name was magann. he had abandoned the medical profession for the stage, some obstacles to his reaching which had actually rendered him partially and temporarily insane. he had fine powers of elocution, and in romeo and othello reminded the old friends of barry--perhaps painfully--of their lost favourite. the imitation was, no doubt, strong; but it was stronger off the stage than on; for, with s. a week, middleton strove to live in barry's sumptuous style. thereby, he soon ceased to live at all, ending a brief career in abject misery, and leaving his body to be buried by the charity of his fellow-players. mrs. barry was sufficiently recovered from the grief of losing her husband, to be able to play viola, for her benefit, two months after his decease. when she resumed her great part of lady randolph, she spoke a few lines, written by garrick, in memory of the first and the most elegant and perfect of young norvals. in those lines barry is thus alluded to:-- "of the lov'd pilot of my life bereft, save your protection, not a hope is left. without that peace your kindness can impart, nothing can calm this sorrow-beaten heart. urged by my duty, i have ventur'd here; but how for douglas can i shed the tear? when real griefs the burden'd bosom press, can it raise sighs feign'd sorrows to express? in vain will art, from nature, help implore, when nature for herself exhausts her store. the tree cut down on which she clung and grew, behold, the propless woodbine bends to you; your soft'ning pow'r will spread protection round; and, though she droops, may raise her from the ground." i will not divide the sketch of the story of mrs. spranger barry from that of the greatest and most worthy of her three husbands. her father was a gay, well-to-do, but extravagant apothecary in bath, whose daughter, miss street, was one of the belles there, celebrated for her graceful figure, expressive beauty, and rich auburn hair. the handsome and clever girl was jilted by a lover, whose affection for the apothecary's daughter cooled, on a sudden accession of fortune occurring to himself. poor ariadne went for solace to the north, where, after some while, she found a bacchus in a hot-headed, jealous, but seductive actor, named dancer, who married her, and placed her, nothing loath, upon the stage. her friends were scandalised, and her widowed mother bequeathed her a trifling annuity, only on condition of her ceasing to be an actress. mrs. dancer declined; and the honest man to whom the annuity was thereby forfeited, surrendered the whole to her, and bade her prosper! prosperity, however, only came after long study and severe labour, and many trials and vexations. when barry assumed the management of the dublin theatre, he found mrs. dancer a most promising actress, and her lord the most jealous husband in ireland. youth, beauty, genius, were the endowments she had brought to that husband; and he, on his death, left her in full possession of all she had brought with her, and nothing more. but these and a liberal salary were charms that attracted many admirers. an irish earl was not ashamed, indeed, to woo the young, fair, and accomplished creature, with too free a gallantry; but all the earls in the peerage had no chance against the manly beauty and the silver tone of spranger barry. hand-in-hand with her new husband, she came to london. garrick sat in the pit, at foote's theatre, to witness her _début_. he approved; and forthwith she took a place at the head of her profession,--equal almost with her great namesake of the previous century, not inferior to mrs. pritchard or mrs. cibber, superior to mrs. yates, and not to be excelled till, in the evening of her days, sarah siddons came, to wish her gone, and to speed the going. mrs. barry was otherwise remarkable, she had "a modest gaiety in her manners and address;" and though in belvidera, lady randolph, rutland, euphrasia, monimia, and desdemona, she defied rivalry, she really preferred to act lady townley, beatrice, the widow brady, rosalind, and biddy tipkin. she acted tragedy, to gratify the house; comedy, to please herself; and she had a supreme indifference for the patronage of ladies of quality if she could only win the plaudits of the public at large. in the "jubilee," however, she represented the _tragic_ muse. two years after barry's death, his widow met with and married a scampish young irish barrister, named crawford, who spent her money, broke her heart, and was the cause of her theatrical wardrobe being seized by a welsh landlord, for debt. the general who married the widow of napoleon treated her with respect, but young crawford only regarded the middle-aged but handsome and accomplished widow of spranger barry as a means whereby he might live. there is something supremely melancholy in the story of mrs. barry, after this time. she raised her young husband to such efficiency that in london, he played pierre, to her belvidera; and the bad fellow might have respected a woman who did this, and could also earn £ in sixteen nights of acting, in ireland. in the latter country, whither mrs. crawford, as i regret to call her, went, after playing zara, in , thereby leaving a long-desired opening to mrs. siddons,--mr. crawford acquired a reputation for shabbiness. on his benefit night, in a supper scene, he provided no refreshments on the table, for the actors seated round it, and this omission produced a scene of unrehearsed effects,--of exposure of crawford's meanness, on the part of the players, and indignation against him on the part of the audience. when he became lessee, after ryder, his own unhappy wife could not trust him, and often refused to go on, till crawford had collected the amount of her salary from the doorkeepers,--if they had taken as much. he was reduced to such straits that one night, on the desertion of his unpaid band, he himself, and alone, played the violin in the orchestra, dressed as he was for othello, which he acted on the stage. the irish audience enjoyed the fun, and even mrs. crawford was so attached to him, that when jephson's "count of narbonne" was first produced, in which, from her age, she should have played the countess, she chose to act adelaide, that her husband might still make love to her, as theodore! all that she earned, crawford squandered. fortunately, the small annuity left by her mother was secured to her, and this crawford could not touch. what became of this unworthy irishman i cannot say; but he helped to spoil mrs. crawford, as an actress. her health and spirits failed, and her acting grew comparatively languid. the appearance of mrs. siddons, in the best of her years, strength, beauty, and ability, quickened the jealous pulses of the older actress's heart, and she once more played lady randolph, with such effect, that the _morning chronicle_ asserted, no competitor could achieve a like triumph. the younger actress at last outshone mrs. crawford, whose very benefits became unprofitable. her last appearance on the stage was at covent garden, on the th of april , in lady randolph, a character which mrs. siddons did not play that season,--her mrs. haller being the peculiar triumph of that glorious year. mrs. barry, the original euphrasia, died in , having reaped honour enough to enable her to be free from envy of others, and having means sufficient to render her closing days void of anxiety. the grecian daughter, the widow brady, and edwina, in hannah more's "percy," were the best of her original characters; of her other characters, lady randolph is the most intimately connected with her name. as between her and mrs. siddons, the judgment seems well-founded which declares that mrs. crawford was inferior to mrs. siddons in the terrific, but superior in the pathetic. at mrs. crawford's "is he alive?" in lady randolph, bannister had seen half the pit start to their feet. mrs. siddons was but a "demi-goddess," as walpole has it, in comedy, where mrs. barry was often inimitable. walpole saw both actresses in "percy," and he most admired mrs. siddon's passionate scenes. when, years before, he saw mrs. barry in the same play, his mind was pre-occupied with politics, and he thought less of the actress than of passing events, of which he was reminded by passages in the play. mrs. crawford, to take leave of her in her last name, was no admirer of the great actress by whom she was displaced; and albeit somewhat smartly, the old lady did not ill distinguish between the school to which she belonged and that founded by her comparatively young rival. "the garrick school," she said, "was all _rapidity_ and _passion_; while the kemble school is so full of _paw_ and _pause_ that, at first, the performers, thinking their new competitors had either lost their cues, or forgotten their parts, used frequently to prompt them." as we associate the name of barry with that of garrick, so do we that of mossop with spranger barry. mossop, whose career on the stage commenced in , with zanga,--type of characters in which alone he excelled,--died in , at the age of forty-five. he was the ill-fated son of an irish clergyman, and he was always on the point of becoming a great actor, but never accomplishing that end. his syllables fell from him like minute-guns, even in or-din-a-ry con-ver-sa-tion, and the nickname of the "tea-pot actor," referred to his favourite attitude with one arm on his hip and the other extended. in london, an evanescent success in richard and similar characters, almost made of him a rival of garrick. in dublin, he ruined barry by his opposing management, which also brought down ruin on himself. of this "monster of perfection," or the "pragmatical puppy," as he was variously called, we learn something from the _dublin journal_ of may th, , which says, "a few days ago, the celebrated tragedian, mossop, moved to his new apartments in the rules of the fleet." when mossop repaired to london his powers had failed. he could not obtain "first business," declined to accept "second," and proudly died in poverty, at chelsea, leaving for all fortune one poor penny.[ ] garrick offered to bury him, but a kinsman who would have nothing to say to the actor, claimed the satisfaction of consigning him to the grave, whither, after all, his brother actors carried him. so ended the promising player who combined gastronomy with his study of the drama, and ordered his dinner according to the part he had to act; sausages and zanga; rump-steaks and richard; pork-chops and pierre; veal-cutlets and barbarossa; and so forth! the antagonism of the two irish actors seems to have wearied the dublin people, who, at last, "did not care a toss-up, if mossop beat barry, or barry beat mossop." of some other actors who left the stage about the same period i will speak in the next chapter. footnotes: [ ] it is perhaps scarcely worth noting, but the form of this speech seems to me so much better as given by cooke, that i venture to quote it:--"pray, sir, don't disturb me; consider, i am now at _my rehearsal_." [ ] i cannot help remarking that dr. doran does not give mossop anything like his proper importance. he was one of the three great actors of his period: garrick, barry, mossop. i may also say that the date of his death is uncertain. it may have been . [illustration: kitty clive's house, twickenham.] chapter xxi. kitty clive, woodward, and shuter. as mr. wilks passes along, to or from rehearsal, there are two young girls of about sixteen years of age who gaze at him admiringly. day after day the graceful actor remarks this more graceful couple, the name of the brighter of whom is raftor. if not irish, she is of irish parentage, and of good family. her father, a native of kilkenny, had served king james, and got ruin for his wages. when catherine raftor was born, in , she was born into a poor household, and received as poor an education as many countesses, her contemporaries; and here we come upon her, some sixteen years afterwards, watching _sir harry wildair_ entering or issuing from that gate of elysium, the stage-door of the theatre royal, drury lane. if she knew but the "sesame!" that would give admission to _her_ she would be as happy as a houri! she had the potent magic in her voice which won access for her to the elder cibber, who awarded the young thing fifteen shillings a week,[ ] and then intrusted to her the little part of ismenes in "mithridates." in such solemn guise commenced the career of the very queen of hoydens and chambermaids. as for her companion in the occupation of gazing at wilks, in the street,--a miss johnson, she was appropriated to himself by theophilus cibber, who made of her his first wife; but she failed to attain the celebrity of miss raftor, who charmed audiences by the magic of her voice, and authors by the earnestness with which she strove to realise their ideas. she had achieved a great reputation as a comic actress, when, in ,[ ] miss raftor married mr. clive, the brother of mr. baron clive. in the following year[ ] fielding thus writes a paragraph of her biography, in his manly dedication to her of the "intriguing chambermaid," in which she played lettice: "as great a favourite as you are at present with the audience, you would be much more so were they acquainted with your private character, could they see you laying out great part of the profits which arise to you from entertaining them so well, in the support of an aged father; did they see you, who can charm them on the stage with personating the foolish and vicious characters of your sex, acting in real life the part of the best wife, the best daughter, the best sister, and the best friend." "kitty clive," however, and her not very courteous husband, could not keep household together, and they separated. the lady was a little vivacious, and stood undauntedly persistent for her rights, whether at home or on the stage--against her husband, or against mrs. cibber, or edward shuter, or garrick himself, who stood in more awe of her than she of him. she alone dared take a liberty with him, and, by a witty word well applied, to so incline him to irrepressible laughter as to render speaking impossible. none other dared so interfere with roscius. but it was all done out of good nature, in which mrs. clive was steeped to the lips, and of which she was lavish even to young actresses who came, in her later days, to dispute the succession to her parts. to the most formidable and triumphant of these, good miss pope, she gave excellent counsel, warning, and encouragement, for which "pope" never ceased to be grateful. mrs. cibber and mrs. clive, as polly and lucy, in the "beggar's opera," must have exhibited a matchless combination of singing and acting. mrs. clive was as ambitious as mrs. cibber, and would fain have played, like her, leading parts with garrick. her most successful attempt in this way was her bizarre to his duretete, in the "inconstant." one effect of her careful, earnest, but perfectly natural and apparently spontaneous acting was to put every other player on his mettle. that done, mrs. clive took care the victory should not be lost to her for want of pains to gaily secure it. she was a capital mimic, particularly of the italian signoras, whom she did not call by nice names. for a town languishing for the return of cuzzoni, she had the most unqualified contempt. she herself was inimitable; she wrung from johnson the rarest and most unqualified praise; and over her audiences she ruled supremely; they felt with her, smiled with her, sneered with her, giggled, tossed their heads, and laughed aloud with her. she was the one true comic genius, and none could withstand her. she had that power of identification which belongs only to the great intellectual players. she was a born buxom, roguish chambermaid, fierce virago, chuckling hoyden, brazen romp, stolid country girl, affected fine lady, and thoroughly natural old woman of whatever condition in life. from phillida, in "love in a riddle," her first original character, to mrs. winnifred, in the "school for rakes," her last, with forty years of toil and pleasure between them, she identified herself with all. _but_, in parts like portia and zara, which mrs. clive essayed, she fell below their requirements, though i do not know how the most beautifully expressive voice in the world could have been "awkwardly dissonant" in the latter part. her portia was too flippant, and in the trial scene it was her custom to mimic the most celebrated lawyer of the day. the laughter raised thereby was uncontrollable, but it was as illegitimately awakened as dogget's when he played shylock as a low comedy part. after forty years' service mrs. clive took leave of the stage, april , , in flora, in the "wonder," and the fine lady in "lethe." garrick played don felix; king, lissardo; and mrs. barry, violante; a grand cast in which, we are told, mrs. clive made flora, in the estimation of the audience, equal to felix and violante. drury lane, had it been capacious enough, would have held twice the number that gained admittance. from these she took leave, in an epilogue, weak and in bad taste, written by her friend walpole, who affected to despise the writers of such addresses, and, in this case, did not equal those whom he despised. [illustration: (kitty clive)] mrs. clive has the reputation of being the authoress of two or three insignificant farces, produced at her benefits, to exhibit some peculiar talent of her own. they had no other merit. such was her theatrical, let us now accompany her to her private, career. the last editor of walpole's letters states, that to a youth of folly succeeded an old age of cards. this statement is mostly gratuitous. isaac reed says: "notwithstanding the temptations to which a theatre is sometimes apt to expose young persons of the female sex, and the too great readiness of the public to give way to unkind suppositions in regard to them, calumny itself has never seemed to aim the slightest arrow at her fame." she was quick of temper, especially if david attempted to fine her for absence from rehearsals; and no wonder, since for one hundred and eighty nights' performance this charming actress received but £ ! but, as she said, "i have always had good health, and have ever been above subterfuge." when about to retire she wrote to garrick, with some obliviousness as to dates:--"what signifies ? they had rather see _the_ garrick and _the_ clive at than any of the moderns. the ancients, you know, have always been admired. i do assure you i am at present in such health and spirits that, when i recollect i am an old woman, i am astonished." in her retirement mrs. clive passed many happy years in the house which walpole gave up as a home for herself and brother, next to his own at strawberry, and which he playfully called "clive-den." a green lane, which he cut for her use between the house and the common, he proposed to call _drury lane_. here, at cliveden, the ex-actress gave exquisite little suppers after pleasant little card parties, at which, in walpole's phrase, she made miraculous draughts of fishes. men and women of "quality" and good character, married and unmarried--actors, authors, artists, and clergymen--met here; where the brother of the hostess, a poor ex-actor, ill-favoured and awkward, told capital stories, and found the company in laughter and walpole in flattery. of an evening, in summer-time, trim horace and portly clive might be seen walking in the meadows together; or walpole and a brilliant company, gossiping, laughing, flirting, philandering, might be noted on their way across the grass to strawberry, after a gay time of it at "_little_ strawberry hill." not always without mishap, as walpole himself has recorded in his narrative of his perilous passing of the stile with miss rich; and not invariably in the very sunniest of humours, for miss pope had seen horace "gloomy of temper and dryly sarcastic of speech." the place was, perhaps, at its pleasantest, when walpole, mrs. clive, and her brother, sat together in the garden, and conversed playfully of old dramatic glories. _she_ was so joyous, that lady townshend said--her face rose on strawberry and made it sultry. and walpole himself remarked, in , "strawberry is in perfection; the verdure has all the bloom of spring; the orange trees are loaded with blossoms; the gallery is all sun and gold; and mrs. clive all sun and vermillion." when hounslow powder mills blew up, walpole described the terrific power of the explosion, by remarking, that it "almost shook mrs. clive!" only the death of the last earl of radnor, of the robartes line, made her _almost_ look sad. the earl left her £ as a memorial of his respect; and what with the heat of the summer of , the unexpected legacy, and her assumption of respectful grief, she made up one of the drollest faces imaginable. one of her dear delights was to play quadrille with george montagu, from dinner to supper, and then to sing purcell, from supper to breakfast time. she left the place, even for short intervals, with reluctance; but her brilliant face was seen for a whole day in palace yard, where she sat to see the coronation procession of george iii., with her _great_ friends around her--lady hertford, lady anne conway, lady hervey, lady townshend, miss hotham, mr. chute, and also her brother. her only trials were when the tax-gatherer ran off, and she was compelled to pay her rates twice; or when the parish refused to mend her ways, as she said; or her house was broken into by burglars; or when she was robbed in her own lane by footpads. "have you not heard," she wrote to garrick, in june , "of your poor pivy? i have been rob'd and murder'd coming from kingston. jimey" (her brother) "and i in a post chey, at half-past nine, just by teddington church, was stopt. i only lost a little silver and my senses; for one of them came into the carriage with a great horse pistol, to search for my watch, but i had it not with me." and then garrick and other actors, with governor johnstone and his wife, met at little strawberry at dinner, and laughed over past perils. in she came up to london to see mrs. siddons act. mrs. clive was born in the lifetime of elizabeth barry, who had acted before charles ii.; she had seen mrs. porter, mrs. oldfield, mrs. cibber, mrs. pritchard, mrs. yates, and anne barry; and finally, she saw mrs. siddons. mrs. clive listened to the new actress with profound attention; and on being asked, at the conclusion of the performance, what she thought of it: "think!" said the vivacious old lady, in her ready way; "i think it's all truth and daylight!" in the december of the following year, the long career of this erst comic muse came to a close. walpole tells it briefly, unaffectedly and well. "it did not much surprise me," he says; "and the manner comforts me. i had played at cards with her, at mrs. gostling's, three nights before i came to town, and found her extremely confused, and not knowing what she did; indeed i had seen something of this sort before, and had found her much broken this autumn. it seems, that the day after i saw her, she went to general lister's burial, and had got cold, and had been ill for two or three days. on the wednesday morning she rose to have her bed made; and while sitting on the bed, with her maid by her, sank down at once, and died without a pang or a groan." so departed the actress, of whom johnson said, that she had more true humour than any other he had ever seen. she originated nearly fourscore characters; among others, nell, in the latter "devil to pay;" lappet ("miser"); edging[ ] ("careless husband"); half a dozen kittys; but chief of all, the kitty of "high life below stairs;" muslin ("way to keep him"); and mrs. heidelberg, in the "clandestine marriage." harry woodward: to think of him, is to think of captain bobadil,--in which he never had equal,--and of harlequin, in which he was second only to rich. to remember harry woodward, is to remember the original french cook, in dodsley's "sir john cockle," wherein woodward turned to good account the french he had learned at merchant tailors' school. he was also the first beau in "lethe;" and his flash in "miss in her teens," his jack meggot in the "suspicious husband," his dick in the "apprentice," his block in the "reprisal," his lofty in the "good natured man," his captain ironsides in the "brothers," and his captain absolute in the "rivals," were all original and brilliant creations, in acting which, the best of his many brightly-endowed successors lacked something possessed by _him_, whose slender and petruchio are described as being perfect pictures of simplicity and manliness. look at him, in his boyhood;--he is a tallow chandler's son, _rien que ça!_ living close by the anchor brewery, in southwark;--mr. child's brewery, whose daughter married with his clerk, halsey; and then it was halsey's brewery; and halsey's only daughter married lord cobham; and from this pair, the brewery was bought by halsey's manager and nephew, ralph thrale, on the death of whose son, henry, it passed by purchase to his chief clerks, barclay and perkins. the brewery, now, is no more like what it was in woodward's days than drury lane theatre is like the curtain, the fortune, or the globe. as woodward played beneath the anchor gateway, there was probably little uneasiness in his mind at the idea of his helping and succeeding his sire in candle making; but when woodward became a pupil at merchant tailors', i think it may have been otherwise. how young woodward was ever sent thither, i cannot guess; but i conclude that his father, "the _tallow_ chandler," was not aware, that among the statutes of the institution there was one which said that, "in the schoole at noe time of the yere, they shall use tallow candle in noe wise, but wax candles onely." perhaps old woodward supplied them to order. i think if woodward had never gone to merchant tailors', he never would have added lustre to the british stage. he was born about the last year of queen anne's reign,[ ] and was in lawrence pountney when he was some ten years old. the quick lad became a very good classical scholar, and in after years, he used to astonish and gratify the society which he most loved, by the aptness and beauty of his quotations; not for effect, for harry woodward, look you, was as modest as he was clever. well, learning to enjoy horace, you will say, was no specific for turning a boy into a player. perhaps not; but there was less satisfactory customs then prevailing among the _mercatores scissores_. the masters treated the boys who missed their election to st. john's, with canary and cake, as if to teach them that drinking was a solace for disappointment. then the discipline was lax, and young merchant tailors of the bench were seduced by the rather older merchant tailors of the table, to taverns, and to ordinaries, where gaming was practised, and to the playhouse, where they learned something new from the vizard masks in the pit. then, there was young beckingham, the linen-draper's son, and a merchant tailor of the table, who wrote a tragedy, "scipio africanus," to see which the whole school occupied a great portion of the lincoln's inn fields' pit, and sent up applauding shouts for quin, who acted scipio, as well as for their schoolfellow, the author. these practices and the traditions of others may have influenced a lively and thoughtless boy, who was proud to play peachum in the juvenile company, who acted the "beggar's opera," under the elder rich, at lincoln's inn fields. i cannot find exactly the date when woodward commenced as a professional actor; but he was not more than a mere youth. there was a boy of his name, at goodman's fields, who played pantomime parts before harry woodward appeared there in ,--commencing then a career with simple, in the "merry wives of windsor," which ended at covent garden, on the th of january , with stephano, in the "tempest." on the th of april, the then new comedy, "know your own mind," was acted, for his benefit, and on that day week, the lad who used to play under the gateway of the anchor brewery,--to trudge, in all weathers, over old london bridge, to merchant tailors' school, and who preferred the life of a player to that of a candle-maker, died; and with him, it was said, as wildair with wilks, captain bobadil died too. woodward was one of the most careful dressers on the stage; not as regards chronology, but perfection of suit; of fitness, no one then made account. woodward played mercutio in the full dress of a very fine gentleman of woodward's day; it was unexceptionable as costume, though not fitting in the play. then, he was one of the few lucky actors who never seemed to grow old. after nigh upon half a century of labour, his fitzpatrick,[ ] in "news from parnassus," was as young in look and buoyant in manner as the spruce of his earlier days. he was also among one of the few judicious and generous actors, when in the highest favour with the town; at which season, he did not disdain, when it was needful, to go on as a soldier, to deliver a message; but then he delivered it like a soldier, and the frequenters of the joyous rooms under and over the "piazza," made approving reference to that "clever little bit of woodward's, last night." woodward always found a defender in garrick. foote, who abused hospitality by mimicking his host, called woodward a "contemptible fellow," when he heard that the latter was about to dress malagene so as to look like foote. "he cannot be contemptible," said garrick, "since you are afraid of him in the very line in which you yourself excel." of course, being naturally a comic actor, woodward had an affection for tragedy; but it was not in him to utter a serious line with due effect. his scamps were perfect in their cool impudence; his modern fops shone with a brazen impertinence; his fops of an older time glistened with an elegant rascality; his mock heroes were stupendously but suspiciously outrageous; his every-day simpletons, vulgarly stolid; and his shaksperian light characters brimful and running over with shaksperian spirit. graceful of form, his aspect was something serious off the stage, but he no sooner passed the wing than a ripple of funny emotion seemed to roll over his face, and this, combined with a fine stage-voice, never failed to place him and his audience in the happiest sympathetic connection. "bobadil was his great part, in which he acquired a vast increase of reputation and gave a striking proof of his genius;" but there were two other characters in which woodward could hardly have been inferior, for it may be gathered from wilkinson, that in marplot, he was everything author or audience could wish, and that in touchstone, he excelled at least all his contemporaries, and had no equal in it till lewis came. woodward was at one time a _good man_, in the mercantile view of the phrase, for he was a rich man. unfortunately, he was induced by spranger barry to become partner with him in the dublin theatre,--in which venture, woodward lost all he had saved; and barry, too, made shipwreck of his fortune. garrick passed from the stage to years of repose and enjoyment. barry and woodward could not quit it till, having had more than enough of labour, death summoned them to a, perhaps, not unwelcome rest. little is known of the origin of edward shuter. small trust can be placed in the report that he was the son of a clergyman--not because he himself was, at one time, only a billiard-marker, or that he could with difficulty read his parts, and had much perplexity in even signing his own name; but because ned himself never boasted of it. what is certain of him is, that he was an actor entirely of the garrick period, commencing his vocation as catesby, at richmond, in , and concluding as falstaff, to the prince, in "henry v.,"[ ] of lewis, played for his own benefit, at covent garden, in may . i suppose chapman, who directed the theatre at richmond, was struck by the rich humour of the billiard-marker; but it was strange that a low comedian should make his _début_ in so level a part as catesby. he was then, however, a mere boy. in june , when he acted osrick and third witch in "macbeth," garrick playing hamlet and the thane, he was designated "master shuter." thence, to the night on which he went home to die, after playing falstaff, his life was one of intense professional labour, with much jollification, thoughtlessness, embarrassment, gay philosophy, hard drinking, and addiction to religion, as it was expounded by whitfield. he played through the entire range of a wide comic repertory, and among the characters which he originated are papillion in the "liar," justice woodcock, druggett, abrahamides, croaker, old hardcastle, and sir anthony absolute. his most daring effort was in once attempting _shylock_! there are few comic actors who have had such command over the muscles of the face as shuter. he could do what he liked with them, and vary the laughter as he worked the muscles. not that he depended on grimace; this was only the ally of his humour, and both were impulsive--as the man was by nature; he often stirred the house with mirth by saying something better than the author had put down for him. off, as on the stage, it was shuter's characteristic that he pleased everybody--and ruined himself. i never pass his old lodgings in denzil street without thinking kindly of the eccentric but kind-hearted player. some laughed at him, perhaps, for taking to serious ways, without abandoning his old gay paths of delight; but the former was of his sincerity, the latter of his weakness. that he should choose to follow calvinistic whitfield rather than arminian wesley, does seem singular; but poor ned felt that if salvation depended on works, "pilgarlick," as whitfield called him, was lost; whereas faith rescued him, and shuter could believe. he did something more; works he added to his faith, though he made no account of them. of all the frequenters of whitfield's tabernacle in tottenham court road there was no more liberal giver than the shattered, trembling, laughing, hoping, fearing, despairing--in short, much perplexed actor and man, who oscillated between covent garden stage and the tabernacle pulpit, and meditated over his pipe and bottle in drury lane upon the infinite varieties of life. and therewith _exit_, shuter; and enter, mr. foote. [illustration: mr. shuter as justice woodcock.] footnotes: [ ] there are one or two trifling inaccuracies in this, and the preceding paragraph, which are scarcely deserving of separate notes; but which i cannot altogether pass by. chetwood, from whom all this information is taken, says that miss raftor was only twelve when she used to watch wilks. he also states that her mother had a handsome fortune, so that her household was probably not poor. her first salary he gives as twenty shillings. [ ] this is the date always given for mrs. clive's marriage, but it is curious that her name appeared in the bills as miss raftor up to d october . on the th of the same month it is mrs. clive. [ ] . [ ] mrs. clive was not the original representative of this character. the comedy was produced in , when mrs. lucas played edging. [ ] is generally given as the year of his birth. [ ] should be fitzfrolick. [ ] should be "henry iv--part st." [illustration: mr. foote as mrs. cole in "the minor."] chapter xxii. samuel foote. "one foote, a player," is walpole's contemptuous reference to him who was otherwise designated as the "british aristophanes." but, as often happens, the player was as good a man by birth, and at least as witty a man by nature, as he who despised him. his father was a cornish gentleman, and an m.p.; his mother a daughter of sir edmund goodere, bart., through whom foote called cousins with the ducal family of rutland. a lineal successor of this baronet followed mrs. clive, as walpole's tenant at little strawberry hill, and horace called him "a goose." young sam foote, born at truro, in , became a pupil at the worcester grammar school. his kinsfolk on the maternal side used to invite him to dinner on the sundays, and the observant, but not too grateful guest, kept the monday school hilarious and idle, by imitations of his hospitable relatives. the applause he received, helped to make foote, ultimately, both famous and infamous. later in life, he entered worcester college, oxford, and quitted both with the honours likely to be reaped by so clever a student. having made fun of the authorities, made a fool of the provost, and made the city turn up the eye of astonishment at his audacity in dress, and way of living, he "retired," an undergraduate, to his father's house. there, by successfully mimicking a couple of justices, who were his father's guests, he was considered likely to have an especial call to the bar. he entered at the temple, and while resident there, a catastrophe occurred in his family. his mother had two brothers; sir john goodere and captain samuel goodere. the baronet was a bachelor, and the captain in the royal navy, being anxious to enjoy the estate, strangled his elder brother on board his own ship, the _ruby_. the assassin was executed. shortly after, cooke introduced his finely-dressed friend foote, at a club in covent garden, as "mr. foote, the nephew of the gentleman who was lately hung in chains for murdering his brother!" foote succeeded as ill at the temple as at oxford; and his necessities, we are told, drove him on the stage. as, when those necessities were relieved, he preferred buying a diamond ring, or new lace for his coat, to purchasing a pair of stockings, we may fairly conclude that the stage was a more likely place wherein he might succeed than the back benches of a court of law. indeed, he did not live to make, but to break, fortunes. of these he "got through" three, and realised the motto on his carriage, "_iterum, iterum, iterumque_." his connection with those great amateur actors, the delavals, was of use to him, for it afforded him practice, and readier access to the stage, where, as a regular player, he first appeared at the haymarket, on the th of february , as othello, "dressed after the manner of the country." he failed; yet "he perfectly knew what the author meant," says macklin. others, again, describe his moor as a masterpiece of burlesque, only inferior in its extravagance and nonsense to his hamlet, which i do not think he ever attempted. his pierre and shylock were failures, and even his lord foppington, played in his first season, indicated that cibber was not to depart with the hope that he was likely to have in foote an able successor. nevertheless, it is difficult to assign foote's position exactly. according to davies, he was despicable in all parts, but those he wrote for himself; and colman says he was jealous of every other actor, and cared little how any dramas but his own were represented. wilkinson ascribes to him a peculiar excellence. in dublin, - , he was well received, and drew a few good houses; and thence came to drury lane. he played the fine gentlemen,--foppington, sir novelty fashion, sir courtly nice, sir harry wildair; with bayes, and dick; tinsel, and the younger loveless, in beaumont and fletcher's "scornful lady;" but he could not reach the height of cibber, booth, or wilks. he had the defects of all three, and nothing superior to either, but in the expression of the eye and lip. his thickset figure, and his vulgar cast of features, he had not yet turned to purpose. he was conscious of a latent strength, but knew not where it lay. he had failed in tragedy, and was pronounced unfit for comedy; and he asked, almost despairingly, "what the deuce then _am_ i fit for?" as we find him the next three years, - , at the haymarket, giving his "diversions of the morning," his "tea," his "chocolate," and his "auction of pictures," it is clear that he soon discovered where his fitness lay. at the outset, he combined the regular drama with his "entertainment," shuter, lee, and mrs. hallam being with him. the old wooden house being unlicensed, foote got into difficulties, for a time, but he surmounted them by perseverance. he drew the town, morning after morning, and then night after night, with imitations of the actors at other houses, of public characters, and even of members of private clubs. some of the actors retaliated, woodward particularly. their only strong point was that foote, in striving to enrich himself, was injuring the regular drama. his cat concerts did really constitute fair satire against the italians. but people paid, laughed, and defied law and the constables; and foote continued to show up dr. barrowby, the critic; chevalier taylor, the quack oculist; cock, the auctioneer; orator henley; sir thomas de veil, the justice of the peace; and other noted persons of the day. how these persons were affected by the showing-up, i cannot say; but foote objected to being himself shown up by woodward. whereon garrick asked, "should he dress at you in the play, how can you be alarmed at it, or take it ill? the character, exclusive of some little immoralities which can never be applied to you, is that of a very smart, pleasant, conceited fellow, and a good mimic." for a few years foote was engaged alternately at either house, on a sort of starring engagement, during which he produced his "englishman in paris" (buck, by macklin;[ ] lucinda, by his clever daughter); "englishman returned from paris" (buck, by foote); "taste" (lady pentweazle, by worsdale);[ ] and the "author" (cadwallader, by foote). in the first two satires, was scourged the alleged folly of sending a young fellow to travel, by way of education; but in this instance the satire fails, for buck, who leaves home a decided brute, returns in an improved form as only a coxcomb. "taste" satirised the enthusiasm for objects of _virtú_, the gross humbug of portrait painters, and the vanity of those who sat to them. worsdale was himself an artist, and a scamp. he kept, half-starved, and kicked letitia pilkington, the very head of all the house of hussies, obnoxious to such treatment. in the "author," foote did not so much satirise writers, or care for improving their condition, as he did to caricature one of his own friends, mr. ap rice (or apreece), a patron of authors, who sat open-mouthed and silly, in the boxes, to the delight of the audience, and mystified by the reflection of himself, which he beheld on the stage. in , foote brought out his "minor" in dublin, he playing shift, and woodward, mrs. cole. in the summer of the same year he reproduced it at the haymarket, playing shift, smirk, and mrs. cole. after occasionally acting at the two larger theatres, and creating young wilding, in the "liar," he finally went to the haymarket, where, from to , he acted almost exclusively. in the "minor," the author pilloried langford, the plausible auctioneer, mother douglas, a woman of very evil life, and, in shift, the rev. george whitfield, who was nobly, and with much self-abnegation, endeavouring to amend life wherever he found it of an evil quality. here was foote's weakness. he did not care for the suppression of vice; but if he who attempted to suppress it had a foible, or a strongly-marked characteristic, foote laid hold of him, and made him look like a fool or a rascal, in the eyes of a too willing audience. the "minor" failed in dublin, very much to the credit of an irish audience, if they condemned it on the ground of its grossness and immorality. to the credit of english society, there was strong protest made against it here; and also in scotland--in and out of the pulpit; but the theatres were full whenever it was represented, nevertheless! the injury it effected must have been incalculable, for the wit was on a par with the blasphemy; but when saving grace and the work of the holy ghost are employed to raise a laugh of derision, the edification of the hearers is as little to be expected as it was hoped or cared for by the author. foote, nevertheless, protested that in this piece, which brought back the coarseness of aphra behn, with a deeper irreligious tint, he meant no offence against the pious, but only against hypocrites. he was merely driven to that excuse. it is one, i think, that cannot be accepted, for foote was not a truthful man. when he was taxed with ridiculing the duchess of kingston as kitty crocodile, in the "trip to calais," he assured lord hertford, the chamberlain, that he had no idea that the allusions in that piece could apply to the duchess; and when he failed in procuring a license to play it, he had the impudence to assert, as the grounds of failure, that he had refused to put lord hertford's son on the box-keeper's free list--or as a more improbable story has it, to make the young gentleman box-keeper; and--hence, denial of the license! lady llanover, in a note in her _memoirs of mrs. delaney_, roundly asserts that when foote had completed his caricature of the duchess, "he informed her of it, in the hopes of extorting a large bribe for its suppression;" but from this assertion i dissent; though it is not improbable, as walpole has recorded, that the duchess offered him a bribe "just as if he had been a member of parliament!" foote's fourteen years' of summer seasons at the haymarket, formed an era of their own. there had never been anything resembling it, nor has anything like it succeeded. in his first year, , he produced the "orators." "there is a madness for oratorys," writes walpole, alluding to macklin's school, and foote's lectures. in the satire on public speakers, foote caricatured faulkner, the irish publisher; a fact which chesterfield was the first to joyfully proclaim to the victim, whose infirmity--he had but one leg--should have saved him from what otherwise may have been due to his conceit, if personal caricature be justifiable at all. in the "mayor of garratt," the more general caricature of a class--the sneaks and the bruins, has been more lastingly popular; the individual, however, is included in matthew mug, aimed at the duke of newcastle. in the "patron," the general satire was levelled at the enthusiasm of antiquaries, men capable of falling in love with a lady, because her nose resembled that of the bust of the empress poppoea. the individual pilloried in this piece was lord melcombe, under the form of sir thomas lofty, played by foote; who also laughed at the english nabob of that day, in sir peter pepperpot, acted by him, in the same piece. foote considered this his best play; but in this, as in all his pieces, with much original wit, there was rank, though judicious plagiarism, from the stores of other writers. in the "commissary," foote, as zachary fungus, aimed his shafts at the gentility of the vulgar; hitting dr. arne, personally, in the character of dr. catgut. in , foote met with the accident which reduced him to the condition of one-legged george faulkner, whom he held up to ridicule in the "orators," and he did not play;[ ] but in he opened the haymarket theatre, after reconstructing the interior. he wrote no new piece; but he had the barrys for a few nights, and brought out that burlesque-tragedy, the "tailors," which was said to have been left anonymously at dodsley's shop, and which kept its vitality down to the days of john reeve. the fault of this piece is not in having tailors instead of persons of consequence in a burlesque, but--that the tailors talk seriously, and like people of consequence, well brought up. his great success in , was with his "devil on two sticks," by which he cleared between three and four thousand pounds--a golden harvest, of which scarcely a grain was left at the close of the year. the satire here is generally laid against medical quackery, in the person of dr. last, by weston; but foote, as the devil in disguise, took upon him the burthen of individual caricature. as dr. squib, he rendered ridiculous dr. brocklesby; and as the president of a college of physicians, he exposed to derision sir william browne, who had taken an active part in a professional controversy, now without interest. sir william's wig, coat, contracted eye firmly holding an eye-glass, and his remarkably upright figure, were all there; but the caricaturist had forgotten sir william's special characteristic--his muff, which the good-tempered doctor sent to foote, to make the figure complete! [illustration: (samuel foote)] in , foote produced nothing new of his own; but the general business was good, and sheridan drew good houses in tragedy, both this season and the next, though foote described him as "dwindled down into a mere _cock and bottle_ chelsea pensioner." in , foote, in his "lame lover," in which he acted sir luke limp (vandermere and weston played serjeant and jack circuit), made a miss in aiming at "those maggots of the law, who breed in the rotten parts of it." in the following year, the groundwork of his expected annual play, was the ungallant conduct of mr. walter long to miss linley, afterwards mrs. r. b. sheridan. in the "maid of bath," long is severely handled under the name of flint, and bath society is roughly illustrated. the taste, in using a private domestic story for such a purpose, is questionable. the satire, however, did not kill long, who lived till , and bequeathed then, to the already wealthiest heiress in england, miss tilney, daughter of sir james tilney, bart., nearly a quarter of a million of money. it was this heiress's hard fate to marry a more worthless personage than he who only wooed and was false to the maid of bath; and the small wreck of her fortune is now being saved--or lost amid the breakers and breakwaters of the court of chancery. foote, characterising himself as a "popularity-monger," produced in the course of his next season the "nabob," in which he made a combined charge on antiquaries and anglo-east indians generally, in the person of sir matthew mite, in which was involved the individual caricature of general richard smith, whose father had been a cheesemonger. some irascible anglo-indians called at foote's house in suffolk street, behind the theatre, to administer personal chastisement; but he bore himself with such tact, convinced them so conclusively that he had not had smith in his mind, and persuaded them, by reading the play, that it was only naughty old indians generally against whom he wrote, that they who came to horsewhip remained to dine, and make a night of it. the piece was afterwards supported by the _good_ old ladies, to show their antagonism to anglo-indian naughtiness. foote's "nabob" afforded walpole an excuse for withdrawing his name from the society of antiquaries. in the play, mite is made an f.s.a.; and reads a foolish address to the society, on whittington and his cat. this was in ridicule of pegge, who had touched on the subject of the illustrious lad, but who was "gravelled" by the then inexplicable _cat_. walpole, affecting to see that pegge and foote had rendered the society for ever ridiculous, took his name off the books; but not on that account. the true ground was that, in his own words:--"i heard that they intended printing some more foolish notes against my richard iii." in , foote produced his puppet-show-droll, "piety in pattens, or the handsome housemaid." in this he committed a mistake, not unlike that he had committed in the "minor," by taking unworthy means to a certain end. in a dull and occasionally indecent introductory address, he professed to have chosen puppets for his actors, because the contemporary players were marked by inability. this was said to a densely crowded house, while garrick and barry were still at the head of their profession! in the piece itself, played by excellently contrived puppets, foote intended to ridicule sentimental comedy, by professedly playing one, showing "how a maiden of low degree, by the mere effects of morality and virtue, raised herself to riches and honours." the sentiment here involved is, of course, made fun of; but, in fact, the author failed to render it ridiculous, for the housemaid declines the riches and honours which she might have taken as the rewards of her morality and virtue. there ensued a riot, and some damage, after which foote resorted to the novel process of resting the approbation of his piece, on a show of hands; but though there was a majority in his favour, the piece was not permanently successful. the author found compensation in his "bankrupt," which was chiefly aimed at a speculating baronet, but generally at all who were concerned in cheating their creditors. in a better, but a more cruel piece of wit, was produced by "foote, the celebrated buffoon," as walpole had called him the year before. this was the "cozeners." mrs. grieve, the woman who had extorted money, on pledge of procuring government appointments, and who had not only deceived charles fox, by pretending to be able to marry him to an heiress, but had lent him money rather than miss his chariot from her door, was fair game, and was well exposed, in mrs. fleecem. this was delicate ground, however, for foote, who was very generally accused of having earned an annuity from sir francis delaval, by bringing about a marriage between sir francis and the widow lady nassau powlett, who had been a very intimate friend of foote's. the cruelty of the satire lay in the character of mrs. simony, in which the vices of the once fashionable and lately hanged preacher, dodd, were transferred to his then living widow.[ ] it was an insult to that poor woman, and a brutality against the rev. richard dodd, brother of the criminal, and the estimable vicar of camberwell. the ridicule of lord chesterfield's advice to his son is in far better taste. but foote was now beginning to lose spirit, and he produced only one more piece, the "capuchin," in which he played o'donovan, in . this piece was merely an alteration of the unlicensed "trip to calais," in which foote had gibbetted the duchess of kingston. in the "capuchin," he more rudely treated her grace's chaplain, jackson, under the name of viper; but the farce had small merit, and the only thing in connection with it, deserving of record is, that jackson, while on trial for treason, in the time of the irish rebellion, destroyed himself. such are the dramatic works of the english satirist, to compare whom with aristophanes is an injustice to the athenian, whose works plato admired; and even st. chrysostom kept them under his pillow! in the eleven extant comedies, of the fifty-four written by aristophanes, we find the inequality of the distribution of riches pointed at in "plutus;" in the "clouds" the poet is in jest, not in earnest, in denouncing vice; in the "frogs" we have a humorous review of both euripides and Æschylus; in the "knights," a satire against cleon, which is unequalled for fun and effect. the "inhabitants of acharnæ" is a "screaming farce" chiefly in favour of peace-makers. the "wasps" caricatures the athenian disposition to go to law. the "birds" is made a vehicle to convince the audience of the necessity of a change in the government. "peace," in which the heroine, so-called, never utters a word, was written to bring about the much-desired end of the peloponnesian war. the "female orators" exposes the absurdity of women desiring to be beyond their vocation. the "feast of ceres" demonstrates that the women can both say and act to the purpose when called upon; and this is more seriously shown in "lysistrata." all these, however, are original, plot and wit are the poet's own (which is far from being the case with foote); and the chief end seems to be the public good, and not the satirising of particular individuals. aristophanes, however, goes in this latter direction, even farther than foote; his abuse of socrates, a great and good reformer, is not palliated by the wit which accompanies it; a daring wit, which was carried to such excess that the downfall of the old comedy ensued, and alcibiades forbade that any living person should be thenceforth attacked by name upon the stage. the descriptions of aristophanes are true, however coarse they may be. he was a patriot and philosopher as well as a poet, and fearless in attacking every obstruction to the well-being and improvement of society. foote laughed at individuals, denied the personality, and cared nothing at all as to who might be the better or the worse for his sarcasm. it has been said that the satire of aristophanes killed socrates. it really did so no more than that of foote killed whitfield. in this one respect the two men _are_ alike. such exhibition of character as foote made was described by johnson, as a _vice_; and he, like churchill, denied the actor's powers. the former maintained that foote was never like the person he assumed to be, but only unlike foote; and that he failed altogether, except with marked characteristics. he was as a painter who can portray a wen; and if a man hopped on one leg, foote could do that to the life. foote himself acknowledged that he pursued folly, and not vices, but he never mimicked in others the follies which were the most strongly marked in himself; such as extravagance in dress. he did not aim at improvement of character; his motives in this respect were of the very lowest: "who the devil!" he said, "will give money to be told mr. such-a-one is wiser and better than himself.... demolish a conspicuous character, and sink him below our level ... _there_ we are pleased, there we chuckle and grin, and toss the half-crown on the counter." now, bad examples which lower our standard of right and wrong do infinite harm. at this sinking of men below our level, the archbishop of dublin has glanced, when he says: "for _one_ who is corrupted by becoming as bad as a bad example, there are ten that are debased by becoming _content_ with being better." if there was little honesty in foote's method of dealing with human weaknesses, so was there small courage in the spirit of the satirist. he could annoy garrick by saying that his puppets would not be so large as life, "not larger in fact than mr. garrick," and could mimic him as refusing to engage punch and his wife,--mr. and mrs. barry,--for he could do so with impunity. but, barry, six feet high, he never assailed, and he was deterred from bringing johnson on the stage, by a threat from the latter that he would break every bone in his body. johnson, personally, disliked foote, yet was forced into admiration by foote's wonderful powers of wit and laughter-compelling humour. johnson, probably, was trying to excuse himself when he said that if the grave betterton had come into the room where foote was, the latter would have driven him from it by his broad-faced, obstreperous mirth. but foote's conversational powers and wide knowledge, which charmed fox, would have charmed betterton too, and i do not think either could have been like johnson's imaginary hostler, who, encountering foote in a stable, thought him a comic fellow, but parted from him without a feeling of respect. johnson thought less of foote's conversation than fox did; he described it as between wit and buffoonery, but admitted that foote was a "fine fellow in his way," and he hoped somebody would write his life with diligence. walpole tersely described him as "a merry andrew, but no fool." so the black boy thought, who hated the small beer which foote (who sneered at garrick for having been a wine merchant) at one time brewed and sold, through a partner. the boy was so delighted with foote's wit, as he waited on him at dinner, that he declared, in the kitchen, he could drink his bad beer for ever, and would certainly never complain of it again. foote had so little moral courage, and was so thin-skinned, that attacks upon him in the newspapers caused him exquisite pain, and he stooped so far to the duchess of kingston as to offer to suppress his "trip to calais," if she would put a stop to the assaults made on him through the press. the notorious lady, who was tried for bigamy, called him the "descendant of a merry andrew," and foote informed her that though his good mother had lived to fourscore, she had never been married _but once_. something, however, is to be said for this well-abused person. she did not marry the duke of kingston till the ecclesiastical court had broken her marriage with lord hervey. the house of lords reversed the decree of the ecclesiastical court, after the lady had married a second time, and it was this reversal of an old judgment which exposed her to the penalties of bigamy. when these facts are remembered, half the jokes against foote's adversary fall to the ground. neither the claims of friendship nor a sense of courtesy could restrain foote from a brutal jest when opportunity offered to make one. he had no more intimate friend than charles holland, who was at drury lane, from to ; and whose father was a baker, at chiswick. foote attended the funeral there, and on his return to town, he gaily remarked that he "had seen holland shoved into the family oven!" as for his courtesy, it was on a par with his sense of friendship and fellowship. when down at stratford, on the occasion of the shakspeare jubilee, garrick's success embittered foote's naturally bitter spirit. a well-dressed gentleman there, civilly spoke to him on the proceedings. "has warwickshire, sir," said foote, "the advantage of having produced you as well as shakspeare?" "sir," replied the gentleman, "i come from essex." "ah!" rejoined foote, remembering that county was famous for calves, "from essex! who drove you?" the better samples of foote's wit are to be found in his own comic pieces. in his "lame lover," how admirable is mr. sergeant circuit's remark when his wife asks for money, and protests she must have it, as her honour is in pawn! "how a century will alter the meaning of words!" cries the sergeant. "formerly, chastity was the honour of women, and good faith and integrity the honour of men; but now, a lady who ruins her family by punctually paying her losses at play, and a gentleman who kills his best friend in a ridiculous quarrel, are your only tip-top people of honour! well, let them go on! it brings grist to our mill; for while both sexes stick firm to their honour, we shall never want business either at doctors' commons or the old bailey!" again, in the "nabob," a hard hit is made at the bold profligacy of the period, in the words of touchet (baddeley) to sir matthew mite (foote), both of whom had been talking of hanging, or worse, hereafter, to the bribe-taking members of an election club;--"that's right, stick to that! for though the christian club may have some fears of the gallows, they don't value damnation a farthing!" some of foote's apologists have almost worshipped him as the reformer of abuses, the scourge of hypocrites, and the terror of evil-doers. but foote does not seem to have been moved by any higher principle than gain. if mrs. salmon had a chamber of horrors, the more murders that were committed, the better she was pleased, for the more she made by the crime. foote endeavoured to crush whitfield by personal ridicule; but whitfield was a far more useful man in his very wicked generation than foote, who did not denounce the wickedness, but mimicked the peculiarities of the reformer. "there is hardly a public man in england," says davies, "who has not entered mr. foote's theatre with an aching heart, under the apprehension of seeing himself laughed at." foote certainly read the pieces offered him for presentation. he kept reed's "register office" for months, and thought so well of it as to turn its mrs. snarewell into mrs. cole, in his "minor." that was little compared with his stealing a whole farce from murphy; and the last was nothing compared with his return for the hospitality bountifully afforded him by lord melcombe, at his villa, at hammersmith. foote there studied the peculiarities of his good-natured host, and then produced him on the stage, in the character of the patron! foote, again, read old pieces, with a purpose, quite as attentively as he did new. when he produced his "liar," in , he professed to have taken it from lopez de vega, that is, from the original source from which corneille took his "menteur." from the latter, steele took his "lying lover," and a comparison of the language of the two pieces will show that foote plundered steele, and hoped to escape by acknowledging obligations to an older author, whom he could not read. there is least of plagiarism in the "mayor of garratt," yet even there foote is detected in borrowing from "epsom wells," but with judgment. if he was a picker-up of unconnected trifles, he chose only those of value, and he polished and reset them with tact and taste. he has done this in the "commissary," in which there is a theft from "injured love," in a joke which hook stole, in his turn, from the "commissary," to enliven his "killing no murder." except in ceasing to mimic whitfield on the stage, after the death of that religious reformer, i can scarcely find a trait of delicacy in foote's character. he seems to have been as unscrupulous in act, as he was cruel in his wit. one may forgive him, however, for his remark to john rich, who had been addressing him curtly, as "_mister_." perceiving that foote was vexed, rich apologised, by saying, "i sometimes forget my own name." "i am astonished you could forget your own name," said foote, "though i know very well that you are not able to write it!" foote, who spared nobody, was angry with dr. johnson for saying that he was an infidel, as a dog was an infidel; he had never thought of the matter. "_i_, who have added sixteen new characters to the drama of my country!" said foote. when he left hospitable general smith's house, after a longer sojourn than usual, foote's only comment was: "i can't miss his likeness now, after such a good sitting." when digges first appeared in cato, we are told that foote occupied a place in the pit, and raising his voice above the sound of the welcome given to the new actor, exclaimed, "he looks like a roman chimney-sweeper on may-day." that foote "deserved to be kicked out of the house for his cruelty," is a suggestion of peake's, in which all men will concur. but did he deserve it? chronology tends to disprove this story. foote played for the last time on the th of july . his name does not appear in the bills after that day. digges made his first appearance in london, as cato, on the th of the following august, and if foote went into the pit on that occasion, his envy and malevolence must have supplied him with the energy of which he had been deprived by paralysis and other infirmities. foote's vanity was as great as his cruelty. to indulging in the former he owed the loss of his leg. being on a visit to lord mexborough, where the duke of york and other noble guests were present, foote foolishly boasted of his horsemanship; being invited to join the hunt the next day, he was ashamed to refuse, and at the very first burst the boaster was thrown, and his leg broken in two places. even when his leg was amputated, he was helped, by the incident, to an unworthy thought, namely, that he would now be able to mimic the one-legged george faulkner, of dublin, to the life! this, however, may have been said out of courage. he bore, with fortitude, a visitation which gained for him a licence to open the haymarket, from the th of may to the th of september. it opened his way to fortune; and though what o'keefe says may be true, that it was pitiable to see him leaning against the wall of his stage dressing-room, while his servant dressed his cork leg, to suit the character in which his master was to appear, i can well believe what o'keefe adds, that "he looked sorrowful, but instantly resuming all his high comic humour and mirth, he hobbled forward, entered the scene, and gave the audience what they expected, their plenty of laugh and delight." among the fairest of foote's sayings was the reply to mr. howard's intimation that he was about to publish a second edition of his _thoughts and maxims_. "ay! second thoughts are best." fair, too, was his retort on the person who alluded to his "game leg." "make no allusion to my weakest part! did i ever attack your head?" then garrick once took as a compliment, that his bust had been placed by foote in the private room of the latter. "you are not afraid, i see, to trust me near your gold and banknotes." "no," retorted the humorist, "you have no hands!" foote was sometimes beaten with his own weapons. after he had leased the edinburgh theatre from ross, for three years, at five hundred guineas a year, a dispute arose, followed by a lawsuit, in which foote was defeated. the scottish agent for the vanquishing side, called on foote, in london, with his bill of costs, which the actor had to defray. the _amari aliquid_ having been got through, the player remarked that he supposed the agent was about to return to edinburgh, like most of his countrymen, in the cheapest form possible. "ay, ay," replied the agent, drily, tapping the pocket in which he had put the cash, "i shall travel--_on foot_!" foote himself is described as looking rueful at the joke. again, churchill only said of him that he was in self-conceit an actor, and straightway foote, who lived by degrading others, was "outrageously offended." foote wrote a prose lampoon on churchill and lloyd, but did not publish it. churchill, the bruiser, was not a safe man for foote to attack, and the actor was fain to be satisfied with calling him the "clumsy curate of clapham." foote took wilkinson to dublin in , where they appeared as instructor and pupil, in one of foote's entertainments, called a "tea." wilkinson imitated luke sparks as old capulet; convulsed the house, instead of being "stoned," as mrs. woffington expected, with his imitation of the two dublin favourites, margaret herself and barry, in "macbeth," and, emboldened by the applause, he imitated foote in his own presence. foote's audacity was tripped up by the suddenness of the action; and he looked foolish,--wishing to appear pleased with the audience, but not knowing how to play that difficult part. subsequently, however, foote called on wilkinson, and threatened him with the duel, or chastisement, if he ever dared take further liberties with him on the stage. wilkinson laughed at the impotently-angry ruffian, and all his brother actors laughed with him. the malignity of foote found satisfaction in his writing the part of shift, in the "minor" (as it was first represented, in dublin), as a satire on wilkinson; and he knowingly misrepresented wilkinson's origin, in order to bring him into contempt. [illustration: (tate wilkinson)] there is no doubt that foote loved some of those he jested at. he heard of sir francis delaval's death, with tears; but he smiled through them, when he was told that the surgeons intended to examine the baronet's head. he remarked that it was useless; he had known the head for nearly a quarter of a century, and had never been able to find anything in it! but the wit's testimony to character is never to be taken without reserve. "why does he come among us," he said of lord loughborough. "he is not only dull himself but the cause of dulness in others!" this is certainly not true, for this scottish lawyer was remarkable in society for his hilarity, critical powers, and his store of epigrams and anecdotes. lord loughborough, moreover, merited the respect of foote, as an old champion of the stage. when he was mr. wedderburn, and represented dunfermline, in the general assembly of scotland, he resisted the motion for an act to prohibit the presence of either lay or clerical members of the church, at dramatic representations. the assembly had just before been shaken by the fact that the clergy had been to witness home's "douglas," and it had smiled grimly at the palliative plea of one offender, "that he had ensconced himself in a corner, and had hid his face in a handkerchief to _avoid scandal_!" wedderburn opposed the motion in one of the best speeches which he ever delivered in scotland, and which ended with these words: "be contented with the laws which your wise and pious ancestors have handed down to you for the conservation of discipline and morals. already have you driven from your body its brightest ornament, who might have continued to inculcate the precepts of the gospel from the pulpit, as well as embodying them in character and action. is it, indeed, forbidden to show us the kingdom of heaven by a parable? in all the sermons produced by the united genius of the church of scotland, i challenge you to produce anything more pure in morality, or more touching in eloquence, than the exclamation of lady randolph:-- "'sincerity! thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave thy onward path, although the earth should gape, and from the gulf of hell, destruction cry to take dissimulation's winding way.'" johnson rightly _pooh-poohed_ this passage. foote was admirable in impromptu. when he once saw a sweep on a blood-horse, he remarked: "there goes warburton on shakspeare!" when he heard that the rockingham cabinet was fatigued to death and at its wit's end, he exclaimed, that it could not have been the length of the journey which had tired it! again, when lord caermarthen, at a party, told him his handkerchief was hanging from his pocket, foote replaced it, with a "thank you, my lord; you know the company better than i." how much better does foote appear thus, than when we find him coarsely joking on lord kelly's nose, while that lord was hospitably entertaining him, or sneering at garrick for showing respect to shakspeare, by a "jubilee." after all, the enemies he had provoked killed him. his fire and his physical powers were decaying when some of those enemies combined to accuse him of an enormous crime.[ ] he did not fly, like guilty isaac bickerstaffe, under similar circumstances, but manfully met the charge, and proved his innocence. the anxiety, however, finished him. he had an attack of paralysis, played for the last time on the th of july , in his "maid of bath," and after shifting restlessly from place to place, died on the st of october, at dover. a few months previously, he had made over the haymarket theatre to colman, for a life annuity of £ , of which foote lived but to receive one half-year's dividend. at the age of fifty-six, he thus passed away--an emaciated old man--and on monday, the th of october, he was carried, by torchlight, to the cloisters of westminster abbey, whither betterton, barry, mrs. cibber, and others of the brotherhood of players, had been carried before him. the haymarket season of that year indicated a new era, for in , edwin, as hardcastle,[ ] miss farren, as miss hardcastle, henderson, as shylock, and digges, in cato, made their first appearance in london. the old garrick period--save in some noble relics (macklin, the noblest of them all)--was clearly passing away. what the dramatic poets produced from the period of garrick's withdrawal to the end of the century will be best seen by a reference to the supplement, which i append to this volume. supplement to chapter xxii. list of the principal dramatic pieces produced at the patent theatres, from the retirement of garrick to the end of the eighteenth century:-- - .--_drury lane._ "trip to scarborough" (altered by sheridan from vanbrugh). miss hoyden, mrs. abington. "school for scandal" (sheridan). sir peter teazle, king; charles surface, smith; lady teazle, mrs. abington. - .--_covent garden._ "caractacus" (mason). caractacus, clarke; evelina, mrs. hartley. "know your own mind" (murphy). millamour, lewis; lady bell, mrs. mattocks. - .--_drury lane._ "battle of hastings" (cumberland). edgar atheling, henderson; edwina, mrs. yates. - .--_covent garden._ "percy" (hannah more). percy, lewis; douglas, wroughton; edwina, mrs. barry. "alfred" (home). alfred, lewis; ethelswida, mrs. barry. "poor vulcan" (dibdin). vulcan, quick; venus, miss brown. - .--_drury lane._ "camp" (tickell, falsely attributed to sheridan). "fathers, or the good-natured man" (newly-discovered comedy, by fielding). sir george boncour, king. "law of lombardy" (jephson). paladore, smith; bireno, henderson; princess, miss young. "who's the dupe" (mrs. cowley). gradus, king; doyley, parsons; elizabeth, mrs. brereton. - .--_covent garden._ "buthred" (anon.). buthred, wroughton; rena, mrs. hartley. "touchstone, or harlequin traveller" (a speaking pantomime). harlequin, lee lewes. "calypso" (masque, by cumberland). telemachus, mrs. kennedy; calypso, miss brown. "fatal falsehood" (hannah more). rivers, lewis; julia, mrs. hartley. - .--_drury lane._ "critic" (sheridan). sir fretful, parsons; puff, king; tilburina, miss pope. "times" (mrs. griffith). lady mary woodley, mrs. abington. "zoraida" (hodson). zoraida, mrs. yates. - .--_covent garden._ "mirror, or harlequin everywhere" (burletta-pantomime, by dibdin). harlequin, bates. "widow of delphi" (cumberland). "deaf lover" (pilon). meadows, lee lewes. "belle's stratagem" (mrs. cowley). doricourt, lewis; laetitia hardy, miss younge. - .--_drury lane._ "generous impostor" (o'beirne, afterwards bishop of meath). sir harry glenville, palmer; mrs. courtly, mrs. baddeley. "lord of the manor" (burgoyne). trumore, vernon; moll flagon, suett. "royal suppliants" (dr. delap). acamas, smith; dejanira, mrs. crawford. "dissipation" (andrews). lord rentless, palmer; lady rentless, mrs. abington. - .-_-covent garden._ "tom thumb" (fielding's piece turned into an opera, by o'hara). tom, edwin; arthur, quick; dolalolla, miss catley. "siege of sinope" (mrs. brooke). pharnaces, henderson; thamyris, mrs. yates. "man of the world" (macklin). sir pertinax, macklin; egerton, lewis; lady rodolpha lumbercourt, miss younge. - .--_drury lane._ "fair circassian" (pratt,--courtney melmoth). omar, bensley; hamet, smith; fair circassian, miss farren. - .--_covent garden._ "duplicity" (holcroft). sir harry portland, lewis; melissa, mrs. inchbald. "count of narbonne" (jephson). count, wroughton; countess, miss younge. "which is the man" (mrs. cowley). lord sparkle, lee lewes; fitzherbert, henderson; lady bell bloomer, miss younge. "walloons" (cumberland). father sullivan, henderson. - .--_drury lane._ "fatal interview" (hull). montague, smith; mrs. montague, mrs. siddons. "school for vanity" (pratt). onslow, brereton; ophelia wyndham, miss farren. - .--_covent garden._ "castle of andalusia" (o'keefe). spado, quick; lorenza, signora sestini. "philodamus" (t. bentley). philodamus, henderson. "rosina" (mrs. brooke). belville, bannister; rosina, miss harper. "mysterious husband" (cumberland). lord davenant, henderson; sir edmund, yates; lady davenant, miss younge. "bold stroke for a husband" (mrs. cowley). julio, lewis; olivia, mrs. mattocks. - .--_drury lane._ "reparation" (andrews). lord hectic, dodd; lady betty wormwood, miss pope. "lord russell" (rev. dr. stratford). - .--_covent garden._ "poor soldier" (o'keefe). patrick, mrs. kennedy; dermot, johnstone; bagatelle, wewitzer; norah, mrs. bannister. "more ways than one" (mrs. cowley). bellair, lewis; arabella, mrs. stephen kemble. "robin hood" (mac nally). robin, bannister; clorinda, mrs. martyr. - .--_drury lane._ "the carmelite" (cumberland). montgomerie, kemble; st. valori, smith; matilda, mrs. siddons. "natural son" (cumberland). blushenly, palmer; lady paragon, miss farren. - .--_covent garden._ "fontainebleau; or, our way in france" (o'keefe). lackland, lewis. "follies of a day" (holcroft, from beaumarchais). figaro, holcroft; almaviva, lewis; susanna, miss younge. - .--_drury lane._ "heiress" (burgoyne). sir clement flint, king; alscrip, parsons; lady emily gayville, miss farren. "captives" (dr. delap). everallin, kemble; malvina, mrs. siddons. - .--_covent garden._ "omai." grand spectacle, by o'keefe. - .--_drury lane._ "richard coeur de lion" (burgoyne). richard, kemble; antonio, miss romanzini; matilda, mrs. jordan; laurette, mrs. crouch. "school for greybeards" (mrs. cowley). alexis and gaspar (the greybeards), king and parsons; seraphina, miss farren. "seduction" (holcroft). lord and lady morden, kemble and mrs. siddons.[ ] "julia" (jephson). mentevole, kemble; julia, mrs. siddons. - .--_covent garden._ "richard coeur de lion" (mac nally). blondel, johnstone; queen berengaria, mrs. billington. "he would be a soldier" (pilon). caleb, edwin; charlotte, mrs. pope. "eloisa" (reynolds). st. preux, pope; eloisa, miss brunton. "such things are" (mrs. inchbald). elvirus, holman; lady tremor, mrs. mattocks. - .--_drury lane._ "new peerage; or, our eyes may deceive us" (harriet lee). lady charlotte courtly, miss farren. "fate of sparta" (mrs. cowley). cleombrotus, kemble; chelonice, mrs. siddons. "love in the east" (cobb). warnford, kelly; ormellina, mrs. crouch. "the regent" (b. greatheed). manuel, kemble; dianora, mrs. siddons. - .--_covent garden._ "the farmer" (o'keefe). jemmy jumps, edwin; molly maybush, mrs. martyr. "ton; or, the follies of fashion" (lady wallace). lord bonton, wewitzer; lady bonton, mrs. mattocks. "animal magnetism" (mrs. inchbald). doctor, quick; constance, mrs. wells. - .--_drury lane._ "impostors" (cumberland). lord janus, palmer; eleanor, mrs. jordan. "mary, queen of scots" (hon. john st. john). norfolk, kemble; queen mary, mrs. siddons; queen elizabeth, mrs. ward. "false appearances" (general conway). marquis, kemble; cælia, mrs. kemble. - .--_covent garden._ "highland reel" (o'keefe). shelty, edwin; moggy, miss fontenelle. "child of nature" (mrs. inchbald). almanza, farren; amanthis, miss brunton. "the toy, or hampton court frolics" (o'keefe). alibi, quick; lady jane, miss brunton. "dramatist" (reynolds). vapid, lewis; ennui, edwin; willoughby, macready; louisa courtney, miss brunton. - .--_drury lane._ "marcella" (hayley). hernandez, kemble; marcella, mrs. powell. "haunted tower" (cobb). lord william, kelly; lewis, suett; lady elinor, mrs. crouch. "love in many masks" (kemble, from aphra behn). willmore, kemble; valeria, mrs. kemble; helena, mrs. jordan. - .--_covent garden._ "marcella" (hayley). hernandez, harley; marcella, mrs. pope. "eudora" (hayley). raymond, holman; eudora, mrs. pope. "widow of malabar" (marianna starke). indamora, miss brunton. - .--_drury lane._ "better late than never" (reynolds and andrews). saville, kemble; flurry, dodd; augusta, mrs. jordan. "siege of belgrade" (cobb). seraskier, kelly; peter, dignum; katharine, mrs. crouch. - .--_covent garden._ "school for arrogance" (holcroft). sheepy, munden; lady peckham, mrs. mattocks. "two strings to your bow" (jephson). lazarillo, munden; ferdinand, macready; clara, mrs. harlowe. "woodman" (the rev. bate dudley). wilford, incledon. "modern antiques" (o'keefe). cockletop, quick; frank, munden. "lorenzo" (merry). lorenzo, holman; zoriana, miss brunton (afterwards mrs. merry). "wild oats" (o'keefe). rover, lewis; ephraim smooth, munden; lady amaranth, mrs. pope. - .--_drury lane company at the king's theatre, haymarket._ "huniades" (hannah brand). huniades, kemble; agmunda, by the authoress, her first appearance on any stage. "fugitive" (richardson). young manly, palmer; lord dartford, dodd; mrs. larron, miss pope. "dido" (hoare). Æneas, mrs. crouch; dido, madame mara. - .--_covent garden._ "notoriety" (reynolds). nominal, lewis; sophia, mrs. wells. "road to ruin" (holcroft). goldfinch, lewis; old dornton, munden; sophia, mrs. merry. "irishman in london" (macready). murtoch delaney, johnstone; colloony, macready; cubba, mrs. fawcett. - .--_drury lane at haymarket opera; except on tuesdays and saturdays, then at the haymarket theatre._ "the prize" (hoare). lenitive, bannister, jun.; caroline, signora storace. "rival sisters" (murphy). theseus, palmer; ariadne and phædra, mrs. siddons and mrs. powell. "false colours" (morris). sir paul panick, king. - .--_covent garden._ "columbus" (morton). columbus, pope; cora, mrs. pope. "every one has his fault" (inchbald). harmony, munden; lady e. irwin, mrs. pope. "sprigs of laurel" (o'keefe). nipperkin, munden. - .--_drury lane, under colman, at the haymarket._ "mountaineers" (colman). octavian, kemble; floranthe, mrs. goodall (was first acted in the summer of , before the company went to drury lane in september).[ ] "children in the wood" (morton). walter, bannister, jun. "lodoiska" (kemble). lovinski, palmer; lodoiska, mrs. crouch. .--_drury lane; in the new house built by holland._ "the jew" (cumberland). sheva, bannister, jun.; eliza ratcliffe, miss farren. - .--_covent garden._ "siege of berwick" (jerningham). seaton, pope; ethelberta, mrs. pope. "love's frailties" (holcroft). sir gregory oldwort, quick. "travellers in switzerland" (bate dudley). dorimond, johnstone; sir leinster m'laughlin, rock. "siege of meaux" (pye). st. pol, pope; matilda, mrs. pope.[ ] - .--_drury lane._ "emilia galotti" (from lessing, by thompson).[ ] appiani, c. kemble; orsina, mrs. siddons. "wedding day" (mrs. inchbald). young contest, c. kemble; sir adam, king; lady contest, mrs. jordan. "wheel of fortune" (cumberland). penruddock, kemble; henry woodville, c. kemble; emily tempest, miss farren. "adopted child" (birch). michael, bannister, jun.; nell, mrs. bland. "first love" (cumberland). billy bustler, suett; sabina rosny, mrs. jordan. - .--_covent garden._ "the rage" (reynolds). darnley, holman; clara, mrs. mountain. "town before you" (mrs. cowley). tippy, lewis; fancourt, fawcett; mrs. fancourt, mrs. mattocks. "mysteries of the castle" (andrews and reynolds). hilario, lewis. "england preserved" (watson). surrey, holman. "life's vagaries" (o'keefe). george burgess, fawcett; l'oeillet, farley; augusta woodbine, miss wallis. "deserted daughter" (holcroft). mordent, pope; item, quick; joanna mordent, miss wallis. "secret tribunal" (boaden). herman, holman; ida, miss wallis. - .--_drury lane._ "man of ten thousand" (holcroft). dorington, kemble; olivia, miss farren. "iron chest" (colman). sir edward mortimer, kemble; judith, miss de camp. "almeyda" (miss lee). alonzo, kemble; almeyda, mrs. siddons. "mahmoud" (hoare). mahmoud, kemble. "vortigern" (ireland, but acted as shakspeare's). vortigern, kemble; constantius, bensley; fool, king; edmunda, mrs. powell; flavia, mrs. jordan. - .--_covent garden._ "speculation" (reynolds). tanjore, lewis; lady katharine project, mrs. davenport. "days of yore" (morton).[ ] voltimar, pope; adela, mrs. pope. "lock and key" (hoare). brummagem, munden; fanny, mrs. martyr. - .--_drury lane._ "conspiracy" (jephson). sextus, kemble; vitellia, mrs. siddons. "the will" (reynolds). veritas, r. palmer; albina mandeville, mrs. jordan. - .--_covent garden._ "abroad and at home" (holman). harcourt, incledon. "cure for the heart ache" (morton). young rapid, lewis; bronze, farley; ellen vortex, mrs. pope. "wives as they were and maids as they are" (inchbald). bronzely, lewis; miss dorillon, miss wallis.[ ] - .--_drury lane._ "cheap living" (reynolds). sponge, john bannister. "castle spectre" (lewis). osmond, barrymore; percy, kemble. "blue beard" (colman). abomelique, palmer; fatima, mrs. crouch. "knave or not" (holcroft). monrose, palmer; susan, mrs. jordan. "stranger" (kotzebue).[ ] stranger, kemble; mrs. haller, mrs. siddons. - .--_covent garden._ "false impressions" (cumberland). scud, quick. "secrets worth knowing" (morton). undermine, munden. "he's much to blame" (holcroft).[ ] versatile, lewis; lady jane, miss betterton (afterwards mrs. glover). "curiosity" (by the late king of sweden). "blue devils" (colman the younger). megrim, fawcett. - .--_drury lane._ "aurelio and miranda" (boaden). aurelio, kemble; miranda, mrs. siddons. "secret" (morris). lizard, jun., john bannister; rosa, mrs. jordan. "east indian" (lewis). mortimer, kemble; zorayda, his daughter, mrs. jordan. "castle of montval" (whalley). old count, kemble; matilda, mrs. powell. "first faults" (miss de camp). fallible, c. kemble; tulip, miss mellon. "pizarro" (sheridan). rolla, kemble; alonzo, c. kemble; cora, mrs. jordan; elvira, mrs. siddons. - .--_covent garden._ "lovers' vows" (inchbald). frederick, pope; amelia, mrs. h. johnston. "ramah droog" (cobb). sidney, incledon. "jew and the doctor" (t. dibdin). abednego, fawcett. "laugh when you can" (reynolds). gossamer, lewis. "votary of wealth" (holman). leonard, pope; julia, mrs. pope. "five thousand a year" (t. dibdin). fervid, lewis; maria, miss betterton. "birthday" (t. dibdin). captain bertram, munden. "fortune's frolic" (allingham). robin roughead, fawcett. - .--_drury lane._ "adelaide" (pye). richard, kemble; adelaide, mrs. siddons. "of age to-morrow" (t. dibdin). frederick, john bannister. "de montfort" (joanna baillie). de montfort, kemble; jane, mrs. siddons. "indiscretion" (hoare). maxim, king; julia, mrs. jordan. "antonio" (godwin). antonio, kemble; helena, mrs. siddons. - .--_covent garden._ "management" (reynolds). mist, fawcett; mrs. dazzle, mrs. davenport. "turnpike gate" (knight). crack, munden. "joanna" (cumberland, from kotzebue). joanna, mrs. pope. "speed the plough" (morton). bob handy, fawcett. "paul and virginia" (cobb;--music by mazzinghi). paul, incledon; virginia, mrs. h. johnston.[ ] in the next chapter, we will examine something of the progress of the stage, as indicated by the above records. [illustration: mrs. yates as mandane.] footnotes: [ ] macklin was the original buck; but when foote produced the farce, during his own engagement, he played the part himself. [ ] during the period here referred to, foote played the part. [ ] he certainly played during this summer, but probably only for a short period. [ ] this is very inaccurate. "the cozeners" was produced in , and dodd was not hanged till . [ ] jackson who, as "curtius," threatened garrick.--_doran ms._ [ ] edwin made his first appearance in london in , as flaw, in "the cozeners." [ ] should be miss farren. [ ] there is a slight confusion here. the company opened at the haymarket in september. they did not go to drury lane till april. [ ] boaden's "fontainville forest" might be added. [ ] i do not think this was thompson's translation. [ ] should be cumberland. [ ] reynold's "fortune's fool" might be added. [ ] translated by thompson. [ ] genest says "attributed to holcroft, but really written by fenwick." [ ] mrs. inchbald's "wise man of the east" might be added. index. abington, mrs., , . actors as volunteers in the ' , . actors at court, . aristophanes, foote often compared to, . arne, miss (mrs. cibber), ; as psyche, ; as venus, . arne, dr., . arnould, sophie, . ashbury, dublin patentee, . aston, anthony, in edinburgh, . aungier street theatre, dublin, . authors, list of, with their plays from to , - . bannister, john, first to discard garrick's mutilation of "hamlet," . barry, mrs. ann, , , , , , ; as widow brady, , ; as lady randolph, ; her versatility, , , ; as lady townly, ; garrick's high opinion of, ; as desdemona, ; account of her career, - ; at the head of her profession, ; her marriage with crawford, ; eclipsed by mrs. siddons, ; her death, ; her original characters, . barry, mrs. elizabeth, . barry, spranger, , , , , ; as altamout, ; as othello, , , , ; and garrick, , , , , ; his first appearance in london, ; as sir charles raymond, ; as romeo, , ; in "the earl of essex," ; as jaffier, ; as pyrocles, ; in love with miss nossiter, ; as constantine, ; leaves for dublin, ; as king lear, ; his return to london, ; as norval, ; in dublin, ; opens crow street in opposition to sheridan, , ; retires from dublin ruined, ; his reappearance in london, ; joins the covent garden company, ; as lord townly, ; as evander, ; as aubrey in "fashionable lover," ; as melville in "duel," ; as tancred, ; in cumberland's "timon," ; his physical decay, , ; his last appearance, ; his death, , ; account of his private life, ; portraits of barry, ; his characteristics, ; his excellence in orestes and alexander, ; his pathos, ; and henry pelham, . barton, fanny (mrs. abington), , . beard, john, proprietor of covent garden, . "beggar's opera," . bellamy, mrs., ; as constance, , ; her dispute with garrick, ; _début_ as monimia, ; carried off by mr. metham, ; as juliet, ; as statira, ; and mrs. woffington, ; as cleone, . bickerstaffe, isaac, . boheme, . bond, died on the stage, . booth, barton, , , . bowen, quin's duel with, , . bowman, his death, . bracegirdle, mrs., . brent, miss, singer, . bridgwater, actor, . brooke, henry, dramatist, , . browne, dr., , . bullock, . burgoyne, general, dramatist, . cashel, actor, ; his death, , . catley, ann, . charke, charlotte (daughter of colley cibber), , , ; as captain plume, ; her wretched life, - ; wears male attire, ; as a valet to an irish lord, and as a waiter, ; her "autobiography," ; her death, . chesterfield, lord, opposes the licensing act of , , . chetwynd, licenser of plays, . "chinese festival," cause of a riot, . cibber, colley, , , , , , , , , ; as burnaby brittle, ; his "love's riddle," ; asserts the dignity of his profession, ; account of his career, - ; his early life, ; a juvenile laureate, ; as the chaplain, ; his marriage, ; as lord touchwood, ; improving prospects, ; as fondlewife, in imitation of dogget, ; his triumphant success, ; as an author, ; his "love's last shift," - ; an attempt at greater purity, ; as sir novelty fashion, ; his "careless husband," , ; his "apology," worthy of immortality, ; pope and cibber, , ; his great part of lord foppington, ; his care as an actor, ; essentially a comic actor, ; a perfect critic, ; his candour and modesty, - ; his "richard iii.," ; cibber and his critics, ; his person, ; his justice shallow, ; election to white's club, ; his death, ; his children, ; summary of his character, . cibber, colley, quoted--on mrs. oldfield, , ; on mrs. oldfield and wilks, ; on plays at court, ; on critics, . cibber, jane, as juliet, . cibber, mrs. susanna maria, , , , , , , , , ; her first appearance as an actress, ; as hermione, ; as indiana, , , ; as the lady in "comus," ; and her husband, ; as sigismunda, ; and garrick, ; as juliet, , ; as alicia, , ; as isabella, ; account of her career, - ; her death, ; marriage to theophilus cibber, ; as zara, taught by colley cibber, ; success of her zara, ; her perfection as ophelia, ; not successful in sprightly comedy, ; her characteristics, ; her scoundrelly husband, ; plays coelia in the "school for lovers," ; her last appearance, ; her death, ; in a fracas at bath, ; as polly peachum, . cibber, theophilus, , , ; as george barnwell, ; heads the secession from highmore, ; his treatment of his wife, , ; his dispute with t. sheridan, ; duel with quin, ; his death, , . clairon, the french actress, , . clarke, actor, . clive, kitty, , , , , ; as euphrosyne, ; as lettice, ; her marriage, ; as bizarre, ; as a mimic, ; her power over her audiences, ; as lucy, ; her original characters, , ; her farewell to the stage, ; in her retirement, ; and horace walpole, ; her death, . colman, the elder, ; his "jealous wife," ; part author of the "clandestine marriage," ; and garrick, . cooke, thomas, dramatist, , . cooper, mrs., dramatist, . covent garden, opening of, , ; sold for £ , , . cradock, dramatist, . crawford, an irish barrister, marries mrs. barry, ; becomes an actor, ; his bad conduct, , ; his shabbiness, . crawford, mrs. (see mrs. barry), overshadowed by mrs. siddons, ; her last appearance, . crisp, henry, his "virginia," . critics, . cumberland, richard, his "timon," ; his numerous plays, , ; his "wheel of fortune," ; his "choleric man," ; his account of garrick and quin's first appearance in the same play, . dance (stage name, love), . dancer, mrs. (afterwards mrs. barry and mrs. crawford), , , , . davies, thomas, quoted--on garrick, , ; on mrs. porter, ; on garrick and mrs. cibber, ; on quin, ; on cibber's election to white's club, ; on garrick and quin in the "fair penitent," . delane, actor, , ; his death, ; as king john, . delaney, mrs., on garrick, , ; on barry, . dexter, actor, . digges, west, , ; as norval, . dodsley, dramatist, ; his "cleone," . "douglas," , , . dow, dramatist, . dramatists "in state," . dublin stage, the, , - . dyer, actor, . edinburgh, the theatre in, . edwin, . elliston, . elmey, mrs., . elrington, thomas, a dublin favourite, , ; his death, . farquhar and mrs. oldfield, . farren, elizabeth, . farren, william, allusion to, . "fatal curiosity," . fielding, , , , . fitzgerald, percy, his opinion of garrick, _n._ fleetwood, , . foote, samuel, , , , ; as othello, ; as shylock, ; as matthew mug, ; account of his career, - ; his early life, ; his first appearance on the stage, ; his abilities, ; his "entertainment," ; as author and actor, , ; his personal satires, , , - ; his "minor," ; a disgrace to the stage, ; his seasons at the haymarket, ; his serious accident, , ; his ingenuity, ; dr. johnson on foote, , , ; his lack of courage, ; his quarrel with the duchess of kingston, ; his wit, , , ; a plagiarist, ; his lack of feeling, ; his vanity, ; obtains a license to open the haymarket, ; imitated by wilkinson, ; admirable in impromptu, ; killed by the enemies he had provoked, ; his farewell to the stage, ; his death, . foote's description of quin, . footmen at theatres, , ; riot by, . francis, dr., dramatist, , . french and english audiences compared, . french theatre, haymarket, . furnival, mrs., . galleries, brutality of, . garrick, david, , ; as richard iii., , ; description of his first appearance, , ; as sharp, ; as jack smatter, ; as chamont, ; as bayes, ; as pierre, ; as the ghost in "hamlet," ; as lear, ; as witwoud, ; as captain brazen, ; as duretete, ; as lord foppington, ; as master johnny, ; as costar pearmain, ; as clodio, ; as aboan, , ; as fondlewife, ; as lothario, , ; his imitation of contemporary actors, ; empties the patent theatres, ; at drury lane, ; causes a fever in dublin, ; walpole's and gray's opinions of him, ; his family and origin, ; at ipswich, ; macklin's riot, ; as macbeth, ; as king john, ; as tancred, ; and mrs. cibber, ; in dublin, , ; as orestes, ; as faulconbridge, ; and mrs. bellamy, ; his re-appearance in london, ; as archer, ; the "garrick" fever in dublin, ; and barry, ; and quin, ; as fribble, ; as ranger, ; manager of drury lane, ; as young belmont, ; as hamlet, ; as benedick, ; his marriage, ; as horatius, ; as romeo, ; as gil blas, ; as alfred, ; as kitely, ; quarrel with macklin, ; as virginius, ; his emendations of shakspeare, ; the "chinese festival," ; in "king lear," ; as don felix, , ; and mrs. woffington, ; as pamphlet, ; as antony, ; as zamti, ; as heartly, ; part author of the "clandestine marriage," ; as mr. oakley, ; as sir anthony branville, ; his mutilation of "hamlet," ; his dress as macbeth, ; his farewell, ; account of his career, - ; his commencement as an actor, ; his unparalleled success, ; walpole's opinion of, , ; said to write the criticisms on himself, ; charges of meanness, &c., , ; attacks on him, ; johnson attacks his self-esteem, ; "asper" and "prospero" (johnson and garrick), ; description of the first appearance of garrick and quin in the same play, - ; garrick and quin, ; his careful study, ; an excellent dancer, , ; his power of representing different emotions, ; his practical jokes, , ; honoured in parliament, ; grimm's opinion of, , ; picture of him by carmontelle, ; invited to russia, ; his noble-mindedness, , , ; and mrs. siddons, ; his keen sense of criticism, ; his repertory, ; his original characters, ; his death, ; his farewell to tragedy, ; compared with barry, , ; and grimm, ; and miss younge, . garrick, mrs. eva maria, , . gay, john, . george i., his fondness for shakspeare's "henry viii.," . george ii., his love of immoral plays, . "george barnwell," , . giffard, , , , . giffard, mrs., as lady macbeth, . gildon's "comparison between the two stages," . glover, richard, his "boadicea," . goldsmith, his "good-natured man," , ; his "she stoops to conquer," . goodman's fields, . griffin, benjamin, . grimaldi, a pantaloon, . grimm's opinion of garrick, . "gustavus vasa," . hale, actor, . hallam, killed by macklin, . hallam, mrs., . harper, ; prosecuted as a "rogue and vagabond," . hartley, mrs., as "elfrida," ; as rosamond, ; her intrigue with "gentleman" smith, . havard, , ; his "charles i," ; his death, . haymarket theatre, foote's tenancy of, , . henderson, john, . "high life below stairs," . highmore, patentee of drury lane, , . hill, aaron, , . hill, dr. john, , . hippisley, . hoadley, dr., his "suspicious husband," . holland, ; his death, . home, john, ; his "douglas," ; his "agis," ; his "siege of aquileia," ; his "fatal discovery," ; his "alonzo," . hoole, dramatist, . horton, miss priscilla, allusion to, . horton, mrs., , ; her retirement, ; her one original character, ; as aquilia, . hughes, john, dramatist, . hulett, actor, his death, . indian kings at the play, . "irene," . irish stage, condition of, . jeffreys, dramatist, . jephson, dramatist, . johnson, benjamin, a famous actor, . johnson, charles, dramatist, , . johnson, dr. samuel, ; and garrick, , ; his "irene," , ; supports "she stoops to conquer," ; his unfeeling attack of garrick in the _rambler_, . johnson, miss (theophilus cibber's first wife), . kean, moses, . kelly, hugh, founder of the school of "sentimental comedy," , ; and goldsmith, . king, thomas, as allworth, ; the first lord ogleby, . lacy, james, patentee of drury lane, ; partner with garrick at drury lane, . lecouvreur, . lekain, - . lewes, lee, . lewis, william, . license of the stage, restriction of, . licensed plays and players hissed, , , . licensing act of , , , . lillo, george, , ; his "george barnwell," , . lincoln's inn fields, its last season, , . love, . macklin, charles, , , , , ; as brazencourt, ; kills hallam, ; as roxana, ; as shylock, ; his quarrel with garrick, and the consequent riot, ; as faddle, ; as mercutio, ; as macbeth, ; the first to dress macbeth in highland costume, ; driven from the stage, ; his action against the rioters, ; his generous conduct to them, ; at barry's funeral, . macklin, mrs., . macklin, miss, , . mallet, david, dramatist, , . mason, william, his "elfrida," ; his "caractacus," . middleton, james, supposed to be a successor to spranger barry, ; his wretched end, . miller, rev. james, dramatist, , , , . miller, josias, actor, . miller, miss, . mills, ; attempts hamlet when sixty years old, ; his death, . milward, actor, , . molière, , . moore, edward, his "foundling," , . morgan, m., dramatist, . mossop, henry, ; as zanga, ; as richard, ; as horatio, ; as theseus, ; as macbeth, ; as othello, ; as wolsey, ; as orestes, ; goes into management at dublin, ; and barry compared, ; account of his career, ; his death, . mottley, dramatist, honoured by queen caroline, . murphy, arthur, , ; his increasing reputation, . norris, ; as barnaby brittle, . norsa, miss, ; her _début_, . nossiter, miss, and barry, ; her brief career, , ; as philoclea, . o'brien, william, ; as captain brazen, ; plays harlequin, ; his marriage with lady susan strangways, ; his retirement, ; as sir andrew aguecheek, ; provided for at the public expense, ; his ancestry, ; a dramatic author, . odell, deputy licenser of plays, . oldfield, mrs. anne, , ; her first appearance, ; as alinda, ; as lenora, , ; as lady betty modish, , , ; as mrs. brittle, ; as lady townley, , , ; as estifania, ; as mrs. sullen, ; the original representative of sixty-five characters, ; her dislike of tragedy, ; as marcia in "cato," ; as cleopatra, ; as calista, ; as semandra, ; in high society, ; her death, , ; her body lying in state, ; her funeral, ; her descendants, ; her last words on the stage, ; and wilks, ; and mrs. rogers, . opera, making way, . oxford and london, . palmer, john (the first), . palmer, mrs. (miss pritchard), as juliet, ; her last season, . "pasquin," . paterson, william, dramatist, . pelham, henry, and barry, . pinkethman as antonio, . pit, the, . pope, alexander, . pope, miss, , . porter, mrs., , ; her retirement, ; a great actress, ; as hermione, ; as belvidera, ; her lameness, . powell, george, challenges wilks, . powell, william, his successful _début_, ; trained by garrick, . pritchard, mrs., , , ; as nell, ; as beatrice, , ; as mrs. beverley, ; account of her career, - ; her retirement, ; her early struggles, ; her versatility, ; her queen katherine, ; as the queen in hamlet, ; as lady macbeth, ; her characteristics, , ; her perfect articulation, ; horace walpole's high opinion of, ; johnson and churchill's criticism of, , ; her final appearance, ; compared with mrs. siddons, ; her retirement to bath, . pritchard, miss, as juliet, , ; _vide_ palmer, mrs. "quality," the, behind the scenes, , . quick, . quin, james, , , , ; his family, ; his first appearance, ; as bajazet, ; his progress, ; duel with bowen, , ; at drury lane, ; eminent in shakspearian characters, ; shaken by garrick, ; plays against garrick, , ; and mrs. bellamy, ; and garrick, , ; and john rich, ; as sir john brute, ; his retirement, ; account of his career, - ; his first character and his last, ; his progress, , ; williams, duel with, ; his great character, falstaff, ; theophilus cibber, duel with, ; his successes and failures, ; his characteristics, , ; as a humourist, ; his character, , ; an epicure, ; his powers of retort, ; his benevolence, - ; his friendship with garrick, ; his death, ; his epitaph written by garrick, ; his will, ; his reported ignorance of "macbeth," ; his first appearance in the same play as garrick (the "fair penitent"), - ; and garrick, ; pummels aaron hill for adversely criticising him, . raftor, catherine (mrs. clive), , ; as ismenes, . ramsay, allan, . rich, john, ; and quin, ; his death, ; the extraordinary excellence of his harlequin, ; his oddities, , ; his humour, ; the excellence of his pantomimes, ; and the earl, . riots, theatrical, , . robinson, miss, . rogers, mrs., ; and mrs. oldfield, . "romeo and juliet" season, . rope dancers at the theatre, . ross, david, ; as castalio, . ryan, lacy, ; shot by a ruffian, ; quin's kindness to, , ; his death, ; account of his career, - ; his _début_, ; kills a ruffian in self-defence, ; wounded by a footpad, . saunders, mrs., . scotland, the stage in, . shadwell, charles, dramatist, . sheridan, richard brinsley, his "rivals," ; his "duenna," . sheridan, thomas, , , , , ; his _début_, ; as hamlet, ; as horatio, ; his dispute with theophilus cibber, ; ill-treated by ruffians in dublin, ; his managerial troubles, ; his unfortunate meddling with politics, . sheridan, barry, and garrick, . "she stoops to conquer," . shirley, william, dramatist, , , . shuter, edward, , ; his first appearance, ; account of his career, - ; lowness of his origin, ; his original characters, ; his facial powers, ; his religious mania, . siddons, mrs., , , ; compared with mrs. pritchard, ; and garrick, ; and mrs. crawford, . sloper, mr., , . smith, "gentleman," as plume, ; as ethelwold, ; as henry ii., ; his intrigue with mrs. hartley, . smock alley theatre, dublin, , ; accident at, . smollett as a dramatist, . soldiers at theatres, origin of their attendance, . sparks, luke, as dr. wolf, . steele, sir richard, , . stephens an imitator of booth, . stirling, rev. john, dramatist, , . talma, . theobald, lewis, . thomson, james, , ; his "coriolanus," . thurmond, mrs., actress, . townley, rev. mr., dramatist, . tracy, dramatist, . trefusis, joseph, admirable as a clown, . vanbrugh, . vaughan, miss. _see_ pritchard, mrs. verbruggen, mrs., , . violante, madame, . violetti, eva maria (mrs. garrick), account of, , ; her death, . voltaire, . waldron, f. g., . walker, thomas, as faulconbridge, ; as hotspur, . walpole, horace, quoted--on "genteel" writing and acting, , ; on garrick, , , , , , ; on stage intrigues, ; on george ii. at the play, ; on glover's "boadicea," ; on whitehead's "creusa," ; on browne's "barbarossa," ; on garrick's "fairies," ; on mrs. woffington, ; on william powell, ; on o'brien's marriage, ; on mrs. pritchard, , ; on home's "alonzo," ; on mason's "elfrida," ; on mrs. clive, , . warburton, bishop, and quin, . ward, mrs., ; as lady randolph, . weston, thomas, as jerry sneak, . whitehead, william, . wilkinson, tate, ; peg woffington's treatment of, ; could not mimic mrs. cibber, ; as bajazet, tutored by garrick, ; imitates foote, . wilks, robert, , , , , ; as the copper captain, ; as lord townley, ; as othello, ; engaged at drury lane, ; betterton and rich, , ; a favourite in dublin, ; his first original character, ; as sir harry wildair, ; his ancestry, ; his zeal and industry, ; and powell, ; his greatest successes, ; as dumont, ; his second marriage, ; his nephew, , ; his generosity, ; his death, ; and royalty, . williams as decius, ; duel with quin, . winston, dick, . woffington, margaret, , , , ; her first appearance, ; her first appearance in dublin, ; as roxana, ; her dispute with mrs. bellamy, ; as lady randolph, , ; account of her life, - ; her youth, ; as sir harry wildair, , ; and garrick, ; her charity, , ; as sylvia, ; as jocasta, ; her best characters, ; in "breeches" parts, ; her independence, ; her quarrels with mrs. clive, ; in dublin, ; her religious eccentricities, ; as lothario, ; and tate wilkinson, ; her last appearance, ; her death, . woffington, mary, , . woodward, henry, as mercutio, , ; as harlequin, , ; as captain bobadil, , ; becomes barry's partner in dublin, ; ruined by the speculation, , ; his death, ; account of his career, - ; his original characters, ; his first appearance, ; as fitzfrolick, ; a judicious actor, . worsdale, actor, , . yates, mrs., , ; as cleopatra, ; as mandane, . young, dr. edward, his "brothers," , ; offended by garrick's epilogue to the "brothers," . younge, miss, and garrick, . end of vol. ii. printed by ballantyne, hanson and co. edinburgh and london. transcriber's note italic text is denoted by _underscores_. the oe ligature has been replaced by 'oe' or 'oe'. obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. except for those changes noted below, misspelling by the author, and inconsistent or archaic usage, has been retained. for example, coffee house, coffee-house; evildoers, evil-doers; midday, mid-day; re-married, remarried. see the note at the front of the book: this etext is derived from # of the copies printed. the duplicates of the portraits have been removed. p. vi 'rarry' replaced by 'barry'. p. viii ' . woodward as bobadil' replaced by ' . woodward in "every man in his humour"'. p. viii ' . drury lane theatre' replaced by ' . theatre royal, drury lane'. p. 'transcendant' replaced by 'transcendent'. p. 'himself himself lyddell' replaced by 'himself lyddell'. p. 'professionial' replaced by 'professional'. p. , 'debût' replaced by 'début'. p. , 'dénoûment' replaced by 'dénouement'. p. 'intellegibly' replaced by 'intelligibly'. p. 'epelogue' replaced by 'epilogue'. my fair planet by evelyn e. smith illustrated by dillon [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction march . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [sidenote: _all the world's a stage, so there was room even for this bad actor ... only he intended to direct it!_] as paul lambrequin was clambering up the stairs of his rooming house, he met a man whose face was all wrong. "good evening," paul said politely and was about to continue on his way when the man stopped him. "you are the first person i have encountered in this place who has not shuttered at the sight of me," he said in a toneless voice with an accent that was outside the standard repertoire. "am i?" paul asked, bringing himself back from one of the roseate dreams with which he kept himself insulated from a not-too-kind reality. "i daresay that's because i'm a bit near-sighted." he peered vaguely at the stranger. then he recoiled. "what is incorrect about me, then?" the stranger demanded. "do i not have two eyes, one nose and one mouth, the identical as other people?" paul studied the other man. "yes, but somehow they seem to be put together all wrong. not that you can help it, of course," he added apologetically, for, when he thought of it, he hated to hurt people's feelings. "yes, i can, for, of a truth, 'twas i who put myself together. what did i do amiss?" paul looked consideringly at him. "i can't quite put my finger on it, but there are certain subtle nuances you just don't seem to have caught. if you want my professional advice, you'll model yourself directly on some real person until you've got the knack of improvisation." "like unto this?" the stranger's outline shimmered and blurred into an amorphous cloud, which then coalesced into the shape of a tall, beautiful young man with the face of an ingenuous demon. "behold, is that superior?" "oh, far superior!" paul reached up to adjust a stray lock of hair, then realized he was not looking into a mirror. "trouble is--well, i'd rather you chose someone else to model yourself on. you see, in my profession, it's important to look as unique as possible; helps people remember you. i'm an actor, you know. currently i happen to be at liberty, but the year before last--" "well, whom should i appear like? should i perhaps pick some fine upstanding figure from your public prints to emulate? like your president, perhaply?" "i--hardly think so. it wouldn't do to model yourself on someone well known--or even someone obscure whom you might just happen to run into someday." being a kind-hearted young man, paul added, "come up to my room. i have some british film magazines and there are lots of relatively obscure english actors who are very decent-looking chaps." * * * * * so they climbed up to paul's hot little room under the eaves and, after leafing through several magazines, paul chose one ivo darcy as a likely candidate. whereupon the stranger deliquesced and reformed into the personable simulacrum of young mr. darcy. "that's quite a trick," paul observed as it finally got through to him what the other had done. "it would come in handy in the profession--for character parts, you know." "i fear you would never be able to acquisition it," the stranger said, surveying his new self in the mirror complacently. "it is not a trick but a racial ableness. you see, i feel i can trust you--" "--of course i'm not really a character actor; i'm a leading man, but i believe one should be versatile, because there are times when a really good character part comes along--" "--i am not a human being. i am a native of the fifth planet circulating around the star you call sirius, and we sirians have the ableness to change ourselves into the apparition of any other livid form--" "i thought that might be a near-eastern accent!" paul exclaimed, diverted. "is lebanese anything like it? because i understand there's a really juicy part coming up in--" "i said _sirian_, not _syrian_; i do not come from minor asia but from outer space, from an other-where solar system. i am an outworlder, an extraterrestrial." "i hope you had a nice trip," paul said politely. "from sirius, did you say? what's the state of the theater there?" "in its infanticide," the stranger told him, "but--" "let's face it," paul muttered bitterly, "it's in its infancy here, too. no over-all planning. no appreciation of the fact that all the components that go to make up a production should be a continuing totality, instead of a tenuous coalition of separate forces which disintegrate--" "you, i comprehend, are disemployed at current. i should--" "you won't find that situation in russia!" paul went on, pleased to discover a sympathetic audience in this intelligent foreigner. "mind you," he added quickly, "i disapprove entirely of their politics. in fact, i disapprove of all politics. but when it comes to the theater, in many respects the russians--" "--like to make a proposal to our mutual advanceage--" "--you wouldn't find an actor there playing a lead role one season and then not be able to get any parts except summer stock and odd bits for the next two years. all right, so the show i had the lead in folded after two weeks, but the critics all raved about my performance. it was the play that stank!" "will you terminate the monologue and hearken unto me!" the alien shouted. paul stopped talking. his feelings were hurt. he had thought ivo liked him; now he saw all the outworlder wanted to do was talk about his own problems. "i desire to extend to you a position," said ivo. "i can't take a regular job," paul said sulkily. "i have to be available for interviews. fellow i knew took a job in a store and, when he was called to read for a part, he couldn't get away. the fellow who did get that part became a big star, and maybe the other fellow could have been a star, too, but now all he is is a lousy chairman of the board of some department store chain--" "this work can be undergone at your convention between readings and interviews, whenever you have the timing. i shall pay you beautifully, being abundant with u.s.a. currency. i want you to teach me how to act." "teach you how to act," paul repeated, rather intrigued. "well, i'm not a dramatic coach, you know; however, i do happen to have some ideas on the subject. i feel that most acting teachers nowadays fail to give their students a really thorough grounding in all aspects of the dramatic art. all they talk about is method, method, method. but what about technique?" "i have observed your species with great diligence and i thought i had acquisitioned your habits and speakings to perfectness. but i fear that, like my initial face, i have got them awry. i want you to teach me to act like a human being, to talk like a human being, to think like a human being." paul's attention was really caught. "well, that _is_ a challenge! i don't suppose stanislavsky ever had to teach an extraterrestrial, or even strasberg--" "then we are in accordance," ivo said. "you will instruction me?" he essayed a smile. paul shuddered. "very well," he said. "we'll start now. and i think the first thing we'd better start with is lessons in smiling." ivo proved to be a quick study. he not only learned to smile, but to frown and to express surprise, pleasure, horror--whatever the occasion demanded. he learned the knack of counterfeiting humanity with such skill that, paul was moved to remark one afternoon when they were leaving brooks brothers after a fitting, "sometimes you seem even more human than i do, ivo. i wish you'd watch out for that tendency to rant, though. you're supposed to speak, not make speeches." "i try not to," ivo said, "but i keep getting carried away by enthusiasm." "apparently i have a real flair for teaching," paul went on as, expertly camouflaged by brooks, the two young men melted into the dense charcoal-gray underbrush of madison avenue. "i seem to be even more versatile than i thought. perhaps i have been--well, not wasting but limiting my talents." "that may be because your talents have not been sufficiently appreciated," his star pupil suggested, "or given enough scope." ivo was so perceptive! "as a matter of fact," paul agreed, "it has often seemed to me that if some really gifted individual, equally adept at acting, directing, producing, playwriting, teaching, et al., were to undertake a thorough synthesis of the theater--ah, but that would cost money," he interrupted himself, "and who would underwrite such a project? certainly not the government of the united states." he gave a bitter laugh. "perhaps, under a new regime, conditions might be more favorable for the artist--" "shhh!" paul looked nervously over his shoulder. "there are senators everywhere. besides, i never said things were _good_ in russia, just _better_--for the actor, that is. of course the plays are atrocious propaganda--" "i was not referring to another human regime. the human being is, at best, save for certain choice spirits, unsympathetic to the arts. we outworlders have a far greater respect for things of the mind." paul opened his mouth; ivo continued without giving him a chance to speak, "no doubt you have often wondered just what i am doing here on earth?" the question had never crossed paul's mind. feeling vaguely guilty, he murmured, "some people have funny ideas of where to go for a vacation." "i am here on business," ivo told him. "the situation on sirius is serious." "you know, that's catchy! 'the situation on sirius is serious'," paul repeated, tapping his foot. "i've often thought of trying my hand at a musical com--" "i mean we have had a ser--grave population problem for the last couple of centuries, hence our government has sent out scouts to look for other planets with similar atmosphere, climate, gravity and so on, where we can ship our excess population. so far, we have found very few." when paul's attention was focused, he could be as quick as anybody to put two and two together. "but earth is already occupied. in fact, when i was in school, i heard something about our having a population problem ourselves." "the other planets we already--ah--took over were in a similar state," ivo explained. "we managed to surmount that difficulty." "how?" paul asked, though he already suspected the answer. "oh, we didn't dispose of _all_ of the inhabitants. we merely weeded out the undesirables--who, by fortunate chance, happened to be in the majority--and achieved a happy and peaceful coexistence with the rest." "but, look," paul protested. "i mean to say----" "for instance," ivo said suavely, "take the vast body of people who watch television and who have never seen a legitimate play in their lives and, indeed, rarely go to the motion pictures. surely they are expendable." "well, yes, of course. but even among them there might be--oh, say, a playwright's mother--" "one of the first measures our regime would take would be to establish a vast network of community theaters throughout the world. and you, paul, would receive first choice of starring roles." "now wait a minute!" paul cried hotly. he seldom allowed himself to lose his temper, but when he did ... he got _angry_! "i pride myself that i've gotten this far wholly on my own merits. i don't believe in using influence to--" "but, my dear fellow, all i meant was that, with an intelligently coordinated theater and an intellectually adult audience, your abilities would be recognized automatically." "oh," said paul. he was not unaware that he was being flattered, but it was so seldom that anyone bothered to pay him any attention when he was not playing a role that it was difficult not to succumb. "are--are you figuring on taking over the planet single-handed?" he asked curiously. "heavens, no! talented as i am, there are limits. i don't do the--ah--dirty work myself. i just conduct the preliminary investigation to determine how powerful the local defenses are." "we have hydrogen bombs," paul said, trying to remember details of a newspaper article he had once read in a producer's ante-room, "and plutonium bombs and--" "oh, i know about all those," ivo smiled expertly. "my job is checking to make sure you don't have anything really dangerous." all that night, paul wrestled with his conscience. he knew he shouldn't just let ivo go on. yet what else could he do? go to the proper authorities? but which authorities were the proper ones? and even if he found them, who would believe an actor offstage, delivering such improbable lines? he would either be laughed at or accused of being part of a subversive plot. it might result in a lot of bad publicity which could ruin his career. so paul did nothing about ivo. he went back to the usual rounds of agents' and producers' offices, and the knowledge of why ivo was on earth got pushed farther into the back of his mind as he trudged from interview to reading to interview. [illustration] it was an exceptionally hot october--the kind of weather when sometimes he almost lost his faith and began to wonder why he was batting his head against a stone wall, why he didn't get a job in a department store somewhere or teaching school. and then he thought of the applause, the curtain calls, the dream of some day seeing his name in lights above the title of the play--and he knew he would never give up. quitting the theater would be like committing suicide, for off the stage he was alive only technically. he was good; he knew he was good, so some day, he assured himself, he was bound to get his big break. toward the end of that month, it came. after the maximum three readings, between which his hopes alternately waxed and waned, he was cast as the male lead in _the holiday tree_. the producers were more interested, they said, in getting someone who fitted the role of eric everard than in a big name--especially since the female star preferred to have her luster undimmed by competition. rehearsals took up so much of his time that he saw very little of ivo for the next five weeks--but by then ivo didn't need him any more. actually, they were no longer teacher and pupil now but companions, drawn together by the fact that they both belonged to different worlds from the one in which they were living. insofar as he could like anyone who existed outside of his imagination, paul had grown rather fond of ivo. and he rather thought ivo liked him, too--but, because he couldn't ever be quite sure of ordinary people's reactions toward him, how could he be sure of an outworlder's? ivo came around to rehearsals sometimes, but naturally it would be boring for him, since he wasn't in the profession, and, after a while, he didn't come around very often. at first, paul felt a twinge of guilt; then he remembered that he need not worry. ivo had his own work. * * * * * the whole _holiday tree_ troupe went out of town for the tryouts, and paul didn't see ivo at all for six weeks. busy, happy weeks they were, for the play was a smash hit from the start. it played to packed houses in new haven and boston, and the box office in new york was sold out for months in advance before they even opened. "must be kinda fun--acting," ivo told paul the morning after the new york opening, as paul weltered contentedly on his bed--he had the best room in the house now--amid a pile of rave notices. at long last, he had arrived. everybody loved him. he was a success. and now that he had read the reviews and they were all favorable, he could pay attention to the strange things that had happened to his friend. raising himself up on an elbow, paul cried, "ivo, you're _mumbling_! after all i taught you about articulation!" "i got t'hanging 'round with this here buncha actors while y'were gone," ivo said. "they say mumbling's the comin' thing. 'sides, y'kept yapping that i declaimed, so--" "but you don't have to go to the opposite extreme and--_ivo_!" incredulously, paul took in the full details of the other's appearance. "what happened to your brooks brothers' suits?" "hung 'em inna closet," ivo replied, looking abashed. "i did wear one las' night, though," he went on defensively. "wooden come dressed like this to y'opening. but all the other fellas wear blue jeans 'n leather jackets. i mean, hell, i gotta conform more'n anybody. y'know that, paul." "and--" paul sat bolt upright; this was the supreme outrage--"you've changed yourself! you've gotten _younger_!" "this is an age of yout'," ivo mumbled. "an' i figured i was 'bout ready for improvisation, like you said." "look, ivo, if you really want to go on the stage----" "hell, i don' wanna be no actor!" ivo protested, far too vehemently. "y'know damn' well i'm a--a spy, scoutin' 'round t'see if y'have any secret defenses before i make m'report." "i don't feel i'm giving away any government secrets," paul said, "when i tell you that the bastions of our defenses are not erected at the actors' studio." "listen, pal, you lemme spy the way i wanna an' i'll letcha act the way you wanna." paul was disturbed by this change in ivo because, although he had always tried to steer clear of social involvement, he could not help feeling that the young alien had become in a measure his responsibility--particularly now that he was a teen-ager. paul would even have worried about ivo, if there hadn't been so many other things to occupy his mind. first of all, the producers of _the holiday tree_ could not resist the pressure of an adoring public; although the original star sulked, three months after the play had opened in new york, paul's name went up in lights next to hers, _over the title of the play. he was a star._ that was good. but then there was gregory. and that was bad. gregory was paul's understudy--a handsome, sullen youth who had, on numerous occasions, been heard to utter words to the effect of: "it's the part that's so good, not him. if i had the chance to play eric everard just once, they'd give lambrequin back to the indians." sometimes he had said the words in paul's hearing; sometimes the remarks had been lovingly passed on by fellow members of the cast who felt that paul ought to know. * * * * * "i don't like that gregory," paul told ivo one monday evening as they were enjoying a quiet smoke together, for there was no performance that night. "he used to be a juvenile delinquent, got sent to one of those reform schools where they use acting as therapy and it turned out to be his _métier_. but you never know when that kind'll hear the call of the wild again." "aaaah, he's a good kid," ivo said. "he just never had a chanct." "trouble is, i'm afraid he's going to _make_ himself a chanct--chance, that is." "aaaah," retorted ivo, with prideful inarticulateness. however, when at six-thirty that friday, paul fell over a wire stretched between the jambs of the doorway leading to his private bathroom and broke a leg, even ivo was forced to admit that this did not look like an accident. "ivo," paul wailed when the doctor had left, "what am i going to do? i refuse to let gregory go on in my place tonight!" "y'gonna hafta," ivo said, shifting his gum to the other side of his mouth. "he's y'unnastudy." "but the doctor said it would be weeks before i can get around again. either gregory'll take over the part completely with his interpretation and i'll be left out in the cold, or more likely, he'll louse up the play and it'll fold before i'm on my feet." "y'gotta have more confidence in y'self, kid. the public ain't gonna forgetcha in a few weeks." but paul knew far better than the idealistic ivo how fickle the public can be. however, he chose an argument that would appeal to the boy. "don't forget, he booby-trapped me!" "cert'ny looks like it," ivo was forced to concede. "but watcha gonna do? y'can't prove it. 'sides, the curtain's gonna gwup in a li'l over a nour--" paul gripped ivo's sinewy wrist. "ivo, you've got to go on for me!" "y'got rocks in y'head or somepin?" ivo demanded, trying not to look pleased. "i ain't gotta nequity card, and even if i did, _he's_ y'unnastudy." "no, you don't understand. i don't want you to go on as ivo darcy playing eric everard. i want you to go on as paul lambrequin playing eric everard. _you can do it, ivo!_" "good lord, so i can!" ivo whispered, temporarily neglecting to mumble. "i'd almost forgotten." "you know my lines, too. you've cued me in my part often enough." ivo rubbed his hand over his forehead. "yeah, i guess i do." "ivo," paul beseeched him, "i thought we were--pals. i don't want to ask any favors, but i helped you out when you were in trouble. i always figured i could rely on you. i never thought you'd let me down." "an' i won't." ivo gripped paul's hand. "i'll go on t'night 'n play 'at part like it ain't never been played before! i'll--" "no! no! play it the way i played it. you're supposed to be _me_, ivo! forget strasberg; go back to stanislavsky." "okay, pal," ivo said. "will do." "and promise me one thing, ivo. promise me _you won't mumble_." ivo winced. "okay, but you're the on'y one i'd do 'at for." slowly, he began to shimmer. paul held his breath. maybe ivo had forgotten how to transmute himself. but technique triumphed over method. ivo darcy gradually coalesced into the semblance of paul lambrequin. the show would go on! * * * * * "well, how was everything?" paul asked anxiously when ivo came into his room shortly after midnight. "pretty good," ivo said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "gregory was extremely surprised to see me--asked me half a dozen times how i was feeling." ivo was not only articulating, paul was gratified to notice; he was enunciating. "but the show--how did that go? did anyone suspect you were a ringer?" "no," ivo said slowly. "no, i don't think so. i got twelve curtain calls," he added, staring straight ahead of him with a dreamy smile. "twelve." "friday nights, the audience is always enthusiastic." then paul swallowed hard and said, "besides, i'm sure you were great in the role." but ivo didn't seem to hear him. ivo was still wrapped in his golden daze. "just before the curtain went up, i didn't think i was going to be able to do it. i began to feel all quivery inside, the way i do before i--i change." "butterflies in the stomach is the professional term." paul nodded wisely. "a really good actor gets them before every performance. no matter how many times i play a role, there's that minute when the house lights start to dim when i'm in an absolute panic--" "--and then the curtain went up and i was all right. i was fine. i was paul lambrequin. i was eric everard. i was--everything." "ivo," paul said, clapping him on the shoulder, "you're a born trouper." "yes," ivo murmured, "i'm beginning to think so myself." for the next four weeks, paul lambrequin lurked in his room while ivo darcy played paul lambrequin playing eric everard. "it's terrific of you to take all this time away from your duties, old chap," paul said to ivo one day between the matinee and the evening performances. "i really do appreciate it. although i suppose you've managed to squeeze some of them in. i never see you on non-matinee afternoons." "duties?" ivo repeated vacantly. "yes, of course--my duties." "let me give you some professional advice, though. be more careful when you take off your makeup. there's still some grease paint in the roots of your hair." "sloppy of me," ivo agreed, getting to work with a towel. "i can't understand why you bother to put on the stuff at all," paul grinned, "when all you need to do is just change a little more." "i know." ivo rubbed his temples vigorously. "i suppose i just like the--smell of the stuff." "ivo," paul laughed, "there's no use trying to kid me; you are stagestruck. i'm sure i have enough pull now to get you a bit part somewhere, when i'm up and around again, and then you can get yourself an equity card. maybe," he added amusedly, "i can even have you replace gregory as my understudy." * * * * * later, in retrospect, paul thought perhaps there had been a curious expression in ivo's eyes, but right then he'd had no inkling that anything untoward was up. he did not find out what had been at the back of ivo's mind until the sunday before the tuesday on which he was planning to resume his role. "lord, it's going to be good to feel that stage under my feet again," he said as he went through a series of complicated limbering-up exercises of his own devisement, which he had sometimes thought of publishing as _the lambrequin time and motion studies_. it seemed unfair to keep them from other actors. ivo turned around from the mirror in which he had been contemplating their mutual beauty, "paul," he said quietly, "you're never going to feel that stage under your feet again." paul sat on the floor and stared at him. "you see, paul," ivo said, "i am paul lambrequin now. i am more paul lambrequin than i was--whoever i was on my native planet. i am more paul lambrequin than _you_ ever were. you learned the part superficially, paul, but i really _feel_ it." "it's not a part," paul said querulously. "it's me. i've always been paul lambrequin." "how can you be sure of that? you've had so many identities, why should this be the true one? no, you only _think_ you're paul lambrequin. i _know_ i am." "dammit," paul said, "that's the identity in which i've taken out equity membership. and be reasonable, ivo--there can't be two paul lambrequins." ivo smiled sadly. "no, paul, you're right. there can't." of course paul had known all along that ivo was not a human being. it was only now, however, that full realization came to him of what a ruthless alien monster the other was, existing only to gratify his own purposes, unaware that others had a right to exist. "are--are you going to--dispose of me, then?" paul asked faintly. "to dispose of you, yes, paul. but not to kill you. my kind has killed enough, conquered enough. we have no real population problem; that was just an excuse we made to salve our own consciences." "you have consciences, do you?" paul's face twisted in a sneer that he himself sensed right away was overly melodramatic and utterly unconvincing. somehow, he could never be really genuine offstage. ivo made a sweeping gesture. "don't be bitter, paul. of course we do. all intelligent life-forms do. it's one of the penalties of sentience!" for a moment, paul forgot himself. "watch it, ivo. you're beginning to ham up your lines." "we can institute birth control," ivo went on, his manner subdued. "we can build taller buildings. oh, there are many ways we can cope with the population increase. that's not the problem. the problem is how to divert our creative energies from destruction to construction. and i think i have solved it." "how will your people know you have," paul asked cunningly, "since you say you're not going back?" "_i_ am not going back to sirius, paul--_you_ are. it is you who are going to teach my people the art of peace to replace the art of war." paul felt himself turn what was probably a very effective white. "but--but i can't even speak the language! i--" "you will learn the language during the journey. i spent those afternoons i was away making a set of _sirian-in-a-jiffy_ records for you. sirian's a beautiful language, paul, much more expressive than any of your earth languages. you'll like it." "i'm sure i shall, but--" "paul, you are going to bring my people the outlet for self-expression they have always needed. you see, i lied to you. the theater on sirius is not in its infancy; it has never been conceived. if it had been, we would never have become what we are today. can you imagine--a race like mine, so superbly fitted to practice the dramatic art, remaining in blind ignorance that such an art exists!" "it does seem a terrible waste," paul had to agree, although he could not be truly sympathetic just then. "but i am hardly equipped--" "who is better equipped than you to meet this mighty challenge? can't you see that at long last you will be able to achieve your great synthesis of the theatrical arts--as producer, teacher, director, actor, playwright, whatever you will, working with a cast of individuals who can assume any shape or form, who have no preconceived notions of what can be done and what cannot. oh, paul, what a glorious opportunity awaits you on sirius v. how i envy you!" "then why don't you do it yourself?" paul asked. ivo smiled sadly again. "unfortunately, i do not have your manifold abilities. all i can do is act. superbly, of course, but that's all. i don't have the capacity to build a living theater from scratch. you do. i have talent, paul, but you have genius." "it _is_ a temptation," paul admitted. "but to leave my own world...." "paul, earth isn't your world. you carry yours along with you wherever you go. your world exists in the mind and heart, not in reality. in any real situation, you're just as uncomfortable on earth as you would be on sirius." "yes, but--" "think of it this way, paul. you're not leaving your world. you're just leaving earth to go on the road. it's a longer road, but look at what's waiting for you at the end of it." "yes, look," paul said, reality very much to the fore in his mind and heart at that moment, "death or vivisection." "paul, do you believe i'd do that to you?" there were tears in ivo's eyes. if he was acting, he was a great performer. _i really am one hell of a good teacher_, paul thought, _and with lots of raw material like ivo to work with, i could.... could he really mean what he's saying_? "they won't harm you, paul, because you will come to sirius bearing a message from me. you will tell my people that earth has a powerful defensive weapon and you have come to teach them its secret. and it's true, paul. the theater is your world's most powerful weapon, its best defense against the universal enemy--reality." "ivo," paul said, "you really must check that tendency toward bombast. especially with a purple speech like that; you've simply got to learn to underplay. you'll watch out for that when i'm gone, won't you?" "i will!" ivo's face lighted up. "oh, i will, paul. i promise never to chew the scenery again. i won't so much as nibble on a prop!" * * * * * the next day, the two of them went up to bear mountain where ivo's ship had been cached all those months. ivo explained to paul how the controls worked and showed him where the clean towels were. pausing in the airlock, paul looked back toward manhattan. "i'd dreamed so many years of seeing my name up in lights on broadway," he murmured, "and now, just when i made it--" "i'll keep it up there," ivo vowed. "i promise. and, meanwhile, you'll be building a new broadway up there in the stars!" "yes," paul said dreamily, "that is something to look forward to, isn't it?" fresh, enthusiastic audiences, performers untrammeled by tradition, a cooperative government, unlimited funds--why, there was a whole wonderful new world opening up before him. "--in another ten years or so," ivo was saying, "sirian actors will be coming to earth in droves, making the native performers look sick--" paul smiled wisely. "now, ivo, you know equity would never stand for _that_." "equity won't be able to help itself. public pressure will surge upward in a mounting wave and--" ivo stopped. "sorry. i was ranting again, wasn't i? it's being out in the open air that does it. i need to be bounded by the four walls of a theater." "that's a fallacy," paul began. "on the greek stage--" "save that for the stars, fella," ivo smiled. "you've got to leave before it gets light." then he wrung paul's hand. "good-by, kid," he said. "you'll knock 'em dead on sirius." "good-by, ivo." paul returned the grip. then he got inside and closed the airlock door behind him. he did hope ivo would correct that tendency toward declamation; on the other hand, it was certainly better than mumbling. paul put a _sirian-in-a-jiffy_ record on the turntable, because he might as well start learning the language right away. of course he'd have no one to talk to but himself for many months, but then, when all was said and done, he was his own favorite audience. he strapped himself into the acceleration couch and prepared for take-off. "next week, _east lynne_," he said to himself. life on the stage _previous books by clara morris_ the silent singer little jim crow [illustration: frontispiece, photograph of clara morris] clara morris life on the stage my personal experiences and recollections new york mcclure, phillips & co. mcmii _copyright, , by_ s. s. mcclure co. _ , by_ clara morris harriott fifth impression in memory of a labor shared, i affectionately dedicate this book to my husband. contents chapter first--i am born chapter second--beginning early, i learn love, fear, and hunger--i become acquainted with letters, and alas! i lose one of my two illusions chapter third--i enter a new world--i know a new hunger and we return to cleveland chapter fourth--i am led into the theatre--i attend rehearsals--i am made acquainted with the vagaries of tights chapter fifth--i receive my first salary--i am engaged for the coming season chapter sixth--the regular season opens--i have a small part to play--i am among lovers of shakespeare--i too stand at his knee and fall under the charm chapter seventh--i find i am in a "family theatre"--i fare forth away from my mother, and in columbus i shelter under the wing of mrs. bradshaw chapter eighth--i display my new knowledge--i return to cleveland to face my first theatrical vacation, and i know the very tragedy of littleness chapter ninth--the season reopens--i meet the yellow breeches and become a utility man--mr. murdock escapes fits and my "luck" proves to be extra work chapter tenth--with mr. dan. setchell i win applause--a strange experience comes to me--i know both fear and ambition--the actress is born at last chapter eleventh--my promiscuous reading wins me a glass of soda--the stage takes up my education and leads me through many pleasant places chapter twelfth--the peter richings' engagement brings me my first taste of slander--anent the splendor of my wardrobe, also my first newspaper notice chapter thirteenth--mr. roberts refers to me as "that young woman," to my great joy--i issue the "clara code"--i receive my first offer of marriage chapter fourteenth--mr. wilkes booth comes to us, the whole sex loves him--mr. ellsler compares him to his great father--our grief and horror over the awful tragedy at washington chapter fifteenth--mr. r. e. j. miles--his two horses and our woful experience with the substitute "wild horse of tartary" chapter sixteenth--i perform a remarkable feat, i study _king charles_ in one afternoon and play without a rehearsal--mrs. d. p. bowers makes odd revelation chapter seventeenth--through devotion to my friend, i jeopardize my reputation--i own a baby on shares--miss western's pathetic speech chapter eighteenth--mr. charles w. couldock--his daughter eliza and his many peculiarities chapter nineteenth--i come to a turning-point in my dramatic life--i play my first crying part with miss sallie st. clair chapter twentieth--i have to pass through bitter humiliation to win high encomiums from herr bandmann; while edwin booth's kindness fills the theatre with pink clouds, and i float thereon chapter twenty-first--i digress, but i return to the columbus engagement of mr. and mrs. charles kean--their peculiarities and their work chapter twenty-second--i hear mrs. kean's story of wolsey's robe--i laugh at an extravagantly kind prophecy chapter twenty-third--mr. e. l. davenport, his interference, his lecture on stage business, his error of memory or too powerful imagination--why i remain a dramatic old slipper--contemptuous words arouse in me a dogged determination to become a leading woman before leaving cleveland chapter twenty-fourth--i recall the popularity and too early death of edwin adams chapter twenty-fifth--i see an actress dethroned--i make myself a promise, for the world does move chapter twenty-sixth--mr. lawrence barrett the brilliant and his brother joseph the unfortunate chapter twenty-seventh--i play "marie" to oblige--mr. barrett's remarkable call--did i receive a message from the dying or the dead? chapter twenty-eighth--i accept an engagement with mr. macaulay for cincinnati as leading lady--my adieus to cleveland--mr. ellsler presents me with a watch chapter twenty-ninth--my first humiliating experience in cincinnati is followed by a successful appearance--i make the acquaintance of the enthusiastic navoni chapter thirtieth--new york city is suggested to me by mr. worthington and mr. johnson--mr. ellsler's mild assistance--i journey to new york, and return to cincinnati with signed contract from mr. daly chapter thirty-first--john cockerill and our eccentric engagement--i play a summer season at halifax--then to new york, and to house-keeping at last chapter thirty-second--i recall mr. john e. owens, and how he "settled my hash" chapter thirty-third--from the "wild west" i enter the eastern "parlor of home comedy"--i make my first appearance in "man and wife" chapter thirty-fourth--i rehearse endlessly--i grow sick with dread--i meet with success in _anne sylvester_ chapter thirty-fifth--i am accepted by the company--i am warned against mr. fisk--i have an odd encounter with mr. gould chapter thirty-sixth--a search for tears--i am punished in "saratoga" for the success of "man and wife"--i win mr. daly's confidence--we become friends chapter thirty-seventh--a study of stage-management--i am tricked into signing a new contract chapter thirty-eighth--i go to the sea-shore--the search for a "scar"--i make a study of insanity, and meet with success in "l'article " chapter thirty-ninth--i am too dull to understand a premonition--by mr. daly's side i see the destruction of the fifth avenue theatre by fire chapter fortieth--we become "barn-stormers," and return to open the new theatre--our astonishing misunderstanding of "alixe," which proves a great triumph chapter forty-first--trouble about obnoxious lines in "madeline morel"--mr. daly's manipulation of father x: in spite of our anxiety the audience accepts the situation and the play--mr. daly gives me the smallest dog in new york chapter forty-second--i am engaged to star part of the season--mr. daly breaks his contract--i leave him and under threat of injunction--i meet mr. palmer and make contract and appear at the union square in the "wicked world" chapter forty-third--we give a charity performance of "camille," and are struck with amazement at our success--mr. palmer takes the cue and produces "camille" for me at the union square chapter forty-fourth--"miss multon" put in rehearsal--our squabble over the manner of her death--great success of the play--mr. palmer's pride in it--my _au revoir_ life on the stage chapter first i am born. if this simple tale is to be told at all, it may as well begin at the beginning and in the good old-fashioned and best of all ways--thus: once upon a time in the canadian city of toronto, on the th of march, the sun rose bright and clear--which was a most surprising thing for the sun to do on st. patrick's day, but while the people were yet wondering over it the sunlight disappeared, clouds of dull gray spread themselves evenly over the sky, and then the snow fell--fell fast and furious, quickly whitening the streets and house-tops, softly lining every hollow, and was piling little cushions on top of all the hitching-posts, when the flakes grew larger, wetter, farther apart, and after a little hesitation turned to rain--a sort of walk-trot-gallop rain, which wound up with one vivid flash of lightning and a clap of thunder that fairly shook the city. now the irish, being a brave people and semi-amphibious, pay no heed to wet weather. usually all the hibernians residing in a city divide themselves into two bodies on st. patrick's day, the ones who parade and the ones who follow the parade; but on this occasion they divided themselves into three bodies--the men who paraded, the men and women who followed the parade, and the orangemen who made things pleasant for both parties. as the out-of-time, out-of-tune band turned into a quiet cross-street to lead its following green-bannered host to a broader one, the first brick was thrown--probably by a woman, as it hit no one, but metaphorically it knocked the chip off of the shoulder of every child of erin. down fell the banners, up went the fists! orange and green were at each other tooth and nail! hats from prehistoric ages side by side with modern beavers scarcely fifty years old received the hurled brick-bat and went down together! the band reached the broad avenue alone, and looked back to see the short street a-sway with struggling men, while women holding their bedraggled petticoats up, their bonnets hanging down their backs by green ribbon ties, hovered about the edges of the crowd, making predatory dashes now and then to scratch a face or rescue some precious hat from the mêlée, meanwhile inciting the men to madness by their fierce cries--and in a quiet house, in the very midst of this riot--just before the constabulary charged the crowd--i was born. i don't know, of course, whether i was really intended from the first for that house, or whether the stork became so frightened at the row in the street that he just dropped me from sheer inability to carry me any farther--anyway, i came to a house where trouble and poverty had preceded me, and, worse than both these put together--treachery. still, i accepted the situation with indifference. that the cupboard barely escaped absolute emptiness gave me no anxiety, as i had no teeth anyway. as a gentleman with a medicine-case in his hand was leaving the house he paused a moment for the slavey to finish washing away a pool of blood from the bottom step--and then there came that startling clap of thunder. brand new as i was to this world and its ways, i entered my protest at once with such force and evident wrath that the doctor down-stairs exclaimed: "our young lady has temper as well as a good pair of lungs!" and went on his way laughing. and so on that st. patrick's day of sunshine, snow, and rain, of riot and bloodshed, in trouble and poverty--i was born. chapter second beginning early, i learn love, fear, and hunger--i become acquainted with letters, and alas! i lose one of my two illusions. of the days of st. patrick that followed, not one found me in the city of my birth--indeed, six months completed my period of existence in the dominion, and i have known it no more. some may think it strange that i mention these early years at all, but the reason for such mention will appear later on. looking back at them, they seem to divide themselves into groups of four years each. during the first four, my time was principally spent in growing and learning to keep out of people's way. i acquired some other knowledge, too, and little child as i was, i knew fear long before i knew the thing that frightened me. i knew that love for my mother which was to become the passion of my life, and i also knew hunger. but the fear was harder to endure than the hunger--it was so vague, yet so all-encompassing. we had to flit so often--suddenly, noiselessly. often i was gently roused from my sleep at night and hastily dressed--sometimes simply wrapped up without being dressed, and carried through the dark to some other place of refuge, from--what? when i went out into the main business streets i had a tormenting barège veil over my face that would not let me see half the pretty things in the shop windows, and i was quick to notice that no other little girl had a veil on. next i remarked that if a strange lady spoke to me my mother seemed pleased--but if a man noticed me she was not pleased, and once when a big man took me by the hand and led me to a candy store for some candy she was as white as could be and so angry she frightened me, and she promised me a severe punishment if i ever, ever went one step with a strange man again. and so my fear began to take the form of a man, of a big, smiling man--for my mother always asked, when i reported that a stranger had spoken to me, if he was big and smiling. i had known the sensation of hunger long before i knew the word that expressed it, and i often pressed my hands over my small empty stomach, and cried and pulled at my mother's dress skirt. if there was anything at all to give i received it, but sometimes there was absolutely nothing but a drink of water to offer, which checked the gnawing for a moment or two, and at those times there was a tightening of my mother's trembling lips, and a straight up and down wrinkle between her brows, that i grew to know, and when i saw that look on her face i could not ask for anything more than "a dwink, please." as an illustration of her almost savage pride and honesty: i one day saw a woman in front of the house buying some potatoes. i knew that potatoes cooked were very comforting to empty stomachs. one or two of them fell to the street during the measuring and i picked one up, and, fairly wild with delight, i scrambled up the stairs with it. but my mother was angry through and through. "who gave it to you?" she demanded. i explained with a trembling voice: "i des' founded it on the very ground--and i'se so hungry!" but hungry or not hungry, i had to take the potato back: "nothing in the world could be taken without asking--that was stealing--and she was the only person in the world i had a right to ask anything of!" it was a bitter lesson, and was rendered more so by the fact that when i carried the tear-bathed potato back to the street and laid it down, neither the woman who bought nor the man who sold was in sight--and, dear heaven! i could almost have eaten it raw. but i was learning obedience and self-respect; more than that, i was already acquiring one of the necessary qualities for an actress--the power of close observation. the next four years (the second group) were the hardest to endure of them all. true, i now had sufficient food and warmth, since my mother had given up sewing for shops--which kept us nearly always hungry--and had found other occupations. but the great object of both our lives was to be together, and there are few people who are willing to employ a woman who has with her a child. and if her services are accepted, even at a reduced salary, it is necessary for that child to be as far as possible neither seen nor heard. therefore until i was old enough to be admitted into a public school i never knew another child--i never played with any living creature save a remarkable cat, that seemed to have claws all over her, and in my fixed determination to trace her purr and find out where it came from, she buried those claws to the very last one in my fat, investigating little hands. meantime my "fear" had assumed the shape and substance of a man, a man who bore a name that should have been loved and honored above all others, for this "bogey" of my baby days--this nightmare and dread--was my own father. when my mother had discovered his treachery--which had not hesitated to boldly face the very altar--she took her child and fled from him, assuming her mother's maiden name as a disguise. but go where she would, he followed and made scenes. finally, understanding that she was not to be won back by sophistries, he offered to leave her in peace if she would give the child to him. and when that offer was indignantly rejected, he pleasantly informed her that he would make life a curse to her until she gave me up, and that by fair means or by foul he would surely obtain possession of me. once he did kidnap me, but my mother had found friends by that time, and their pursuit was so swift and unexpected that he had to abandon me. so, he who should have been the defender and support of my mother--whose arms should have been our shelter from the world--the big, smiling french-canadian father--became instead our terror and our dread. therefore when my mother served in varying capacities in other people's homes, and i had to efface myself as nearly as possible, i dared not even go out to walk a little, so great was my mother's fear. it seems odd, but in spite of my far-reaching memory, i cannot remember when i learned to read. i can recall but one tiny incident relating to the subject of learning. i stood upon a chair and while my hair was brushed and braided i spelled my words, and i had my ears boxed--a custom considered criminal in these better days--because, having successfully spelled "elephant," i came to grief over "mouse," as, according to my judgment, m-o-w-s filled all the requirements of the case. i remember, too, that the punishment made me afraid to ask what "elephant" meant; but i received the impression that it was some sort of a public building. however, when i was six years old i joyfully betook myself to a primary school, from which i was sent home with a note, saying that "in that department they did not go beyond the 'primer,' and as this little girl reads quite well from a 'reader,' she must have been taught well at home." we were a proud yet disappointed pair, my mother and i, that day. an odd little incident occurred about that time. one of our hurried flights had ended at a boarding house, and my extreme quietude--unnatural in a child of health and intelligence--attracted the attention of a certain boarder, who was an actress. she was very popular with the public, and both she and her husband were well liked by the people about them. she took a fancy to me, and informing herself that my mother was poor and alone, she offered to adopt me. she stated her position, her income, and her intention of educating me thoroughly. she thought a convent school would be desirable--from ten, say to seventeen. perhaps my mother was tempted--she was a fanatic on the question of learning--but, oh! what a big _but_ came in just then: "but when i should have, by god's will, reached the age of seventeen, she (the actress) would place me upon the stage." "gracious heaven! her child on the stage!" my mother was stricken with horror! she scarcely had strength to make her shocked refusal plain enough; and when her employer ventured to remonstrate with her, pointing out the great advantage to me, she made answer: "it would be better for her to starve trying to lead a clean and honorable life, than to be exposed to such publicity and such awful temptations!" poor mother! the theatre was to her imagination but a beautiful vestibule leading to a place of wickedness and general wrong-doing! during those endless months, when i had each day to sit for hours and hours in one particular chair in a corner, well out of the way--sit so long that often when i was lifted down i could not stand at all, my limbs being numbed to absolute helplessness, i had two great days to dream of, to look forward to--christmas and that wonderful th of march, when because it was my birthday all those nice gentlemen, with the funny hats and green collars, walked out behind the band. and i felt particularly well disposed toward those most amusing gentlemen who wore, according to my theory at least, their little girls' aprons tied about their big waists. i did not like so well the attendant crowd, but then i could not be selfish enough to keep people from looking at "my procession" and enjoying the music that made the blood dance in my own veins, even as my feet danced on the chill pavement. i always received an orange on that day from my mother, and almost always a book, so it was a great event in my life, and i used to get down my little hat-box and fix the laces in my best shoes days ahead of time that i might be ready to stand on some steps where i could bow and smile to the nice gentlemen who walked out in my honor. heaven only knows how i got the idea that the procession was meant for me, but it made me very happy, and my heart was big with love and gratitude for those people who took so much trouble for me. i had but two illusions in the world--santa claus and "my procession"--but, alas! on my eighth birthday, when in an outburst of innocent triumph and joy i cried to a grown-up: "ain't they good--those funny gentlemen--to come and march and play music for my birthday?" i was answered with the assurance that i "was a fool--that no one knew or cared a copper about me--that it was a saint, a dead and gone man, they marched for!" all the dance went out of my feet, heavy tears fell fast and stood round and clear on the woolly surface of my cloak, and bending my head low to hide my disappointment, i went slowly home, where the chair seemed harder, the hours longer, and life more bare because i had lost the illusion that had brightened and glorified it. at the present time, here in my home, there is seated in an arm-chair, a venerable doll. she is a hideous specimen of the beautiful doll of the early "fifties." she sits with her soles well turned up, facing you, her arms hanging from her shoulders in that idiotically helpless "i-give-it-up" fashion peculiar to dolls. with bulging scarlet cheeks, button-hole mouth and flat, blue staring eyes she faces time and unwinkingly looks him down. to anyone else she is stupidity personified, but to me she speaks, for she came to me on my fourth christmas, and she is as gifted as she is ugly. only last birthday--as i straightened out her old, old dress skirt--she asked me if i remembered how i cried, with my face in her lap, over that first loss of an illusion--and i told her quite truly that i remembered well! chapter third i enter a new world--i know a new hunger and we return to cleveland. the experiences of the first two of my third group of years have influenced my entire life. still flying from my seemingly ubiquitous father, my mother after a desperate struggle gained enough money to pay for our journey to what was then called the "far west"--namely, the southwestern part of illinois. child-fashion, i was delighted at the prospect of a change, and happy over the belief that i was going to some place where i could be free to go and come like other children, without dreading the appearance of a big, smiling man from any deep doorway or from around the next corner. to tell the truth, that persistent, indestructible smile always seemed an insult added to the injury of his malicious and revengeful conduct. then, too, i experienced my first delicious thrill of imaginary terror. in a torn and abandoned old geography i had seen a picture labelled "prairie." the grass was as high as a man's shoulders, and stealthily emerging from it was a sort of compound animal, neither tiger nor leopard, but with points of resemblance to both. and here every day i was listening to the grown-ups talking of "prairie lands," and how far we might have to drive across the prairie after leaving the train; and i made up my mind that i would hold our umbrella all the time, and when the uncertain beast came out i'd try to stick his eyes with it, and under cover of the confusion we would undoubtedly escape. that being settled, i could turn all my attention to preparations for the long journey. dear me, i remember just where each big red rose came on the carpet-bag, and how sorry i was that the tiny brass lock came right in the side of one. it was a large bag and held a great deal, but was so arranged that whatever you wanted was always found at the bottom--whether it was the tooth-brush or a night-gown or a pair of rubbers. it had a sort of dividing wall of linen in its middle, and while one side held clothing, the other side was the commissary department. no buffet-cars then, travellers ran their own buffets, and though the things did not come into actual contact, there was not an article, big or little, in that bag that did not smell of pickles. and once when my mother had hastily attended to my needs in the miserable toilet-room of the car (no sleeper--just a sit-up-all-night affair), my clean stockings, white apron and little handkerchief all exhaled vinegar so strongly that i wrinkled up my nose, exclaiming: "i smell jes' like a pickled little girl--don't i, ma'ma?" and then, when weary and worn and dusty, we left the cars and had to drive some thirty miles, in a carriage of uncertain class, over the open prairie--then smooth and bright and green--i wearily remarked, after a time, that it was a "pretty big lawn, but where was the prairie?" for true to my plan i had secured the umbrella, and being told that i was crossing the prairie then, i was a bitterly disappointed young person. oh, how i longed to give way to one of those passionate outbursts we so often see children indulge in! oh, how i wanted to hurl aside the umbrella i had begged for, to fling my weary self down on the floor and cry, and cry! but i dared not--never in my whole life had i ventured on such an exhibition of temper or feeling--so i winked fast and held very still and swallowed hard at the disappointment, which was but the first of such a number of very bitter pills that i was yet to swallow. but, thank god! if i was easily cast down, i was as easily cheered; and the prairie left behind, the sight of the first orchard we passed, with the soft perfumed snow of the blossoms floating through the rosy sunset light, raised my spirits to an ecstasy of joy; and when our journey ended, at the rough farm-house, with my arm around the surly looking watch-dog, i stood and heard for the first time the mournful cry of the whippoorwill out in the star-pierced dark of the early may night, i thrilled with the unspoken consciousness that this was a new world that i was entering--a lovely, _lovely_ world, that the grown-ups called the "country"! for the two years i knew it the charm of that backwood life never palled. i had never seen the country before, and i found it a place of beauty and many marvels. i did not miss the fine city shops, for i never had had money to spend in them. i did not miss the people, for they had been nothing to me. and here no day that dawned failed to bring me some new experience. with what awed wonderment i faced the mystery of the springing grain. i saw the seed, hard and dry, fall into the furrowed earth and, a few days later, with gentle strength, tiny pale green spears come pricking through the brown. i learned not to look under the hickory-trees for the oak acorns that i adored. i was soon able to tell the rapidly forming furry green peaches from the smooth young apples, and i literally fell down upon my knees and worshipped before lambs, calves, and colts. in this new, strange life everyone worked, but they worked for themselves--to use a country expression, no one "hired out." i was a very little girl. i could not spin as could my mother, who had passed her childhood in backwood life. of course i could not weave, but i was taught to knit my own stockings--such humpy, lumpy knitting! but i was very proud of the accomplishment, even though my mother did have to "turn the heel." then, too, i with other children at planting-time dropped corn in the sun-warmed furrows, while a man followed behind with a hoe covering it up; and when it had sprouted and was a tempting morsel for certain black robbers of the field, i made a very active and energetic young scare-crow. here, too, i became acquainted with children. they were all older than i was, a hearty, healthy, wisely-ignorant lot. they knew so much about farming and so little about anything else. not one of them could tell a story out of the bible, and as for the "pilgrim's progress," they had never heard tell of it; while bunyan only meant to them an enlarged toe-joint--not a great author. the lack of reading matter was the one blemish on my country life. the library, composed of the bible and the almanac, was not satisfying to my inquiring mind. one paper was taken in by the head of the family--it was a weekly, in every possible sense--but i came to watch eagerly for it, and it filled the family with amazement to see me sit down on the step and gravely wade through its dreary columns--happy if i could catch hold of some idea--some bit of news--some scrap of story; and my farmer host one day at his noon smoke removed his corn-cob pipe from his lips long enough to remark of me: "dogorne my skin! if that young 'un ain't awake and enj'ien hersel'. now i allers go ter sleep over that paper mysel'!" so should i--now--i presume. these children being for-true, real children had no idea of showing courtesy or politeness to a stranger, but they had a very natural yearning to get fun out of that stranger if they could, and so they blithely led me forth to a pasture shortly after our arrival at the farm, and catching a horse they hoisted me up on to its bare, slippery back. i have learned a good bit about horses since then--have hired, borrowed, and bought them--have been to circuses and horse shows, but never since have i seen a horse of such appalling aspect. his eyes were the size of soup-plates, large clouds of smoke came from his nostrils. he had a glass-enamelled surface, and if he was one half as tall as he felt, some museum manager missed a fortune. then the young fiends, leaving me on my slippery perch, high up near the sky, drew afar off and stood over against the fence and gave me plenty of room--to fall off. but when i suddenly felt the world heave up beneath me, i uttered a wild shriek--clenched my hands in the animal's back hair, and, madly flinging propriety to any point of the compass that happened to be behind me, i cast one pantalet over the enamelled back, and thus astride, safely crossed the pasture--and lo! it was not i who fell, but their faces instead. when they came to take me down, somehow the animal seemed shrunken and i hesitated about leaving it, whereupon the biggest boy said i had "pluck" (i had been frightened nearly to death, but i always could be silent at the proper moment; i was silent then), and he would teach me to ride sideways, for my mother would surely punish me if i sat astride like that; and in a few weeks, thanks to him, i was the one who was oftenest trusted to take the horses to water at noon, riding sideways and always bare-back, mounted on one horse and leading a second to the creek, until all had had their drink. which habit of riding--from balance--has made me quite independent of stirrups on various occasions since those far-away days. in the late autumn, these same children taught me where and when and how to find such treasures of the woods as hickory-nuts, chestnuts (rare there), butternuts, and pecan-nuts, while the thickets furnished hazel-nuts and the frost brought sweetness to the persimmon, and consequently pleasure to our palates, but never could i acquire a taste for the "paw-paw," that inane custard-like fruit, often called the american banana. i helped obtain the roots and barks and nut-shells from which the grown-ups made their dyes. i learned to use a bow and arrow; and on rainy days, having nothing new to read, i learned by heart the best chapters of my own birthday books, and often repeated them to the other children when we cuddled in the hayloft, above the horses. one day i became too realistic, and in my "flight from my step-mother's home" i fell through the hole where the hay was tossed down to old jerry's manger. he was a serious-minded and kindly old horse, and did nothing worse than snort a little over the change in his diet, from hay to small girl. my severe bruises would have been borne with fortitude, but when i arose--behold a wretched wandering hen had been in the manger before me, and if one judged from the state of my clothing, the egg she had left behind must have been the size of a melon at least! if that seems an exaggeration, just break an egg in your pocket, if you don't care to sit down on one, and see how far it will spread. then, indeed, i lifted my voice and wept! yes, those were two precious years, in which i learned to love passionately the beauty of the world! the tender, mystic charm of dawn, the pomp and splendor of the setting of the sun! finding in the tiny perfection of the velvety moss the minute repetition of the form and branching beauty of the stately tree at whose root it grew! seeing all the beauty of the blue sky and its sailing clouds encompassed by a quivering drop of dew upon a mullein leaf i dimly felt some faint comprehension of the divine satisfaction when the creator pronounced the work of his hands, "good!" from the first my mother had been greatly distressed by the absence of any school to which i might go, and also by her inability to earn money. she had been wise enough not to leave cleveland without sufficient means to bring us back again--which proved most fortunate. for when quite suddenly we heard of the published death of my father, we immediately returned and she obtained employment, while i was sent to the public school. but, oh, what a poor, meagre course of study i entered on. reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, and geography--that was all! only one class in the grammar-school studied history. however, improvements were being discussed, and i remember that three weeks before my final withdrawal from school my mother had to buy me a book on physiology, which was to be taught to the children, who had not even a bowing acquaintance with grammar. but i hungered and thirsted for knowledge--i craved it--longed for it. during the weary years of repression i had fallen back upon imagination for amusement and comfort, and when i was ten my "thinks," as i then called my waking dreams, almost surely took one of these two forms. since i had abandoned "thinks" about fairies coming to grant my wishes, i always walked out (in my best hat), and saved either an old lady or an old gentleman--sometimes one, sometimes the other--from some imminent peril--a sort of impressionist peril--vague but very terrible! and the rescued one was always tremblingly grateful and offered to reward me, and i always sternly refused to be rewarded, but unbent sufficiently to see the saved one safely to his or her splendid home. there i revelled in furniture, pictures, musical instruments and an assortment of beautiful dogs. on leaving this palatial residence i consented to give my address, and next day the "saved" called on my mother and after some conversation it was settled that i was to go to the convent-school for four years, where i knew the education was generous and thorough, and that languages, music, and painting were all taught. as these "thinks" took place at night after the ill-smelling extinguishment of the candle, i generally fell asleep before, in white robe and a crown of flowers, i gathered up all the prizes and diplomas and things i had earned. when my mother in the performance of her duties had to accept orders, she received them calmly and as a matter of course--whatever she may have felt in her heart--but i loved and reverenced her so! to me she was the one woman of the world; and when i saw her taking orders from another i flinched and shrank as i would have done beneath the sharp lash of a whip, and then for nights afterward (so soon as i had released my nose, tightly pinched to keep out the smell of candle-smoke), i settled down, with my mother's hand tight clasped in mine, to my other favorite "thinks" wherein i did some truly remarkable embroidery, of such precision of stitch, such perfection of coloring and shading, that when i offered it for sale i was much embarrassed by the numbers of would-be buyers. however, an old lady finally won me away from the store (that old lady was bound to appear in all my "thinks"), and i had to be very firm with her to keep her from over-paying me for the work of my hands. then, as i had graciously promised the store-keeper any over-plus of embroidery not needed by the generous old person, i felt my income secure, and hastened to rent two rooms and furnish them, ready to take my astonished mother there--where she could do the ordering herself. i hung curtains, laid carpets, put dishes in the cupboard, gave one window to my mother and kept one for myself and my very exceptional embroidery; and, though i laugh now, i had then many an hour of genuine happiness, furnishing this imaginary home and refuge for the mother i loved! chapter fourth i am led into the theatre--i attend rehearsals--i am made acquainted with the vagaries of tights. i was approaching my thirteenth birthday when it came about that a certain ancient boarding-house keeper--far gone in years--required someone to assist her, someone she could trust entirely and leave in charge for a month at a time; and i, not being able to read the future, was greatly chagrined because my mother accepted the offered situation. i was always happiest when she found occupation in a house where there was a library, for people were generally kind to me in that respect and gave me the freedom of their shelves, seeing that i was reverently careful of all books; but in a boarding-house there would be no library, and my heart sank as we entered the gloomy old building. no, there were no books, but among the boarders there were two or three actors and two actresses--a mother and a daughter. the mother played the "first old women"; the daughter, only a year or two older than i was, played, i was told, "walking-ladies," though what that meant i could not imagine. the daughter (blanche) liked me, while i looked upon her with awe, and wondered why she even noticed me. she was very wilful, she would not study anything on earth save her short parts. she had never read a book in her life. when i was home from school i told her stories by the hour, and she would say: "you ought to be in a theatre--you could act!" and then i would be dumb for a long time, because i thought she was making fun of me. one day i was chewing some gum she gave me--i was not chewing it very nicely, either--and my mother boxed my ears, and blanche said: "you ought to be in a theatre--you could chew all the gum you liked there!" and just then my mother was so cruelly overworked, and the spring came in with furious heat, and i felt so big and yet so helpless--a great girl of thirteen to be worked for by another--and the humiliation seemed more than i could bear, and i locked myself in our dreary cupboard of a room, and flung myself upon my knees, and in a passion of tears tried to make a bargain with my god! i meant no irreverence--i was intensely religious. i did not see the enormity of the act--i only knew that i suffered, and that god could help me--so i asked his help! but, instead of stopping there, i cried out to him this promise: "dear god! just pity me and show me what to do! please--please help me to help my mother--and if you will, i'll never say 'no!' to any woman who comes to me all my life long!" my error in trying to barter with my maker must have been forgiven, for my prayer was answered within a week, while there are many women scattered through the land who know that i have tried faithfully to keep my part of that bargain, and no woman who has sought my aid has ever been answered with a "no!" one day blanche greeted me with the news that extra ballet-girls were wanted, and told me that i must go at once and get engaged. "but," i said, "maybe they won't take me!" "well," answered she, "i've coaxed your mother, and my mother says she'll look out for you--so at any rate go and see. i'll take you to-morrow." and so dimly, vaguely, i seemed to see a way opening out before me, and again behind the locked door i knelt and said: "dear god! dear god!" and got no further, because grief has many words and joy has so few. the school term had closed on friday, and on saturday morning, with my heart beating almost to suffocation, i started out to walk to the theatre with blanche, who had promised to ask mr. ellsler (the manager) to take me on in the ballet. when we reached the sidewalk we saw the sky threatened rain and blanche sent me back for an umbrella. i had none of my own, so i borrowed one from mrs. miller (our landlady), and at sight of it my companion broke into laughter. it was a dreadful affair--with a knobby, unkind handle, a slovenly and corpulent body, and a circumference, when open, that suggested the idea that it had been built to shelter not only the landlady, but those wise ones of the boarders who had paid up before the winds rose and the rain fell. then we proceeded to the old academy of music on bank street, and entering, went upstairs, and just as we reached the top step a small dark man hurried across the hall and blanche called quickly: "oh, mr. ellsler--mr. ellsler! wait a moment, please--i want to speak to you!" i could not know that his almost repellent sternness of face concealed a kindness of heart that approached weakness, so when he turned a frowning, impatient face toward us, hope left me utterly, and for a moment i seemed to stand in a great darkness. i think i can do no better than to give mr. ellsler's own account of that, our first meeting, as he has given it often since. he says: "i was much put out by a business matter and was hastily crossing the corridor when blanche called me, and i saw she had another girl in tow; a girl whose appearance in a theatre was so droll i must have laughed, had i not been more than a little cross. her dress was quite short--she wore a pale-blue apron buttoned up the back, long braids tied at the ends with ribbon, and a brown straw hat, while she clutched desperately at the handle of the biggest umbrella i ever saw. her eyes were distinctly blue and were plainly big with fright. blanche gave her name and said she wanted to go on in the ballet, and i instantly answered she would not do, she was too small--i wanted women, not children, and started to return to my office. blanche was voluble, but the girl herself never spoke a single word. i glanced toward her and stopped. the hands that clutched the umbrella trembled--she raised her eyes and looked at me. i had noticed their blueness a moment before--now they were almost black, so swiftly had the pupils dilated, and slowly the tears rose in them. all the father in me shrank under the child's bitter disappointment; all the actor in me thrilled at the power of expression in the girl's face, and i hastily added: 'oh, well! you may come back in a day or two, and if anyone appears meantime who is short enough to march with you i'll take you on,' and after i got to my office i remembered the girl had not spoken a single word, but had won an engagement--for i knew i should engage her--with a pair of tear-filled eyes." the following tuesday, under the protection of the ever-faithful blanche, i again presented myself and was engaged for the term of two weeks, to go on the stage in the marches and dances of a play called "the seven sisters," for which service i was to receive three dollars a week, or fifty cents a night, as there were no matinées then, and so i entered, with wide-astonished eyes, into that dim, dusty, chaotic place known as "behind the scenes"--a strange place, where nothing _is_ and everything _may be_. in the daytime i found the stage a thing dead--at night, with the blazing of the gas, it lived! for light is its life, music is its soul, and the play its brain. silently and cautiously i walked about, gazing curiously at the "scenes," so fine on one side, so bare and cheap on the other; at the tarlatan "glass windows"; at the green "calico sea," lying flat and waveless on the floor. everything there pretended to be something else, and at last i said solemnly to blanche: "is everything only make-believe in a theatre?" and she turned her gum to the other side and answered: "yes, everything's make-believe--except salary day!" then came the rehearsal--everything was military just then--and there was a zouave drill to learn, as well as a couple of dances. the women and girls who had been engaged were not the very nicest people in the world, though they were the best to be found at such short notice; and mrs. bradshaw told me not to stand about with them, but to come to her as soon as my share in the work was over. "but," said this wise woman, "don't fail in politeness to them; for nothing can hold a person so far off as extreme politeness." to me the manual of arms was mere child's play, and the drill a veritable delight. the second day i scribbled down the movements in the order that they had been made, and learned them by heart, with the result that on the third day i sat aside chewing gum, while the stage-manager raved over the rest. then the star--mr. mcdonough--came along and furiously demanded to know why i was not drilling. "the gentleman sent me out of the ranks, sir," i answered, "because he said i knew the manual and drill!" "oh, indeed! well, there's not one of you that knows it--and you never will know it! you're a set of numbskulls! here!" he cried, catching up a rifle, "take hold of this--get up here--and let's see how much you know! now, then, shoulder arms!" and standing alone--burning with blushes, blinded with tears of mortification--i was put through my paces with a vengeance; but i really knew the manual as thoroughly as i knew the drill, and when it was over mr. mcdonough took the rifle from me, and exclaimed: "well, saucer-eyes, you do know it! i'm d----d if you don't! and i'm sorry, little girl, i spoke so roughly to you!" he held out his fat white hand to me, and as i took it he added: "you ought to stay in this business--you've got your head with you!" it was a small matter, of course, but there was a faint hint of triumph in it, and the savor was very pleasant to me. naturally, with a salary of but three dollars a week, we turned to the management for our costumes. i wonder what the _danseuse_ of to-day would think of the costume worn by her sister of the "sixties"? now her few gauzy limb-betraying skirts reach but to the middle of the thigh; her scrap of a bodice, cut far below the shoulder blades at the back, being absolutely sleeveless, is precariously held in place by a string or two of beads. to be sure, she is apt to wear a collar of blazing diamonds, instead of the simple band of black velvet that used to be sufficient ornament for the peerless bonfanti and the beautiful and modest betty rigl, who in their graceful ignorance of "splits" and athletic "tours de force," managed in their voluminous and knee-long skirts to whirl, to glide, to poise and float, to show, in fact, the poetry of motion. but we, this untrained ballet, were not bonfantis nor morlachis, and we wore our dancing clothes with a difference. in one dance we were supposed to be fairies. we wore flesh-colored slippers and tights. it took one full week of our two weeks' engagement to learn how to secure these treacherous articles, so that they would remain smooth and not wrinkle down somewhere or twist about. one girl never learned, and to the last added to the happiness of the public by ambling about on a pair of legs that looked as if they had been done up in curl papers the night before. we each had seven white tarlatan skirts, as full as they could be gathered--long enough to come a little below the knee. our waists were also flesh-colored, and were cut fully two or three inches below our collar-bones, so you see there was plenty of cloth at our backs to hook our very immature wings to. we had wreaths of white roses on our heads--blanche, who was very frank, said they looked like wreaths of turnips--and garlands of white roses to wave in the dance. i remember the girl with the curled legs was loathed by all because she lassoed everyone she came near with her garland--so you see we were very decorous fairies, whether we were decorative or not. of course we were rather substantial, and our wings did seem too thin and small to sustain us satisfactorily. one girl took hers off in the dressing-room and remarked contemptuously that "they couldn't lift her cat even!" but another, who was dictatorial and also of a suspicious nature, answered savagely: "you don't know nothing about wings--and you haven't got no cat, nohow, and you know it--so shut up!" and the conversation closed. in our second costume we were frankly human. we still wore dancing skirts, but we were in colors, and we had, of course, shed our wings--nasty, scratchy things they were, i remember. then for the drill and march we wore the regular fire zouave uniform. it was all great fun for me--you remember i was not stage-struck. dramatically speaking, i was not yet born--i had neither ambition nor fear--i was simply happy because i was going to earn that, to me, great sum of money, and was going to give it to my mother, and planned only what i should say to her, and had no thought at all of the theatre or anything or any person in it. the donning of fleshings for the first time is an occasion of anxiety to anyone, man or woman. i, however, approached the subject of tights with an open mind, and blanche freely gave me both information and advice. she chilled my blood by describing the mortifying mishaps, the dread disasters these garments had brought to those who failed to understand them. she declared them to be tricky, unreliable, and malicious in the extreme. "there's just one way to succeed with 'em," she said, "and that's by bullying 'em. show you're afraid and they will slip and twist and wrinkle down and make you a perfect laughing-stock. you must take your time, you know, at first, and fit 'em on very carefully and smoothly over your feet and ankles and up over your knees. see that they are nice and straight or you'll look as if you were walking on corkscrews, but after that bully 'em--yank and pull and drag 'em, and when you have 'em drawn up as tight as you can draw 'em, go at 'em and pull 'em up another inch at least. they'll creak and snap and pretend they're going to tear, but don't you ever leave your dressing-room satisfied, unless you feel you can't possibly get down-stairs without going sideways." "but," i remonstrated, "they'll break and let my knees through!" "oh, no they won't!" she cheerfully answered. "they'll make believe they're going to split at the knee, of course, but instead they'll just keep as safe and smooth as the skin on your arm. but, for heaven's sake, don't be afraid of 'em!" and i gravely promised to be as bold as i possibly could in my first encounter with the flesh-colored terrors. chapter fifth i receive my first salary--i am engaged for the coming season. at last the night came. hot? oh, my, hot it was! and we were so crowded in our tiny dressing-room that some of us had to stand on the one chair while we put our skirts on. the confusion was great, and i was glad to get out of the room, down-stairs, where i went to show myself to mrs. bradshaw or blanche, to see if i was all right. they looked at me, and after a hopeless struggle with their quivering faces they burst into shrieks of laughter. with trembling hands i clutched my tarlatan skirts and peering down at my tights, i groaned: "are they twisted, or run down, or what?" but it was not the tights, it was my face. i knew you had to put on powder because the gas made you yellow, and red because powder made you ghastly, but it had not occurred to me that skill was required in applying the same, and i was a sight to make any kindly disposed angel weep! i had not even sense enough to free my eyelashes from the powder clinging to them. my face was chalk white and low down on my cheeks were nice round bright red spots. mrs. bradshaw said: "with your round blue eyes and your round white-and-red face, you look like a cheap china doll! come here, my dear!" she dusted off a few thicknesses of the powder, removed the hard scarlet spots, took a great soft hare's foot, which she rubbed over some pink rouge, and then holding it in the air she proceeded: "to-morrow, after you have walked to get a color, go to your glass and see where that color shows itself. i think you will find it high on your cheek, coming up close under the eye and growing fainter toward the ear. i'll paint you that way to-night on chance. you see _my_ color is low on my cheek. of course when you are making-up for a character part you go by a different rule, but when you are just trying to look pretty be guided by nature. now----" i felt the soft touch of the hare's foot on my burning cheeks; then she gave me a tooth-brush, which had black on it, and bade me draw it across my lashes. i did so and was surprised at the amount of powder it removed. she touched her little finger to some red pomade, and said: "thrust out your under lip--no, not like a kiss--that makes creases--make a sulky lip--so!" she touched my lip with her finger, then she drew back and laughed again, in a different way. she drew me to the glass, and said, "look!" i looked and cried: "oh--oh! mrs. bradshaw, that girl doesn't look a bit like me--she's ever so much nicer!" in that lesson on making-up was the beginning and the ending of my theatrical instruction. what i have learned since then has been by observation, study, and direct inquiry--but never by instruction, either free or paid for. now, while i was engaged to go on with the crowd, fate willed after all that i should have an independent entrance for my first appearance on the stage. the matter would be too trivial to mention were it not for the influence it had upon my future. one act of the play represented the back of a stage during a performance. the scenes were turned around with their unpainted sides to the public. the scene-shifters and gas-men were standing about--everything was going wrong. the manager was giving orders wildly, and then a dancer was late. she was called frantically and finally when she appeared on the run, the manager caught her by the shoulders, rushed her across the stage and fairly pitched her on the imaginary stage--to the great amusement of the audience. the tallest and prettiest girl in the ballet had been picked out to do this bit of work, and she had been rehearsed and rehearsed as if she were preparing for the balcony scene of "romeo and juliet"; and day after day the stage-manager would groan: "can't you run? did you never run? imagine the house a-fire and that you are running for your life!" at last, on that opening night, we were all gathered ready for our first entrance and dance, which followed a few moments after the incident i have described. the tall girl had a queer look on her face as she stood in her place--her cue came, but she never moved. i heard the rushing footsteps of the stage-manager: "that's you!" he shouted; "go on! go on, run!" run? she seemed to have grown fast to the floor. we heard the angry _aside_ of the actor on the stage: "send someone on here--for heaven's sake!" "are you going on?" cried the frantic prompter. she dropped her arms limply at her sides and whispered: "i--i--c-a-n-t!" he turned, and as he ran his imploring eye over the line of faces, each girl shrank back from it. he reached me--i had no fear, and he saw it. "can you go on there?" he cried. i nodded. "then for god's sake go!" i gave a bound and a rush that carried me half, across the stage before the manager caught me--and so i made my entrance on the stage, and danced and marched and sang with the rest, and all unconsciously took my first step upon the path that i was to follow through shadow and through sunshine--to follow by steep and stony places, over threatening bogs, through green and pleasant meadows--to follow steadily and faithfully for many and many a year to come. on our first salary day, to the surprise of all concerned, i did not go to claim my week's pay. to everyone who spoke to me of the matter, i simply answered: "oh, that will be all right." when the second day came i was the last to present myself at the box-office window. mr. ellsler was there and he opened the door and asked me to come in. as i signed my name on the salary list i hesitated perceptibly and he laughingly said: "don't you know your own name?" now on the first day of all, when the stage-manager had taken down our names, i had been gazing at the scenery and when he called out: "little girl, what is your name?" i had not heard, and someone standing by had said: "her name is clara--clara morris, or morrisey, or morrison, or something like that," and he dropped the last syllable from my name morrison, and wrote me down morris; so when mr. ellsler put his question, "don't you know your name?" that was certainly the moment when i should have spoken--but i was too shy, and there and thereafter held my peace, and have been in consequence clara morris ever since. i having signed for and received my two weeks' salary, mr. ellsler asked why i had not come the week before, and i told him i preferred to wait because it would seem so much more if i got both weeks' salary all at one time. and he gravely nodded and said "it was rather a large sum to have in hand at one time"--and, though i was very sensitive to ridicule, i did not suspect him of making fun of me. then he said: "you are a very intelligent little girl, and when you went on alone and unrehearsed the other night you proved you had both adaptability and courage. i'd like to keep you in the theatre. will you come and be a regular member of the company for the season that begins in september next?" i think it must have been my ears that finally stopped my ever-widening smile while i made answer that i must ask my mother first. "to be sure," said he, "to be sure! well, suppose you ask her, then, and let me know whether you can or not." looking back and speaking calmly, i must admit that i do not now believe that mr. ellsler's financial future depended entirely upon the yes or no of my mother and myself; but that i was on an errand of life or death everyone must have thought who saw me tearing through the streets on that -in-the-shade summer day, racing along in a whirl of short skirts, with the boyish, self-kicking gait peculiar to running girls of thirteen. one man, a tailor, ran out hatless and coatless and looked up the street anxiously in the direction from which i came. a big boy on the corner yelled after me: "s-a-a-y, sis, where's the fire?" but you see they did not know that i was carrying home my first earnings--that i was clutching six damp one-dollar bills in the hands that had been so empty all my life! poor little hands that had never held a greater sum than one big canadian penny, that had never held a dollar bill till they had first earned it. but if the boy was blind to what i held, so was i blind to what the future held--which made us equal. i had meant to take off my hat and smooth my hair, and in a decorous and proper manner approach my mother and deliver my nice little speech, and then hand her the money. but, alas! as i rushed into the house i came upon her unexpectedly--for, fearing dinner was going to be late, she was hurrying things by shelling a great basket of peas as she sat by the dining-room window. at sight of her tired face, all my nicely planned speech disappeared. i flung my arm about her neck, dropped the bills on top of the empty pods, and cried with beautiful lucidity: "oh, mother! that's mine--and it's all yours!" she kissed me, but to my grieved amazement put the money back into my hand, folding my four stiff, unwilling fingers over it, as she said: "no, you have earned this money yourself--you are the only one who has the right to use it--you are to do with it exactly as you please." and while tears of disappointment were yet swimming in my eyes, triumph sprang up in my heart at her last words; for if i could do exactly as i pleased, why, after all, she should have the new summer dress she needed so badly. so i took the money to our room, and having secreted it in the most intricate and involved manner i could think of, i returned and laid mr. ellsler's offer before my mother, who at first hesitated, but learning that mrs. bradshaw was engaged for another season, she finally consented, and i rushed back to the theatre, where, red and hot and out of breath, i was engaged for the ballet for the next season. after this i was conscious of a new feeling, which i would have found it very hard to explain then. it was not importance, it was not vanity, it was a pleasant feeling, it lifted the head and gave one patience to bear calmly many things that had been very hard to bear. i know now it was the self-respect that comes to everyone who is a bread-winner. directly after breakfast next day i was off to get my mother's dress. i went quite alone, and my head was well in the air; for this was indeed an important occasion. i looked long and felt gravely at the edges of the goods, i did not know what for, but i had seen other people do it, and when my lavender-flowered muslin was cut off, done up and paid for, i found quite a large hole in my six dollars; for it was war time, and anything made of cotton cost a dreadful price. but, good heaven! how happy i was, and how proud that i should get a dress for my mother, instead of her getting one for me! undoubtedly, had there been a fire just then, i would have risked my life to save that flowered muslin gown. i had not been more than two or three days in the theatre when i discovered that its people seemed to be divided into two distinct parties--the guyers and the guyed--those who laughed and those who were laughed at. all my life i have had a horror of practical joking, and i very quickly decided i would not be among the guyed. i had borrowed many of mrs. bradshaw's play books to read, and often found in the directions for costumes the old word "ibid." "count rudolph--black velvet doublet, hose and short cloak. count adolph, ibid." so when the property-man, an incorrigible joker, asked me to go home and borrow mrs. bradshaw's ibid for him, i simply looked at him and smiled a broad, silent smile and never moved a peg. he gave me a sharp look, then affecting great anger at my laziness, he wrote a request for an ibid and gave it to the fattest girl in the crowd, and she carried it to mrs. bradshaw, who wrote on it that her ibid was at mrs. dickson's, and the fat girl went to mrs. dickson's, who said she had lent it to mr. lewis--so the poor fat goose was kept waddling through the heat, from one place to another, until she was half dead, to the great enjoyment of the property-man. next day he was very busy, when, glancing up, he saw me looking on at his work. instantly he caught up a bottle, and said: "run upstairs to the paint-frame (three flights up) and ask the painter to put a little ad-libitum in this bottle for me--there's a good girl!" now i did not yet know what ad-libitum meant, but i was a very close observer, and i saw the same malicious twinkle in his eye that had shone there when he had sent the fat girl on her hot journey, and once more i slowly chewed my gum, and smiled my wide, unbelieving smile. he waited a moment, but as i did not touch the bottle he tossed it aside, saying: "what a suspicious little devil you are!" but when a man wanted me to blow down a gun-barrel next morning, the property-man exclaimed: "here, you! let saucer-eyes alone! i don't know whether she gets her _savey_ out of her head or chews it out of her gum, but she don't guy worth a cent, so you needn't try to put anything on to her!" and from that day to this i have been free from the attacks of the practical joker. chapter sixth the regular season opens--i have a small part to play--i am among lovers of shakespeare--i too stand at his knee and fall under the charm. up to this time the only world i had known had been narrow and sordid and lay chill under the shadow of poverty; and it is sunlight that makes the earth smile into flower and fruit and laugh aloud through the throats of birds. but now, standing humbly at the knee of shakespeare, i began to learn something of another world--fairy-like in fascination, marvellous in reality. a world of sunny days and jewelled nights, of splendid palaces, caves of horror, forests of mystery, and meadows of smiling candor. all peopled, too, with such soldiers, statesmen, lovers, clowns, such women of splendid chill chastity, fierce ambition, thistle-down lightness, and burning, tragic love as made the heart beat fast to think of. perhaps if i had attempted simply to read shakespeare at that time, i might have fallen short both in profit and in pleasure; but it was the _hearing_ him that roused my attention. there was such music in the sound of the words, that the mind was impelled to study out their meaning. it seems to me that a human voice is to poetry what a clear even light is to a reader, making each word give up its full store of meaning. at that time forrest, crowned and wrapped in royal robes, was yet tottering on his throne. charlotte cushman was the tragic queen of the stage. mr. james murdoch, frail and aging, but still acting, was highly esteemed. joseph jefferson, e. l. davenport, j. k. hackett, edwin adams, john e. owens, dan. setchell, peter richings and his daughter caroline, mrs. d. p. bowers, miss lucille western, miss maggie mitchell, mr. and mrs. conway, matilda heron, charles couldock, joseph proctor, mr. and mrs. albaugh, mr. and mrs. barney williams, the webb sisters, kate reynolds, were all great favorites, not pausing to mention many more, while edwin booth, the greatest light of all, was rising in golden glory in the east. of the above-mentioned twenty-eight stars, eighteen acted in shakespeare's plays. all stars played a week's engagement--many played two weeks, therefore at least twenty-four of our forty-two week season was given over to shakespearean productions, and every actor and actress had the bard at their tongue's tip. in the far past the great disgrace of our profession was the inebriety of its men. at the time i write of, the severity of the managers had nearly eradicated the terrible habit, and i never saw but two of that class of brilliant actor-drunkards, beloved of newspaper story writers, who made too much of their absurd vagaries. looking back to the actors of ' , i can't help noticing the difference between their attitude of mind toward their profession, and that of the actor of to-day. salaries were much smaller then, work was harder, but life was simpler. the actor had no social standing; he was no longer looked down upon, but he was an unknown quantity; he was, in short, an actor pure and simple. he had enthusiasm for his profession--he lived to act, not merely living by acting. he had more superstition than religion, and no politics at all; but he was patriotic and shouldered his gun and marched away in the ranks as cheerfully as any other citizen soldier. but above all and beyond all else, the men and women _respected_ their chosen profession. their constant association of mind with shakespeare seemed to have given them a certain dignity of bearing as well as of speech. to-day our actors have in many cases won some social recognition, and they must therefore give a portion of their time to social duties. they are clubmen and another portion of their time goes in club lounging. they draw large salaries and too frequently they have to act in long running plays, that are made up of smartish wit and cheapest cynicism--mere froth and frivolity, while the effective smashing of the seventh commandment has been for so long a time the principal _motif_ of both drama and farce, that one cannot wonder much at the general tone of flippancy prevailing among the theatrical people of to-day. they guy everything and everybody, and would jeer at their profession as readily as they would at an old man on the street wearing a last year's hat. they are sober, they are honest, they are generous, but they seem to have grown utterly flippant, and i can't help wondering if this alteration can have come about through the change in their mental pabulum. at all events, as i watched and listened in the old days, it seemed to me they were never weary of discussing readings, expressions, emphasis, and action. one would remark, say at a rehearsal of "hamlet," that macready gave a certain line in this manner, and another would instantly express a preference for a forrest--or a davenport--rendering, and then the argument would be on, and only a call to the stage would end the weighing of words, the placing of commas, etc. i well remember my first step into theatrical controversy. "macbeth" was being rehearsed, and the star had just exclaimed: "hang out our banners on the outward walls!" that was enough--argument was on. it grew animated. some were for: "hang out our banners! on the outward walls the cry is still: they come!" while one or two were with the star's reading. i stood listening and looking on and fairly sizzling with hot desire to speak, but dared not take the liberty, i stood in such awe of my elders. presently the "old-man" turned and, noticing my eagerness, laughingly said: "well, what is it, clara? you'll have a fit if you don't ease your mind with speech." "oh, uncle dick," i answered, my words fairly tripping over each other in my haste. "i have a picture home, i cut it out of a paper, it's a picture of a great castle, with towers and moats and things, and on the outer walls there are men with spears and shields, and they seem to be looking for the enemy, and, uncle dick, the _banner_ is floating over the high tower!" "where it ought to be," interpolated the old gentleman, who was english. "so," i went on, "don't you think it ought to be read: 'hang out our banners! on the outward walls'--the outward walls, you know, is where the lookout are standing--'the cry--is still, they come!'" a general laugh followed my excited explanation, but uncle dick patted me very kindly on the shoulder, and said: "good girl! you stick to your picture--it's right and so are you. many people read the line that way, but you have worked it out for yourself, and that's a good plan to follow." and i swelled and swelled, it seemed to me, i was so proud of the gentle old man's approval. but that same night i came quite wofully to grief. i had been one of the crowd of "witches"; i had also had my place at that shameless _papier-maché_ banquet given by _macbeth_ to his tantalized guests, and then, being off duty, was, as usual, planted in the entrance, watching the acting of the grown-up and the grown-great. _lady macbeth_ was giving the sleep-walking scene. her method was of the old, old school. she spoke at almost the full power of her lungs, throughout that mysterious, awe-inspiring sleep-walking scene. it jarred upon my feelings--i could not have told why, but it did. i believed myself alone, and when the memory-haunted woman roared out: "yet, who would have thought the old man to have had so much _blood_ in him?" i remarked, _sotto voce_: "did you expect to find ink in him?" a sharp "ahem!" right at my shoulder told me i had been overheard, and i turned to face--oh, horror! the stage-manager. he glared angrily at me, and began: "since when have the ladies of the ballet taken to criticising the work of the stars?" humbly enough, i said: "i beg your pardon, sir, i was just talking to myself, that was all." but he went on: "oh, you would not criticize a reading, unless you could better it--so pray favor us with _your_ ideas on this speech!" each sneering word cut me to the heart. tears filled my eyes. i struggled hard to keep them from falling, while i just murmured: "i beg your pardon!" again he demanded my reading, saying they were not "too old to learn," and in sheer desperation, i exclaimed: "i was only speaking to myself, but i thought _lady macbeth_ was amazed at the _quantity_ of blood that flowed from the body of such an old man--for when you get old, you know, sir, you don't have so much blood as you used to, and i only just thought, that as the 'sleeping men were laced,' and the knives 'smeared,' and her hands 'bathed' with it, she might have perhaps whispered: 'yet, who would have thought the old man to have had _so much_ blood in him?' i didn't mean an impertinence!" and down fell the tears, for i could not talk and hold them back at the same time. he looked at me in dead silence for a few moments, then he said: "humph!" and walked away, while i rushed to the dressing-room and cried and cried, and vowed that never, never again would i talk to myself--in the theatre at all events. i mention these incidents to show how quickly i came under the influence of these shakespeare-studying men and women, some of whom had received their very adequate education from him alone. it was odd to hear how they used his words and expressions in their daily conversation. 'twas not so much quoting him intentionally, as it was an unconscious incorporation into their own language of shakespeare's lines. tramps were to them almost always "vagrom men." when one did some very foolish thing, he almost surely begged to be "written down an ass." the appearance of a pretty actress in her new spring or fall gown was as surely hailed with: "the riches of the ship have come on shore!" i saw a pet dog break for the third time from restraint to follow his master, who put his hand on the animal's head and rather worriedly remarked: "'the love that follows us sometimes is our trouble--which still'" (with a big sigh) "'we thank as love!' but you'll have to go back, old fellow, all the same." if someone obliged you, and you expressed the fear that you had given him trouble, he would be absolutely certain to reply, pleasantly and quite honestly: "the labor we delight in physics pain!" and so on and on unendingly. and i almost believe that had an old actor seen these three great speeches: the "seven ages" of man, "to be or not to be!" and "othello's occupation's gone," grouped together, he would have fallen upon his knees and become an idolator there and then. yes, i found them odd people, but i liked them. the world was brightening for me, and i felt i had a right to my share of the air and light, and as much of god's earth as my feet could stand upon. i had had a little part entrusted to me, too, the very first week of the season. a young backwoods-boy, tom bruce, by name, and i had borrowed some clothes and had slammed about with my gun, and spoken my few words out loud and clear, and had met with approving looks, if not words, but not yet was the actress aroused in me, i was still a mere school-girl reciting her lessons. my proudest moment had been when i was allowed to go on for the longest witch in the cauldron scene in "macbeth." perhaps i might have come to grief over it had i not overheard the leading man say: "that child will never speak those lines in the world!" and the leading man was six feet tall and handsome, and i was thirteen and a half years old, and had to be called a "child!" i was in a secret rage, and i went over and over my lines, at all hours, under all kinds of circumstances, so that nothing should be able to frighten me at night. and then, with my paste-board crown and white sheet and petticoat, i boiled-up in the cauldron and gave my lines well enough for the manager (who was _hecate_ just then) to say low, "good! good!" and the leading man next night asked me to take care of his watch and chain during his combat scene, and my pride of bearing was most unseemly, and the other ballet-girls loved me not at all, for you see they, too, knew he was six feet tall and handsome. chapter seventh i find i am in a "family theatre"--i fare forth away from my mother, and in columbus i shelter under the wing of mrs. bradshaw. this theatre in which i found myself was, in professional parlance, a family theatre, a thing abhorred by many, especially by actresses. not much wonder either, for even as the green bay tree flourisheth in the psalm, so does nepotism flourish in the family theatre; and when it's a case of the managerial _monsieur_, _madame_, _et bébés_ all acting, many are the tears, sobs, and hot words that follow upon the absorption by these three of all the good parts, while all the poor ones are placed with strictest justice where they belong. at that time men and women were engaged each for a special "line of business," and to ask anyone to act outside of his "line" was an offence not lightly passed over. for the benefit of those who may not be familiar with theatrical terms of procedure, i will state that a company was generally made up of a leading man (heroes, of course), first old man, second old man, heavy man, first comedian, second comedian, juvenile man, walking gentleman, and utility man. that term, "heavy man," of course had no reference to the actor's physical condition, but it generally implied a deep voice, heavy eyebrows, and a perfect willingness to stab in the back or smilingly to poison the wine of the noblest hero or the fairest heroine in the business; so the professional player of villains was a heavy man. the juvenile man may have left juvenility far, far behind him in reality, but if his back was flat, his eyes large and hair good; he would support old mothers, be falsely accused of thefts, and win wealthy sweethearts in last acts, with great _éclat_--as juvenile men were expected to do. walking gentlemen didn't walk all the time; truth to tell, they stood about and pretended a deep interest in other people's affairs, most of the time. they were those absent pauls or georges that are talked about continually by sweethearts or friends or irate fathers, and finally appear just at the end of everything, simply to prove they really do exist, and to hold a lady's hand, while the curtain falls on the characters, all nicely lined up and bowing like toy mandarins. the utility man was generally not a man, but a large, gloomy boy, whose mustache would not grow, and whose voice would crack over the few lines he was invited to address to the public. he sometimes led mobs, but more often made brief statements as to the whereabouts of certain carriages--and therein laid his claim to utility. then came the leading lady, the first old woman (who was sometimes the heavy woman), the first singing soubrette, the walking ladies, the second soubrette (and boys' parts), the utility woman, and the ladies of the ballet. these were the principal "lines of business," and in an artistic sense they bound actors both hand and foot; so utterly inflexible were they that the laws of the medes and persians seemed blithe and friendly things in comparison. "oh, i can't play that; it's not in my line!" "oh, yes, i sing, but the singing don't belong to my line!" "i know, he _looks_ the part and i don't, but it belongs to my line!" and so, nearly every week, some performance used to be marred by the slavish clinging to these defined "lines of business." mr. augustin daly was the first manager who dared to ignore the absolute "line." "you must trust my judgment to cast you for the characters you are best suited to perform, and you must trust my honor not to lower or degrade you, by casting you below your rightful position, for i will not be hampered and bound by any fixed 'lines of business.'" so said he to all would-be members of his company. the pill was a trifle bitter in the swallowing, as most pills are, but it was so wholesome in its effect that ere long other managers were following mr. daly's example. but to return to our mutton. if the family theatre was disliked by those who had already won recognized positions, it was at least an ideal place in which a young girl could begin her professional life. the manager, mr. john a. ellsler, was an excellent character-actor as well as a first old man. his wife, mrs. effie ellsler, was his leading woman--his daughter effie, though not out of school at that time, acted whenever there was a very good part that suited her. the first singing soubrette was the wife of the prompter and the stage-manager. the first old woman was the mother of the walking lady, and so it came about that there was not even the pink flush of a flirtation over the first season, and, though another season was shaken and thrilled through and through by the elopement and marriage of james lewis with miss frankie hurlburt, a young lady from private life in cleveland, yet in all the years i served in that old theatre, no real scandal ever smirched it. true, one poor little ballet-girl fell from our ranks and was drawn into that piteous army of women, who, with silk petticoats and painted cheeks, seek joy in the bottom of the wine cup. poor little soul! how we used to lock the dressing-room door and lower our voices when we spoke of having seen her. i can never be grateful enough for having come under the influence of the dear woman who watched over me that first season--mrs. bradshaw, one of the most versatile, most earnest, most devoted actresses i ever saw, and a good woman besides. she had known sorrow, trouble, and loss. she was widowed, she had two children to support unaided, but she made moan to no one. she worked early and late; she rehearsed, studied, acted, mended, and made; for her salary absolutely forbade the services of a dress-maker. she had two gowns a year, one thick, one thin. she could not herself compute the age of her bonnets, so often were they blocked over, or dyed and retrimmed. yet no better appearing woman ever entered a stage-door than this excessively neat, well-groomed, though plainly clad, old actress. it is not to be denied that a great many professional women are absolutely without the sense of order. their irregular hours, their unsettled mode of life, camping out a few days in this hotel and then in that in a measure explain it, but mrs. bradshaw set an example of neat orderliness that was well worth following. "i can't see," she used to say, "why an actress should be a slattern." then if anyone murmured: "early rehearsals, great haste, you know!" she would answer: "you know at night the hour of morning rehearsal--then get up fifteen minutes earlier, and leave your room in order. everything an actress does is commented upon, and as she is more or less an object of suspicion, her conduct should be even more rigidly correct than that of other women." she had been a beauty in her youth, as her regular features still proclaimed, and though her figure had become almost falstaffian, her graceful arm movements and the dignity of her carriage saved her from being in the slightest degree grotesque. the secret of her smiling contentment was her honest love for her work. we had one taste in common--this experienced woman and my now fourteen-year-old self--books! books! and yet books, we read. i borrowed from my friends and she also read--she borrowed from her friends and i, too, read, and she came to speak of them, and then of her own ideas, and so i found that this woman, already on the way to age, who was so poor and hard-working, and had nothing to look forward to but work, was yet cheerfully contented, because she loved the work--yes, and honored it, and held her head high, because she was an actress with a clean reputation! "study your lines--speak them with exactitude, just as they are written!" she used to say to me, with a sort of passion in her voice. "don't just gather the idea of a speech, and then use your own words, that's an infamous habit. the author knew what he wanted you to say--for god's sake honor the poor dead writer's wishes and speak his lines exactly as he wrote them! if he says: 'my lord the carriage waits!' don't you go on and say: 'my lord the carriage is waiting!'" i almost believe she would have fallen in a dead faint had she been prompted, and to have been late to a rehearsal would have been a shame greater than she could have borne. to this woman's example, i owe the strict business-like habits of attention to study and rehearsals that have won so much praise for me from my managers. had mr. ellsler's intention of taking his company to another city for a great part of the season been known in advance, my mother would never have given consent to my membership; but the season was three months old before we knew that we were to be transferred to columbus, the state capital, where we were to remain, while the legislature sat in large arm-chairs, passing bad bills, and killing good ones, for some three months or more--at least that was the ordinary citizen's opinion of the conduct of the state's wise men. it seemed to me that when a man paid his taxes he felt he had purchased the right to grumble at his representatives to his heart's content. but that move to columbus was a startling event in my life. it meant leaving my mother and standing quite alone. she was filled with anxiety, principally for my physical welfare, but i felt, every now and then, my grief and fright pierced through and through with a delicious thrill of importance. i was going to be just like a grown-up, and would decide for myself what i should wear. i might even, if i chose to become so reckless, wear my sunday hat to a rehearsal; and when my cheap little trunk came, with c. m. on the end, showing it was my very own, i stooped down and hugged it. but later, when my mother with a sad face separated my garments from her own, taking them from her trunk, where they had always rested before, i burst into sobs and tears of utter forlornness. the columbus trip had a special effect upon the affairs of the ballet. we had received $ a week salary, but every one of us had had some home assistance. now we were going to a strange city, and no one on earth could manage to live on such a salary as that, so our stipend was raised to $ a week, and the three of us (we were but three that season) set to work trying to solve the riddle of how a girl was to pay her board-bill, her basket-bill, her wash-bill, and all the small expenses of the theatre--powder, paint, soap, hair-pins, etc., to say nothing at all of shoes and clothing--all out of $ a week. of course there was but one way to do it, and that was by doubling-up and sharing a room with some one, and that first season i was very lucky. mrs. bradshaw found a house where the top floor had been finished off as one great long room, running the entire length of the building from gable to gable, and she offered me a share in it. oh, i was glad! blanche and i had one-half the room, and mrs. bradshaw and the irrepressible little torment and joy of her life, small jack, had the other half. no wonder i grew to reverence her, whose character could bear such intimate association as that. i don't know what her religious beliefs were. she read her bible sundays, but she never went to church, neither did she believe in a material hell; but it was not long before i discovered that when i said my prayers over in my corner, she paused in whatever she was doing, and remained with downcast eyes--a fact that made me scramble a bit, i'm afraid. there was but one thing in our close companionship that caused her pain, and that was the inevitable belief of strangers, that i was her daughter and blanche her protegée--they being misled by the difference in our manner toward her. in the severity of my upbringing i had been taught that it was nothing short of criminal to be lacking in respect for those who were older than myself; therefore i was not only strictly obedient to her expressed wishes, but i rose when she entered a room, opened and closed doors, placed chairs at table, gave her precedence on all occasions, and served her in such small ways as were possible; while blanche ignored her to such a degree that one might have mistaken her for a stranger to our little party. poor mother! the tears stood thick in her brave eyes when the landlady, on our third day in her house, remarked to her, patting me on the shoulder as she spoke: "you have a most devoted little daughter, here!" and there was a distinct pause, before she answered, gently: "you mistake--i have a devoted little friend here, in clara, but blanche is my daughter!" she was a singular being, that daughter. it is seldom indeed that a girl, who is not bad, can yet be such a thorn in the side of a mother. she was a most disconcerting, baffling creature--a tricksy, elfish spirit, that delighted in malicious fun. pleasure-loving, indolent, and indifferent alike to praise or blame, she (incredible as it seems) would willingly give up a good part to save herself the trouble of playing it. i recall a trick she once performed in my favor. i thought the _player-queen_ in "hamlet" was a beautiful part, and i hungered to play it; but it belonged to blanche, and, of course, she was cast for it; but said she: "you could have it, for all i'd care!" then, suddenly, she added: "say, you may play it with the next _hamlet_ that comes along!" i pointed out the impossibility of such an assertion coming true, but she grinned widely at me and chewed her gum as one who knew many things beyond my ken, and counselled me to "watch out and see what happened." i watched out, and this happened: when the mimic-play was going on before the king and court, my impish friend blanche, as the _player-queen_, should have said: "both here and hence, pursue me lasting strife, if once a widow, ever i be wife!" instead of which, loudly and distinctly, she proclaimed: "both here and hence, pursue me lasting strife, _if once a wife, ever i be widowed_!" _hamlet_ rolled over on his face, _queen gertrude_ (mrs. bradshaw) groaned aloud, _polonius_ (mr. ellsler) threatened discharge, under cover of the laughter of the audience, while guilty blanche grinned in impish enjoyment of her work, and next "hamlet" i was cast for the _player-queen_, to punish blanche. to punish her, indeed--she was as merry as a sand-boy, standing about chewing gum and telling stories all the evening. the "tatting" craze was sweeping over the country then, everybody wore tatting and almost everybody made it. i worked day and night at it, tatting at rehearsal and between scenes, and lady-stars often bought my work, to my great pleasure as well as profit. blanche wanted a new shuttle, and her mother, who was under extra expense just then, told her she could have it the next week. it was shortly before christmas, and next morning at rehearsal, with all the company present, blanche walked up to mr. ellsler and asked him if he had any money. he looked bewildered, and answered somewhat doubtfully that he thought he had a little. "well," said she, "i want you to give me a quarter, so i can get you a christmas present." there was a burst of laughter as mr. ellsler handed her the quarter, and after rehearsal this is what she did with it: on superior street a clothing store was being sold out--a forced sale. there she bought a black shoe-string tie for five cents, as a gift for mr. ellsler, and elsewhere got for herself a tatting-shuttle and five pieces of chewing-gum, and chuckled over her caper, quite undisturbed by her mother's tears. one thing only moved her, one thing only she loved, music! she had a charming voice, clear, pure, and cold as crystal, and she sang willingly, nay, even eagerly, whenever she had the opportunity. in after years she became a well-known singer in light opera. chapter eighth i display my new knowledge--i return to cleveland to face my first theatrical vacation, and i know the very tragedy of littleness. during that first season i learned to stand alone, to take care of myself and my small belongings without admonition from anyone. one of my notions was that, since an immortal soul had to dwell in my body, it became my bounden duty to bestow upon it regular and painstaking care in honor of its tenant. the idea may seem extravagant, yet it served me well, since it did for me what a mother's watchful supervision does for other little girls when habits are being formed. i had learned, too, most of the technical terms used in the profession. i knew all about footlights, wings, flies, borders, drops, braces, grooves, traps, etc. i understood the queer abbreviations. knew that o.p. side was opposite the prompt side, where the prompter stood with his book of the play to give the word to any actor whose memory failed him and to ring the two bells for the close of the act--one of warning to the curtain-man up aloft to get ready, the other for him to lower the curtain. knew that r.u.e. and l.u.e. were right or left upper entrance; c., centre of the stage; r.c., right of centre; cd., centre-door. that to go d.s. or u.s. was an intimation that you would do well to go down stage or up stage, while an x. to c. was a terse request for you to cross to the centre of the stage, and that a whole lot of other letters meant a whole lot of other directions that would only bore a reader. i understood how many illusions were produced, and one of the proofs that i was meant to be an actress was to be found in my enjoyment of the mechanism of stage effects. i was always on hand when a storm had to be worked, and would grind away with a will at the crank that, turning a wheel against a tight band of silk, made the sound of a tremendously shrieking wind, which filled me with pride and personal satisfaction. and no one sitting in front of the house looking at a white-robed woman ascending to heaven, apparently floating upward through the blue clouds, enjoyed the spectacle more than i enjoyed looking at the ascent from the rear, where i could see the tiny iron support for her feet, the rod at her back with the belt holding her securely about the waist (just as though she were standing on a large hoe, with the handle at her back), and the men hoisting her through the air, with a painted, sometimes moving, sky behind her. this reminds me that mrs. bradshaw had several times to go to heaven (dramatically speaking), and as her figure and weight made the hoe support useless in her case, she always went to heaven on the entire paint-frame or gallery, as it is called--a long platform the whole width of the stage that is raised and lowered at will by windlass, and on which the artists stand while painting scenery. this enormous affair would be cleaned and hung about with nice blue clouds, and then mrs. bradshaw, draped in long, white robes, with hands meekly crossed upon her ample breast and eyes piously uplifted, would rise heavenward, slowly, as so heavy an angel should. but, alas! there was one drawback to this otherwise perfect ascension. never, so long as the theatre stood, could that windlass be made to work silently. the paint-gallery always moved up or down to a succession of screaks unoilable, untamable, blood-curdling, that were intensified by mrs. bradshaw's weight, so that she ascended to the blue tarlatan empyrean accompanied by such chugs and long-drawn yowlings as suggested a trip to the infernal regions. mrs. bradshaw's face remained calm and unmoved, but now and then an agonized moan escaped her, lest even the orchestra's effort to cover up the paint-frame's protesting cries should prove useless. poor woman, when she had been lowered again to terra firma and stepped off, the whole paint-frame would give a kind of joyous upward spring. she noticed it, and one evening looked back, and said: "oh, you're not a bit more glad than i am, you screaking wretch!" i had learned to make up my face properly, to dress my hair in various ways, and was beginning to know something about correct costuming; but as the season was drawing to its close my heart quaked and i was sick with fear, for i was facing, for the first time, that terror, that affliction of the actor's life, the summer vacation. people little dream what a period of misery that is to many stage folk. seeing them well dressed, laughing and talking lightly with the acquaintances they meet on the street, one little suspects that the gnawing pain of hunger may be busy with their stomachs--that a woman's fainting "because of the extreme heat, you know," was really caused by want of food. that the fresh handkerchiefs are of their own washing. that the garments are guarded with almost inconceivable care, and are only worn on the street, some older articles answering in their lodgings--and that it is not vanity, but business, for a manager is not attracted by a seedy or a shabby-looking applicant for an engagement. oh, the weary, weary miles the poor souls walk! with not a penny in their pockets. they are compelled to say, "roll on, sweet chariot!" to even the street-car as it appears before their longing eyes. some people, mostly men, under these circumstances will stand and look at the viands spread out temptingly in the restaurant windows; others, myself among the number, will avoid such places as one would avoid a pestilence. we were back in cleveland for the last of the season, and i used to count, over and over again, my tiny savings and set them in little piles. the wash, the board, and, dear heaven! there were six long, long weeks of vacation, and i had only one little pile of board money to set against the whole six. i had six little piles of wash money, and one other little pile, the _raison d'être_ of which i may explain by and by, if i am not too much ashamed of the early folly. now i was staying at that acme of inconvenience and discomfort, a cheap boarding-house, where, by the way, social lines were drawn with sharp distinction, the upper class coldly recognizing the middle class, but ignoring the very existence of the lower class, refugees from ignoble fortune. mrs. bradshaw, by right of dignity and regular payments for the best room in the house, was the star-boarder, and it was undoubtedly her friendship which raised me socially from that third and lowest class to which my small payments would have relegated me. standing in my tiny, closet-like room, by lifting myself to my toes, i could touch the ceiling. there was not space for a bureau, but the yellow wash-stand stood quite firmly, with the assistance of a brick, which made up for the absence of part of its off hind leg. there was a kitchen-chair that may have been of pine, but my aching back proclaimed it lignum-vitæ. a mere sliver of a bed stretched itself sullenly in the corner, where its slats, showing their outlines through the meagre bed-clothing, suggested the ribs of an attenuated cab-horse. from that bed early rising became a pleasure instead of a mere duty. above the wash-stand, in a narrow, once veneered but now merely glue-covered frame, hung a small looking-glass, that, size considered, could, i believe, do more damage to the human countenance than could any other mirror in the world. it had a sort of dimple in its middle, which had the effect of scattering one's features into the four corners of the glass, loosely--a nose and eyebrow here, a mouth yonder, and one's "altogether" nowhere. it was very disconcerting. blanche said it made her quite sea-sick, or words to that effect. this dreadful little apartment lay snug against the roof. in the winter the snow sifted prettily but uncomfortably here and there. in the summer the heat was appalling. those old-timers who knew the house well, called no. the "torture-chamber," and many a time, during the fiercest heat, mrs. bradshaw would literally drive me from the small fiery furnace to her own room, where at least there was air to breathe, for no. had but half a window. and yet, miserable as this place was, it was a refuge and a shelter. the house was well known, it was ugly, as cheap things are apt to be, but it was respectable and safe, and i trembled at the thought of losing my right to enter there. in the past my mother had been employed by the landlady as seamstress and as housekeeper, besides which she had once nursed the lonely old woman through a severe sickness, and as i had been permitted to live with my mother, mrs. miller of course knew me well; so one day when she found me engaged in the unsatisfactory occupation of recounting my money she asked me, very gruffly, what i was going to do through the summer. i gazed at her with wide, frightened eyes, and was simply dumb. more sharply, she asked: "do you hear?--what are you going to do when the theatre closes?" i swallowed hard, and then faintly answered: "i've got one week's board saved, mrs. miller, but after that i--i--," had my soul depended upon the speaking of another word i could not have uttered it. she glared her most savage glare at me. she impatiently pushed her false front awry, pulled at her spectacles, and finally took up one of my six little piles of coin and asked: "what's this for?" "washing," i gasped. "you don't send your handkerchiefs to the wash, do you?" she demanded, suspiciously. i shook my head and pointed to a handkerchief drying on a string at my half-window. "that's right," she remarked, in a slightly mollified tone. then she reached over, took up the pile that was meant for the next week's board, and putting it in her pocket, she remarked: "i'll just take this _now_, so you won't run no risk of losing it, and for the next five weeks after, why, well your mother was honest before you, and i reckon you're going to take after her. you promise to be a hard worker, too, so, well nobody else has ever been able to stay in this room over a week--so i guess you can go on stopping right here, till the theatre opens again, and you can pay me by fits and starts as it comes handy for you. why, what's the matter with you? well, i vum! you must be clean tuckered out to cry like that! land sakes, child! tie a wet rag on your head and lay right down, till you can get picked up a bit!" and out she bounced. dear old raging savage! how she used to frighten us all! how she barked and barked, but she never, never bit! how i wanted to kiss her withered old cheek that day when she offered me shelter on trust! but she was eighty-five years old and my honored guest here at "the pines" before i told her all the terror and the gratitude she brought to me that day. my clear skin, bright eyes, and round face gave me an appearance of perfect health, which was belied by the pain i almost unceasingly endured. the very inadequate provision my poor mother had been able to make for the necessaries of her child's welfare, the cruel restrictions placed upon my exercise, even upon movement in that wooden chair, where i sat with numb limbs five hours at a stretch, had greatly aggravated a slight injury to my spine received in babyhood. and now i was facing a life of hard work, handicapped by that most tenacious, most cruel of torments, a spinal trouble. at fourteen i knew enough about such terms as vertebra of the back, spinal-column, spinal-cord, sheath of cord, spinal-marrow, axial nervous system, curvatures, flexes and reflexes to have nicely established an energetic quack as a specialist in spinal trouble; and, alas! after all these years no one has added to my list of flexes and reflexes the words "fixed or refixed," so my poor spine and i go struggling on, and i sometimes think, if it could speak, it might declare that i am as dented, crooked, and wavering as it is. however, i suppose that state of uncertain health may have caused the capricious appetite that tormented me. always poor, i had yet never been able to endure coarse food. heavy meats, cabbage, turnips, beets, fried things filled me with cold repulsion. crackers and milk formed my dinner, day in and day out. now and then crackers and water had to suffice me; but i infinitely preferred the latter to a meal of roast pork or of corned beef, followed by rice-pudding. but the trouble from the fastidious appetite came when it suddenly demanded something for its gratification--imperiously, even furiously demanded it. if anyone desires a thing intensely, the continual denial of that craving becomes almost a torture. so, when that finical appetite of mine would suddenly cry out for oysters, i could think of nothing else. quick tears would spring into my eyes as i approached the oysterless table. again and again i would dream of them, cans and cans would be piled on my table (i lived far from shell-oysters then), and when i awoke i would turn on my lumpy bed and moan like a sick animal. i mention this because i wish to explain what that little odd pile of money had been saved for. at the approach of hot weather a craving for ice-cream had seized upon me with almost agonizing force. it is a desire common to all young things, but the poverty of my surroundings, the lack of the more delicate vegetables, of fruits, of sweets, added to the intensity of my craving. i had found a place away up on the market where for ten cents one could get quite a large saucer of the delicate dainty. fifteen or twenty-five cents was charged elsewhere for no better cream, but a more decorative saucer. but, good gracious! what a sum of money--ten cents for a mere pleasure! though the memory of it afterward was a comfort for several days, and then, oh, unfortunate girl! the sick longing would come again! and so, in a sort of despair, i tried to save thirty cents, with the deliberate intention of spending the whole sum on luxury and folly. six long, blazing-hot, idle weeks i should have to pass in the "torture-chamber," but with that thirty cents by me i could, every two weeks, loiter deliciously over a plate of cream, feel its velvety smoothness on my lips and its icy coldness cooling all my weary, heat-worn body. one week i could live on memory, and the next upon anticipation, and so get through the long vacation in comparative comfort. there was no lock upon my room door, but i said nothing about it, as the door would not close anyway; and at night, for security, i placed the lignum-vitæ chair against it. in the day-time i had to entrust my belongings to the honor of my house-mates, as it were. the six little piles of wash-money i had, after the manner of a squirrel, buried here and there at the bottom of my trunk, which i securely locked; but my precious thirty cents i carried about with me, tied in the corner of a handkerchief. it generally rested in the bosom of my dress, but there came a day when, for economy's sake, i washed a pair of stockings as well as my three handkerchiefs, and mrs. miller said i might hang them on the line in the yard below. my tiny window opened in that direction. the day was fiercely hot. i put the money in my pocket and carefully hung my dress up opposite the window, and, in a little white jacket, did out my washing; then, singing happily, i ran down-stairs, two long flights, to hang the articles on the line. as i was putting a clothes-pin in place i glanced upward at the musk-plant on my window-sill--and then my heart stood still in my breast. i could neither breathe nor move for the moment. i could see my dress-skirt depending from its nail, and oh, dear god! a man's great red hand was grasping it--was clutching it, here and there, in search of the pocket! suddenly i gave a piercing cry, and bounding into the house, i tore madly up the stairs--too late. the dress lay in the doorway--the pocket was empty! on the floor, with my head against the white-washed wall, i sat with closed eyes. the smell of a musk-plant makes me shudder to this day. i sat there stupidly till dusk; then i crept to my sliver of a bed, and cried, and cried, and sobbed the whole weary, hot night through. next day i simply could not rise, and so for weeks i dragged heavily up and down the stairs, loathing the very sight of the dining-room, and driven half wild with that never-sleeping craving for ice-cream. it was purgatory, it was the very tragedy of littleness. and that was my first theatrical vacation. chapter ninth the season reopens--i meet the yellow breeches and become a utility man--mr. murdock escapes fits and my "luck" proves to be extra work. the exuberance of my joy over the opening of the new season was somewhat modified by my close relations with a certain pair of knee-breeches--and i wish to say right here that when gail hamilton declared inanimate things were endowed with powers of malice and general mischievousness, she was not exaggerating, but speaking strictly by the card. some men think her charge was made solely against collar-buttons, whose conduct the world admits is detrimental to good morals; but they are wrong; she included many things in her charge. consider the innocent-looking rocking-chair, for instance. when it strikes does not the rocker always find your ankle-joint? in darkness or in light did it ever miss that exact spot? never! and then how gently it will sway, while you rear and stamp, and, with briny eyes, say--well, things you should not say, things you would not say but for the malice of an inanimate thing. perhaps the quickest way to win your sympathy is to tell you at once that those knee-breeches were made of yellow plush, bright yellow--i thought that would move you! there was a coat, too--yes, things can always be worse, you see; and when i was crowded into that awful livery i felt like hopping about in a search for hemp-seed, i looked so like an enormous canary that had outgrown its cage. had gail hamilton known those breeches she would have said: "here is total depravity in yellow plush!" you see, the way they got their grip on me originally was this. there had been two utility men engaged for the company, but one of them was taken sick and could not come to the city at all, and the other one made the manager sick, and was discharged for utter incompetency, and that very night there was required a male servant who could in the first act summon the star to the presence of his employer, with a name hard to pronounce; and in the last act, when the star had become the boss of the whole affair, could announce the coming of his carriage. "could i do those two lines?" "oh, yes!" i joyfully announced my ability and my willingness; "but i had no clothes." and then, instead of turning the part into a girl attendant, in an evil moment the manager bethought himself of some wardrobe he had purchased from a broken up or down opera manager, and search discovered the yellow-plush breeches, coat, and white wig. i put them on--the canary was hatched! i played the part of two announcements; i walked out clear from the hip, like a boy--and i became the utility man of the company, and the tormented victim of the yellow breeches. i was a patient young person and willing to endure much for art's sake, but that wig was too much. built of white horse-hair mounted upon linen, its heat and weight were fearful. it had evidently been constructed for a big, round, perfectly bumpless head. it came down to my very eyebrows on top, and at the sides, instead of terminating just at the hair-line above the ear, it swallowed up my ears, covered my temples, and extended clear to my eyes, giving me the appearance of being harnessed up in large white blinders--like a shying horse. in common humanity the manager released me from the wig and let me wear powder, but the clutch of the yellow breeches remained unbroken. as in their opera days (i don't know what they sang, but they were probably in the chorus) they had wandered through the world, knowing all continental europe and the south americas, so now they wandered through dramatic literature. one night accompanying me on to deliver a note to madame de pompadour, the next night those same yellow breeches and i skipped back to louis xiv., and admitted many lords and ladies, with tongue-tying names, to that monarch's presence, only to skip forward again, in a few days, to bring in mail-bags to snuffy rural gentry, under almost any of the georges. though the lace ruffles and jabots of the french period might give place to a plain red waistcoat for the georgian english household, the canary breeches were always there, ready to burst into song at any moment, to basely fire off a button or break a buckle just at the moment of my entrance-cue, treacherously suggesting, by their easy wrinkling while i stood, that i might just as well sit down and rest my tired feet, and the moment i attempted to lower myself to a chair, beginning such a mad cracking and snapping in every seam as brought me upright with a bound and the settled conviction that weariness was preferable to public shame. i am glad to this day that the stage-door was always kept locked, for, had it been open, heaven only knows where those cosmopolitan breeches might have taken me--they were such experienced travellers that a trip to havana or to the city of mexico would have struck them as a nice little jaunt. my pleasantest moments as utility man came to me when, in a very brief white cotton roman shirt and sandals, i led the shouts for the _supers_, who are proverbially dumb creatures before the audience, though noisy enough behind the scenes. so all the furious and destructive mobs of that season were led on by a little whipper-snapper who yelled like a demon with a copper-lined throat and then stood about afterward peacefully making tatting. it must not be thought that i had in the first place a monopoly of the small parts; far from it, but the company being rather short of utility people, if the ballet-girls could play speaking servants, it not only saved a salary or two to the manager, but it was of immense advantage to the girls themselves. then, too, mr. ellsler was particularly anxious to avoid any charge of favoritism; so in the earliest days these little parts were given out turn and turn about, without choice or favor--indeed, two or three times my short dress caused me to be passed over in favor of long dresses and done-up hair. but a few disasters, caused by failure of memory or loss of nerve on the part of these competitors, gave the _pas_ to me, and it must be remembered that these lapses and mishaps, though amusing to recall, were absolutely disastrous at the time, ruining, as they did, the scene, if not the entire act, in which they occurred. with special vividness i recall the first one of these happenings. "romeo and juliet" was the play, and _balthazar_ the part. i longed for it because, aside from his fine speech, he was really quite important and had to show tenderness, anxiety, and determination during the time _romeo_ addressed him. i pleaded with my eyes, but i could not, dared not speak up and ask for the part, as did annie, who was older than i. the star and prompter exchanged a few low-spoken sentences. i caught the condemnatory word "child," and knew my fate was sealed--long skirts and turned-up hair had won. however, my wound was salved when the page to _paris_ was given me with two lines to speak. now there is no one but _romeo_ on the stage when _balthazar_ enters, which, of course, gives him great prominence. his first speech, of some fifty or fifty-six words, is simply expressed, not at all involved, yet from the moment annie received the part she became a broken, terror-stricken creature. many people when nervous bite their nails, but annie, in that state of mind, had a funny habit of putting her hand to the nape of her neck and rubbing her hair upward. she had a pretty dress of her own, but she had to borrow a wig, and, like all borrowed wigs, it failed to fit; it was too small, and at last, when the best had been done, its wobbly insecurity must have been terrifying. the girl's figure was charming, and as she stood in the entrance in her boy's costume, i remarked: "you look lovely, annie!" silently she turned her glassy, unseeing eyes toward me, while she shifted her weight swiftly from one foot to the other, opening and shutting her hands spasmodically. _romeo_ was on, and he joyously declared: "my bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne!" he then described his happy dream--i heard the words: "when but love's shadows are so rich in joy!" and there annie staggered forward on to the stage. "news from verona!" cried _romeo_: "how now, balthazar?" oh, well might he ask "how now?" for, shifting from foot to foot, this stricken _balthazar_ was already feeling at the nape of her neck, and instead of answering the questions of _romeo_ about _juliet_ with the words: "then she is well, and nothing can be ill, her body sleeps in capets' monument, and her immortal part with angels lives; i saw her laid low in her kindred's vault, and presently took post to tell it you: o pardon me for bringing these ill news, since you did leave it for my office, sir," these were the startling statements he made in gulps and gasps: "o-oh, y-yes! sh-e's very well--and nothing's wrong; [titter from audience, and amazement on _romeo's_ face] h-her immortal parts are in a vault, i--i saw them laid there, and come to tell you!" perhaps she would have got to the right words at last, but just there the wig, pushed too hard, lurched over on one side, giving such a piratical look to the troubled face that a very gale of laughter filled the house, and she retired then and there, though in the next speech she should have refused to leave _romeo_: "pardon me, sir, i will not leave you thus: your looks are pale and wild," yet now, because his looks were red and wild, she left without permission, and the enraged instead of grieving _romeo_ had no one to receive his order: "----get me ink and paper, and hire post horses." so when, in his confusion, he went on continuing his lines as they were written, and, addressing empty space, fiercely bade _balthazar_: "----get thee gone!" and in unintentionally suggestive tones promised: "----i'll be with thee straight!" the audience laughed openly and heartily at the star himself. "yes, sir," he snorted later on to mr. ellsler, "by heaven, sir! they laughed at me--at me! i have been made ridiculous by your measly little _balthazar_--who should have been a man, sir! yes, sir, a man, whom i could have chastised for making a fool of himself, sir! and a d----d fool of me, sir!" for the real tragedy of that night lay in the wound given to the dignity of mr. f. b. conway, who played a measured and stately _romeo_ to the handsome and mature _juliet_ of his wife. we had no young _juliets_ just then, they were all rather advanced, rather settled in character for the reckless child of verona. but every lady who played the part declared at rehearsal that shakespeare had been foolish to make _juliet_ so young--that no woman had learned enough to understand and play her before middle age at least. mrs. bradshaw, one day, said laughingly to me: "by your looks you seemed to disagree with mrs. ellsler's remarks this morning. she, too, thinks a woman is not fit for _juliet_ until she has learned much of nature and the world." "but," i objected, lamely, "while they are learning so much about the world they are forgetting such a lot about girlhood!" her laughter confused and distressed me. "i can't say it!" i cried, "but you know how very forward _juliet_ is in speech? if she _knew_, that would become brazen boldness! it isn't what she _knows_, but what she _feels_ without knowing that makes the tragedy!" and what mrs. bradshaw meant by muttering, "babes and sucklings--from the mouths of babes and sucklings," i could not make out; perhaps, however, i should say that my mate annie played few blankverse parts after _balthazar_. then, one saturday night, we were all corralled by the prompter before we could depart for home, and were gravely addressed by the manager--the whole thing being ludicrously suggestive of the reading of the riot act; but after reminding us that mr. james e. murdoch would begin his engagement on monday night, that the rehearsals would be long and important, he proceeded to poison the very source of our sunday's rest and comfort by fell suggestions of some dire mishap threatening the gentleman through us. we exchanged wondering and troubled glances. what could this mean? mr. ellsler went on: "you all know how precise mr. murdoch has always been about your readings; how exacting about where you should stand at this word or at that; how quickly his impatience of stupidity has burst into anger; but you probably do not know that since his serious sickness he is more exacting than ever, and has acquired the habit, when much annoyed, of--of--er--well, of having a fit." "o-h!" it was unanimous, the groan that broke from our oppressed chests. stars who _gave us_ fits we were used to, but the star who went into fits himself--good heavens! good heavens! rather anxiously, mr. ellsler continued: "these fits, for all i know, may spell apoplexy--anyway, he is too frail a man to safely indulge in them; so, for heaven's sake, do nothing to cross him; be on time, be perfect--dead letter-perfect in your parts; write out all his directions if necessary; grin and bear anything, so long as he doesn't have a fit! good-night." the riot act had been read, the mob dispersed, but the nerve of the most experienced was shaken by the prospect of acting a whole week with a gentleman who, at any moment, might get mad enough to have a fit. think, then, what must have been the state of mind of my other ballet-mate, hattie, who, in her regular turn, had received a small part, but of real importance, and who had to address her lines to mr. murdoch himself. poor girl, always nervous, this new terror made her doubly so. she roused the star's wrath, even at rehearsal. "speak louder!" (imperatively). "_will_ you speak louder?" (furiously). "perhaps, in the interest of those who will be in front to-night, i may suggest that you speak loud enough to be heard by--say--the first row!" (satirically). now a calmly controlled body is generally the property of a trained actress, not of a raw ballet-girl, and hattie's restless shifting about and wriggling drove him into such a rage that, to the rest of us, he seemed to be trembling with inchoate fits, and i saw the property man get his hat and take his stand by the stage-door, ready to fly for the doctor, or, as he called him, "the fit sharp." she, too, was to appear as a page. she was to enter hurriedly--always a difficult thing for a beginner to do. she was to address mr. murdoch in blank verse--a _more_ difficult thing--and implore him to come swiftly to prevent bloodshed, as a hostile meeting was taking place between young count so-and-so and "your nephew, sir!" this news was to shock the uncle so that he would stand dazed for a moment, when the page, looking off the stage, should cry: "ah, you are too late, sir, already their blades are out! see how the foils writhe," etc. with a cry, the uncle should recover himself, and furiously order the page to "----call the watch!" alas! and alas! when the night, the play, the act, the cue came, hattie, as handsome a boy as you could wish to see, went bravely on, as quickly, too, as her terror-chilled legs could carry her, but when she got there had no word to say--no, not one! in a sort of icy rage, mr. murdoch gave her her line, speaking very low, of course: "my lord--my lord! i do beseech you haste, else here is murder done!" but the poor girl, past prompting properly, only caught wildly at the _sense_ of the speech, and gasped out: "come on, quick!" she saw his foot tapping with rage--thought his fits might begin that way, and madly cried, at the top of her voice: "be quick--see--see! publicly they cross their _financiers_!" then, through the laughter, rushed from the stage, crying, with streaming tears: "i don't care if he has a dozen fits! he has just scared the words out of my head with them!" and truly, when mr. murdoch, trembling with weakness, excitement, and anger, staggered backward, clasping his brow, everyone thought the dreaded fit had arrived. next day he reproachfully informed mr. ellsler that he could not yet see blank verse and the king's english (so he termed it) murdered without suffering physically as well as mentally from the shocking spectacle. that he was an old man now, and should not be exposed to such tests of temper. yes, as he spoke, he was an old man--pallid, lined, weary-faced; but that same night he was young _mirabel_--in spirit, voice, eye, and movement. fluttering through the play, "wine works wonders," in his satins and his laces--young to the heart--young with the immortal youth of the true artist. both these girls spoke plain prose well enough, and always had their share of the parts in modern plays; but, as all was grist to my individual mill, most of the blankverse and shakespearean small characters came to me. nor was i the lucky girl they believed me; there was no luck about it. my small success can be explained in two words--extra work. when they studied their parts they were contented if they could repeat their lines perfectly in the quiet of their rooms, and made no allowance for possible accidents or annoyances with power to confuse the mind and so cause loss of memory and ensuing shame. but i was a careful young person, and would not trust even my own memory without first taking every possible precaution. therefore the repeating of my lines correctly in my room was but the beginning of my study of them. in crossing the crowded street i suddenly demanded of myself my lines. at the table, when all were chatting, i again made sudden demand for the same. if on either occasion my heart gave a jump and my memory failed to present the exact word, i knew i was not yet perfect, and i would repeat those lines until, had the very roof blown off the theatre at night, i should not have missed one. then only could i turn my attention to the acting of them--oh, bless you, yes! i quite thought i was acting, and at all events i was doing the next best thing, which was trying to act. but a change was coming to me, an experience was approaching which i cannot explain to myself, neither has anyone else explained it for me; but i mention it because it made such a different thing of dramatic life for me. aye, such a difficult thing as well. looking back to that time i see that all my childhood, all my youth, was crowded into that first year on the stage. there i first knew liberty of speech, freedom of motion. there i shared in the general brightness and seemed to live by right divine, not by the grudging permission of some task-mistress of my mother. i had had no youth before, for in what should have been babyhood i had been a troubled little woman, most wise in misery. in freedom my crushed spirits rose with a bound. the mimicry, the adaptability of childhood asserted themselves--i pranced about the stage happily but thoughtlessly. it seems to me i was like a blind puppy, born into warmth and comfort and enjoying both, without any fear of the things it could not see. as i have said before, i knew no fear, i had no ambition, i was just happy, blindly happy; and now, all suddenly, i was to exchange this freedom of unconsciousness for the slavery of consciousness. chapter tenth with mr. dan. setchell i win applause--a strange experience comes to me--i know both fear and ambition--the actress is born at last my manager considered me to have a real gift of comedy, and he several times declared that my being a girl was a distinct loss to the profession of a fine low comedian. it was in playing a broad comedy bit that my odd experience came to me. mr. dan. setchell was the star. he was an extravagantly funny comedian, and the laziest man i ever saw--too lazy even properly to rehearse his most important scenes. he would sit on the prompt table--a table placed near the footlights at rehearsal, holding the manuscript, writing materials, etc., with a chair at either end, one for the star, the other for the prompter or stage manager--and with his short legs dangling he would doze a little through people's scenes, rousing himself reluctantly for his own, but instead of rising, taking his place upon the stage, and rehearsing properly, he would kick his legs back and forth, and, smiling pleasantly, would lazily repeat his lines where he was, adding: "i'll be on your right hand when i say that, herbert. oh, at your exit, ellsler, you'll leave me in the centre, but when you come back you'll find me down left." after telling james lewis several times at what places he would find him at night, lewis remarked, in despair: "well, god knows where you'll find _me_ at night!" "oh, never mind, old man," answered the ever-smiling, steadily kicking setchell, "if you're there, all right; if you're not there, no matter!" which was not exactly flattering. of course such rehearsals led to many errors at night, but mr. setchell cleverly covered them up from the knowledge of the laughing audience. it is hard to imagine that lazy, smiling presence in the midst of awful disaster, but he was one of the victims of a dreadful shipwreck while making the voyage to australia. bat-blind to the future, he at that time laughed and comfortably shirked his work in the day-time, and made others laugh when he did his work at night. in one of his plays i did a small part with him--i was his wife, a former old maid of crabbed temper. i had asked mr. ellsler to make up my face for me as an old and ugly woman. i wore corkscrew side curls and an awful wrapper. i was a fearful object, and when mr. setchell first saw me he stood silent a moment, then, after rubbing his stomach hard, and grimacing, he took both my hands, exclaiming: "oh, you hideous jewel! you positively gave me a cramp at just sight of you! go in, little girl, for all you're worth! and do just what you please--you deserve the liberty for that make-up!" and goodness knows i took him at his word, and did anything that came into my giddy head. even then i possessed that curious sixth sense of the born actress, and as a doctor with the aid of his stethoscope can hear sounds of grim warning or of kindly promise, while there is but the silence to the stander-by, so an actress, with that stethoscopic sixth sense, detects even the _forming_ emotions of her audience, feeling incipient dissatisfaction before it becomes open disapproval, or thrilling at the intense stillness that ever precedes a burst of approbation. and that night, meeting with a tiny mishap, which seemed to amuse the audience, i seized upon it, elaborating it to its limit, and making it my own, after the manner of an experienced actor. there was no elegant comedy of manners in the scene, understand, it was just the broadest farce, and it consisted of the desperate effort of a hen-pecked husband to assert himself and grasp the reins of home government, which resolved itself at last into a scolding-match, in which each tried to talk the other down--with what result you will know without the telling. the stage was set for a morning-room, with a table in the centre, spread with breakfast for two; a chair at either side and, as it happened, a footstool by mine. his high silk hat and some papers, also, were upon the table. for some unexplainable cause the silk hat has always been recognized, both by auditor and actor, as a legitimate object of fun-making, so when i, absent-mindedly, dropped all my toast-crusts into that shining receptacle, the audience expressed its approval in laughter, and so started me on my downward way, for that was my own idea and not a rehearsed one. when my husband mournfully asked if "there was not even one hot biscuit to be had?" i deliberately tried each one with the back of my knuckles, and remarking, "yes, here is just one," which was the correct line in the play, i took it myself, which was not in the play, and so went on till the scolding-match was reached. in my first noisy speech i meant to stamp my foot, but by accident i brought it down upon the footstool. the people laughed, i saw a point--i lifted the other foot and stood upon the stool. by the twinkle in mr. setchell's eye, as well as by the laughter in front, i knew i was on the right track. he roared--he lifted his arms above his head, and in my reply, as i raised my voice, i mounted from the stool to the seat of the chair. he seized his hat, and with the toast-crusts falling about his face and ears, jammed it on his head, while in my last speech, with my voice at its highest screech, i lifted my foot and firmly planted it upon the very breakfast-table. it was enough--the storm broke from laughter to applause. mr. setchell had another speech--one of resigned acceptance of second place, but as the applause continued, he knew it would be an anti-climax, and he signalled the prompter to ring down the curtain. but i--i knew he ought to speak. i was frightened, tears filled my eyes. "what is it?" i whispered, as i started to get down. "stand still," he sharply answered, then added: "it's you, you funny little idiot! you've made a hit--that's all!" and the curtain fell between us and the laughing crowd in front. the prompter started for me instantly from his corner, exclaiming, in his anger: "well, of all the cheeky devilment i ever heard or saw--" but mr. setchell had him by the arm in a second, crying: "hold on, old man! i gave her leave--she had my permission! oh, good lord! did you see that ascent of stool, chair, and table? eh? ha! ha! ha!" i stood trembling like a jelly in a hot day. mr. setchell said: "don't be frightened, my girl! that applause was for you! you won't be fined or scolded--you've made a hit, that's all!" and he patted me kindly on the shoulder and broke again into fat laughter. i went to my room, i sat down with my head in my hands. great drops of sweat came out on my temples. my hands were icy cold, my mouth was dry, that applause rang in my ears. a cold terror seized upon me--a terror of what, the public? ah, a tender mouth was bitted and bridled at last! the reins were in the hands of the public, and it would drive me--where? the public! the public! i had never feared it before, because i had never realized its power. if i pleased, well and good. if i displeased it, i should be driven forth from the dramatic eden i loved, in which i hoped to learn so many things theatrical and to become very wise, and i should wander all my life in the stony places of poverty and disappointment! i clenched my hands and writhed in misery at the thought. i seemed again to hear that applause, which had been for me--my very self! and i thrilled at its wild sweetness. ah, the public! it could make or it could mar my whole life. mighty monster, without mercy! the great many-headed creature, all jewelled over with fierce, bright eyes, with countless ears a-strain for error of any kind! that beat the perfumed air with its myriad hands when pleased--when pleased! a strange, great stillness seemed to close about me; something murmured: "in the future, in the _dim_ future, a woman may cause this many-headed monster you fear to think as one mind, to feel as one heart! _then_ the bit and bridle will be changed--that woman will hold the reins and will drive the public!" at which i broke into shrill laughter, in spite of flowing tears. two women came in, one said: "why, what on earth's the matter? have they blown you up for your didoes to-night? what need you care, you pleased the audience?" but another said, quietly: "just get a glass of water for her, she has a touch of hysteria--i wonder who caused it?" but i only thought of that woman of the dim future, who was to conquer the public--who was she? why that round of applause should have so shattered my happy confidence i cannot understand, but the fact remains that from that night i never faced a new audience, or attempted a new part, without suffering a nervous terror that sometimes but narrowly escaped collapse. chapter eleventh my promiscuous reading wins me a glass of soda--the stage takes up my education and leads me through many pleasant places. i suppose it sounds absurd to say that during those first seasons, with choruses, dances, and small parts to learn, with rehearsals every day and appearances every night, i was getting an education. but that depends upon your definition of the word. if it means to you schooling, special instruction, and formal training, then my claim is absurd; but if it means information, cultivation of the intellectual powers, enlightenment, why then my claim holds good, my statement stands, i was getting an education. and let me say the stage is a delightful teacher; she never wearies you with sameness or drives you to frenzy with iteration. no deadly-dull text-book stupefies you with lists of bare, bald dates, dryly informing you that someone was born in , mounted the throne in , died in , and was succeeded by someone or other who reigned awhile--really you can't remember how long, and don't much care. there's nothing in figures for the memory to cling to. but no one can forget that edward v. was born in , because he is such a tragic little figure, only thirteen years old and of scant two months reign, because there was the tower and there the crafty, usurping duke of gloster eager for his crown. perhaps people would remember that edward iii. was born in and was succeeded by his grandson, richard, if they were told at the same moment that he was father to that superb black prince, beloved alike of poet, painter, and historian. now, to be a good actress and do intelligent work, one should thoroughly understand the play and its period in history, as the mainspring of its action is often political. to be able to do that requires a large fund of general information. that i had from my very babyhood been a reckless reader, came about from necessity--i had no choice, i simply read every single thing in print that my greedy hands closed upon; the results of this promiscuous reading, ranging from dime novels to cowper, were sometimes amusing. one day, i remember, an actress was giving a very excited account of a street accident she had witnessed. her colors were lurid, and some of her hearers received her tale coldly. "oh!" she cried, "such an awful crowd--a mob, you know--a perfect mob!" "oh, nonsense!" contradicted another, "there couldn't have been a mob, there are not people enough in that street to make a mob!" then i mildly but firmly remarked: "oh, yes, there are, for you know that legally three's a mob and two's a crowd." a shout of laughter followed this bit of information. "how utterly absurd!" cried one. "well, of all the ridiculous ideas i ever heard!" laughed another. and then, suddenly, dear old uncle dick (mr. richard stevens and player of old men, to be correct) came to my support, and, with the authority of a one-time barrister, declared my statement to be perfectly correct. "but where, in the name of heaven, did you get your information?" "oh," i vaguely replied, "i just read it somewhere." "that's a rather broad statement," remarked uncle dick; "you don't give your authority, page and line, i observe. well, see here, now, clara _mia_, in whatever field you found that one odd fact, you certainly gleaned others there, so if you can produce, at once, three other legal statements, i will treat you to soda-water after rehearsal." oh, the delicious word was scarcely over his lips when i was wildly searching my memory, and presently, very doubtfully, offered the statement: "it is a fraud to conceal a fraud." but uncle dick gravely and readily accepted it. another search, and then joyfully i announced: "contracts made with minors, lunatics, or drunkards are void." a shout of laughter broke from the kind old man's lips, but he accepted that, too. oh, almost i could hear the cool hiss of the soda--but now not another thing could i find. my face fell, my heart sank. hitherto i had been thinking of papers, now i frantically ran through stories. suddenly i cried: "a lead-pencil signature stands in law." but, alas! uncle dick hesitated--my authority was worthless. oh, dear! oh, dear! was i to lose my treat, just for lack of a little legal knowledge? sadly i remarked, "i guess i'll have to give it up, unless--unless you'll take: 'principals are responsible for their agents,'" and, with pleasure beaming in his kind old eyes, he accepted it. ah, i can taste that vanilla soda yet--and, what is more, the old gentleman took the trouble to find out about the legality of the lead-pencil signature; and, as my statement had been correct, he took great pains to make the fact known to all who had heard him question it, and he added to my little store of knowledge, "that a contract made on sunday would not stand," which, by the way, later on, saved me from a probably painful experience. i mention this to show that even my unadvised reading had not been absolutely useless, i had learned a little about a variety of things; but now, plays continually presented new subjects to me to think and read about; thus "venice preserved" set me wild to find out what a _doge_ was, and why venice was so adored by her sons, and i straightway obtained a book about the wonderful city--whose commerce, power of mart and merchant may have departed, but whose mournful beauty is but hallowed by her weakness. so many plays were produced, representing so many periods, so many countries, i don't know how i should have satisfied my craving for the books they led me to had not the public library opened just then. i was so proud and happy the day my mother surprised me with half the price of a membership, and happier yet when i had the right to enter there and browse right and left, up and down, nibbling here, feeding long and contentedly there. oh, the delight of reading one book, with two or three others in my lap; 'twas the pleasure of plenty, new to one who could have spelled "economy" in her sleep. then, again, if it is the stage that is making you read, you have to keep your eyes wide open and take note of many things. some girls read just for the sake of the story, they heed nothing but that, they are even guilty of the impertinence of "skipping," "to get to the story more quickly, you know." but if you are on the stage you understand, for instance, that different kinds of furniture are used for different periods and for different countries; so even the beginner knows, when she sees the heavy old flemish pieces of furniture standing on the stage in the morning, that no modern play is on that night, and is equally sure that the bringing out of the high tile-stove means a german interior is in preparation. therefore, if you read for the stage, you watch carefully, not only sir thomas's doings, but his surroundings. if his chair or desk or sideboard is described, you make a note of the "heavily carved wood," or the "inlaid wood," or the "boule," or whatever it may be, and then you note the date of the story, and you say to yourself: "ah, such and such furniture belongs to such a date and country." i once heard the company expressing their shocked amazement over the velvet robes of some _macbeth_. i could not venture to ask them why it was so dreadful, but later i found some paper stating that velvet was first known in the fifteenth century, and was confined to the use of the priests or high ecclesiastical authorities--and my mind instantly grasped the horror of the older actors at seeing _macbeth_ swathed in velvet in the grim, almost barbaric scotland of about ; for surely it was a dreadful thing for an actor to wear velvet four hundred years ahead of its invention. you never know just where the stage is going to lead you in your search for an education; only one thing you may be sure of, it will not keep you very long to any one straight road, but will branch off in this direction or in that, taking up some side issue, as it seems, like this matter of furniture, and lo, you presently find it is becoming a most important and interesting subject, well worth careful study. you come to believe you could recognize the workmanship of the great cabinet-makers at sight. you learn to shrink from misapplied ornament, you learn what gave rise to the "veneering reign-of-terror," you bow at the name of chippendale, and are filled with wonder by the _cinque-cento_ extravagance of beauty. you find yourself tracing the rise and fall of dynasties through the chaste beauty or the over-ornamentation of their cabinet work. if all that sir henry irving knows on this subject could be crowded into a single volume, the book would have at least one fault--'twould be of most unwieldy size. then holding you by the hand the stage may next lead you through the green and bosky places that the poets loved, and, having had your eyes opened to natural beauties, lo! you go down another lane, and you are learning about costumes, and suddenly you discover that "sumptuary laws" once existed, confining the use of furs, velvets, laces, etc., to the nobility. fine woollens and linens, and gold and silver ornaments being also reserved for the privileged orders. that the extravagant young maids and beaux of the lower class who indulged in yellow starched-ruff, furred mantle, or silver chain were made to pay a cruel price for their folly in aping their betters. so it was well for me to make a note of the date of the "sumptuary law," that i might not some day outrageously overdress a character. it is a delightful study, that of costume--to learn how to drape the toga, how to hang the peplum; to understand the meaning of a bit of ribbon in the hair, whether as arranged in the three-banded fillet of the grecian girl or as the snood of the scottish lassie; to know enough of the cestus and the law governing its wearing, not to humiliate yourself in adopting it on improper occasions; to have at least a bowing acquaintance with all foot-gear, from sandals down to an oxford tie; to be able to scatter your puffed, slashed, or hanging sleeves over the centuries, with their correct accompanying, small-close, large-round, or square-upstanding ruffs. why the mere detail of girdles and hanging pouches, from distant queens down to "faust's" _gretchen_, was a joy in itself. then a girl who played pages, and other young boys, was naturally anxious to know all about doublets, trunks, and hose, as well as scottish "philibeg and sporran." and wigs? i used to wonder if anyone could ever learn all about wigs--and i'm wondering yet. but as one studies the coming and going of past fashions in garments, it is amusing to note their influence upon the cabinet-makers, as it is expressed in the changing shape of their chairs. for instance: when panniers developed into farthingale and monstrous hoop, chairs, high and narrow, widened, lowered their arms--dropped them entirely, making indeed a fair start toward our own great easy-chair of to-day. i remember well what a jump my heart gave when in rooting about among materials--their weaves and dyes--i came upon the term "samite." it's a word that always thrills me, "samite, mystic, wonderful." almost i was afraid to read what might follow; but i need not have hesitated, since the statement was that "samite" was supposed to have been a delicate web of silk and gold or silver thread. how beautiful such a combination must have been--white silk woven with threads of silver might well become "mystic, wonderful," when wrapped about the chill, high beauty of an arthur's face. but hie and away, to armor and arms! for she would be but a poorly equipped actress who had no knowledge of sword and buckler, of solid armor, chain-mail, rings of metal on velvet, or of plain leather jerkin--of scimitar, sword, broadsword, foil, dagger, dirk, stiletto, creese. oh, no! don't pull your hand away if the stage wants to lead you among arms and armor for a little while; be patient, for by and by it will take you up, up into the high, clear place where shakespeare dwells, and there you may try your wings and marvel at the pleasure of each short upward flight, for the loving student of shakespeare always rises--never sinks. your power of insight grows clearer, stronger, and as you are lifted higher and higher on the wings of imagination, more and more widely opens the wonderful land beneath, more and more clearly the voices of its people reach you. you catch their words and you treasure them, and by and by, through much loving thought, you comprehend them, after which you can no longer be an uneducated woman, since no man's wisdom is superior to shakespeare's, and no one gives of his wisdom more lavishly than he. therefore, while a regular school-education is a thing to be thankful for, the actress who has been denied it need not despair. if she be willing to work, the stage will educate her--nor will it curtly turn her away at the end of a few years, telling her her "term" is ended. i clung tightly to its hand for many a year, and was taken a little way through music's halls, loitered for a time before the easel, and even made a little rush at a foreign language to help me to the proper pronunciation of names upon the stage; and no man, no woman all that time rose up to call me ignorant. so i give all thanks and all honor to the profession that not only fed and clothed me, but educated me too! chapter twelfth the peter richings' engagement brings me my first taste of slander--anent the splendor of my wardrobe, also my first newspaper notice. i remember particularly that second season, because it brought to me the first taste of slander, my first newspaper notice, and my first proposal of marriage. the latter being, according to my belief, the natural result of lengthening my skirts and putting up my hair--at all events, it was a part of my education. of course the question of wardrobe was a most important one still. i had done very well, so far as peasant dresses of various nationalities were concerned; i had even acquired a page's dress of my own, but i had no ball-dress, nothing but a plain, skimpy white muslin gown, which i had outgrown; for i had gained surprisingly in height with the passing year. and, lo! the report went about that mr. peter richings and his daughter caroline were coming in a fortnight, and they would surely do their play "fashion," in which everyone was on in a dance; and i knew everyone would bring out her best for that attraction, for you must know that actresses in a stock company grade their costumes by the stars, and only bring out the very treasures of their wardrobes on state occasions. i was in great distress; one of my mates had a genuine silk dress, the other owned a bunch of artificial gold grapes, horribly unbecoming, stiff things, but, mercy, gold grapes! who cared whether they were becoming or not? were they not gorgeous (a lady star had given them to her)? and i would have to drag about, heavy-footed, in a skimpy muslin! but in the company there was a lady who had three charming little children. she was the singing soubrette (by name mrs. james dickson). one of her babies became sick, and i sometimes did small bits of shopping or other errands for her, thus permitting her to go at once from rehearsal to her beloved babies. entering her room from one of these errands, i found her much vexed and excited over the destruction of one of a set of fine new lace curtains. the nursemaid had carelessly set it on fire. of course mrs. dickson would have to buy two more curtains to replace them; and now, with the odd one in her hand, she started toward her trunk, paused doubtfully, and finally said to me: "could you use this curtain for some small window or something, clara?" at her very first word a dazzling possibility presented itself to my mind. with burning cheeks, i answered: "oh, yes, ma'am, i--i can use it, but not at a window, i'm afraid." her bonnie face flashed into smiles. "all right; take it along, then!" she cried, "and do what you like with it. it's only been up two days, and has not a mark on it." i fairly flew from the house. i sang, as i made my way uptown to buy several yards of rose-pink paper cambric and a half garland of american-made artificial roses. then i sped home and, behind locked doors, measured and cut and snipped, and, regardless of possible accident, held about a gill of pins in my mouth while i hummed over my work. all my fears were gone, they had fled before the waving white curtain, which fortunately for me was of fine meshed net, carrying for design unusually small garlands of roses and daisies. and when the great night came, i appeared as one of the ball guests in a pink under-slip, with white lace overdress, whose low waist was garlanded with wild roses. so, happy at heart and light of foot, i danced with the rest, my pink and white gown ballooning about me in the courtesies with as much rustle and glow of color as though it had been silk. but, alas! the imitation was too good a one! the pretty, cheap little gown i was so happy over attracted the attention of a woman whose whisper meant scandal, whose lifted brow was an innuendo, whose drooped lid was an accusation. like a carrion bird she fed best upon corruption. thank heaven! this cruel creature, hated by the men, feared by the women, was not an actress, but through mistaken kindness she had been made wardrobe woman, where, as mr. ellsler once declared, she spent her time in ripping up and destroying the reputation of his actors instead of making and repairing their wardrobes. that nothing was too small to catch her pale, cold eye is proved by the fact that even a ballet-girl's dress received her attention. next day, after the play "fashion" had been done, this woman was saying: "that girl's mother had better be looking after her conduct, i think!" "why, what on earth has clara done?" asked her listener. "done!" she cried, "didn't you see her flaunting herself around the stage last night in silks and laces no honest girl could own? where did the money come from that paid for such finery?" a few days later a woman who boarded in the house favored by the mischief-maker happened to meet mrs. dickson, happily for me, and said, _en passant_: "which one of your ballet-girls is it who has taken to dressing with so much wicked extravagance? i wonder mrs. ellsler don't notice it." now mrs. dickson was scotch, generous, and "unco" quick-tempered, and after she had put the inquiring friend right, she visited her wrath upon the originator of the slander in person, and verily the scottish burr was on her tongue, and her "r's" rolled famously while she explained the component parts of that extravagant costume: window curtain--her gift--and paper cambric and artificial flowers to the cost of one dollar and seventy-five cents; "and you'll admit," she cried, "that even the purse of a 'gude lass' can stand sic a strain as that; and what's mair, you wicked woman, had the girl been worse dressed than the others, you would ha' been the first to call attention to her as slovenly and careless." this was the first drop of scandal expressed especially for me, and i not only found the taste bitter--very bitter--but learned that it had wonderful powers of expansion, and that the odor it gives off is rather pleasant in the nostrils of everyone save its object. mrs. dickson, who, by the way, is still doing good work professionally, has doubtless forgotten the entire incident, curtain and all, but she never will forget the bonnie baby-girl she lost that summer, and she will remember me because i loved the little one--that's a mother's way. mr. peter b. richings was that joy of the actor's heart--a character. he had been accounted a very fine actor in his day, but he was a very old man when i saw him, and his powers were much impaired. six feet tall, high-featured, roman-nosed, elegantly dressed; a term from bygone days--and not disrespectfully used--describes him perfectly: he was an "old buck!" his immeasurable pride made him hide a stiffening of the joints under the forced jauntiness of his step, while a trembling of the head became in him only a sort of debonair senility at worst. arrogant, short-tempered, and a veritable martinet, he nevertheless possessed an unbending dignity and a certain crabbed courtliness of manner very suggestive of the snuff-box and ruffle period of a hundred years before. his daughter, by adoption, was the object of his unqualified worship--no other word can possibly express his attitude toward her. no heavenly choir could have charmed him as she did when she sang, while her intellectual head and marble-cold face seemed beautiful beyond compare in his eyes. really it was worth going far to see him walk through a quadrille with her. his bow was a thing for young actors to dream of, while with trembling head, held high in air, he advanced and retreated, executing antiquated "steps" with a grace that deprived them of comicality, while his air of arrogant superiority changed instantly to profound homage whenever in the movement of the figures he met his daughter. his pronunciation of her name was as a flourish of trumpets--car-o-line! each syllable distinct, the "c" given with great fulness, and the emphasis on the first syllable when pleased, but heavily placed upon the last when he was annoyed. he was unconscionably vain of his likeness to washington, and there were few friday nights, this being considered the fashionable evening of the week, that he failed to present his allegorical picture of washington receiving the homage of the states, while miss richings, as _columbia_, sang the "star-spangled banner," the states joining in the chorus. in this tableau the circular opening in the flat, backed by a sky-drop and with blue clouds hanging about the opening, represented heaven. and here, at an elevation, washington stood at the right, with _columbia_ and her flag on his left, while the states, represented by the ladies of the company, stood in lines up and down the stage, quite outside of heaven. now a most ridiculous story anent mr. richings and this heaven of his was circulating through the entire profession. some of our company refused to believe it, declaring it a mere spiteful skit against his well-known exclusiveness; but that gentleman who had wished to send me for an "ibid," being an earnest seeker after knowledge, determined to test the truth of the story. therefore, after we had been carefully rehearsed in the music and had been informed by the star that only car-o-line and himself were to stand back of that skylike opening, this "inquiring" person gave one of the extra girls fifty cents to go at night before the curtain rose and take her stand on the forbidden spot. she took the money and followed directions exactly, and when mr. richings, as _washington_, made his pompous way to the stage, he stood a moment in speechless wrath, and then, trembling with anger, he stamped his foot, and waving his arm, cried: "go a-way! go a-way! you very presuming young person; this is heaven, and i told you this morning that only my daughter car-o-line and i could possibly stand in heaven!" it was enough; the "inquiring one" was rolling about with joy at his work. he had taken a rise out of the old gentleman and proved the truth of the story which had gone abroad in the land as to this claim of all heaven for himself and his car-o-line. i naturally remember these stars with great clearness, since it was for a small part in one of their plays that i received my first newspaper notice. imagine my incredulous joy when i was told of this journalistic feat--unheard of before--of praising the work of a ballet-girl. suspecting a joke, i did not obtain a paper until late in the day, and after i had several times been told of it. then i ventured forth, bought a copy of the _herald_, and lo, before my dazzled eyes appeared my own name. ah, few critics, with their best efforts, have thrown as rosy a light upon the world as did mr. jake sage with his trite ten-word statement: "clara morris played the small part allotted to her well." my heart throbbed hard, i seemed to catch a glimpse, through the rosy light, of a far-away temple of fame, and this notice was like a petal blown to me from the roses that wreathed its portals. could i ever, ever reach them! "played the small part allotted to her well." "oh," i cried aloud, "i will try to do everything well--i will, indeed!" and then i cut the notice out and folded it in a sheet of paper, and put both in an envelope and pinned that fast to my pocket, that i might take it to my mother, who was very properly impressed, and was a long time reading its few words, and was more than a trifle misty about the eyes when she gave it back to me. looking at them now, the words seem rather dry and scant, but then they had all the sweetness, life, and color of a june rose--the most perfect thing of god's bounteous giving. chapter thirteenth mr. roberts refers to me as "that young woman," to my great joy--i issue the "clara code"--i receive my first offer of marriage. my mother, moved at last by my highly colored accounts of the humiliations brought upon me by the shortness of my skirts, consented to their lengthening, and though i knew she had meant them to stop at my shoe-tops, i basely allowed a misunderstanding to arise with the dress-maker, through which my new dress came home the full length of the grown-ups, and though my conscience worried me a bit, i still snatched a fearful joy from my stolen dignity, and many a day i walked clear up to superior street that i might slowly pass the big show-windows and enjoy the reflection therein of my long dress-skirt. of course i could not continue to wear my hair _à la_ pigtail, and that went up in the then fashionable chignon. few circumstances in my life have given me such unalloyed satisfaction as did my first proposal of marriage. i should, however, be more exact if i spoke of an "attempted proposal," for it was not merely interrupted, but was simply mangled out of all likeness to sentiment or romance. the party of the first part in this case was mr. frank murdoch, who later on became the author of "davy crockett," the play that did so much toward the making and the unmaking of the reputation of that brilliant actor, the late frank mayo. he was the adoring elder brother of that successful young harry murdoch who was to meet such an awful fate in the brooklyn theatre fire. neither of them, by the way, were born to the name of murdoch; they were the sons of james e.'s sister, and when, in spite of his advice and warning, they decided to become actors, they added insult to injury, as it were, by demanding of him the use of his name--their own being a particularly unattractive one for a play-bill. he let them plead long and hard before he yielded and allowed them to take for life the name of murdoch--which as a trade-mark, and quite aside from sentiment, had a real commercial value to these young fellows who had yet to prove their individual personal worth. frank was very young--indeed, our united ages would have barely reached thirty-six. he had good height, a good figure, and an air of gentle breeding; otherwise he was unattractive, and yet he bore a striking resemblance to his uncle, james murdoch, who had a fine head and most regular features. but through some caprice of nature in the nephew those same features received a touch of exaggeration here, or a slight twist there, with the odd result of keeping the resemblance to the uncle intact, while losing all his beauty. frank had a quixotic sense of honor and a warm and generous heart, but being extremely sensitive as to his personal defects he was often led into bursts of temper, during which he frequently indulged in the most childish follies. these outbreaks were always brief, and ever followed by deep contrition, so that he was generally regarded as a very clever, spoiled child. poor boy! his life was as sad as it was short. there may be few who remember him now, but a woman never forgets the man who first pays a compliment to her eyes, nor can i forget the first man who handed me a chair and opened and closed doors for me, just as for any grown-up. he joined the company in about the middle of that season in which i acted principally as utility man. he was to play singing parts and young lovers, and, to his amusement, i criticized his reading of one of _cassio's_ speeches. our wrangle over shakespeare made friends of us at once. he had a veritable passion for poetry, and with me he felt free to bring out his beautiful hobby to mount and ride and ride, with some of the great poets up behind and me for applauding audience. when he wanted me to know some special poem he bought it for me if he could; but if he was short of money, he carefully copied out its every line, tied the manuscript neatly up with ribbon, and presented the poem in that form. i came across a copy of "maud muller" the other day in frank's clear, even handwriting. the paper was yellow, the ribbon faded. frank is gone, whittier is gone, but "maud muller" lives on in her immortal youth and pain. but the morning when he first brought and offered me a chair was nothing less than an epoch in my life. at first i regarded the act as an aspersion on my strength--a doubt cast upon my ability to obtain a seat for myself. then, as i glanced frowningly into his face, i suddenly realized that it was meant as a mark of consideration--the courtesy a man shows a woman. a glow of satisfaction spread through my being. i hated to rise, i was so afraid the thing might never happen to me again. i need not have worried, however, as i was soon to receive a more impressive proof of his consideration for my welfare. one of the most unpleasant experiences in the life of a young actress is her frightened lonely rush through the city streets at twelve o'clock at night to reach her boarding-house and claim sanctuary. i doubt if even a una and her lion could pass unmolested through those streets dotted with all-night "free and easys," where, by the way, nothing is free but the poisonous air, and nothing easy but the language. at all events from my own varied and unpleasant experiences, and from the stories of others, i had first drawn certain deductions, then i had proceeded to establish certain rules for the guidance and direction of any girl who was so unfortunate as to be forced to walk abroad unattended at night. these rules became known as "clara's code," and were highly approved, especially by those girls who "couldn't think," as they declared, but stood stock-still, "too frightened to move," when some wanderer of the night unceremoniously addressed them. i cannot remember all those rules now, since for these many years god has granted me a protector, but from the few i can recall i am convinced that their principal object was to gain plenty of leeway for the persecuted girl's escape. no. sternly forbade her ever, _ever_ to pass between two advancing men--at night, of course, be it understood--lest they might seize hold of and so frighten her to death. she was advised never to permit herself to take the inside of the walk when meeting a stranger, who might thus crowd her against the house and cut off her chance to run. never to pass the opening to an alley-way without placing the entire width of the walk between her and it, and always to keep her eyes on it as she crossed. never to let any man pass her from behind on the outside was insisted on, indeed she should take to the street itself first. she was not to answer a drunken man, no matter what might be the nature of his speech. she was not to scream--if she could help it--for fear of public humiliation, but if the worst came and some hideous prowler of the night passed from speech to actual attack, then she was to forget her ladyhood and remembering only the tenderness of the male shin and her right of self-defence, to kick like a colt till help came or she was released. other portions of the code i have forgotten, but i do distinctly remember that it wound up with the really hoyle-like observation, "when in doubt, take to the centre of the street." we all know the magic power of the moonlight--have seen it transmute the commonest ugliness into perfect beauty and change a world-worn woman into the veriest lily-maid, but how few know the dread power exerted over man by the street gaslight after midnight. the kindest old drake of the farm-pond, the most pompously harmless gobbler of the buckwheat-field becomes a vulture beneath the midnight street-light. a man who would shoot for being called a blackguard between seven o'clock in the morning and twelve at night, often becomes one after midnight. it is frequently said that "words break no bones," but let a young girl pass alone through the city streets a few nights and she will probably hear words that, drowning her in shamed blushes, will go far toward breaking her pride, if not her bones. men seem to be creatures of very narrow margin--they so narrowly escape being gods, and they so much more narrowly escape being animals. under the sunlight, man, made in the image of god, lifts his face heavenward and walks erect; under the street-lamps of midnight he is stealthy, he prowls, he is a visible destruction! you think i exaggerate the matter? do not; i speak from experience. and, what is more, at that time i had not yet learned what the streets of new york could produce after midnight. but on the night after the chair episode, frank murdoch heard one of the girls say she had used the clara code very successfully the night before, when two drunken men had reeled out of an alley, who would have collided with her had she not followed the rule and kept the whole sidewalk between them. he stood at the door as i came down-stairs, and as soon as i reached him he asked, sharply: "do you go home alone of nights?" "yes," i answered. "good god!" he muttered. after a pause i looked up at him, and met his eyes shining wet and blue through two tears. "oh," i hastily added, "there's nothing to be afraid of." "i wish i could agree with you," he answered. "tell me," he went on, "have you ever been annoyed by anyone?" my eyes fell, i knew i was growing red. "good god!" he said again, then, suddenly, he ordered: "give me that bag--you'll not go through these streets alone again while i am here! never mind the distance. i don't see why you can't take my arm." and thus i found myself for the first time escorted by a gentleman, and after my hot embarrassment wore off a bit, i held my head very high and languidly allowed my skirt to trail in the dust, and said to myself: "this is like a real grown-up--surely they can't call me 'child' much longer now." the star playing with us just then was a tragedian, but he was a very little man, whose air of alertness, even of aggressiveness, had won for him the title of "cocky" roberts. he wore enormously high heels, he had thick cork soles on the outside and thick extra soles on the inside of all his boots and shoes. his wigs were slightly padded at their tops--everything possible was done for a gain in height, while all the time he was sputtering and swearing at what he called "this cursed cult of legs!" "look at 'em!" he snorted--for he did snort like a horse when he was angry, as he often was, at the theatre at least. "look at 'em, ellsler; there's murdoch, proctor, davenport, all gone to legs, damn 'em, and calling themselves actors! you don't look for brains in a man's legs, do you? no! no! it's the cranium that tells! yes, blast 'em! let 'em come here and match craniums with me, that they think it smart to call 'cocky'! they're a lot of theatrical tongs--all legs and no heads!" and yet the poor, fuming little man, with his exaggerated strut, would have given anything short of his life, to have added even a few inches to his anatomy, the brevity of which was quite forgotten by the public when he gave his really brilliant and pathetic performance of "belphegor," one of the earliest of the so-called "emotional" plays. i have a very kindly remembrance of that fretful little star, because when they were discussing the cast of a play, one of those tormenting parts turned up that are of great importance to the piece, but of no importance themselves. capable actresses refuse to play them, and incapable ones create havoc in them. this one had already been refused, when mr. roberts suddenly exclaimed: "who was it made those announcements last night? she spoke with beautiful distinctness; let _that_ young woman have the part, she'll do it all right." oh, dear mr. roberts! never "cocky" to me! oh, wise little judge! how i did honor him for those precious words: "let that young woman have the part." that "_young woman_!" i could have embraced him for very gratitude--a part _and_ the term "young woman," and since, as my old washerwoman used to say, "it never rains but it pours," while these two words were still making music in my ears, by some flash of intuition i realized that i was being courted by frank. the discovery filled me with the utmost satisfaction. i gave no thought to him, in a sentimental way, either then or ever; quite selfishly i thought only of my own gain in dignity and importance, for i started out in life with the old-fashioned idea that a man honored a woman by his courtship, and i knew naught of the lover who "loves and rides away." yet in a few days the curious cat-like instinct of the unconscious coquette awakened in me, and i began very gently to try my claws. i wished very much to know if he were jealous, as i had been told that real lovers were always so; and, naturally, i did not wish mine to fall short of any of the time-honored attributes of loverdom. therefore i, one morning, selected for experimental use a man whose volume of speech was a terror to all. had he been put to the sword, he would have talked to the swordsman till the final blow cut his speech. he was most unattractive, too, in appearance, being one of those actors who get shaved after rehearsal instead of before it, thus gaining a reputation for untidiness that facts may not always justify--but he served my purpose all the better for that. i deliberately placed myself at his side; i was only a ballet-girl, but i had two good ears--i was welcome. conversation, or rather the monologue, burst forth. standing at the side of the stage, with rehearsal going on, he of course spoke low. i watched for frank's arrival. he came, i heard his cheery "good-morning, ladies! good-morning, gentlemen!" and then he started toward me, but i heard nothing, saw nothing of _him_. my upraised eyes, as wide as i possibly could make them, were fixed upon the face of the talker. yet, with a jump of the heart, i knew the brightness had gone from frank's face, the spring from his step. i smiled as sweetly as i knew how; i seemed to hang upon the words of the untidy one, and oh! if frank could only have known what those words were; how i was being assured that he, the speaker, had that very morning succeeded in stopping a leaky hole in his shoe by melting a piece of india-rubber over and on it, and that not a drop of water had penetrated when he had walked through the rain-puddles; and right there, like music, there came to my listening ear a word of four letters--a forbidden word, but one full of consolation to the distressed male; a word beginning with "d," and for fear that you may think it was "dear," why, i will be explicit and say that it was "damn!" and that it was from the anger-whitened lips of frank, who during the morning gave not only to me, but to all lookers-on, most convincing proof of his jealousy, and that was the beginning of my experiments. i did this, to see if it would make him angry. i did that, to see if it would please him. sometimes i scratched him with my investigating claws, then i was sorry--truly sorry, because i was grateful always for his gentle goodness to me, and never meant to hurt him. but he represented the entire sex to me, and i was learning all i could, thinking, as i once told him, that the knowledge might be useful on the stage some time, and i wondered at the very fury my words provoked in him. we quarrelled sometimes like spiteful children, as when i, startled into laughter by hearing his voice break in a speech, unfortunately excused myself by saying: "it was just like a young rooster, you know!" and he, white with anger, cried: "you're a solid mass of rudeness, to laugh at a misfortune; you have no breeding!" this brought from me the rejoinder: "i know it, but you would have shown better breeding yourself had you not told me of it!" and then he was on his knee in the entrance, begging forgiveness, and saying his "cursed, cracking voice made a madman of him!" as it really did, for he often accused people of guying him if they did but clear their own throats. and so we went on till something in his manner--his increased efforts to find me alone at rehearsal, for as i was without a room-mate in columbus, i could not receive him at home, and i truly think he would have kept silence forever rather than have urged me to break any conventional rule of propriety--this something gave me the idea that frank was going to be--well--explicit, that--that--i was going to be proposed to according to established form. now, though a proposal of marriage is a thing to look forward to with desire, to look back upon with pride, it is also a thing to avoid when it is in the immediate future, and i so successfully evaded his efforts to find me alone, at the theatre or at some friend's house, that he was forced at last to speak at night, while escorting me home. i lodged in a quiet little street, opening out of the busier, more noisy kinsman street. in our front yard there lived a large, greedy old tree, which had planted its foot firmly in the very middle of the path, thus forcing everyone to _chassé_ around it who wished to enter the house. its newly donned summer greenery extended far over the gate, and as the moon shone full and fair the "set" was certainly appropriate. we reached the gate, and i held out my hand for my bag--that small catch-all of a bag that, in the hand of the actress, is the outward and visible sign of her profession; but he let the bag slip to the walk and caught my hand in his. the street was deserted. leaning against the gate beneath the sheltering boughs of the old tree, the midnight silence all about us, he began to speak earnestly. i made a frantic search through my mind for something to say presently, when my turn would come to speak. i rejected instantly the ancient wail of "suddenness." frank's temper did not encourage an offer of "sisterhood." i was just catching joyously at the idea of hiding behind the purely imaginary opposition of my mother, when frank's words: "then, too, dear heart! i could protect you, and--" were interrupted by a yowl, so long, so piercing, it seemed to rise like a rocket of anguish into the summer sky. "oh!" i thought, "that's one-eared jim from next door, and if our simmons hears him--and he'd have to be dead not to hear--he will come out to fight him!" i clenched my teeth, i dropped my eyes that frank might not see the threatening laughter there. i noted how much whiter his hand was than mine, as they were clasped in the moonlight. the pause had been long; then, very gently, he started again: "mignonne!" distinctly i heard the thump of simmons's body dropping from the porch-roof. "mignonne, look up! you big-eyed child, and tell me that i may go to your mother with your promise!" "mi-au! mi-au! wow! spit! spit! wow!" four balls of fire glowed for a moment beneath the tree, then two dark forms became one dark form, that whirled and bounded through space, emitting awful sounds. the cats were too much for me, i threw back my head and laughed. my laugh was too much for frank. his temper broke, he flung my hand away, crying out: "laugh, you little idiot! you're worse than the animals, for they at least know no better! laugh till morning, if you like!" and then i'm sorry to say it, but he kicked my bag, the precious insignia of my profession, and rushed down the street, leaving me standing there amid the débris of the wrecked proposal. next night he frigidly presented himself to escort me home, and when i coldly declined his company, he turned silently and left me. truth to tell, i did not enjoy my walk alone, through the market-place in particular, and i planned to unbend a little the next evening; but i was much piqued to find myself without an excuse for unbending, since on the next evening he did not offer his company. the third night there was a big lump in my throat, and the tears would have fallen had they not been suddenly dried in my eyes by the sight of a familiar light-gray suit slipping along close to the houses on the other side of the way. petulant, irritable, loyal-hearted boy! he had safe-guarded me both those nights when i thought i was alone! my heart was warm with gratitude toward him, and when i reached my gate, and passed inside, i called across the street: "thank you, frank! good-night!" and he laughed and answered: "good-night, mignonne!" and so it came about that frank's wooing, being of the strict and stately order, i gradually came to be miss morris to others beside himself. i saw my advance in dignity, and if i did not love him i gave him profound gratitude, and we were true friends his short and honorable life through. chapter fourteenth mr. wilkes booth comes to us, the whole sex loves him--mr. ellsler compares him to his great father--our grief and horror over the awful tragedy at washington. in glancing back over those two crowded and busy seasons one figure stands out with such clearness and beauty that i cannot resist the impulse to speak of him, rather than of my own inconsequential self. in his case only (so far as my personal knowledge goes) there was nothing derogatory to dignity or to manhood in being called beautiful, for he was that bud of splendid promise, blasted to the core before its full triumphant blooming--known to the world as a madman and an assassin--but to the profession as "that unhappy boy," john wilkes booth. he was so young, so bright, so gay, so kind. i could not have known him well. of course, too, there are two or three different people in every man's skin, yet when we remember that stars are not generally in the habit of showing their brightest, their best side to the company at rehearsal, we cannot help feeling both respect and liking for the one who does. there are not many men who can receive a gash over the eye in a scene at night without at least a momentary outburst of temper, but when the combat between _richard_ and _richmond_ was being rehearsed, mr. booth had again and again urged mr. mccollom (that six-foot tall and handsome leading man, who entrusted me with the care of his watch during such encounters) to "come on hard! come on hot! hot, old fellow! harder--faster!" he'd take the chance of a blow, if only they could make a hot fight of it. and mr. mccollom, who was a cold man, at night became nervous in his effort to act like a fiery one. he forgot he had struck the full number of head blows, and when booth was pantingly expecting a thrust, mccollom, wielding his sword with both hands, brought it down with awful force fair across booth's forehead. a cry of horror rose, for in one moment his face was masked in blood, one eyebrow being cut cleanly through. there came, simultaneously, one deep groan from _richard_, and the exclamation: "oh, good god! good god!" from _richmond_, who stood shaking like a leaf and staring at his work. then booth, flinging the blood from his eyes with his left hand, said, as genially as man could speak: "that's all right, old man! never mind me--only come on hard, for god's sake, and save the fight!" which he resumed at once, and though he was perceptibly weakened, it required the sharp order of mr. ellsler to "ring the first curtain bell," to force him to bring the fight to a close, a single blow shorter than usual. then there was a running to and fro, with ice and vinegar paper and raw steak and raw oysters. when the doctor had placed a few stitches where they were most required, he laughingly declared there was provision enough in the room to start a restaurant. mr. mccollom came to try to apologize, to explain, but booth would have none of it; he had out his hand, crying: "why, old fellow, you look as if _you_ had lost the blood. don't worry. now if my eye had gone, that _would_ have been bad!" and so, with light words, he tried to set the unfortunate man at ease, and though he must have suffered much mortification as well as pain from the eye, that in spite of all endeavors would blacken, he never made a sign. he was, like his great elder brother, rather lacking in height, but his head and throat, and the manner of its rising from his shoulders, were truly beautiful. his coloring was unusual, the ivory pallor of his skin, the inky blackness of his densely thick hair, the heavy lids of his glowing eyes, were all oriental, and they gave a touch of mystery to his face when it fell into gravity; but there was generally a flash of white teeth behind his silky mustache, and a laugh in his eyes. one thing i shall never cease to admire him for. when a man has placed a clean and honest name in his wife's care for life, about the most stupidly wicked use she can make of it is as a signature to a burst of amatory flattery, addressed to an unknown actor, who will despise her for her trouble. some women may shrivel as though attacked with "peach-leaf curl" when they hear how these silly letters are sometimes passed about and laughed at. "no gentleman would so betray a confidence!" of course not; but once when i made that remark to an actor, who was then flaunting the food his vanity fed upon, he roughly answered: "and no _lady_ would so address an unknown man. she cast away her right to respectful consideration when she thrust that letter in the box." that was brutal; but there are those who think like him this very day, and oh, foolish tamperers with fire, who act like him! now it is scarcely an exaggeration to say the sex was in love with john booth, the name wilkes being apparently unknown to his family and close friends. at depot restaurants those fiercely unwilling maiden-slammers of plates and shooters of coffee-cups made to him swift and gentle offerings of hot steaks, hot biscuits, hot coffee, crowding round him like doves about a grain basket, leaving other travellers to wait upon themselves or go without refreshment. at the hotels, maids had been known to enter his room and tear asunder the already made-up bed, that the "turn-over" might be broader by a thread or two, and both pillows slant at the perfectly correct angle. at the theatre, good heaven! as the sunflowers turn upon their stalks to follow the beloved sun, so old or young, our faces smiling, turned to him. yes, old or young, for the little daughter of the manager, who played but the _duke of york_ in "richard iii.," came to the theatre each day, each night of the engagement, arrayed in her best gowns, and turned on him fervid eyes that might well have served for _juliet_. the manager's wife, whose sternly aggressive virtue no one could doubt or question, with the aid of art waved and fluffed her hair, and softened thus her too hard line of brow, and let her keen black eyes fill with friendly sparkles for us all--yet, 'twas because of him. and when the old woman made to threaten him with her finger, and he caught her lifted hand, and uncovering his bonnie head, stooped and kissed it, then came the wanton blood up in her cheek as she had been a girl again. his letters then from flirtatious women, and, alas! girls, you may well believe were legion. a cloud used to gather upon his face at sight of them. i have of course no faintest idea that he lived the godly, righteous, and sober life that is enjoined upon us all, but i do remember with respect that this idolized man, when the letters were many and rehearsal already on, would carefully cut off every signature and utterly destroy them, then pile the unread letters up, and, i don't know what their final end was, but he remarked with knit brows, as he caught me watching him at his work one morning: "they," pointing to the pile of mutilated letters, "they are harmless now, little one; their sting lies in the tail!" and when a certain free and easy actor, laughingly picked up a very elegantly written note, and said: "i can read it, can't i, now the signature is gone?" he answered, shortly: "the woman's folly is no excuse for our knavery--lay the letter down, please!" i played the _player-queen_ to my great joy, and in the "marble heart" i was one of the group of three statues in the first act. we were supposed to represent _lais_, _aspasia_, and _phryne_, and when we read the cast, i glanced at the other girls (we were not strikingly handsome), and remarked, gravely: "well, it's a comfort to know that we look so like the three beautiful grecians." a laugh at our backs brought us around suddenly to face mr. booth, who said to me: "you satirical little wretch, how do you come to know these grecian ladies? perhaps you have the advantage of them in being all-beautiful within?" "i wish it would strike outward, then," i answered; "you know it's always best to have things come to the surface!" "i know some very precious things are hidden from common sight, and i know, too, you caught my meaning in the first place; good-night." and he left us. we had been told to descend to the stage at night with our white robes hanging free and straight, that mr. booth himself might drape them as we stood upon the pedestal. it really is a charming picture, that of the statues in the first act. against a backing of black velvet, the three white figures, carefully posed, strongly lighted, stand out so marble-like, that when they slowly turn their faces and point to their chosen master, the effect is uncanny enough to chill the looker-on. well, with white wigs, white tights, and white robes, and half strangled with the powder we had inhaled in our efforts to make our lips stay white, we cautiously descended the stairs. we dared not talk, we dared not blink our eyes, for fear of disturbing the coat of powder; we were lifted to the pedestal and took our places as we expected to stand. then mr. booth came, such a picture in his greek garments as made even the men exclaim at him, and began to pose us. it happened that one of us had very good limbs, one medium good, and the third had apparently walked on broom-sticks. when mr. booth slightly raised the drapery of no. , his features gave a twist as though he had suddenly tasted lemon-juice, but, quick as a flash, he said: "i believe i'll advance you to the centre, for the stately and wise _aspasia_." the central figure wore her draperies hanging straight to her feet, hence the "advance" and consequent concealment of the unlovely limbs. it was quickly and kindly done, for the girl was not only spared mortification, but in the word "advance" she saw a compliment, and was happy accordingly. then my turn came; my arm was placed about _aspasia_, my head bent and turned and twisted, my right hand curved upon my breast, so that the forefinger touched my chin; i felt i was a personified simper, but i was silent and patient until the arrangement of my draperies began--then i squirmed anxiously. "take care, take care!" he cautioned, "you will sway the others if you move!" but, in spite of the risk of my marble make-up, i faintly groaned: "oh, dear! must it be like that?" regardless of the pins in the corner of his mouth, he burst into laughter, and taking a photograph from the bosom of his greek shirt, he said: "i expected a protest from you, miss, so i came prepared; don't move your head, but just look at this." he held the picture of a group of statuary up to me: "this is you on the right; it's not so dreadful, now, is it?" and i cautiously murmured, that if i wasn't any worse than that i wouldn't mind. and so we were all satisfied and our statue scene was very successful. next morning i saw mr. booth come running out of the theatre on his way to the telegraph office at the corner, and right in the middle of the walk, staring about him, stood a child--a small roamer of the stony streets, who had evidently got far enough beyond his native ward to arouse misgivings as to his personal safety, and at the very moment he stopped to consider matters, mr. booth dashed out of the stage-door and added to his bewilderment by capsizing him completely. "oh, good lord! baby, are you hurt?" exclaimed mr. booth, pausing instantly to pick up the dirty, touselled, small heap and stand it on its bandy legs again. "don't cry, little chap!" and the aforesaid little chap not only ceased to cry but gave him a damp and grimy smile, at which the actor bent toward him quickly, but paused, took out his handkerchief, and first carefully wiping the dirty little nose and mouth, stooped and kissed him heartily, put some change in each freckled paw, and continued his run to the telegraph office. he knew of no witness to the act. to kiss a pretty, clean child under the approving eyes of mamma might mean nothing but politeness, but surely it required the prompting of a warm and tender heart to make a young and thoughtless man feel for and caress such a dirty, forlorn bit of babyhood as that. of his work, i suppose i was too young and too ignorant to judge correctly, but i remember well hearing the older members of the company express their opinions. mr. ellsler, who had been on terms of friendship with the elder booth, was delighted with the promise of his work. he greatly admired edwin's intellectual power, his artistic care, but "john," he cried, "has more of the old man's power in one performance than edwin can show in a year. he has the fire, the dash, the touch of _strangeness_. he often produces unstudied effects at night. i question him, 'did you rehearse that business to-day, john?' he answers: 'no, i didn't rehearse it, it just came to me in the scene, and i couldn't help doing it; but it went all right, didn't it?' full of impulse, just now, like a colt, his heels are in the air, nearly as often as his head, but wait a year or two till he gets used to the harness, and quiets down a bit, and you will see as great an actor as america can produce!" and, by the way, speaking of mr. ellsler and the elder booth, i am reminded that i have in my possession a letter from the latter to the former. it is written in a rather cramped hand, that carries the address and the marks of the red wafers, as that was before the appearance of envelopes, and it informs mr. ellsler that he, "junius brutus booth, will play a star engagement of one week for the sum of--" how many dollars? if it were not unguessable, i should insist upon your guessing, but that would not be fair, so here it is--"for the sum of three hundred dollars," and wants to know how many and what plays he is desired to do, that he may select his wardrobe. think of it--the mighty father of our edwin asking but $ for a week of such acting as he could do, which, if this bright, light-hearted boy was so much like him, must have been brilliant indeed. one morning, going on the stage where a group were talking with john wilkes, i heard him say: "no! no, no! there's but one _hamlet_ to my mind, that's my brother edwin. you see, between ourselves, he _is hamlet_, melancholy and all!" that was an awful time when the dread news came to us. we were in columbus. we had been horrified by the great crime at washington. my room-mate and i had from our small earnings bought some black cotton, at a tripled price, as all the black material in the city was not sufficient to meet the demand, and as we tacked it about our one window, a man, passing, told us the assassin had been discovered, and that he was the actor booth. hattie laughed so she nearly swallowed the tack that, girl-like, she held between her lips, and i, after a laugh, told him it was a poor subject for a jest, and we went in. there was no store in columbus then where playbooks were sold, and as mr. ellsler had a very large and complete stage library, he frequently lent his books to us, and we would hurriedly copy out our lines and return the book for his own use. on that occasion he was going to study his part first and then leave the play with us as he passed going home. we heard his knock; i was busy pressing a bit of stage finery. hattie opened the door, and then i heard her exclaiming: "why--why--what?" i turned quickly. mr. ellsler was coming slowly into the room. he is a very dark man, but he was perfectly livid then, his lips even were blanched to the whiteness of his cheeks. his eyes were dreadful, they were so glassy and seemed so unseeing. he was devoted to his children, and all i could think of as likely to bring such a look upon his face was disaster to one of them, and i cried, as i drew a chair to him, "what is it? oh, what has happened to them?" he sank down, he wiped his brow, he looked almost stupidly at me, then, very faintly, he said: "you--haven't--heard--anything?" like a flash hattie's eyes and mine met; we thought of the supposed ill-timed jest of the stranger--my lips moved wordlessly. hattie stammered: "a man, he lied though, said that wilkes booth--but he did lie--didn't he?" and in the same faint voice mr. ellsler answered, slowly: "no--no! he did not lie--it's too true!" down fell our heads and the waves of shame and sorrow seemed fairly to o'erwhelm us, and while our sobs filled the little room, mr. ellsler rose and laid two playbooks on the table. then, while standing there, staring into space, i heard his far, faint voice, saying: "so great, so good a man destroyed, and by the hand of that unhappy boy! my god! my god!" he wiped his brow again and slowly left the house, apparently unconscious of our presence. when we resumed our work--the theatre had closed because of the national calamity--many a painted cheek showed runnels made by bitter tears, and one old actress, with quivering lips, exclaimed: "one woe doth tread upon another's heel, so fast they follow!" but with no thought of quoting, and god knows the words expressed the situation perfectly. mrs. ellsler, whom i never saw shed a tear for any sickness, sorrow, or trouble of her own, shed tears for the mad boy who had suddenly become the assassin of god's anointed--the great, the blameless lincoln! we crept about, quietly, everyone winced at the sound of the overture; it was as if one dead lay within the walls, one who belonged to us. when the rumors about booth being the murderer proved to be authentic, the police feared a possible outbreak of mob-feeling, and a demonstration against the theatre building, or against the actors individually; but we had been a decent, law-abiding, well-behaved people, liked and respected, so we were not made to suffer for the awful act of one of our number. still, when the mass-meeting was held in front of the capitol, there was much anxiety on the subject, and mr. ellsler urged all the company to keep away from it, lest their presence might arouse some ill-feeling. the crowd was immense; the sun had gloomed over, and the capitol building, draped in black, loomed up with stern severity and that massive dignity only obtained by heavily columned buildings. the people surged like waves about the speakers' stand, and the policemen glanced anxiously toward the new theatre, not far away, and prayed that some bombastic, revengeful ruffian might not crop up from this mixed crowd of excited humanity to stir them to violence. three speakers, however, in their addresses had confined themselves to eulogizing the great dead. in life, mr. lincoln had been abused by many; in death, he was worshipped by all, and these speakers found their words of love and sorrow eagerly listened to, and made no harsh allusions to the profession from which the assassin sprang. and then an unknown man clambered up from the crowd to the portico platform and began to speak, without asking anyone's permission. he had a far-reaching voice--he had fire and "go." "here's the fellow to look out for!" said the policeman, and, sure enough, suddenly the dread word "theatre" was tossed into the air, and everyone was still in a moment, waiting for--what? i don't know what they hoped for, i do know what many feared; but this is what he said: "yes, look over at our theatre and think of the little body of men and women there, who are to-day sore-hearted and cast down, who feel that they are looked at askant, because one of their number has committed that hideous crime! think of what they have to bear of shame and horror, and spare for them, too, a little pity!" he paused; it had been a bold thing to do--to appeal for consideration for actors at such a time. the crowd swayed for a moment to and fro, a curious growling came from it, and then all heads turned toward the theatre. a faint cheer was given, and after that there was not the slightest allusion made to us--and verily we were grateful. that the homely, tender-hearted "father abraham," rare combination of courage, justice, and humanity, died at an actor's hand will be a grief, a horror, and a shame to the profession forever--yet i cannot believe that john wilkes booth was "the leader of a band of bloody conspirators!" who shall draw a line and say: here genius ends and madness begins? there was that touch of "strangeness." in edwin booth it was a profound melancholy; in john it was an exaggeration of spirit, almost a wildness. there was the natural vanity of the actor, too, who craves a dramatic situation in real life. there was his passionate love and sympathy for the south--why, he was "easier to be played on than a pipe!" undoubtedly he conspired to kidnap the president--that would appeal to him, but after that i truly believe he was a tool, certainly he was no leader. those who led him knew his courage, his belief in fate, his loyalty to his friends; and because they knew these things, he drew the lot, as it was meant he should from the first. then, half mad, he accepted the part fate cast him for--committed the monstrous crime and paid the awful price. and since, "god moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform," we venture to pray for his mercy upon the guilty soul! who may have repented and confessed his manifold sins and offences during those awful hours of suffering before the end came. and "god shutteth not up his mercies forever in displeasure!" we can only shiver and turn our thoughts away from the bright light that went out in such utter darkness. poor, guilty, unhappy john wilkes booth! chapter fifteenth mr. r. e. j. miles--his two horses, and our woful experience with the substitute "wild horse of tartary." but there, just as i start to speak of my third season, i seem to look into a pair of big, mild eyes that say: "can it be that you mean to pass me by? do you forget that 'twas i who turned the great sensation scene of a play into a side-splitting farce?" and i shake my head and answer, truthfully: "i cannot forget, i shall never forget your work that night in columbus, when you appeared as the 'fiery, untamed steed' (may heaven forgive you) in 'mazeppa.'" mr. robert e. j. miles, or "all the alphabet miles," as he was frequently called, was starring at that time in the horse drama, doing such plays as "the cataract of the ganges," "mazeppa," "sixteen-string jack," etc. "mazeppa" was the favorite in columbus, and both the star and manager regretted they had billed the other plays in advance, as there would have been more money in "mazeppa" alone. mr. miles carried with him two horses; the one for the "wild horse of tartary" was an exquisitely formed, satin-coated creature, who looked wickedly at you from the tail of her blazing eye, who bared her teeth savagely, and struck out with her fore-feet, as well as lashed out with the hind ones. when she came rearing, plunging, biting, snapping, whirling, and kicking her way on to the stage, the scarlet lining of her dilating nostrils and the foam flying from her mouth made our screams very natural ones, and the women in front used to huddle close to their companions, or even cover their faces. one creature only did this beautiful vixen love--r. e. j. miles. she fawned upon him like a dog; she did tricks like a dog for him, but she was a terror to the rest of mankind, and really it was a thrilling scene when _mazeppa_ was stripped and bound, his head tail-ward, his feet mane-ward, to the back of that maddened beast. she seemed to bite and tear at him, and when set free she stood straight up for a dreadful moment, in which she really endangered his life, then, with a wild neigh, she tore up the "runs," as if fiends pursued her, with the man stretched helplessly along her inky back. the curtain used to go up again and again--it was so very effective. for a horse to get from the level stage clear above the "flies," under the very roof, the platforms or runs he mounts on have to zig-zag across the mountain background. at each angle, out of sight of the audience, there is a railed platform, large enough for the horse to turn upon and make the next upward rush. the other horse travelling with mr. miles was an entirely different proposition. he would have been described, according to the state he happened to be in, as a pie-bald, a skew-bald, a pinto, or a calico horse. he was very large, mostly of a satiny white, with big, absurdly shaped markings of bright bay. he was one of the breed of horses that in livery stables are always known as "doctor" or "judge." benevolence beamed from his large, clear eyes, and he looked so mildly wise, one half expected to see him put on spectacles. the boy at the stable said one day, as he fed him: "i wouldn't wunder if this ol' parson of 'er a hoss asked a blessin' on them there oats--i wouldn't!" i don't know whether old bob--as he was called--had any speed or not, but if he had it was useless to him, for, alas! he was never allowed to reach the goal under any circumstances. he was always ridden by the villain, and therefore had to be overtaken, and besides that he generally had to carry double, as the desperado usually fled holding the fainting heroine before him. though old bob successfully leaped chasms thus heavily handicapped--for truly he was a mighty jumper--nevertheless he was compelled to accept defeat, as mr. miles always came rushing up on the black horse to the rescue. he was very lucky indeed, if he didn't have to roll about and die, and he was a very impatient dead horse, often amusing the audience by lifting his head to see if the curtain was not down yet, and then dropping dead again with a sigh the whole house could hear. by the way, "the house" is a theatrical term, meaning, on an actor's lips, "the audience." "the house did thus or so," "the house is behaving beautifully," "it's the most refined house you ever saw," "what a cold house"; and so on. i have but rarely heard either actor or actress refer to the "audience"--and after steadily using any term for years it is very hard to lay it aside, and i shall long remember the grim moment that followed on my remarking to my rector, "what a good house you had yesterday--it must have been a pleasure to pla--to, to--er, er, to address such an audi--er, that is, i mean congregation!" there was a moment of icy silence, then, being a human being as well as a wearer of the priestly collar, he set back his head and laughed a laugh that was good to hear. anyway, being continually pushed back into second place and compelled to listen to the unearned applause bestowed upon the beautiful black seemed to rob old bob of all ambition professionally, and he simply became a _gourmet_ and a glutton. he lived to eat. a woman in his eyes was a sort of perambulating store-house of cake, crackers, apples, sugar, etc.; only his love for children was disinterested. the moment he was loose he went off in search for children, no matter whose, so long as he found some; then down he would go on his knees, and wait to be pulled and patted. his silvery tail provided hundreds of horse-hair rings--and his habit of gathering very small people up by their back breadths and carrying them a little way before dropping them, only filled the air with wild shrieks of laughter. in the theatre he walked sedately about before rehearsal began, and though we knew his attentions were entirely selfish, he was so urbane, so complaisant in his manner of going through us, that we could not resist his advances, and each day and night we packed our pockets and our muffs with such provender as women seldom carry about in their clothes. all our gloves smelled as though we worked at a cider-mill. while the play was going on old bob spent a great part of his time standing on the first of those railed platforms, and as he was on the same side of the stage that the ladies' dressing-rooms were on, everyone of us had to pass him on our way to dress, and he demanded toll of all. fruits, domestic or foreign, were received with gentle eagerness. cake, crackers, and sugar, the velvety nose snuffed at them approvingly, and if a girl, believing herself late, tried to pass him swiftly by, his look of amazement was comical to behold, and in an instant his iron-shod foot was playing a veritable devil's tattoo on the resounding board platform, and if that failed to win attention, following her with his eyes, he lifted up his voice in a full-chested "neigh--hay--hay--_ha-ay_!" that brought her back in a hurry with her toll of sugar. and that pie-bald hypocrite would scrunch it with such a piteously ravenous air that the girl quite forgot the basilisk glare and satirical words the landlady directed against her recently-acquired sweet-tooth. my own landlady had, as early as wednesday, covered the sugar-bowl and locked the pantry, but she left the salt-bag open, and i took on a full cargo of it twice a day, and old bob showed such an absolute carnality of enjoyment in the eating of it that mr. miles became convinced that it had long been denied to him at the stables. then, late in the week, there came that dreadful night of disaster. i don't recall the name of the play, but in that one piece the beautiful, high-spirited black mare had to carry double up the runs. john carroll and miss lucy cutler were the riders. mr. carroll claimed he could ride a little, and though he was afraid he was ashamed to say so. mr. miles said in the morning: "now, if you are the least bit timid, mr. carroll, say so, and i will fasten the bridle-reins to the saddle-pommel and the queen will carry you up as true as a die and as safe as a rock of her own accord; but if you are going to hold the bridle, for god's sake be careful! if it was old bob, you could saw him as much as you liked and he would pay no attention, and hug the run for dear life; but the queen, who has a tender mouth, is besides half mad with excitement at night, and a very slight pressure on the wrong rein will mean a forty or fifty-foot fall for you all!" miss cutler expressed great fear, when mr. miles, surprisedly, said: "why, you have ridden with me twice this week without a sign of fear?" "oh, yes," she answered, "but _you_ know what you are doing--you are a horseman." it was an unfortunate speech, and in face of it mr. carroll's vanity would not allow him to admit his anxiety. "he could ride well enough--and he would handle the reins himself," he declared. during the day his fears grew upon him. foolishly and wickedly he resorted to spirits to try to build up some dutch courage; and then, when the scene came on, half blind with fear and the liquor, which he was not used to, as he felt the fierce creature beneath them rushing furiously up the steep incline, a sort of madness came upon him. without rhyme or reason he pulled desperately at the nigh rein and in the same breath their three bodies were hurling downward, like thunderbolts. it was an awful sight! i looked at them as they descended, and for the fraction of a second they seemed to be suspended in the air. they were all upside down. they all, without turning or twisting, fell straight as plummets--the horse, the same as the man and woman, had its feet straight in the air. ugh! the striking--ugh!--never mind details! the curtain had been rushed down. miss cutler had been picked up, dazed, stunned, but without a mark. mr. carroll had crept away unaided amid the confusion, the sorrow, and tears, for the splendid queen was doomed and done for! though mr. miles had risked his own life in an awful leap to save her from falling through a trap, he could not save her life, and the almost human groan with which she dropped her lovely head upon her master's shoulder, and his streaming eyes as he tenderly wiped the blood from her velvety nostrils, made even the scene-shifters rub their eyes upon the backs of their hands. while the queen was half carried and half crept to the fire-engine house next door (her stable was so far away), someone was going before the curtain, assuring the audience that the accident was very slight, and the lady and gentleman would both be before them presently, and the audience applauded in a rather doubtful manner, for several ladies had fainted, and the carrying out of a helpless person from a place of amusement always has a depressing effect upon the lookers-on. meantime mr. carroll was getting his wrist bandaged and a cut on his face strapped up, while a basket of sawdust was hurriedly procured that certain cruel stains might be concealed. the orchestra played briskly and the play went on. that's the one thing we can be sure of in this world--that the play will go on. that night, late, the beautiful queen died with her head resting on her master's knee. now "mazeppa" was billed for the next night, and there were many consultations held in the office and on the stage. "the wild horse of tartary" was gone. it was impossible to find a new horse in one day. "change the bill!" said mr. miles. "and have an empty house," answered mr. ellsler. "but what can i do for a horse?" asked r. e. j. m. "use old bob," answered mr. ellsler. "good lord!" groaned bob's master. they argued long, but neither wanted to lose the good house, so the bill was allowed to stand, and "mazeppa" was performed with old white bob as the "wild horse of tartary." think of it, that ingratiating old bob! that follower of women and playmate of children! why, even the great bay blotches on his white old hide made one think of the circus, paper hoops, and _training_, rather than of wildness. meaning to make him at least impatient and restless, he had been deprived of his supper, and the result was a settled gloom, an air of melancholy that made mr. miles swear under his breath every time he looked at him. there was a ring, known i believe as a spanish ring, made with a sharp little spike attachment, and used sometimes by circus-men to stir up horses to a show of violence or of high spirits, and when a whip was not permissible. it could be resorted to without arousing any suspicion of cruelty, since the spike was on the under side and so out of sight. the man with the ring on his finger would stand by a horse, and resting his hand on the animal's neck, just at the most sensitive spot of his whole anatomy--the root or end of his mane--would close the hand suddenly, thus driving the spike into the flesh. it must have caused exquisite pain, and naturally the tormented animal rears and plunges. sometimes they get effect enough by pricking the creatures on the shoulder only. on that night, mr. miles, after gazing at the mild and melancholy features of his new "wild horse of tartary," went to his room and dug up from some trunk a spanish ring. calling one of the men who used to be dragged and thrashed about the stage by the black wild horse, he explained to him its use, ending with: "i hate to hurt the old fellow, so try him on the shoulder first, and if he dances about pretty lively, as i think he will, you need not prick his mane at all." the play moved along nicely, the house was large, and seemed pleased. _mazeppa_ fell into his enemy's hands, the sentence was pronounced, and the order followed: "bring forth the fiery, untamed steed!" the women began to draw close to their escorts; many of them remembered the biting, kicking entrance of the black, and were frightened beforehand. the orchestra responded with incidental creepy music, but--that was all. over in the entrance, old bob, surrounded by the four men who were supposed to restrain him, stood calmly. but those who sat in the left box heard "get-ups!" and "go-ons!" and the cluckings of many tongues. the mighty khan of tartary (who could not see that entrance) thought he had not been heard, and roared again: "bring forth the fiery, untamed steed!" another pause, the house tittered, then some one hit old bob a crack across the rump with a whip, at which he gave a switch of his tail and gently ambled on the stage, stopping of his own accord at centre, and, lowering his head, he stretched his neck and sniffed at the leader of the orchestra, precisely as a dog sniffs at a stranger. it was deliciously ridiculous. we girls were supposed to scream with terror at the "wild horse," and, alas! we were only too obedient, crowding down at right, clinging together in attitudes of extremest fright, we shrieked and screeched until old bob cocked up his ears and looked so astonished at our conduct that the audience simply rocked back and forth with laughter, and all the time _mazeppa_ was saying things that did not seem to be like prayers. finally he gave orders for the men to surround bob, which they did, and then the ring was used--the ring that was to make him dance about pretty lively. it pricked him on the shoulder, and the "wild horse" stood and switched his tail. it pricked him again--he switched his tail again. the men had by that time grown careless, and when the ring was finally used at his mane, he suddenly kicked one of them clear off the stage, and then resumed his unruffled calm. the public thought it was having fun all this time, but pretty soon it knew it. nothing under heaven could disturb the gentle serenity of that dog-like old horse. but when _mazeppa_ was brought forward to be bound upon his back, instead of pulling away, rearing, and fighting against the burden, his one and only quick movement was his violent effort to break away from his tormentors to welcome _mazeppa_ joyously. "oh!" groaned miles, "kill him, somebody, before he kills me!" while he was being bound on the wild horse's back, our instructions were to scream, therefore we screamed as before, and being on the verge of insanity, _mazeppa_ lifted his head from the horse's back, and said: "oh, shut up--do!" the audience heard, and--well, it laughed some more, and then it discovered, when the men sprang away and left the horse free to dash madly up the mountain, that _mazeppa_ had kept one foot unbound to kick his horse with--and truly it did seem that the audience was going into convulsions. such laughter, pierced every now and then by the shrill scream of hysteria. then old bob ambled up the first run all right, but, alas! for poor _mazeppa_, as he reached the first turn-table, a woman passed on the way to her room, and hungry bob instantly stopped to negotiate a loan in sugar. oh, it was dreadful, the wait, and when finally he reappeared, trotting--yes, trotting up the next run, mr. miles's foot could be plainly seen, kicking with the regularity of a piston-rod, while his remarks were--well, they were irregular in the extreme. of course the play was hopelessly ruined; the audience laughed at the slightest mention of the "wild horse," and when, broken and exhausted, the shepherds find them both lying at the foot of the mountain, the house seemed to shake with laughter. when the play was at last over, old white bob walked over to his master and mumbled his hand. mr. miles pushed him away with pretended anger, crying: "you infernal old idiot, i'd sell you for a three-cent stamp with gum on it!" bob looked hard at him a moment, then he calmly crossed behind him and mumbled his other hand, and mr. miles pulled his ears, and said that "he himself was the idiot for expecting an untrained, unrehearsed horse to play such a part," and old bob agreeing with him perfectly, they were, as always, at peace with each other. chapter sixteenth i perform a remarkable feat, i study _king charles_ in one afternoon and play without a rehearsal--mrs. d. p. bowers makes odd revelation. already in that third season my position had become an anomalous one, from that occasion when, because of sickness, i had in one afternoon studied, letter perfect, the part of _king charles_ in "faint heart never won fair lady," and played it in borrowed clothes and without any rehearsal whatever, other than finding the situations plainly marked in the book. it was an astonishing thing to do, and nearly everyone had a kind word for me. the stage manager, or rather the prompter, for mr. ellsler was his own stage manager, patted me on the shoulder and said: "'pon my soul, girl, you're a wonder! i think pretty well of my own study, but you can beat me. you never missed a word, and besides that i've seen the part played worse many a time. i don't know what to say to you, my dear, but a girl that can do that can do most anything." ah, yes! and that was just what the powers that were seemed to think--that i could do almost anything, for from that day i became a sort of dramatic scape-goat, to play the parts of the sick, the halt, the cross, the tricky, for whenever an actor or actress turns up with a remarkable study--the ability to learn almost any part in a given time--he or she is bound to be "put upon." sickness will increase, tempers will get shorter, airs of superiority will be assumed, all because there is someone ready to play the obnoxious part, someone ready to rush into the breach and prevent the changing of the "bill." so often was i playing parts, thus leaving only two in the ballet, that another girl was engaged. thus to hattie, annie, and clara there was added mary. and lo! in this young woman i recognized a friend of my youth. i had known her but two days, but i could never forget the only child i had ever had a play with. she had parted from me in wrath because, after playing house-keeping all morning in the yard, i had refused to eat a clay dumpling she had made, with a nice green clover-leaf in its middle. she threw the dumpling at me, roaring like a little bull calf, and twisting a dirty small fist into each dry eye, she waddled off home, leaving me, finger in mouth, gazing in pained amazement after her, until my fat little legs suddenly gave way, as was their wont in moments of great emotion, and sat me unwillingly but flatly down upon the ground, where i remained, looking gravely at them and wondering what they did it for--and now here we were together again. of course this playing of many parts was, in a certain way, an advantage to me, and i appreciated it; but there can be too much even of a good thing. that i got little pay for all this work was nothing to me, i was glad to do it for the experience it gave me, but when i was forced to appear ridiculous through my inability to dress the parts correctly i suffered cruelly. once in a while, as in the case of _king charles_, i could get a costume from the theatre wardrobe, where the yellow plush breeches lived when not engaged in desolating my young life, but, alas! here, as everywhere, the man is the favored party, and the theatre wardrobe contains only masculine garments; the women must provide everything for themselves. then, too, one is never too young or too insignificant to feel an injustice. i recall, very distinctly, having to go on for _lady anne_ in "richard iii.," with a rather unimportant star. now had i "held a position," as the term goes, that part would, out of courtesy, have belonged to me for the rest of the season, unless i chose to offer it back to the woman i had obliged; but being only a ballet-girl i did well enough for the _lady anne_ of an unimportant star, but when a more popular _richard_ appeared upon the scene, _lady anne_ was immediately reclaimed, and i traipsed again behind the coffin, and with the rest of the ballet was witness to that most savage fling of shakespeare against a vain, inconsequential womanhood as personified in _lady anne_, who, standing by her coffined, murdered dead, eagerly drinks in the flattery offered by the murderer's self. it is a courtship all dagger-pierced and reeking with innocent blood--monstrous and revolting! one would like to know who the woman was whose incredible vanity and levity so worked upon the master's mind that he produced this tragic caricature. who was the woman who inspired great shakespeare's one unnatural scene? come, antiquaries, _cherchez la femme_! i suffered most when i had to play some lady of quality, for what, in heaven's name, had i to dress a lady in? five dollars a week to live on, to dress myself on, and to provide stage wardrobe! many a bitter tear i shed. and then there was the surprise of the stars, when after playing an important part one night, they suddenly recognized me the next standing in the crowd of peasants or seated at _macbeth's_ disheartening banquet. their comments used to be very caustic sometimes, and they almost, without exception, advised me to rebel, to go and demand freedom from the ballet, or at least salary enough to dress the parts given me to play. but those long years of childish thraldom had left their mark--i could not assert myself, an overwhelming shame came upon me, even at the thought of asking to be advanced. so i went on playing boys and second old women, singing songs when forced to it, going on for poor leading parts even, for the leading lady being the manager's wife rarely played parts with women stars, and then between times dropping back into the ballet and standing about in crowds or taking part in a village dance. it was a queer position and no mistake. many stars had grown to know me, and often on monday morning he or she would come over to our group and shake hands kindly, to my great pleasure. one morning, while we were rehearsing "lady audley's secret," mrs. bowers, whom i greatly admired, came over to me, and remarked: "you hard-hearted little wretch! i've been watching you; you are treating that boy shamefully! don't you know murdoch is a gentleman?" i was surprised, and rather quickly answered: "well, have i treated him as if he were not a gentleman?" she was called just then, but when the act was over she came to me again, and taking my hand in her right, she began beating it up and down upon her left: "you are not vexed, are you?" she asked. "don't be; i only wonder how you can do it, and you are so young! why," she sighed, from her very soul it seemed to me, "why," she went on, "ever since i was fourteen years old i have been loving some man who has not loved me!" tears rose thickly into her eyes. "i am always laying my heart down for some man to trample on!" she glanced toward mr. mccollom (he who was six feet tall and handsome), a little smile trembled on her lips. i caught her fingers on a swift impulse and squeezed them, she squeezed back answeringly; we understood each other, she was casting her heart down again, unasked. her eyes came back to me. "yours is the best way, but i'm too old to learn now, i shall have to go on seeking--always seeking!" "and finding, surely finding!" i answered, honestly, for i could not imagine anyone resisting her. "do you think so?" she said, eagerly; then, rather sadly, she added: "still it would be nice to be sought once, instead of always seeking." poor woman! charming actress as she was, she did not exaggerate in declaring she was always casting her heart before someone. she married mr. mccollom, and lived with him in adoring affection till death took him. the last time i saw her she was my guest here at "the pines," and as i fastened a great hibiscus flower above her ear, in spanish fashion, she remarked: "how little you have changed in all these years! i'll wager your heart is without a scar, while if you could only see mine," she laughed, "it's like an old bit of tinware--so battered, and bent, and dented!" chapter seventeenth through devotion to my friend, i jeopardize my reputation--i own a baby on shares--miss western's pathetic speech. i had at that time a friend--a rare possession that. "the ideal of friendship," says madame switchine, "is to feel as one while remaining two," which is a precise description of the condition of mind and feeling of mrs. mollie ogden and myself. she did not act, but her husband did, and i saw her every night, nearly every morning, and when work permitted we visited one another in the afternoons. there was but one kind of cake on the market that i liked, and that cake, with coffee, was always offered for my refreshment when i was her guest. when she was mine the festal board was furnished forth with green tea, of which she was inordinately fond, and oysters stewed in their own can and served in two mugs; the one announcing, in ostentatious gold letters, that i was "a good girl," was naturally at the service of my guest, while the plain stone-china affair, from the toilet-table, answered my purposes. with what happy eagerness we prepared for those absurd banquets, which we heartily enjoyed, since we were boarders, and always hungry--and how we talked! of what? why, good heaven! did i not hold a membership in the library, and were we not both lightning-quick readers? why, we had the whole library to talk over; besides, there was the country to save! and as mollie didn't really know one party from the other, she felt herself particularly fitted for the task of settling public questions. then, suddenly, she began to expect another visitor--a _wee_ visitor, whom we hoped would remain permanently, and, goodness mercy! i nearly lost my reputation through the chambermaid finding in my work-basket some half-embroidered, tiny, tiny jackets. whereupon she announced to the servants, in full assembly, that i had too soft a tongue, and was deeper than the sea, but _she_ had her eyes open, and, judging from what she found in my work-basket, i was either going to buy a monkey for a pet, or i had thrown away my character completely. mrs. ogden was with me when the landlady, stony-eyed and rattling with starch and rectitude, came to inquire into the contents of my work-basket. her call was brief, but satisfactory, and shortly after her exit we heard her, at the top of her lungs, giving me a clean bill of health--morally speaking--and denouncing the prying curiosity of the maids. but we had had a scare, and mollie implored me either not to help her any more or to lock up my work-basket. "oh, no," i said, "i'll rest my head upon the chambermaid's breast and confide all my intentions to her, then surely my character will be safe." however, when the _wee_ stranger arrived, she might well have wondered whom she belonged to. at all events she "goo-gooed and gurgled," and smiled her funny three-cornered smile at me as readily as at her mother, and my friendly rights in her were so far recognized by others that questions about her were often put to me in her mother's very presence, who laughingly declared that only in bed with the light out did she feel absolutely sure that the baby was hers. mollie used to say the only really foolish thing she ever caught me in was "protestantism." it was a great grief to us all that i could not be godmother, but though baby had a protestant father, the church flatly refused to wink at a godmother of that forsaken race. when, in god's good time, a tiny sister came to baby, she was called clara, but my friend had made a solemn vow before the altar, at the ripe age of seven years, to name her first child genevieve, and she, to quote her husband, "being a roman catholic as well as a little idiot," faithfully kept her vow, and our partnership's baby was loaded up with a name that each year proved more unsuitable, for a more un-genevieve-like genevieve never lived. all of which goes to prove how unwise it is to assume family cares and duties before the arrival of the family. miss lucille western was playing an engagement in cleveland when "our baby" was a few months old. my friend and i were both her ardent admirers. i don't know why it has arisen, this fashion to sneer more or less openly at miss western's work. if a woman who charms the eye can also thrill you, repel you, touch you to tears, provoke you to laughter by her acting, she surely merits the term "great actress." well, now, who can deny that she did all these things? why else did the people pack her houses season after season? it was not her looks, for if the perfect and unblemished beauty of her lovely sister helen could not draw a big house, what could you expect from the inspired irregularity of lucille's face? how alive she was! she was not quite tall enough for the amount of fine firm flesh her frame then carried--but she laced, and she was grace personified. she was a born actress; she knew nothing else in all the world. there is a certain tang of wildness in all things natural. dear gods! think what the wild strawberry loses in cultivation! half the fascination of the adorable jacqueminot rose comes from the wild scent of thorn and earth plainly underlying the rose _attar_ above. and this actress, with all her lack of polish, knew how to interpret a woman's heart, even if she missed her best manner. for in all she did there was just a touch of extravagance--a hint of lawless, unrestrained passion. there was something tropical about her, she always suggested the scarlet tanager, the jeweled dragon-fly, the pomegranate flower, or the scentless splendor of our wild marshmallow. in "lucretia borgia" she presented the most perfect picture of opulent, insolent beauty that i ever saw, while her "leah, the forsaken" was absolutely hebraic; and in the first scene, where she was pursued and brought to bay by the christian mob, her attitude, as she silently eyed her foes, her face filled both with wild terror and fierce contempt, was a thing to thrill any audience, and always received hearty applause. so far as looks went, she was seen to least advantage in her greatest money-maker, "east lynne." oh, dear! oh, dear! the tears that were shed over that dreadful play, and how many i contributed myself! i would stand looking on from the entrance, after my short part was over, and when she cried out: "oh, why don't i die! my god! why _don't_ i die?" i would lay my head against the nearest scene and simply howl like a broken-hearted young puppy. i couldn't help it, neither could those in front help weeping--more decorously perhaps, because they were older and had their good clothes on. now this brilliant and successful actress was not very happy--few are, for one reason or another--but she worked much harder than most women, and naturally liked to have some return for her work; therefore she must have found it depressing, at least, when her husband formed the habit of counting up the house by eye (he could come to within $ of the money contents of the house any night in this way), and then going out and losing the full amount of her share in gambling. it was cruel, and it was but one of the degradations put upon her. lucille did not know how to bear her troubles. she wept and used herself up. then, to get through her heavy night's work, she took a stimulant. oh, poor soul! poor soul! though the audience knew nothing, the people about her knew she was not her best self; and she knew they knew it, and was made sore ashamed and miserable. her husband, on one occasion, had gambled away every cent of three nights' work. on the fourth she had had resource to a stimulant, and on the fifth she was cast down, silent, miserable, and humiliated. that night "our baby" came to the theatre. she was one of those aggressively sociable infants, who will reach out and grasp a strange whisker rather than remain unnoticed. she had pretty little, straight features and small, bright eyes that were fairly purply blue. i had her--of course in so public a place it was my right to have her--she was over my shoulder. i was standing near the star-room. the door opened and next moment i heard a long, low, "o-o-h!" and then again, "o-o-h! a--baby, and awake! and the peace of heaven yet in its eyes!" i turned my head to look at miss western, and her face quickened my heart. her glowing eyes were fastened upon "baby," with just the rapt, uplifted look one sees at times before some roman catholic altar. it was beautiful! she gave a little start and exclaimed, as at a wonder: "its hand! oh, its tiny, tiny hand!" just with the very tip of her forefinger she touched it, and "baby" promptly grasped the finger and gurgled cordially. her face flushed red, she gave a gasp: "good god!" she cried, "it's touching me, me! it _is_, see--_see_!" sudden tears slipped down her cheeks. "blessed god!" she cried, "if you had but sent me such a one, all would have been different! i could never bring disgrace or shame on a precious thing like this!" as she raised the tiny morsel of a hand to her lips the prompter sharply called: "the stage waits, miss western!" and she was gone. poor, ill-guided, unhappy woman! it was always and only the stage that waited miss western. chapter eighteenth mr. charles w. couldock--his daughter eliza and his many peculiarities. there was one star who came to us every season with the regularity and certainty of the equinoctial storm, and when they arrived together, as they frequently did, we all felt the conjunction to be peculiarly appropriate. he was neither young nor good-looking, yet no one could truthfully assert that his engagements were lacking in interest--indeed, some actors found him lively in the extreme. charles w. couldock was an englishman by birth, and had come to this country with the great cushman. he was a man of unquestionable integrity--honorable, truthful, warm-hearted; but being of a naturally quick and irritable temper, instead of trying to control it, he yielded himself up to every impulse of vexation or annoyance, while with ever-growing violence he made mountains out of mole-hills, and when he had just cause for anger he burst into paroxysms of rage, even of ferocity, that, had they not been half unconscious acting, must have landed him in a mad-house out of consideration for the safety of others; while, worst of all, like too many of his great nation, he was profane almost beyond belief; and profanity, always painfully repellent and shocking, is doubly so when it comes from the lips of one whose silvering hair shows his days have already been long in the land of the god whom he is defying. and yet when mr. couldock ceased to use plain, every-day oaths, and brought forth some home-made ones, they were oaths of such intricate construction, such grotesque termination, that they wrung a startled laugh from the most unwilling lip. in personal appearance he was the beau-ideal wealthy farmer. he was squarely, solidly built, of medium height--never fat. his square, deeply-lined, even-furrowed face was clean shaven. his head, a little bald on top, had a thin covering of curly gray hair, which he wore a trifle long; while his suit of black cloth--always a size or two too large for him--and his never-changing big hat of black felt were excuse enough for any man's asking him about the state of the crops--which they often did, and were generally urgently invited to go to the hottest hades for their pains. on his brow there was a deep and permanent scowl that seemed cut there to the very bone. two deep, heavy lines ran from the sides of his nose to the corners of his lips, where they suddenly became deeper before continuing down toward his chin, while a strong cast in one of his steely-blue eyes gave a touch of malevolence to the severity of his face. the strong point of his acting was in the expression of intense emotion--particularly grief or frenzied rage. he was utterly lacking in dignity, courtliness, or subtlety. he was best as a rustic, and he was the only creature i ever saw who could "snuffle" without being absurd or offensive. generally, if anything went wrong, mr. couldock's rage broke forth on the instant, but he had been known to keep a rod in pickle for a day or more, as in the case of a friend of mine--at least it was the husband of my friend mollie. he had played _salanio_ in "the merchant of venice," and in some way had offended the star, who cursed him _sotto voce_ at the moment of the offence, and then seemed to forget all about the matter. next morning, at rehearsal, nothing was said till its close, when mr. couldock quite quietly asked my friend to look in at his dressing-room that evening before the play began. poor john was uneasy all the afternoon, still he drew some comfort from the calmness of mr. couldock's manner. evening came, john was before the bar. the star seemed particularly gentle--he removed his coat leisurely and said: "you played _salanio_ last night?" "yes, sir." "and your name is--er?" "ogden, sir," replied john. "ah, yes, ogden. well, how long have you been at it, ogden?" "about three years," answered the now confident and composed prisoner at the bar. "three years? huh! well, will you let me give you a bit of advice, ogden?" "why, yes, sir, i shall be glad to listen to any advice from you," earnestly protested the infatuated one. "well," snapped the star, rather sharply, "i want you to _follow it_ as well as to listen to it. now you take some money--you _have_ some money saved, i suppose?" "oh, yes, sir!" answered john. "well, then," he turned his queer eye on him, he took a long, full breath, "well, then, you just get some of that money, and you go to a hardware store," his rage was rising visibly, "and you buy a good sharp hatchet, and then i want you to take it home and chop your d----d fool head off!" and ripping off his vest he made a furious charge upon the almost paralyzed ogden, clouting him from the room, while roaring like a bull. he had played one set of plays so long he had lost the power to study quickly, and he was so ill-advised once as to attempt a new part, on rather short notice. the play was a miserable jumble of impossible situations and strained, high-flown language; and, of all absurd things, mr. couldock attempted to play a young irish hero, with a love-scene--in fact he was supposed to represent the young emmet. dear heaven! what a sight he was, in those buckskin riding breeches (his legs were not beyond suspicion as to their straightness), that cutaway green coat, and the dinky little conical hat, looking so maliciously "larky," perched over his fiercest eye. he forgot all his lines, but he never forgot his profanity, and that night it took on a wild originality that was simply convulsing. in one scene he had to promise to save his beloved ireland. he quite forgot the speech, and being reminded of it by the prompter, he roared at the top of his voice: "i don't care! what the devil's ireland to me! d----n ireland! i wish it and the man that wrote this play were both at the bottom of the sea, with cock-eyed sharks eatin' 'em!" then he suddenly pulled out his part and began to search wildly for his next scene, that he might try to recall his lines; at this he continued till he was called to go upon the stage, then he made a rush, and in a moment the house was laughing. "oh, dear! what was it?" everyone ran to peep on the stage. mr. couldock had discovered they were laughing at him, and was becoming recklessly furious. mr. ellsler, fearing he would insult the people, hastily rang down the curtain. then mr. couldock, as _emmet_, faced round to us, and the laughter was explained. when he was reading over his part he had put on a big pair of spectacles, and when he hurried on he simply pushed them up and left them there. a young lover with big, old-fashioned spectacles on his forehead and a perky little conical hat looking down on them was certainly an unusual sight and an amusing one. one of mr. couldock's most marked characteristics was the amazingly high pitch of his voice in speaking. anyone who has heard two men trying to converse across a large open field has had a good illustration of his style of intonation, which anger raised to a perfect shriek. the most shocking exhibition of rage i ever saw came from him during a performance of "louis xi." annie and i, as pages, were standing each side of the throne, holding large red cushions against our stomachs. my cushion supported a big gilded key, until, in my fright, i actually shook it off, for when mr. couldock's passion came upon him on the stage his violence created sad havoc in the memories of the actors. the audience, too, could hear many of his jibes and oaths, and mr. ellsler was very angry about it, for in spite of his affection for the man, he drew the line at the insulting of the audience; therefore, when the curtain fell, mr. ellsler said: "charley, this won't do! you _must_ control yourself in the presence of the public!" the interference seemed to drive him mad. a volley of oaths, inconceivably blasphemous, came from his lips, and then, with a bound, he seized the manuscript (it was not a published play then, and the manuscript was valuable) and tore it right down the centre. mr. ellsler and the prompter caught his right hand, trying to save the play, but while they held that he lifted the rest of the manuscript and tore it to pieces with his teeth, growling and snarling like a savage animal. then he broke away and rushed frantically up-stairs to mr. ellsler's dressing-room, where he locked himself in. when it was time to call the next act he gave no answer to their knocking, though he could be heard swearing and raving within. mr. ellsler finally burst open the door, and there stood _louis xi._ in his under-garments, and his clothing--where? it was a tiny room, nevertheless no velvet costume could be found. the window, a long french one, was nailed up for winter--the clothes had not been thrown out. there was no stove yet, they had not been burned; where then were they? another overture was played. some of mr. ellsler's clothes were hastily brought--a nondescript covering for his royal nakedness was found, and he went on to finish the performance somehow, while the prompter guessed at the ringing down of the curtain, for there was no manuscript to guide him. truly it had been a most humiliating spectacle. many weeks later, when stoves were going up, the men discovered that someone had torn away the tin protector from the stove-pipe hole in mr. ellsler's room, and when they were replacing it they found, crammed tightly into a narrow space between the lath and plastering of the two rooms, the velvet garments of _louis xi._, even to the cap with the leaden images. how he had discovered the place no one knows, and when his rage had passed he could not remember what he had done, but he could play _louis_ no more that season. we were always pleased when mr. couldock was accompanied by his daughter. eliza couldock, bearing an absurdly marked resemblance to her father, of course could not be pretty. the thin, curly hair, the fixed frown, the deep lines of nose and mouth, the square, flat figure, all made of her a slightly softened _replica_ of the old gentleman. her teeth were pretty, though, and her hazel eyes were very brilliant. she was well read, clever, and witty, and her affectionate devotion to her father knew no bounds; yet as she had a keen sense of the ridiculous, no eccentricity, no _grotesquerie_ of his escaped her laughing, hawk-keen eye, and sometimes when talking to old friends, like mr. and mrs. ellsler, she would tell tales of "poor pa" that were exceedingly funny. they went to california--a great undertaking then, as the pacific railroad was not completed, and they were most unsuccessful during their entire stay here. eliza told one day of how a certain school-principal in 'frisco had met her father after a performance to a miserable house, and with frightful bad taste had asked mr. couldock how he accounted for the failure of his engagement, and that gentleman snarled out: "i don't try to account for it at all! i leave that work for the people who ask fool questions. if i only have one d----n cent in my pocket i don't try to account for not having another d----n cent to rub against it!" and eliza added, in pained tones: "that principal had meant to ask 'poor pa' to come and speak to the dear little boys in his school, but after that he didn't--wasn't it odd?" as mr. couldock was heard approaching that morning, his daughter quickly whispered to mrs. ellsler: "ask pa how he liked california?" and after "good-mornings" were exchanged, the question was put, and incidentally the red rag brought the mad bull into action. "i wouldn't give a d----n for the whole d----d state!" roared mr. couldock, while his daughter pushed his hair behind his ears, and mildly said: "pa's always so emphatic about california." "yes!" shouted the old man, "and so would you be if you wore breeches and dared to speak the truth! you see," he went on, "no one ever gave me even a hint, and it was just my cursed luck to go overland, risking my own d----n skin and eliza's too, and it seems that those god-forsaken duffers look upon anyone coming to them by the overland route as a sort of outcast tramp. in fact, that's entering by the back-kitchen door to san francisco. you ought to go by sea, and come in at the front door of their blasted, stuck-up little city if you're to put any of their money in your purse or be allowed to keep any of your own." one morning we girls were boasting among ourselves of our abilities as packers. hattie, my room-mate, thought she could pack a trunk the quickest, while i claimed i could pack one with the least injury to the contents. miss couldock, hearing us, exclaimed, laughingly: "oh, girls, poor pa could give you all points at that work, while his manner of _un_packing is so original, so swift, and so thorough, i think i should explain it to you. first, i must tell you, that that slight bow to pa's legs is an annoyance to him on every occasion of life, save that of unpacking his trunks, then it is of great convenience. you see, the trunks are brought up and dumped in the room. they don't have any locks, because 'poor pa,' always losing the keys, has to kick the locks off during the first week that he owns them. next they are unstrapped and opened, then pa yanks off the top spread from the bed and lays it open on the middle of the floor; then he takes his place before the first trunk, straddles his feet well apart (see, now, how useful that bow becomes), and fires every single garment the trunk contains between his legs and on to the quilt. having emptied the trunks with lightning swiftness, he claps down their covers for the rest of the week. whenever he wants anything for the theatre, he straddles the pile on the quilt, and paws it wildly, but rapidly over, pulling out a shoulder-cape here, a doublet yonder, one boot from the top and its mate from the bottom--all these he pitches into the theatre-basket, and is happy for _that_ day. when the week is over, pa dumps into the nearest trunk all it will hold, and what's left over is pitched _en masse_ into the next one. if there is any difficulty in closing the trunks he don't waste time in trying to re-arrange the things. there is such beautiful simplicity in all pa's actions, he just gets up and walks--well, perhaps stamps a little on the contents, until the lid closes quite nicely, for he is a very quick packer, is pa, though it's just possible that his method in some degree may explain his generally rumpled appearance on the stage. what should _you_ think about it, girls?" the old gentleman was always very kind to me and had the oddest pet name for me i ever heard. he used to hail me with: "where's my crummie girl? well, crummy, how are you?" in answer to my amazed look, he explained one day that it was a yorkshire term, and meant "plump or round faced." the only time he ever cursed me was when he gave me the cue in the wrong place, as he openly admitted, and i went on too soon in consequence. aside, he swore so the air seemed blue--my legs shook under me. i did not know whether to speak or not. he rose, and putting his arm about me, he led me off the stage (i was playing his daughter), and as we crossed the stage, this is what he said--the words in parentheses being asides to me, the other words being aloud for the audience: "(what in h--ll!) my little one! (you double d----n fool!) my bird, what brings you here? (yes, what the blankety, blankety, blanknation does bring you here, crummie girl?) get back to your nest, dearie! (and stay there, d----n you!)" as he gently pushed me off the stage. next day when the prompter showed him his error he admitted it at once. he knew much sorrow and trouble, and before that last long streak of good fortune came to him, in new york, in "hazel kirke," he knew a time of bitter poverty. eliza had died--a sweet and noble woman--and the loss was terrible to him. i was just winning success in the east when i was dumfounded one day at seeing mr. couldock standing, bowed and broken, before me, asking me for help. a star--dear god! could such things happen to a star? i was so hurt for him, for his broken pride. when i could speak, i simply told him my salary, and that two (my mother and myself) were trying to live on it. "oh!" he cried, "crummie girl, why don't you demand your rights; your name is on everyone's lips, yet you are hungry! shall i speak for you?" poor old gentleman, i could not let him go empty away. i took one-half of my rent-money and handed it to him. i dared not ask my landlady to favor me further than that. his face lighted up radiantly--it might have been hundreds from his look. "dearie!" he said, "i'll pay this back to the penny. you can ill spare it, i see that, crummie girl, but, oh, my lass, it's worse to see another hungry than it is to hunger yourself. i'll pay it back!" his eyes filled, he paused long, then he said, pathetically: "some time, crummie girl, some time!" my landlady granted me grace. months passed away--many of them--waves went over me sometimes, but they receded before my breath was quite gone. things were bettering a little, and then one day, when i came home from work, a man had called in my absence--an old man, who had left this little packet, and, oh! he had been so anxious for its safety! i opened it to find $ , all in bills of ones and twos. such a pathetic story those small bills told--they were for the crummie girl, "with the thanks of the obliged, charles w. couldock." he had kept his word; he was the only man in this profession who ever repaid me one dollar of borrowed money. mr. couldock was like some late-ripening fruit that requires a touch of frost for its sweetening. in his old age he mellowed, he became chaste of speech, his acting of strong, lovable old men was admirable. he was honored by his profession in life and honestly mourned in death--he would not have asked more. chapter nineteenth i come to a turning-point in my dramatic life--i play my first crying part with miss sallie st. clair. we were in columbus; things were moving along smoothly and quietly, when suddenly that incident occurred which had the power to change completely my dramatic prospects, while at the same time it convinced the people about me, in theatrical parlance, my head was "well screwed on," meaning it was not to be turned by praise. miss sallie st. clair was the star of the week, and she was billed to appear on friday and saturday nights in an adaptation of "la maison rouge." i am not certain as to the title she gave it, but i think it was "the lone house on the bridge." she was to play the dual characters--a count and a gypsy boy. the leading female part mrs. ellsler declined, because she would not play second to a woman. the young lady who had been engaged for the juvenile business (which comes between leading parts and walking ladies) had a very poor study, and tearfully declared she simply _could_ not study the part in time--"no--no! she co--co--could not, so now!" there, then, was blanche's chance. the part was sentimental, tearful, and declamatory at the last, a good part--indeed, what is vulgarly known to-day as a "fat" part, "fat" meaning lines sure to provoke applause. mrs. bradshaw, who was herself ever ready to oblige her manager, could not serve him in this instance, as the part was that of a very young heroine, but she gladly offered her daughter's services in the emergency. so sending for her to come to the theatre, the mother awaited her arrival. she was very ambitious for blanche, who had absolutely no ambition for herself, outside of music, and here was the double opportunity of playing a leading part, next to the star, and of obliging the manager just at the time when contracts for the next season were in order of consideration. no girl could help grasping at it eagerly, and while blanche studied the part, she, the mother, would baste up some breadths of satin she had by her into a court dress. as she thus happily planned it all blanche sauntered in to inform her mother and her manager that she would not do the part. _would_ not, mind you; she did not condescend to claim she _could_ not. poor mrs. bradshaw drew her heavy veil over her face with a shaking hand and moved silently away, only waiting to reach the friendly privacy of her own room before yielding to the tears caused by this cruel indifference to her wishes and to their mutual welfare. mr. ellsler then tried, in vain, to induce blanche to undertake the part. he tried to bribe her, promising certain gifts. he tried to arouse her pride--he absolutely commanded her to take the part. "oh, very well, if you like," she answered, "but i'll spoil the play if i do, you know!" and indeed he did "know" what she was capable of in the line of mischief; and, knowing, gave her up in angry despair. there was then but one chance left for the production of the play, to give the part to one of the ballet-girls. and mr. ellsler, who felt a strong friendship for the brave, hard-working, much-enduring miss st. clair and her devoted if eccentric husband, said, gently: "i'm sorry, sallie, but it's no fault of mine; you know i can't give memories to these two women, who say they can't study the part. the girl i want to offer it to now will speak the words perfectly to the last letter, and that's all we can expect of her, but that's better than changing the bill." then i was called. i adored miss st. clair, as everyone else did. i heard, i saw the long part, but instead of the instant smiling assent mr. ellsler expected, i shook my head silently. miss st. clair groaned, mr. barras snuffled loudly, and stammered: "w--what did you expect, if the others can't study it, how can she?" "oh," i answered, "i can study the lines, mr. barras, but," big tears came into my eyes, i was so sorry to disappoint the lovely blond star, "it's--it's a crying part--a great lady and a crying part! i--i--oh, if you please, i can't cry. i can laugh and dance and sing and scold, but i don't know how to cry; and look here," i caught up the part and fluttered over the leaves and pointed to the oft-repeated word "weeps--weeps," "and, miss st. clair," i excitedly finished, "i can't weep, and i won't have a stitch of clothes for her back either!" all three hearers burst out laughing. miss st. clair was in radiant good-humor in an instant. she dried my eyes, and said: "child, if you really can study that long part, and just walk through it after only one rehearsal, you will be a very clever little girl. you need not try to act, just give me the lines and hold a handkerchief to your eyes when tears are called for. you shall have one of my prettiest dresses for the court scene, and i guess you have a white muslin of your own for the garden scene, have not you?" i had, yes, and so i went home, heavy-hearted, to undertake the study of my first crying part. good heavens! in spite of this memory, i catch myself wondering was there ever a _first one_--did i ever do anything else. for it seems to me i have cried steadily through all the years of my dramatic life. tears gentle, regretful; tears petulant, fretful; tears stormy, passionate; tears slow, despairing; with a light patter, now and then, of my own particular brand, kept for the expression of my own personal troubles--very bitter, briny tears they are, and i find that a very few answer my purpose nicely. miss st. clair, who was tall as well as fair, had measured the length of my skirt in front, so that she might have one of her dresses shortened for me during the afternoon, thus leaving me all the time possible for study. after i had learned the words by heart, i began to study out the character. it was an excellent acting part, very sweet and tenderly pathetic in the first act, very passionate and fierce in the second, and the better i understood the requirements of the part, the greater became my terror of it. my room-mate tried to comfort me. "think," she cried, "of wearing one of miss st. clair's own dresses! i'll wager it will be an awful nice one, too, since you are obliging her, and she is always kind, anyway." but that leaden weight at my heart was too great for gratified vanity to lift. "bother the tears," she added; "i heard mr. barras say the tears of all actresses were in their handkerchiefs." "oh, yes, i heard him, too," i answered, "but he was just talking for effect. there must be something else, something more. you can't move anyone's heart by showing a handkerchief." "well," she exclaimed, a bit impatiently, "what do you _want_ to do? you don't expect to shed real tears, do you?" "n-n-no!" i hesitated, "not exactly that, but there's a tone--a--hattie, last wednesday, when you quarrelled with young fleming--i was not present, you know--but that night, a half-hour after our light was out, you spoke to me in the darkness, and i instantly asked you why you were crying and if you had been quarrelling, though you had not even reached the sobbing stage yet. now how did i know you were crying?" "i don't know--anyway i had no handkerchief," she laughed; "you heard it maybe in my voice." "yes," i answered, eagerly, "that was it. that curious veiling of the voice. oh, hattie, if i could only get that tone, but i can't, i've tried and tried!" "why," she exclaimed, "you've got it now--this very moment!" "yes," i broke in impatiently, and turning to her a pair of reproachful, tear-filled eyes, "yes, but why? because i'm really crying, with the worry and the disappointment, and, oh, hattie, the fright!" and the landlady, a person who always lost one shoe when coming up-stairs, announced dinner, and i shuddered and turned my face away. hattie went down, however, and bringing all her blandishments to bear upon the head of the establishment, secured for me a cup of coffee--that being my staff in all times of trouble or of need, and then we were off to the theatre, hattie kindly keeping at my side for companionship or help, as need might be. i did not appear in the first act, so i had plenty of time to receive my borrowed finery--to try it on, and then to dress in my own white muslin, ready for my first attempt at a crying part. it was a moonlit scene. miss st. clair, tall, slender, elegant, looked the young french gallant to the life in her black velvet court dress. i had to enter down some steps from a great stone doorway. i stood, ready to go on. i wore a mantilla with my muslin. i held a closed fan in my hand. my heart seemed to suffocate me--i thought, stupidly, "why don't i pray?" but i could not think of a single word. i heard the faint music that preceded my entrance--a mad panic seized me. i turned and dashed toward the street-door. mr. ellsler, who had just made his exit, caught me by the skirts. "are you mad, girl?" he cried; "go back--quick--quick! i tell you--there's your cue!" next moment, tremulous but smiling, i was descending the steps to meet the counterfeit lover awaiting me. my head was on his breast and my arm stealing slowly about his neck before i knew that the closed fan in my hand was crushed into fragments and marks of blood showing between my clinched fingers. my first lines were simply recited, without meaning, then the tender words and courtly manners aroused my imagination. the glamour of the stage was upon me. the frightened actress ceased to exist--i was the spanish girl whose long-mourned lover had returned to her; and there was something lacking in the greeting, some tone of the voice, some glance of the eye seemed strange, alien. there was more of ardor, less of tenderness than before. my lips trembled; suddenly i heard the veiled, pathetic tone i had all day striven for in vain, and curiously enough it never struck me that it was my voice--no! it was the spanish girl who spoke. my heart leaped up in my throat with a great pity, tears rushed to my eyes, fell upon my cheeks. there was applause--of course, was not miss st. clair there? suspicion arose in my mind--grew. i bethought me of the saving of my life on that stolen day passed in the forest long ago. i took my lover's hand and with pretty wiles drew him into the moonlight. then swiftly stripping up the lace ruffles, showed his arm smooth and unblemished by any scar, and with the cry: "you are not pascal de la garde!" stood horror-stricken. the moment the curtain fell miss st. clair sprang to me, and taking my face between her hands, she cried: "you would move a heart of stone!" she wiped her eyes, and turning to her husband, said: "good god! she's a marvel!" "no, no!" he snuffled, "not yet, sallie; but she's a marvel in embryo!" he patted me on the shoulder. "you have a fortune somewhere between your throat and your eyes, my girl--you have, indeed!" and then i rushed to don my borrowed robes for the next act, and stared stupidly when hattie said: "what lovely applause you got, clara, and you so frightened; you shook all over when you went on, we could see you." but i was too excited over what was yet to be done really to comprehend her words. when i saw myself in the glass i was delighted. the open robe of pale blue satin, brocaded with silver, was lifted at the sides with big bunches of blush and deep-pink roses over a white satin petticoat. i wore a high spanish comb, a white mantilla, a pink rose over the ear, after the national fashion, and a great cluster of roses at my breast, and for the first time i felt the subtle joy that emanates from beautiful and becoming garments. the fine softness of the rich fabric was pleasant to my touch--its silken rustle was music to my ear. miss st. clair had lent me of her best, and as i saw it all reflected there, i thought how easy it must be for the rich to be good and happy, never dreaming that the wealthy, who to escape _ennui_ and absolute idleness sometimes did wrong simply because there was nothing else to do, might think in turn, ah! how easy it must be for the poor to be good and happy. but the overture ended abruptly. i gathered up my precious draperies and ran to the entrance to be ready for my cue. the first speeches were cold, haughty, and satirical. the gypsy who was personating my dead lover had deceived everyone else, even the half-blind old mother had accepted him as her son, though declaring him greatly changed in temper and in manner. but i, the sweetheart, was not convinced, and ignoring the advice of the highest at the court, was fighting the adventurer with the courage of despair. as the scene went on, the stage hands (carpenters, gas-men, scene-shifters, etc.) began to gather in the entrances, always a sign of something unusual going on. i saw them--an ugly thought sprang up in my mind. ah, yes, they are there waiting to see the ballet-girl fail in a leading part! an unworthy suspicion, i am sure, but it acted as a spur would have done upon an already excited horse, and with the same result, loss of self-control. in the denunciation of the adventurer as a murderer and a personator of his own victim my passion rose to a perfect fury. i swept the stage, storming, raging, fearing nothing under heaven but the possible escape of the wretch i hated! vaguely i noted the manager reaching far over a balcony to see me--i didn't care even for the manager. the audience burst into tremendous applause; i didn't care for that either, i only wanted to see a rapier through the heart of the pale, sneering man before me. it was momentary madness. people were startled--the star twice forgot her lines. it was not correct, it was not artistic work. she, the part, was a great lady, and even her passion should have been partially restrained; but i, who played her, a ballet-girl, earning $ a week, what could you expect, pray, for the price? certainly not polish or refinement. but the genuine feeling, the absolute sincerity, and the crude power lavished upon the scene delighted the audience and created a very real sensation. the curtain fell. miss st. clair took me into her kind arms and, without a word, kissed me heartily. the applause went on and on. she caught my hand and said, "come!" as she led me to the curtain, i suddenly realized her intention, and a very agony of bashfulness seized upon me. i struggled frantically. "oh, don't!" i begged. "oh, please, i'm nobody, they won't like it, miss st. clair." she motioned the men to pull back the curtain, and she dragged me out before it with her. the applause redoubled. shamed and stupid, i stood there, my chin on my breast. then i heard the laugh i so admired (miss st. clair had a laugh that the word merry describes perfectly), her arm went about my neck, while her fingers beneath my chin lifted my face till i met her smiling glance and smiled back at her. then the audience burst into a great laugh, and bowing awkwardly to them and to her, i backed off, out of sight, as quickly as i could; she, bowing like a young prince, followed me. but again they called, and again the generous woman took me with her. and that was the first time i ever experienced the honor of going before the curtain with a star. i supposed i had received the highest possible reward for my night's work; i forgot there were such things as newspapers in the town, but i was reminded of their existence the next day. never, never was i so astonished. such notices as were given of the performance, and what was particularly dwelt upon, think you? why, the tears. "real tears--tears that left streaks on the girl's cheeks!" said one paper. "who is she--have you seen her--the wonderful columbus ballet-girl, who wins tears with tears, real ones, too?" asked another. i was ashamed. i was afraid people would make fun of me at the theatre. at the box-office window that day many people were asking: "that girl that made the hit last night, is she really one of the ballet, or is it just a story, for effect?" some women asked, anxiously: "will that girl cry to-night, do you think?" it was very strange. one paper had a quieter article; it spoke of a rough diamond--of an earnest, honest method of addressing speeches directly to the character, instead of to the audience, as did many of the older actors. it claimed a future, a fair, bright future for the girl who could so thoroughly put herself in another's place, and declared it would watch with interest the movements of so remarkable a ballet-girl. now see how oddly we human dice are shaken about, and in what groups we fall, again and again. among the honorable gentlemen sitting at that time in the ohio legislature was colonel donn piatt, with the fever of the southern marshes yet in his blood as a souvenir of his services through the war. he had gone languidly enough to the theatre that night, because there was nothing else for him to do--unless he swapped stories of the war in the hotel corridor with other ex-soldiers, and he was sick to death of that, and he was so surprised by what he saw that he was moved to write the article from which the last quotation is taken. stopping in the same hotel, but quite unknown to him, was a young man, hardly out of boyhood, whose only lie, i honestly believe, was the one he told and swore to in order to raise his age to the proper military height that would admit him into the army. bright, energetic, almost attaining perpetual motion in his own person, ambitious john a. cockerill just then served in the double capacity of a messenger in the house and reporter on a paper. diphtheria, which was almost epidemic that winter, visited the staff of the paper he was on, and in consequence he was temporarily assigned to its dramatic work--thus he wrote another of the notices of my first venture in the tearful drama. every day these two men were in the state-house--every day i walked through its grounds on my way to and from the theater--each quite unconscious of the others. but old time shakes the box and casts the dice so many, many times, groupings must repeat themselves now and again, so it came about that after years filled with hard work and fair dreams, another shake of the box cast us down upon the table of life, grouped together again--but each man knew and served me now faithfully, loyally; each giving me a hand to pull me up a step higher. they hated each other bitterly, vindictively, as journalists have been known to do occasionally; and as i knew the noble qualities of both, what better reward could i give for their goodness to me than to clasp their hands together and make them friends? it was not an easy task, it required _finesse_ as well as courage, but that was the kind of task a woman loves--if she succeeds, and i succeeded. they became friends, strong, earnest friends for the rest of their lives. death severed the bond, if it is severed; i do not know, and they may not return to tell me--i only know that in the years that were to come, when each man headed a famous paper, colonel john a. cockerill, of the new york _world_, who wrote many a high word of praise for me when victory had at last perched on my banner, and colonel piatt, who with his brilliant wife made me known to many famous men and women in their hospitable washington home, loved to recall that night in columbus when, all unconsciously, we three came so near to each other, only to drift apart for years and come together again. and once i said, "like motes," and donn piatt swiftly added, "and a sunbeam," and both men lifted their glasses and, nodding laughingly at me, cried: "to the sunbeam!" while mrs. piatt declared, "that's a very pretty compliment," but to me the unanimity of thought between those erstwhile enemies was the prettiest thing about it. but even so small a success as that had its attendant shadows, as i soon found. though i was then boarding, with hattie mckee for my room-mate, i felt i still owed a certain duty and respect to mrs. bradshaw. therefore, when this wonderful thing happened to me, i thought i ought to go and tell her all about it. i went; she gave me a polite, unsmiling good-morning and pointed to a chair. i felt chilled. presently she remarked, with a small, forced laugh: "you have become so great a person, i scarcely expected to see you here to-day." i looked reproachfully at her, as i quietly answered: "but you see i am here;" then added, "i did not think you would make fun of me, mrs. bradshaw, i only tried to do my best." "oh," she replied, "one does not make fun of very successful people." i turned away to hide my filling eyes, as i remarked: "perhaps i'd better go away now." i moved toward the door, wounded to the heart. i had thought she would be so pleased--you see, i was young yet, and sometimes very stupid--i forgot she had a daughter. but suddenly she called to me in the old, kindly voice i was so used to: "come back clara," she cried, "come back! it's mean to punish you for another's fault. my dear, i congratulate you; you have only proved what i have long believed, that you have in you the making of a fine actress. but when i think who had that same chance, and that it was deliberately thrown away," her lips trembled, "i--well, it's hard to bear. even all this to-do about you in the part does not make her regret what she has done." poor mother! i felt so sorry for her. i wished to go away then, i thought my presence was unpleasant, but she made me tell her all about the evening, and describe miss st. clair's dress, and what everyone said and did. loyal soul! i think that was a self-inflicted penance for a momentary unkindness. blanche gave me her usual kind greeting, and added the words: "say, if i hadn't given you the chance, you couldn't have been a big gun to-day. you know mr. ellsler won't dare to give you anything, but he would have given me a nice present if i had done the part for him. so after all i've lost, i think you might give me a new piece of chewing-gum, mine won't snap or squeak or stretch out or do anything, it's just in its crumbly old age." i gave the new gum; so, now, if that success seems not quite square, if you think i made an unfair use of my funds in obtaining promotion, do please remember that i was only an accessory _after_ the act--not before it. i am the more anxious this should be impressed upon your mind because that penny was the only one i ever spent in paying for advancement professionally. the second night of the "lone house" was also the last night of miss st. clair's engagement, and when i carried her blue-brocade gown back to her, eagerly calling attention to its spotless condition, she stood with her hand high against the wall and her head resting heavily upon her outstretched arm. it was an attitude of such utter collapse, there was such a wanness on her white face that the commonplace words ceased to bubble over my lips, and, startled, i turned toward her husband. charles barras, gentleman as he was by birth and breeding, and one time officer in the american navy, was nevertheless in manner and appearance so odd that the sight or the sound of him provoked instant smiles, but that night his eyes were a tragedy, filled as they were with an anguish of helpless love. for a sad moment he gazed at her silently--then he was counting drops from a bottle, holding smelling-salts to her pinched nostrils, removing her riding-boots, indeed, deftly filling the place not only of nurse, but dressing-maid, and as the wanness gradually faded from her weary face, bravely ignoring her own feelings, she made a little joke or two, then gave me hearty thanks for coming to her rescue, as she called it, praised my effort at acting, and asked me how i liked a crying part. "oh, i don't like it at all," i answered. "ah," she sighed, "we never like what we do best; that's why i can never be contented in elegant light comedy, but must strain and fret after dramatic, tragic, and pathetic parts--and to think that a young, untrained girl should step out of obscurity and without an effort do what i have failed in all these years!" i stood aghast. "why--why, miss st. clair!" i exclaimed, "you have applause and applause every night of your life!" "oh," she laughed, "you foolish child, it's not the applause i'm thinking of, but something finer, rarer. you have won tears, my dear, a thing i have never done in all my life, and never shall, no, never, i see that now!" "i wish i had not!" i answered, remorsefully and quite honestly, because i was quite young and unselfish yet, and i loved her, and she understood and leaned over and kissed my cheek, and told me not to bury my talent, but to make good use of it by and by when i was older and free to choose a line of business. "though," she added, "even here i'll wager it's few comedy parts that will come your way after to-night, young lady." and then i left her. that same night i heard that a dread disease already abode with her, and slept and waked and went and came with her, and would not be shaken off, but clung ever closer and closer; and, oh! poor charles barras! money might have saved her then--money right then might have saved this woman of his love, and god only knows how desperately he struggled, but the money came not. then, worse still, sallie was herself the bread-winner, and though mr. barras worked hard, doing writing and translating, acting as agent, as nurse, as maid, playing, too, in a two-act comedy, "the hypochondriac," he still felt the sting of living on his wife's earnings, and she had, too, a mother and an elder sister to support; therefore she worked on and disease worked with her. charles barras said, with bitter sarcasm in his voice: "i-i-i always see m-my wife sallie with a helpless woman over each shoulder, a-a-and myself on her back, like the 'old man of the sea,' a-a-a pretty heavy burden that for a sick woman to carry, my girl! a-a-and a mighty pleasant picture for a man to have of his wife! a-a-and money--great god, money, right now, might save her--might save her!" he turned suddenly from me and walked on to the pitch-dark stage. poor mr. barras, i could laugh no more at his heelless boots, his funny half-stammer, and his ancient wig, not even when i recall the memory of that blazing sunday in a cincinnati episcopal church, when, the stately liturgy over, the reverend doctor ascended the pulpit and, regardless of the suffering of his sweltering hearers, droned on endlessly, and mr. barras leaned forward, and drawing a large palm fan from the next pew's rack, calmly lifted his wig off with one hand while with the other he alternately fanned his ivory bald head and the steaming interior of his wig. the action had an electrical effect. in a moment even the sleepers were alert, awake, a fact which so startled the preacher that he lost his place--hemmed--h-h-med, and ran down, found the place again, started, saw barras fanning his wig, though paying still most decorous attention to the pulpit, and before they knew it they were all scrambling to their feet at "might, majesty, and power!"--were scrabbling for their pockets at "let your light so shine," for mr. barras had shortened the service with a vengeance; hence the forgiving glances cast upon him as he carefully replaced his wig and sauntered forth. several years after that night in columbus, when i had reached new york and was rehearsing for my first appearance there, i one morning heard hasty, shuffling steps following me, and before i could enter the stage-door, a familiar "er-er-er clara, clara!" stopped me, and i turned to face the wealthy author of the "black crook"--mr. charles barras. there he stood in apparently the same heelless cloth gaiters, the same empty-looking black alpaca suit, the clumsy turned-over collar that was an integral part of the shirt and not separate from it, the big black satin handkerchief-tie that he had worn years ago, but the face, how bloodless, shrunken, lined, and sorrowful it looked beneath the adamantine youthfulness of that chestnut wig! "d-d-don't you know me?" he asked. "yes, of course i do," i answered as i took his hand. "w-w-well then don't run away--er-er it's against law, r-religion, or decency to turn your back on a rich man. d-d-dodge the poor, clara, my girl! but never turn your back on a man with money!" i was pained; probably i looked so. he went on: "i-i-i'm rich now, clara. i've got a fine marine villa, and in it are an old, old dog and a dying old woman. they both belonged to my sallie, and so i'll keep hold of 'em as long as i can, for her sake. a-a-after they go!" he turned his head away, he looked up at the beautiful blue indifference of the sky, his face seemed to tremble all over, his eyes came back, and he muttered: "w-w-we'll see--w-w-we'll see what will happen then. but, clara, you remember that time when money could have saved her? the money i receive in one week now, if i could have had it then, she, sallie, might be over there on broadway now buying the frills and furbelows she loved and needed, too, and couldn't have. the little boots and slippers--you remember sallie's instep? had to have her shoes to order always," he stopped, he pressed his lips tight together for a moment, then suddenly he burst out: "by god, when a man struggles hard all his life, it's a damn rough reward to give him a handsome coffin for his wife!" oh, poor rich man! how my heart ached for him. a tear slipped down my cheek; he saw it. "d-d-don't!" he said, "d-don't, my girl, she can't come back, and it hurts her to have anyone grieve. i want you to come and see me, when you get settled here, a-a-and i wish you a great big success. my sallie liked you, she spoke often of you. i-i-i'll let you know how to get out there, and i-i-i'll show you her dog--old belle, and you can stroke her, and er-er sit in sallie's chair a little while perhaps--and er--don't, my girl, don't cry, she can't come back, you know," and shaking my hands he left me, thinking i was crying for sallie, who was safe at rest and had no need of tears, while instead they were for himself--so old, so sad, so lonely, such a poor rich man! did he know then how near death was to him? some who knew him well believe unto this day that the fatal fall from the cars was no fall, but a leap--only god knows. i never paid the promised visit--could find no opportunity--and i never saw him again, that eccentric man, devoted husband, and honest gentleman, charles barras. chapter twentieth i have to pass through bitter humiliation to win high encomiums from herr bandmann; while edwin booth's kindness fills the theatre with pink clouds, and i float thereon. occasionally one person united two "lines of business," as in the case of mrs. bradshaw, who played "old women" and "heavy business" both, and when anything happened to disqualify such a person for work the inconvenience was of course very great. mrs. bradshaw, as i have said before, was very stout, but her frame was delicate in the extreme, and her slender ankles were unable to bear her great weight, and one of them broke. of course that meant a long lying up in dry-dock for her, and any amount of worry for ever so many other people. right in the middle of her imprisonment came the engagement of the german actor, herr daniel bandmann. he was to open with "hamlet," and, gracious heaven! i was cast for the _queen-mother_. it took a good deal in the way of being asked to do strange parts to startle me, but the _queen-mother_ did it. i was just nicely past sixteen, but even i dared not yet lay claim to seventeen, and i was to go on the stage for the serious shakespearian mother of a star. "oh, i couldn't!" "can't be helped--no one else," growled mr. ellsler. "just study your lines, right away, and do the best you can." i had been brought up to obey, and i obeyed. we had heard much of mr. bandmann, of his originality, his impetuosity, and i had been very anxious to see him. after that cast, however, i would gladly have deferred the pleasure. the dreaded morning came. mr. bandmann, a very big man, to my frightened eyes looked gigantic. he was dark-skinned, he had crinkly, flowing hair, his eyes were of the curious red-brown color of a ripe chestnut. he was large of voice, and large of gesture. there was a greeting, a few introductions, and then rehearsal was on, and soon, oh! so soon, there came the call for the _queen_. i came forward. he glanced down at me, half smiled, waved his arm, and said: "not you, not the _player-queen_, but _gertrude_." i faintly answered: "i'm sorry, sir, but i have to play _gertrude_." "oh, no you won't!" he cried, "not with me!" he was furious, he stamped his feet, he turned to the manager: "what's all this infernal nonsense? i want a woman for this part! what kind of witches' broth are you serving me, with an old woman for my _ophelia_, and an apple-cheeked girl for my mother! she can't speak these lines! she, dumpling face!" mr. ellsler said, quietly: "there is sickness in my company. the heavy woman cannot act; this young girl will not look the part, of course, but you need have no fear about the lines, she never loses a word." "curse the _words_! it is, that that little girl shall not read with the sense one line, no, not one line of the shakespeare!" his english was fast going in his rage. mr. ellsler answered: "she will read the part as well as you ever heard it in your life, mr. bandmann." and mr. bandmann gave a jeering laugh, and snapped his fingers loudly. it was most insulting, and i felt overwhelmed with humiliation. mr. ellsler said, angrily: "very well, as i have no one else to offer you, we will close the theatre for the night!" but mr. bandmann did not want to close--not he. so, after swearing in german for a time, he resumed rehearsal, and when my time came to speak i could scarcely lift my drooping head or conquer the lump in my throat, but, somehow, i got out the entreating words: "good hamlet, cast thy knighted color off, and let thine eye look like a friend on denmark." he lifted his head suddenly--i went on: "do not, for ever, with thy veiled lids seek for thy noble father in the dust." he exclaimed, surprisedly: "so! so!" as i continued my speech. now in this country, "so--so!" is a term applied to restless cows at milking-time, and the devil of ridicule, never long at rest in my mind, suddenly wakened, so that when i had to say: "let not thy mother lose her prayers, hamlet: i pray thee, stay with us; go not to wittenberg." and mr. bandmann smilingly cried: "so! so!" and i swiftly added the word "bossy," and every soul on the stage broke into laughter. he saw he was laughed at, and it took a whole week's time and an elaborate explanation, to enable him to grasp the jest--but when he got a good hold of it, he so! so! bossied and stamped and laughed at a great rate. during the rehearsal--which was difficult in the extreme, as his business (_i.e._, actions or poses accompanying certain words) was very different from that we were used to--he never found one single fault with my reading, and made just one suggestion, which i was most careful to follow--for one taste of his temper had been enough. then came the night--a big house, too, i remember. i wore long and loose garments to make me look more matronly; but, alas! the drapery _queen gertrude_ wears, passed under her jaws from ear to ear, was particularly becoming to me, and brought me uncommonly near to prettiness. mr. ellsler groaned, but said nothing, while mr. bandmann sneered out an "ach himmel!" shrugged his shoulders, and made me feel real nice and happy. and when one considers that without me the theatre must have closed or changed its bill, even while one pities him for the infliction, one feels he was unnecessarily unkind. well, all went quietly until the closet scene--between _hamlet_, the _queen_, and the _ghost_. it is a great scene, and he had some very effective business. i forgot bandmann in _hamlet_. i tried hard to show shame, pride, and terror. the applause was rapturous. the curtain fell, and--why, what, in the name of heaven, was happening to me? i was caught by the arms and lifted high in air; when i came down i was crushed to _hamlet's_ bosom, with a crackling sound of breaking roman-pearl beads, and in a whirlwind of "himmels!" "gotts!" and things, i was kissed with frenzied wet kisses on either cheek--on my brow--my eyes. then disjointed english came forth: "oh, you so great, you kleine apple-cheeked girl! you maker of the fraud--you so great nobody! ach! you are fire--you have pride--you are a _gertrude_ who have shame!" more kisses, then suddenly he realized the audience was still applauding--loudly and heartily. he grasped my hand, he dragged me before the curtain, he bowed, he waved his hands, he threw one arm about my shoulders. "good lord!" i thought, "he isn't going to do it all over again--out here, is he?" and i began backing out of sight as quickly as possible. it was a very comforting plaster to apply to my wounds--such a success as that, but it would have been so much pleasanter not to have received the wound in the first place. mr. bandmann's best work, i think, was done in "narcisse." his _hamlet_ seemed to me too melodramatic--if i may say so. if _hamlet_ had had all that tremendous fund of energy, all that love of action, the _ghost_ need never have returned to "whet his almost blunted purpose." nor could i like his scene with his guilty mother. there was not even a _forced_ show of respect for her. there was no grief for her wrong-doing--rather, his whole tone was that of a triumphant detective. and his speeches, "such an act!" and "look upon this picture!" were given with such unction--such a sneeringly, perfect comprehension of her lust, as to become themselves lustful. his _shylock_ was much admired, i believe, but _narcisse_ was a most artistic piece of work. his appearance was superb; his philosophical flippancy anent his poverty, his biting contempt of the powerful _pompadour_; his passion and madness on discovering his lost wife in the person of the dying favorite, and his own death, were really great. and just one little month after the departure of the impetuous german, who should be announced but mr. edwin booth. i felt my eyes growing wider as i read in the cast, "_queen gertrude--miss morris_." uncle dick, behind me, said: "would you like me to d----n poor brad's bones for you, clara? it's hard lines on you, and that's a fact!" "oh!" i thought, "why won't her blessed old bones mend themselves! she is not lazy, but they are! oh, dear! oh, dear!" and miserable tears slid down my cheeks all the way home, and moistened saltily my supper of crackers after i got there. i had succeeded before, oh, yes; but i could not help recalling just how hot the ploughshares were over which i had walked to reach that success. then, too, all girls have their gods--some have many of them. some girls change them often. my gods were few. sometimes i cast one down, but i never changed them, and on the highest, whitest pedestal of all, grave and gentle, stood the god of my professional idolatry--edwin booth. i wiped off cracker-crumbs with one hand and tears with the other. it was so humiliating to be forced upon anyone, as i should be forced upon mr. booth, since there was still no one but my "apple-cheeked" self to go on for the _queen_; and though i dreaded indignant complaint or disparaging remarks from him, i was honestly more unhappy over the annoyance this blemish on the cast would cause him. well, it could not be helped, i should have to bear a second cruel mortification, that was all. i put my four remaining crackers back in their box, brushed up the crumbs, wiped my eyes, repeated my childish little old-time "now i lay me," and went to sleep; only to dream of mr. booth holding out a hideous mask, and pressing me to have the decency to put it on before going on the stage for _gertrude_. when the dreaded monday came, lo! a blizzard came with it. the trains were all late, or stalled entirely. we rehearsed, but there was no mr. booth present. he was held in a drift somewhere on the line, and at night, therefore, we all went early to the theatre, so that if he came we would have time to go over the important scenes--or if he did not come that we might prepare for another play. he came. oh, how my heart sank! this would be worse for him even than it had been for mr. bandmann, for the latter knew of his disappointing _queen_ in the morning, and had time to get over the shock, but poor mr. booth was to receive his blow only a few minutes before going on the stage. at last it came--the call. "mr. booth would like to see you for a few moments in his room." i went, i was cold all over. he was so tired, he would be so angry. i tapped. i went in. he was dressed for _hamlet_, but he was adding a touch to his brows, and snipping a little at his nails--hurriedly. he looked up, said "good-evening!" rather absently, then stopped, looked again, smiled, and waving his hand slightly, said, just in bandmann's very words: "no, not you--not the _player-queen_--but _gertrude_." tears rushed to my eyes, my whole heart was in my voice as i gasped: "i'm so sorry, sir, but _i_ have to do _queen gertrude_. you see," i rushed on, "our heavy woman has a broken leg and can't act." a whimsical look, half smile, half frown, came over his face. "that's bad for the _heavy_ woman," he remarked. "yes," i acquiesced, "but, if you please, i had to do this part with mr. bandmann too, and--and--i'll only worry you with my looks, sir, not about the words or business." he rested his dark, unspeakably melancholy eyes on my face, his brows raised and then knit themselves in such troubled wise as made me long to put an arm about his shoulders and assure him i wouldn't be so awfully bad. then he sighed and said: "well, it was the closet-scene i wanted to speak to you about. when the _ghost_ appears, you are to be--" he stopped, a faint smile touched his lips, even reached his eyes; he laid down his scissors, and remarked, "there's no denying it, my girl, i look a great deal more like your father than you look like my mother--but," he went on with his directions, and, considerate gentleman that he was, spoke no single unkind word to me, though my playing of that part must have been a great annoyance to him, when added to hunger and fatigue. when the closet-scene was over, the curtain down, i caught up my petticoats and made a rapid flight roomward. the applause was filling the theatre. mr. booth, turning, called after me: "you--er--_gertrude_--er--_queen_! oh, somebody call that child back here," and someone roared: "clara--mr. booth is calling you!" i turned, but stood still. he beckoned, then came to me, took my hand, and saying: "my dear, we must not keep them waiting _too_ long!" led me before the curtain with him. i very slightly bent my head to the audience, whom i felt were applauding _hamlet_ only, but turned and bowed myself to the ground to him whose courtesy had brought me there. when we came off he smiled amusedly, tapped me on the shoulder, and said: "my gertrude, you are very young, but you know how to pay a pretty compliment--thank you, child!" so, whenever you see pictures of nymphs or goddesses floating on pink clouds, and looking idiotically happy, you can say to yourself: "that's just how clara morris felt when edwin booth said she had paid him a compliment." yes, i floated, and i'll take a solemn oath, if necessary, that the whole theatre was filled with pink clouds the rest of that night--for girls are made that way, and they can't help it. in after years i knew him better, and i treasure still the little note he sent me in answer to my congratulation on his escape from the bullet fired at him from the gallery of the theatre in chicago. a note that expressed as much gentle surprise at my "kind thought for him," as though i only, and not the whole country, was rejoicing at his safety. he had a wonderful power to win love from other men--yes, i use the word advisedly. it was not mere good-fellowship or even affection, but there was something so fine and true, so strong and sweet in his nature, that it won the love of those who knew him best. it would seem like presumption for me to try to add one little leaf to the tight-woven laurel crown he wore. everyone knows the agony of his "fool's revenge," the damnable malice of his _iago_, the beauty and fire of _antony_, and the pure perfection of his _hamlet_--but how many knew the slow, cruel martyrdom of his private life! which he bore with such mute patience that in my heart there is an altar raised to the memory of that saint edwin of many sorrows, who was known and envied by the world at large--as the great actor, edwin booth. chapter twenty-first i digress, but i return to the columbus engagement of mr. and mrs. charles kean--their peculiarities and their work. before one has "arrived," it is astonishing how precious the simplest word of encouragement or of praise becomes, if given by one who has "arrived." not long ago a lady came up to me and said: "i am mrs. d----, which is, of course, greek to you; but i want to thank you now for your great goodness to me years ago. i was in the ballet in a chicago theatre. you were playing 'camille.' one day the actress who played _olympe_ was sick, and as i was, you said, the tallest and the handsomest of the girls, you gave the part to me. i was wild with delight until the nervousness got hold of me. i was not strong--my stomach failed me; the girls thought that very funny, and guyed me unmercifully. i was surely breaking down. you came along, ready to go on, and heard them. i could scarcely stand. you said: 'what's the matter--are you nervous?' i tried to speak, but only nodded. you took my hand and, stroking it, gently said, 'isn't it awful?' then, glancing at my tormentors, added, 'but it's nothing to be ashamed of, and just as soon as you face the footlights all your courage will come back to you, and, my dear, comfort yourself with the knowledge that the perfectly collected, self-satisfied beginner rarely attains a very high position on the stage.' oh, if you only knew how my heart jumped at your words. my fingers grew warmer, my nerves steadier, and i really did succeed in getting the lines over my lips some way. but you saved me, you made an actress of me. ah, don't laugh! don't shake your head, please! had i failed that night, don't you see, i should never have had a chance given me again; while, having got through safely, it was not long before i was pointed out as the girl who had played _olympe_ with miss morris, and on the strength of that i was trusted with another part, and so crept on gradually; and now i want to thank you for the sympathy and kindness you showed me so long ago"--and though her warm gratitude touched me deeply, i had then--have now--no recollection whatever of the incident she referred to, nor of ever having seen before her very handsome face. and so, no doubt, many of whom i write, who from their abundance cast _me_ a word of praise or of advice now and again, will have no memory of the _largesse_ which i have cherished all these years. among my most treasured memories i find the gentle words and astonishing prophecy of mr. charles kean. that was the last visit to this country of mr. and mrs. kean, and his memory was failing him grievously. he had with him two english actors, each of whom knew every line of all his parts, and their duty was, when on the stage or off, so long as mr. kean was before the house, to keep their eyes on him, and at the first sign of hesitancy on his part one of them gave him the needed word. once or twice, when he seemed quite bewildered, mr. cathcart, turning his back to the audience, spoke mr. kean's entire speech, imitating his nasal tones to the life. but it was off the stage that the ancient couple were most delightful. ellen and charles were like a pair of old, old love-birds--a little dull of eye, nor quite perfect in the preening of their somewhat rumpled plumage, but billing and cooing with all the persistency and satisfaction of their first caging. their appearance upon the street provoked amusement--sometimes even excitement. i often saw drivers of drays and wagons pull up their horses and stop in the crowded street to stare at them as they made their way toward the theatre. mrs. kean lived inside of the most astounding hoop woman ever carried. its size, its weight, its tilting power were awful. entrances had to be cleared of all chairs or tables to accommodate mrs. kean's hoop. people scrambled or slid sideways about her on the stage, swearing mentally all the time, while a sudden gasp from the front row or a groan from mr. cathcart announced a tilt and a revelation of heelless slippers and dead-white stockings, and in spite of his dignity charles was not above a joke on ellen's hoop, for one rainy day, as she strove to enter a carriage door she stuck fast, and the hoop--mercy! it was well mr. kean was there to hold it down; but as a troubled voice from within said: "i'm caught somehow--don't you see, charles?" with a twinkling eye charles replied: "yes, ellen, my dear, i do see--and--and i'm trying to keep everyone else from seeing, too!" a speech verging so closely upon impropriety that, with antique coquetry, mrs. kean punished him by tweaking his ear when he squeezed in beside her. the kean bonnet was the wonder of the town. it was a large coal-scuttle of white leghorn and at the back there was a sort of flounce of ribbon which she called her "bonnet-cape"; draped over it she wore a great, bright-green barège veil. but she was not half so funny as was her husband on the street. his short little person buttoned up tightly in a regular bottle-green "mantellini" sort of overcoat, loaded with frogs of heavy cord, and lined, cuffed, and collared with fur of such remarkable color, quality, and marking as would have puzzled the most experienced student of natural history to name; while vicious little street boys at sight of it always put searching questions as to the cost of cat-skins in london. as they came down the street together, mrs. kean, majestically towering above her lord and master, looked like an old-time frigate with every inch of canvas spread, while at her side charles puffed and fretted like a small tug. the street boys were a continual torment to him, but mrs. kean appeared serenely unconscious of their existence, even when her husband made short rushes at them with his gold-headed cane, and crying: "go a-way--you irreverent little brutes--go a-way!" and then puffed laboriously back to her again as she sailed calmly on. one day a citizen caught one of the small savages, and after boxing his ears soundly, pitched him into the alley-way, when the seemingly enraged little englishman said, deprecatingly: "i--i wouldn't hurt the little beast--he--he hasn't anyone to teach him any better, you know--poor little beggar!" and then he dropped behind for a moment to pitch a handful of coppers into the alley before hurrying up to his wife's side to boast of the jolly good drubbing the little monster had received--from which i gathered the idea that in a rage charles would be as fierce as seething new milk. everyone who knew anything at all of this actor knew of his passionate love and reverence for his great father. he used always to carry his miniature in _hamlet_, using it in the "look here, upon this picture, then on this," scene; but i knew nothing of all that when he first arrived to play engagements both in cleveland and columbus, but being very eager to see all i could of him, i came very early to the theatre, and as i walked up and down behind the scenes i caught two or three times a glint of something on the floor, which might have been a bit of tinsel; but finally i went over to it, touched it with my foot, and then picked up an oval gold case, with handsome frame enclosing a picture; a bit of broken ribbon still hung from the ring on top of the frame. i ran with it to the prompter, who knew nothing of it, but said there would soon be a hue and cry for it from someone, as it was of value. "perhaps you'd better take it to mr. kean--it might be his." i hesitated, but the prompter said he was busy and i was not, so i started toward the dressing-room the keans shared together, when suddenly the door was flung open and mr. kean came out in evident excitement. he bumped against me as he was crying: "i say there--you--have you seen--oh, i--er beg your pardon!" i also apologized, and added: "if you please, sir, does this belong to you? i found it behind the scenes." he caught it from my hand, bent to look at it in the dim light, then, pressing it to his lips, exclaimed fervently: "thank the good god!" he held up a length of broken black ribbon, saying: "hey, but you have played me a nice trick!" i understood at once that he used the locket in "hamlet," and i ventured: "if you can't wear gold and your ribbon cuts, could you not have a silver chain oxidized for your 'property' picture, sir?" he chucked me under the chin, exclaiming: "a good idea that--i--i'll tell ellen of that; but, my dear, this is no 'property' locket--this is one of my greatest earthly treasures--it's the picture of----" he stopped--he looked at me for quite a moment, then he said: "you come here to the light." i followed him obediently. "now can you tell me who that is a miniature of?" and he placed the oval case in my hands. i gave a glance at the curled hair, the beautiful profile, the broad turned-down collar, and smilingly exclaimed: "it's lord byron!" good gracious, what was the matter with the little old gentleman! "ha! ha!" he cried. "ha! ha! listen to the girl!" he fairly pranced about; he got clear out on the dark stage and, holding out his hands to the emptiness, cried again: "listen to the girl--lord byron, says she--at one glance!" "well," i replied resentfully, "it _does_ look like byron!" and he "ha! ha'd!" some more, and wiped his eyes and said, "i must tell ellen this. come here, my dear, come here!" he took my hand and led me to the dressing-room, crying: "it's charles, my dear--it's charles--and oh, my dear, my dear, i--i have it--see now!" he held up the locket. "oh, how glad i am! and now, charles, perhaps you'll give up that miserable ribbon," and she kissed his cheek in congratulation. but on the old gentleman went: "and, ellen, my dear, look at this girl here--just look at her. she found him for me, and i said, who is he--and she up and said--ellen, are you listening?--said she, 'it's lord byron!'" "did she now?" exclaimed mrs. kean, with pleased eyes. but i was getting mad, and i snapped a bit, i'm afraid, when i said: "well, i don't know who it is, but it does look like byron--i'll leave it to anyone in the company if it doesn't!" "listen to her, ellen! hang me if she's not getting hot about it, too!" then he came over to me, and in the gravest, gentlest tone said, "it _is_ like byron, my girl, but it is not him--you found the picture of my beloved and great father, edmund kean," and he kissed me gently on the forehead, and said, "thank you--thank you!" and as mrs. kean came over and put her arm about me and repeated the kiss and thanks, charles snuffled most distinctly from the corner where he was folding his precious miniature within a silk handkerchief. they were both at their very best in the tragedy of "henry viii." mr. kean's _wolsey_ was an impressive piece of work, and to the eye he was as true a cardinal as ever shared in an ecumenical council in catholic rome, or hastened to private audience at the vatican with the pope himself; and his superb robes, his priestly splendor had nothing about them that was imitation. everything was real--the silks, the jewelled cross and ring, and as to the lace, i gasped for breath with sheer astonishment. never had i seen, even in a picture, anything to suggest the exquisite beauty of that ancient web. full thirty inches deep, the yellowing wonder fell over the glowing cardinal-red beneath it. i cannot remember how many thousands of dollars they had gladly given for it to the sisters of the tottering old convent in the hills, where it had been created long ago; and though it seemed so fragily frail and useless a thing, yet had it proved strong enough to prop up the leaning walls of its old home, and spread a sound roof above the blessed altar there--so strong sometimes is beauty's weakness. and mrs. kean, what a _catherine_ she was! surely nothing could have been taken from the part, nothing added to it, without marring its perfection. in the earlier acts one seemed to catch a glimpse of that ellen tree who had been a beauty as well as a popular actress when charles kean had come a-wooing. her clear, strong features, her stately bearing were beautifully suited to the part of _queen catherine_. her performance of the court scene was a liberal education for any young actress. her regal dignity, her pride, her passion of hatred for _wolsey_ held in strong leash, yet now and again springing up fiercely. her address to the _king_ was a delight to the ear, even while it moved one to the heart, and through the deep humility of her speech one saw, as through a veil, the stupendous pride of the spanish princess, who knew herself the daughter of a king, if she were not the wife to one. with most pathetic dignity she gave her speech beginning: "sir, i desire you do me right and justice;" maintaining perfect self-control, until she came to the words: "----sir, call to mind that i have been your wife in this obedience upward of twenty years and,----" her voice faltered, the words trembled on her lips: "----have been blest with many children by you." in that painful pause one remembered with a pang that all those babes were dead in infancy, save only the princess mary. then, controlling her emotion and lifting her head high, she went on to the challenge--if aught could be reported against her honor. it was a great act, her passionate cry to _wolsey_: "----lord cardinal, to _you_ i speak." thrilled the audience, while to his: "----be patient yet," her sarcastic: "i will, when you are humble!" cut like a knife, and brought quick applause. but best, greatest, queenliest of all was her exit, when refusing to obey the king's command: "----call her again." for years one might remember those ringing words: "i will not tarry: no, nor ever more, upon this business, my appearance make in any of their courts." it was a noble performance. mr. kean's mannerisms were less noticeable in _wolsey_ than in other parts, and the scenes between the queen and cardinal were a joy to lovers of shakespeare. chapter twenty-second i hear mrs. kean's story of wolsey's robe--i laugh at an extravagantly kind prophecy. from the time i found the miniature and by accident fed mr. kean's innocent vanity in his father's likeness to byron, he made much of me. evening after evening, in columbus, he would have me come to their dressing-room, for after the habit of the old-time actor, they came very early, dressed without flurry, and were ready before the overture was on. there they would tell me stories, and when charles had a teasing fit on him, he would relate with great gusto the awful disaster that once overtook ellen in a theatre in scotland, "when she played a swiss boy, my girl--and--and her breeches----" "now, charles!" remonstrated mrs. kean. "knee breeches, you know, my dear----" "charles!" pleadingly. "were of black velvet--yes, black velvet, i remember because, when they broke from----" "c-h-a-r-l-e-s!" and then the stately mrs. kean would turn her head away and give a small sob--when charles would wink a knowing wink and trot over and pat the broad shoulder and kiss the rouged cheek, saying: "why, why, ellen, my dear, what a great baby! now, now, but you know those black breeches did break up before you got across the bridge." then mrs. kean turned and drove him into his own corner or out of the door, after which she would exclaim: "it's just one of his larks, my dear. i _did_ have an accident, the seam of one leg of my breeches broke and showed the white lining a bit; but if you'll believe me, i've known that man to declare that--that--they fell off, my dear; but generally that's on christmas or his birthday, when only friends are by." mr. kean had been the first man to wear an absolutely correct cardinal's robe on the stage, and very proud he was of that fact, and never failed in giving his ellen all the credit of it. until this time actors had worn a scarlet "something," that seemed a cross between a king's mantle or a woman's wrapper. mr. kean had been quite carried away with enthusiasm over his coming production of "henry viii.," and his wife, seeing his disappointment and dissatisfaction over the costumer's best efforts in the direction of a cardinal's robe, determined, some way or somehow, to obtain for him an exact copy of the genuine article. one night, while "louis xi." was going on, mrs. kean herself told me how she had at last succeeded. they were in rome for their holiday; they had many letters, some to very important personages. in her story mrs. kean gave names and dates and amounts of money expended, but they have passed from my memory, while the dramatic incident remains. from the first she had made known to her most powerful roman friend her desire to see the robe of a cardinal--to obtain measurements from it, and had been treated at first to a great showing of uplifted hands and eyes and many "impossibles," but later on had received positive promises of help. yet days, even weeks passed, and always there was some excuse--nothing came of the fine promises. one day, in her anxiety and disappointment, she mentioned to an english friend, who had long resided in rome, her trouble over the procrastination of her italian acquaintance, when the englishwoman asked: "what have you paid him?" "paid him?" cried mrs. kean. "do you know you are speaking of f----, whose high official as well as social position is such----" "oh," laughed the visitor, "his position has nothing to do with it--his being your friend has nothing to do with it. the italian palm is an itching palm--no wonder time is being wasted. soothe that palm the next time he calls, and mention the day on which you are compelled to leave for home, and he will act quickly enough, though you really are asking for next to an impossibility, when you, a woman, ask to see and handle a cardinal's robe." "oh, my dear!" cried mrs. kean, "when that stately, gray-haired gentleman next came, i almost fainted at the thought of putting such an insult upon him as to offer him money. indeed i could barely whisper, when clasping his hand i left some broad gold pieces there, murmuring, 'for the poor, sir!'--and if you'll believe me, he brightened up and instantly said: 'keep to the house to-morrow, madame, and i will notify you what you are to do, and the effort to get a robe to you here having failed, you will have to come to the general "audience" his holiness will grant day after to-morrow, and, and, hem! you will do well to have some loose _lire_ in your pouch, and be sure, sure, you carry a smelling-bottle. i suppose, of course, so famous an actress as yourself can faint at command, if need be? then the tailor, an usher or two, possibly even a guard may require a fee, for they will run great risk in serving you, madame. a woman within those sacred passages and chambers!' "he held up his hands in horror, but nevertheless he was doing directly what he had been promising to do for weeks, and all for a few broad pieces of gold. after he left me i was fairly sick with feverish excitement. i dared not tell charles of the arrangement; he would have left rome instantly, and here was i preparing to bribe tailor, ushers, guard--and beyond them, to be still armed with loose _lire_. oh, to what depth was i falling! "next day i received a card of admission for the 'audience,' and orders: 'to keep my eyes open--to show no surprise, but to follow _silently_ wherever a hand beckoned with a single finger. to bring all things needful for my use--not forgetting the loose _lire_ and the smelling-bottle.' "when i entered the carriage to go to the vatican, i was so weak with hope and fear and fright that charles was quite upset about me, and was all for going with me; so i had to brace up and pretend the air was already doing me good. as i looked back at him, i wondered if he would divorce me, if in my effort to secure the pattern of a cardinal's gown i should create a tremendous scandal? i wore the regulation black silk, with black veil, demanded for the occasion, but besides the little pouch of silk depending from my belt with _lire_, salts, and 'kerchief, i had beneath my gown a pocket in which were some white swiss muslin, pins, pencil, and tablets, and small scissors. "there were many carriages--many people. i saw them all as in a dream. in a magnificent room the ladies were formed in line, waiting to be admitted to the holy father's presence. i was forgetting to keep my eyes open--there was a stir. a great door was opening down its centre. i heard a faint, low 'hem!' the line began to move forward--a little louder that 'hem!' suddenly my eyes cleared--i looked. a pair of curtains, a little ahead, trembled. i drew my smelling-bottle and held it to my nostrils, as if ill, but no one noticed me--all were intent upon the opening of the great door. as i came on a line with the curtains, a hand, dream-like, beckoned. i stepped sidewise between the curtains, that parted, then fell thick and soft behind me. another white beckoning hand appeared at the far side of this chamber. swiftly i crossed toward it. a whisper of 'quick! quick!' just reached me--a door opened, and i was in a passage-way, and for the first time saw a guide. "at the foot of the stairs he paused--yet the voice had said 'quick! quick!' i thought of the loose _lire_--yes, that was it. i gave him three, and saw him glide up the stairs with cat-like stealth. here were bare walls and floors, and all that cold cleanliness that makes a woman shrink and shiver. "at last i was in a small, bare room, with brick-paved floor. a table stood in its centre, and a small and wizened man, red-eyed and old, glided in and laid upon the table--oh, joy--oh, triumph almost reached!--a glowing-red cardinal's robe. as i laid my hand upon it the ferret-like custodian gave a sort of whispered groan, 'oh, the sacrilege! and the danger! his whole life's occupation risked!' "i remembered the 'itching palm,' and as my hand went toward my pocket, his brown claw was extended, and the glint of gold so warmed his heart that smiles came about his toothless mouth, and seeing me, woman fashion, measuring by finger-lengths, he offered me a dirty old tape-measure--then stole to the second door 'to watch for me.' oh, yes--to watch like the cat--while with all the haste possible the good and most high lady would gain such knowledge as she could, and after all the robe was but an old one, etc., etc. "all whispered, while i with the deft fingers of a skilled seamstress and the comprehending eye of the actress, well used to strange costumes, was measuring here and putting down notes, swiftly pinning on a bit of muslin there, and cutting an exact pattern. and, lo! the piece that crosses the chest, cape-like, yet without visible opening, came near undoing me. tears began to blind me, but--but, ah well, my dear, i thought of charles, and it is astonishing what love can do to sharpen the eyes and clear the brain. suddenly the thing seemed quite plain to me. i then turned the hem, and ripping it open an inch or so, i took a few ravellings of the silk, where it was clean and bright, for a sample for the dyers to go by--since the silk would have to be prepared especially if it was to be absolutely correct. "i rearranged my veil, crept to the door, and agreeably surprised the watchers by telling them i was through. the ferrety old man had the robe in his arms, and was gliding swiftly out of the room in the merest instant. i followed as softly as possible the other watcher. once an unseen man cleared his throat as we passed, and i thought my guide would have fallen from sheer terror, but we reached in safety the frescoed corridor again and stood at the door waiting. the guide scratched gently with his nails on the lower panel--a pause, then the door began to move, and he disappeared as a ghost might have done. across the room a hand appeared between the hangings, beckoning me; i moved swiftly toward it. i could hear a hum of voices, low and restrained. there was but one room now between me and the great chamber in which we had waited in line for 'audience.' no further signal came, what should i do? i was nearly fainting. then another hand, a hand i knew by the splendid ring on its middle finger, appeared. i almost staggered to it. a whisper like a breath came to me, 'smelling-salts,' in an instant the bottle was in my hand, i was through the curtains, my italian friend was asking me, was i not wrong to remain in rome so late? he hoped my faintness was quite past, but he must himself see me to my carriage, and so he swept me forth, under cover of his courteous chatter, and the next day i sent him money for those who had to be rewarded. "and for fear of charles's rage about the infamy of bribing, said nothing, till he, in great anxiety about my feverish state, removed me from rome. and then, my dear! i threw my arms about his neck and told him he should have a true and veritable cardinal's robe for his _wolsey_, and in outrageous pride i cried: '_ego hoc feci!_'" at which _i_ gravely said: "that sounds like 'i have done something,' anyway it's i; but that '_fetchy_' word bothers me." and she laughed and laughed, and said: "it means _i_ did this! and i am ashamed to have used a latin term to you, child. you must forgive me for it, but i _must_ tell charles that 'fetchy' word that bothered you--i must indeed, because he does so love his laugh!" then came the night when by chance i played an important part in one of their plays. my scenes were mostly with mr. cathcart, and i only came in contact with mr. kean for a moment in one act. i was as usual frightened half out of my life, and as i stood in the entrance ready to go on, mr. kean smilingly caught my fingers as he was passing me, but their icy coldness brought him to a stand-still. "why, why! bless my soul, what's the matter? this--this is not nervousness, is it?" he stammered. i nodded my head. "oh, good lord!" he cried. "i say, cathcart, here's a go--this poor child can't even open her mouth now----" i tried to tell him i should be all right soon, but there was no time. the word of entrance came, and a _cue_ takes the _pas_ even in presence of a star. i went on, and as my lines were delivered clearly and distinctly, i saw the relieved face of mr. kean peering at us, and when mr. cathcart (who enacted my soldierly lover) gave me a sounding kiss upon the cheek as he embraced me in farewell, we plainly heard the old gentleman exclaim: "well, well, really now, james, upon my word, you _are_ coming on!" and mr. cathcart's broad shoulders shook with laughter rather than grief as he rushed from me. when, later on, mr. kean took my hand to give it in betrothal to my lover, he found it so burning hot as to attract his attention. next night i did not play at all, but came to look on, and being invited to the dressing-room, mr. kean suddenly asked me: "who are you, child?" "no one," i promptly answered. he laughed a little and nudged his ellen, then went on: "i mean--who are your people?" "i have none," i said, then quickly corrected, "except my mother." "ah, yes, yes, that's what we want to get at--who is that mother? for i recognize an inherited talent here--a natural grace and ease, impossible for one so young to acquire by any amount of effort." i was a bit confused--i hesitated. mrs. kean asked: "were both of your parents actors, child?" suddenly i broke into laughter. the thought of my mother as an actress filled me with amusement. "oh, i beg your pardon," i cried, "i have no father, and my mother just works at sewing or nursing or housekeeping or anything she can get to do that's honest." they looked disappointedly at each other, then mrs. kean brightened up and exclaimed: "then it's foreign blood, charles--you can see it in her use of her hands." they turned expectantly to me. i thought of the big, smiling french-canadian father, who had been the _bête noire_ of my babyhood. my head drooped. "he, my father, was bad," i said, "his father and mother were from the south of france, but he was a horrid canadian--my mother, though, is a true american," i proudly ended. "that's it!" they exclaimed together, "the french blood!" and mr. kean nodded his head and tapped his brow and said: "you remember, ellen, what i told you last night--i said 'temperament'--here it is in this small nobody; no offence to you, my girl. here's our dear niece, who can't act at all, god bless her! our 'blood,' but no temperament. now listen to me, you bright child!" he pushed my hair back from my forehead, so that i must have looked quite wild, and went on: "i have seen you watch that dear woman over there, night after night; you admire her, i know." (i nodded hard.) "you think her a great, great way from you?" (more nods.) "a lifetime almost?" (another nod.) "then listen to what an old man, but a most experienced actor, prophesies for you. without interest in high places, without help from anyone, except from the great helper of us all, you, little girl, daughter of the true american mother and the bad french father, will, inside of five years, be acting my wife's parts--and acting them well." i could not help it, it seemed so utterly absurd, i laughed aloud. he smiled indulgently, and said: "it seems so funny--does it? wait a bit, my dear, when my prophecy comes true you will no longer laugh, and you will remember us." he gave me his hand in farewell, so did his gracious wife, then with tears in my eyes i said: "i was only laughing at my own insignificance, sir, and i shall remember your kindness always, whether i succeed or not, just as i shall remember your great acting." simultaneously they patted me on the shoulder, and i left them. then mr. kean put his arm about his wife and kissed her, i know he did, because i looked back and saw them thus reflected in the looking-glass. but did i not say they were love-birds? four years from that month i stood trembling and happy before the audience who generously applauded my "sleep-walking scene" in "macbeth," and suddenly i seemed to hear the kind old voice making the astonishing prophecy, and joyed to think of its fulfilment, with a whole year to the good. chapter twenty-third mr. e. l. davenport, his interference, his lecture on stage business, his error of memory or too powerful imagination--why i remain a dramatic old slipper--contemptuous words arouse in me a dogged determination to become a leading woman before leaving cleveland. just what was the occult power of the ballet over the manager's mind no one ever explained to me. i found my companions very every-day, good-natured, kind-hearted girls--pretty to look at, pleasant to be with, but to mr. ellsler they must have been a rare and radiant lot, utterly unmatchable in this world, or else he knew they had awful powers for evil and dared not provoke their "hoodoo." whatever the reason, the fact remained, he was _afraid_ to advance me one little step in name, even to utility woman; while, in fact, i was advanced to playing other people's parts nearly half the time, and the reason for this continued holding back was "fear of offending the other ballet-girls." truly a novel position for a manager. one feels at once there must have been something unusually precious about such a ballet, and he feared to break the set. anyway, before i got out, clear out, this happened: a number of stars had spoken to me about my folly in remaining in the ballet, and when i told them mr. ellsler was afraid to advance me for fear of offending the other girls, they answered variously, and many advised me to break the "set" myself, saying if i left he would soon be after me and glad to engage me for first walking lady. but my crushed childhood had its effect, i shall always lack self-assertion--i stayed on and this happened. there was no regular heavy actress that season, and the old woman was a tiny little rag of a creature, not bigger than a doll. mr. e. l. davenport was to open in "othello." mrs. effie ellsler was to play the young _desdemona_ and i was to go on for _emilia_. mr. davenport was a man of most reckless speech, but he was, too, an old friend of the ellslers, calling them by their first names and meeting them with hearty greetings and many jests. so, when in the middle of a story to mrs. ellsler at rehearsal, the call came for _othello_, _desdemona_, and _iago_, she exclaimed: "excuse me, ned, they are calling us," but he held her sleeve and answered, "not you--it's me," and glancing hurriedly about, his eye met mine, and he added pleasantly, "you, my dear; they're calling _desdemona_." i stood still. mrs. ellsler's round, black eyes snapped, but this man who blundered was a star and a friend. she tossed her head and petulantly pushed him from her toward the stage. he went on, and at the end of his speech: "this only is the witchcraft i have used; here comes the lady, let her witness it." he turned to face mrs. ellsler entering with _iago_ and her attendants. looking utterly bewildered, he exclaimed: "why, for god's sake, effie, you are not going on for _desdemona_, are you?" perhaps his dissatisfaction may be better understood if i mention that a young man twenty-three years old, who took tickets at the dress-circle door, called mrs. ellsler mother, and that middle-aged prosperity expressed itself in a startling number of inches about the waist of her short little body. though her feet and hands were small in the extreme, they could not counteract the effect of that betraying stodginess of figure. mrs. ellsler, in answer to that rude question, laughed, and said: "well, i believe the leading woman generally does play _desdemona_?" "but," cried mr. davenport, "where's--w-who's _emilia_?" mr. ellsler took him by the arm and led him a little to one side. several sharp exclamations escaped the star's lips, and at last, aloud and ending the conference, he said: "yes, yes, john, i know anyone may have to twist about a bit now and then in a cast, but damn me if i can see why you don't cast effie for _emilia_ and this girl for _desdemona_--then they would at least look something like the parts. as it is now, they are both ridiculous!" it was an awful speech, and the truth that was in it made it cut deep. there were those on the stage who momentarily expected the building to fall, so great was their awe of mrs. ellsler. the odd part of the unpleasant affair was that everyone was sorry for mr. ellsler, rather than for his wife. well, night came. i trailed about after _desdemona_--picked up the fatal handkerchief--spoke a line here and there as shakespeare wills she should, and bided my time as all _emilias_ must. now i had noticed that many _emilias_ when they gave the alarm--cried out their "murder! murder!" against all the noise of the tolling bells, and came back upon the stage spent, and without voice or breath to finish their big scene with, and people thought them weak in consequence. a long hanging bar of steel is generally used for the alarm, and blows struck upon it send forth a vibrating clangor that completely fills a theatre. i made an agreement with the prompter that he was not to strike the bar until i held up my hand to him. then he was to strike one blow each time i raised my hand, and when i threw up both hands he was to raise cain, until i was on the stage again. so with throat trained by much shouting, when in the last act i cried: "i care not for thy sword; i'll make thee known, though i lost twenty lives." i turned, and crying: "help! help, ho! help!" ran off shouting, "the moor has killed my mistress!" then, taking breath, gave the long-sustained, ever-rising, blood-curdling cry: "murder! murder! murder!" one hand up, and one long clanging peal of a bell. "murder! murder! murder!" one hand up and bell. "murder! murder! murder!" both hands up, and pandemonium broken loose--and, oh, joy! the audience applauding furiously. "one--two--three--four," i counted with closed lips, then with a fresh breath i burst upon the stage, followed by armed men, and with one last long full-throated cry of "murder! the moor has killed my mistress!" stood waiting for the applause to let me go on. a trick? yes, a small trick--a mere pretence to more breath than i really had, but it aroused the audience, it touched their imagination. they saw the horror-stricken woman racing through the night--waking the empty streets to life by that ever-thrilling cry of "murder!" a trick if you like, but on the stage "success" justifies the means, and that night, under cover of the applause of the house, there came to me a soft clapping of hands and in muffled tones the words: "bravo--bravo!" from _othello_. when the curtain had fallen and mr. davenport had been before it, he came to me and holding out his hands, said: "you splendid-lunged creature--i want to apologize to you for the thoughts i harbored against you this morning." i smiled and glanced uneasily at the clock--he went on: "i have always fancied my wife in _emilia_, but, my girl, your readings are absolutely new sometimes, and your strength is--what's the matter? a farce yet? well, what of it? you, _you_ have to go on in a farce after playing shakespeare's _emilia_ with e. l. davenport? i'm damned if i believe you!" and i gathered up my cotton-velvet gown and hurried to my room to don calico dress, white cap and apron, and then rush down to the "property-room" for the perambulator i had to shove on, wondering what the star would think if he knew that his _emilia_ was merely walking on in the farce of "jones's baby," without one line to speak, the second and speaking nursemaid having very justly been given to one of the other girls. but the needless sending of me on, right after the noble part of _emilia_, was evidently a sop thrown by my boldly independent manager to his ballet--cerberus. heretofore stars had advised or chided me privately, but, oh, dear, oh, dear! next morning mr. davenport attacked mr. ellsler for "mismanagement," as he termed it, right before everybody. among other things, he declared that it was a wound to his personal dignity as a star to have a girl who had supported him, "not acceptably, but brilliantly," in a shakespearian tragedy, sent on afterward in a vulgar farce. then he added: "aside from artistic reasons and from justice to her--good lord! john, are you such a fool you don't understand her commercial value? here you have a girl, young and pretty" (always make allowances for the warmth of argument), "with rare gifts and qualifications, who handles her audience like a magician, and you cheapen her like this? placing her in the highest position only to cast her down again to the lowest. if she is only fit for the ballet, you insult your public by offering her in a leading part; if she's fit for the leading part, you insult her by lowering her to the ballet; but anyway i'm damned if i ever saw a merchant before who deliberately cheapened his own wares!" if the floor could have opened i would have been its willing victim, and i am sure if mr. davenport had known that i would have to pay for every sharp word spoken, he would have restrained his too free speech for my sake--even though he was never able to do so for his own. and what a pity it was, for he not only often wounded his friends, but worse still, he injured himself by flinging the most boomerang-like speeches at the public whenever he felt it was not properly appreciating him. he was wonderfully versatile, but though versatility is a requisite for any really good actor, yet for some mysterious reason it never meets with great success outside of a foreign theatre. the american public demands specialists--one man to devote himself solely to tragedy, another to romantic drama and duels, another to dress-suit satire. one woman to tears, another to laughter, and woe betide the star who, able to act both comedy and tragedy, ventures to do so; there will be no packed house to bear witness to the appreciation felt for such skill and variety of talent. mr. davenport's vogue was probably waning when i first knew him. he had a certain intellectual following who delighted in the beautiful precision and distinctness of his reading of the royal dane. he always seemed to me a _hamlet_ cut in crystal--so clear and pure, so cold and hard he was. the tender heart, the dread imaginings, the wounded pride and love, the fits and starts, the pain and passion that tortures _hamlet_ each in turn, were utterly incompatible with the fair, highbrowed, princely philosopher mr. davenport presented to his followers. and after that performance i think he was most proud of his "horn-pipe" in the play of "black-eyed susan"; and he danced it with a swiftness, a lightness, and a limberness of joint that were truly astonishing in a man of his years. legend said that in london it had been a great "go," had drawn--oh, fabulous shillings, not to mention pounds--but i never saw him play _william_ to a good house, never--neither did i ever see the dance _encored_. the people did not appreciate versatility, and one night, while before the curtain in responding to a call, he began a bitter tirade against the taste of the public--offering to stand there and count how many there were in the house, and telling them that next week that same house would not hold all who would wish to enter, for there would be a banjo played by a woman, and such an intellectual treat was not often to be had, but they must not spend all their money, he was even now learning to swallow swords _and_ play the _banjo_; he was an old dog now, but if they would have a little patience he would learn their favorite tricks for them, even though he could not heartily congratulate them on their intelligence, etc., etc. oh, it was dreadful taste and so unjust, too, to abuse those who were there for the fault of those who remained away. however, during the week's engagement of which i have been speaking, i had two nights in the ballet, then again i was cast for an important part. it was a white-letter day for me, professionally, for, thanks to mr. davenport, i learned for the first time the immense value of "business" alone, an action unsustained perhaps by a single word. i am not positive, but i believe the play was "a soldier of fortune" or "the lion of st. mark"--anyway it was a romantic drama. my part was not very long, but it had one most important scene with the hero. it was one of those parts that are talked about so much during the play that they gain a sort of fictitious value. at rehearsal i could not help noticing how fixedly mr. davenport kept gazing at me. his frown grew deeper and deeper as i read my lines, and i was growing most desperately frightened, when he suddenly exclaimed: "wait a minute!" i stopped; he went on roughly, still staring hard at me, "i don't know whether you are worth breaking a vow for or not." naturally i had nothing to say. he walked up the stage; as he came down, he said: "i've kept that promise for ten years, but you seem such an honest little soul about your work--i've a good mind, yes, i have a mind----" he sat down on the edge of the prompt-table, and though he addressed himself seemingly to me alone, the whole company were listening attentively. "when i first started out starring i honestly believed i had a mission to teach other less experienced actors how to act. i had made a close study of the plays i was to present, as well as of my own especial parts in them, and i actually thought it was my duty to impart my knowledge to those actors who were strange in them. yes, that's the kind of a fool i was. i used to explain and describe, and show how, and work and sweat, and for my pains i received behind my back curses for keeping them so long at rehearsals, and before my face stolid indifference or a thinly veiled implication that i was grossly insulting them by my minute directions. both myself and my voice were pretty well used up before i realized that my work had been wasted, my good intentions damned, that i had not been the leaven that could lighten the lump of stupid self-satisfaction we call the 'profession'; and i took solemn oath to myself never again to volunteer any advice, any suggestion, any hint as to reading, or business, or make-up to man or woman in any play of mine. if they acted well, all right; if they acted ill, all right too. if i found them infernal sticks, i'd leave them sticks. i'd demand just one thing, my _cue_. as long as i got the word to speak on, all the rest might go to the devil! rehearsals shortened, actors had plenty of time for beer and pretzels; and as i ceased to try to improve their work, they soon called me a good fellow. and now you come along, willing to work, knowing more than some of your elders, yet actually believing there is still something for you to learn. ambitious, keenly observant, you tempt me to teach you some business for this part, and yet if i do i suppose what goes in at one ear will go out of the other!" embarrassed silence on my part. "well," he went on, whimsically, "i see this is not your day for making protestations, but i'm going to give you the business, and if you choose to ignore it at night--why, that will serve me right for breaking my promise." "mr. davenport," i said, "i always try to remember what is told me, and i don't see why i should not remember what you say; goodness knows you speak plainly enough," at which, to my troubled surprise, everyone, star and all, burst out laughing, but presently he returned to the play. "see here," he said, "you, the adventuress, are worsted in this scene. you sit at the table. i have forced you to sign this paper, yet you say to me: 'you are a fool!' now, how are you going to say it?" "i don't know yet," i answered, "i have not heard the whole play through." "what's that got to do with it?" he asked, sharply. "why," i said, "i don't know the story--i don't know whether she is really your enemy, or only injures you on impulse; whether she truly loves anyone, or only makes believe love." "good!" he cried, "good! that is sound reasoning. well, you _are_ my enemy, you love no one, so you see your 'fool' is given with genuine feeling. it's years since the line has drawn fire, but you do this business, and see. you sit, i stand at the opposite side of the table. you write your name--you are supposed to be crushed. i believe it and tower triumphantly over you. the audience believes it too. now you lay down your pen--but carefully, mind you, carefully; then close the inkstand, and with very evident caution place it out of danger of a fall. be sure you take your time, there are places where deliberation is as effective as ever rush and hurry can be. then with your cheek upon your hand, or your chin on your clasped hands--any attitude you fancy will do--look at me good and long, and _then_ speak your line. have you thought yet how to deliver it?" "well," i answered, hesitatingly, "to call you a fool in a colloquial tone would make people laugh, i think, and--and the words don't fit a declamatory style. i should think a rather low tone of sneering contempt would be best," and he shouted loudly: "you've hit it square on the head! now let's see you do it to-night. don't look so frightened, my girl, only take your time, don't hurry. i've got to stand there till you speak, if you take all night. be deliberate; you see, you have played all the rest so fiercely fast, the contrast will tell." the night came. cornered, check-mated, i slowly signed the paper, wiped the pen, closed the inkstand, and set it aside. he stood like a statue. the silence reached the house. i stretched out my arms and rested my crossed hands lightly on the table. i met his glance a moment, then, with a curling lip, let my eyes sweep slowly down length of body to boot-tip and back again, rose slowly, made a little "pouf" with lips and wave of hand, and contemptuously drawled: "my friend, you are a fool!" while, swift and sharp, came the applause mr. davenport at least had anticipated. the act ended almost immediately, and i hurried to him, crying: "oh, thank you so much, mr. davenport. i never, never could have found applause in a speech like that." "ah, it was the business, child, not the speech. always try to find good business." "suit the action to the word?" i laughed. "yes," he answered, "and remember, miss, actions speak louder than words, too! but, my dear, it's a comfort to teach you anything; and when i saw you trying so carefully to follow directions to-night, i swear i almost prayed for the applause you were so honestly earning. you are a brick, my girl! oh, i don't mean one of those measly little common building bricks--i mean a great lovely roman tile!" and when, in god's good time, success came to me, as i entered the green-room at the fifth avenue one evening, a tall man in a gray suit released himself from a bevy of pretty women, and coming over to me, held out his hands, saying: "did i ever make any remarks to you about building materials?" and, laughingly, i answered: "yes, sir, you said something about bricks some years ago." and while i ran away to change, he called after me: "say, 'jones's baby' isn't on to-night, is it?" and immediately began to tell about _emilia_, and such is the power of imagination that he declared "she raged up and down behind the scenes crying 'murder,' till the very house broke loose, and _right through all the pealing of the bells high and clear, you heard her voice topping everything_!" i was resting and getting breath while the bell clanged, remember, but so much for human memory. it is strange how often the merest accident or the utterance of a chance word may harden wavering intentions into a fixed resolve. though i am not aggressive, there is in me a trace of bull-dog tenacity, made up of patient endurance and sustained effort. rather slow to move, when i am aroused i simply _cannot_ let go my hold while breath is in me, unless i have had my will, have attained my object. perhaps people may wonder why i retained my anomalous position in that theatre--why i did not follow the advice of some of the lady stars, who gave me a kindly thought and word now and then. and at the risk of giving them a poor opinion of my wisdom, i present the reason that actuated me. one day at rehearsal, while waiting for the stage to be reset, several of the actresses gossiped about theatrical matters. one had a letter from a friend who announced her advance to "first walking lady," which turned the talk to promotion generally, and laughingly she asked me: "what line of business shall you choose, clara, when your turn comes?" but before i could reply, the eldest woman present sneered: "oh, she can save herself the trouble of choosing; if she's ever advanced it will be in some other city than this." i was astonished; i had just made one of my small hits, and had a nice little notice in the paper, but it did not occur to me that _envy_ could sustain itself, keeping warm and strong and bitter on such slight nourishment as that. and then, she of the letter, answered: "why, clara's getting along faster than anyone else in the company, and i shall expect to see her playing leading business before so very many seasons pass by." "leading business here?" cried the other, "i guess not!" "oh," laughed the first, "i see, you mean that mrs. ellsler will claim the leading parts as long as she lives? well, then, i shall expect to see clara playing the leading juveniles." "well, you go right on expecting, and your hair will be as gray as mine is, when she gets into any line of business in this town!" unspeakably wounded, i asked, timidly: "but if i work hard and learn to act well, can't i hold a position as well as anyone else?" she looked contemptuously at me, and then answered: "no, you must be a fool if you suppose that after standing about in the ballet for months on end that cleveland will ever accept you in a respectable line of business. you've got to go to some other place, where you are not known, and then come back as a stranger, if you want to be accepted here." a dull anger began to burn in me--there was something so suggestive of shame in the words, "some other place, where you are not known." i had nothing to hide. i could work, and by and by i should be able to act as well as any of them--better perhaps. i felt my teeth come together with a snap, the bull-dog instinct was aroused. i looked very steadily at the sneering speaker and said: "i shall never leave this theatre till i am leading woman." and they all laughed, but it was a promise, and all these provoking years i was by way of keeping it. the undertaking was hard, perhaps it was foolish, but of the group of women who laughed at me that day every one of them lived to see my promise kept to the letter. when i left cleveland it was to go as leading woman to cincinnati, one season before i entered new york. but after i had at last escaped the actual ballet, and was holding a recognized position, i was still treated quite _en haut--en bas_ by the management. mr. and mrs. ellsler had acquired the old-shoe habit. i was the easy old dramatic slipper, which it was pleasant to slip on so easily, but doubly pleasant to be able to shake off without effort. that you may thoroughly understand, i will explain that i was an excellent _amelia_ in "the robbers" when a rather insignificant star played the piece, but when a booth or some star of like magnitude appeared as _charles de moor_, then the easy slipper was dropped off, and mrs. ellsler herself played _amelia_. any part belonging to me by right could be claimed by that lady, if she fancied it, and if she wearied of it, it came back to me. when we acted in the country in the summer-time, at akron or canton, where there were real theatres, she played _parthenia_ or _pauline_ in the "lady of lyons," or any other big part; but if the next town was smaller, i played _parthenia_ or _pauline_ or what not. because i had once been in the ballet i had become an old pair of dramatic slippers, to be slipped on or kicked off at will--rather humiliating to the spirit, but excellent training for the growing actress, and i learned much from these queer "now-you're-in-it and now you're-not-in-it" sort of casts, and having much respect and admiration for mr. ellsler, i fortunately followed in his wake, rather than in that of any woman. he was one of the most versatile of actors. _polonius_ or _dutchy_ (the opposite to chanfrau's _mose_), crying old men or broad farce-comedy old men. often he doubled _king duncan_ and _hecate_ in "macbeth," singing any of the witches when a more suitable _hecate_ was on hand--acquainted with the whole range of the "legitimate," his greatest pleasure was in acting some "bit" that he could elaborate into a valuable character. i remember the "switch-man" in "under the gaslight"--it could not have been twenty lines long, yet he made of him so cheery, so jolly, so kindly an old soul, everyone was sorry when he left the stage. he always had a good notice for the work, and a hearty reception ever after the first night. it was from him i learned my indifference to the length of my parts. the value of a character cannot always be measured by the length and number of its speeches, but i think the only word of instruction he ever gave me was: "speak loud--speak distinctly," which was certainly good as far as it went. he was the most genial of men, devotedly fond of children, he was "uncle john" to them all, and while never famous for the size of the salaries he paid, he was so good a friend to his people that he often had trouble in making desirable changes, and the variegated and convoluted falsehoods he invented in order to get rid of one excessively bad old actor with an affectionate heart, who wished to stay at a reduced salary, must lay heavy on his conscience to this hour. i used to wonder why he had never taken to starring, but he said he had not had enough self-assertion. he was a hard-working man, but he seemed to lack resolution. he had opinions--not convictions. he was always second in his own theatre--often letting "i dare not wait upon i would." after years of acquaintanceship, not to say friendship, when my ambition had been aroused, and i turned hopeful eyes toward new york, mr. ellsler opposed me bitterly, telling me i must be quite mad to think that the metropolis would give me a hearing. he said many pleasant and encouraging things, or wrote them, since i was in cincinnati then. among them i find: "the idea of your acting in new york; why, better actresses than you are, or can ever hope to be, have been driven broken-hearted from its stage. do you suppose you could tie the shoe of eliza logan, one of the greatest actresses that ever lived--but yet not good enough for new york? how about julia dean, too? go east, and be rejected, and then see what manager will want you in the west." verily not an encouraging friend. again i find: "undoubtedly you are the strongest, the most original, and the youngest leading lady in the profession--but why take any risk? why venture into new york, where you may fail? at any rate, wait _ten years_, till you are surer of yourself." good heavens! if i was original and strong in the west, why should i wait ten years before venturing into the east? chapter twenty-fourth i recall the popularity and too early death of edwin adams. i hear many tales of the insolence of stars--of their overbearing manners, and their injustice to "little people," as the term goes; but personally i have seen almost nothing of it. in the old days stars were generally patient and courteous in their manners to the supporting companies. among the stars whose coming was always hailed with joy was edwin adams, he of the golden voice, he who should have prayed with fervor, both day and night: "oh, god! protect me from my friends!" he was so popular with men, they sought him out, they followed him, and they generally expressed their liking through the medium of food and drink. like every other sturdy man that's worth his salt, he could stand off an enemy, but he was as weak as water in the hands of a friend, and thus it came about that he often stood in slippery places, and though he fell again and again, yet was he forgiven as often as he sinned, and heartily welcomed back the next season, so great was his power to charm. he was not handsome, he was not heroic in form, but there was such dash and go, such sincerity and naturalness in all his work, that whether he was love-making or fighting, singing or dying, he convinced you he was the character's self, whether that character was the demented victim of the _bastille_, young _rover_ in "wild oats," or that most gallant gentleman _mercutio_, in which no greater ever strode than that of edwin adams. his buoyancy of spirit, his unconquerable gayety made it seem but natural his passion for jesting should go with him to the very grave. many a fine _mercutio_ gives: "----a plague o' both your houses!" with a resentful bitterness that implies blame to _romeo_ for his "taking off," which would be a most cruel legacy of grief and remorse to leave to his young friend--but adams was that brave _mercutio_: "that gallant spirit that aspired the clouds, which too untimely here did scorn the earth." and whose last quips, coming faintly across paling lips, expressed still good-natured fun, and so: "----a plague o' both your houses!" but no blame at all. his grace of movement and his superb voice were his greatest gifts. most stars had one rather short play which they reserved for saturday nights, that they might be able to catch their night train _en route_ for the next engagement; so it happened that mr. adams, having bravely held temptation from him during the first five nights, generally yielded to the endearments of his friends by the sixth, and was most anyone but himself when he came to dress for the performance of a play most suggestively named: "the drunkard." it was a painful and a humiliating sight to see him wavering uncertainly in the entrance. all brightness, intelligence, and high endeavor extinguished by liquor's murky fog. his apologies were humble and evidently sincere, but the sad memory was one not to be forgotten. i had just married, and we were in san francisco. i was rehearsing for my engagement there. the papers said mr. adams had arrived from australia and had been carried on a stretcher to a hotel, where, with his devoted wife by his side, he lay dying. a big lump rose in my throat, tears filled my eyes. i asked my husband, who had greatly admired the actor, and who was glad to pay him any courtesy or service possible, to call, leave cards, and if he saw mrs. adams, which was improbable, to try to coax her out for a drive, if but for half an hour, and to deliver a message of remembrance and sympathy from me to her husband. to his surprise, he was admitted by the dying man's desire to his room, where the worn, weary, self-contained, ever gently smiling wife sat and, like an automaton, fanned hour by hour, softly, steadily fanned breath between those parched lips, that whispered a gracious message of congratulation and thanks. mrs. adams never left him, scarce took her eyes from him. poor wife! who knew she could hold him but a few hours longer. my husband was deeply moved, and when he tried to describe to me that wasted frame--those helpless hands, whose faintly twitching fingers could no longer pluck at the folded sheet, my mind obstinately refused to accept the picture, and instead, through a blur of tears, i saw him as on that last morning, when in his prime, strong and gentle, at his rehearsal of "enoch arden," he said to me: "i am disappointed to the very heart, clara, that you are not my _annie lee_." he took his hat off, he drew his hand across his eyes. "i can't find her," he said, with that touch of pathos that made his voice irresistible; "no, i have not found her yet--they are not innocent and brave! they are bouncing, buxom creatures or they are whimpering little milk-sops. they are never fisher-maidens, flower-pure, yet strong as the salt of the sea! she loved them both, clara, yet she was no more weak nor bad than when, with childish lips, she innocently promised to be 'a little wife to both' the angry lads--to philip and young enoch! now your eyes are sea-eyes, and your voice--oh, i am disappointed! i thought i should find my _annie_ here!" and so i see him now as i think with tender sorrow of the actor who was so strong and yet so weak--dear ned adams! when mr. joseph jefferson came to us i found his acting nothing less than a revelation. here, in full perfection, was the style i had feebly, almost blindly been reaching for. this man, this poet of _comedy_, as he seemed to me, had so perfectly wedded nature to art that they were indeed one. here again i found the immense value of "business" the most minute, the worth of restraint, if you had power to restrain, and learned that his perfect naturalness was the result of his exquisite art in cutting back and training nature's too great exuberance. i was allowed to play _meenie_, his daughter, in the play of "rip van winkle," and my delight knew no bounds. he was very gentle and kind, he gave me pleasant words of praise for my work; he was very great, and--and his eyes were fine, and i approved of his chin, too, and i was, in fact, rapidly blending the actor and the man in one personality. in the last act, when kneeling at his feet, during our long wait upon the stage, i knelt and adored! and he--oh, mr. jefferson, mr. jefferson, that i should say it, but _did_ you not hold my fingers unnecessarily close when you made some mild little remarks that were not in the play, but which filled my breast with quite outrageous joy, and pride--indeed, my crop of young affections, always rather a sparse growth, came very near being gathered into a small sheaf and laid at your feet. fortunately, i learned in time that there was an almost brand-new wife in the hotel next door, and i looked at him with big, reproachful eyes and kept my fingers to myself, and wisely put off the harvesting of my affections until some distant day. mind you, i was well within my rights in this matter. girls always fall in love with stars--some fall in love with all of them, but that must be fatiguing; besides, as i said before, my affections were of such sparse growth they could not go round. yet since i could honor thus but one star, i must say i look back with complete approval upon my early choice, and the shock to my heart did not prevent me from treasuring up some kindly words of advice from the artist-actor anent the making-up of eyes for the stage. said he to me one evening: "my girl, i want to speak to you about that 'make-up' you have on your eyes." "yes, sir?" i answered, interrogatively, feeling very hot and uncomfortable, "have i too much on?" "well, yes," he said, "i think you have, though you have much less than most women wear." "oh, yes," i hurriedly interposed, "there was a french dancer here who covered nearly a third of her eyelids with a broad blue-black band of pomatum, and she said----" "oh," he protested, "i know, she said it made the eyes large and lustrous, and as you see yourself in the glass it does seem to have that effect; but, by the way, what do you think of my eyes?" and with truth and promptness, i made answer: "i think they're lovely." my unexpected candor proved rather confusing, for for a moment he "er-er-erd," and finally said: "i meant as a feature of acting, they are good acting eyes, aren't they? well, you don't find _them_ made up, do you? now listen to me, child, always be guided as far as possible by nature. when you make up your face, you get powder on your eyelashes, nature made them dark, so you are free to touch the lashes themselves with ink or pomade, but you should not paint a great band about your eye, with a long line added at the corner to rob it of every bit of expression. and now as to the beauty this lining is supposed to bring, some night when you have time i want you to try a little experiment. make up your face carefully, darken your brows and the lashes of one eye; as to the other eye, you must load the lashes with black pomade, then draw a black line beneath the eye, and a broad line on its upper lid, and a final line out from the corner. the result will be an added lustre to the made-up eye, a seeming gain in brilliancy; but now, watching your reflection all the time, move slowly backward from the glass, and an odd thing will happen, that made-up eye will gradually grow smaller and smaller, until, at a distance much less than that of the auditorium, it will really look more like a round black hole than anything else, and will be absolutely without expression. you have an admirable stage eye--an actor's eye, sensitive, expressive, well opened, it's a pity to spoil it with a load of blacking." and i said, gratefully: "i'll never do it again, sir," and i never have, first from respect to a great actor's opinion, and gratitude for his kindly interest, later having tried his experiment, from the conviction that he was right, and finally because my tears would have sent inky rivulets down my cheeks had i indulged in black-banded eyes. so in all these years of work, just once, in playing a tricky, treacherous, plotting female, that i felt should be a close-eyed, thin-lipped creature, i have painted and elongated my eyes, otherwise i have kept my promise "not to do it again." i met mr. jefferson in paris at that dreadful time when he was threatened with blindness, and i never shall forget his gentle patience, his marvelous courage. that was a day of real rejoicing to me, when the news came that his sight was saved. blindness coming upon any man is a horror, but to a man who can see nature as joseph jefferson sees her it would have been an almost incredible cruelty. chapter twenty-fifth i see an actress dethroned--i make myself a promise, for the world does move. to be discarded by the public, that is the _bête noire_, the unconquerable dread and terror of the actor. to fail in the great struggle for supremacy is nothing compared to the agony of falling after the height has once been won. few people can think of the infamous casting down of the great column vendôme without a shiver of pain--the smashing of the memorial tablet, the shattering of the statue, these are sights to shrink from, yet what does such shrinking amount to when compared to the pain of seeing a human being thrust from the sunlight of public popularity into the darkness of obscurity? i was witness once to the discrowning of an actress, and if i could forget the anguish of her eyes, the pallor beneath her rouge, i would be a most grateful woman. she had been handsome in her prime, handsome in the regular-featured, statuesque fashion so desirable for an actress of tragic parts; but mrs. p---- (for i shall call her only by that initial, as it seems to me that naming her fully would be unkind) had reached, yes, had passed, middle age and had wandered far into distant places, had known much sorrow, and, alas, for her, had not noticed that her profession, like everything alive, like the great god-made world itself, moved, moved, moved! so not noticing, she, poor thing, stood still in her method of work, loyally doing her best in the style of acting that had been so intensely admired in her triumphant youth. she had most successfully starred in cleveland years before, but at the time i speak of she was returning from distant parts, widowed and poor, yet quite, quite confident of her ability to please the public, and with plans all made to star two, possibly three, years, long enough to secure a little home and tiny income, when she would retire gracefully from the sight of the regretful public. meantime she entreated mr. ellsler, if possible, to give her an engagement, that she might earn money enough to carry her to new york and see the great agents there. by some unlooked-for chance the very next week was open, and rather tremulously as manager, but kind-heartedly as man, mr. ellsler engaged her for that week. the city was billed accordingly: "mrs. p----, the queen of tragedy!"--"the celebrated mrs. p----, cleveland's great favorite!"--"especial engagement of mrs. p----!" etc., etc. i had a tiny part in the old grecian tragedy she opened in. i came early, as was my wont, and when dressed went out to look at the house--good heavens! i gasped. poor? it was worse than poor. bad? it was worse than bad. my heart sank for her as i recalled how, that morning, she had asked, with a little nonchalant air of: "it doesn't really matter, of course, but do the people here throw their flowers still, or do they send them up over the footlights?" flowers? oh, poor mrs. p----! the overture had ended before she came out of her dressing-room, so she had no warning of what the house was like. she was all alight with pleasant anticipation. at a little distance she looked remarkably well; her grecian robes hung gracefully, her hair was arranged and filleted correctly and becomingly, her movements were assured; only looking at the deeply drawn lines about her mouth, made one regret that her opening speeches referred so distinctly to her "dewy youth"; but cleveland was well used to that sort of contradiction, and i might have taken heart of grace for her if only she had not looked so very pleased and happy. the opening scene of the old-fashioned play was well on when the star appeared, and smiling graciously--faced the almost empty house. she halted--she gave the sort of sudden gasp that a dash of icy water in the face might cause. the humiliating half-dozen involuntary hand-claps that had greeted her fell into silence as she came fully into view, where she stood dismayed, stricken--for she was an old actress and she read the signs aright, she knew this was the great _taboo_. her face whitened beneath her rouge, her lips moved silently. one moment she turned her back squarely upon the audience, for she knew her face was anguished, and moved by the same instinct that makes an indian draw the blanket across his dying face, or the wounded animal seek deepest solitude, she sought to hide _her_ suffering from the coldly observant few. with the light stricken from her eyes they looked dull and sunken, while every nerve and muscle of her poor face seemed a-quiver. it was a dreadful moment for us who looked on and understood. presently she clinched her hands, drew a long breath, and facing about, took up the burden of the play, and in cold, flat tones began her part. she did her best in the old, stilted declamatory style, that was as dead as many of the men and women were who used to applaud it. once only the audience warmed to her a trifle, and as she accepted their half-hearted "call," her sad eyes roved over the empty spaces of the house, a faint, tired smile touched her lips, while two great tears coursed down her cheeks. it was the moment of renunciation! they denied her right to the crown of popularity, and she, with that piteous smile, bowed to their verdict, as an actress must. at the curtain's final fall her stardom was over. she went very quietly to mr. ellsler and gave him back the engagement he had granted her, saying, simply: "they do not want me any longer." a short time after that, she sat one evening in mr. ellsler's family box, and with wide, astonished eyes gazed at the packed house which greeted the jig, the clog, the song, the banjo of miss lotta, whose innocent deviltries were bringing her a fortune, and when, in response to a "call," instead of appearing, miss lotta thrust her foot and ankle out beyond the curtain and wriggled them at the delighted crowd, poor mrs. p---- drew her hand across her forehead and said, in bewildered tones: "but--i don't understand!" no, she could not understand, and miss lotta had not yet faced new york, hence john brougham, the witty, wise, and kindly irish gentleman, had not yet had his opportunity of summing up the brilliant and erratic star, as he did later on in these words: "act, acting, actress? what are you thinking of? she's no actress, she's--why, she's a little dramatic cocktail!" which was a delicious broughamism and truthful withal. but that sad night, when mrs. p---- first set her feet in the path of obscurity, i took to myself a lesson, and said: "while i live, i will move. i will not stand still in my satisfaction, should success ever come to me--but will try to keep my harness bright by action, in at least an effort to keep abreast with the world, for verily, verily, it does move!" chapter twenty-sixth mr. lawrence barrett the brilliant and his brother joseph the unfortunate. there were few stars with whom i took greater pleasure in acting than with mr. lawrence barrett. i sometimes wonder if even now this profession really knows what great reason it has to be proud of him. he was a man respected by all, admired by many, and if loved but by few, theirs was a love so profound and so tender it amply sufficed. we are a censorious people, and just as our greatest virtue is generosity in giving, so our greatest fault is the eagerness with which we seek out the mote in our neighbor's eye, without feeling the slightest desire for the removal of the beam in our own eye. thus one finds that the first and clearest memory actors have of mr. barrett is of his irascible temper and a certain air of superiority, not of his erudition, of the high position he won socially as well as artistically, of the almost titanic struggle of his young manhood with adverse circumstances. nor does that imply the slightest malice on their part. actors, as a family trait, have a touch of childishness about them which they come by honestly enough. we all know the farther we get from infancy the weaker the imagination grows. now it is imagination that makes the man an actor, so it is not wonderful if with the powerful creative fancy of childhood he should also retain a touch of its petulance and self-consciousness. thus to many actors mr. barrett's greatness is lost sight of in the memory of some dogmatic utterance or sharp reproval that wounded self-love. it would seem like presumption for me to offer any word of praise for the artistic work of his later years; the world remembers it; the world knows, too, how high he climbed, how secure was his position; but twice i have heard the stories of his earlier years--some from the lips of his brave wife, once from the lips of that beloved brother joe, who was yet his dread and sorrow--and at each telling my throat ached at the pain of it, while my nerves thrilled with admiration for such endurance, such splendid determination. a paradox is, i believe, something seemingly absurd, yet true in fact. in that case i was not so very far wrong, in spite of general laughter, when, after my first rehearsal with him, i termed mr. barrett a man of cold enthusiasm. "but," one cried to me, "you stupid--that's a paradox! don't you see your words contradict each other?" "well," i answered, with shame-faced obstinacy, "perhaps they do, but they are not contradicted by _him_. you all call him icy-cold, and _i_ know he is truly enthusiastic over the possibilities of this play, so that makes what i call cold enthusiasm, however par-a-paradoxy (?) _it_ sounds." and now, after all the years, i can approve that childish judgment. he was a man whose intellectual enthusiasm was backed by a cold determination that would never let him say "die" while he had breath in his body and a stage to rehearse on. i have a miserable memory for names, and often in the middle of a remark the name i intended to mention will pass from my remembrance utterly; so, all my life, i have had the very bad habit of trying to make my hearers understand whom i meant by imitating or mentioning some trait peculiar to the nameless one, and i generally succeeded. as, for instance, when i wished to tell whom i had seen taking away a certain book, i said: "it was mr.--er--er, oh, you know, mr.--er, why this man," and i pulled in my head like a turtle and hitched up my shoulders to my ears, and the anxious owner cried: "oh, thompson has it, has he?" thompson having, so far as _we_ could see, no neck at all--my pantomime suggested his name. everyone can recall the enormous brow of mr. barrett, and how beneath his great, burning eyes his cheeks hollowed suddenly in, thinning down to his sensitive mouth. i was on the stage in new orleans, the first morning of my engagement there (i was under mr. daly's management, but he had loaned me for a fortnight), and i started out with: "mr. daly said to please ask mr.----," away went the name--goodness gracious, should i forget my own name next! the stage manager suggested: "mr. rogers." "no, oh, no! i mean mr.--er--er," and i trailed off helplessly. "mr. seymour?" offered a lady. "no, no! that's not it!" i cried; "why, goodness mercy me! you all know whom i mean--the--the actor with the _hungry eyes_?" "oh, barrett!" they shouted, all save one voice, that with a mighty laugh cried out: "that's my brother larry, god bless him! no one could miss that description, for sure he looks as hungry to-day as ever he did when he felt hungry to his heart's core!" and so it was that i first met poor joe barrett, who worshipped the brother whose sore torment he was. for this great, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced fellow with the boyish laugh had ever in his veins the craving for liquor--that awful inherited appetite that can nullify prayer and break down the most fixed determination. "ah!" he cried to me, "no one, no one can ever know how good larry has been to me, for while he is fighting and struggling to rise, every little while some lapse of mine drags him back a bit. yet he never casts me off--never disowns me. he has had to discharge me for the sake of discipline here, but he has re-engaged me. he has sent me away, but he has taken me back again. i promise, and fail to keep my promise. i fall, and he picks me up. through the cursed papers i have dragged my brother through the mud, but the sweet saviour could hardly forgive me more fully than larry does, for, look you, he never forgets that i am the son of my father, who was accursed before me, while he is the son of our poor mother--blessed be her name! it isn't that i don't try. i keep straight until the agony of longing begins to turn into a mad desire to do bodily harm to someone--anyone, and then, fearing worse, i drink my fill, and the papers find me out, and are not content to tell of the disgraceful condition of joseph barrett, but must add, always, 'the brother of the prominent actor, mr. lawrence barrett.' poor larry! poor little delicate chap that he used to be, with his big, brainy head--too heavy for his weak neck and frail body to carry." and then he told me of their sorrowful life, their poverty. the often-idle father and his dislike for the delicate boy, whose only moment of happiness was when the weary mother, the poor supper over, sat for a little to breathe and rest, and held his heavy head upon her loving breast, while joe sang his songs or told all the happenings of the day. that happy joe, who had no pride and was quite as satisfied without a seat to his small trousers as with one! then he told me how hard it was for lawrence to learn; how he had to grind and grind at the simplest lesson, but once having acquired it, it was his for life. "why, even now," said he, "in confidence i'm telling you, my brother is studying like a little child at french, and it does seem that he cannot learn it. he works so desperately over it, a doctor has warned him he must choose between french and his many 'parts' or break down from overwork. but he _will_ go on hammering at his _parlez-vous_ until he learns them or dies trying." "if you were to live with your brother, might not that help to keep you strong?" i asked. "now, my dear little woman," he smiled, "larry is human, in some respects, if he is almost god-like toward me. remember he has a young family now, and though his wife is as good as gold and always patient with me, i am not the kind of example a man would care to place before his little ones, and as lawrence is devoured with ambition for them and their future, he rightly guards them from too close contact with the drag and curse of his own life, in whom he, and he alone, can see the sturdy tow-headed brother of the old boyish days, who saved him from many and many a kick and thump his delicate body could ill have borne." joe told me of his dead wife--viola crocker that was--the niece of mrs. bowers and mrs. conway; of their happiness and their misery. describing himself as having been "in heaven or in hell--without any betwixts and betweens." his devotion to me was very great. he was "hard-up" for money, as the men express it, but he would manage to bring me a single rose or one bunch of grapes or a half-dozen mushrooms or some such small offering every day; and learning of his bitter mortification because he could not hire a carriage to take me out to see the curious old french cemetery, i made him supremely happy by expressing a desire to ride in one of those funny bob-tailed, mule-drawn street-cars--the result being a trip by my mother, mr. barrett, and myself to the famous cemetery. i don't know that i ever heard anyone sing irish and scottish ballads more tenderly, more pathetically than did joe barrett, and as my mother was very fond of old songs, he used to sit and sing one after another for her. that day there was no one in the crawling little car but we three, and presently he began to sing. but, oh, what was it that he sang? irish, unmistakably--a lament, rising toward its close into the _keen_ of some clan. it wrung the very heart. "don't!" i exclaimed. my mother's face was turned away, my throat ached, even joe's eyes had filled. "what is it?" i asked. "i don't know its name," he answered, "i have always put it on programmes as 'a lament.' i learned it from an irish emigrant-lad, who was from the north, and who was dying fast from consumption and home-hunger. is not that wail chilling? as he gave the song it seemed like a message from the dying." at the end of our stroll among the flowers and trees and past those strange stone structures that look so like serious-minded bake-ovens, having to wait for a car, we sat on a stone bench, and in that quiet city of the dead joe's voice rose, tenderly reverent, in that simple air that was yet an anguish of longing, followed by a wail for the dead. my mother wept silently. i said, softly: "it's a plaint and a farewell," and joe brought his eyes back from the great cross, blackly silhouetted against the flaming sky, and slowly said: "beloved among women, it is a message--a message from the dying or the dead, believe that." and a time came when--well, when _almost_ i did believe that. later on, when mr. barrett stood second only to mr. booth in his profession, well established, well off, well dressed, polished and refined of manner, aye, and genial, too, to those he liked, i came by accident upon a most gracious act of his and, following it up, found him deep in a conspiracy to deceive a stricken woman into receiving the aid her piteous determination to stand alone made impossible to offer openly. i looked at the generous, prosperous, intellectual, intensely active gentleman, surrounded by clever wife and the pretty, thoroughly educated daughters, who were chaperoned in all their walks to and from park or music-lesson or shopping-trip, and i wondered at the distance little "larry," with the heavy head and frail body, had traveled, and bowed respectfully to such magnificent energy. even then there arose a cry from the profession that mr. barrett was dictatorial, that he assumed airs of superiority. mr. barrett was wrapped up, soul and body, in the proper production of the play in hand. he was keenly observant and he was sensitive. when an actor had his mind fixed upon a smoke or a glass of beer, and cared not one continental dollar whether the play failed or succeeded, so long as he got his "twenty dollars per--," mr. barrett knew it, and became "dictatorial" in his effort to force the man into doing his work properly. i worked with him, both as a nobody and as somebody, and i know that an honest effort to comprehend and carry out his wishes was recognized and appreciated. as for his airs of superiority--well, the fact is he was superior to many. he was intellectual and he was a student to the day of his death. when work at the theatre was over he turned to study. he never was well acquainted with tom and dick, nor yet with harry. his back fitted a lamp-post badly. he would not have known how "to jolly the crowd." he was not a full, voluminous, and ready story-teller for the boys, who called him cold and hard. god knows he had needed the coldness and the so-called hardness, or how could he have endured the privations of the long journey from his weary mother's side to this position of honor. cold, hard, dictatorial, superior? well, there is a weak lean-on-somebody sort of woman, who will love any man who will feed and shelter her--she doesn't count. but when a clear-minded, business-like, clever woman, a wife for many years, loves her husband with the tenderest sentiment and devotion, i'm ready to wager something that it was _tenderness_ and _devotion_ in the husband that first aroused like sentiments in the wife. mrs. barrett was shrewd, far-seeing, business-like--a devoted and watchful mother, but her love for her husband had still the freshness, the delicate sentiment of young wifehood. when she thought fit, she bullied him shamefully; when she thought fitter, she "guyed" him unmercifully. think of that! and it was delightful to see the great, solemn-eyed personification of dignity smilingly accepting her buffets. but, oh, to hear that wife tell of the sorrows and trials they had faced together, of their absurd makeshifts, of their small triumphs over poverty, of lawrence's steady advance in his profession, of that beautiful day when they moved into a little house all by themselves, when he became, as he laughingly boasted, "a householder, not a forlorn, down-trodden boarder!" their family, besides themselves, then consisted of one little girl and lawrence's beloved old mother, and he had a room to study in in peace, and the two women talked and planned endlessly about curtains and furniture, and--oh, well, about some more very small garments that would, god willing, be needed before a very great while. and one day lawrence looked about his little table, and said: "it's too good, it can't last, it can't!" and the women kissed him and laughed at him; yet all the time he was right, it did not last. an awful bolt seemed to fall from the blue sky. it was one of those pitiful disasters that sometimes come upon the very old--particularly to those who have endured much, suffered much, as had the elder mrs. barrett in the past. i wept as i heard the story of the devoted son's dry-eyed agony, of the awful fears his condition aroused in the minds of those close to him, and then suddenly she, the wife, had been stricken down, and her danger and that of the tiny babe had brought him to his old self again. he worked on then for some months, grateful for the sparing of his dear ones, when quite suddenly and painlessly the stricken old mother passed from sleep to life everlasting. then when joseph was to be summoned--joe who worshipped the mother's footprint in the dust--he was not to be found. he had fallen again into disgrace, had been discharged, had disappeared, no one knew whither. "oh, dear father!" cried mrs. barrett, "what did not lawrence suffer for joe! knowing what his agony would be when he knew all--but we could do no more. the funeral took place. white as marble, lawrence sent us all home, and himself waited till the last clod of earth was piled upon the grave; then waited till the men had gone, waited to kneel and pray a moment before leaving the old mother there alone. and as he knelt he noted how nearly dark it was, and thought he must not linger long or the gates would be locked upon him. as he rose from his knees, he was startled to see, through the dusk, a tall form coming toward him. it would dodge behind a monument, and after a moment's pause would come a little nearer. suddenly the drooping, lurching figure became familiar to him. with a groan he hid himself behind a tombstone and waited--waited until suspicion became certainty, and he knew that the bent, weary funeral guest was his brother, joe! "he held his peace until the wanderer found his way along the darkening path to that pathetic stretch of freshly broken earth, where, with an exceeding bitter cry, he flung his arms above his head and fell all his length along the grave that held the sweetest and the holiest thing god had ever given him, an honest, loving mother, and clutched the damp clods in his burning hands, and gasped out: 'oh, mother! i have hungered and i have tramped with the curse upon me, too; i have hungered and tramped so far, so far, hoping just to be in time to see your dear face once more, and now they've shut you away from me, from the bad boy you never turned your patient eyes away from! oh, mother! whatever can i do without you, all alone! all alone!' "at that child-like cry from the broken man, prostrate on the grave, lawrence barrett's heart turned to water, and kneeling down he lifted to his breast the tear-blurred, drink-blemished face of his brother, and kissed him as his mother might have done. thus they prayed together for the repose of the soul of their beloved, and then, with his arm about the wanderer, to steady his failing steps, lawrence led him to his little home, and, as they entered, he turned and said: 'joe, can't you take back those words, "all alone," can't you?' and joe nodded his head, and throwing his arms about his brother's neck, answered: 'never alone, while my little brother larry lives and forgives!'" chapter twenty-seventh i play "marie" to oblige--mr. barrett's remarkable call--did i receive a message from the dying or the dead? from the time when, as a ballet-girl, i was called forward and given the part of _marie_ in "the marble heart," a play mr. barrett was starring in, to the then distant day of that really splendid combination with mr. edwin booth, i never saw the former when he was not burning with excitement over some production he had in mind, if not yet in rehearsal. even in his sleep he saw perfect pictures of scenery not yet painted, just as before "ganalon" he used to dream of sharp lance and gay pennon moving in serried ranks, of long lines of nobles and gentlemen who wore the cross of the crusader. his friends were among the highest of god's aristocracy of brains--'twas odd that sculptors, artists, poets, thinkers should strike hands with so "cold" a man and call him friend! i remember well the dismayed look that came upon his face when i was ordered from the ballet ranks to take the place of the lady--a hard, high-voiced soubrette, who was to have played _marie_, had not a sore throat mercifully prevented her. but at my first "thank you--i'd rather go--yonder--," pointing to the distant convent, his eyes widened, suddenly a sort of tremor came to his lips. he was at my side in an instant, telling me to indicate my convent as on the opposite side, so that my own attitude would be more picturesque to the audience. between the acts he said to me: "have you any opinion of _marie_, miss er--er?" "my name's 'just clara,'" i kindly interjected. "well," he smiled, "'just clara,' have you formed any idea of this _marie's_ character?" "why," i answered, "to me she seems a perfect walking gratitude; in real life she would be rather dog-like, i'm afraid; but in the play she is just beautiful." he looked solemnly at me, and then he said: "and _you_ are just beautiful, too, for you are a little thinking actress. now if you have the power of expressing what you think, do you know i am very honestly interested, 'just clara,' in your share of to-night's work." the play went well as a whole, and as _marie_ is one of the most tenderly pathetic creations conceivable, i sat and wept as i told her story; but imagine my amazement when, as mr. barrett bent over my hand, a great hot tear fell from his cheek upon it. "oh, my girl," he said, when the play was over, "don't let anything on god's footstool dishearten you. work! work! you have such power, such delicacy of expression with it--you _are marie_, the little stupidly religious, dog-like 'marie the resigned,' that you have renamed for me 'marie the grateful.'" when i was leading woman he wished to do that play for a single night. of course _marco_ belonged to me, but the big, handsome, cold-voiced second woman could well talk through _marco_, while she would (artistically speaking) damn _marie_. mr. barrett was very hungry-eyed, there was positive famine in them, as he mournfully said: "i would give a great deal to hear you tell _marie's_ story again--to see you and your little bundle and bandaged foot. such a clever touch that--that bandaged foot, no other _marie_ dares do that; but you have turned your back on the 'grateful one'; you can't afford to do her again." "mr. barrett," i asked, "do you wish me to play _marie_ now?" "do i wish it?" he echoed, "i wish it with all my heart, but i have no right to ask a sacrifice from you even if it would benefit the whole performance, as well as give me a personal pleasure." "if the manager does not object," i said, "i am quite willing to give up the leading part and play _marie_ again." he held my hands, he fairly stammered for a moment, then he said: "you are an _artiste_ and a brave and generous girl. i shall remember this action of yours, 'just clara,' always." the amazed manager, after some objection, having consented, i once more put on the rusty black gown, took my small bundle, and asked of the gay ladies from paris my way to the convent, yonder--finding in the tears of the audience and the excellence of the general performance, full reward for playing second fiddle that evening. in my early married days, when the great coffee-urn was still a menace to my composure and dignity, at a little home-dinner, when mr. william black, the famous writer of scottish novels, honored me by his presence on my right, mr. barrett on my left, moved, no one knows by what freak of memory, lifted his glass, and, speaking low, said: "'just clara,' your health!" i laughed a little, and was nodding back, when mr. black, who saw everything through those glasses of his, cried out: "favoritism, favoritism! why, bless my heart, i drank your health ten minutes ago, and you never blushed a blush for me! and i am chief guest, and on the right hand of the hostess--explanations are now in order!" and mr. barrett said that he would explain on their way to the club, whereupon mr. black wrinkled up his nose delightedly, and said he "scented a story"--"and, oh," he cried, "it's the sweetest scent in the world, the most fascinating trail to follow!" but i was thankful that he did not hunt down his quarry then and there, for he could be as mischievous as a squirrel and as persistent as any _enfant terrible_, if he thought you were depriving him of a story. though tears creep into my eyes at the same moment, yet must i laugh whenever i think of mr. barrett's last "call" upon me. we were unknowingly stopping in the same hotel. on the way to the dining-room for a bit of lunch, mr. harriott and mr. barrett met, exchanged greetings, and when the latter found i was not going to luncheon, and was moreover suffering from a most severe attack of neuralgia, he asked if he could not call upon me for a few moments. mr. harriott looked doubtful, and while he hesitated, mr. barrett hastily added: "of course i shall merely say 'how do you do,' and express my sympathy, since i know something about neuralgia myself--that's all." upon which they turned back, and mr. harriott ushered the unexpected, the spick-and-span caller into my presence, with the reassuring word: "mr. barrett is sparing a moment or two of his time, clara, to express his sympathy for you." when a woman knows she is an "object," words of welcome for the unexpected visitor are apt to come haltingly from the tongue, and that i was an "object" no one can deny. a loose, pink dressing-gown was bad, a knit white shawl huddled about the shoulders was worse, but, oh, worst of all, my hair was all scrambled up to the top of my head (hair was dressed low then), and a broad handkerchief bandage concealed from the eye, but not from the nose, the presence of a remedial poultice of flour and brandy. truly it is such acts as this that brings many a well-meaning but apparently demented husband into the divorce court. now any friend, relative, or servant would have bravely but politely prevaricated to the last gasp rather than have admitted a caller to me in that state, but husbands have no discretion, husbands have no--well, that's too large a contract, so i'll keep to that call. i was aghast for a moment, but the warm pressure of mr. barrett's hand, his brightening eye gave me such an impression of sincerity in his pleased greeting that i forgot i was an "object," and asked him to sit down for a chat, as eagerly as though i had had all my war-paint on. we were soon exchanging memories of the past, and mr. harriott, having a business engagement ahead, excused himself and withdrew. mr. barrett, calling after him: "i'll join you in a moment," resumed his conversation. there still stood on the table a pot of tea and a plate holding two pieces of toast. they had been meant for my lunch, but neuralgia had the call, and lunch had been ignored; so, as we talked on and on, presently mr. barrett, seeing my bandage sliding down over my eyes, rose, and, without pausing in his rapid description of a certain picture he had seen abroad in its creator's studio, he passed behind me, tightened the knot of the handkerchief, put the sofa-pillow behind my head, a stool under my feet, and resumed his seat. then i talked and talked, and grew excited, then thirsty. i drew the tray nearer and poured out a cup of tea. "give me some," said mr. barrett, who was now telling me about a sitting of parliament in london. "let me order some that's fresh," i replied. "no, no!" he cried, impatiently, "that will be such an interruption--no, no!" i gave him then a cup of cold tea. presently i broke off a bit of the stiff and repellant toast, with its chilled, pale gleam of butter, and nibbled it. his hand went forth and broke off a bit also. we were on a new poem then, and mr. barrett seemed thrilling to his fingertips with the delight of it. he repeated lines; i questioned his reading; we experimented, placing emphasis first on this word, then on that. we generally agreed, but we came an awful cropper over gladstone. how fiercely we clashed over the grand old man those who knew mr. barrett will guess from the fact that during the fray he excitedly undid two buttons of his tight frock-coat. the ends of his white silk muffler now hung down his back, fluttering when he moved like a small pair of white wings. i have a recollection, too, of his rising, and, apparently unconscious of his act, lighting the gas, while he passionately demanded of me the reason why dickens could not create a real woman. at last we came up hard and fast against _hamlet_. the air was thick with stories. part of the time we talked together in our eagerness. mr. barrett's coat was quite unbuttoned; the curl on his wide brow had grown as frizzly as any common curl might grow. two round, red spots spread over his high cheek-bones, his eyes were hungrily glowing; he had just taken a long breath and made a start on an audience with the pope, when mr. harriott entered and said: "i beg your pardon, mr. barrett, there's a man outside who is very anxiously inquiring for you." "for me?" exclaimed mr. barrett, with astonishment, "that's rather impertinent, it seems to me!" suddenly he noticed the gas-light. he started violently, he pulled out his watch, then sprang to his feet, crying: "good god! harriott, that's my dresser looking for me--i ought to be in my dressing-room. what will mr. booth think has become of me, and what, in heaven's name, do you think of me?" he hastily buttoned himself into rigidity, rescued the flying ends of his muffler, and holding my hands for a moment, he laughed: "you are not only 'just clara,' but you are the only clara that would make me so utterly forgetful of all rules of etiquette. forgive, and good-by!" and he made an astonishingly hasty exit. that "call," that lasted from one till seven, with the accompanying picture of the stately lawrence barrett drinking cold tea and eating stiff cold toast, while he talked brilliantly of all things under heaven, is one of my quaintest memories. one loves to think of those years of his close relations with mr. booth. artistically, the combination was an ideal one; commercially, it was a most successful one; while it certainly brought out qualities of gentleness and devotion in mr. barrett that the public had not accredited him with. the position of manager and co-star was a difficult one, and only barrett's loving comprehension of booth's peculiarities, as well as his greatness, made that position tenable. mr. booth loathed business details; he was sorrowful and weary; he had tasted all the sweets the world had to offer, but only their under tang of bitterness was left upon his lips. he had grown coldly indifferent to the call of the public, but mr. barrett believed that under this ash of lassitude there still glowed the clear fire of genius, and when they went forth to try their great experiment, mr. booth found himself respected, honored, guarded as any woman might have been. he was asked no questions about scene or scenery, about play or percentage--his privacy and peace were ever of the first consideration. mr. barrett was his agent, manager, stage-manager, friend, co-worker, and dramatic guardian angel--all he asked of him in return was to act. and how splendidly mr. booth responded the public can well remember. as he said laughingly to a friend, at the end of the first season: "good work, eh? well, why should i not do good work, after all barrett has done for me. why, i never knew what c-o-m-f-o-r-t spelled before. i arrive--someone says: 'here's your room, mr. booth.' i go in and smoke. at night, someone says: 'here's your dressing-room, sir,' and i go in and dress, yes, and smoke, and then act. that's all, absolutely all that i have to do, except to put out my hand and take my surprisingly big share of the receipts now and then. good work, eh? well, i'll give him the best that's in me, he deserves it." and in the beautiful friendship that grew up between the melancholy, gentle booth and the nervously energetic barrett i believe each gave to the other the best that was in him. before leaving the barretts i should like to mention an odd happening connected with joe and my visit to new orleans, where the theatre was under the management of lawrence barrett and mr. rogers. the company had taken for me one of those quick likings peculiar to our people; principally, i think, because being a temporary star (by the grace of mr. daly's will) they had expected me to be haughtily dictatorial, instead of shy to the point of misery, and because of their mistake they treated me like a long-sought sister, instead of the stranger i was. they publicly presented me with a gift on my last night, and almost in a body saw my mother and myself off on our sunday night start for home. everyone had left the car but big, hearty joe barrett--he still clung silently to my hands, though my mother begged him to go before he met with an injury. the train was out of the depot--the speed increasing rapidly, before he dropped off, safely landing just beneath a light, high above his head. his hat was off, his empty hand held out toward me, and in that light his face was as the face of the sorrowful dead. it chilled me, all my high spirits flattened down suddenly; i turned, and said: "did _you_ see, mother?" and she answered: "it was the light, and his unhappiness, that made him look so like a--so sad," so i knew she had seen him as i had. our journey was saddened by an accident, and when the train backed to take up the creature it had crushed, not knowing what had happened, by chance, i glanced down from the window, full into the face of the victim as they bore him past. he had been a large, broad-shouldered man, and the still, white face was so like barrett's that i almost fainted. everyone in the car seemed to feel some measure of culpability for the mishap; and at every unusual jolt or jar we looked with frightened eyes from the windows, dreading lest another stretcher might be borne into view. at last we were at home, and in work i regained my usual spirits. a few weeks, three or four, had passed. one morning i awakened myself from a dreamless sleep by my own singing. i faced the blank wall. i smiled sleepily at the absurdity of the thing, then i grew more awake, and as i sang on, i said to myself: "what is it--why, what can it be, that i am singing?" there were no words to this mournful, heart-breaking air, that ended with a wail, long and weird. "mother," i called, the door being open between our rooms, "mother, did you hear me singing just now?" "well, yes," she replied, "since i am not deaf, i heard you very plainly." "oh," i cried, "can you tell me what it was i sang?" my mother raised her head and looked in at me surprisedly: "why, what is the matter with you, child--aren't you awake, that you don't know what you are doing? you were singing 'the lament' joe barrett sang in the french cemetery." "oh!" i cried, in late-coming recognition, "you are right." i scrambled up, and thrusting back my hair from my face, started to sing it again, and lo! not a note could i catch. again and again i tried; i shut my eyes and strove to recall that wail--no use. then, remembering what a memory my mother had for _airs_ heard but once or twice, i called: "dear, can't you start 'the lament' for me, i have lost it entirely?" she opened her lips, paused, looked surprised, then said, positively: "i might never have heard it, i can't get either its beginning or ending." i sprang from the bed, and in bare, unslippered feet, ran to the piano in the front room--no use; i never again heard, waking or sleeping, another note of "the lament." mother called out presently: "do you know what time it is? go back and finish your sleep, it's not quite six o'clock." as i obediently returned to my room, i said, in a troubled voice: "what do you suppose it means, mother?" and as she snuggled her head back upon her pillow, she laughingly answered: "oh, i suppose it's a sign you are going to hear from joe barrett soon. if you do, i hope it won't be anything bad, poor fellow!" for mother liked the "big irish boy," as she called him. i fell asleep again, but was up and ready at nine for our rather-foreign breakfast of coffee, rolls, and salad. now in our partnership mother was mistress of the house, and i, doing the outside work, being the wage-winner, was the _man_ of the house, and as such had the master's inalienable right to the morning paper with my coffee. that the mistress occasionally peeped at the headlines before the _master_ rose was a fact judiciously ignored by both, so long as the paper was ever found neatly folded beside the waiting coffee-cup. imagine then my surprise when, coming into the room, i found my mother sitting at table with the badge of authority in her own hands, and my cup standing shorn of all its dignity. she avoided my eye, and hastily pouring coffee, said: "drink it while it's hot, dear, and--and i'll just glance at the paper a moment." i sat back and stared, and i was just beginning to laugh at our small comedy when i discovered that mother, she of the rock-steady nerves, was trembling. without looking up, she said again: "drink your coffee--i'll give you the paper presently." i sipped a little and watched. she was not reading a line. i put down the cup. "mother," said i, "is there anything in that paper that will interest me?" she looked up hastily: "drink your coffee, and i'll----" "is there?" i broke in. tears rose in her eyes. "y-y-yes," she stammered, "there is something here that will interest--rather that will grieve you, but if you would please take your coffee!" i caught up the cup and emptied it at a draught, then held out my hand. mother gave me the paper and left the room; as her first sob reached my ear, i read: "sudden death of the actor, joseph barrett." i sat staring stupidly, and before i saw another word there came to my ears the shivering of leaves, and a grave voice, saying: "it is a message from the dying or--the dead--believe that." "what," i asked, dully, "what is a message?" and then the blood chilled at my heart as i recalled "the lament," joe had said: "it is a message from the dying--or the dead." after rehearsal, mr. daly wished to see me in his bit of a staircase-office in front of the house. he desired help in deciding about several scenes he meant to have built from old engravings. suddenly he came to a stand-still. "what's the matter with you?" he cried; "where are your splendid spirits? you have been absent and heavy all morning--what's the matter?" "oh, nothing much," i began, when he angrily interrupted: "for heaven's sake, spare me that senseless answer. if you won't tell me, say so. refuse me your confidence, if you choose, but don't treat me as though i were a fool by saying _nothing_, when you look as if you'd seen a ghost!" "oh, don't!" i cried, and astonished my irate manager by bursting into tears. he instantly became gentle, and forcing a thimbleful of _chartreuse_ (which i loath) upon me, he once more asked what was the matter. and then i told him of the dying emigrant--of joe's feeling for me--of the singing of "the lament," and at joe's words: "it's a message from the dying, or the dead." mr. daly's fingers trembled like aspen leaves, his eyes dilated to perfect blackness, and almost he whispered the words: "well, child--well?" i told of the song, begun in sleep, continued in wakefulness to its wailing end, and then lost--utterly lost! and leaning his pale face eagerly toward me, mr. daly exclaimed: "he proved his words, good god! don't you see that--that air was his message to you? a message from the dying or the dead!" his fingers nervously sought the little amulet he wore. "but," i objected, "he had been dead many hours before the song came to me?" when, with the utmost conviction, he instantly answered: "think how far you were asunder--what a distance he had to come to you!" being a very practical young person, a smile was rising to my lips, but a glance into his earnest eyes, that had become strange and mystic, checked it. "i shall tell father d----y of this," he said, half to himself, then, looking at me, he added: "the man loved you greatly, whatever he may have been, for you have received his message--whether it came from the man dying or the man dead. go home, child; never mind about the scenes to-day--go home!" and with that weird idea firmly fixed in his mind, he dismissed me. chapter twenty-eighth i accept an engagement with mr. macaulay for cincinnati as leading lady--my adieus to cleveland--mr. ellsler presents me with a watch. after years of weary waiting, years of patient work, i had reached the position of juvenile leads _de jure_, but of general lack _de facto_, and then, lacking as my character was in the element of "push," even _i_ could see plainly that i was throwing away myself and my chances in life by remaining in a position where i faced the sign of "no thoroughfare." that mrs. ellsler would retain the leading business while her husband retained a theatre was certain. i knew positively that some of cleveland's leading business men, sturdy supporters of the theatre, finding that their mildly expressed dissatisfaction with the make-up of the company was ignored, had written and plainly asked for a change, just as mr. ellsler, every two years, changed the comedian, leading man, etc., etc. they declared that his business would double in consequence; and this was submitted with the kindliest intentions and no wish to wound anyone, etc., and they were, with great respect--various business men. at all events, when the letter had produced embarrassed discomfort in one quarter and fierce anger in another, it became inactive. i rightly judged that the "no thoroughfare" sign was permanent--there was no further advancement possible in that theatre; therefore i rejoiced greatly when i had an engagement offered me, even though, for reasons touching the reputation of the manager who wrote, i refused it--still an offer of leading business heartened me, and i felt gratefully sure some star had spoken a kind word in my behalf. there was so much hanging upon that possible engagement, too; it meant more than advancement professionally, more than gratified ambition. never yet had i been able to go beyond the taking care of myself and lending a helping hand in sickness to my mother; while, to my unsleeping distress, my bitter mortification, she had still to work. we were still apart, save for my regular weekly visit, and such a small increase in salary would have made it possible for us to live together, after a manner, in a very small way, but we would rather have been half alive and together than have thrilled with superabundant vitality while separated. as my services had never seemed to be regarded seriously by anyone but the star of the especial occasion, i was not utterly taken aback when i found my intention of stepping bravely out into the big world received with surprise and cold disapproval. really, i was almost convinced that i had still the very a-b-abs of my business yet to learn, that i was rash and headstrong and all puffed up with strange, unseemly vanity; but just as i was sinking back to that "old-slipper" state of mind desired, a letter came from the well-known, thoroughly established actor-manager, mr. barney macaulay, who offered me the leading business at wood's museum, cincinnati, o. the salary was very small, but i understood perfectly that any manager would offer as small a salary to any actress whose _first_ season it was as leading woman. oh, my! oh, my! but there followed a period of scant sunshine, of hot argument, of cold and cautious advice, of terrifying hints of lacking qualities. want of dignity, of power, of authority! the managerial forces were winning all along the line of argument, when, like many another combatant who faces annihilation, i took a desperate chance; i called up every dissatisfied speech of my absent mother, every complaint, regret, reproach, every word of disappointment, of vexation, of urging, of goading, of stern command, and arming these words with parental authority i mounted them upon a mother's fierce wrath, and thus, as cavalry, recklessly hurled them at full charge upon the enemy's line. i had no infantry of proof to support my cavalry's move, it was sheer desperation; but fortune is a fickle jade, she sprang suddenly to my side. the managerial lines broke before the mother's charge, and before he had them reformed i had written mr. macaulay that i was ready to consider to accept the offered engagement, if, etc., etc., and then put on my hat and jacket and went forth and cleverly showed, first the offered engagement to arouse my victimized parent's hopes, then descanted upon the opposition offered to my acceptance of it, and when _she_ was warmed with indignation i confessed to using her as my principal weapon--even admitted making up some speeches, and being hot and pleased, indignant and proud, she forgave me, and i bit my lips hard to keep silence about a great hope that she might possibly go with me to that new engagement; but, to spare her a possible disappointment, i held my peace. later, when everything was seemingly settled and only the contract left to sign, came the amazing suggestion from mr. macaulay, that, because of my youth, i would undoubtedly be perfectly willing to let him reserve a few heavy _parts_ for his wife's acting. it is quite needless for me to explain that the few _parts_ to be reserved were the choicest of the legitimate drama. and then an amusing thing came to pass. i, who was so lacking in self-confidence, so backward and retiring, so easily cast down by a look of disapprobation, suddenly developed (on paper) an ability to stand up for my rights that was startling. by return mail i informed mr. macaulay that my youth did not affect me in the manner he anticipated; that i was not willing to resign all those important parts to another--no matter whose wife that other happened to be. a long, argumentative, soothing sort of letter came back to me, ending with the positive conviction that i would yield two parts to his wife--great pets of hers they were, too, and one of them being _lady macbeth_, i would of course be grateful to have it taken off my hands, while _julia_, in "the hunchback," had really come to be considered, in cincinnati, as miss johnson's special property--miss rachael johnson being the stage name of mrs. macaulay. had he asked two _parts_ in the first place i would have granted them, but now my blood was up (on paper, mind you), and with swift decision i boldly threw the engagement up, declaring i would be the leading woman or nothing. for, you see, i had been in the frying-pan of one family theatre all my dramatic life, and i was not willing to throw myself at once into the fire of another one. the next letter contained a great surprise: a couple of signed contracts and a pleasant request for me too to sign both and return one immediately. then the writer quite gently regretted my inability to grant his request, but closed by expressing his respect for my firmness in demanding my rights; and straightway i signed my first contract; went out and mailed one copy, and when i returned i had made up my mind to take the great risk--i had decided that my mother should never again receive commands from anyone. that my shoulders were strong enough to bear the welcome burden, and so we would face the new life and its possible sufferings together--_together_, that was the main thing. as i stood before the glass, smoothing my hair, i gravely bowed to my reflection, and said: "accept my congratulations and best wishes, 'wood's leading lady,'" and then fell upon the bed and sobbed, as foolish nerve-strained women will; because, you see, the way had been so long and sometimes so hard, dear lord! so hard, but by his mercy i had won one goal--i was a leading woman! and then began my good-by to the city that i loved. i had lived in so many of its streets; i had attended so many of its schools, and still more of its churches. there was the great lake, too. i had sailed on it, had been wrecked on it, but against that i set the memory of those days when, in night-gown bath-dress, i reveled in its blue waters on fourth of july family picnics. one church--old bethel on water street--i hated, because the sunday-school superintendent had been a hypocrite, and we knew it, and because in every one of its library books the good child died at the end, which was very discouraging to youthful minds. another church, on prospect street, i loved, because that sunday-school teacher had been so gentle and smiling and had worn such pretty pink flowers in her bonnet. then there was the fountain in the square. i laughed as i said good-by to that, recalling the morning when, because of a bad throat, i had unobservedly, as i supposed, swallowed a powder (homoeopathic), and next moment heard hurrying footsteps behind me and felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, while a rough voice cried: "where's the paper? what did you do it for? what's your name? say, answer up, now, before it gets hold of you--what's your name?" frightened and bewildered, 'twas with difficulty i convinced the suspicious policeman that i was not attempting suicide by poison, but was trying to cure a sore throat. a theatre bill-board was in fair view, and my part in the _play_, which i luckily held rolled in my hand, induced him to let me go to rehearsal instead of the station-house; and while the policeman dispersed the crowd his own error had gathered, i resolved, as i flew toward the theatre, to take no more powders in public parks--no matter how empty they might seem to be. and then there was the _jail_, and as i nodded a good-by at its blackened walls i saw again that sunny morning when, in greatest haste, i passed that way and observed, coming toward me, three men walking very closely, who showed no intention of making way for me--which made me look at them surprisedly. and then the astonishing beauty of the tail, white-clothed central figure brought me to a halt. his ruddy features were as severely perfect as those stamped on an ancient coin. his glittering hair and mustache were of that pale and precious gold most often seen crowning a baby's head. his figure was tall, broad-shouldered, small-waisted, and his hands, good god! i whispered, and stopped there, for he wore the hand-cuffs, and on either side of him a strong and grimy hand gripped his arm. that was why they made no room for me; and as i swerved swiftly out into the middle of the street to pass them by, there came a glitter of bold blue eyes, a flash of white teeth, and a deep voice cried back to me: "i'm awfully sorry; i beg your pardon," and then they wheeled inside the iron gates, and five minutes later i knew the physically splendid creature i had seen was that dr. hughes who had just been taken for the murder of his victim (of a mock marriage), poor little sixteen-year-old tamsie parsons--she of the curly head, but steel-firm mouth, who loved passionately this god-like devil, yet had the moral courage to resist him to the death. and then the post-office was quite full of memories. one made my brow grow moist, even after years had passed since the damp autumn day when, as a child, i had let fall upon the stone floor a good large bottle of benzine. the crushed thing, wrapped nicely in blue paper, lay there, innocent to behold, while its escaping volatile contents got in some really fine work. first, two ladies held their noses, then a fierce old be-whiskered man looked about suspiciously, working his offended member just as a dog would. then two men hurrying in opposite directions, but with their eyes turned up inquiringly toward the gas-fixture overhead, collided violently, and instead of apologizing, each abused the other as a blundering idiot, and wrinkling up their noses disgustedly, unlocked their boxes, and still grumbling went their ways, one declaring that the gas being wasted there was sufficient to illuminate the whole building. then doors began to open violently, and pale men in office coats of alpaca darted out and ran about, frantically trying to turn off gas that was not turned on; and there i stood, shivering over the innocent blue package, very wet by that time, with my fear of a whipping for breaking the bottle losing itself in the greater terror of some swift public expiation of my fault. the unknown is always terrifying, and i strove in vain to imagine what the punishment would be for creating evil odors in a public building that brought postal clerks from their work in pursuit of them. but the sight of a policeman advancing toward the delivery window suddenly set me in motion, and with a bound i was out of the door and running like mad for a (then) kinsman street car. i wonder yet if that gas leak was ever properly located. another day i had been sent for an advertised letter, and as several grown-ups were ahead of me at the little window, i withdrew to lean against the wall and rest a bit while waiting, for i had walked far and was very tired. and then a very white-haired, white-whiskered, white-tied old gentleman entered one of the many doors and looked nervously about him; when, seeing me, he brightened up, and at once began to beckon me toward him. always respectfully obedient to the old, i at once approached the pink and white chipper old man, who nodded, smiled, and patting my head, asked, eagerly: "er--er, do you--can you get letters from the office-window yonder?" his restless eyes wandered all over the place. "oh, yes, sir," i answered, "i often get them for my mother, and for other people, too!" "quite right, yes, yes, quite right, quite right!" responded the old gentleman, then added, reflectively: "yes, she's a female, but females receive letters, though they don't vote, yes, yes! well, my child, i want you to help me in a great and good work. you know people are taught from their earliest infancy the necessity of minding their p's and q's, and that they don't do it! now you and i will mind the p's and q's of this great city, won't we, my dear? so, you just go to the window there and get all the letters there are for parker, purley, prentiss, and porter, and i'll come after you and get all the letters for pixley, pratt, prince, and pettigrew, and to-morrow, my dear, we'll come down and get all the q's--the quigley, quinn, and quiller crowd--and--and we'll take all the letters over to the fountain and throw them in the basin of water, and if they float we'll pitch bricks at 'em! now, now's your time, go ahead, and get all the p's you can--it's a great scheme, great!" and then he stopped, for an almost breathless voice called out: "here he is, hank! confound him!" and as two men hurried toward my chipper old reformer, one said, reproachfully: "now, look-a-here, mr. peiffer, if you don't keep your word no better nor this, hank and me'll have to keep hold of you on your walks, and you won't like that!" "no," meekly murmured the old man, "i--er--i won't like that, i'm sure." then hank turned to me and asked, suspiciously: "has he been filling you full of p's and q's?" i nodded. "then," said the other man, "we'd better get him back quick, that's the way he begins. come on, now, mr. peiffer, come on!" and between them they led away the poor white-haired old madman, who looked back as he passed me, and whispered: "pitch 'em in the fountain, i'll get the q's to-morrow!" there, too, was the old, old grave-yard that the city had crept up to, cautiously at first, then finding them quite harmless--the quiet dead--had stretched out brick and mortar arms and circled it about. a network of streets had tangled about it, and turbulent life dashed against its very gates on the outside, but inside there was a great green silence. how well i knew the quiet place--the far, damp corner where, in lifting bodies for removal to a new cemetery, one had been found petrified; the giant sycamore-tree that guarded the grave of a mighty indian chief, the lonely hemlock blackened nook where a grave had been cruelly robbed, the most expensive tomb, the most beautiful tomb, the oldest tomb, i knew them all. but the special attraction for me was a plain white headstone that happened to bear my own name. whenever my mother boxed my ears, or was too hasty in her judgment to be quite just, i went over to my silent city and sat down and looked at the tombstone, and thought if it were really mine how sorry my mother would feel for what she had done. and when i had, in imagination, seen her tears and remorse, i would begin to feel sorry for her and to think she was punished enough, especially if it was rather late, and the shadows of tombstones and trees all fell long upon the sunny walks, all pointing like warning black fingers toward the gate. then, indeed, i was apt to forgive my mother and flee to her--and supper. and so, up and down, smiling and sighing, i went, taking _congé_ of the city that had been home to me all my life, save just two years. i even paused at the little old cottage whose gate was the only one i had ever swung on, and i had hated the swinging, but i was six and was passionately enamoured of a small person named johnnie, who lived there and who wore blue aprons; so i swung on the gate with him and to please him, and then, being like most of his sex, fickle of fancy, he deserted me for a new red dress worn by another. and when he spilled milk on it (his mother sold milk) and spoiled its glory, she scratched his face, and he wanted to return to me; but my love was dead, so dead i wouldn't even accept sips of milk out of the little pails he had to carry around to customers. and, so cruel is life, there i stood and laughed as i took leave of the small gate. at last all was done, my trunks were gone, i sat in my empty room waiting for the carriage. i had to make my journey quite alone, since my mother was to join me only when i had found a place to settle in. i was very sad. mr. ellsler was ill, for the first time since i had known him, and i had been over to his home, three or four blocks away, and bade good-by to mrs. ellsler and gentle little annie--the other children were out. and finding i had no fear of contagion from a bad throat, she showed me into mr. ellsler's room. i was shocked to see him so wasted and so weak, and not being used to sickness i was frightened about him. judge, then, my amazement, when, hearing a knock on my door and calling, "come in," instead of a bell-boy, there entered, pale and almost staggering, mr. ellsler. a rim of red above his white muffler betrayed the bandaged throat, and his poor voice was but a husky whisper. "i could not help it," he said; "you were placed under my care once by your mother. you were a child then, and though you are pleased to consider yourself a woman now, i could not bear to think of your leaving the city, at this saddest hour of the day, to begin a lonely journey, without some old friend being by for a parting god-speed." i was inexpressibly grateful, even through all my fright at his rashness; but he had yet another surprise for me. he said: "i wanted, too, clara, to make you a little present, to give you a keepsake that would last long and would remind you daily of--of--er the years you have passed in my theatre." he drew a small box from his pocket. "a good girl and a good actress," he said, "needs and ought to own a--" he touched a spring, the box flew open--"a good watch," he finished. i gave a cry, i could not realize it was for me--i _could_ not! i clasped my hands in admiration instead of taking it, so, with his thin, sick man's fingers, he took it from its case and dropped it in my lap. i caught it then, and "oh!" and again "oh!" was all that i could cry, while i pressed it to my cheek and gloated over it. literally, i could not speak, such an agony of delight in its beauty, of pride in its possession, of satisfaction in a need supplied, of gratitude tremendous and surprise immeasurable were more than i could find words for. if you are inclined to think this exaggeration, remember how poor i was--had always been; remember, too, there were no cheap watches then; this was of the best make and had a chain attached as well; then think how great was my need of it for the theatre, day and night, and for traveling. by my utter inability to earn such a thing measure my joyful surprise at receiving it, a gift. it was one of the red-letter days of my life, the day i owned a watch. my thanks must have been sadly jumbled and broken, but my pride and pleasure made mr. ellsler laugh, and then the carriage was there, and laughter stilled into a silent, close hand-clasp. as i opened the door of the dusty old hack, i glanced up and saw the first star prick brightly through the evening sky. then the hoarse voice said, "god bless you!" and i had left my first manager. as i stepped out of the carriage at the depot, glancing up again i saw the sky sown thick with stars, like a field of heavenly daisies. i smiled a little at the thought, then suddenly _drew my watch_ to see the time, and hurried to my train. thus grateful for a kindly send-off, made happy by a gift, i turned my back upon the old, safe life and brightly, hopefully faced the new. for i was young, and therefore confident; and it is surely for the old world's need that god has made youth so. chapter twenty-ninth my first humiliating experience in cincinnati is followed by a successful appearance--i make the acquaintance of the enthusiastic navoni. it is a deep humiliation to relate my first experience in cincinnati, but for reasons i set it down. a friend of mine, who hailed from cincinnati and who wished to serve me, had said: "one thing i think i can do for you, friend clara, i can save you the weariness and annoyance of a long search in a strange city for board. my wife and i were never so comfortable in our lives before as we were at the house of a mrs. scott. she is a gentlewoman, therefore she never pries, never gossips, never 'just runs in a moment,' when you want to study a 'part.' her charges are reasonable, the table a little close, perhaps, but the cooking perfect. you and your mother would suit her demands as to regularity of habits, quiet conduct, etc., completely, and going there so early in september you will stand a good chance of securing a room. try for 'ours'--it was so sunny and bright." and i, delighted at such a prospect, looked upon my letter of introduction as a very valuable document--a sort of character from my last place, and early on monday morning went forth from my temporarily sheltering hotel to find mrs. scott and beg her to take me in on the word of her boarders of a year ago. i found the house easily, but, modest as was its exterior, its rich interior sent my heart down rapidly--it was going to be away beyond my salary i decided. yet after a, to me, most bewildering interview, i found myself inspecting the big sunny room, and shrinking at the thought of my rough trunks coming in contact with such a handsome carpet. mrs. scott had remarked, casually, that she had put her earnings back on the house, as a pure matter of business, and i was radiant when she named her price for the room, and hastily engaging it, i started out at once to order my trunks taken there and to telegraph mother to come. as i descended the steps i could not help humming a little tune. a policeman strolled across the street toward me, and i had a hazy notion that he had been there when i went in. as i reached the pavement he stepped up, and holding out to me a handkerchief, palpably his own, asked, while looking at me closely, if it was mine. i was indignant, and i answered, sharply: "it is not mine--as you very well know!" he laughed rather sheepishly, and said: "well, you are not stupid, if you are innocent," then asked: "are you a stranger here?" i turned back toward the house i had just left, then paused as i said, angrily: "i have a mind to go back and ask mrs. scott to come out with me to protect me from the impertinence of the police!" "who?" he asked, with wide-open, wondering eyes, "you will go back to who?" "to mrs. scott," i snapped. "why," said he, "there's no mrs. scott there." "no?" i questioned satirically. "no? well, as i have just engaged board from mrs. scott, i venture to differ with you." "good lord, miss," the man said, "mrs. william scott's been dead these nine months or more. that's no place for honest people now. why--why, we're watchin' the house this moment, hoping to catch that woman's jail-bird son, who has broken jail in louisville--don't look so white, miss!" "but--but," i whispered, "i--i was sent here by a friend--i--i have engaged a room there! oh, what shall i do?" "that's all right, miss," reassuringly answered the policeman, "i'll give up the room for you. you ain't the only one that has come here expecting to find mrs. scott in the house. you don't need to go back to the door;" and the theatre being in full view, in an agony of humiliation and terror, i flung myself into its friendly, just-opened office, where mr. macaulay presently found me shaking like a leaf and almost unable to make plain my experience. he was furious, and finding my name was mentioned in the letter of introduction to mrs. scott, and that "mrs. scott" had retained it, he called the policeman and together they went to the house and demanded the letter back. it was given up, but most unwillingly, as the woman, with the superstition of all gambling people, looked upon it as a luck-breeder, a mascot; and an hour later, by mr. macaulay's aid, i had found two wee rooms, whose carpets would welcome my trunks as hiders of holes--rooms that were dull, even dingy, but had nevertheless securely sheltered honest poverty for long years past, and could do as much for years to come. i mention this unpleasant incident simply to show how utterly unexpected are some of the pitfalls that make dangerous the pathway of honest girlhood. to show, too, that utter ignorance of evil is in itself a danger. the interview that bewildered me would have been, for instance, a danger signal to my mother, who would, too, having seen how the richness of furniture contradicted outside shabbiness, have had her suspicions aroused. i noted that fact, but not knowing of gambling being unlawful and secretly carried on, my observation was of no service to me, as it suggested nothing. ignorance of the existence of evil may sometimes become the active foe of innocence. no one learned of the unpleasant experience, so i was spared disagreeable comment; and, sending for my mother to join me, i devoted myself to preparations of my opening night. the meeting with strangers, which i had greatly dreaded, passed off so easily, even so pleasantly, as to surprise me. everyone offered a kind word of greeting, and all the women expressed their sympathy because i had to open in so poorly dressed a part. that troubled _me_ very little, however. the character was that of a country girl (_cicely_) in some old comedy, whose name i have forgotten. she wore just one gown--a black and white print, as she was in mourning for her old, farmer father. a rustic wench, a milk-maid come up to "lun'un-town," she had one speech that was a trial for any woman to have to speak. it was not as brutally expressed as are many of the speeches given to rustics in the old english comedies--but it was the _double-entendre_ that made it coarse. some of the ladies were speaking with me of the matter, and the "old woman" suggested that i just mumble the words. i said i could not well do that, as it was a part of the principal scene of the play. "well," declared another, "i should hang my head and let the house see that i was ashamed of the speech." i said nothing, but i thought that would be a most inartistic breaking away from the part of the rustic _cicely_, and a dragging in of scandalized miss morris. the girl was supposed to make the speech through blundering ignorance, she alone not seeing its significance; and to my idea there was but one way to deliver it, and that certainly was not with a hanging head and shamefaced manner, thus showing perfect, if disapproving, knowledge of its double meaning. when the opening night came a pleasant little thing happened to me. as i entered with straw hat tied under chin and bundle in hand, i received a modest little reception, what would about equal the slight raising of a hat in passing a woman in a corridor; but the moment i had spoken the first insignificant speech the house gave me as hearty a greeting as any leading woman could wish for. i was startled and much confused for a few moments, but very pleased and grateful withal, yet when i came off, mr. macaulay's pleasure seemed twice as great as mine, and as i laughingly told him so, he said: "well, now i'm going to make a confession. your letters gave me an impression of--of--well, you are entirely unlike your letters--you are smaller, and you look even younger than you really are. there isn't the very faintest suggestion of the actress in your manner, and--and--to be honest, i was a bit frightened over the engagement i had made. then your having to open in this insignificant part was against you. but they are no fools out _there_, my girl. they have found you out already. your eyes and voice alone won that welcome, and i'd not be afraid to wager something now that the last curtain falls to-night upon a new favorite." i was greatly pleased, but those broad lines were still hanging over me, still disturbing me. at last the scene arrived. i gave the inquiring speech, with its wretched double meaning, clearly and plainly, looking squarely and honestly into the eyes of the person i addressed--the result was described as follows by a morning paper: "that one speech proved the newcomer an actress of superior quality. clearly and simply given, the great guffaw that instantly responded to the _double-entendre_ had scarcely risen, when the girl's perfect honesty, her wide-eyed innocence, so impressed the audience that applause broke from every part of the house. it was the most dramatic moment of the evening, for that outburst was not merely approbation for the actress, it was homage to the woman." so it came to pass that mr. macaulay's words came true--the curtain fell upon a favorite, by grace of the warm and kindly hearts of the cincinnatians, who were quick to see merits and ever ready to forgive errors. the hebrew citizens, who are enthusiastic and most generous patrons of the theatre, became especially fond of me, so much so indeed that the company christened me "rebecca," in jesting allusion to their favor, of which i was nevertheless very proud, for better judges of matters theatrical it would be hard to find. when my mother arrived, we settled down in our little rooms, where my trunks, which had to be opened every day for the nightly change of costume, had to stand one on top of another in order to make room for an old battle-scarred piano that i had hired. i do not know its maker's name--no one knows--which was well for that person, because his act in constructing such a thing placed him in the criminal classes. it seemed to be a cross between a coffin and a billiard-table, and there was just enough left of its rubber cover to make an evil smell in the room. had it not been for the generosity of the leader of the orchestra (mr. navoni) i could not have enjoyed the luxury of even a few music lessons, but he saw my willingness to learn--to practise when possible, and loving music rapturously himself, he took a generous delight in helping others to the knowledge he had such a store of. therefore, for a ridiculously small price, just enough, he said, to properly mark our relations as master and pupil, he introduced me to my notes and lines and ledger-lines, too (confound them!), and accidentals and sharps (which i hated) and flats (which i liked), and i developed a great affection for _c_, because i could always find it, while i hate _a_ to this hour because of the trouble it gave me so long ago. one thing i am sure of, had anyone awakened me suddenly from a deep sleep at that time i would instantly have exclaimed: "one _and_ two _and_ three _and_." mr. navoni and his wife had the room directly over ours; of course i knew every loud sound we made must penetrate to his room, and as i could conceive of nothing more maddening than to have to listen to a beginner's _one_, two, three--_one_, two, three, i tried to practise when he was out, which was difficult, as our hours were the same. then one day, knowing he was composing a march for a special occasion, i closed the piano and determined i would not disturb him with any noise of mine. upstairs, then, mr. navoni sat, rumpled as to hair, fiery as to eye, with violin on table and pen in hand. he hummed a little, tried one or two bars on the violin, then savagely threw a few notes of ink on to his ruled paper. then he hummed a little, and seemed to listen, jotted down a note or two, listened attentively, and then burst out: "do you hear a sound of practice from miss morris's room?" "no, dear," gently replied mrs. navoni, "she doesn't want to disturb you at your work, she----" but a burst of wrath stopped her. mr. navoni was clattering down-stairs and pounding on our door: "what does this mean? get you to that devilish bad piano and do your scales--_scales_, mind you--let the exercises wait till the last! interrupt me? love i not music! nothing is sweeter to me than the '_one_, two, three' of the beginner--_if_ the beginner is not a fool--_if_ the beginner counts the '_one_, two, three' correctly! damn! yes, i say _damn_! look at the time lost! afraid to disturb me? how the devil am i to compose that march they want with this room still as the dead? now i go back, and if you don't do those scales, all smooth and even, and the exercises rightly timed, you--well, you know what you'll get! i can hear, even if i am composing. so you get to work, quick now! before i get back to my table!" and he tore off again, while, with clammy fingers, i sat down to the wretched old piano, that was showing its teeth at me in a senile grin, and feebly and uncertainly began to wobble up and down the keyboard. mrs. navoni afterward told me that when her husband returned to his work he hummed to himself a few moments, jotted down a few notes, listened to the sound of the rattling old piano, and, smiling and nodding, remarked: "_now_ i can do something--_one_, two, three--_one_, two, three--that's right. i couldn't compose a bar with her wasting a precious hour down there. she keeps good time, eh, doesn't she? now i'll give the boys something that will move their feet for them!" and he returned to the march. the thing which i was to get if i failed to practise correctly was so unusual that i feel i must explain it. mr. navoni wore an artificial foot and leg of the cumbrous type then offered to the afflicted, and in the privacy of his own room he used to remove the burdensome thing and lay it on a chair by the couch on which he rested or read or wrote, and when i, down-stairs, made a first mistake in my practice, he growled and kicked viciously with his "for-true" leg, while a second blunder would make him seize his store-leg and pound the floor. then when i began again he would whack the correct time with it with such emphasis that bits of my ceiling would come rattling down about me and the gas-fixture threatened not to remain a fixture. another trick of his was to bring down his violin with him. how my heart sank when i saw it, and, my lesson over, he requested me to play such or such an exercise: "and keep to your own business, and leave my business to me, if you please, miss. _now!_" i was then expected to go over and over that exercise and keep perfect time, while he stood behind me and improvised on the violin, growing more and more distracting every moment, and if that led my attention away from my _one_, two, three, what a crack i got across the top of my ear from his fiddle-bow, and a sharp order to: "go back--go back! _one_, two, three; _one_, two, three! cry by and by, but now play! _one_, two, three!" i should have thought myself a hopeless case, and given up, had i not one morning overheard him boasting to some of the musicians: "that i was a good enough leading woman, he supposed, but it was as a piano pupil that i really counted for something. why," he cried, "she has the most perfect ear, and such steadiness--a whole band-wagon of instruments turned loose on her wouldn't make her lose time!" i smiled and felt of my even then burning ear, but still his boast encouraged me to return to my scales, which were wofully interrupted by the necessity i experienced of clawing up with my nails several old keys that were too weak to rise again having once been pressed down. when mr. navoni played, and he came to one of those tired-out ivories, he put a _damn_ in the place of the absent note, but for obvious reasons i could not do that. but mr. navoni was an earnest, determined, and enthusiastic teacher, and i remember him gratefully and respectfully. the widow of the boarding-house differs from the widow of the testament in that the boarding-house widow's cruse of oil seems always "just out," and her meal at a like low ebb. neither my mother nor myself were used to luxuries; we expected little, and, truth to tell, we got it. to say we were nearly always hungry would be putting things quite mildly, but we were _together_! and so 'twas better to feel a bit "gone" under the belt than to be filled to repletion and live apart. i worked hard at all times, and five nights out of seven i had to study till far on toward morning. the saturday brought me a double performance, and left me a wreck; thus i thought i had a right to a bit of a treat on sunday; and i can see the important air mother unconsciously assumed as she went forth on her secret errand--secret that no offence might be given to the economical landlady. when the matinée was over i brought home my personal offering for our next day's comfort and pleasure--a copy of an illustrated weekly paper and five cents' worth of candy, always something hard that would last us long while we read. thus on saturday night, on the sill of the back window, there stood a small can of oysters, while in the top drawer rested a box marked handkerchiefs, but which held crackers, beside it a folded paper, and on top of that the wee package of candy. i had a membership at the library on the corner, so we had books, too, thank heaven! i have always been a fairly regular church-goer; in cincinnati the limitations of my wardrobe would have made me conspicuous. i had but one street dress in the world, and constant wear in rain or shine made it a very shabby affair. in novels the heroine who has but one gown is always so exquisitely gloved and shod, and her veil and neck-wear are so immaculately fresh, that no one notices the worn dress; but in real life it's just the gloves and shoes and veils and ruffles that cost the most money, yet their absence stamps you ill-bred in the eyes of other women. therefore i knew the inside of but one church in cincinnati, "christ's episcopal," and only knew that in the spring, when i had fluttered forth in new gown and gloves and things; so sundays were given over to a late breakfast, a little reading in the bible, a good long reading of secular matter, sweetened by candy, a calm acceptance (that was puzzling to the navonis) of a shadowy dinner, a short walk if weather permitted, then, oh, then! a locked door, a small tea-pot, a tiny saucepan (we had not the bliss of owning a chafing-dish), and presently we sat enjoying, to the last spoonful, a hot and delicious stew, a pot of tea, that brought to mind many stories and made old jokes dance forth with renewed youth, and kept us loitering over our small banquet in a quite disgraceful way. then back to our novels again till bed-time, and next day, all fresh and rested, i began my "one _and_ two _and_ three _and_" before breakfast, and thus won approval from navoni and started a new week's work under fair auspices. chapter thirtieth new york city is suggested to me by mr. worthington and mr. johnson--mr. ellsler's mild assistance--i journey to new york, and return to cincinnati with signed contract from mr. daly. to say i made a success in cincinnati is the barest truth. almost at once--the third night of the season, to be exact--i received my first anonymous gift: a very beautiful and expensive set of jewelry, pale-pink corals in combined dead and burnished gold. they rested in their satin-lined nest and tempted me. the sender wrote: "show that you forgive my temerity by wearing my offering in the third act." _i did not wear them in any act_, and yet, oh, eternal feminine! i "tried them on"--at least i put one ring in my ear and held the pendant against my throat, "just to see" how they _would_ have looked, you know. flowers came over the footlights, the like of which i had never seen in my life before--great baskets of hot-house beauties, some of them costing more than i earned in a week. then one night came a bolder note, with a big gold locket. a signature made it possible for me to return that gift next morning. all that sort of thing was new to me, and, naturally, pleasing--yes, because earned approbation pleases one, even though it be not quite correctly expressed. it soon became whispered about that i sent back all gifts of jewelry, and lo! one matinée, with a splendid basket of white camelias, fringed about with poinsettia leaves, there came a box of french candied fruit. my! what a sensation it created in the dressing-room. i remember some of the ladies (we dressed in one great long room there) took bits of peach and of green figs to show their friends, while i devoted myself to the cherries and apricots. that seemed to start a fashion, for candies, in dainty boxes, came to me as often as flowers afterward, and, to my great pride and pleasure, were often from women, and my saturday five cents' allowance was turned over to mother for the banqueting fund--that meant a bit of cheese for supper. at the time of the season's opening there was a man in cincinnati who was there sorely against his will, a wealthy native of the city, a lawyer who would not practise, a traveler in distant lands, he had lived mainly for his own pleasure and had grown as weary of that occupation as he could possibly have grown had he practised the law. tired of everything else, he still kept his liking for the theatre. living in new york in the winter, at cape may in the summer, he only came to his old home when someone was irritating enough to die and need burying in state, or when some lawsuit required his attention, as in this instance. so, being there, and not knowing what else to do, he had gone dully and moodily to the theatre, saying to his cousin companion: "i'll take a look at macaulay's new leading lady, and then i'll sleep through the rest of the evening comfortably, for no one can talk to me here as they do at the hotel"--and the country _cicely_ had appeared, and, to use mr. worthington's own words: he had sat up straight as a ramrod and as wide-awake as a teething baby for the rest of the evening. between acts he had made inquiries as to the history of the new actress, only to find that, like most happy women, she had none. she came from cleveland, she lived three doors away with her mother--that was all. on that first night he had said: "good lord, will, what is that girl doing out here in the west? i must see her in a better part. what's on to-morrow night? secure our seats for the season, that will save a lot of trouble;" and incidentally it made a lot of annoyance for me. next night i played what actresses call a "dressed part," which, in spite of suggestion, does not mean that there are parts that are not dressed, only that the character wears fine clothes instead of plain ones. it was a bright, light comedy part. the audience was enthusiastic, though, of course, i was only supporting the star. then mr. worthington exclaimed: "that girl ought to be in new york this very moment!" "do you think so?" questioned his inseparable. "do i think so?" mocked his cousin. "yes, i know it. i know the theatres foreign--their schools and styles, as well as i know the home theatres and their actors. i believe i've made a discovery!" a beautiful mass of flowers came to me that night with mr. worthington's visiting card, without message. the third night i played a tearful part; the papers (as the women put it) "went on awful," and mr. worthington, snapping his glasses into their case, said, as he rose: "i shall never rest till this clara morris faces new york. she need clash with no one, need hurt no one, she is unlike anyone else, and new york has plenty of room for her. i shall make it my business to meet her some way or other, and preach new york until she accepts the idea and acts upon it." his visit to cincinnati was prolonged; his young cousin, mr. will burnett, thought he was on the high-road to crankiness on the subject. then mr. worthington discovered we had a common friend in lawyer egbert johnson, and he was presented in proper form to my mother (oh, wise mr. worthington), and winning her approval by praise of her wonderful chick (where is the mother that does not readily believe her goose a swan?), she in her turn presented him to me, and for the first time i listened to a suggestion of coming to new york. to say i was amused at the idea would be putting it mildly indeed, for i was tickled to such laughter that tears came to my eyes. he was annoyed, but i laughed on. he waited--i was called upon for some heavy tragic parts. he came again--i laughed still. "good heavens!" i cried, "i'm not pretty enough!" he said: "you have your eyes and voice and expression, and you don't seem to be suffering much here from your lack of beauty." "n-no," i answered, naïvely, "you see, all the women in this company are rather plain." he laughed, but he continued to urge me to try for an engagement in new york. "i don't know enough," i faltered. "you lack polish of manner, perhaps," he admitted, "but you will acquire that quickly, while no one can acquire your fire and strength and pathos! for god's sake, let me do one unselfish act in my life--let me serve you in this matter. i will go to the managers in new york and speak for you." but that offer i curtly declined, asking him how long my reputation would remain unassailed if i allowed him to act for me. in spite of all his praise of my work, i should have remained unmoved had mr. johnson not joined forces with mr. worthington, and calmly assured me that he, too, knew the new york theatres and actors, and he honestly believed i had a chance of acceptance by the public, if only a manager would give me an opening, for, said he: "worthington is right this time, you really are an exceptionally clever girl, so why should you bury yourself in small western cities?" "oh!" i indignantly cried, "cleveland and cincinnati are very big cities, indeed!" "yes," smiled mr. johnson, "but new york is quite a bit larger, and besides you would like to be accepted by the metropolis of your country, would you not?" and straightway my heart gave a bound, my cheeks began to burn, the leaven was working at last--my ambition was awakened! i wondered day and night, could i act well enough to please new york? i thought not; i thought yes! i thought--i thought there could be no harm just to ask the managers if they had an opening. but there my courage failed me--i could not. i never had written to a manager in my life, save to answer a letter. finally, i wrote to mr. ellsler--he knew all the new york managers (few then)--and told him i was about to ask my first favor at his hands. would he write to one or two managers for me, or give me a line of introduction to them? and his unexpected opposition to my plans, the cold water he cast upon my warm hopes, instead of crushing my spirit utterly, aroused the old dogged determination to do what i had undertaken to do--make a try for a new york opening! the controversy finally ended in my receipt of a letter from mr. ellsler informing me he had written to four managers, and said what he could for me--which proved to be mighty little, as i afterward saw two of the four letters, as they were in duplicate, though one was to a stranger, one to an acquaintance, and two to friends. he simply asked: "if they had an opening for a young woman, named clara morris, for leading or leading-juvenile business." that was all; not a word of recommendation for ability or mention of years of thorough experience--not even the conventional expression of a personal obligation if they were able to consider my application. had i been a manager, and had i received such a letter, i know i should have cast it aside, thinking: "oh, that's a duty letter and amounts to nothing. if the girl had any recommendations for the position he would have said so." still, some answers were returned, though mr. wallack ignored his copy. mr. jarrett (of jarrett & palmer) wrote mr. ellsler that they were bound to spectacular ("black crook") for the year to come, and had no earthly use for an actress above a soubrette or a walking lady. mr. edwin booth wrote: "if you had only addressed me a few days earlier. i remember well the young woman of whom you speak. i have unfortunately" (this last word was crossed out)--"i have just closed with miss blanche debar--old ben is persistent and has great confidence in her, and, as i said, i have just closed with her for the coming season. with," etc., etc. then there was a wee bit of paper--little, niggly-naggly, jetty-black, impishly vindictive-looking writing on two short-waisted lines of about eleven words each. that was from mr. daly, and it snapped out this information: "if you send the young woman to me i will willingly consider proposal. will engage no actress without seeing her. a. daly." these letters were blithely sent to me by mr. ellsler, who evidently looked upon the question as closed, but that was where we differed. i considered it a question just fairly opened. i admit mr. daly's calm ordering of me from cincinnati to his office in new york for inspection staggered me at first, but there was that line: "i will willingly consider the proposal;" that was all i had to trust to; not much, heaven knows! "yet," i argued, "he is evidently a man who says much in little; at all events, though the chance is small, it is the only one offered, and, if i can stand the expense, i'll go and take that chance." i would have to obtain leave of absence; i would have to pay a woman for at least two performances, even if i got off on saturday night; i would have to stop one night in a hotel at new york, and, oh, dear, oh, dear! would i dare to risk so much--to spend all my little savings toward the summer vacation for this trip that might end disastrously after all? i read again: "_will engage no actress without seeing her._" well, that settled the matter. suddenly i seemed to hear my old irish washerwoman saying: "ah, well! god niver shuts one dure without opening anither!" i laughed a bit and decided to risk my savings--nothing venture, nothing win! that very night i asked leave of absence; the time was most favorable--i obtained it. i found next day an actress to take my place on monday and tuesday evenings. then mother and i emptied out our flat and old pocket-books. i brought from its secret hiding-place the little roll of bills saved for summer's idle time, and we put all in a pile. then i drew out a week's board in advance and gave it to mother; drew out enough to pay the woman who took my place, and all the rest, to the last dollar, was required for the expenses of my solitary journey to the great beckoning city by the sea. as i closed my pocket-book, i said to myself: "there, i have shut one door with my own hand, but i'll trust god to open another for me before vacation arrives." there's an old saw that gravely states: "it never rains but it pours," and surely business opportunities "poured" upon me at that time, for in that very week i received two offers of engagements, and one of them, had not the new york bee been buzzing so loudly in my bonnet, would have driven me quite wild with delight. that was from mr. thomas maguire, of san francisco, and the salary was to me enormous. one hundred dollars a week in gold, a benefit, and no vacation at all, unless i wished it. i temporized. i wished to gain time enough to learn my fate in new york before deciding. but mr. maguire was in haste, and as i hurried from the theatre to start on my journey, a long envelope was placed in my hands. i opened it on the cars, and found signed contracts for the leading business at san francisco, with an _extra_ benefit added as an inducement for me to accept. so i journeyed onward to tempt fate, a little forlorn and frightened at first, but receiving so many courtesies and little kindnesses from my more fortunately placed fellow-travelers, that i quite forgot to be either frightened or forlorn--but was amazed at the beauty of the stately river we crossed, whose ripples caught the glowing color of the sky and broke them into jewels; and beyond that silvery curtain of haze stretched the great city of my dreams, all circled round and guarded by living waters. then i was ashore again and clambering into the great swaying coach of the fifth avenue hotel, the conductor having told me it was right next door to the theatre. i breakfasted, took from my bag a new gray veil, a pair of gray gloves, a bit of fresh ruffling, and a needle and thread, with which i basted the ruffle into the neck of my gown; put on the veil and gloves, that being all the preparation i could make by way of toilet to meet the arbiter of fate, said "our father," and coming to "amen" with a jerk, discovered i had not been conscious of the meaning of one single word, and whispering with shame, "only lip service," remorsefully repeated again, and with absolute sincerity, that prayer which expresses so simply, so briefly, all our needs, physical and spiritual; that places us at once in the comforting position of a beloved child asking with confidence for a father's aid. a prayer whose beauty and strength share in the immortality of its divine composer. and then i rose and went forth, prepared to accept success or defeat, just as the good lord should will. as i passed around the hotel and approached the theatre on twenty-fourth street, an enormous upheaval of ice blocked the way--ice piled shoulder high in front of the theatre door, and on one side of the glittering mass stood a long, tall, thin man, as mad as a hornet, while on the other side, stolidly, stupidly silent, stood a squat irishman, holding an ice-man's tongs in one hand and his shock of red hair in the other. the long, flail-like arms of the tall man were in wild motion. in righteous wrath he was trying to make the bog-trotter understand that the ice was for the hotel, whose storage door was but a few feet to his right, when he saw me making chamois-like jumps over the blocks of ice trying to reach the door. with black-browed courtesy he told me to use the second door, that morning, to reach the box-office. i had, all unconsciously, formed an idea of mr. daly, and i was looking for a small, dark, very dark, nervously irritable man, and was therefore frankly amused at the wrath of the long, thin man, whose vest and whose trousers could not agree as to the exact location of the waist-line, and laughed openly at the ice-scene, winning in return as black a scowl as any stage-villain could well wear. then i cheerfully remarked: "i'm looking for mr. daly; can you tell me where i am likely to find him?" "you want mr. daly?" he repeated. "who are you?" "i'll tell mr. daly that, please," i answered. he smiled and said: "well, then, tell _me_--i'm mr. daly--are you----" "yes," i answered, "i'm the girl come out of the west, to be inspected. i'm clara morris." he frowned quickly, though he held out his hand and shook mine heartily enough, and asked me to come into his office. it was a cranny in the wall. it held a very small desk and one chair, behind which was a folding stool. as he entered, i laughingly said: "i think i'll lean here, i'm not used to sitting on the floor," but to my surprise, as he brought forth the stool, he curtly replied: "i was not going to ask you to sit on the floor," which so amused me that i could not resist asking: "are you from scotland, by chance, mr. daly?" and he had frowningly said "no!" before the old, old joke about scotch density came to him. then he said, with severity: "miss morris, i'm afraid your bump of reverence is not well developed." and i laughed and said: "there's a hole there, mr. daly, and no bump at all," and though the words were jestingly spoken, there was truth and to spare in them, and there, too, was the cause of all the jolts and jars and friction between us in our early days together. mr. daly was as a god in his wee theatre, and was always taken seriously. i knew not gods and took nothing under heaven seriously. no wonder we jarred. every word i spoke that morning rubbed mr. daly's fur the wrong way. i offended him again and again. he wished to show me the theatre, and, striking a match, lit a wax taper and held it up in the auditorium, at which i exclaimed: "oh, the pretty little match-box! why, it's just a little toy play-house--is it not?" which vexed him so i was quite crushed for a minute or two. one thing only pleased him: i could not tear myself away from the pictures, and i praised, rapturously, a beautiful velvety-shadowed old engraving. we grew quite friendly over that, but when we came to business he informed me i was a comedy woman, root and branch. "but," i said, "ask mr. edwin booth, or mr. davenport, or mr. adams!" he waved me down. "i won't ask anyone," he cried; "i never made a mistake in my life. you couldn't speak a line of sentiment to save your soul!" "why, sentiment is my line of business--i play sentiment every week of my life," i protested. "oh, you know what i mean," he said, "you can _speak_ and _repeat_ the lines, but you couldn't give a line of sentiment naturally to save your life--your forte is comedy, pure and simple." it all ended in his offer to engage me, but without a stated line of business. i must trust to his honor not to degrade me by casting me for parts unworthy me. he would give me $ a week (knowing there were two to live on it), _if i made a favorable impression he would double that salary_. a poor offer--a risky undertaking. i had no one to consult with. i had in my pocket the signed contract for $ in gold and two benefits. i must decide now, at once. mr. daly was filling up a blank contract. thirty-five dollars against $ ! "_but if you make a favorable impression_ you'll get $ ," i thought. and why should i not make a favorable impression? yet, if i fail now in new york, i can go west or south, not much harmed. if i wait till i am older, and fail, it will ruin my life. i slipped my hand in my pocket and gave a little farewell tap to the contract for $ . i took the pen; i looked hard at him. "there's a heap of trusting being asked for in this contract," i remarked. "you won't forget your promise about doubling the salary?" "i won't forget anything," he answered. i looked at the pen, it was a stub, the first i ever saw; then i said: "that's what makes your writing look so villainous. i can't sign with that thing--i'd be ashamed to own my signature in court, when we come to the fight we're very likely to have before we are through with each other." he groaned at my levity, but got another pen. i wrote clara morris twice, shook hands, and went out and back to my home--a western actress with an engagement in a new york theatre for the coming season. chapter thirty-first john cockerill and our eccentric engagement--i play a summer season at halifax--then to new york, and to house-keeping at last. mr. worthington passed out of my life after he had done me the service he set out to do. it had been an odd notion to step down from his carriage, as it were, and point out to a girl, struggling along a rough and dusty path, a short cut to the fair broad highway of prosperity; but i thank him heartily, for without his urging voice, his steadily pointing hand, i should have continued plodding along in the dust--heaven knows how long. one of the few people i came to know well in cincinnati was john a. cockerill. at that time he was the city editor on the _enquirer_, and my devoted friend. we were both young, poor, energetic, ambitious. we exchanged confidences, plans, hopes, and dreams, and were as happy as possible so long as we were just plain friends, but as soon as sentiment pushed in and an engagement was acknowledged between us, we, as the farmer says: "quarrel'd and fit--and scratched and bit--" for john was jealous of my profession, which made my temper hot, and we were a queer engaged pair. i used to say to him: "it's just a question which one of us suicides first!" yet on some days we would forget we were engaged and be quite cheerful and happy; and when i came back from new york, i cried: "congratulate me, john, i've got an engagement, so we can't nag each other to death for a year at least!" and though that gave a lovely opening for a quarrel he passed it by, congratulating me very gently instead, but very sadly, adding: "you are getting so far ahead of me, dear--and you will learn to despise a man who comes toiling always behind you!" a statement that came so dangerously near the truth that it threw me into a passion, and we had a battle royal then and there. however, we parted in a gale of laughter, for as john suddenly discovered he was overstaying his intended short visit, he sprang up and grabbed his hat and exclaimed: "well, good-by, clara, we haven't indulged in much sentiment to-day, but," drawing a long, satisfied breath, "we've enjoyed a good lusty old row all the same!" no wonder we laughed. we were a rare engaged couple. lovers? why cupid had never even pointed an arrow at us for fun! we were chums--good fellows in sunny weather; loyal, active friends in time of trouble, and, after i came to new york, and found quarreling at length, with pen and ink, too fatiguing, i broke the engagement, and we were happy ever after--our friendship always standing firm through the years; and when, in the _herald's_ interests, he started on that last long journey to report upon the japanese-chinese war, he said to me: "i never understood the meaning of the word friendship until that day when you flung all your natural caution--your calm good sense aside, and rushed through the first cheering message that reached me after that awful st. louis shooting: 'you acted in self-defence, i _know_--command any service from your faithful friend,' that's what you said, over your full name, while as yet you knew absolutely nothing. and when i realized that, guilty or innocent, you meant to stand by me, i--well, you and my blessed mother live in a little corner of my heart, just by your two loyal selves." and when he left me he carried on either cheek as affectionate a kiss as i knew how to put there, and again, and for the last time, we parted in a gale of laughter, as he cried: "you would have seen me in the bottomless pit before you would have done that in cincinnati!" "oh, well," i replied, "we both preferred quarreling to kissing in those days!" "speak for yourself!" he laughed, and so we parted for all time. i had returned to my work in cincinnati; had thanked the washington and san francisco managers for their offers of engagements, and was putting in some spare moments in worrying about the summer, when (without meaning to be irreverent) god opened a door right before me. never, since i had closed a small geography at school, had i heard of "halifax," save as a substitute for another place beginning with h, but here, all suddenly, i was invited to halifax--not sent there in anger, for, oh, incredible! for a four, perhaps six, weeks' summer engagement. was i not happy? was i not grateful? one silver half-dollar did i recklessly give away to the irish washerwoman, who had said: "god niver shuts one dure without openin' anither!" i could not help it, and she, being in trouble at the time, declared, with hope rising in her tired old eyes, that she would "at onct burn a waxen candle before the blissed virgin!" poor soul! i hope her loving offering found favor in the eyes of the gentle saint she honored! i had a benefit in cincinnati before the season closed, and so it came about that i was able to get my mother a spring gown and bonnet that she might go home in proper state to cleveland for a visit; while i turned my face toward halifax, the picturesque, to play a summer engagement, and then to make my way to new york and find a resting-place for my foot in some hotel, while i searched for rooms to which my mother might be summoned, for i had determined i could board no longer. if we had rooms we could make a little home in them. if we had still to go hungry, we could at least hunger after our own fashion, and endure our privations in decent privacy. so, with plans all made, i landed at halifax and felt a shock of surprise, followed by a pang of homesickness, at the first sight of the scarlet splendor of the british flag waving against the pale blue sky, when instinctively my eyes had looked for the radiant beauty of old glory. the next thing that impressed me was the astonishing number of people who were in mourning. men in shops, in offices, on the streets, were wearing crêpe bands about their left arms, and women, like moving pillars of crêpe, dotted the walks thickly, darkened the shops, and gloomed in private carriages. what does it mean? i asked. i never before saw so many people in black. and one made answer: "ah, your question shows you are a stranger, or you would know that there are few well-to-do homes and _no_ business house in halifax that does not mourn for at least one victim of that great mystery of the sea, the unexplained loss of the city of boston--that monster steamer, crowded with youth and beauty, wealth, power, and brains!" i recalled then how, at the most fashionable wedding of the year in cincinnati, the bride and groom had been dragged from the just-beginning wedding-breakfast, and rushed off at break-neck speed that they might be in time for the sailing of the city of boston, and after her sailing no word ever came of her. what had been her fate no man knew--no man knows to-day. the ocean gave no sign, no clew, as it often has done in other disasters. it sent back no scrap of wood, of oar, of boat, of mast, of life-preserver--nothing, nothing! no fire had been sighted by other ships. had she been in collision with an iceberg, been caught in the centre of a tornado, had she run upon a derelict, been stricken by lightning, been blown up by explosion? no answer had ever come from the mighty bosom of the deep, that will keep its grim secret until the awful day when, trembling at god's own command, it will give up its dead! meantime thousands of tender ties were broken. the awful mystery shrouding the fate of the floating city turned more than one brain, and sent mourners to mad-houses to end their ruined lives. halifax was a very sad city that summer. i met in the company there mr. leslie allen (the father of miss viola allen), mr. dan maginnis (the boston comedian), and mr. john w. norton. the future st. louis manager was then leading man, and the friendship we formed while working together through those summer weeks was never broken, never clouded, but lasted fair and strong up to that very day when, sitting in the train on his way to new york, john norton had, in that flashing moment of time, put off mortality. he had changed greatly from the john norton of those early days. he had known cruel physical suffering, and while he had won friends and money, shame and bitter sorrow had been brought upon him by another. no wonder the laughing brightness had gone out of him. it was said that he believed in but two people on earth--mary anderson and clara morris, and he said of them: "one is a catholic, the other an episcopalian; they are next-door neighbors in religion; they are both honest, god-fearing women, and the only ones i bow my head to." oh, poor man! to have grown so bitter! but in the halifax days he loved his kind, and was as full of fun as a boy of ten, as full of kindness as would be the gentlest woman. mr. maginnis had his sister-in-law with him, a helpless invalid. she knew her days were numbered, yet she always faced us smilingly and with pleasant words. she was passionately fond of driving, but dreaded lonely outings; so clubbing together, that no one might feel a sense of obligation, we four, dan and his sister, john norton and i, used evenly to divide the expense of a big, comfortable carriage, and go on long, delightful drives about the outskirts of the gray old hilly city. the stolid publicity of tommy atkins's love-making had at first covered us with confusion, but we soon grew used to the sight of the scarlet sleeve about the willing waist in the most public places, while a loving smack, coming from the direction of a park bench, simply became a sound quite apropos to the situation. one yellow-haired, plaided and kilted young highlander, whom i came upon in a public garden, just as he lifted his head from an explosive kiss on his sweetheart's lips, startled at my presence, flushing red, lifted his hand in a half-salute, and at the same moment, in laughing apologetic confusion, he--winked at me! and his flushing young face was so bonnie, that had i known how i believe in my heart i'd have winked back, just from sheer good-fellowship and understanding. in that short season i had one experience, the memory of which makes me pull a wry face to this day. i played _juliet_ to a "woman-_romeo_"--a so plump _romeo_, who seemed all french heels, tights, and wig, with _romeo_ marked "absent." i little dreamed i was bidding a personal farewell to shakespeare and the old classic drama, as i really was doing. one other memory of that summer engagement that sticks is of that performance of boucicault's "jessie brown, or the siege of lucknow," in which real soldiers acted as supernumeraries, and having been too well treated beforehand and being moved by the play, they became so hot that they attacked the _mutineers_ not only with oaths but with clubbed muskets; and while blood was flowing and heads being cracked in sickening earnest on one side of the stage, a sudden wall-rending howl of derisive laughter rose from that part of the theatre favored by soldiers. i saw women holding programmes close, close to their eyes, and knew by that that something was awfully wrong. the scotch laddies were pouring over the wall, coming to the rescue of the starving besieged. i looked behind me. the wall, a stage wall, was cleated down the middle to keep the join there firm, and no less than three of the soldiers had had portions of their clothing caught by the cleats as they scaled the wall. the cloth would not tear, the men were too mad to be able to see, and there they hung, kicking like fiends and--well, the words of a ginny old woman, who sold apples and oranges in front of the house, will explain the situation. she cried out, at the top of her voice: "yah! yah! why do ye no pull down yer kilties, instead o' kickin' there? yah! yer no decent--do you ken?" and the curtain had to come whirling down before the proper time to save the lives of the men being pounded to death, and the feelings of the women who were being shamed to death. a surgeon had to attend to two heads before their owners could leave the theatre, and after that an officer was kind enough to come and take charge of the men loaned to the manager. then i bade the people, whom i had found so pleasant, good-by--mr. louis aldrich arriving as i was about leaving, keen, clever, active, full of visions, of plans, just as he is to-day. i and my little dog-companion made our way to new york. a lady and gentleman, traveling acquaintances, advised me to go to the st. nicholas, and as all hotels looked alike to me i went there. my worst dread was the dining-room. i could not afford to take meals privately, yet how could i face that great roomful of people alone! at last i resolved on a plan of action. i went up to the head waiter--from his manner an invisible crown pressed his brow; his eyes gazed coldly above my humble head, his "eh?--beg pardon!" was haughty and curt, yet, believe it or not, when i told him i was quite alone, and asked could he place me at some quiet retired table, he became human, he looked straightly and kindly at me. he himself escorted me, not to a seat in line with the kitchen smells or the pantry quarrels, as i had expected, but to a very retired, very pleasant table by an open window, and assured me the seat should be reserved for me every day of my stay, and only ladies seated there. i was grateful from my heart, and i mention it now simply to show the general willingness there is in america to aid, to oblige the unprotected woman traveler. naturally anxious to find, as quickly as possible, a less expensive dwelling-place, i showed my utter ignorance of the city by the blunder i made in joyfully engaging rooms in a quiet old-fashioned brick house because it was on twenty-first street and the theatre was on twenty-fourth, and the walk would be such a short one. all good new yorkers will know just how "short" that walk was when i add that to reach the neat little brick house i had first to cross to second avenue, and, alas! for me on stormy nights, there was no cross-town car, then. however, the rooms were sunny and neatly furnished; the rent barely within my reach, but the entire kiersted family were so unaffectedly kind and treated me so like a rather overweighted young sister that i could not have been driven away from the house with a stick. i telegraphed to mother to come. she came. to the waiter who feeling the crown upon his brow yet treated me with almost fatherly kindness, i gave a small parting offering and my thanks; and to the chambermaid also--she with the pure complexion, bred from buttermilk and potatoes, and the brogue rich and thick enough to cut with a knife--who had "discoursed" to me at great length on religion, on her own chances of matrimony, on the general plan of the city, describing the "lay" of the diagonal avenues, their crossing streets and occasional junctures, in such confusing terms that a listening city-father would have sent out and borrowed a blind man's dog to help him find his home. still she had talked miles a day with the best intentions, and i made my small offering to her in acknowledgment, and leaving her very red with pleasure, i departed from the hotel. that blessed evening found my mother and me house-keeping at last--_at last_! and as we sat over our tea, little bertie, on the piano-stool at my side, ate buttered toast; then, feeling license in the air, slipped down, crept under the table, and putting beseeching small paws on mother's knee, ate more buttered toast--came back to me and the piano-stool, and bringing forth all her blandishments pleaded for a lump of sugar. she knew it was wrong, she knew _i_ knew it was wrong, but, good heavens! it was our house-warming--bertie got the sugar. so we were settled and happily ready to begin the new life in the great strange city. chapter thirty-second i recall mr. john e. owens, and how he "settled my hash." just previous to my coming east i met, for the first time, mr. john e. owens. he was considered a wealthy man, and was at the height of his popularity as a comedian. he was odd, even his marriage seemed an expression of eccentricity, and one felt as if one had received a dash of cold water in the face when the hot-tempered, peppery, and decidedly worldly mr. owens presented the little orthodox quakeress, with a countenance of gentle severity, as his wife. she wore the costume of her people, too, and watched him above her knitting-needles with folded lips and condemning eye as he strutted and fumed and convulsed his audience. she was said to be a most tender and gentle nurse and, indeed, a devoted wife, but she certainly seemed to look down upon theatrical life and people. mr. owens was telling me she was a clever business woman, with a quick eye for a good investment, when i jestingly answered: "that seems to be a peculiarity of the sect--thee will recall the fact that william penn showed that same quality of eye in his beautiful and touching relations with the shrewd and knowing indians," and in the middle of his laugh, his mouth shut suddenly, his eyes rolled: "oh, lord!" he said, "you've done for yourself--she heard you, your fate's fixed!" "but," i exclaimed, "i was just joking." "no go!" he answered, mournfully, "the eye that can see the main chance so clearly is blind to a joke. she has you down now on her list of the ungodly. no use trying to explain--i gave that up years ago. fact of the matter is, when that quakeress-wife of mine puts her foot down--i--well, i take mine up, but hers stays right there." mr. owens was of medium height and very brisk in all his movements, walking with a short and quick little step. he had a wide mouth, good teeth, and a funny pair of eyes. the eyeballs were very large and round, and he showed an astonishing amount of their whites, which were of an unusual brilliancy and lustre; this, added to his power of rolling them wildly about in their sockets, made them very funny; indeed, they reminded many people of a pair of large peeled onions. i think his most marked peculiarity was his almost frantic desire to provoke laughter in the actors about him. he would willingly throw away an entire scene--that is, destroy the illusion of the audience--in order to secure a hearty laugh from some actor or actress whom he knew not to be easily moved to laughter; and what was more astonishing still, if an actress in playing a scene with him fell from tittering into helpless laughter and failed to speak her lines, he made no angry protest, but regarded the situation with dancing eyes and delighted smiles, seeming to accept the breakdown as proof positive that he was irresistible as a fun-maker. for some reason i never could laugh at "solon shingle." mr. owens had opened in that part, and as i stood in the entrance watching the performance, my face was as grave as that of the proverbial judge. he noticed it at once, and paused a moment to stare at me. next morning, just as he entered and crossed to the prompt-table at rehearsal, i, in listening to a funny story, broke out in my biggest laugh. open flew the star's eyes, up slid his eyebrows. "ha! ha!" said he, "ha! ha! there's a laugh for you--by jove, that's a laugh as is a laugh!" i turned about and faced him. he recognized me instantly. "well, blast my cats!" he exclaimed, "say, you young hyena, you're the girl that wouldn't laugh at me last night. i thought you couldn't, and just listen to your roars now over some tomfoolery. what was the matter with me, if you please, mum?" i stood in helpless, awkward embarrassment, then, drawing in his lip and bulging out his eyes until they threatened to leap from their places, he advanced upon me, exclaiming: "spare me these protestations and explanations, i beg!" then tapped me on the chest with his forefinger and, added, in a different tone: "my young friend, i'll make you laugh or i'll cut my throat!" next turned on his heel, and called: "everybody ready for the first act? come on, come on, let's get at it!" rehearsal began and mr. owens did not have to cut his throat. funny in many things, it was the old farce of "forty winks" that utterly undid me, and not only sat me violently and flatly down upon the entrance floor, but set me shrieking with such misguided force that next day all the muscles across and near my diaphragm were too lame and sore for me to catch a breath in comfort. perhaps that's not the right word, and i may not be locating the lamed muscles properly, but if you will go to see some comedian who will make you laugh until you cry, and cry until you scream, and laugh and cry and scream until you only breathe in gasps and sobs, you will next morning know exactly which muscles i have been referring to--even if you haven't got a diaphragm about you. but really the mad absurdities mr. owens indulged in that night might have made the very sphinx smile stonily. as a miserly old man, eating his bread-and-cheese supper in his cheap little bedroom, and retiring for the night only to be aroused by officers who are in pursuit of a flying man, and think they have now found him. not much to go upon, that, but, oh, if you could have seen his ravening hunger; have seen his dog-like snaps at falling crumbs; his slanting of the plate against the light to see if any streak of butter was being left; his scooping up of bread-crumbs from his red-handkerchief lap, and eager licking up of the same; have seen him sorting out his money and laying aside the thin, worn pennies to give the waiter; breaking off the hardened grease that in melting had run down the candle's side, putting it away in his valise, "to grease his boots next winter" (a line he introduced for my especial benefit). having gone up-stage and taken off his shoes, he suddenly bethought him that there might be a few crumbs on the floor, and taking his candle, down he came to look, and turning his back to the audience, they screamed with sudden laughter, for two shining bare heels were plainly showing through his ragged black woollen socks. he paid no heed, but sought diligently, and when he found a crumb he put his finger to his lip to moisten it, and pouncing upon the particle, conveyed it to his mouth, and mumbled so luxuriously one almost envied him. then, remarking that it was too cold to undress, he undressed, and as his coat came off he started toward a chair, saying, querulously: "he couldn't abide a man that wasn't neat and careful about his clothes," and down he pitched the coat in a heap upon the floor in front of the chair. his vest he dumped beside another seat, as he dolorously declared: "he had neat habits ever since his mother had taught him to put his clothes carefully on the chair at night." and so he went up and down and about, until that stage was one litter of old clothes. blowing out his candle he got into bed, and, shivering with cold, tried frantically to pull the clothes over his poor shoulders--but all in vain. at last a tremendous jerk brought the quilt and sheet about his shoulders, only to leave his ancient black feet facing the audience, all uncovered. and so went on the struggle between feet and shoulders until, worn out, the old man finally "spooned" himself with knees in chest, and so was covered and fell asleep, only to be aroused by officers, and turned into driveling idiocy by a demand "for the girl." it was at the point when, sitting up in bed, trying, with agonizing modesty, to keep covered up, his eyes whitely and widely rolling, he pleadingly asked: "n-n-now i, leave it to you--do i look like a seducer?" that my knees abandoned me to my fate, and sat me down with a vicious thud that nearly shook the life out of me. and john owens sat in bed and saw my fall and rejoiced with a great joy, and said: "blast my cats--look at the girl! there, now, that's something like laughing. i'd take off my hair and run around bald-headed for her!" i was called upon to play blind _bertha_ to mr. owens's _caleb plummer_ in the "cricket on the hearth," and i was in a great state of mind, as i had only seen one or two blind persons, and had never seen a blind part acted. i was driven at last by anxiety to ask mr. owens if he could make any suggestions as to business, or as to the walk or manner of the blind girl. but he was no e. l. davenport, he had no desire to teach others to act, and he snappishly answered: "no--no! i can't suggest anything for you to do--but i can suggest something for you not to do! for god's sake don't go about playing the piano all evening--that's what the rest of 'em do!" "the piano?" i repeated, stupidly. "yes," he said, "the piano! d----d if they don't make me sick! here they go--all the '_berthas_'!" he closed his eyes, screwed up his face dismally, and advancing, his hands before him, began moving them from left to right and back, as though they were on a keyboard. it was very ridiculous. "and that's what they call blindness--playing the piano and tramping about as securely as anybody!" ah, ah! mr. owens, you did make a suggestion after all, though you did not mean to do it, but i found one all the same in that last contemptuous sentence, "_tramping about as securely as anybody_." it quickened my memory--i recalled the piteous uncertainty of movement in the blind; the dread hesitancy of the advancing foot, unless the afflicted one was on very familiar ground. i tried walking in the dark, tried walking with closed eyes. it was surprising how quickly my fears gathered about my feet. instinctively i put out one hand now and then, but the fear of bumping into something was as nothing to the fear of stepping off or down, or falling through the darkness--oh! then i resolved to play _bertha_ with open eyes. it was much the more difficult way, but i was well used to taking infinite pains over small matters, and believing that the open, unseeing eye was far more pathetic than the closed eye, i proceeded to work out my idea of how to produce the unseeing look. by careful experiment i found that if the eyes were very calm in expression, very slow in movement, and at all times were raised slightly above the proper point of vision, the effect was really that of blindness. it was unspeakably fatiguing to keep looking just above people's heads, instead of into their faces, as was my habit, but where is the true actor or actress who stops to count the cost in pain or in inconvenience when striving to build up a character that the public may recognize? says the ancient cook-book: "first catch your hare, and then--"; so with the actor, first catch your idea, your desired effect, and _then_ reproduce it (if you can). but in the case of blind _bertha_ i must have reproduced with some success the effect i had been studying, for an old newspaper clipping beside me says that: "the doubting, hesitating advance of her foot, the timid uncertainty of her occasional investigating hand spelled blindness as clearly as did her patient unseeing eyes," and for my reward that wretched man amused himself by pulling faces at me and trying to break me down in my singing of "auld robin grey," until i was obliged to sing with my eyes tight shut to save myself from laughter; and when the curtain had fallen he said to me: "i'll settle your hash for you some night, young woman, you see if i don't--you just wait now!" and the next season, in cincinnati, in very truth, he did "settle my hash" for me, to his great delight and my vexation. he was so very, very funny as _major wellington de boots_ in "everybody's friend"; his immense self-satisfaction, his stiff little strut, his martial ardor, his wild-eyed cowardice were trying enough, but when he deliberately acted _at_ you--oh, dear! he would look me straight in the eye and make faces at me, until i sobbed at every breath. then he had a wretched little trick of rising slowly on his toes and sinking back to his heels again, while he cocked his head to one side so like a knowing old dicky-bird that he simply convulsed me with laughter. i was his _mrs. swansdown_, and i had kept steady and never lost a line, until we came to the scene where, as my landlord and would-be husband, he brought some samples of wall-paper for me to choose from. where, in heaven's name, he ever found those rolls of paper i can't imagine. they were not merely hideous but grotesque as well, and were received with shouts of laughter by the house. with true shopman's touch, he would send each piece unrolling toward the footlights, while holding up its breadth of ugliness for _mrs. swansdown's_ inspection and approval, and every piece that he thus displayed he greeted at first sight with words of hearty admiration for its beauty and perfect suitability, until, catching disapproval on the widow's face, he in the same breath, with lightning swift hypocrisy, turned his sentence into contemptuous disparagement, and fairly shook his audience with laughter at the quickness of his change of opinion. at last he unfurled a piece of paper whose barbarity of design and criminality of color i remember yet. the dead-white ground was widely and alternately striped with a dark dutch blue and a dingy chocolate brown, and about the blue stripes there twined a large pumpkin-colored morning-glory, while from end to end the brown stripes were solemnly pecked at by small magenta birds. the thing was as ludicrous as it was ugly--an indian clay-idol might have cracked into smiles of derision over its artistic qualities. then mr. owens, bursting into encomiums over its desirability as a hanging for the drawing-room walls of a modest little retreat, caught my frown, and continued: "er--er, or perhaps you'd prefer it as trousering?" then, delightedly: "yes--yes, you're quite right, it _is_ a neat thing--cut full at the knee, eh? close at the foot, yes, yes, i see, regular peg-tops--great idea! i'll send you a pair at once. oh, good lord! what have i done! i--i--mean, i'll have a pair myself, _mrs. swansdown_, cut from this very piece of your sweet selection!" ah, well! that ended the scene so far as my help went. the shrieking audience drowned my noise for a time, but, alas, _it_ recovered directly, having no hysterics to battle with, while i buried my head deep in the sofa-pillows and rolled and screamed and wept and bit my lips, clinched my hands, and vainly fought for my self-control; while all the time i saw a pair of trousers cut from that awful wall-paper, and mr. owens just bulged his white shiny eyes at me and pranced about and rejoiced at my downfall, while the audience, seeing what the trouble was, laughed all over again, and--and--well, "my hash" was very thoroughly "settled," even to the entire satisfaction of mr. owens's self. chapter thirty-third from the "wild west" i enter the eastern "parlor of home comedy"--i make my first appearance in "man and wife." the original fifth avenue theatre was a tiny affair, with but small accommodation for the public and none at all for the actor, unless he burrowed for it beneath the building; and indeed the deep, long basement was wonderfully like a rabbit-warren, with all its net-work of narrow passageways, teeming with life and action. the atmosphere down there was dreadful--i usually prefer using a small word instead of a large one, but it would be nonsense to speak of the "air" in that green-room, because there was none. atmosphere was there stagnant, heavy, dead, with not even an electric fan to stir it up occasionally, and the whole place was filled with the musty, mouldy odor that always arises from carpets spread in sunless, airless rooms. gas, too, burned in every tiny room, in every narrow slip of passageway, and though it was all immaculately clean, it was still wonderful how human beings endured so many hours imprisonment there. it was on a very hot september morning that the company was called together in the green-room of the fifth avenue theatre. this first "call" of the season is generally given over to greetings after the vacation, to chattings, to introductions, to welcomes, and a final distribution of parts in the first play, and a notification to be on hand promptly next morning for work. with a heavily throbbing heart i prepared for the dreaded first meeting with all these strange people, and when i grew fairly choky, i would say to myself, "what nonsense, mr. daly or the prompter will be there, and in the general introductions you will, of course, be included, and after that you will be all right--a smile, a bow, or a kind word will cost no more in a new york theatre than in any other one," which goes to prove what a very ignorant young person i was then. in looking back to that time, i often drop into the habit of considering myself as another person, and sometimes i am sorry for the girl of that day, and say: "you poor thing, if you had only known!" or again, "what wasted trust--what needless sorrow, too!" but i was then like the romping, trusting, all-loving puppy-dog who believes every living being his friend, until a kick or a blow convinces him to the contrary. i had two dresses, neither one really fit for the occasion, but i put on the best one, braided my mass of hair into the then proper _chatelaine_ braids, and found comfort in them, and encouragement in a fresh, well-fitting pair of gloves. at half-past ten o'clock i entered the underground green-room. two young men were there before me. i slightly bent my head, and one responded doubtfully, but the other, with the blindness of stone in his eyes, bowed not at all. i sat down in a corner--the stranger always seeks a corner; can that be an instinct, a survival from the time when a tribe fell upon the stranger, and with the aid of clubs informed him of their strength and power? anyway, as i said, i sat in a corner. there was the carpet, the great mirror, the cushioned bench running clear around the room, and that was all--oh, no! on the wall, of course, there hung that shallow, glass-covered frame or cabinet called, variously, "the call-board," the "call-case," or even the "call-box." it is the official voice of the manager--when the "call-case" commands, all obey. there, in writing, one finds the orders for next day's rehearsal; there one finds the cast of characters in the plays; there, too, the requests for the company's aid, on such a day, for such a charity benefit appears. ah, a great institution is the "call-case," being the manager's voice, but not his ears, which is both a comfort and an advantage at times to all concerned. that day i glanced at it; it was empty. the first call and cast of the season would be put up presently. i wondered how many disappointments it would hold for me. then there was a rustle of skirts, a tapping of heels, a young woman gayly dressed rushed in, a smile all ready for--oh! she nodded briefly to the young men, then she saw me--she looked full at me. the puppy-dog trust arose in me, i was a stranger, she was going to bow, perhaps smile! oh, how thankful i am that i was stopped in time, before i had betrayed that belief to her. her face hardened, her eyes leisurely scorched up and down my poor linen gown, then she turned frowningly to the glass, patted her bustle into shape, and flounced out again. i felt as though i had received a blow. then voices, loudly laughing male voices, approached, and three men came in, holding their hats and mopping their faces. they "bah-joved" a good deal, and one, big and noisy, with a young face topped with perfect baldness, bowed to me courteously, the others did not see me. where, i thought, was the manager all this time? then more laughter, and back came my flouncy young woman and two of her kind with her; pretty, finely dressed, badly bred women, followed by one whom i knew instantly. one i had heard much of, one to whom i had a letter of introduction--i have it still, by the way. she was gray even then, plain of feature, but sweet of voice and very gentle of manner. i lifted my head higher. of course she would not know me from sole-leather, but she would see i was a stranger and forlornly alone, and besides, being already secure in her position in the company--she was its oldest member--and therefore, in a certain measure, a hostess, and as my mere presence in the green-room showed i was a professional of some sort or quality, both authority and kindness would prompt her to a bow, a smile, perhaps a pleasant word. i looked hungrily at her, her bright, small eyes met mine, swept swiftly over me, and then she slowly turned her black silk back upon me, the stranger in her gate; and as i swallowed hard at the lump mrs. gilbert's gentle indifference had brought to my throat, my old sense of fun came uppermost, and i said to myself: "no morning is lost in which one learns something, and i have discovered that covering a club neatly in velvet improves its appearance, without in the least detracting from the force of its blow." and then the passage resounded with laughter and heel-taps, the small room filled full; there was a surging of silken gowns, a mingling of perfumes and of voices, high and excited, and, i must add, affected; much handshaking, many explosive kisses, and then, down the other passageway, came more gentlemen. they were a goodly crowd--well groomed, well dressed, manly fellows, and all in high good-humor, except mr. davidge, but, in mercy's name! who ever saw, who would have wished to see "rare old bill" in a good humor? such gay greetings as were exchanged around about and even over me, since my hat was twice knocked over my eyes by too emphatic embracings in such crowded quarters--and still no manager, no prompter. when they quieted down a bit, everyone took stock of me. it would have been a trying position even had i been properly gowned, but as it was the ill-suppressed titters of two extravagantly gowned nonentities and the swift, appraising glances of the others kept me in agony. suddenly a quick step was heard approaching. i nearly laughed aloud in all my misery at their lightning-quick change of manner. silence, as of the grave, came upon them. they all faced toward the coming steps--anxious-eyed, but with smiles just ready to tremble on to their lips at an instant's notice. never had i seen anything so like trick-poodles. they were ready to do "dead dog," or jump over a chair, or walk on two legs--ready, too, for either the bone or the blow. i knew from their strained attitude of attention who was coming, and next moment, tall and thin and dour, mr. daly stood in the doorway. he neither bowed nor smiled, but crossly asked: "is miss morris here?" everyone looked reproachfully at everyone else for not being the desired person. then as the managerial frown deepened, from my corner i lifted a rather faint voice in acknowledgment of my presence, saying: "yes, sir, i am here," and he gave that peculiar "huh!" of his, which seemed to be a combination of groan and snort, and instantly disappeared again. oh, dear! oh, dear! i had felt myself uncomfortable before, but now? it was as if i had sprung up and shouted: "say! i'm miss morris!" everyone gazed at me openly now, as if i were a conundrum and they were trying to guess me. i honestly believe i should have broken down under the strain in a moment more, but fortunately a slender little man made his silent appearance at one of the doors and took off his immaculate silk hat, revealing the thin, blond hair, the big, pale blue pop-eyes of james lewis. twenty minutes ago my heart would have jumped at sight of him, but i had had a lesson. i expected no greeting now, even from a former friend. i sat quite still, simply grateful that his coming had taken the general gaze from my miserable face. he shook hands all round, glanced at me and passed by, then looked back, came back, held out his hand, saying: "you stuck-up little brute, i knew you in aprons and pig-tails, and now you ain't going to speak to me; how are you, clara?" while i was huskily answering him, a big woman appeared at the door. her garments were aggressively rich, and lockets (it was a great year for lockets) dangled from both wrists, from her watch-chain, and from her neck-chain. she glittered with diamonds--in a street-dress which might also have answered for a dinner-dress. i laughed to myself as i thought what a prize she would be for pirates. then i looked at her handsome face and, as our eyes met, we recognized each other perfectly, but my lesson being learned i made no sign, i had no wish to presume, and she--looked over my head. m. bènot, the frenchman who died in harness early in the season, poor little gentleman! came in then with the mss. and the parts of the play, "man and wife." silence came upon the company. as m. bènot called mr. or miss so-and-so, he or she advanced and received the part assigned to them. "miss clara morris!" i rose stiffly--i had sat so long in my corner--and received rather a bulky part. i bowed silently and resumed my seat, but the place was for a moment only a black, windy void; i had seen the name on my part--i was cast for _blanche_, a comedy part! as i came back to my real surroundings, m. bènot was saying: "eleven o'clock sharp to-morrow, ladies and gentlemen, for rehearsal." people began hurrying out. i waited a little, till nearly all were gone, whispering "miss ethel for _anne_, miss ethel for _anne_" when the handsome "argosy of wealth" sailed up to me, and, in a voice of sweet uncertainty, said: "i wonder if you can possibly recognize me?" "oh, yes," i answered, smiling broadly, "we recognized each other at the moment you entered, miss newton." she reddened and stammered something about "not being quite sure--and out west, and now here," and as she was even prettier than when i had last seen her, i told her so, and--we were happy ever after. then i slipped out of the theatre and crossed to twenty-first street safely, but could control my grief and pain, my mortification and my disappointment, no longer. tears would have their way, and i held my sunshade low before my tear-washed, grieving face. those little ill-suppressed smiles at my clothes, those slightly lifted eyebrows, and there was not even a single introduction to shelter me to-morrow, and as to _blanche_, oh, i thought "let her wait till i get home!" at last mother opened the door for me. i flung the hat from my aching head, and as she silently tied a wet handkerchief about my throbbing temples, i blurted out three words: "_a comedy part!_" and fell face downward on the bed, and cried until there was not a tear left in me, and considering my record as a shedder of tears, that's saying a good deal. afterward i knelt down and hid my shamed face in the pillow and asked forgiveness from the ever-pitiful and patient one above, and prayed for a clear understanding of the part entrusted to me. oh, don't be shocked. i have prayed over my work all my life long, and i can't think the father despises any labor that is done to his honor. and i humbly gave over my further thought of _anne_, and praying pardon for the folly of "kicking against the pricks" and wasting my scant strength in useless passion, i retired, at peace with myself, the world, and even _blanche_. next morning a curious thing happened. i heard, or thought i heard, the words: "the first shall be last and the last shall be first," and i called from my bed: "did you speak to me, mother?" and she answered, "no." as i sat over my coffee and rolls, i said, absently: "the first shall be last, and the _last_ shall be first." "what do you mean?" mother asked. "nothing," i said. "the words were in my ears when i awoke, and they keep coming back to me." i rose and dressed for rehearsal. as i drew on my gloves i heard a hurried voice asking for me in the hall. i recognized it as m. bènot's. my heart sank like lead--was even the comedy part to be taken from me? i opened the door. out of breath, the little man gasped: "i so come quite quick for monsieur da-_lay_. he make me to ask you right away, very quick, can you play that part of _anne_?" my breath came in gasps, i might have been the runner! i answered, briefly: "yes!" "then," said he, "here give you to me that other part, _blanche_." i gave it joyously. "take you now this of _anne_ and make of the great haste to monsieur da-_lay's_ office, before--_comprenez-vous_--before that you go on the stage, or see anyone else, he want you to make some lies, i tink, so you best hurry!" "mother, mother!" i cried. as she ran, i held out to her the part, _anne sylvester_, written large on it. she looked, and said: "the last shall be first!" and kissing me, pushed me toward the stairs. i almost ran in my anxiety to obey orders; my mind was in a state of happy confusion--what could it all mean? the announcement had been distinctly made only yesterday that miss agnes ethel would play _anne_. was she ill? had she met with an accident? and why should mr. daly wish to see me privately? could he be going to ask me to read the part over to him? oh, dear, heaven forbid! for i could much more successfully fly up into the blue sky. the stairs that led down from the sidewalk to the stage-door passed across the one, the only, window of the entire basement, which let a modicum of light into a tiny den, intended originally for the janitor's use, but taken by mr. daly for his private office. here the great guiding intelligence of the entire establishment was located. here he dreamed dreams and spun webs, watching over the incomings, the outgoings, the sayings and the doings of every soul in the company. he would have even regulated their thoughts, if he could. i once said to him, after a rehearsal: "if you could, sir, while in the theatre at least, you would force us all to think only 'hail, daly!'" he laughed a little, and then rather grimly remarked: "that speech made to anyone else would have cost you five dollars, miss morris. but if you have absolutely _no_ reverence, neither have you fear, so let it pass," and i never said "thank you" more sincerely in my life, for i could ill afford jests at five dollars apiece. but that morning of the first rehearsal, as i hurried down the stairs, the shade was drawn up high, and through the window i saw mr. daly sitting, swinging about, in his desk-chair. before i could tap, he called for me to enter. he was very pale, very rumpled, very tired-looking. he wasted no time over greetings or formalities, but curtly asked: "can you play _anne sylvester_?" and, almost as curtly, i answered: "yes, sir!" the calm certainty of my tone seemed to comfort him; he relaxed his seemingly strained muscles, and sank back into his chair. he passed his long, thin fingers wearily across his closed eyes several times, then, as he opened them, he asked, sharply: "can you obey orders?" "yes," i answered, "i've been obeying orders all my life long." "well," he said, "can you keep quiet--that's the thing. can you keep quiet about this part?" i stared silently at him. "this thing is between ourselves. now, are you going to tell the people all about when you received it?" i smiled a little bitterly as i replied: "i am hardly likely to tell my business affairs to people who do not speak to me." he looked up quickly, for i stood all the time, and asked: "what's that, don't speak to you? were you not welcomed----" i broke his speech with laughter, but he would not smile: "were you not properly treated? who was lacking in courtesy?" "oh, please," i hurried, "don't blame anyone. you see there were no introductions made, and of course i should have remembered that the hospitality of the east is more--er--well, cautious than that of the west, and besides i must look very woolly and wild to your people." "ah!" he broke in, "then in a measure the fault is mine, since worry and trouble kept me away from the green-room. but bènot should have made introductions in my place--and--well, i'm ashamed of the women! cats! cats!" "oh, no!" i laughed, "not yet, surely not yet!" suddenly he returned to the part: "you will tell the people that you were to play _anne_ in the first place." "but, mr. daly," i cried, "the whole company saw me receive the part of _blanche_." he gnawed at the end of his mustache in frowning thought. "one woman to whom it belongs refuses the part," he said; "another woman, who can't play it, demands it from me, and i want to stop her mouth by making her believe the part was given to you before i knew her desire for it--do you see?" yes, with round-eyed astonishment, i saw that this almost tyrannically high-handed ruler had someone to placate--someone to deceive. "you will therefore tell the people you received _anne_ last night." i was silent, hot, miserable. "do you hear?" he asked, angrily. "good god! everything goes wrong. the idiot that was to dramatize the story of "man and wife" for me has failed in his work; the play is announced, and i have been up all night writing and arranging a last act for it myself. if miss davenport thinks she has been refused _anne_, she will take her revenge by refusing to play _blanche_, and the cast is so full it will require all my people--you _must_ say you received the part last night!" "mr. daly," i said, "won't you please trust to my discretion. i don't like lying, even for my daily bread, but if silence is golden, a discreet silence is away above rubies." he struck his hand angrily on the desk before him: "miss morris, when i give an order----" up went my head: "mr. daly, i have nothing to do with your private affairs; any business order----" heaven knows where we would have brought up had not a sudden darkness come into the little room--a woman quickly passed the window. mr. daly sprang to his feet, caught my fingers in a frantic squeeze, and pushing me from the door rapidly, said: "yes--yes--well, do your best with it. i'm very glad bènot found you last night!" then turning to the new-comer, who had not been present the day before, he cheerfully exclaimed: "well, you didn't lose to-day's train, i see! i have a charming comedy part for you--come in!" she went in, and the storm broke, for as i felt my way through the passage leading to the stage-stairs, i heard its rolling and rumbling, and two dimly-seen men in front of me laughed, while one, pointing over his shoulder, toward the office, sneered, meaningly: "ethel stock is going down, isn't it?" and almost i wished i was back in a family theatre. chapter thirty-fourth i rehearse endlessly--i grow sick with dread--i meet with success in _anne sylvester_. up-stairs i found a bare stage, as is often the case for a first mere reading of parts, and most of the company sitting on camp-stools, chatting and laughing. already m. bènot had announced the change in the cast, and people looked at me in perfect stupefaction: "good heavens! what a risk he is taking! who on earth is she, anyway?" and i cleared my throat in mercy to the speaker, who didn't know i stood behind her. that morning i was introduced to a number of the ladies and gentlemen, but it was a mere baptism of water, not of the spirit. i was not one of them. understand, no one was openly rude to me, everyone bowed a "good-morning," but, well, you can bow a good-morning over a large iron fence with a fast-locked gate in it. that my dresses of gray linen or of white linen struck them as being funny in september is not to be wondered at, yet they must have known that necessity forced me to wear them, and that their smiles were not always effaced quickly enough to spare me a cruel pang. and my amazement grew day by day at their own extravagance of dress. some of the ladies wore a different costume each day during the entire rehearsal of the play. how, i wondered, could they do it? two of them, miss kate claxton and miss newton, had husbands to pay their bills, i found, and miss linda dietz--the gentlest, most sweetly-courteous creature imaginable--had parents and a home; but the magnificence of the others remained an unsolvable mystery. another thing against me was, i could not act even the least bit at rehearsal. foreign actors will act in cold blood at a daylight rehearsal, but few americans can do it. i read my lines with intelligence, but gave no sign of what i intended to do at night. of course that made mr. daly suffer great anxiety, but he said nothing, only looked at me with such troubled, anxious eyes that i felt sorry for him. one gentleman, however, decided that i was--not to put too fine a point upon it--"a lunk-head." he treated me with supercilious condescension, varied occasionally with overbearing tyranny. just one person in the theatre knew that i was really a good actress, of considerable experience, and that was james lewis; and from a tricksy spirit of mischief he kept the silence of a graven image, and when mr. dan harkins took me aside to teach me to act, lewis would retire to a quiet spot and writhe with suppressed laughter. one day he said to me: "say, you ain't cooking up a huge joke on these gas-balloons, are you, clara? and upon my soul you are doing it well--you act as green as a cucumber." and never did i succeed in convincing him that i had not engineered a great joke on the company by deceptive rehearsing. one tiny incident seemed to give mr. daly a touch of confidence in me. in the "inn scene" a violent storm was raging, and at a critical moment the candle was supposed to be blown out by a gust of wind from the left door, as one of the characters entered. they were using a mechanical device for extinguishing the candle, and it was tried several times one morning, and always, to my surprise, from the _right_ side of the stage. no one seemed to notice anything odd, though the flame streamed out good and long in the wrong direction before going out. at last i ventured, as i was the principal in the scene: "i beg your pardon, gentlemen, but is it not the wind from the open door that blows that light out?" then, quick and sharp, mine enemy was upon me: "this is _our_ affair, miss morris." "yes," i answered, "but the house will laugh if the candle goes out _against_ the storm," and mr. daly sprang up, and, smiling his first kindly smile at me, said: "what the deuce have we all been thinking of--you're right, the candle must be extinguished from the _left_," and as i glanced across the stage i saw lewis doing some neat little dancing steps all by himself. the rehearsals were exhausting in the extreme, the heat was unnatural, the walk far too long, and, well, to be frank, i had not nearly enough to eat. my anxiety was growing hourly, my strength began to fail, and at the last rehearsals, white as wax from weakness, i had to be carried up the stairs to the stage. having such a quick study, requiring but few rehearsals, i was from the fourth day ready at any moment to go on and play my part. fancy, then, what a waste of strength there was in forcing me, day after day, to go over long, important scenes--three, five, even seven times of a morning for the benefit of one amateur actress, who simply could not remember to-day what she had been told yesterday. it was foolish, it was risking a breakdown, when they had no one to put in my place. mr. william davidge was the next greatest sufferer, and as an experienced old actor he hotly resented being called back to go over a scene, again and again, "that a 'walking vanity' might be taught her business at his expense!" and though i liked and admired the "walking vanity" (who did not in the least deserve the name), i did think the manner of her training was costly and unjust, and one morning, just before the production of the play, i--luckily as it would seem--lost my self-control for a moment, and created a small sensation. in my individual case, fainting is always preceded by a moment of total darkness, and that again by a sound in my ears as of a rushing wind. that morning, as i finished the sixth repetition of _anne's_ big scene with _lady glenarm_, the warning whir was already in my ears, when the order came to go over it again, "that _mrs. glenarm_ might be quite easy." it was too much--a sudden rage seized upon me: "_mrs. glenarm_ will only be quite easy when the rest of us are dead!" i remarked as i took my place again, and when i received my cue i whirled upon her with the speech: "take care, _mrs. glenarm_, i am not naturally a patient woman, trouble has done much to tame my temper, but endurance has its limits!" it was given with such savage passion that miss dietz burst into frightened tears and forgot utterly her lines, while a silence that thrilled, absolute, dead, came upon the company for a moment. hastily i controlled myself, but there were whispers and amazed looks everywhere. mr. george brown, who played the pugilist, said aloud to a group: "she's done the whole crowd--she's an actress to the core!" mr. daly sat leaning forward at the prompt-table, white as he could well be. his eyes were wide and bright, and, to my surprise, he spoke quite gently to me as he said: "spare yourself--just murmur your lines, miss morris." and miss dietz said: "oh, mr. daly, i am so glad i am prepared; i should have fallen in my tracks if she had done that to me at night, without warning." when i left the stage, one of the ladies swept her dress aside, and said: "sit here by me; how tired you must be!" it was the first friendly advance made to me. before rehearsal ended i overheard the young man with the bald head saying: "she has sold us all, and i bet she will completely change the map of the fifth avenue theatre." "oh, no, she won't," answered lewis, shortly, "she's not that type of woman!" "well, at all events, on the strength of that outburst, i ain't afraid to bet twenty good dollars that she makes pie out of ethel's vogue!" then, seeing me, he removed his hat hurriedly, offering his shoulder for me to lean upon as i descended the winding-stairs, and i said to myself: "yesterday this would have been a kindly service; to-day--to-day it is not far from an humiliation." hitherto i had known neither clique nor cabal in a theatre; now i found myself in a network of them. the _favorite_--who, i had supposed, lived only in the historic novel--i now met in real life, and found her as charming, as treacherous, and as troublesome in the theatre as she could ever have been in a royal court. there was no one to explain to me the nature or progress of the game that was being played when i came upon the scene; but i soon discovered there were two factions in the theatre, miss agnes ethel heading one, miss fanny davenport the other. each had a following, but miss ethel, who had been all-powerful, had overestimated her strength when she refused, point-blank, to play _anne sylvester_, giving as her reason "the immorality of _anne_." this from the lady who had been acting all season in "fernande" and "frou-frou"--as a gambler's decoy and an adulterous wife abandoning child and home--satisfactorily proved the utter absence of a sense of humor from her charming make-up. mr. daly, like every other man, could be managed with a little patient _finesse_, but he would not be bullied in business affairs by any living creature, as he proved when, rather than change the play to please the actress he then regarded as his strongest card, he trusted a great part to the hands of an unknown, untried girl, and gave out to the newspapers that miss ethel had sprained her ankle, and, though in perfect health, could not walk well enough to act. and, after my momentary outburst, the anti-ethelites suddenly placed me on one of the sixty-four squares of their chess-board; but i knew not whether i was castle, knight, bishop, or pawn, i only knew that i had become a piece of value in their game, and they hoped to move me against ethel. it was all very bewildering, but i had other things to think about, and more important. my money had run so low i was desperately afraid i could not get dresses for the play, and for the white mousseline necessary for the croquet-party of the first act i was forced to go to a very cheap department store, a fact the dress nightly proclaimed aloud from every inch of its surface. shawl dresses were the novelty of that season, and at stewart's i found a modestly priced dark-gray shawl overskirt and jacket that i could wear over a black alpaca skirt for two acts. the other two dresses i luckily had in my wardrobe, and when my new shoes, a long gray veil, and two pairs of gray gloves were laid into the dressing-room basket, i had in the whole world $ . , on which we had to live until my first week's salary came to me. but, oh, that last awful day before the opening night. i was suffering bodily as well as mentally. i had had an alarming attack of pleurisy. my mother had rung the bell and left a message at the first house that carried a doctor's sign. he came; he was far gone in liquor; he was obstinate, almost abusive--to be brief, he blistered me shockingly; another doctor had to be called to dress and treat the hideous blisters the first had produced; and the tight closing of dress-waists about me was an agony not yet forgotten. but what was that to the nervous terror, the icy chill, the burning fever, the deadly nausea! i could not swallow food--i _could_ not! my mother stood over me while, with tear-filled eyes, i disposed of a raw, beaten egg, and then she was guilty of the dreadful extravagance of buying two chops, of which she made a cup of broth, and fearing a breakdown if i attempted without food five such acts as awaited me, she almost forced me to swallow it to the last drop after my hat was on and i was ready to start. i always kiss my mother good-by, and that night my lips were so cold and stiff with fright that they would not move. i dropped my head for a moment upon her shoulder, she patted me silently with one hand and opened the door with the other. my little dog, escaping from the room, rushed to me, leaping against my knees. i caught her up, and she covered my troubled, veiled face with frantic kisses. i passed her to mother and crept painfully down the steps. i glanced back--mother waved her hand and innocently called: "good luck! god bless you!" the astonishing conjunction of superstition and orthodox faith touched my sense of the ridiculous. i laughed aloud, bertie barked excitedly, i faced about and went forward almost gayly to meet--what? as i reached broadway, i remember quite distinctly that i said aloud, to myself: "well, god's good to the irish, and at all events i was born on st. patrick's day--so garryowen forever!" the pendulum was swinging to the other extreme, i was in high spirits; nor need you be surprised, for such is the acting temperament. i had not on that first night even the comfort of a dressing-room to myself, but shared one of the tiniest closets with mrs. roberta norwood, in whose chic blonde person i failed utterly to see a future friend. the terrible heat, the crowding, the strange companion, all brought back the memory of that far-away first night of all in cleveland; but now there was no mrs. bradshaw to go to for advice or commendation. the sense of utter loneliness came upon me suddenly, and i bent my head low over the buckling of my shoe that my rising tears might not be noticed. we were directly beneath the auditorium parquet, and every seat flung down by the ushers seemed to strike a blow upon our heads, while applause shook dust into our eyes and hair. forced occupation is the best cure for nervousness, and in the hurried making-up and dressing i for the time forgot my fright. two or three persons had come to the door to speak to mrs. norwood, and it seemed to me they were all made up unusually pale. i looked at myself in the glass, i hesitated, at last i turned and asked if i wore too much color--if i was too red, and the answer i received was: "that's a matter of taste." now it was not a matter of taste, but a matter of business. she was familiar with the size and the lighting of the theatre, and i was not, yet either from extreme self-occupation or utter indifference she allowed me to go upon that tiny stage painted like an indian about to take the war-path. truly i was climbing up a thorny stem to reach the flower of success. the overture was at its closing bars, all were rushing to the stairs for the first act. i stopped behind the dressing-room door and bent my head for one dumbly pleading moment, then muttering "amen--amen," i, too, hurried up the stairs to face the awful first appearance before a new york audience. i had always been rehearsed to enter with the crowd of guests. the cue came, and as i stepped forward, a strong hand caught my arm. mr. daly had suddenly changed his mind, he held me fast till all were on, then let me go, whispering, "now--now," and i went on alone. i had to retire to the back of the stage and wait a few moments till spoken to. never shall i forget the sort of horror the closeness of the audience caused me, i felt i should step upon the upturned faces; i wanted to put out my hands and push the people back, and their use of opera-glasses filled my eyes with angry tears. suddenly i understood the meaning of the lightly painted faces. i raised my handkerchief and wiped some of the red from my cheeks, while somewhat bitterly, i am afraid, i thought that "love ye one another" and "thy neighbor as thyself" had been relegated to the garret with "god bless our home." then the astonishing beauty of the women on the stage struck me with dismay; their exquisite lacy dresses, their jewel-loaded fingers. oh! i thought, how can i ever hope to stand with them. i grew sick and cold. then there dully reached my ears the words of _lady lundy_: "i choose--anne sylvester." it was my cue. i came slowly down; no one knew me, no one greeted me. i opened my lips, but no sound came. i saw a frightened look on miss newton's face; i tried again, and in a husky whisper, answered: "thank you; i'd rather not play." out in front one actor friend, john w. norton, watched and prayed for a success for me; when he heard the hoarse murmur, he dropped his head and groaned: "a failure--total and complete!" but i also had noted that hoarse croak, and it had acted like a mighty spur. i was made desperate by it. i threw up my head, and answered my next cue with: "no, lady lundy, nothing is the matter; i am not very well, but i will play if you wish it." i gave the words so bell-clear and with so much insolent humility that a round of applause of lightning quickness followed them. it was the first bit of genuine hearty kindness i had received in the city of new york. in my pleasure i forgot the character of _anne_ completely, and turned to the audience a face every feature of which, from wide, surprised eyes to more widely-smiling lips, radiated such satisfaction and good-fellowship that they first laughed aloud and then a second time applauded. at last! i was starting fair, we had shaken hands, my audience and i; my nerves were steady, my heart strong, the "part" good. i would try hard, i would do my best. i made my whispered appointment to meet _geoffrey_, and when i returned and stood a moment, silently watching him, there came upon the house the silence that my soul loves--the silence that might thrill a graven image into acting, and i was not stone. our scene began. _anne_, striving desperately to restrain her feelings, said: "you are rich, a scholar, and a gentleman; are you something else besides all these--_are you a coward and a villain, sir?_" clear and distinct from the right box, in suppressed tones, came the words: "larmes de la voix! larmes de la voix!" many glanced at the box, a few hissed impatiently at the new mayor, oakey hall, who had spoken. our interview was interrupted by _lady lundy_ (miss newton) and _sir patrick lundy_ (mr. lewis). i was dismissed by the first and left the stage. applause broke forth--continued. mr. lewis and miss newton began to speak--the applause redoubled. i turned angrily. "what bad manners!" i said. mr. daly ran up to me, waving his hands: "go on! go on! it's you, you fool!" "i know it," i replied, "but i'm not going to insult any actor by taking a call in the middle of his scene." "confound you!" he said, "will you do as i tell you?" he caught me, whirled me about and, putting his hand between my shoulders, literally pitched me on to the stage, where i stood ashamed and mortified by what i honestly felt to be a slight to those two waiting to proceed. after that the evening's triumph, like the rolling snowball, grew as it advanced. at the end of the quarrel act with _mrs. glenarm_ the curtain was raised on the stage picture--once, twice, three times. then m. bènot said to mr. daly: "they want her," and mr. daly answered, sharply: "i know what they want, and i know what i don't want--ring up again!" he did so; no use, the applause went on. then mr. daly said to me: "take _mrs. glenarm_ on with you, and acknowledge this call." we went on together; retired; more applause. again we went on together; no use, the applause _would_ not stop. "oh, well, ring up once more," said mr. daly, "and here, you, take it yourself." i went on alone, and the audience rose as one individual. i saw them, all blurred through happy tears. i held my hands out to them, with a very passion of love. the house blossomed with white waving handkerchiefs in answer. the curtain fell and, before i moved, rose once more, and then, as i live by bread! i saw pass between me and those applauding people a little crying child carrying a single potato in her hand. of course that was nerves; but i saw her, i tell you i saw her! and surely i should know myself! in the fourth act, which was a triumph for all concerned in it--and that meant nearly everyone in the cast--i received a compliment that i prize still. there is a certain tone which should be reserved for short important speeches only in strong and exciting scenes, where, by force of contrast, it has a great effect; so, in tones low, level, clear and cold as ice, _anne_ had scarcely taken her solemn oath: "i swear it, on my honor as a christian woman, sir!" when from end to end of their railed-in semicircle the musicians broke into swift applause. catching the effect, their foreign impetuosity made them respond more quickly than could the americans who seconded their action, while mere recognition from these play-worn, _blasé_ men was to me veritable incense. in the last act, mrs. gilbert, as _hester detheridge_, the supposed dumb woman, proved herself an artist to the fingertips. later i saw many _hesters_, but never one to equal hers. at last, and late, far too late, the play ended in a blaze of glory. the curtain was raised for final compliments. all the actors in the play had been summoned--we all stood in line, a bowing, smiling, happy line--facing a shouting, hat, handkerchief, or cane-waving crowd of pleased, excited people. as i saw how many eyes were turned my way, with a leap of the heart i repeated: "if you make a favorable impression i will--yes, i will double that salary." surely, i thought, no one can doubt that i have made a favorable impression, and, oh, mother, we will be so happy! just then i caught the eye of a young girl--i could have touched her outstretched hand, she was so close--she gave me a lovely smile, and taking from her bosom a bunch of scarlet carnations she threw them herself. they fell on the stage. one of the actors picked them up and, turning, handed them to _blanche_. i heard the disappointed "oh!" and caught her eye again, when, regardless of all the rules and regulations forbidding communication with the audience, i smiled and kissed my hand to her. as the curtain fell, in an instant everyone was talking with everyone else. i had begun alone--well, i must end alone. i slipped down the staircase least used, and at its foot met mr. george brown, who was waiting for me. he took my hands in his and gave me both commendation and congratulation, though they were stayed and braced with unconscious profanity; and i squeezed his hands hard and said: "you are so good, oh! you are so good! but please take care, i'm afraid you'll get forfeited." when he cried: "d----n the forfeit, it's worth a few dollars to speak as you feel sometimes, so good-night!" i scrambled into my street-clothes, caught up the inevitable bag, and fairly rushed from the theatre, and as i came up from that place of mouldy smell and burnt-out air, and lifted my face to the stupendous beauty of the heavens, sniffing delightedly at the cool, pure night air, suddenly i thought how delicious must have been the first long breath young lazarus drew when, obeying the divine command, he "came forth" from the tomb. tired, excited, i hurried to carry the news to the two who awaited me--my mother and my dog. at the corner of twenty-third street and broadway i had to pass around a party of ladies and gentlemen who stood talking there, and a lady said as i passed: "no, no! it's morris, i tell you; see, here it is--clara morris." she held up a folded programme, pointing out the name to a gentleman beside her. i laughed happily. odd bits of the evening's happenings kept appearing before me like pictures. sometimes i saw the unknown young girl's smiling face--and the scarlet flowers i failed to receive. sometimes 'twas mr. daly's angry one as he pitched me on to the stage to acknowledge a compliment i did not want, great as it was. most often i saw the faces of the lovely women of the company. what a galaxy of beauty they made! the stately newton, the already full-blown, buxom davenport, the tall, slender, deer-eyed dietz, the oriental volmer, the auburn-haired claxton, the blond norwood! there were just two women in that company who were not beauties--mrs. gilbert and miss morris; even they were wholesome, pleasant women, who did not frighten horses by any means, but still if you speak of beauty--why, next! please! at last i saw the lighted windows that told me home was near. then up the stairs, where there bounded upon my breast the little black-and-tan bundle of love and devotion, called bertie the loyal, whose fervid greetings made the removal of my hat so difficult a job that it was through the tangle of hat, veil, and wriggling dog i cried at last: "it's all right, mumsey--a success! lots and lots of 'calls,' dear! and, oh! is there anything to eat--_i am so hungry!_" so, while the new actress's name was floating over many a dainty restaurant supper, its owner sat beneath one gas-jet, between mother and pet, eating a large piece of bread and a small piece of cheese; and, thankful for both, she talked to her small circle of admirers, telling them all about it, and winding up supper and talk with the declaration: "mother, i believe the hearts are just the same, whether they beat against western ribs or eastern ribs!" then, supper over, i stumbled through my old-time "now i lay me," and adding some blurred words of gratitude (god must be so well used to sleep thanks, but very wide-awake entreaties!) i fell asleep, knowing that through god's mercy and my own hard work i was the first western actress who had ever been accepted by a new york audience, and as i drowsed off, i murmured to myself: "and i'll leave the door open, now that i have opened it--i'll leave it open for all others." chapter thirty-fifth i am accepted by the company--i am warned against mr. fisk--i have an odd encounter with mr. gould. the following morning we were called to the theatre at eleven o'clock to have the play cut "judiciously," as old actors used to say. it was very loosely constructed, and, besides cutting, the entire drama required a tightening-up, as it were. mr. daly was the first to greet me and offer hearty and genial congratulations. everyone followed his example, and that morning i was admitted into the family circle and came into my just inheritance of equality and fraternity. a little surprised, but very happy, i gave back smile for smile, hand-pressure for hand-pressure; for being held off at arm's length by them all had hurt worse i'm sure than they knew, therefore when they offered me kindly greeting i did not stop to study out the _cause_ of this _effect_, but shut my eyes and opened my mouth, and took what luck had sent me, and thankfully became so much one of them that i never had a clashing word with a member of the company--never saw the faintest cloud darken our good-fellowship. that morning, as the cutting was going on, i advanced and offered my part, but mr. daly waved me away. "no," he said, "there's plenty of useless matter to take out, but the public won't want _anne_ cut, they have none too much of her now." he gave but few compliments, even to those he liked, and he did not like me yet, therefore that gracious speech created a sensation among the other hearers and was carefully treasured up by me. another of his sayings of that morning i recall. in conversation with one of the ladies, i remarked: "as a western woman, i suppose i have various expressions to unlearn?" when mr. daly turned quickly from the prompt-table, saying, sharply: "miss morris, don't say that again. you are a new york woman now--please remember that. you ceased to be a westerner last night when you received the new york stamp." i thought him jesting, and was about to make some flippant reply, when one of the ladies squeezed my arm and said: "don't, he will be angry; he is in earnest." and he was, just as he was in earnest later on when we had become good friends, and i heard him for the first time swear like a trooper because i had been born in canada. and when i laughed at his anger, he was not far from boxing my ears. "it's a damn shame!" he declared; "in the first place you are an american to the very marrow of your bones. in the next place you are the only woman i know who has a living, pulsing love of country and flag! oh, the devil! i won't believe it--you born in a tu'penny ha'penny little canadian town under that infernal british flag! see here, if you ever tell anyone that--i'll--i'll never forgive you! have you been telling that to people?" i answered him: "i have not--but i have permitted the assertion that i was born in cleveland to go uncorrected," and, with the sweet frankness of friendship, he answered that i had more sense than he had given me credit for. but, small matter that it was, it annoyed him greatly, and i still have notes of his, sent on my birthdays, in which he petulantly refers to my unfortunate birth-place, and warns me to keep silent about it. like many other great men--and mr. daly was a great man--he often made mountains out of mole-hills, devoting to some trifle an amount of consideration out of all proportion to the thing considered. on the first night of the season mr. daly had said to me: "one word, miss morris, that i had forgotten before--mr. james fisk, unfortunately, as landlord, has the right of entrance into the green-room. he doesn't often appear there, but should he come in, if you are present i desire you should instantly withdraw. i do not wish you to be introduced to him under any circumstances." i felt my face flushing red as i answered: "i have no desire to meet either mr. fisk or any other gentleman in the green-room!" but mr. daly said, hurriedly: "don't misunderstand me, there's no time for explanations now, only do as i ask you. you will recognize him when i tell you he is very blond and very like his pictures," and away flew mr. daly to attend to things enough to drive most men crazy. now, that speech did not mean that mr. fisk was a monster of ill-breeding or of immorality, but it did mean that that was mr. daly's "tat" to mr. fisk's "tit" in a very pretty little "tit-for-tat" quarrel between them. mr. daly very seldom tasted defeat--very, very seldom came out second best in an encounter; but there had been a struggle anent the renting of the theatre: mr. fisk, as landlord, refusing to renounce his right of entrance by the stage-door to any theatre he owned--nothing could move him, no argument, no entreaty, no threat; not even an offer of more rent than he himself asked. to mr. daly the right of entrance of an outsider back of the stage was almost unbearable, even though the privilege was seldom used and never abused. he declared he would not sign any agreement holding such a clause. he gave up the theatre rather than yield, and then, with a large company already engaged, he sought in vain for a house to shelter it. now, the city is broken out all over, close and fine, with theatres, like a case of well-developed measles; but then 'twas different. mr. daly could find no other theatre, and he was compelled to accept the fifth avenue with the hated clause compromised thus: mr. fisk was to have the right of entrance to the green-room, but was never to go upon the stage or behind the scenes; an ending to the struggle that pleased the company mightily, for they were all very fond of jimmy fisk, or "the prince," as he was called. he never forgot them on benefit nights; whether the beneficiary was man or woman there was always a gift ready from the "railroad prince." he looked like a man well acquainted with his tub. his yellow hair crisped itself into small waves right from its very roots. his blue eyes danced with fun, for he was one of nature's comedians. his manner was what he himself would describe as "chipper." no one could talk five minutes with him without being moved to laughter. his own box was the right upper one, and as i first had him pointed out to me, yellow-haired, laughing, flashing now and then a splendid ring, i wondered if he really was the stalking-horse of the dark little man with the piercing eyes who sat for one act well back of the redundant and diffuse mr. james fisk. wishing to make sure of the dark man's identity, i asked who he was. "oh," was the answer, "he's gone now, but i suppose it was gould, rooting out the 'prince' to talk shop to him!" then, thrusting out a contemptuous under-lip, my informant added: "he's no good--he has nothing to do with the theatre! scarcely ever comes to a performance, and doesn't see anything when he does. he couldn't tell any one of us apart from the others if he tried--and he's not likely to try. you want to keep your eye on jimmie. if he likes you, you're in for flowers and a present, too, on your benefit!" imagine, then, my amazement on the third night of the season when this occurred: in one act i made my exit before the curtain fell--all the other characters being still upon the stage. having a change of dress there, i always hurried down-stairs as quickly as possible, and passing in one door and out of the other, crossed the green-room to reach my dressing-room. that evening as i ran in i saw a gentleman standing near the opposite door. i turned instantly to retreat, when a voice called: "if you please." i paused, i turned. the gentleman removed his hat, and coming to the centre of the room held out his hand, saying: "miss morris--you _are_ miss morris?" i smiled assent and gave him my hand. his small, smooth fingers closed upon mine firmly. we stood and looked at each other. he was small, and dark of hair and of beard, and his piercing eyes seemed to be reading me through and through. he spoke presently, in a voice low and gentle--almost to sadness. "i wanted to speak to you," he said; "i'm not going to waste time telling you you are a wonderful actress, because the papers have already done that, and all new york _will_ do it, but i see you are an honest girl and alone here----" "no--oh, no!" i broke in, "my mother, too, is here!" a faint smile seemed to creep about his bearded lips, there was a distinct touch of amusement in his voice as he said: "i-n-d-e-e-d! a valiant pair, no doubt--a truly valiant pair! but," his small fingers closed with surprising strength about mine in emphasis of his words, "but, oh, my honest little woman, you are going to see trouble here!" he glanced down at the hateful cheap dress i wore, he touched it with the brim of his hat: "yes, you will have sore trouble on this score, to say nothing of other things; but don't let them beat you! when your back is to the wall, don't give up! but at a last pinch turn to me, clara morris, and if i don't know how to help you out, i know somebody who will! she----" steps, running steps, were coming down the passageway, then tall, dead-white with anger, mr. daly stood in the doorway. he almost gasped the words: "what does this mean, sir?" then angrily to me: "leave the room at once!" flushing at the tone, i bent my head and moved toward the door, when, calm and clear, came the words: "good-night, miss morris, please remember!" mr. daly seemed beside himself with anger. "mr. gould," he cried (my heart gave a jump at the name; to save my life i could not help glancing back at them), "how dare you pass the stage-door? you have no more right here than has any other stranger! your conduct, sir----" the gray, blazing eyes of the speaker were met by mr. gould's, calm, cold, hard as steel, and his voice, low and level, was saying: "we will not discuss my conduct here, if you please--your office perhaps," as i fled down the entry to my own room. mr. daly sent for me at the end of the play to demand my story of the unexpected meeting. had i received any note, any message beforehand? had we any common acquaintance? what had he said to me--word for word, what had he said? i thought of the gentle voice, the piercing eyes that had grown so kind, the friendly promise, and somehow i felt it would be scoffed at--i rebelled. i would only generalize. he had called me an honest girl, had said the city praised me; but when i got home i told my mother all, who was greatly surprised, since she had had only the newspaper gould in her mind--a sort of human spider, who wove webs--strong webs--that caught and held his fellow-men. his words came true. i saw trouble of many kinds and colors. more than once i thought of his promise, but i had learned much ill of human nature in a limited time, and i was afraid of everyone. knowing much of poor human nature now, and looking back to that evening, recalling every tone, every shade of expression, i am forced to believe mr. jay gould was perfectly honest and sincere in his offer of assistance. if this incident seems utterly incredible at first, it is because you are thinking of mr. gould wholly in his character of "the wizard of wall street;" but turn to the domestic side of the man, think of his undying love for, his unbroken loyalty and devotion to, the wife of his choice, who, as mother of his little flock, never ceased to be his sweetheart. is it so improbable, then, that his heart, made tender by love for one dear woman, sheltered and protected, might feel a throb of pity for another woman, unsheltered and alone, whose poverty he saw would be a cruel stumbling-block in her narrow path? i think not. who that "she" was whose aid he would have asked in my behalf i do not know, can never know; but it always gives me an almost childish pleasure to imagine it was the sweet, strong woman who was his wife. at all events, mr. gould that night furnished me with a pleasant memory, and that is a thing to be thankful for. the first time i saw mr. fisk in the green-room he was surrounded by a smiling, animated party, and as he advanced a step, expectantly, i disappeared. i have been told that he laughed at his own disappointment and the suddenness of some claim upon my attention. the second time, i was in the room when he entered, and at my swift departure he reddened visibly, and, after a moment, said: "if you were not all such good friends of mine, i should think someone had been making a bugaboo of me to scare that young woman." "oh," laughed one of the men, "she's from the west and is a bit wild yet." "well," he replied, "it doesn't matter where she's from, new york's got her now and means to keep her. i'd like to offer her a word of welcome and congratulation, but she won't give a chap any margin," and he resumed his conversation. the third time, he was alone in the room, and as i backed hastily out he followed me. i ran--so did he--but as that was too ridiculous i stopped at his call and, turning, faced him. he removed his hat and hurriedly said: "i beg your pardon for forcing myself upon your attention, miss morris, but any man with a grain of self-respect would demand an explanation of such treatment as i have received from you. come now, you are a brave girl, an honest girl--tell me, please, why you avoid me as if i were the plague. why, good lord! your eyes are all but jumping out of your head! are you afraid even to be seen listening to me?" suddenly he stopped, his own words had given him an idea. his eyes snapped angrily. "well, i'll be blessed!" he exclaimed; then he came closer. he took my hand and asked: "miss morris, have you been putting these slights on me by order?" i was confused, i was frightened; i remembered the anger mr. gould's presence had aroused, and this was an actual breech of orders. i stammered: "i--oh, i just happened to be busy, you know." i glanced anxiously about me; he replied: "yes, you were very busy to-night, sitting in the green-room doing nothing--yet you ran as if i were a leper. tell me, little woman--don't be afraid--have you been obeying an order?" "if you please--if you please!" was all i could say. he looked steadily at me, lifted my hand to his lips, and said, with a compassionate sigh: "bread and butter comes high in new york, doesn't it, child? there, i won't worry you any longer, but brother daly and i will hold a little love-feast over this matter." and with a laugh he returned to the green-room, where i could hear him singing "lucy long" to himself. a fortnight later, finding him again surrounded by the company, he laughingly called out to me: "don't run away, the embargo is raised. it won't cost you a cent to shake hands and be friendly!" and as i seated myself in the place he made beside him, he added, low: "and no advantage taken of it outside the theatre." he used so many queer, old-fashioned words, such as "chipper," "tuckered," "i swan!" "mean tyke," etc., that i once said to him: "i'm afraid you have washed your face in a pail by the pump ere this, mr. fisk?" he laughed, and responded: "i'm afraid i used to be sent back to do it better, when i had first to break the ice to get to the water in the pail, miss guesswell!" and then he gave a funny imitation of a boy washing his face in icy water, by wetting his fingers and drawing a circle about each eye and his mouth. he called his wife lucy. heaven knows whether it really was her name, but he always referred to her as lucy. he was very fond of her, in spite of appearances, and proud of her, too. he said to me once: "she is no hair-lifting beauty, my lucy, just a plump, wholesome, big-hearted, commonplace woman, such as a man meets once in a lifetime, say, and then gathers her into the first church he comes to, and seals her to himself. for you see these commonplace women, like common-sense, are apt to become valuable as time goes on!" when anyone praised some wife, he would look up and say: "wife--whose wife? what wife? bring your wives along, i ain't afraid to measure my lucy with 'em. for, look here, you mustn't judge lucy by her james!" a divorce case was before the courts, and it was much discussed everywhere. the wife had been jealous and suspicious, and blond hairs (she was very dark herself) and strange hair-pins held a ludicrous prominence in the evidence. "ah!" said fisk, "that's not the kind of a wife i have! never, _never_ does lucy surprise me with a visit, god bless her! no, she always telegraphs me when she's coming, and i--i clear up and have a warm welcome for her, and then she's pleased, and that pleases me, and we both enjoy our visit. hang'd if we don't! and just to show you what a hero--yes, a _hero_--she is, and, talking of hair-pins, let me tell you now. you know those confounded crooked ones, with three infernal crinkles in the middle to keep them from falling out of the hair? those english chorus-girls wear them, i'm told. well, one day lucy comes to see me. oh, she had sent word as usual, and everything was cleared up (i supposed) as usual, and george, my man, was laying out some clothes for me, when lucy, smoothing her hand over the sofa-cushion, picks up and holds to the light an infernal crinkled hair-pin. george turned white and looked pleadingly at me. i saw myself in court fighting a divorce like the devil; and then, after an awful, perspiring silence, my lucy says--she that has worn straight pins all her life: 'james, that is a lazy and careless woman that cares for your rooms. it's three weeks to-day since i left for home, and here is one of my hair-pins lying on the sofa ever since!' "if she had put it in her hair i should have thought her really deceived in the matter, but when she dropped it in the fire, i knew she was just a plain hero! i walked over and knelt down and said: 'thank you, lucy,' while i pretended to tie her shoe. george was so upset that he dropped the studs twice over he was trying to put into a shirt-front. oh, i tell you my lucy can't be beat!" the time he won the name of "jubilee jim," when the whole country was laughing over his triumphant visit to boston with his regiment, he made this unsmiling explanation of the matter: "you see, the ninth and i were both tickled over the invitation to visit boston, and as there were so many of us i paid the expenses myself. being proud of the regiment and anxious it should be acquainted with all real american institutions, i arranged for it to stay over sunday, for there were dozens of the boys who had never even seen a slice of real boston brown-bread or a crock-baked bean--and a boston sunday breakfast was to be the educational feature of the visit. everything was lovely, until the ninth suddenly felt a desire to pray, as well as to eat, and i'll be switched on to a side-track if the minister of that big church didn't begin to kick like a steer, and finally refuse to let us pray in his shop. now, if there's anything that will make a man hot as blazes in a minute, it's choking him off when he wants to pray. some sharply pointed and peppery words were exchanged on the subject. i suppose our numbers rather muddled up his schedule, but if he'd said so quietly i could have straightened out his heavenly time-table so that there would have been no collision between trains of prayer. but no, instead of that, he slams the doors of his church in our visiting faces, and, in act at least, tells us to go to--what's that polite word now that means h--? what--what do you call it _sheol_? shucks! that word won't become popular--hasn't got any snap to it! well, the boys were mighty blue, they thought the visit was off. but i got 'em into the armory, and i said, what amounted to this, i says: 'this visit ain't off; boston is right as a trivet, and wants us! we ain't bucking against the city, but against that sanctified stingyike who don't want anyone in heaven but his own gang; but you see here, when the ninth regiment wants to pray, i'm d----d if it don't do it. who cares for that church, anyway, where you'd be crowded like sardines and have your corns crushed to agony! we'll go to boston, boys, and we'll praise the lord on the common, if they'll let us, and if they won't, we'll march out to the suburbs and have a perfect jubilee of prayer!' and what do you think," he cried, grinning like a mischievous boy, as he twisted the long, waxed ends of his mustache to needle-like points, "what do you think--we prayed out of doors, with all female boston and her attendants looking on and saying _amen_; and, oh, by george! i sent a man to see, and 'stingyike's' church was nearly empty! ha! ha! i tell you what it is, when a new york soldier wants to pray, he prays, or something gives!" after that he was jubilee jim. his growing stoutness annoyed him greatly, yet he was the first to poke fun at what he called his "unmilitary figure." one evening i said: "mr. fisk, i'm afraid you have cast too much bread upon the waters; it's said to be very fattening food when it returns?" "well, i swan!" he answered, "i'll never give another widow a pass over any road of mine--whether she's black, mixed, or grass, for that's about all the breadcasting i do." this was not true, for he was very kind-hearted and generous, especially to working people who were in trouble. his "black widow" was one in full mourning, his "mixed widow" was the poor soul who had only a cheap black bonnet or a scanty veil topping her ordinary colored clothing to express her widowed state, while the "grasses" were, in his own words: "all those women who were not married--but ought to be." whenever he gave a diamond or an india shawl to a french opera-bouffe singer the world heard of it, and the value grew and grew daily, and that publicity gratified his strange distorted vanity, but the lines of widows, sometimes with hungry little flocks hanging at their skirts, that he passed over roads, the discharged men he "sneaked" (his own word) back into positions again, because of their suffering brood, he kept silent about. he never got angry at the papers, no matter what absurdity they printed about him. at the time of the riot some paper declared he had left his men and had climbed a high board fence in order to escape from danger. in referring to the article at the theatre one evening, he said, in reproachful tones: "now wasn't that a truly stupid lie?" he rose, and placing his hands where his waist should have been, he went on mournfully: "look at me! i look like a sprinter, don't i? if you just could see me getting into that uniform--no offence, ladies, i don't mean no harm. oh, lord, who has a small grammar about them? well, when i'm in the clothes, it takes two men's best efforts, while i hold my breath, to clasp my belt--and they say i climbed that high fence! say, i'd give five thousand dollars down on the nail if i had the waist to do that act with!" he was not only a natural comedian, but he had an instinct for the dramatic in real life, and he was quick to grasp his opportunity at the burning of chicago. _his_ relief train must be rushed through first--_he_ must beg personally; and then--and then, oh, happy thought! all the city knew the value he placed upon the beautiful jet black stallion he rode in the park. out, then, he and his stall-mate came--splendid, fiery, satin-coated aristocrats! and taking their places before a great express wagon, went prancing and curvetting their way from door to door, mr. fisk stopping wherever a beckoning hand appeared at a window. and bundles of clothing, boxes of provisions, anything, everything that people would give, he gathered up with wild haste, and brief, warm thanks, and rushed to the express offices for proper sorting and packing. of course that personal service was not really necessary. a modest man would not have done it, but he was spectacular. his act pleased the people, too, and really many were moved to give by it. their fancy was caught by the picture of the be-diamonded jubilee jim placing himself and his valuable horses at the service of the terror-stricken, homeless chicagoans. though he was himself the butt of most of his jokes, he often expressed his opinions in terms as conclusive and quite as funny as those of his world-famous reply to the sanctimonious fence-committee, who, claiming that the laying of his railroad had destroyed the greater part of the old fence about a country graveyard, demanded that he should replace it with a new one. scarcely were the words out of their lips than, swift as a flash, came the characteristic answer: "what under heaven do you want a fence round a graveyard for? the poor chaps that are in there can't get out, and, i'll take my bible oath, those that are out don't want to get in! fence around a graveyard! i guess not; i know a dozen better ways of spending money than that!" i heard much of his generosity on benefit nights, but personally i never tested it. before my benefit night arrived, mr. edward stokes had caught mr. fisk on a walled-in staircase, as in a trap, and had shot him down, and then, in that time of terror and excitement, jubilee jim proved that whatever else he had been called--man of sin, fraud, trickster, clown--he was _not_ a coward! with wonderful self-control he asked, as the clothing was being cut from his stricken body: "is this the end of me; am i going to die, doctor?" and when the man addressed made an evasive and soothing answer, that his hopeless eyes contradicted, james fisk testily continued: "i want to know the truth!" then, more gently: "i'm not afraid to die, doctor, but _i am_ afraid of leaving things all at sixes and sevens! this is the end of me, isn't it? well, do what you can, and, george, send for ---- and for ---- [his lawyers], and i will do what i can. when can lucy get here?" and so he quickly and calmly made all possible use of his ebbing strength--of the flying moments--disproving at least one charge, that of cowardice. he was dying, and crowds were waiting about the hotel where he lay, hungry for any morsel of news from the victim's bedside. that was the situation as i went to the theatre. i dressed and went through one act, then, as i came upon the stage in the second act, i faced mr. fisk's private box. i glanced casually at it, and stopped stock-still, the words dying on my lips. a shiver ran over me--someone had entered the box since the first act and had lowered the heavy red curtains and drawn them close together. no one could fail to understand. the flood of light, the waves of music reached to the edge of the box only--within were silence, darkness! the laughing owner would enter there no more, forever! with swelling throat i stood looking up. another actor entered, saw the direction of my eyes, followed it, and next moment tears were on his cheeks. then people in the house, noticing our distress, glanced in that same direction, and here and there a man rose and slipped out. here and there a handkerchief was pressed to a face, for without a word being spoken all knew, by the blank, closed box, that mr. fisk was dead. i never knew a more trying evening for actors, for all knew him well--liked him and grieved for him. i was the only mere acquaintance, yet i was deeply moved and found it hard to act as usual before that mute, blank box--hard as though the body of its one-time owner lay within. so he made his exit--dramatic to the last. a strange character--shrewd, sharp, vain, ostentatious, loving his diamonds, velvet coats, white gloves. the monumental silver water-pitchers in his private boxes were too foul to drink from generally, but then the public could see the mass of silver. a bit of a mountebank, beyond a question, but with a temper so sunny and a heart so generous that in spite of all his faults jubilee jim had a host of friends. chapter thirty-sixth a search for tears--i am punished in "saratoga" for the success of "man and wife"--i win mr. daly's confidence--we become friends. the people who have known happiness without the alloying _if_ or _but_ are few and far between. "yes, of course we are happy--but," "i should be perfectly and completely happy--_if_," you hear people saying every day; and so in my case, having been admitted into fellowship with the men and women of the company, who were a gracious and charming crowd, and receiving hearty approval each night from the great public, by whose favor i and mine existed, i was grateful and would have been quite happy--_but_ for a brand-new difficulty that suddenly loomed up, large, and wide, and solid before me. never in my life had i been in a play of a longer run than one week. imagine, then, my misery when i found this play, that was already old to me at the end of the first week, was likely to go on for a long time to come. it was not mere _ennui_ over the repetition of the same lines, night after night, that troubled me, it was something far more serious. i had made my hit with the public by moving the people's feelings to the point of tears; but to do that i had first to move my own heart, for, try as i would, no amount of careful acting had the desired effect. _i_ had to shed tears or _they_ would not. now that is not an easy thing to do to order, in cold blood. while the play is new one's nerves are strained almost to the breaking point--one is over-sensitive and the feelings are easily moved; then the pathetic words i am speaking touch my heart, tears rush to my eyes, tears are heard in my voice, and other hearts respond swiftly; _but_ when you have calmed down, when you have repeated the lines so often that they no longer mean anything to you, what are you to do then? really and truly there were days when i was nearly out of my mind with terror lest i should not be able to cry that night; for those tears of mine had a commercial value as well as an artistic, and mr. daly was swift to reproach me if the handkerchief display in front was not as great as usual. this sounds absurd perhaps to a reader, but heaven knows it was tragic enough to me. i used to agonize all day over the question of tears for the night, and i have seen the time when even my own imaginary tomb failed to move me. one night, when my eyes were dry as bones, and my voice as hard as stone, and mr. daly was glaring whitely at me from the entrance, i had suddenly a sort of vision of that dethroned actress whom, back in cleveland, i had seen uncrowned. i saw her quivering face, her stricken eyes, and a sudden rush of tears blinded me. later, mr. daly said: "what a tricky little wretch you are. i thought you were going to throw that scene away, without a single tear to-night. i suppose you were doing it to aggravate me, though?" goodness knows i was grateful enough myself for the tears when they did come, and i got an idea from that experience that has served me all the years since. everything else--love, hate, dignity, passion, vulgarity, delicacy, duplicity, all, everything can be assumed to order; but, for myself, tears are not mechanical, they will not come at will. the heart must be moved, and if the part has lost its power then i must turn to some outside incident that _has_ power. it may be from a book, it may be from real life--no matter, if only its recalling starts tears to weary eyes. thus in "alixe" it was not for my lost lover i oftenest wept such racing tears, but for poor old _tennessee's partner_ as he buried his worthless dead, with his honest old heart breaking before your eyes. while in "camille" many and many a night her tears fell fast over the memory of a certain mother's face as she told me of the moment when, returning from the burial of her only child, the first snowflakes began to whirl through the still, cold air, and she went mad with the anguish of leaving the little tender body there in the cold and dark, and flung herself from the moving carriage and ran, screaming, back to the small rough pile of earth to shelter it with her own living body. so there is my receipt for sudden tears. i being--thank heaven--a cheerful body, and given to frequent laughter, may laugh in peace up to the last moment, if i have only stowed away some heart-breaking incident that i can recall at the proper moment. it seems like taking a mean advantage of a tender heart, i know--what bret harte would call "playing it low down" on it; but what else could i do? i leave it to you. what could _you_ do to make yourself cry seven times a week, for nine or ten months a year? then there was another great change in the new life. i was used to rehearsing every day, and, lo! when once a play was on here, there followed weeks, perhaps months, when there were no rehearsals. mercy! i could never afford to waste all that time; but what could i do? "one _and_ two _and_ three _and_," i could not afford; but, oh, _if_ i could take some french lessons, _what_ a help they would be to me in the proper pronunciation of names upon the stage. but i did not want lessons from some ignorant person, or someone who had a strange dialect. i have all my life had such a horror of _unlearning_ things. i knew a real french teacher would charge me a real "for-true" price, and my heart was doubtful--but see how fate was good to me. there was in tenth street a little daughter of a well-known french professor--he taught in a certain college. the daughter was eager to teach. the father said: "who will trust so young a girl to instruct them? if you only had a first and second pupil, you would be self-supporting. french teachers are in great demand, but where shall you find that first pupil--tell me that, _ma fille_. no matter how small your charge, the question will be, where have you taught? no one will wish to be the first pupil." but, fine old french gentleman as he was, he was mistaken nevertheless, for i was willing, nay, eager, to be that first pupil, and she found my name of so much value to her in obtaining a full class that she became absolutely savage in her fell determination to make me speak her beloved language correctly. in spite of her eighteen years she looked full fourteen, and her dignity was a fearful thing to contemplate, until she had a chocolate-cream in one cheek and a dimple in the other, then somehow the dignity broke in the middle and the lesson progressed through much laughter. she was not beautiful, but pretty and charming to such an extent that, within the year, she became madame, carried her own chocolates, and was absolutely vicious over irregular verbs. dear little woman--i remember her gratefully, and also remember that, later on, i paid just six times as much per lesson to an elaborate person, well-rouged, who taught me nothing, lest she might offend me in the act. i know this to be true, because one day i deliberately mispronounced and let tenses run wild, to see if she would have the honesty or courage to correct me; but she looked a trifle surprised, rearranged her bangles, and let it all pass. i then resigned my position as pupil, that she might give her very questionable assistance as teacher to some other scholar, shorter of temper, and more sensitive to rebuke or correction than i was. at the theatre i think everyone liked me well enough, save mr. daly. he disliked me because i simply could not learn to treat him with reverence. i had the greatest admiration for him, i showed him respect by obeying him implicitly, but if he was funny i laughed, if he gave me an opportunity to twist his words absurdly i accepted it as gleefully as if he had been the gas-man. but two things happened, and lo! my manager's attitude toward me changed completely. mr. daly was convinced that no man or woman could bear decently a sudden success. he was positive that no head could stand it. when i made no demand for my promised increase of salary, but went pinching along as best i could, he only said to himself: "she will be all the worse when her head does begin to turn." one day a certain newspaper man looked in at his office, and said: "oh, i have something here about the play, and i've given a few pretty good lines to your _find_ (clara morris): do you want to look at them?" "i want them cut out!" sharply ordered mr. daly. "cut out?" repeated the surprised man. "why, she's the play--or mighty near it. i thought you'd want her spoken of most particularly?" and then mr. daly made his famous speech: "i don't want individual successes, sir, in my theatre! i want my company kept at a level. i put them all in a line, and then i watch, and if one head begins to bob up above the others, i give it a crack and send it down again!" i had heard that story in several forms, when one day i spoke of it to mr. daly, and he calmly acknowledged the speech, as i have given it above, adding the words: "and next week i'm going to give mr. crisp's head a crack, he's bobbing up, i see!" the play of "saratoga," by mr. bronson howard, had been read to the company, and, after the custom of actors the world over, they began to cast the characters themselves--such a part for lewis, such a one for miss davenport. the splendid irish part for amy ames (of course, with her wonderful brogue), etc.; almost everyone remarking that there was nothing for me. lewis said: "well, clara, you're out of this play, sure. will you study greek or the rogue's vocabulary? for i'll wager a hat to a hair-pin you'll be turning a good head of hair gray over some nonsense of the kind--good lord!" for m. bènot was holding toward me a thin little part, saying: "for you, miss morris." mr. daly stood at the far end of the room; he was watching me. the part was a walking lady of second quality. it was an indignity to give it to me. like lightning i recalled the terms of my contract--i realized my helplessness. i rolled up the small part, calmly rose, and smiling a comprehending smile into mr. daly's disappointed eyes, for which he could have choked me, i sauntered out of the room. at home i wept bitterly. it was undeserved! i had borne so much from gratitude, and here i was being treated just as a fractious, brain-turned, presuming person might have been treated for a punishment. however, my tears were only seen at home. at the theatre i rehearsed faithfully and good-temperedly, and writhed smilingly at the expressions of surprise over the cast, and for one hundred nights i was thus made to do penance for having made a success in "man and wife." truly i had got a good "crack" for bobbing up; still my patient, uncomplaining acceptance of the part had made an impression on mr. daly, and he often expressed his regret, later on, for the error he made as to the possible turning of my head. then came the second happening. to mr. daly a confidant was an absolute necessity of existence. if they had tastes in common, so much the happier for mr. daly, but such tastes were not imperatively demanded, neither was sex of importance--male or female would answer; but the one great, indispensable, and essential quality was the ability to respect a confidence, the power to hold a tongue. in the early weeks of the season he had been drifting into a friendship with a man in the company, and had told him, in strictest confidence, of a certain plan he was forming, and twenty-four hours later he heard that plan being discussed in one of the dressing-rooms. it had traveled by way of husband to wife, wife to friend, friend to her husband, and husband no. was busy in explaining it to all and sundry. that ended the career of one gentleman as friend and confidant to mr. daly. one day after rehearsal i was detained on the stage to discuss a fashion-plate he was tearing from a magazine. a short poem caught his eye. he glanced at it carelessly, then looked more closely at the lines, and began to mumble the words: "she of the silver foot--fair goddess--" his brows were knit, his eyes looked away, dreamily. again he repeated the words, adding, impatiently: "i can't place that silver foot--the bow, the lyre, yes; but the foot? oh, probably it's a mere figure of speech," and he turned to the plate again, when i said: "perhaps it means _thetis_, you know, silver-footed queen--daughter of old sea-god." his whole face lit up with pleasure. "that's it," he said, "that's whom it means; but are you sure the word 'queen' belongs right there?" "no," i laughed, "i have grave doubts about my 'queen,' but i'm solid as a rock on the rest of the line." then he repeated, with lingering enjoyment: "'thetis, silver-footed, _silver-footed_, daughter of old sea-god.' do you know i often wonder why someone does not make a play of mythological characters--a play after the modern method i mean." "oh," i broke in, "then i shall have a rest, for i am not beautiful enough for even a walking-lady divinity." "ah," he said, kindly, "you are not going to do any more walking ladies--divine or human. i have already in my possession a play with a great part for you. boucicault wrote it, and----" he stopped suddenly, all the brightness went out of his face. he played nervously with his watch-guard. he started out with: "miss morris, i wish--" stopped, frowned; then impatiently took up the picture-plate, pointed out which dress he wanted me to wear, and curtly dismissed me. i understood him perfectly. in a genial moment he had unintentionally given me some information which he now regretted, though he would not stoop to ask my silence; and he felt sure that i would at once boast of the great part that was to be mine; and i went home, one broad smile of malicious satisfaction, for in spite of my seemingly-careless speech, i had, by long and careful training, acquired the fine art of holding my tongue about other people's affairs, even though i ascended to the roof to babble to the city of my own; and mr. daly would be again disappointed, as he had been the day i accepted, without protest, the walking-lady part. that night he barely nodded in silent recognition of my "good-evening, sir." next morning he kept his eyes averted from me when he gave me any stage directions; but whenever or wherever we women formed a little group to chat, there mr. daly, like a jack-in-the-box, suddenly sprang into evidence. it was very funny--he was simply waiting for me to repeat my interesting information. two, three days passed, then a certain kindness began to show in his manner toward me. quite suddenly, and of course unasked, he gave me a dressing-room to myself. i was delighted! hesitatingly, i tapped at the door of his office. i had never stood there before, save by order. i said: "i will not come in, mr. daly, i only wished to thank you for the room you have given me. it will be a great comfort, for we are terribly crowded in the other one." but he rose, took my hand, and said: "you deserve anything and everything this theatre can provide for you." drawing me to a chair, he placed me in it, while still speaking: "and i am proud of you. you are a girl in ten thousand! for you can respect a confidence." i was very much embarrassed by such unexpected warmth, and laughing nervously i said: "even when the confidence was unintentional and deeply regretted?" "ah!" he answered, "you saw that, did you? well, i've been listening and waiting to hear about the 'new play' ever since, but not a word have you dropped, and i did not ask for silence either. you are a woman worth talking to, and i shall never be afraid to tell you things i am going to do, and----" and straightway he told me all about the new play--its good points, its bad ones, and where he feared for it; and to show you how true was his judgment, the play, which later on gave me a great personal success, was itself a failure from the very causes he then indicated. and so it came about that mr. daly, putting aside his dislike for me--coming to enjoy my sense of the ridiculous, instead of resenting it--confided many, many plans and dreams, likes and dislikes, hates and loves to me. we quarreled spitefully over politics, fought furiously over religion, wickedly bowed down and worshipped before odds and ends of lovely carvings or precious _cloisonné_, to whose beauty i first introduced him, and hung in mutual rapture over rare old engravings. thus i came to know him fairly well. a man with unbounded ambition, a man of fine and delicate tastes, with a passionate love of beauty--in form, color, sound. i have known him to turn a sentence, exquisitely, word by word, slowly repeating the line, as though he were tasting its beauty, as well as hearing it. interested in the occult and the inscrutable--a man of many tastes, but of one _single purpose_--every power and acquirement were brought to the service of the stage. in love he was mutability personified. in friendship, always exigent. now sullenly silent, now rapidly talkative, whimsical, changeable, he was ever lavishly generous and warm-hearted. and it is a comfort to know that in one respect at least i proved satisfactory during the friendship that lasted as long as i remained in the theatre, since i never, even by chance, betrayed his confidence. when we had finally parted, a man one day mentioned me to mr. daly, expecting to bring forth some disparaging remark. there was a pause while my former manager gazed out at the heavily falling rain, then he said, quietly: "when you drop a thing in a well, it can go no further. clara morris is a sort of human well, what you confide to her goes no further. some people call that 'discretion,' i call it loyalty. i--i guess you'll get a wetting on the way home." and acting on that hint the surprised gentleman withdrew. he told me himself of the occurrence, and i confess that mr. daly's words gave me a thrill of pleasure. after those two occurrences i found my theatrical life pleasanter, for i love my kind and wish to live at peace with them--and mr. daly's dislike had disturbed and distressed me; therefore, when that had been conquered, great was my contentment. a sympathetic word, a comprehending glance, a friendly smile, proving ample indemnification for former injuries. nor could i be made to accept at full value the cruel gibes, the bitter sarcasms reported to me as coming from miss agnes ethel. for some reason there was a distinct effort made to arouse in me an enmity against that lady. unpleasant stories had been repeated to me during the run of "man and wife"; some of them had wounded me, but i had only listened silently. then one night i met her--a slender, auburn-haired, appealing creature, with clinging fingers, sympathetic voice, and honest eyes--a woman whose charming and cordial manner not only won my admiration, but convinced me she was incapable of the brutalities charged to her. so when "jezebel" was announced, and it was known that mr. daly desired miss ethel and me both to appear in it, great interest was aroused, only to be crushed by miss ethel's refusal to play the part allotted to her. i think she was in error, for the two parts were perfectly balanced. mine was the wicked, even murderous adventuress; hers the gentle, sweet, and triumphant wife. i had the first act; she was not in that, but mr. daly's idea was that her victory in the last act--where i was simply pulverized for my sins--evened things up. but miss ethel listened to the advice of outside friends. her relations with mr. daly were already strained, and her second refusal of a part was the beginning of the end. mr. daly himself informed me that she said her part was secondary, but that the real difficulty sprang from an earlier wrangle between them, with which i had nothing to do. yet there were persons who, with great indignation, informed me that miss ethel had positively "refused to appear upon the stage in any play with me--a mere vulgar outsider!" but "vulgar outsider" was just a touch too strong; "malice had o'erleaped self" and fallen on the other side. the silly story even reached some of the papers, but that did not increase my belief in its truth. mr. daly and miss ethel parted company before, or at, the end of the season, and while i never worked with her, later on i privately received such gracious courtesies from her kindly hands that the name of agnes ethel must ever ring pleasantly in my ears. chapter thirty-seventh a study of stage-management--i am tricked into signing a new contract. before i came under the management of mr. daly, i may say i never really knew what stage-management meant. he was a young man then; he had had, i believe, his own theatre but one season before i joined his forces, yet his judgment was as ripe, his decisions were as swift and sure, his eye for effect was as true, his dramatic instinct as keen as well could be. we never exchanged so much as a frown, let alone a hasty word, over work. i realized that he had the entire play before his "mind's eye," and when he told me to do a thing, i should have done it, even had i not understood why he wished it done. but he always gave a reason for things, and that made it easy to work under him. his attention to tiny details amazed me. one morning, after mr. crisp had joined the company, he had to play a love-scene with me, and the "business" of the scene required him to hold me some time in his embrace. but mr. crisp's embrace did not suit mr. daly--no more did mine. out he went, in front, and looked at us. "oh," he cried, "confound it! miss morris, relax--relax! lean on him--he won't break! that's better--but lean more! lean as if you needed support! what? yes, i know you don't need it--but you're in love, don't you see? and you're not a lady by a mile or two! for god's sake, crisp, don't be so stiff and inflexible! here, let me show you!" up mr. daly rushed on to the stage, and taking crisp's place, convulsed the company with his effort at acting the lover. then back again to the front, ordering us to try that embrace again. "that's better!" he cried; "but hold her hand closer, tighter! not quite so high--oh, that's too low! don't poke your arm out, you're not going to waltz. what in ---- are you scratching her back for?" it was too much; in spite of the awe in which mr. daly was held, everyone, crisp included, screamed with laughter, while mr. daly fumed and fretted over the time that was being wasted. one of my early experiences of his way of directing a rehearsal made a deep impression upon me. in the play of "jezebel" i had the title part. there were a number of characters on in the scene, and mr. daly wanted to get me across the stage, so that i should be out of hearing distance of two of the gentlemen. now, in the old days, the stage-director would simply have said: "cross to the right," and you would have crossed because he told you to; but in mr. daly's day you had to have a _reason_ for crossing the drawing-room, and so getting out of the two gentlemen's way--and a reason could not be found. here are a few of the many rejected ideas: there was no guest for me to cross to in welcoming pantomime; no piano on that side of the room for me to cross to and play on softly; ah, the fireplace! and the pretty warming of one foot? but no, it was summer-time, that would not do. the ancient fancy-work, perhaps? no, she was a human panther, utterly incapable of so domestic an occupation. the fan forgotten on the mantel-piece? ah, yes, that was it! you cross the room for that--and then suddenly i reminded mr. daly that he had, but a moment before, made a point of having me strike a gentleman sharply on the cheek with my fan. "oh, confound it, yes!" he answered, "and that's got to stand--that blow is good!" the old, old device of attendance upon the lamp was suggested; but the hour of the day was plainly given by one of the characters as three o'clock in the afternoon. these six are but few of the many rejected reasons for that one cross of the stage; still mr. daly would not permit a motiveless action, and we came to a momentary standstill. very doubtfully, i remarked: "i suppose a smelling-bottle would not be important enough to cross the room for?" he brightened quickly--clouded over even more quickly: "y-e-e-s! n-o-o! at least, not if it had never appeared before. but let me see--miss morris, you must carry that smelling-bottle in the preceding scene, and--and, yes, i'll just put in a line in your part, making you ask some one to hand it to you--that will nail attention to it, you see! then in this scene, when you leave these people and cross the room to get your smelling-bottle from the mantel, it will be a perfectly natural action on your part, and will give the men their chance of explanation and warning." and at last we were free to move on to other things. above all was he eager to have his stage present a home-like interior. never shall i forget my amazement when i first saw a piece of furniture occupying the very centre of the stage, while i with others were reduced to acting in any scrap of room we could "scrooge" into, as children say. long trains were fashionable then, and it was no uncommon sight to see the lover standing with both feet firmly planted upon his lady's train while he implored her to fly with him--the poor man had to stand somewhere! miss davenport, in one of her comedy scenes, having to move about a good deal on the crowded stage, finally wound her trailing skirts so completely about a chair that, at her exit, the chair went with her, causing a great laugh. one night a male character, having to say boastfully to me: "i have my hand upon a fortune!" i added in an undertone: "and both feet upon my white satin dress!" at which he lost his grip (as the boys say) and laughed aloud--said laugh costing him a forfeit of fifty cents, which really should have been paid by me, as i was the guilty cause of that disastrous effect. but the gentleman was not only gallant but well used to being forfeited, and unconcernedly paid the penalty exacted. but really it was very distressing trying to make your way between pieces of furniture--stopping to release your skirts from first one thing and then another, and often destroying all the effect of your words by such action. one evening i petulantly observed to mr. daly: "i see now why one is only _woolly_ in the west--in the east one gets the wool all rubbed off on unnecessary pedestals and centre-divans." he laughed first, then pulled up sharply, saying: "perhaps you did not notice that your comment contained a criticism of my judgment, miss morris? if i think the furniture necessary, that is sufficient," and i gave him a military salute and ran down-stairs. at the foot mr. george brown and one of the pretty young women stood. she was saying: "now if any of _us_ had said there was too much crowding from that rubbishy old furniture, he would have made us pay a nice forfeit for it, but miss morris gets off scot-free!" "yes, i know," said mr. brown, "but then she amused him first with the idea of rubbing the western wool off here, and you can't very well laugh and then turn around and forfeit the person who made you do it." and so i learned that if no detail was too small for mr. daly to consider carefully in his preparation of a play, so no detail of daily life in his theatre was too small for notice, consideration, and comment, and i resolved to try hard to curb my careless speech, lest it get me into trouble. early during that first week my friend, john norton, said to me: "have you spoken to mr. daly about your salary yet?" "good gracious, no!" i answered. "well, but you should," he persisted; "that is only business. you have made a great hit; he promised you to double thirty-five dollars if you made a favorable impression." "well," i cried, "wait till salary-day, and very likely i'll get it; he will keep his word, only, for mercy's sake, give him a chance! it would insult him were i to remind him, now, of his promise." i was content to wait, but mr. norton was anxious. monday came and, tremblingly, i opened my envelope to find thirty-five dollars--no more, no less. i knew what anyone else would do, i knew i was valuable to mr. daly, but, oh, those years and years of repression--for so long a time _to be seen--not heard_, had been the law of my weary life, and now the old thrall was upon me, i simply could not demand my right. the tears fell fast as i went home, with that miserable wage in my hand. we were in such dreadful straits for clothing. other needs we could hide, but not the need of outer garments. i was quite sick with disappointment and anxiety, yet i would not permit mr. norton to go and speak for me, as that would mean gossip as to his right to interfere. i used to plan out exactly what i was going to say, and start a little earlier to the theatre, that i might have time to see mr. daly and remind him of his promise, and then, when i got there, unconquerable shame overcame me--i _could_ not! then one night mr. daly asked me to sign a contract for five years, with a certain rise in salary each year. i utterly refused. i knew that would mean absolute bondage. he said he would raise my salary now, if i would sign; and i did actually whisper, that he had not kept his promise about this year's salary. he curtly answered: "never mind this year--sign for five, and this season will then take care of itself!" "no," i said, and yet again "no!" "mr. daly," i cried, "i shall be grateful to you all the days of my life for giving me this chance in new york--you are treating me badly, but i am grateful enough not to rebel. i will play for you every season of my life, if you want me; i will never consider an offer without first telling you of it, but you must engage me but for one season at a time." "then you can go!" he said. "all my people are engaged from three to five years--i will not break my rule for anyone; so now you can choose!" "pardon me," i answered, huskily, "you chose for me when you told me to go!" i bowed to him and went out, sore at heart and deeply wounded, for i was keeping silent as to his broken promise out of sheer gratitude for the opening he had given me. the letter-box for the company hung near his private office. one night, as he unlocked his door, he saw old man keating (the stage-door man) sorting out letters for the various boxes. one caught mr. daly's eye, bearing the name of wallack. he took it from keating's hand; it was addressed to clara morris. no one ever called mr. daly a dull man, and when he put two and two together, even in a hurry, he knew quite well that the result would be four; and when he put the words, "wallack's theatre," and the address, "clara morris," together he knew equally well the result would be an offered engagement. then mr. daly put back the letter and said sharply to the reverent keating: "whatever you do, don't let miss morris pass you when she comes in. stop her before she takes her key. remember, whether early or late, stop her anyway, and send her to my room. tell her it is urgent--you understand? before she gets her key (by the letter-box) i _must_ see her!" yes, he understood, for when i came in i was switched away from the key-board in a jiffy and rushed by the elbow to the governor's office, and even held there until the summons to enter answered the knock of the determined and obedient keating. inside, mr. daly, smiling benignly, greeted me as one greets a naughty, spoiled child, and pulling me by my fingers toward his desk, showed me a contract outspread: "a contract for _one_ season," he said, giving me a light tap on my ear. "though you must promise silence on the subject, for there would be an outcry of favoritism if it were known that i broke a rule for you! salary? oh, the salary is only fifty-five dollars, but we will balance that by my assistance in the matter of wardrobe. whenever you have five dresses to buy i will provide three, which will belong to me afterward, of course--and--and just sign now, for i'm in a great haste, child, as i have an appointment to keep! oh, you don't want any time to think over an engagement of just one season! you obstinate little block! and, by the way, i'll add five dollars a week to your present salary for the rest of the season, if you sign this--yes, that's the right place!" so pinched, so tormented were we for money that i signed instantly to secure that immediate poor little five dollars a week rise! signed and went out to find, awaiting me in the letter-box, a better offer from mr. lester wallack. and let me say right here that about the middle of the season i found that some young actresses, who handed me cards on the stage, and in laced caps and aprons appeared as maids in my service, were receiving for their arduous duties a higher salary than i received as leading woman and their play-mistress. "it's a strange world, my masters, a very strange world!" chapter thirty-eighth i go to the sea-shore--the search for a "scar"--i make a study of insanity, and meet with success in "l'article ." i had got safely through my first dreaded vacation. i had had two wonderful weeks at the seaside, where, with mr. and mrs. james lewis and george parkes, i had boarded with mrs. by baker, whom we left firmly convinced of our general insanity--harmless, but quite hopeless cases she thought us. awed into reverent silence i had taken my first long look at the ocean; that mighty monster, object of my day-dreams all the years, lay that day outstretched, smiling, dimpling, blinking like the babe of giants, basking in the sun. i had inhaled with delight the briny coolness of its breath, and with my friends had engaged in wild romps in its waves, all of us arrayed meanwhile in bathing dresses of hideous aspect, made from gray flannel of penitential color and scratchiness, and most malignant modesty of cut; which were yet the eminently proper thing at that time. i almost wonder, looking at the bathing dresses of to-day, that old ocean, who is a lover of beauty, did not dash the breath out of us, and then fling us high and dry on the beach, where the sands might quickly drift over our ugly shells and hide them from view. all this happened, and much more, before i came to the play "l'article ," famous for its great french court scene, and for the madness of its heroine. i am so utterly lacking in self-confidence that it was little short of cruelty for mr. daly to tell me, as he did, that the fate of the play hung upon that single scene; that the production would be expensive and troublesome, and its success or failure lay absolutely in my hands. i turned white as chalk, with sheer fright, and could scarcely force myself to speak audibly, when asked if i could do the part. i answered, slowly, that i thought it unfair for mr. daly first to reduce me to a state of imbecility, through fear, and then ask me to make a close study of violent madness--since the two conditions were generally reversed. the people laughed, but there was no responsive smile on my lips, as i entered upon a period of mental misery that only ended with the triumphant first night. i did all i could do to get at _cora's_ character and standing before the dread catastrophe--feeling that her madness must to some extent be tinged by past habits and personal peculiarities. i got a copy of the french novel--that was not an affectation, but a necessity, as it had not then been translated, and i was greatly impressed with the minute description of the destruction done by the bullet _george_ had fired into her face. portions of the jaw-bone had been shot away; the eye, much injured, had barely been saved, but it was drawn and distorted. as the woman's beauty had been her letter of introduction to the gilded world, indeed had been her sole capital, that "scar" became of tremendous value in the make-up of the part, since it would explain, and in some scant measure excuse, her revengeful actions. still, as the play was done in paris, the "scar" was almost ignored by that brilliant actress, madame rousseil. i had her photograph in the part of _cora_, and while she had a drapery passed low beneath her jaws to indicate some injury to her neck or breast, her face was absolutely unblemished. to my mind that weakened _cora's_ case greatly--she had so much less to resent, to brood over. i took my trouble to mr. daly, after i had been out to the mad-house at blackwell's island, and had gained some useful information from that awful aggregation of human woe. he listened to bèlot's description of _cora's_ beauty and its wrecking "scar"; he looked condemningly at the rousseil picture, and then asked me what i wanted to do. i told him i wanted a dreadful scar--then i wanted to veil it always; and he broke in with, "then why have the scar, if it is to be veiled?" but i hurried on: "my constant care to keep it covered will make people imagine it a hundred times worse than it really is. then when the veil is torn off by main force, and they catch a glimpse of the horror, they will not wonder that her already-tottering brain should give way under such a blow to her vanity." mr. daly studied over the matter silently for a few moments, then he said: "yes, you are right. that scar is a great factor in the play; go ahead, and make as much of it as you can." but right there i came up against an obstacle. i was not good at even an eccentric make-up. i did not know how to proceed to represent such a scar, as i had in my mind. "try," said mr. daly. i tried, and with tear-reddened eyes announced my failure, but i said: "i shall ask mr. lemoyne to help me--he is the cleverest and most artistic maker-up of faces i ever saw." "yes," said mr. daly, "get him to try it after rehearsal; you have no time to lose now!" only too well i knew that; so at once i approached mr. lemoyne, and made my wants known. i had not the slightest hesitation in doing so, because, in spite of his sinful delight in playing jokes on me, he was the kindest, most warm-hearted of comrades; and true to that character he at once placed his services at my disposal, though he shook his head very doubtfully over the undertaking. "you know i never saw a scar of such a nature in my life," he said, as he lighted up his dressing-room. "oh," i said, "you, who can change your nose or your mouth or your eyes at will, can make an ugly scar, easily enough," and off went hat and veil, and mr. lemoyne, using my countenance for his canvas, began work. he grew more and more glum as he wiped off and repainted. one scar was too small--oh, much too small. then the shattered jaw-bone was described. again he tried. "clara," he said, "i can't do it, because i don't know what i am aiming at!" "oh, go on!" i pleaded, "make a hideous scar, then i'll learn how from you, and do it myself." he was patience and kindness personified, but when at last he said he could do no more, i looked in the glass, and--well, we both laughed aloud, in spite of our chagrin. he said: "it looks as though some street-boy had given you a swat in the eye with a chunk of mud." i mournfully washed it off and begged him to try just once more--to-morrow; and he promised with a doleful air. i had tears in my eyes as i left the theatre, i was so horribly cast down, for if mr. lemoyne could not make up that scar no one could. but he used too much black--that was a grave mistake, and--oh, dear! _now_ what? men were peeling up the stone walk. i could not go home by the sixth avenue car as usual, without a lot of bother and muddy shoes. i was just tired enough from rehearsal and disappointed enough to be irritated by the tiniest _contretemps_, and i almost whimpered, as i turned the other way and took a broadway car. i dropped into a corner. three men were on my side of the car. i glanced casually at them, and, "goodness mercy!" said i to myself, "what are they gazing at--they look fairly frightened?" i followed the direction of their eyes, and, i gasped! i felt goose-flesh creeping up my arms! on the opposite side sat a large and handsome mulatto woman, a small basket of white linen was on her knees, her face was turned toward the driver, and oh, good god! not so long ago, her throat had been cut almost from ear to ear! the scar was hideous--sickening, it made one feel faint and frightened, but i held my quivering nerves with an iron hand--here was my scar for _cora_! i must study it while i could. it had not been well cared for, i imagine, for the edges of the awful gash were puckered, as though a gathering thread held them. there was a queer, cord-like welt that looked white, while the flesh either side was red and threatening; and then, as if she felt my eyes, the woman turned and faced me. a dull color rose slowly over her mutilated throat and handsome face, and she felt hastily for a kerchief, which was pinned at the back of her dress-collar, and drew the ends forward and tied them. i kept my eyes averted after that, but when i left the car weariness was forgotten. i stopped at a druggist's shop, bought sticking-plaster, gold-beaters' skin, and absorbent cotton, and with springy steps reached home, materials in hand, model in memory--i was content, i had found my scar at last! if you are about to accuse me of hardness of heart in using, to my own advantage, this poor woman's misfortune, don't, or at least wait a moment first. when i had gone through the asylum's wards and the doctor had called my attention to this or that exceptional case and had tried to make clear _cause_ and _effect_; when i had noted ophidian's stealth in one and tigerish ferocity in another, i suddenly realized that to single one of these unfortunates out, then to go before an indifferent crowd of people and present to them a close copy of the helpless afflicted one, would be an act of atrocious cruelty. i could not do it! i would instead seize upon some of the general symptoms, common to all mad people, and build up a mad-scene with their aid, thus avoiding a cruel imitation of one of god's afflicted. so in this scar i was not going exactly to copy that riven throat, but, with slender rolls of cotton, covered and held by gold-beaters' skin, i was going to create dull white welts with angry red spaces painted between--with strong sticking-plaster attached to my eyelid, i was going to draw it from its natural position. oh, i should have a rare scar! yet that poor woman might herself see it without suspecting she had given me the idea. oh, what a time of misery it was, the preparation of that play! poor mr. daly--and poor, poor miss morris! you see everything hung upon the mad-scene. yet, when we came to that, i simply stood still and spoke the broken, disjointed words. "but what are you going to do at night?" mr. daly cried. "act your scene, miss morris." act it, in cold blood, there, in the gray, lifeless daylight? with a circle of grinning, sardonic faces, ready to be vastly amused over my efforts? he might better have asked me to deliver a polished address in beautiful, pellucid greek, to compose at command a charming little _rondeau_ in sparkling french, or a prayer in sonorous latin--they would have been easier for me to do, than to gibber, to laugh, to screech, to whisper, whimper, rave, to crouch, crawl, stride, fall to order in street-clothes, and always with those fiendish "guyers" ready to assist in my undoing. yet, poor mr. daly, too! i was sorry for him, he had so much at stake. it _was_ asking a good deal of him to trust his fate entirely, blindly to me. "oh!" i said, "i would if i could--do please believe me! i want to do as you wish me to, but, dear mr. daly, i can't, my blood is cold in daylight, i am ashamed, constrained! i cannot act then!" "well, give me some _faint_ idea of what you are going to do," he cried, impatiently. "dear goodness!" i groaned, "i am going to try to do all sorts of things--loud and quiet, fast and slow, close-eyed cunning, wide-eyed terror! there, that's all i can tell about it!" and i burst into harassed tears. he said never another word, but i used to feel dreadfully when, at rehearsals, he would rise and leave the stage as soon as we reached the mad-scene. then it happened we could not produce the play on monday. an old comedy was put on for that one night. i was not in it, and mr. daly, seeing how near i was to the breaking-point with hard work and terror, tried to give me a bit of pleasure. he got tickets for my mother and me, and sent us to the opera to hear parepa and wachtel. i was radiant with delight; but, alas, when did i ever have such high spirits without a swift dampening down. elaborately dressed as to hair, all the rest of my little best was singularly plain for the opera. still i was happy enough and greatly excited over our promised treat. mother and i set out to go to miss linda dietz's home, where we were to pick her up, and, under escort of her brother, go over to the academy of music. we could not afford a carriage, so we had to take one of the 'busses then in existence. mr. daly had sent me, with my box tickets, a pair of white gloves, and with extreme carefulness i placed them in my pocket, drawing on an old pair to wear down to fifteenth street, where i would don the new ones at miss dietz's house. how i blessed my fore-thought later on! long skirts were worn, so were bustles. a man in the omnibus was in liquor; he sat opposite me, right by the door. i signaled to stop. mother passed out before me--i descended. the man's feet were on my dress-skirt. i tried to pull it free--he stupidly pulled in the door. the 'bus started--i was flung to the pavement! i threw my head back violently to save my face from the cobbles, my hands and one knee were beating the cruel stones. mother screamed to the driver, a gentleman sprang to the horses, stopped them, picked me up, and even then had to thrust the drunken man's feet from my torn flounce. i had faintly whispered: "my glass--my fan!" and the gentleman, placing me in mother's arms, went out into the street and found them for me. i sat on a bench in the park: i was shaken and bruised and torn and muddy, but i would not go home--not i, i was going to hear parepa and wachtel! the gentleman simply would not leave us; he gave me his arm to miss dietz's house, and i needed its aid, for each moment proved i was worse hurt than i had at first thought. there, however, when with my heartiest thanks we parted from our good samaritan, the dietz family, with dismayed faces, received us. they were kindness personified. i was sponged and arnicaed and plastered and sewed and brushed, and at last my ankle's hurt being acknowledged, it was tightly bound. the new white gloves safely came forth, and "dietzie and morrie" (our nicknames for each other) set forth, with brother frank and mother in attendance, and arrived at the crowded academy just as the curtain rose. we went quite wild with delight over the old moss-draped "il trovatore." i broke my only handsome fan--applauding. suddenly "dietzie" saw me whiten--saw me close my eyes. she thought it was the pain of my ankle, but it was a sudden memory of _cora_ and the mad-scene. as the whirlwind of applause roared about me, i sickened with a mortal terror of the ordeal awaiting me. i hope i may always thrust satan behind me with the whole-hearted force i used in thrusting "l'article " behind me on that occasion. i returned to "il trovatore." i enjoyed each liquid jewel of a note, helped to raise the roof, afterward declined supper, hastened home, romped my dog, and put her to bed. got into a dressing-gown, locked myself in my room, and had it out with _cora_, from a to z. tried this walk and that crouch; read this way and that way. found the exact moment when her mind began to cloud, to waver, to recover, to break finally and irretrievably. determined positively just where i should be at certain times; allowed a margin for the impulse or inspiration of the moment, and at last, with the character crystal-clear before me, i ended my work and my vigil. after turning out the gas i went to the window and looked at the sky. the stars had gone in; low down in the east a faint, faint band of pink held earth and sky together. i was calm and quite ready to rest. all my uncertainty was at an end. what the public would do i could not know; what i would do was clear and plain before me at last. poor mr. daly! i sighed, for i knew _his_ anxiety and uneasiness were not allayed. bertie, tired of waiting for me, had curled her loving little body up in my pillow--a distinct breach of family discipline. a few moments later, feeling her small tail beating a blissful tattoo on my feet, i muttered, laughingly: "a little prayer, a little dog, and a little rest," and so sank into the sound sleep i so desperately needed, in preparation for the ever-to-be-dreaded first night of "l'article " of the french penal code. the house was packed. well-known people were seen all through the theatre. act i. represented the french court with a trial in full swing--it played for one hour, lacking three minutes. i was on the stage ten minutes only. i was told mr. daly shook his head violently at the curtain's fall. the next act i was not in at all, but it dragged, and when that was over mr. daly's peculiar test of public feeling showed the presence of disappointment. like many other managers, he often placed men here and there to listen to the comments made by his patrons, but his quickest, surest way of judging the effect a new play was making, was by watching and listening at the very moment of the curtain's fall. if the people instantly turned to one another in eager speech, and a bee-like hum of conversation arose, he nodded his head with pleased satisfaction--he knew they were saying, "how lovely!" "that was a fine effect!" "we've had nothing better for a long time!" "it's just divine!" "it's great!" etc. when they spoke slowly and briefly, he shook his head; but when they sat still and gazed steadily straight ahead of them, he called a new play for rehearsal next morning. that second act had made him shake his head; the third came on with _cora's_ rejected love, her strangling tears of self-pity, her whirlwind of passion, ending with that frantic and incredible threat. the people caught at it! i suppose the swiftness of its action, the heat and fury following so close upon the two slow, dull acts, pleased and aroused them. the curtain went up and down, up and down, call after call, and when at last it was allowed to remain down, myriads of bees might have been swarming in front, and mr. daly, nodding and smiling as i rushed past on my way to change my gown, said: "hear 'em--hear the bees buzz--that's good! now if only you----" i waited not for the rest--too well i knew how to complete the sentence: "if only i could safely hive those swarming bees" for him. could i? oh, could i? for the moment was at hand, the "mad-scene," so dreaded, so feared! three things i had counted upon to help my effects: the crouch, the laugh, the scar. the crouch had just done splendid service at the end of act iii. would the other two be as effective? i went up to the stage; i was to be discovered lying on a lounge. miss davenport, magnificently handsome in person and gown, beside me; the others at the gambling-table. as she took my hand she gave a sharp little cry: "heavens!" she said, "you might be dead, you are like ice!" she touched my forehead, asking, "are you ill? why, your head is burning, hot! hot! hot! mr. daly, just touch her hands and head!" he looked down on me in silence; two pairs of frightened eyes met; he gave a groan; threw out his hands helplessly; stepped off the stage, and signaled the curtain up on what was to make or break the play--and he knew no more what to expect than did one of the ushers out in front. under cover of the music and the applause accompanying the curtain's rise, i caught myself muttering, vaguely: "the power and the glory--the power and the glory," and knew that involuntarily i was reaching out for the old staff on which i had leaned so many times before. the scene was on--the laughing cynicism of the _baroness_--the chatter of the players--then, at last, _george_ and _cora_ were alone! my terror had slipped from me like a garment, i was in the play once more; save for just one awful moment! _george_ had torn the veil from my disfigured face, and, casting in my teeth the accusation: "you are mad!" had left me there alone, standing, stunned by the word! that was the moment of actual dethronement of reason, and, as i slowly, stupidly turned my eyes, i saw mr. daly's white face thrust forward eagerly. his gray eyes wide and glowing, his thin hand tightly grasping the lapel of his coat, his whole being expressing the very anguish of anxiety! one moment i felt i was lost! i had been dragged out of the play at the crucial moment! i clasped my hands across my eyes: "the kingdom and the power!" i groaned--i faced the other way! the low, eerie music caught my attention and awakened my imagination, in another second i was as mad as a march hare. the first time the low, gibbering laugh swelled into the wild, long-sustained shrieking _ha! ha!_ a voice said, low and clear: "oh, dear god!" yet i who had heard the genuine laugh at the mad-house knew this to be but a poor, tame, soulless thing, compared to that hecate-like distillation--the very essence of madness, that ran through that real gibber of laughter. yet it was enough. at the end there came to me one of those moments god grants now and then as a reward for long thirst, way-weariness, and heart-sickness patiently borne! one of those foolishly divine moments you stand with the gods and, like them, are young and fair and powerful! your very nerves thrill harmonious, like harp-strings attune--your blood courses like quicksilver for swiftness, like wine for warmth, and on that fair peak of triumph, where one tarries but by moments, there is no knowledge of sin or suffering, of death or hate; there is only sunshine, the sunshine of success! love for all those creatures who turn smiling faces on you, who hold their hands to you with joyous cries! there is no question of deserts, of qualifications! no analysis, no criticism then--they follow later! that is just a moment of delicious madness; and to distinguish it from other frenzies it is called--a dramatic triumph! chapter thirty-ninth i am too dull to understand a premonition--by mr. daly's side i see the destruction of the fifth avenue theatre by fire. how shall i call that strange influence that dumbly tries to warn, to prepare? many of us have had experience of this nameless something whose efforts are but rarely heeded. the something that one morning suddenly fills the mind with thoughts of some friend of the far past, who is almost entirely forgotten--persistent thoughts not to be shaken off. you speak of the matter, and your family exclaim: "what on earth ever brought him to your mind?" and that night you either hear of the old friend's death or he sends you a letter from the other side of the world. i had an acquaintance who one day found herself compelled, as it were, to talk of thefts, of remarkable robberies. she seemed unable to turn her mind to any other subject. if she looked at a lock, she thought how easy it would be to force it; at a window, how readily a man might enter it. her people laughed and told her she was hoodooed; but next day she was robbed of every jewel she had in the world. what was it that was trying dumbly to warn her? it was on the st of january that my mind became subject to one of those outside seizures. the snow was banked high in the streets--had been so for days. the unexpected sale of the house in twenty-first street had forced me to new quarters; i was at that moment in twenty-fourth street. as i raised my head from kissing my mother a happy new year, i remarked: "the streets are in a terrible condition for a great fire--are they not?" "let us hope there won't be a great fire," replied mother, and began to pour out the coffee. a little later the french lady coming in, to pass the compliments of the day, i was immediately moved to ask her if our fire service here was not superior to that of paris? and i was greatly pleased at her joyous acquiescence, until i discovered that her remarks had reference to our larger fireplaces--there are always certain drawbacks accompanying a foreign landlady. then i went to the matinée--for, lo, the poor actress always does double work on days of festivity for the rest of the world, and all occasions of legalized feasting find her eating "a cold bite." we were doing a play called "false shame," known in england as "the white feather," a very light three-act play. the dresses and scenery were beautiful; mr. daly provided me with one gown--a combination of sapphire-blue velvet and pompadour brocade that came within an ace of making me look handsome, like the rest. he remarked upon its effect, and i told him i felt compelled to look well, since i had nothing else to do; but the day had gone by when such remarks could anger him. he laughed good-humoredly and said: "all the same, miss, that scene at the organ is mighty pretty and taking, too." for, look you, in the theatre "a little knowledge is not a dangerous thing." complete knowledge is, of course, preferable; but, ah, how far a very little will go, and here was my poor tum-tumming, "one _and_ two _and_ three _and_," filling mr. daly's very soul with joy, because forsooth, in a lovely old english interior, all draped in christmas greens, filled with carved-wood furniture, big logs burning in an enormous fireplace, wax candles in brass sconces, two girls are at the organ in dinner dress, who, nervously anxious about a new year carol, with which they are going to surprise their guests at mid-night, seize the moment before dinner to try said carol over. miss davenport, regal in satin, stood, music in hand, the fire-light on her handsome face. i, seated at the organ in my precious blue and brocade, played the accompaniment, and sang alto, and, though terror over this simple bit of work brought me to the verge of nervous prostration, the scene was, from the front, like a stolen peep into some beautiful private home, and it brought an astonishing amount of applause. but if i had not "_one_ two threed" in cincinnati on that grinning old piano, where would the organ-scene have been? ah, a little knowledge, if spread ever so thin by a master hand like mr. daly's, will prove useful. so don't refuse to learn a little because you fear you cannot afford to study thoroughly--if you are an actress. while i was sitting through a long wait that day i fell into a brown study. the theatre dresser, who was very fond of me and gave me every spare moment of her time, came into my room and twice addressed me before i came out of my reverie. "what in the world are you thinking of, miss clara?" she asked, and i answered with another question: "mary, were you ever in a great fire?" "no," she said; "were you?" "yes," i answered; "i have been twice burned out from shelter at dead of night," and i told her of that hotel fire at a.m., where there was but one stairway to the street; of the mad brutality of the men; of the terrible and the ludicrous scenes; of my own escape, quite alone, in bare feet and one white garment; of my standing across a leaking hose, while a strange man pulled my right arm, frantically crying, "you come with me! my mother's got a blanket to wrap you up in!" and mr. ellsler, who had just arrived, seized my left arm, dragging me his way and shouting, "come over to the house and get to bed quick, before you die of exposure!" while i felt the water spraying my forlornly shivering shins, and was more nearly torn asunder than was ever the solomon baby. "oh, my!" said mary, "how dreadful!" "yes," i said, musingly, "and what a fire this place would make--all these partitions of painted pine!" "oh, don't!" protested mary. "but," said i, "you know that's what theatres are built for--to burn is their natural end!" and then i was called, and went up-stairs to saunter through another act of the mild little play. i owned but little jewelry then, but what i had was noticeably good. my rings, including the handsome pearl one mr. daly had given me as a souvenir of " ," i had to remove from my fingers for the last act, and when the curtain had fallen and i had rushed myself into street garments, and was leaving the dressing-room in haste to join my waiting mother at dinner, mary called to me: "miss clara, you are leaving your diamond rings--but never mind," she picked them up and dropped them, one by one, into a little box: "i'll lock the door myself, you run along, the rings will be safe enough--run!" and the answering words i heard swiftly leaving my lips were absolutely involuntary and dictated by no thought of mine. they were: "yes, as far as theft is concerned, they are safe enough, but in case of fire? better give them to me, mary. oh!" for the girl had dropped one on the floor. it was a bit of oriental enamel set about with tiny sparks of diamonds. i put the others on, but would not wait for her to pick up the rolling truant, and away i went. at the corner of sixth avenue and twenty-fourth street i came to a stand-still before two great snow-banks, and i thought again what they might mean in case of a fire. i reached home at a brisk pace, ran up-stairs, threw off my cloak, and had drawn my dress-waist half off, when, without a preliminary knock, the door was flung open and my landlord, mr. bardin, white with the excitement that had wiped out his knowledge of english, stood gesticulating wildly and hurling french at me in seething masses. i caught "_le feu!_" "_le feu!_" many times repeated; then "_le théâtre!_" and with a cry i seized his arm and shook him. "what is it?" i cried, "do you mean fire?" he nodded, and again came the words: "_le théâtre!_" "good heaven and earth! you don't mean _my_ theatre, do you?" and then two great horses, hurling a fire-engine around the corner into our street made swift and terrifying answer. with a piercing cry i caught up my cloak, and throwing off somebody's restraining hands i dashed down-stairs and into the street, racing like mad, giving sobbing cries, and utterly unconscious for over two blocks' space that my waist was unclosed and my naked throat and chest were bare to the wintry wind. at the corner of the street at sixth avenue i wrung my hands in anguish, crying, "oh, dear god! i knew it! i knew it!" for there, stalled in the snow, was the engine, so desperately needed a little further on! and as i resumed my run i said to myself: "what is it that has tried so hard to tell me--to warn me? tried all the day--and i would not understand--and now it's too late!" why i ran i do not know--it was not curiosity. i felt, somehow, that if i could get there in time i might do something--god knows what! as i neared the theatre the crowd grew more dense, yet to my gasping: "please, oh, please!" an answer came in a quick moving aside to let pass the woman with the white, tear-wet face. i broke through the cordon and was making for the stage-door, when a rough hand caught me by the shoulder. there was an oath, and i was fairly hurled back toward the safety line. "oh, let me alone!" i cried, "i want to go to my room! it will take me but a moment!" again the rough hand reached out for me, when a strange man threw his arm in front of me protectingly: "take care what you're about!" he said. "be a little gentle--she has a right close to the line, she's one of the company! can't you see?" "oh," grunted the policeman, "well, i didn't know, and i couldn't let her kill herself!" "no," said the stranger, "but you had no call to pitch her about as you did!" and just then a long, thin hand caught mine, and mr. daly's voice said: "come here, child!" and he led me across the street and up some steps, and there, opposite the burning building, i could realize the madness of my act in trying to enter. the front of the building stood firm, but beyond it, within, all was seething flame. it was like some magnificent spectacular production--some satanic pantomime and ballet, and every now and then a whirling flame, crowned with myriad sparks, sprang madly up into the very sky like some devilish _première danseuse_; while the lesser fiends joined hands and circled frenziedly below. mr. daly never spoke a word. he had not released my fingers, and so we stood, hand in hand, watching silently over the torment of his beloved theatre--the destruction of his gathered treasures. i looked up at him. his face gleamed white in the firelight; his eyes were wide and strained; his fingers, icy cold, never lessened their clinching grasp on mine. then came the warning cry firemen are apt to give when they know the roof is going. i had heard it often, and understood that and their retreating movement. mr. daly did not, and when, with a crackling crash, the whole roof fell into the roaring depths, his hand, his body, relaxed suddenly; a sort of sobbing groan escaped his pale lips. but when the column of glowing sparks flew high into the air he turned away with a shiver and gave not one other look at the destroyed building. not one word was spoken on the subject. glancing down he noticed i had no rubbers on and that streams of water were running in the street: "go home, child!" he said, speaking quickly and most kindly. a crowd of reporters came up to him: "yes," he said, "in one moment, gentlemen," then to me: "hurry home, get something to eat--you could have had no dinner!" he gave one heavy sigh, and added: "i'm glad you were with me, it would have been worse alone." he pushed me gently from him. as i started down the street he called: "i'll send you word some time to-night what we're to do." i left him to the reporters; i had not spoken one word from the moment i had begged to enter my dressing-room. i felt strangely sad and forlorn as i dropped, draggled and tired, into a chair. i said to mother: "it's gone! the only theatre in new york whose door was not barred against me, and--i--i think that at this moment i know just how a dog feels who has lost a loved master," and, dropping my face upon my hands, i wept long over the destruction of my first dramatic home in new york, the little fifth avenue theatre. chapter fortieth we become "barn-stormers," and return to open the new theatre--our astonishing misunderstanding of "alixe," which proves a great triumph. my first thought on awaking the next morning was one of dismay, on recalling the destruction of the little "p.h.c."--that being the actors contraction of mr. daly's somewhat grandiloquent "parlor home of comedy." my grief over the burning of the pretty toy theatre was very real, and i would have been an astonished young woman had anyone prophesied that for me, personally, the disaster was to prove a piece of unqualified good luck. and, by the way, that expression "good luck" reminds me of one of the incidents of the fire. that morning, when the firemen went to the ruins to examine into the state of the standing front wall, they looked upward, and there, all alone, on the burned and blackened space, smiling down in friendly fashion upon them, was the picture of clara morris--a bit charred as to frame and smoky as to glass, but the photograph (one taken by kurtz), absolutely uninjured, being the one and only thing saved from the ruins. the firemen very naturally wanted it for their engine-house, and mr. daly said that for it many were claiming, pleading, demanding, bartering--but all in vain. his superstition was aroused. not for anything in the world, he cried, would he part from his "luck," as he ever after called the rescued picture. so there again appeared the malice of inanimate things, for how else could one account for the plunging of that line, the entire length of the staircase, of splendidly framed pictures of loveliness, into the fiery depths, while the plain and unimportant one kept its place in calm security? mr. daly had a very expensive company on his hands. he had amazed other managers by his "corner" on leading men. with three already in his company he had not hesitated to draw on boston for harry crisp, and on philadelphia for mr. louis james; and when he added such names as george clark, daniel harkins, george devere, james lewis, william lemoyne, william davidge, a. whiting, owen fawcett, george parkes, f. burnett, h. bascombe, j. beekman, charles fisher, george gilbert, etc., one can readily understand that the salary of the men alone must have made quite an item in the week's expenses, and added to the sharp necessity of getting us to work as quickly as possible. and in actual truth the ruins of the little theatre were not yet cold when mr. daly had, by wire, secured a week for us, divided between syracuse and albany, and we were scrambling dresses together and buying new toilet articles--rouge, powders, and pomades, and transforming ourselves into "strolling players"; though, sooth to say, there was precious little "strolling" done after we started, for we were all rushing for rooms, for food, for trains, through a blizzard that was giving us plenty of delaying snow-drifts. and while the company was cheerfully "barn-storming," mr. daly was doing his best to find shelter for us in new york, engaging the little one-time church on broadway. he had painters, paper-hangers, scrub-women, upholsterers, climbing over one another in their frantic efforts to do all he desired to have done in about one-half the regulation time allowed for such work; and while they toiled day and night with much noise and great demonstration of haste, he sat statue-still in a far corner, mentally reviewing every manuscript in his possession, searching eagerly for the one that most nearly answered to the needs of the moment. namely, a play that required a strong cast of characters (he had plenty of men and women), little preparation, and scanty scenery (since he was short of both time and money). and, finding "alixe," then known as "the countess de somerive," he stopped short. the action of the play covered but one day--that was promising. there were but three acts--good; but two scenes--better! a conventional château garden-terrace for one act, and a simply elegant morning-room or stately drawing-room, according to managerial taste, could stand for the other two acts. a strong and dramatic work--requiring the painting of but two scenes. the play was found! the company was ordered home to rehearse it. now at that time, to my own great anxiety, i was by way of standing on very dangerous ground. the public had favored me almost extravagantly from the very first performance of _anne sylvester_, but the critics, at least the most important two, seemed to praise my efforts with a certain unwilling drag of the pen. nearly all their kind words had the sweetness squeezed out of them between "buts" and "ifs," and, most wounding of all, my actual work was less often criticized than were my personal defects. occasionally an actress's work may be too good for her own welfare. you doubt that? yet i know an actress, still in harness, who in her lovely prime made so great a hit, in the part of an adventuress, that she has had nothing else to act since. whenever a play was produced with such a character in it, she was sent for. but if she was proposed for a loyal wife, a gentle sweetheart, a modern heroine, the quick response invariably was: "oh, she can't play anything but the adventuress." there is nothing more fatal to the artistic value, to the future welfare of a young player, than to be known as "a one-part actress"; yet that was the very danger that was threatening me at the time of the burning of the home theatre. following other parts known as strong, _jezebel_, the half-breed east indian, a velvet-footed treachery and twice would-be murderess, and _cora_, the quadroon mad-woman, were in a fair way to injure me greatly. already one paper had said: "miss morris has a strange, intuitive comprehension of these creatures of mixed blood." but worse than that, the most powerful of the two critics i dreaded had said one morning: "miss morris played with care and much feeling. the audience wept _copiously_" (to anyone who has long read the great critic, that word "copiously" is tantamount to his full signature, so persistently does he use it), "but her performance was flecked with those tigerish gleams that seem to be a part of her method. she will probably find difficulty in equaling in any other line her success as _cora_." no animal had ever a keener sense of approaching danger than i had, when my professional welfare was threatened, and these small straws told me plainly which way the wind was beginning to blow, and now, looking back, i am convinced that just one more "tigerish part" at that time would have meant artistic ruin to me, for, figuratively speaking, pens were already dipped to write me down "a one-part actress." then, one bitter cold day we returned to new york and mr. daly, sending for me, said he must ask a favor of me. a form of speech that literally made me "sit up straight"--yes, and gasp, too, with astonishment. with a regretful sigh he went on: "i suppose you know you are a strong attraction?" i smiled broadly at his evident disapproval of such knowledge on my part, and he continued: "but in this play there is no part for you--yet i greatly need all my strongest people in this first cast. of course as far as ability is concerned you could play the _countess_ and make a hit, but she's too old--so you'll not play the mother to marriageable daughters under my management, even in an emergency. now i have miss morant, miss davenport and miss dietz, but--but i must have your name, too." i nodded vigorously--i understood. and having seen the play in paris, where it was one of the three pieces offered for an evening's programme, i mentally reviewed the cast and presently made answer, cheerfully and honestly: "oh, yes! i see--it's that--'er--_aline?_ _justine?_ no, no! _claudine?_ that's the name of the maid. you want me to go on for that? all right! anything to help!" he leaned forward, asking, eagerly: "do you mean that?" "of course i do!" i answered. "ah!" he cried, "you don't guess well, miss morris, but you've the heart of a good comrade, and now i'm sure you will do as i ask you, and play _alixe_ for me?" i sprang to my feet with a bound. "_alixe?_" i cried. "i to play that child? oh, impossible! no--no! i should be absurd! i--i--i know too much--oh, you understand what i mean! she is a little convent-bred bit of innocence--a veritable baby of sixteen years! dear mr. daly don't you see, i should ruin the play?" he answered, rather coldly: "you are not given to ruining plays. the part does not amount to much. good heavens! i admit it does not suit you, but think of my position; give me the benefit of your name as _alixe_ for one single week, and on the second monday night miss jewett shall take the part off your hands." "but," i whimpered, "the critics will make me the butt of their ridicule, for i can't make myself look like an _alixe_." "oh, no they won't!" he answered, sharply. "of course you won't expect a success, but you need fear no gibes for trying to help me out of a dramatic hole. will you help me?" and of course there was nothing to do but swallow hard and hold out my hand for the unwelcome part. imagine my surprise when, on my way to rehearsal, i saw posters up, announcing the production of the play of "alixe." i met mr. daly at the door and said: "why this play was always called 'the countess of somerive.'" "yes," he replied, "i know--but 'alixe' looks well, it's odd and pretty--and well, it will lend a little importance to the part!"--which shows how heavy were the scales upon our eyes while we were rehearsing the new play. everyone sympathized with me, but said a week would soon pass, and i groaned and ordered heelless slippers, and flaxen hair parted simply and waved back from the temples to fall loosely on the shoulders, to avoid the height that heels and the fashionable chignon would give me, while a thin, white nun's veiling gown, high-necked and long-sleeved, over a low-cut white silk lining, buttoned at the back and finished with a pale blue sash and little side pocket, completed the costume, i prepared for the character. i was beginning to understand, as i studied her, and shamefacedly--to love! oh, yes, one often feels dislike or liking for the creature one is trying to represent. just at first i said to myself, here is a modern _ophelia_, but i was soon convinced that the innocence of _alixe_ was far more perfect than had been that of shakespeare's weakling, who, through the training of court life, the warnings of a shrewd brother, and the admonitions of a tricky father, had learned many things--was ductile in stronger hands and could play a part; could lead a lover on to speech, without giving slightest hint of the hateful watching eyes she knew were upon him. poor "rose of may," whose sweetness comes to us across the ages! as the garden-spider's air-spun silken thread is cast from bough to twig across the path, so her fragile thread of life looped itself from father to lover, to brother, to queen, and all the web was threaded thick with maiden's tears, made opalescent by rosy love, green hope, and violet despair. but each one she clung to raised a hand to brush the fragile thing aside, and so destroyed it utterly. yet that tangled wreck of beauty, sweetness, and "a young maid's wits," remains one of the world's dearest possessions--the fair _ophelia_! but this modern maid was yet unspotted by the world. she found all earth perfect, as though god had just completed it, and loved ardently and without shame, as the innocent do love. for this pure flower of crime was ignorant, to the point of bliss, of evil in the world about her. while her adored mother was to her as the blessed madonna herself. more and more convincing, as i carefully studied the part, became that perfect innocence. not cold or reserved, but alive with faith, quivering, too, with girlish mirth, yet innocent. and as with roots deep in rankest, blackest ooze and mud, the lily sends up into the sunlit air its stainless, white-petaled blossom, to float in golden-hearted beauty upon the surface of the stream, so all sweet and open-hearted _alixe_ floated into view. and i was expected to act a part like that! i worried day and night over it. should i do this, should i do that? no--no! she was not coy--detestable word. i recalled the best _ophelia_ i had ever seen--a german actress. would she do for a model? perhaps--no! she was mystic, strange, aloof! oh, dear! and then, by merest accident, my mind wandered away to the past, and i said to myself, it should not be so hard. every woman has been innocent. i was innocent enough when my first sweetheart paused at my side to say to me the foolish old words that never lose sweetness and novelty. i recalled with what open pleasure i had listened, with what honest satisfaction i accepted his attention. with a laugh i exclaimed: "i didn't even have sense enough to hide my gratification and pride, or to _pretend the least bit_." i stopped suddenly--light seemed to come into my mind. innocence is alike the world over, i thought; it only differs in degree. i sprang to my feet! i cried joyously: "i have caught the cue, i do believe--_i won't act at all!_ i'll just speak the lines sincerely and simply and leave the effect to providence." the scales loosened a trifle over mr. daly's eyes at the last rehearsal but one. he was down in the orchestra speaking to the leader when i came to the end of the act, and the words: "the mother whom i have insulted? that young girl, then, is my sister--the sister whose happiness i have stolen? whose future i have shattered? what--is--there--left--for--me to live for?" mr. daly glanced up, and said, sharply: "what's that? 'er, miss morris, what are you going to do there as the curtain falls? i--i haven't noticed that speech before. go back a bit, mr. fisher, miss morant, back to the count's entrance; let me hear that again." we went over the scene again: "h-e-m-m!" said mr. daly; "you've not answered my question, miss morris. what do you do at the fall of the curtain?" "nothing, sir," i answered, "just stare dazedly at space, i think--swaying a little perhaps." "i want you to fall!" he declared. "oh!" i exclaimed, "please, don't you think that would be rather melodramatic? if she could stand while receiving that awful shock about her mother's shame she would hardly fall afterward, from mere horror of her own thoughts?" "i know all that, but let me tell you there's always great effect in a falling body. at any rate you can sink into a chair--and so get the suggestion of collapse." "there is no chair," i answered, cheerfully. "well," he replied, testily, "there can be one, i suppose. here, boy, bring a large chair and place it behind miss morris." "mr. daly," i argued, "if i fall heavily, as i must, for effect, the chair will jump, and that will be funny--see." i fell--it did start backward, but mr. daly was equal to the emergency. "take off the castors and place the chair hard against the end of the piano; now try!" i did; the chair was firm as a rock. it was settled; i did as i was told, and fell at the end of the act ever after. and mr. daly came and patted me on the back, and said, kindly: "don't fret; i honestly believe there's something in the little part after all. that speech made me feel creepy." but the scales on my own eyes were still firm and tight, and all i could see in the play was the strength, power, and passion of the scenes between the _count_ and _countess_, and the probable hit of mr. louis james in his part of the _duc de mirandol_. the fate of this play rested in other hands than mine, thank goodness, and i rejoiced in the freedom from responsibility my small part gave me, and planned what i would do when miss jewett took _alixe_. the great night came. another small auditorium awaited the coming of our patrons. there was a smell of scarce dried paint in front of the curtain and of scrubbing-soap behind it; but all was bright and fresh, and the house was soon packed with a brilliant audience. as the play to be produced had but a small cast, and as mr. daly was anxious that the entire company should share in this house-warming, he had invited mr. john brougham to write a sort of prologue, giving a few apt lines to every member of the company, and then to proceed to the play. this was done--but, alas! mr. brougham's work was utterly unworthy of him. there was not one flash of his wonderful wit. he confined himself to comments upon the fire, after this manner; i spoke, saying: "i can't remember half the things i lost, i fear----" _mr. lewis_ (breaking in). "one article you have not lost----" _c. m._ "what?" _lewis._ "'l'article ,' my dear." then miss jewett came forward to exclaim: "my lovely 'peau de soie,' the sweetest thing in silk i ever saw!" it was only spoken one night. but the audience was so heartily kind to us all that many of us had tears of sheer gratitude in our eyes. we were in evening dress and were formed in a crescent-like line from box to box, as the heavy red curtains parted revealing us, and mr. daly was very proud of his family of manly-looking men and gracious women, and the audience greeted the assembled company heartily. but that was nothing to the welcome given as each favorite actor or actress stepped forward to speak--and i was happy, happy, happy! when i found myself counted in as one of them, with the welcome to the beautiful davenport, jewett, dietz, to the ever-favored mrs. gilbert, no longer, no heartier than my own! and as i bowed low and gratefully, for just one moment i could not help wishing that i had an important part to play, instead of the childish thing awaiting me. the prologue being over, mr. daly, with a frowning, disappointed face, told those of the play to make all possible haste in changing their dresses, that they might get to work and rub out the bad impression already made. every important occasion seems to have its touch of the ridiculous, and so had this one. the "bustle"--the big wire affair, extending to the bottom of the skirt, had reached its hideous apogee of fashion at that time, yet what possible relation could there be between that teetering monstrosity and grace or sentiment or tragedy? surely, i thought, this girl-pupil, brought straight from convent-school to country-home, might reasonably be bustleless--and i should look so much smaller--so much more graceful! but--mr. daly? never--never! would he consent to such a breach of propriety! fashion his soul loved! he pored over her plates! he bowed to her mandates! my courage having failed me, when i hurried to my room i put on the obnoxious structure; but one glimpse of that camel-like hump on the back of _alixe_, and the thought of the fall in the chair made me desperate. i tore the mass of wire off, and decided to keep out of sight till the last moment, and then make a rush for the stage. "ready, miss morris?" "ready!" i answered, as the question was asked from door to door. in a few moments the call-boy came back again: "are you ready? everyone is out there but you." "oh, yes!" i said, showing myself to him, but still not leaving the shelter of my room; and i heard him saying: "yes, sir, she's all ready, i saw her." the curtain rose. only a few lines were spoken before my entrance. i dared wait no longer--heavens! no! for there was mr. daly coming for me. i gathered up my skirts as bunchily as i could and ran out; but i could not deceive mr. daly. in an instant he missed the necessary camel's hump. "good heaven and earth!" he shouted, "you've left your bustle!" i broke into a run. "wait!" he cried, loudly. he dashed into my open room, caught the big bustle up, and dragging it like a great cage behind him, came plunging down the entrance to me, crying: "wait--wait!" and waving the other hand commandingly above his head. i heard my music; i sprang to the platform i had to enter from. "that's me!" i cried. "wait!" he ordered and reached out to catch me. i evaded his grasp and skipped through the door, leaving but a fold of my skirt in his hand. i was on the stage--and joy, oh, joy! i was without a bustle! mr. daly did not like being laughed at, but when he glanced down and saw the thing he was dragging behind him, after the manner of a baby's tin wagon, he had to laugh, and verily there were others who laughed with him, while the scandalized dresser carried the rejected article back to a decent seclusion. there is no manager, star, or agent alive whose experience will enable him to foresee the fate of an untried play. a very curious thing is that what is called an "actor's" play--one, that is, that actors praise and enjoy in the rehearsing, is almost always a failure, while the managerial judgment has been reversed so often by the public, that even the most enthusiastic producer of new plays is apt "to hedge" a bit, with: "unless i deceive myself, this will prove to be the greatest play," etc.; while the mistakes made by actors and managers both anent the value of certain parts are illustrated sufficiently by e. h. sothern, c. w. couldock, joseph jefferson--all three of whom made immense hits in parts they had absolutely refused to accept, yielding only from necessity or obligingness, and to their own astonishment finding fame in presenting the unwelcome characters. and to the misjudged _lord dundreary_, _asa trenchard_, etc., that night was added the name of _alixe_. refined, intensely modern, the play was nevertheless a dread tragedy, and being french it almost naturally dealt with the breaking of a certain great commandment. and now--see: we actors thought that the stress and power of the play would be shown in the confession of the wife and in the scene of wild recrimination between her and the _comte de somerive_, when they met after eighteen years of separation. but see, how different was the view the public took. in the very first place then, when i escaped the bustle, and entered, straight, and slim, art had so reduced my usual height and changed my coloring, that until i spoke i was not recognized. the kindly welcome then given me calmed my fears, and i said to myself: "i can't be looking ridiculous in the part, or they would not do that!" and women, at least, can understand how my very soul was comforted by the knowledge. and just then a curious sense of joy seemed to bubble up in my heart. the sudden relief, the feeling of irresponsibility, the first-night excitement. perhaps one, perhaps all together caused it. i don't know--i only know that meaning no disrespect, no irreverence, i could have sung aloud from the benedicite: "_omnia opera domini!_" "bless ye the lord: praise him and magnify him forever!" and the audience accepted the joyous little maid almost from the first girlish, love-betraying words she spoke, and yet--so sensitive is an audience at times--while still laughing over her sweet ignorance, they thrilled with a nameless dread of coming evil. they seemed to see the blue sky darkening, the threatening clouds piling up silently behind the white-robed child, whose perfect innocence left her so alone! before the first act ended we discovered that the tragedy was shifting from the sinful mother and was settling down with crushing weight upon the shoulders of the stainless child. indeed, the whole play was like a dramatization of the awful words: "the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children!" as the play went on and the impetuous grief of the child changed into proud self-restraint, while her agonizing jealousy of her adored mother developed, mr. daly, with wide, bright eyes, exclaimed: "i must have been blind--stone-blind! why _alixe_ is the bone and marrow, the heart and soul of this play!" certainly the audience seemed to share his belief, for it called and called and called again for that misunderstood young person, in addition to the hearty approval bestowed upon the other more prominent characters. it was a very fine cast, miss fanny morant making a stately and powerful _comtesse de somerive_, while mr. louis james gave a performance of the _duc de mirandol_ that i never saw even approached again. every other actor made of him either a fool or a brute, while james made of him a delightful enigma--a sort of well-bred simpleton, rattle-brain, and braggart, who at the last moment shows himself, beneath all disguise, a brave and loyal gentleman. but the greatest triumph for _alixe_ followed in that act--the last--in which she does not speak at all. she had been able to bear loss, sorrow, renunciation, but as in olden times poison-tests were kept, crystal cups of such rare purity they shattered under contact with an evil liquid--so her pure heart broke at contact with her mother's shame. poor, loving, little base-born! pathetic little marplot! seeing herself as only a stumbling-block to others, she sought self-effacement beneath the gentle waters of the lily-pond. and early in that last act, as her drowned body, carried in the arms of the two men who had loved her, was laid before the starting eyes of the guilty mother, and the loving, forgiving, pleading letter of the suicide was read above her, actual sobs rose from the front of the house. it _was_ a heart-breaking scene. but when the curtain fell, oh! what a very whirlwind broke loose in that little theatre! the curtain shot up and down, up and down, and then, to my amazement, mr. daly signaled for me to go before the curtain, and i couldn't move. he stamped his foot and shouted: "come over here and take this call!" and i called back: "i can't! i am all pinned up, so i can't walk!" for, that my skirts might not fall away from my ankles, when i was being carried across the stage, i had stood upon a chair and had my garments tightly wound about me and securely fastened, and unfortunately the pins were behind--and i all trussed up, nice and tight and helpless. mr. daly came tearing over to me, and down he went upon his knee to try to free me, but a muttered "d----n!" told me that he could not find the pins, and the applause, oh, the precious applause that was being wasted out there! suddenly he rose--tossed that extraordinary hat of his off, picked me up in his arms and carried me like a big property doll to the curtain's side, signaled it up, and, with his arm about me, supported me on to the stage. oh, but i was proud to stand there with him, for in those days he would not make the simplest speech; would not show himself even. why, at the banquet of his own giving, he hid behind a big floral piece and made mr. oakey hall speak for him. and yet he had been pleased enough with my work to bring me there himself. i saw his hand upon my shoulder, and suddenly i stooped my head and kissed it, in purest gratitude. afterward, when i had been unpinned, as we walked through the entrance together, he said, with a gleeful laugh: "this is the third and greatest, but we share it." "the third what?" i asked. "the third surprise," he answered. "first you surprised the town in 'man and wife'; second, you surprised _me_ in 'l'article '; now 'alixe'--the greatest of all--surprises you as well as me!" he stopped, stepped in front of me and asked: "what do you most wish for?" i stared at him. he added, "about your home, say?" and swiftly i made answer: "a writing-desk; why?" he laughed a little and said: "good-night, now. oh, by the way, there's a forfeit against you for not wearing your bustle to-night." but i was not greatly alarmed or excited--not half so much as i was next day, about four o'clock, when some men drove up and insisted upon leaving in my room a handsome inlaid desk that was taller than i was. at first i protested, but a card, saying that it was "a souvenir of 'alixe,' from your manager and friend, a. daly," changed my bearing to one of most unseemly pride. in the next ten days i wrote i think to every soul i knew, and kept up my diary with vicious exactitude, just for the pleasure of sitting before the lovely desk, that to-day stands in my "den" in the attic. its mirror-door, is dim and cloudy, its sky-blue velvet writing-leaf faded to a silvery gray, but even so it still remains "a souvenir of 'alixe,' from a. daly." chapter forty-first trouble about obnoxious lines in "madeline morel"--mr. daly's manipulation of father x: in spite of our anxiety the audience accepts the situation and the play--mr. daly gives me the smallest dog in new york. the last and fourth success that was granted to me under mr. daly's management was in "madeline morel." of course i played in many plays, sometimes small, comparatively unimportant parts, sometimes, as in the two-hundred-night run of "divorce," i played a long, hard-working part, that was without any marked characteristic or salient feature to make a hit with. but i only mention "madeline morel" because of a couple of small incidents connected with its production. first of all, let me say that i believe mr. daly, who was an ardent catholic, was not the first manager to give benefits to the orphan asylums, for i think that had long been a custom, but he was the first to arrange those monster programmes, which included the names of every great attraction in the city--bar none. the result was not merely an academy of music literally packed, but crowds turned from its doors. i remember what excitement there was over the gathering together in one performance of such people as fechter, sothern, adelaide neilson, aimée, and mr. and mrs. barney williams. i first saw the beautiful mary anderson at one of these benefits, as well as those two clever english women, rose coghlan and jeffreys lewis. later on, when i was under mr. palmer's management, i had an experience at a benefit that i am not likely to forget. i had consented to do the fourth act of "camille" (the ball-room scene), and when i swept through the crowd of "guests," every word was wiped clean out of my memory, for as they faced me i recognized in the supposed supers and extras all the various stars--the leading ladies and gentlemen who had had a place on the lengthy programme. working hard, giving of their best, they had all laughingly joined in this gracious whim of playing supernumeraries in dumas's ball-scene. and i remember that mademoiselle aimée was particularly determined to be recognized as she walked and strolled up and down. once i whispered imploringly to her: "turn your back, madame!" but she laboriously answered: "non! i haiv' not of ze shame to be supe for you, mademoiselle!" it was a charming compliment, but more than a bit overwhelming to its recipient. well, mr. daly having originated, as i believe, these splendid and lengthy benefit performances, was, as a result, able to place a goodly sum of money at the service of the asylum authorities, and naturally he received warm thanks from his church. then, when "madeline morel" came along, with the great cathedral scene, we all stood aghast at what i was called upon to say and do. everyone was on the stage, and nearly everyone whispered: "sacrilege!" i stopped stock-still, in sheer fright. mr. daly pulled nervously at the lapel of his coat for a moment, and then said, sharply, "go on!" i obeyed, but right behind me someone said: "and he calls himself a catholic!" it was a horrid bit, in an otherwise beautiful and impressive act. as a "sister" who had served the "novitiate," i had just taken the life vows and had been invested with the black veil. then the wedding procession and the church procession, coming from opposite sides and crossing before the altar, like a great "x," brought the bridegroom and the black nun face to face, in dreadful recognition, and in the following scene i had to drag from my head the veil and swathing white linen--had to tear from my breast the cross, and, trampling it under foot, stretch my arms to heaven and, with upraised face, cry: "i call down upon my guilty soul the thunders of a curse, that none may hear and live!" and then fall headlong, as though my challenge had been accepted. nothing was talked of day or night but that scene, and those of the company who were catholics were particularly excited, and they cried: "why, if we find it so repellant, what on earth will an audience think of it?" some prophesied hisses, some that the people would rise and leave the theatre. that mr. daly was uneasy about its effect he did not attempt to hide, and one day he said to me: "i think i'll call on father x---- (his confessor and friend) to-morrow evening, and get his--well--his opinion on this matter." but, unfortunately, rumors had already reached churchly ears, and the reverend gentleman came that same day to inquire of mr. daly concerning them. i say "unfortunately," because mr. daly was a masterful man and resented anything like interference. had he been permitted to introduce the matter himself, no doubt a few judicious words from the priest would have induced him to tone down the objectionable speech and action: but the visit to him rubbed him the wrong way and aroused every particle of obstinacy in him. he described the play, however, assured his old friend there were no religious arguments, no homilies in it, but when he came to _the_ scene, the father shook his head: "no--no! my son!" said he, "i do not see how that can be sanctioned." mr. daly reasoned, argued, almost pleaded; but though it evidently hurt the good man to refuse, since he was greatly attached to his son in the church, he still shook his head and at last declared it was a serious matter, and he would have to bring it to the bishop's attention. but that was just what mr. daly did not want. "can you not see, father," he said, "these lines are spoken in a frenzy? they come from the lips of a woman mad with grief and trouble! they have not the value or the consequence of words spoken by a sane person!" the priest shook his head. suddenly mr. daly ceased his arguments and persuasions. after a little silence, he said: "you cannot sanction this scene, then, father?" a positive shake of the head. mr. daly looked pensively out of the window. "too bad!" he sighed, "too bad!" the kind old man sighed too, companionably. "you see, if that scene is not done, the play cannot be done." "dear, dear!" murmured the priest. "and if the play is not done, having nothing else at hand, i shall have to close the season with the old play, and naturally that will mean bad business." "too bad, too bad!" muttered the voice, comfortably. "and if the season ends badly, why, of course, there can be no charity benefit." "what?" sharply exclaimed the erstwhile calm voice. "no benefit for our poor? why--why--'er--i--dear me! and the asylum needs help so badly!--'er--a 'frenzy' you said, my son? spoken in madness?--'er--i--well--i will give the matter serious thought, and i'll acquaint you with my conclusion," and evidently much disturbed he retired. and when mr. daly told me this, he added, with a twinkle in his eye: "he will get the benefit, surely enough." and when he saw my bewilderment, he added: "don't you see? i had my doubts about the bishop, but dear old father x---- will be so anxious about his orphans that he will make things right for me with him, for their sakes." a view of the matter that proved to be correct. verily a clever man was our manager. day after day we rehearsed, and day after day i hoped that the dreadful bit of business might be toned down. at last my nerves gave way completely, and after a particularly trying rehearsal i rushed to the managerial office, and, bursting into tears, begged hard to be excused from trampling the cross under foot. "surely," i sobbed, "it's bad enough to have to tear off the veil--and--and--i'm afraid something will happen!" "and," said mr. daly, "to tell you the truth, i'm afraid, too!" he gave me a glass of water, and waiting a moment for me to conquer my tears, he went on: "i'm glad you have come in, i was just about sending for you." "oh!" i interrupted, "you are going to cut something out?" but he answered, gravely: "no! i shall cut nothing out! but look here, you are a brave girl, and forewarned is forearmed, you know, so i am going to speak quite plainly. i don't know how the public may receive that bit of business; perhaps with dead silence; perhaps with hisses." i sprang to my feet. "sit down!" he said, "and listen. you shall not be held responsible, in the slightest degree, for the scene, i promise you that. if anything disagreeable happens it shall be fairly stated that you played under protest. it is, of course, possible that the scene may go along all right, but i want to warn you that you may prepare yourself for the storm, should it come. i don't want you to be taken unawares and have you faint or lose your nerve. so, now whenever you go over your part and reach that point, say to yourself: 'here they hiss!' don't look so pale. i'm sorry you have to bear the brunt alone, but you will be brave, won't you?" and i rose, and after my usual habit, tried to jest, as i answered: "since you alone gave me my opportunity of being _applauded_ in new york, i suppose it's only fair that i should accept this opportunity of being _hissed_." excited and miserable i went home. faithfully i followed mr. daly's suggestion. but no matter how often i went over the scene, whenever i said: "here they hiss," my face went white, my hands turned cold as stone. 'twas fortunate the first performance was near, for i could not have borne the strain long. as it was, i seemed to wear my nerves on the outside of my clothes until the dreaded night was over. the play had gone finely; most of the people were well cast. miss morant, miss davenport, miss jewett, miss varian especially so; while fisher, lewis, lemoyne, crisp, clark, and james did their best to make a success and close in glory the season that had been broken in half by the burning of the home theatre. the end of the third act had been mine. the passionate speech of renunciation and farewell had won the favor of the house, and call after call followed. as i had played the scene alone, i should have been proud and happy--should have counted the calls with a miser's gloating satisfaction. but instead my blood was already chilling with dread of the coming act. "good lord, child!" said mr. daly, "your face is as long as my arm! don't anticipate evil--take the good the gods send you. you are making a hit and you're losing all the pleasure of it. i'm ashamed of you!" but he wrung my fingers hard, even as he spoke, and i knew that his words were, what the boys call a "bluff." then the curtain was rising. the cathedral scene won a round of applause, and kneeling at the altar, as children say, "i scringed" at the sound. then after a little i was coming down the stage and the audience, recognizing _madeline_ in the nun, applauded long and heartily, and i fairly groaned aloud. after that the act proceeded really with stately dignity, but to my terrified eyes it seemed indecent haste; and as i fell into line with the church procession of sisters, of novices, of priests and acolytes, i felt myself a morsel in a kaleidoscopic picture of bright colors, the churchly purple and its red and white, the brilliant gowns of the women of fashion, the golden organ-pipes, the candles burning star-like upon the altar, the massed flowers, and over all, giving a touch of floating unreality to everything, the clouds of incense. then suddenly, out of the bluish haze, there gleamed the white, set face, for love of which i was to sacrifice my very soul! the scene was on, swift, passionate, and furious, and almost before i could realize it, the dreadful words had been spoken--and with my foot upon the cross, i stood in a silence the like of which i had never known before! i had not fallen--stricken absolutely motionless with terror i stood--waiting. in that crowded building even breathing seemed suspended. there reigned a silence, like to death itself! it was awful! then without changing my attitude by the movement of a finger, i pitched forward, falling heavily at the feet of the dismayed lover and the indignant priest. and suddenly, sharply as by a volley of musketry, the silence was broken by applause. yes, actually by applause, and beneath its noise i heard a voice behind me gasp: "well, i'll be blest!" when all was ended, and after the final courtesies had been extended and gratefully accepted, there was an outburst of excited comment, and more than one experienced actor declared that never again would they even try to anticipate the conduct of an audience. old mr. fisher told mr. daly he had felt the rising hiss and he was positive it was regard for the woman that had restrained its expression. mr. daly patted the old gentleman on the shoulder and answered: "perhaps--perhaps! but if for her sake the public has swallowed that scene one night, the public have got to go on swallowing it every night--and that's the important point for us." very shamefacedly i apologized for not falling at the proper time, and as i hurriedly promised to do so the next night, to my surprise mr. daly stopped me with a quick: "no! no! change nothing! i was in front, and that pause, staring straight up into heaven, was tremendously effective. it was as if god offered you a moment to repent in--then struck you down! change nothing, and to-morrow you shall have your heart's desire." i gazed at him in amazement. he laughed a bit maliciously and said: "old heat-registers and things carry voices. i hear many things. i have heard, for instance, about a man named dovey and a wonderful toy terrier that weighs by ounces. i wouldn't open my eyes any wider, if i were you; they might stay that way. well, will you show me the way to dovey's by eleven to-morrow?" "but," i faltered, "i'm afraid of the price----" "that's my affair," he answered curtly, then added, more kindly, "good-night! you have behaved well, miss morris, and if i can give you a pleasure--i shall be glad." and next day i owned the tiniest dog in new york, who slept in a collar-box, by my pillow, that i might not hurt it in the night. whose bark was like a cambric needle, and who, within five minutes after her arrival, challenged to deadly combat my beloved bertie, who weighed good four pounds. chapter forty-second i am engaged to star part of the season--mr. daly breaks his contract--i leave him and under threat of injunction--i meet mr. palmer and make contract and appear at the union square in the "wicked world." the third season in new york was drawing to its close, and by most desperate struggling i had managed just to keep my head above water--that was all. i not only failed to get ahead by so much as a single dollar, but i had never had really enough of anything. we were skimped on clothes, skimped on food, indeed we were skimped on everything, except work and hope deferred. when, lo! a starring tour was proposed to me. after my first fright was over i saw a possibility of earning in that way something more than my mere board, though, truth to tell, i was not enraptured with the prospect of joining that ever-moving caravan of homeless wanderers, who barter home, happiness, and digestive apparatus for their percentage of the gross, and the doubtful privilege of having their own three-sheet posters stare them out of countenance in every town they visit. yet without the brazen poster and an occasional lithograph hung upside down in the window of a german beer saloon, one would lack the proof of stardom. no, i had watched stars too long and too closely to believe theirs was a very joyous existence; besides, i felt i had much to learn yet, and that new york was the place to learn it in; so, true to my promise, off i went and laid the matter before mr. daly--and he _did_ take on, but for such an odd reason. for though he paid me the valued compliment of saying he could not afford to lose me, his greatest anger was aroused by what he called the "demoralization" my act would bring into his company. "you put that bee in their bonnets and its buzzing will drown all commands, threats, or reasons. every mother's son and daughter of them will demand the right to star! why, confound it! jimmie lewis, who has had one try at it, is twisting and writhing to get at it again--even now; and as for miss davenport, she will simply raise the dead over her effort to break out starring, and ethel--oh, well, she's free now to do as she likes. but you star one week and you'll see how quick she will take the cue, while miss--oh, it's damnable! you can't do it! it will set everyone on end!" "if you will give me a salary equal to that of other people, who do much less work than i do, i will stay with you," i said. but he wanted me to keep to the small salary and let him "make it up to me," meaning by that, his paying for the stage costumes and occasional gifts, etc. but that was not only unbusiness-like and unsatisfactory--though he undoubtedly would have been generous enough--but it was a bit humiliating, since it made me dependent on his whims and, worst of all, it opened the door to possible scandal, and i had but one tongue to deny with, while scandal had a thousand tongues to accuse with. it was a queer whim, but he insisted that he could not give me the really modest salary i would remain for, though, in his own words, i should have "three times its value." finally we agreed that i should give him three months of the season every year as long as he might want my services, and the rest of the season i should be free to make as much money as i could, starring. he told me to go ahead and make engagements at once to produce "l'article " or "alixe"--i to pay him a heavy nightly royalty for each play, and when my engagements were completed to bring him the list, that he might not produce "alixe" with his company before me in any city that i was to visit. i did as he had requested me. i was bound in every contract to be the first to present "l'article " or "alixe" in that city. i was then to open in philadelphia. i had been announced as a coming attraction, when i received startling telegrams and threats from the local manager that "mr. daly's fifth avenue company" was announced to appear the week before me in "alixe," in an opposition house. thus mr. daly had most cruelly broken faith with me. i went to him at once. i reproached him. i said: "these people will sue me!" "bah!" he sneered, "they can't take what you have not got!" "but," i cried, "they will throw over my engagement!" his face lit up with undisguised pleasure. he thrust his hand into the open desk-drawer. "ah," he smiled, "i have a part here that might have been written for you. it is great--honestly great, and with this starring business disposed of, we can get at it early!" i rose. i said: "mr. daly, you have done an unworthy thing, you have broken faith with me. if you produce 'alixe' next week, i will never play for you again!" "you will have to!" he threatened. "i have broken the verbal part of our contract, but you cannot prove it, nor can you break the written part of the contract!" i repeated: "i shall play for you no more!" and he hotly answered: "well, don't you try playing for anyone else. i give you fair warning--i'll enjoin you if you do! the law is on my side, remember." "my dear sir," i said, "the law was not specially created for you to have fun with, and it has an odd way of protecting women at times. i shall at all events appeal to it to-morrow morning." next morning my salary was sent to me. i took from it what was due me for two nights' work i had done early in the week, and returned the rest, saying: "as i am not a member of the company, no salary need be sent me." and eleven o'clock found me in the office of ex-judge william fullerton. he declared that my mind showed a strong legal bent, and he congratulated me upon my refusal of the proffered salary. "if," said he, "you receive a desirable offer in the way of an engagement, take it at once and without fear. mr. daly will threaten you, of course, but i can't believe his lawyers will permit him to take this matter into court. in attacking you he will attack every young, self-supporting woman in new york, in your person. the new york man will sympathize with you. public opinion is a great power, and no manager wishes to see it arrayed against him." and thus it happened that i was not legally quite off with the old manager when i was on with the new--in the person of mr. a. m. palmer, my sometime manager and still my honored friend. our relations were always kindly, yet to this hour i squirm mentally when i recall our first meeting. i was taking some chocolate at a woman's restaurant on broadway, and a common friend brought the "union square" manager in and introduced him, simply as a friend, for whatever my secret hope, there had been no open word spoken about business in connection with this interview. but, given a meeting between an idle actress and an active manager, a barkis-like willingness to talk business is sure to develop. looking up and seeing mr. harriott advancing toward my table with a strange gentleman in tow, i gave a nervous swallow and fixed my attention upon the latter. his rigid propriety of expression, the immaculately spotless and creaseless condition of his garments made me expect each moment to hear the church-bells clang out an invitation to morning service. being presented, he greeted me with a gentle coldness of manner--if i may use the expression--that sent my heart down like lead. now extreme nervousness on my part nearly always expresses itself in rapid, almost reckless speech, and directly i was off at a tangent, successfully sharing with them the fun of various absurdities going on about us; until, in an evil moment, my eye fell upon the smug face of a young rural beau, whose terrified delight in believing himself a very devil of a fellow was so ludicrously evident, that one wept for the presence of a dickens to embalm him in the amber of his wit. "oh!" i said, egged on by one of those imps who hover at the elbow of just such women as i am, "can't you see he is a minister's son? he has had more religion given to him than he can digest. he's taking a sniff of freedom. he has kicked over the traces and he has not quite decided yet whether he'll go to the demnition bow-wows entirely, or be moderately respectable. he's a minister's son fast enough, but he doesn't know yet whether he will manage a theatre in new york or run away with the sunday-school funds; and that red-haired young person oppo--opposite----" and i trailed off stupidly, for judging by the ghastly silence that had fallen upon my hearers and the stricken look upon mr. harriott's face, i knew i had set my foot deep in some conversational morass. i turned a frightened glance upon mr. palmer's face, and i have always been glad that i was in time to catch the twinkling laughter in his cool, hazel eyes. then he leaned toward me and gently remarked: "i am the son of a minister, miss morris, and the manager of a theatre, but upon my word the sunday-school funds never suffered at my hands." "oh!" i groaned. and i must have looked just as a pet dog does when it creeps guiltily to its mistress's foot and waits to be smacked. i _really_ must, because he suddenly broke into such hearty laughter. then presently he made a business proposition that pleased me greatly, but i felt i must tell him that mr. daly promised to get out an injunction to prevent my appearance anywhere, and he would probably not care to risk any trouble. and then there came a little squeeze to mr. palmer's lips and a little glint in his eye, as he remarked: "you accept my offer and i'll know how to meet the injunction." and i can't help it--being born on st. patrick's day and all that--if people _will_ step on the tail of one's coat, why of course they must expect "ructions." and to tell the honest truth, mr. palmer's perfect willingness to fight that injunction filled me with unholy glee; which combined beautifully with gratitude for his quick forgiveness of my _faux pas_--and i signed a contract with mr. sheridan shook and mr. a. m. palmer and was announced to appear in "the wicked world" at the union square theatre, and i was pursued day and night by slim young men with black curly hair, who tried to push folded papers into my unwilling hands; while life behind the scenes grew more and more strenuous, as scene-shifters, property-men, and head carpenters, armed with braces and screw-eyes, charged any unknown male creature that looked as if he could define the word injunction. the night came, and with it an equinoctial gale of perfect fury. whether the people were blown in by the storm or fought their way in by intention, i can't decide. i only know they were there and in numbers sufficient to crowd the bright and ruddy auditorium. they were a trifle damp about the ankles and disordered about the hair, but their hands were in prime working order, their hearts were warm, their perceptions quick--what more could the most terrified actress pray for in an audience? the play was one of gilbert's deliciously poetic satires--well cast, beautifully produced, after the manner of union square productions generally, and success shook the rain off her wings and perched upon our banners, and we were all filled with pride and joy, in spite of the young men with folded white papers who swirled wildly up and down fourth avenue in the storm, and of those other young men who came early and strove diligently to get seats within reaching distance of the foot-lights, only to find that by some strange accident both those rows of chairs were fully occupied when the doors were first throw open. yes, in spite of all those disappointed young men, we had a success, and i was not enjoined. yet there were two rather long managerial faces there that night. for unless my out-of-town managers threw me overboard, because of the trouble about "alixe," i could remain in this charming play of "the wicked world" but two short weeks. and no manager can be expected to rejoice over the forced withdrawal of a success. and right there mr. palmer saw fit to do a very gracious thing. after the first outburst of anger and disappointment from mr. thomas hall (my philadelphia manager), instead of breaking his engagement with me, as he had every right to do, he stood by his contract to star me and at the same terms, if i could provide a play--any play to fill the time with. i had nothing of course but the daly plays, so my thanks and utter abandonment of the engagement were neatly packed within the regulation ten telegraphic words, when mr. palmer offered me the use of his play, "the geneva cross," written by george fawcett rowe. in an instant my first telegram changed into a joyous acceptance. i was studying my part at night, my mother was ripping, picking out and pressing at skirts and things by day. congratulating myself upon my good fortune in having once seen the play in new york, i went to philadelphia, and after just one rehearsal of this strange play, i opened my starring engagement. can i ever forget the thrill i felt when i received my first thousand dollars? i counted it by twenties, then by tens, but i got the most satisfaction out of counting it by fives--it seemed so much more that way. i was spending it with the aid of a sheet of foolscap paper and a long pencil until after two o'clock in the morning. my mother to this day declares that that was the very best black silk dress she has ever owned--that one out of that first thousand she means, and on the wall here beside me hangs a fine and rare engraving of the late queen victoria in her coronation robes that i gave myself as a memento of that first wonderful thousand. that, when the other managers saw that mr. hall kept faith with me, and had apparently not lost by his action, they followed suit and all my engagements were filled--thanks to mr. palmer's kindness and mr. hall's pluck as well as generosity. chapter forty-third we give a charity performance of "camille," and are struck with amazement at our success--mr. palmer takes the cue and produces "camille" for me at the union square. then came the great "charity benefit," and "camille"--that "ninon de l' enclos" of the drama, who, in spite of her years, can still count lovers at her feet. it is amazing how much accident has to do with the career of actors. shakespeare says: "there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will." and heaven knows i "rough-hewed" the "camille" proposition to the best of my power. i came hurrying back to new york, specially to act at the mighty benefit, given for the starving poor of the city. every theatre was to give a performance on the same day, and a ticket purchased was good at any one of them. i had selected "love's sacrifice," an old legitimate play, for that occasion and mr. palmer had cast it, when an actress suddenly presented herself at his office declaring she had made that play _her_ property, by her own exceptional work in it in former years, at another theatre. threatening hysterics often prove valuable weapons in a manager's office, where, strangely enough, "a scene" is hated above all things. i was informed of this lady's claim to a play that was anybody's property, and at once withdrew in the interest of peace. but what then was to be done for the benefit? every play proposed had some drawback. mr. palmer suggested "camille," and all my objections crowding to my lips at once, i fairly stammered and spluttered over the expression of them: i hated! hated! hated! the play! the people who had preceded me in it were too great! i should be the merest pigmy beside them. i did not think _camille_ as vulgar and coarse as one great woman had made her--nor so chill and nun-like as another had conceived her to be. and the critics would fall upon me and joyously tear me limb from limb. they would justly cry "presumption," and--and--i had no clothes! no, not one stitch had i to wear (of course you will make the usual allowance for an excited woman and not take that literally!) and then, oh, dear! i'm dreadfully ashamed of myself, but to tell the exact truth, i wept--for the first and only time in my life--i wept from anger! we all fumed--we, meaning mr. palmer, mr. cazauran, that ferret-faced, mysterious little man, whose clever brain and dramatic instincts made him so valuable about a theatre; and the big, silently observant mr. shook, and i. cazauran said he knew all the business of the play and could tell me it, and began with certain things miss heron (the greatest _camille_ america had had) had done, and i indignantly declared i would leave a theatre before i would do as much. i argued it was unnecessary. _camille_ was not brutal--she had associated with gentlemen, members of the nobility, men who were acquainted with court circles. she would have learned refinement of manners from them. such brutalities would have shocked and driven away the boyish, clean-hearted _armand_. her very disease made her exquisitely sensitive to music, to beauty, to sentiment. if she repelled, it was with cynicism, sarcasm, her evident knowledge of the world. she allured men by the very refinement of her vice. and as i paused to take breath, mr. shook's bass voice was heard for the first time, as he asked, conclusively: "whom can we get for _armand_ on such short notice?" i turned piteously to mr. palmer: "the critics"--i gasped and stopped. he smiled reassuringly and said: "don't be frightened, miss morris, they will never attack a piece of work offered in charity. just do your best and remember it's only for once." "dear lord! only for once!" and with wet cheeks i made my way home, with a copy of the detested play in my hand. late that evening i was notified that mr. mayo would play _armand_. i had not one dress suited for the part. i knew i should look like a school-mistress in one act and a stage _ingénue_ in another. i had a ball-room gown, but it was not a suitable color. i should only be correct when i got into my night-dress and loose wrapper in the last act. actress fashion, i got my gowns together first, and then sat down with my string of amber beads to study--i never learn anything so quickly as when i have something to occupy my fingers, and my string of amber beads has assisted me over many and many an hour of mental labor--a pleasanter custom than that of walking and studying aloud, i think, and surely more agreeable to one's near neighbors. the rehearsing of that play was simply purgatorial. we went over two acts on one stage one day and over three acts on another stage the next day, and we shrieked our lines out against the tumult of creaking winches, of hammering and sawing, of running and ordering--for every stage was filled at the rear with rushing carpenters and painters. yet those were the only rehearsals that unfortunate play received for the benefit performance, and, as a result, we were all abroad in the first act, in particular, and i remember i spent a good part of my time in trying to induce the handsome young english woman who did _olympe_ to keep out of my chair and to go to and from the piano at the right moment. the house was packed to the danger-point, the play being given at what was then called "the lyceum," which charles fechter had just been having remodeled, and the police discovering that day that the floor of the balcony was settling at the right, under the too great weight, very cleverly ordered the ushers to whisper a seeming message in the ear of a person here, there, and yonder, who would nod, rise, and step quietly out, returning a moment later to smilingly motion their party out with them, and thus the weight was lightened without a panic being caused, though it made one feel rather sick and faint afterward to note the depth to which the floor had sagged under the feet of that tightly packed audience. james lewis used to say to me: "clara is the biggest fraud of a first-nighter the profession can show. there she'll stand shivering and shaking, white-sick with fright, waiting for her cue, and when she gets it, she skips on and waltzes through her scene as if she'd been at it for a year at least. no wonder mr. daly calls her his best first-nighter." so at that first performance of "camille," as frank mayo touched my icy hand and burning brow, and saw the trembling of my limbs, as with fever-dried lips i waited for the curtain's rise, he said: "god! but you suffer! i reckon you'll not act much to-day, little woman!" and a few minutes later, as i laughed and chatted gayly through the opening lines of the play, i distinctly heard frank say: "well, of all the sells! why confound her, i'm twice as nervous as she is!" the first act went with a sort of dash and go that was the result of pure recklessness. the house was delighted. the curtain had to go up twice. we all looked at one another, and then laughingly laid it to the crowd. the second act went with such a rush and sweep of hot passion between _armand_ and _camille_ that when _de varville's_ torn letter was cast to _nanine_ as _camille's_ answer, and the lovers leaped to each others' arms, the house simply roared, and as the curtain went up and down, up and down, mayo gasped in amazement: "well, i'm damned!" but i made answer: "no, you're not--but you _will_ be if you hammer my poor spine in another act as you have in this. go easy, frank; i can't stand it!" the third act went beautifully. many women sobbed at times. i made my exit some little time before the end of the act, and of course went directly to my room, which was beneath the stage, and there began to dress for the ball-room scene, and lo! after _armand_ had had two or three calls for his last speech, something set them on to call for _camille_. and they kept at it, too, till at last a mermaid-like creature--not exactly half fish and half woman, but half ball-gown train and half dinky little dressing-sack--came bobbing to the curtain side, delighting the audience by obeying it, but knocking spots out of the illusion of the play. in the fourth act mr. mayo played base-ball with me. he batted me and hurled me and sometimes i had a wild fear that he would kick me. finally, he struck my head so hard that a large gold hairpin was driven through my scalp and i found a few moments' rest in truly fainting from fatigue, fright, and pain. but it all went. great heaven! how it went! for mayo was a great actor, and it was but intense excitement that made him so rough with me. honestly we were so taken aback behind the scenes that none of us knew what to make of the frantic demonstrations--whether it was just the result of an extreme good nature in a great crowd, or whether we were giving an extremely good performance. the last act i can never forget. i had cut out two or three pages from the dialogue in the book. i felt there was too much of it. that if _camille_ did not die, her audience would, and had built up a little scene for myself. never would i have dared do such a thing had it been for more than one performance. that scene took in the crossing of the room to the window, the looking-glass scene, and the return to the bed. dear heaven! it's good to be alive sometimes! to feel your fingers upon human hearts, to know a little pressure hurts, that a little tighter pressure will set tears flowing. it was good, too, when that madly-rushed performance was at last over, to lie back comfortably dead, and hear the sweet music that is made by small gloved hands, violently spatted together. "yes, it was 'werry' good." and mr. palmer, standing in his box, looking at the pleased, moist-eyed people in front, took up the cue they offered, so promptly that within twenty-four hours i had been engaged to play _camille_ at the union square, as one of a cast to be ever proud of, in a handsome production with sufficient rehearsals and correct gowns and plenty of extra ladies and gentlemen to "enter all!" at the fourth act. and more still, the new play that was then in preparation was called in and packed away with mothballs to wait until the old play had had its innings. such a cast! just look at it! _m. armand duval_ mr. charles r. thorne _comte de varville_ mr. mckee rankin _m. duval (père)_ mr. john parselle _m. gustave_ mr. claude burroughs _m. gaston_ mr. stuart robson _mademoiselle olympe_ miss maude granger _mademoiselle nichette_ miss kate claxton _mademoiselle nanine_ miss kate holland _madame prudence_ miss emily mestayer if mr. palmer ever eats opium or hashish and has beauteous visions, i am sure he will see himself making out those splendid old casts again. every theatre-goer knows it's difficult for a stout, romantic actor to make his love reach convincingly all the way round, and it is almost as difficult for an actor who has attained six feet of height to make his love include his entire length of anatomy. but charles r. thorne was the most satisfactory over-tall lover i ever saw. he really seemed entirely possessed by the passion of love. "my god thorne" he was nicknamed because of his persistent use of that exclamation. of course it did often occur in plays by authority of their authors, but whenever thorne was nervous, confused, or "rattled," as actors term it, or uncertain of the next line, he would pass his hand across his brow and exclaim, in suppressed tones: "my god!" and delicious creepy chills would go up and down the feminine spine out in the auditorium--the male spine is not so sensitive, you know. a fine actor, hot-tempered, quick to take offence, equally quick to repent his too hasty words; as full of mischief as a monkey, he was greatly beloved by those near to him. i worked with him in perfect amity, albeit i do not think he ever called me anything but _johnny_, the name lou james bestowed upon me at daly's; and his death found me shocked and incredulous as well as grieved. he should have served his admiring public many a year longer, this most admirable _armand_. and mr. parselle, what a delight his stage presence was. he had unction, jollity, tenderness, dignity, but above all a most polished courtesy. it was worth two dollars to see john parselle in court dress, and his entrance and salutation as _duval père_ in the cottage scene of "camille" was an unfailing gratification to me--he was a dramatic gem of great value. mr. stuart robson, by expressing a genuine tenderness of sympathy for the dying woman in the last act, amazed and delighted everyone. it had not been suspected that a trained comedian, who hopped about and lisped and squeaked through the other acts, could lay aside those eccentricities and show real gentleness and sincerity in the last--a very memorable _gaston_ was mr. stuart robson. but oh, how many of these names are cut in marble now! poor claude burroughs! with his big eyes, his water curls, and his tight-waisted coats. we would not have poked so much fun at him, had we known how terrible was the fate approaching him. and little katie holland--she of the knee-reaching auburn locks, the gentlest of living creatures--god in his wisdom, which finite man may not understand, has taken and held safe, lo! these many years. as an ex-votary of pleasure, _prudence_ is always more convincing if she can show some remnant of past beauty; so the statuesque regularity of feature the mestayer family was famous for, told here, and the _prudence_ of miss emily mestayer was as handsome and heartless a harpy as one ever saw. then, too, there were the gorgeous maude granger, the ruddy-haired claxton, and the piratically handsome rankin; their best opportunities were yet to come to all three. and with that cast mr. palmer achieved a great success, with the play that, old then, shows to this day the most astounding vitality. the only drawback was to be found in its impropriety as an entertainment for the ubiquitous "young person," in the immorality of _camille's_ life, which was much dwelt upon. now--oh, the pity of it!--now _camille_ is, by comparison with modern plays, absolutely staid. it is the adulteries of wives and husbands that the "young person" looks unwinkingly upon to-day. worse still--the breaking of the seventh commandment no longer leads to tragic punishment, as of yore, but the thunders that rolled about mount sinai at the promulgation of that awful warning: "thou shalt not commit adultery!" are answered now by the thunders of laughter that greet the taking in adultery of false wives and husbands in milliners' many-doored rooms, or restaurants' _cabinet particulier_. alas, that the time should come that this passion for the illicit should so dominate the stage! one more delightful production at the union square theatre i shared in, and then my regular company days were over. chapter forty-fourth "miss multon" put in rehearsal--our squabble over the manner of her death--great success of the play--mr. palmer's pride in it--my _au revoir_. the other day, in recalling to mr. palmer a long list of such successful productions of his as "led astray," "the two orphans," "camille," "miss multon," "the danicheffs," "the celebrated case," etc., he surprised me by emphatically declaring that the performance of "miss multon" came nearer to absolute perfection than had any other play he had ever produced; and to convince me of that, he simply brought forward the cast of the play to help prove the truth of his assertion. as we went over the characters one by one, i was compelled to admit that from the leading part to the smallest servant, i had never seen one of them quite equaled since. mr. palmer's pride in this production seemed the more odd at first, because of its slight demands upon the scenic-artist, the carpenter, and upholsterer. it needs just two interior scenes--a busy doctor's study in london and a morning-room in a french country-house--that's all. "but," he will enthusiastically cry, "think of that performance, recall those people," and so, presently, i will obey him and recall them every one. the play had twice failed in paris, which was, to say the least, discouraging. when it was read to me i thought the tremendous passion of maternity ought to touch the public heart--others there were, who said no, that sexual love alone could interest the public. mr. palmer thought the french play had needed a little brightening; then, too, he declared the people wanted to see the actual end of the heroine (one of mr. daly's fixed beliefs, by the way), therefore he had mr. cazauran write two additional short acts--a first, to introduce some brightness in the children's christmas-tree party and some amusement in the old bachelor doctor and his old maid sister; and a last for the death of _miss multon_. after brief reflection i concluded i would risk it, and then, just by way of encouragement, mr. cazauran, who had always been at pains to speak as kindly of my work as that work would allow, when he was critic on the different papers, declared that all my acquired skill and natural power of expressing emotion united would prove useless to me--that _miss multon_ was to be my waterloo, and to all anxious or surprised "whys?" sapiently made answer: "no children." his argument was, that not being a mother in reality, i could not be one in imagination. always lacking in self-confidence, those words made my heart sink physically, it seemed to me, as well as figuratively; but the ever-ready jest came bravely to the fore to hide my hurt from the public eye, and at next rehearsal i shook my head mournfully and remarked to the little man: "bad--bad! miss cushman must be a very bad _lady macbeth_--i don't want to see her!" "what?" he exclaimed, "cushman not play _lady macbeth_--for heaven's sake, why not?" "no murderess!" i declared, with an air of authority recognized by those about me as a fair copy of his own. "if miss cushman is not a murderess, pray how can she act _lady macbeth_--who is?" and the laugh that followed helped a little to scare away the bugaboo his words had raised in my mind. then, ridiculous as it may seem to an outsider, the question of dress proved to be a snag, and there was any amount of backing and filling before we could get safely round it. "what are you going to wear, miss morris?" asked mr. cazauran one day after rehearsal--and soon we were at it, and the air was thick with black, brown, gray, purple, red, and blue! i starting out with a gray traveling-dress, for a reason, and mr. cazauran instantly and without reason condemned it. he thought a rich purple would be about the thing. mr. palmer gave a small contemptuous "humph"! and i cried out, aghast: "purple? the color of royalty, of pomp, of power? a governess in a rich purple? your head would twist clear round, hind side to, with amazement, if you saw a woman crossing from calais to dover attired in a royal purple traveling-suit." mr. palmer said: "nonsense, cazauran; purple is not appropriate;" and then, "how would blue--dark blue or brown do?" he asked. "for just a traveling-dress either one would answer perfectly," i answered; "but think of the character i am trying to build up. why not let me have all the help my gown can give me? my hair is to be gray--white at temples; i have to wear a dress that requires no change in going at once to cars and boat. now gray or drab is a perfect traveling-gown, but think, too, what it can express--gray hair, white face, gray dress without relief of trimming, does it not suggest the utterly flat, hopeless monotony of the life of a governess in london? not hunger, not cold, but the very dust and ashes of life? then, when the woman arrives at the home of her rival and tragedy is looming big on the horizon, i want to wear red." "good god!" exclaimed cazauran; and really red was so utterly unworn at that time that i was forced to buy furniture covering, reps, in order to get the desired color, a few days later. "yes, red," i persisted. "not too bright, not impudent scarlet, but a dull, rich shade that will give out a gleam when the light strikes it; that will have the force of a threat--a menacing color, that white collar, cuffs and black lace shoulder wrap will restrict to governess-like primness, until, with mantle torn aside, she stands a pillar of fire and fury. and at the last i want a night-dress and a loose robe over it of a hard light blue, that will throw up the ghastly pallor of the face. there--that's what i want to wear, and why i want to wear it." mr. palmer decided that purple was impossible and black too conventional, while the proposed color-scheme of gray, red, and blue seemed reasonable and characteristic. and suddenly that little wretch, cazauran, laughed as good-naturedly as possible and said he thought so, too, but it did no harm to talk things over, and so we got around that snag, only to see a second one looming up before us in the question of what was to kill _miss multon_. i asked it: "of what am i to die?" "die? how? why, just die, that's all," replied cazauran. "but _of_ what?" i persisted; "what kills me? _miss multon_ at present dies simply that the author may get rid of her. i don't want to be laughed at. we are not in the days of 'charlotte temple'--we suffer, but we live. to die of a broken heart is to be guyed, unless there is an aneurism. now what can _miss multon_ die from? if i once know that, i'll find out the proper business for the scene." "perhaps you'd have some of the men carry knives," sneered cazauran, "and then she could be stabbed?" "oh, no!" i answered; "knives are not necessary for the stabbing of a woman; a few sharp, envenomed words can do that nicely--but we are speaking of death, not wounds; from what is _miss multon_ to die?" then mr. palmer made suggestions, and miss morris made suggestions, and mr. cazauran triumphantly wiped them out of existence. but at last cazauran himself grudgingly remarked that consumption would do well enough, and mr. palmer and i, as with one vengeful voice, cried out, _camille!_ and cazauran said some things like "nom de dieu!" or "dieu de dieu!" and i said: "chassez à droite," but the little man was vexed and would not laugh. someone proposed a fever--but i raised the contagion question. poison was thought of, but that would prevent the summoning of the children from paris, by _dr. osborne_. we parted that day with the question unanswered. at next rehearsal i still wondered how i was to die, hard or easy, rigid or limp, slow or quick. "oh," i exclaimed, "i must know whether i am to die in a second or to begin in the first act." and in my own exaggerated, impatient words i found my first hint--"why _not_ begin to die in the first act?" when we again took up the question, i asked, eagerly: "what are those two collapses caused by--the one at the mirror, the other at the school-table with the children?" "extreme emotion," i was answered. "then," i asked, "why not extreme emotion acting upon a weak heart?" mr. palmer was for the heart trouble from the first--he saw its possibilities, saw that it was new, comparatively speaking at least--i suppose nothing is really new--and decided in its favor; but for some reason the little man cazauran was piqued, and the result was that he introduced just one single line, that could faintly indicate that _miss multon_ was a victim of heart disease--in the first act, where, after a violent exclamation from the lady, _dr. osborne_ said: "oh, i thought it was your heart again," and on eight words of foundation i was expected to raise a superstructure of symptoms true enough to nature to be readily recognized as indicating heart disease; and yet oh, difficult task! that disease must not be allowed to obtrude itself into first place, nor must it be too poignantly expressed. in brief, we decided i was to show to the public a case of heart disease, ignored by its victim and only recognized among the characters about her by the doctor. and verily my work was cut out for me. why, when i went to the doctors seguin to be coached, i could not even locate my heart correctly by half a foot. both father and son did all they could to teach me the full horror of _angina pectoris_, which i would, of course, tone down for artistic reasons. and to this day tears rise in my eyes when i recall the needless cruelty of the younger seguin, in running a heart patient up a long flight of stairs, that i might see the gasping of the gray-white mouth for breath, the flare and strain of her waxy nostrils. then, in remorseful generosity, though heaven knows her coming was no act of mine, i made her a little gift, and as she was slipping the bill inside her well-mended glove, her eye caught the number on its corner, and, she must have been very poor, her tormented and tormenting heart gave a plunge and sent a rush of blood into her face that made her very eyeballs pinken; and then again the clutching fingers, the flaring nostrils, the gasping for air, the pleading look, the frightened eyes! oh, it is unforgettable! poor soul! poor soul! well, having my symptoms gathered together, they yet had to be sorted out, toned down, and adapted to this or that occasion. but at least the work had not been thrown away, for on the first night dr. fordyce barker--a keen dramatic critic, by the way--occupied with a friend a private box. he had rescued me from the hands of the specialists in paris, and i had at times been his patient. he applauded heartily after the first two acts, but looked rather worried. at the end of the third act a gentleman of his party turned and looked at him inquiringly. the doctor threw up his hands, while shaking his head disconsolately. the friend said: "why, i'm surprised--i thought miss morris suffered from her spine?" "so she does--so she does," nodded dr. barker. "but," went on the friend, "this thing isn't spine--this looks like heart to me." "i should say so," responded the doctor. "i knew she wasn't strong--just a thing of nerves and will--but i never saw a sign of heart trouble before. but it's here now, and it's bad; for, by jove, she can't go through another attack like that and finish this play. too bad, too bad!" and his honest sympathy for my new affliction spoiled his evening right up to the point of discovery that it was all in the play. then he enjoyed the laugh against himself almost as much as i enjoyed his recognition of my laboriously acquired symptoms. and now for mr. palmer's beloved cast. with what a mixture of pleasure and grief i recall sara jewett, the loveliest woman and the most perfect representative of a french lady of quality i have ever seen in the part of _mathilde_. mr. james o'neil's success in _maurice de la tour_ was particularly agreeable to me, because i had earnestly called attention to him some time before he was finally summoned to new york. his fine work in chicago, where i had first met him, had convinced me that he ought to be here, and that beautiful performance fully justified every claim i had made for him in the first place. the part is a difficult one. some men rant in it, some are savagely cruel, some cold as stone. o'neil's _maurice_ bore his wound with a patient dignity that made his one outbreak into hot passion tremendously effective, through force of contrast; while his sympathetic voice gave great value to the last tender words of pardon. and that ancient couple--that never-to-be-forgotten pair, mr. stoddard and mrs. wilkins! the latter's husband, belonging to the english bar, had been sergeant wilkins, a witty, well-living, popular man, who quite adored his pretty young wife and lavished his entire income upon their ever-open house, so that his sudden taking off left her barely able to pay for a sea of crape--with not a pound left over for a life-preserver or raft of any kind. but on her return to the stage, her knowledge of social amenities, the dignity and aplomb acquired by the experienced hostess, remained with her, in a certain manner, an air of suave and gentle authority, that was invaluable to her in the performance of gentlewomen; while the good-fellowship, the downright jollity of her infectious laugh were the crown of her comedy work. who can forget the multon tea-table scene between mrs. wilkins and mr. stoddard. how the audience used to laugh and laugh when, after his accusing snort: "more copperas!" he sat and glared at her pretty protesting face framed in its soft white curls. he was so ludicrously savage i had to coin a name for him; and one night when the house simply would not stop laughing, i remarked: "oh, doesn't he look like a perfect old sardonyx?" "yes-m!" quickly replied the property boy beside me; "yes-m, that's the very beast he reminds _me_ of!" certainly, i never expect to find another _dr. osborne_ so capable of contradicting a savage growl with a tender caress. mr. parselle, as the gentle old latin scholar, tutor, and acting godfather, was beyond praise. he admitted to me one night, coming out of a brown study, that he believed _bélin_ was a character actually beyond criticism, and that, next to creating it as author, he ranked the honor of acting it; but there spoke the old-school actor who respected his profession. and those children--were they not charming? that _sister jane_, given so sweetly, so sincerely by the daughter of the famous matilda heron, who, christened helène, was known only by the pet name bijou, in public as well as in private life. and the boy _paul_, her little brother. almost, i believe, mabel leonard was herself created expressly to play that part. never did female thing wear male clothes so happily. all the impish perversity, all the wriggling restlessness of the small boy were to be found in the person of the handsome, erratic, little mabel. even the two maids were out of the common, one being played by a clever and very versatile actress, who had been a friend of my old cleveland days. she came to me out of the laughing merry past, but all pale and sad in trailing black, for death had been robbing her most cruelly. she wished for a new york engagement and astonished me by declaring she would play anything, no matter how small, if only the part gave her a foothold on the new york stage. i sought mr. palmer and talked hard and long for my friend, but he laughed and answered: "an actress as clever as that will be very apt to slight a part of only two scenes." but i assured him to the contrary; that she would make the most of every line, and the part would be a stepping-stone to bigger things. he granted my prayer, and louise sylvester, by her earnestness, her breathless excitement in rushing to and fro, bearing messages, answering bells, and her excellent dancing, raised _kitty_ to a character part, while _louise_, the smallest of them all, was played with a brisk and bright assurance that made it hard to believe that helen vincent had come direct from her convent school to the stage-door--as she had. a great, great triumph for everyone was that first night of "miss multon," and one of the sweetest drops in my own cup was added by the hand of new york's honored and beloved poet, edmund clarence stedman, for, all nested in a basket of sweet violets, came a sonnet from him to me, and though my unworthiness was evident enough, nevertheless i took keenest joy in the beauty of its every line--surely a very sweet and gracious token from one who was secure to one who was still struggling. and now, when years have passed, he has given me another beautiful memory to keep the first one company. i was taking my first steps in the new profession of letters, which seems somewhat uncertain, slow, and introspective, when compared with the swift, decisive, if rather superficial profession of acting, and mr. stedman, in a pause from his own giant labor on his great "anthology," looked at, nay, actually considered, that shivering fledgling thing, my first book, and wrote a letter that spelled for me the word _encouragement_, and being a past-master in the art of subtle flattery, quoted from my own book and set alight a little flame of hope in my heart that is not extinguished yet. so gently kind remain some people who are great. just as tomasso salvini, from the heights of his unquestioned supremacy--but stay, the line must be drawn somewhere. it would not be kind to go on until my publisher himself cried: "halt!" so i shall stop and lock away the pen and paper--lock them hard and fast, because so many charming, so many famous people came within my knowledge in the next few years that the temptation to gossip about them is hard to resist. but to those patient ones, who have listened to this story of a little maid's clamber upward toward the air and sunshine, that god meant for us all, i send greeting, as, between mother and husband, with the inevitable small dog on my knee, i prepare to lock the desk--i pause just to kiss my hands to you and say _au revoir_! the end by a. conan doyle the hound of the baskervilles a sherlock holmes novel illustrated by sidney paget [illustration] _the london chronicle_, in a review headed "the zenith of sherlock holmes," says: "we should like to pay dr. doyle the highest compliment at our command. it is not simply that this book is superior in originality and construction to the earlier adventures of the great detective. dr. doyle has provided a criminal who, as mr. holmes admits, is indeed a foeman worthy of his steel.[*] hitherto he has found it comparatively easy to unmask his antagonists. but in the present case he finds himself checkmated again and again. there is pitted against him a skill nearly equal to his own, and he wins the game almost by a hair." 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"a work of genuine power and profound interest." --_chicago post._ _second edition._ $ . . mcclure, phillips & co. always in demand monsieur beaucaire _by booth tarkington_ this little masterpiece has become the standard by which other romances are judged. cloth, $ . . full leather, $ . . _seventieth thousand._ the firebrand _by s. r. crockett_ a stirring romance of carlist plotting in spain, told in the author's usual captivating style. _twelfth thousand._ $ . . sons of the sword _by mrs. margaret l. woods_ an historical romance. a romance of action, and glory, of brave hearts and fair women. _second edition._ $ . . five years of my life _alfred dreyfus_ including the devil's island diary and containing maps and diagrams. _third edition._ $ . . mcclure, phillips & co. produced from images generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) my actor-husband _a true story of american stage life_ new york the macaulay company copyright, , by john lane company to professor charles t. copeland of harvard university foreword--a retrospect in presenting this autobiography to the public, the author feels it incumbent upon herself to impress upon her readers the fidelity and strict adherence to the truth, relative to the conditions which surround the player. in no instance has there been either exaggeration or a resort to imaginative creation. it is a true story with all the ugliness of truth unsoftened and unembellished. nor is the situation presented an exceptional one. one has but to follow the career of the average actor to be convinced that the dramatic profession is not only inconsistent with but wholly hostile to the institution of marriage. managers and actors alike know and admit this to be the truth--amongst themselves. what they say in print is, of course, merely so much self-exploitation. the success of any branch of "the show-business" is dependent on the bureau of publicity. to one intimately acquainted with the life, the effusions of certain actors' wives, which from time to time appear in magazines for women, are ironically humourous. they are to be put down as the babbling of the newly-weds or the hunger for seeing their names in print. to hear the wife of a star declare that she always goes to the theatre and sits in the wings to watch her husband act is to presage the glaring head-lines of a divorce in the not-far-distant future. if it be not now, yet it will come, for those players who go through life with but one, even two marriages to their credit are the great exception to the rule. the actor's life precludes domesticity and without domestic life there can be no successful marriages. every community has its stage-struck girls. year after year the academies of divine art turn out graduates like so many clothes-pins. neither aspirant nor parent appears to question her fitness for the career to which she aspires. both are ignorant of the conditions which confront the tyro or they have a wholly erroneous idea of theatrical life--ideas culled from the articles which appear from time to time in the magazines over the signature of a prominent actress. the average reader has no way of knowing that these articles are not written by the actress herself, but by a needy scribbler to whom she grants permission to use her name, for the free advertising she will get in return. "my beginnings," "advice to stage-struck girls who plan to go on the stage," etc., are alluring head-lines. the subject matter is a mass of glittering and trite generalities. of the real conditions, the pitfalls, the drawbacks to be met, the outsider hears nothing. and when once in a decade a scribe dares to express himself truthfully concerning the moral atmosphere in the theatrical profession--(vide mr. clement scott)--the air is rent with expostulations, denials and protestations from the members of "the profession." interviews and letters pack the enterprising press. many of those who protest the loudest have the least to lose. it has been said that art bears no relation to morals: as well might it be declared that the blood bears no relation to health. art must forever be imbued with the spirit of its delineator. the moral status of the stage may not be a whit worse than that of half a dozen other professions. it is possible, but hardly probable. the very exigencies of the player's life make for a laxity and freedom from restraint. and in no other profession are the lives of the individual members so intimately concerned. the popular contention that a good woman can and will be good under any and all circumstances is a fallacy. the influence of environment is incomputable. i believe that my little friend leila was fundamentally a good girl: in any other walk of life she would have remained a good girl. i believe that fundamentally my husband was a good man: in any other environment he would have been a good husband. the fantastic, unreal and over-stimulated atmosphere which the player breathes is not conducive to a sane and well-balanced life. and if, in a ruthless rending aside of the tinselled illusions which enthrall the stage-struck girl, i have rendered a service, my own suffering will not have been in vain. chapter i it was our first separation. all day i had fought back the tears while i helped will pack his "taylor" trunk. neither of us spoke; once in every little while will would stop in the act of folding a garment, and smile at me in approval. then his arm would steal around my shoulders and he would pat me tenderly.... i would turn away, pretending to busy myself with other things, but in reality to hide the freshet of tears his silent expression of sympathy had undammed.... will had signed with a star to play shakespearean répertoire. the question of wardrobe was a source of worry, until i volunteered my services; i was a good needlewoman, and, from the sketches will made, i was able to qualify as a full-fledged costumier. for days i had pegged away, refurbishing the old and making new ones, and sometimes will would lend a hand and run the machine over the thick seams.... i once read that the women of the commune wove the initials of those they hated into their knitting; well, i sewed the seams of will's dresses thick with love, and hope, and ambition ... and dampened them with tears.... then when the expressman came for the trunk ... it seemed as if they were taking away a coffin.... not until that night, after we had gone to bed, and i felt will's deep, rhythmical breathing beneath my head, which lay pressed against his breast, only then did i give way to my grief. i crept to the other side of the bed and turned my face to the wall--i shook with convulsive sobs. now and then will would half waken, and would reach out and dreamily pat my face and smooth back my hair, as one soothes a sorrowing child. at such times i would hold my breath, and wait until he was again quiet.... every incident of our short married life passed in review before my burning eyes. we had closed our season late in april, and had come back to new york with less than seventy-five dollars between us. but what we lacked in money was more than balanced by our enthusiasm and illusion--the illusion of two young persons very much in love with each other. i had been in new york only once before, and the thought of living in the great city, of becoming an integral part of it, made me thrill with excitement. will and i stood on the front of the ferry-boat and watched the panorama; he pointed out the various tall buildings with an air of familiarity. when we passed close to a great ocean liner, which was being swung into her dock by two fussy little tug-boats, even will got excited. he told me which was "fore," and "aft," and named various other parts of the boat which i didn't understand. when we had taken our last look, he tucked my hand under his arm and told me that one day he and i should take a trip abroad.... owing to the shortage in our money supply, we had decided to go to a theatrical boarding house. will was depending on his father to send him an allowance throughout the summer, and while it would be sufficient for his needs, now that he was married--well, we should have a chance to test the saying that two can live as cheaply as one. our marriage had been a secret one--besides the "star" and one or two members of the company, we had taken no one into our confidence. will's family--his father, a sister and brother--his mother having died about the time i came into his life--all were intolerant of the stage and its people. though i was not yet a "really truly" actress, the fact that will had met me "in the profession" would have prejudiced them against me; added to this was the fact that will, himself a tyro, taking a wife at the very threshold of his career would not be looked at through our love-coloured glasses. the effect my marriage might have upon my own relatives never troubled me; my father and mother belonged to that great class of incompetent parenthood which brings children into the world without any actual love for them. never questioning their fitness for child-rearing, they divine no greater responsibility than providing bodily necessities and a more or less superficial education. when, at the restless age of sixteen, i announced my determination to become an actress, there was some surface opposition, but no effort was made to enquire into my fitness for the dramatic profession, or the fitness of the dramatic profession as a career for any innocent and unprotected young girl. i had been highly successful as an amateur, and, as it was not necessary that i earn my own living, the stage appeared to their insapient minds an interesting playground for a dilettante daughter.... one week in a theatrical boarding-house was all we could endure. i wonder why it is that the rank and file of the theatrical profession are at such pains to impress one another with their importance. the flippant familiarity with which they referred to "charley" or "dan" frohman; the coarse criticism of their fellow-actors, which will called "knocking"; their easy disregard of the conventions, especially between the sexes; a bombastic retailing of their own exploits, as "how i jumped on and saved the show, with only one rehearsal"; talking "shop" to the exclusion of every other subject in the world. i overheard one of the actresses at the next table say we were "very up-stage," which will interpreted as "not sociable, and having too good an opinion of one's self." neither of us was happy in our new surroundings, and i felt a sense of relief when will suggested that we look for a furnished flat. i did not mean to be critical of my husband's profession--i endeavored to agree with him that every profession has its undesirables. we spent days in climbing narrow stairs to look at dark, closet-like apertures with no ventilation; even the strength-sapping humidity of the streets seemed fresh in comparison. at last, we found something less undesirable than the others. the building was new, and the apartment in the rear gave upon a row of private houses with small yards; there were flowers and a few trees--little oases in a desert of brick and mortar. the janitor told us there were three rooms: the bedroom was an alcove affair, divided from the parlor by pea-green portières; the kitchen beyond was as large as the pantry in our house at home; and the furnishings--! the whole outfit might have been removed from a seventh avenue show-window, where they advertise "complete furnished apartment for $ . ." the near-gold-leaf chairs were so frail that one was afraid to sit upon them. the general atmosphere of the parlor reminded me of the stage-settings one comes across in one-night-stand theatres. however, the vistas of the trees and flowers decided the momentous question. we paid a month's rent, then and there; it made a terrible hole in our last and only fifty-dollar bill, but neither of us worried much about it. for the next week the "show-business" was relegated to the background. we played "house" like two children; we arranged and rearranged the furniture, and will made a comfortable divan from two packing cases. we went out to market on ninth avenue and will carried the basket on his arm. then we tried our hand at cooking; will carried off the honours for coffee--and hard-boiled eggs. i washed and will dried the dishes--i can see him now, with an apron tied high under his arm, declaiming shakespeare, and juggling with the landlord's dishes. our greatest problem was the lack of bathing facilities. we solved it by bathing in the wash-tubs; to be sure it was a bit hazardous standing on a sloping bottom, in danger of falling out of the kitchen window if one leaned too much to the right, or of toppling over to the floor if veering a bit too much to the left. but it was a bath, and, as will said, preferable to the communal affair in the boarding house. the summer passed all too quickly. those were happy, happy days.... sometimes the money market was tight--very tight; especially when will's father was careless about sending will's allowance. i cried bitterly the first time will went to a pawn-shop; it seemed so humiliating to have him do it. will laughed, and said he regarded it as so much experience. several times a week we donned our best clothes and made the rounds of the theatrical employment agencies. will had had several offers during the summer, but we wanted a joint engagement; we had promised each other, when we married, that nothing should cause us to be separated. will and i felt that to the enforced separation of married persons--the husband in one company, the wife in another--was due the great number of divorces in the theatrical profession. our "star," when apprised of our marriage, had followed his good wishes and congratulations with a heart to heart talk with will. "it's all right, my boy," he said, "don't blame you a bit. she's a charming girl, and you're in love with her. if it were any other business but the show-business, i'd say you're a lucky dog, but--i'm going to be frank with you--a man or a woman in the theatrical business has no right to marry. it's all very lovely so long as you're together, but you can't _be_ together. the chances are against it--you may be lucky enough to get a joint engagement one season, but the next season you're off on the road, while she's playing in new york or in another part of the country. and what does this separation lead to in the end? you're a human being; you crave society, companionship; gradually you become weaned away and the inevitable happens. it's propinquity and home ties which make marriage a success; the life of an actor precludes domesticity. the very exigencies of his profession are not only inconsistent with, but hostile to, the institution of marriage." when will retailed all this to me, it sounded very big and very dreadful--and also very vague. any danger from separation seemed in the far, distant future.... we agreed that a man and wife who permitted themselves to become estranged because of temporary separations knew nothing of real love--such love as ours, at any rate.... and now, with the summer going on apace and no joint engagement in sight, the fear assumed a tangible shape, the dread of separation hung over me like a pall. will tried to reassure me by saying it was still early, and that we would hold out.... i believed what he said with a child-like faith. indeed, i am not so sure that in these days i did not worship will with the same idolatry that i offered up to the virgin mary.... the whole world had merged into one being--my husband. my love for my husband was the absorbing passion of my life. never happy in my home--my father had married a second wife--all the pent-up tenderness and passionate love found an outlet in my marriage. i sometimes wondered what had become of my ambition: this, too, had centred upon him. to be sure i meant to succeed as an actress, but i now thought of success only in the light of an assistance to him. it was already settled between us that i should be his leading lady, once he became a star. there should be no separations in our life.... the weeks flew by ... the summer waned. will became less reassuring--he took on a worried look. i began to awaken of mornings with a sickening, intangible apprehension. after a while i stopped going to the agencies. it seemed so futile. and then, one day, late in the summer, when the theatres along broadway had begun to remove the signboards from their entrances--it came. i knew something had happened when will opened the door. instead of kissing me at once, as was his habit, he passed on to the bedroom without looking at me, saying, "hello, girlie." there was always something infinitely tender in the way he said these words, but to-day there was a new note in his voice. it took a long time to put away his hat and cane; then he came out and kissed me. i was peeling potatoes. he drew up a chair so that our knees met; then he laid a hand on each shoulder and his fingers gripped me. we looked into each other's eyes.... after a while i managed to say, "well, dear?" ... and when he replied his voice seemed far away. i had the sense of returning consciousness after a blow.... i suppose i was a little dazed.... "well, dear, i've signed with----" (he named a boy-hamlet, well known throughout the middle west), "the salary is good and i'll play the king in hamlet, buckingham in richard, and, if we do the merchant, i'll be cast for gratiano.... the best thing about it is the possibility of coming into new york for a run. the star wants to play hamlet on broadway, and i've been told he's got good backing.... so, little girl.... it may not be for so long after all...." neither of us referred to the subject again that day; neither did we try to make believe at being cheerful. we understood each other's silence ... and respected it. outside the rain poured. will stood at the window looking out, but i am sure he did not see the rain.... all these details passed before my mind like moving-pictures. when at last i fell asleep, it was to dream the incongruous, disjointed stuff of which the actor's dreams are made; the sense of being late for a cue, or hearing the cue spoken, to realize that one is but half-dressed, or, again, to rush upon the scene only to find the lines obliterated from one's memory.... when i awoke, i heard will in the kitchen; there was the smell of boiling coffee. for a moment there was no consciousness of my "douleureuse," then memory swept me like an engulfing wave. i cried aloud; then will took me in his strong arms and kissed my swollen eyes, oh, so tenderly.... to recall the moments preceding and following will's departure causes--even at this late day--a tightening around the heart. there were some red roses in a cheap glass vase on the mantle; will had bought them from a street vendor that morning when he went out for the papers. he had pinned one in my dark hair.... after many false starts, and bidding me, "cheer up--it won't be for long," he closed the door after him.... it was our first separation. chapter ii the red roses had withered; their crisp petals lay scattered over the mantel and about the floor. stooping to gather them, i was seized with a giddiness; it dawned on me that i had not eaten for--i did not know how long. i went into the kitchen; the table lay as we had left it that morning at breakfast. there was his chair and the morning paper. i didn't cry--i felt only a heaviness, a numbness. mechanically i set about to put the house in order; i realized that i must get myself in hand if only to please will. i even managed a laugh at my own stupidity when, after neatly folding and placing my kitchen apron upon a shelf in the dish-cupboard, i hung the sugar bowl on a peg where the apron should have gone, and was drenched with a shower of sugar for my pains. for several days i lived on milk, which the janitor sent up on the dumb-waiter. i could not muster sufficient courage to go out to market. the sunlight mocked me--i resented the happy laughter of the family across the hall. the postman's ring, several days later, put new life into me. i knew the letter was from will. i caught the postman almost before he stopped ringing, and, carrying the letter to my room, gave myself up to devouring it. it was filled with interesting gossip about his opening, and gave humourous little side-lights of the star and personnel of the company. he bade me cheer up and not take our separation too seriously; he promised to write every day, and asked that i do likewise. i marked this precious epistle with a large " " in blue pencil and tucked it away with the rose-leaves. then i sat down to write--i wrote reams. it is wondrous the many modes of expressing "i love you." to distil those many pages, written in the thin, slanting hand of my girlhood, would be to extract the very essence of my life's romance--or, shall i say, tragedy. i lived for the postman's ring. sundays were the hardest to bear; there was no mail delivery. the weeks dragged on at snail's pace. finally, loneliness and isolation drove me to a state of desperation, which, in turn, gave me the necessary courage to visit the agencies. will was reluctant to have me take an engagement alone; he made me promise that i would not take such a step without first consulting him. indeed, had he but known it, the thought of again travelling alone in a theatrical company was distasteful to me; naturally sensitive and of a retiring disposition, my first season in the dramatic profession had left some unpleasant memories. it was difficult to accustom myself to enter an hotel lobby alone, or, if in company with other members of the organization, to hear our party referred to as the "troupe." the ubiquitous drummer lounging at the hotel desk regarded us with brazen audacity, and made audible comments. then, to enter a dining-room unattended, either to be corralled at a table with the other members of the company, or, if seated elsewhere, to be further subjected to the advances of a "travelling salesman." again, when walking to the theatre or to the railroad station, to see the town-folk turn curiously, regarding the players with a condescending smile, which curled the corners of the mouth downward as they whispered, "show people." in larger cities these marks of opprobrium are less pronounced, but, nevertheless, exist. i resented this attitude towards the theatrical profession until i became better acquainted with it. there be those who mistake liberty for license, and seemingly the freedom from restraint and the lack of conventionality, which the life affords, appear to be one of the chief attractions for adopting it. however, it was expedient that i should work. i dangled before my willing eyes the reward of the future--that time when my husband and i should play together. i even planned that we should be an example to others in our devotion and high moral purpose; and so, by reducing expense of maintaining two establishments--the flat in new york and will's living on the road--we should be better equipped to hold out for a joint engagement for the following season. one morning, while waiting in the office of an agent to whom will had introduced me, i was drawn into conversation with an actress whose photographs adorned the walls of the room. there was an air of importance about her, quite distinct from that of the other women who were waiting; these women wore an abject expression. they had relaxed the mechanical expression of "bien être" as the weariness of waiting wore upon them; in spite of the make-up--more or less skilfully applied--their faces were drawn and strained. their clothes, too, told of the attempt to keep up appearances. i felt a sympathy and fellowship for these unemployed; i wondered whether they too, were, by the force of circumstances, separated from their loved ones. miss burton, the lady of some importance, broke my train of thought by precipitately asking me to "come and have a cup of tea." she assured me she would not let me miss "old tom"--calling the agent by the familiar diminutive--and that having sent for her he was bound to wait. "it makes all the difference in the world whether they send for you, or whether you go to them for an engagement," she told me, with a sententious nod of her head. she was so bright and vivacious, and so wholly un-selfconscious that, for a moment, i was drawn out of my dreamy loneliness. we went to a near-by hotel. "you take what you like," she said, summoning the waiter. "beer for mine!" i took tea. while we sipped our respective beverages she told me about herself. she was a well-known comédienne--"'soubrettes' they called them in the old days," she volunteered. she had been with "charley" frohman off and on for years, and expected to go back to him. "i've been in his bad books," she went on. "i had a good thing, and i didn't know it. when i think how i got in wrong all on account of those two big stiffs--!" my inability to follow her was probably expressed in my face, for she immediately rattled on: "you see, it was like this. when jack and i were married we were in the same company. he was what they call the 'acting manager,' travelled on the road and represented the new york office--understand? well, the next year we didn't get an engagement together; he went off on the road and i created a part in a new york production. it was simply--hell! we used to make the most god-forsaken jumps, just to be together over sunday. why, once i can remember i rode all night in the caboose of a freight train to some little dump of a town where jack's company had played on saturday night. can you beat it? oh, i tell you, i had it bad." and miss burton buried her feeling and her face in the stein of beer. after a pause she continued: "well, the same devilish luck followed us the next season; we couldn't dig up an engagement together for love or money--and we slipped a nice little roll to several of the agents, too. it just seemed as if managers were dead set against having a man and wife in the same company. some of 'em acknowledge it right out loud, if you please! they claim a man and wife in the same company make trouble; either they want to share the same dressing-room, or the husband kicks if his wife gets the worst of it in the dressing-room line. or, if the husband happens to be a manager, there's the temptation to favour his wife, and somebody else kicks up a row. oh, they've got excuses enough, whether they're justifiable or not. anyway, that's the kind of bunk you're up against when you marry in the profession.... where was i?... oh well, after two seasons of separation, it dawned on me that jacky wasn't so keen about making long jumps to see wifey; pretty soon i began to hear gossip--he was carrying some fairy's grip in the company he was with. then i began to watch him ... i caught him with the goods all right.... exit, hastily, jacky!" and, with an expressive wave of her hands to indicate his departure, miss burton called for another stein. i fear i appeared a perfect idiot in the voluble little lady's eyes. i could not muster a comment of any description. miss burton, however, did not notice my omission, for she raced on with the same energy of expression. "that blow pretty nearly killed mother, i can tell you. i was in love with jack all right.... it broke me all up to have him throw me down for a second-rate soubrette like that. i wish you could have seen it--one of these 'i'm so temperamental' kind of dopes. she threw him down as soon as she'd used him for what he was worth.... i took to the booze. whew! i did go it hard for a while! that's what queered me with c. f.... then, what d'ye think i did?" miss burton leaned forward to better impress me with the importance of her revelation: "i tried it a second time.... this one was an actor: one of those handsome, shaving-soap advertisement kind of faces--beautiful teeth, and workin' the smile overtime to show 'em!... black curly hair, high brow, chesty--you know--the real thing in heavy men.... mash notes, society ladies making goo-goo eyes at him, and forgetting to invite me to those little impromptu suppers. ha!... don't ask me! it was worse than the first.... no, ma'am, matrimony and the stage don't mix. they ought to nail over every stage door this warning: 'all ye who enter here, leave matrimony outside.' yes, i know what you are going to say--that there are happy marriages among stage folks, and you'll name some of the shining examples. the domestic felicity of mr. great star and his wife makes up well in print. but, wait awhile.... have you finished with your tea? let's step in the ladies' room--i'm dying for a smoke." on our way back to the office, miss burton asked me about myself. when i spoke of will, she turned sharply and looked at me with a hurt expression. "why, you poor kid! why didn't you tell me you were married? now, don't you let anything i said worry you a bit. everybody is apt to draw general conclusions from personal experiences. there's always the exception to prove the rule. besides...." she slipped her arm through mine and gave me a reassuring pressure. the agent received her in his private office, and when she came out she was in high spirits. calling me to her, she put me on a friendly footing with the agent, who promised to keep me in mind. i thanked her for her kindly interest, and went home. desolate as the little flat was, i found strange comfort within its protecting walls. the power of will's personality had impregnated the place, and i felt its soothing influence. i devoted the evening to writing to my husband a long letter, but, strangely enough, i did not repeat the conversation i had had with miss burton. that night i prayed that he and i might be the exception to prove the rule.... the next day i visited another agency. the presiding genius was a corpulent person, with cold blue eyes which cowed at the first glance. she stood behind the rail which divided the office from the waiting applicants with an air of a magistrate dispensing justice not altogether tempered with mercy. there was something insolent in the way she shut off the opening speeches of the applicants with, "no, nothing for you to-day; nothing doing, mr. blank." then, as a highly scented and berouged person entered, clanking the gold baubles of her chatelaine as she swished by, the majoress-domo swung open the gate and greeted her with, "come right in, dearie; i've been waiting for you." they disappeared into the sanctum sanctorum. the little wizened lady who sat next to me snorted with impatience: "humph! i suppose that means another half hour!" she fell to gossiping with a man whose very face suggested his "line of business"--that of irish comedian. it was impossible not to overhear their conversation. the gorgeous creature who had been received with such open arms was a pet of the establishment, because of her generous and regular "retaining fees." she had been a more or less prominent society woman from chicago; after a sensational divorce, she turned to the stage for the proper outlet for her superabundant "temperament." willing to work for a salary upon which no self-supporting woman could exist, and able to dress her parts "handsomely," she found no difficulty in securing an engagement. the "retaining fees" no doubt facilitated her progress. i afterwards learned from will's experience that a cheque enclosed in a letter of application to one of these dramatic employment agencies stimulated their interest in the sender. and, even after an actor has made a "hit," it is good business to lubricate the dispenser of gifts. i could not quite grasp the _modus operandi_ until it was explained to me by miss burton. "you see, when a manager contemplates engaging a company, he sends to an agent for a list of names. perhaps he wants a leading man or a character actor, and he may direct the agent to communicate with a certain actor whom he believes to be best suited to the part he has in mind. now this particular actor may not be in the good books of the agent, or there may be another actor playing the same line of business who is regular and liberal with his 'retaining fees.' it is not difficult to understand which of the actors will be suggested--even cried up--to the manager." our own experience had been to negotiate direct with the managers. but, in many cases, the managers themselves send the actors whom they engage to a favoured agent to complete the negotiations. in this way the agent is able to collect a week's salary from the actor. the irish comedian figured the average income of an agent who "placed" several hundred actors, with salaries ranging from thirty to three hundred dollars a week, at $ , a year. "and from the fish-hand they give you when you come lookin' for an engagement you'd think _we_ were the grafters--damned old parasites!" when, at last, the lady agent returned from her conference, i timidly made known my wants. perhaps i looked like a "non-retainer," as the comedian dubbed them, for the corpulent person looked me over suspiciously. "had any experience?" she broke in. "one season," i responded. "well, you might leave your address," she snapped, and directed me to an assistant. i went back to miss burton's friend. mr. tom was an englishman, with the manners of a gentleman to commend him if nothing else. he greeted me pleasantly and asked me to wait. my heart bounded in anticipation. presently he handed me a letter. i recognized the address upon the envelope as that of a prominent manager. i was told to go to his office, present the letter and return to report the outcome to the agent. i rushed off with my mind in a whirl. already i was outlining a telegram to will, telling him of my engagement. i began to plan how i should remake my last season's dresses to avoid the expense of a new wardrobe. only once before had i gone direct to a manager for an engagement. i look back upon the incident i am about to relate with amusement at my own expense. to anybody and everybody who is interested in the stage the name of charles frohman was and still remains a kind of magic. when it was determined that the stage was to be my avocation--i use the word advisedly, since i had never been taught to look upon any profession in the light of a vocation--i came direct to new york with the purpose of calling upon mr. frohman, and placing my talent at his command. i remember i dressed myself carefully. i even powdered my face heavily, to give the ear-marks of intimate acquaintance with the make-up box. when i entered the office in the empire theatre building, the office boy was engaged in pasting newspaper clippings in a scrap-book. a pretty, pert girl was type-writing at the other end of the room. the office boy looked up enquiringly. i took my courage in both hands. "is mr. frohman in?" i enquired. the boy shuffled into the adjoining room. i busied myself by looking at the photographs of the actresses which lined the walls; my heart was pumping fiercely, but i "acted" the part of a young lady with plenty of _savoir faire_. the boy returned, followed by a middle-aged man who smiled pleasantly upon me. "mr. frohman?" i ventured. "mr. frohman is not in," he responded with a bland smile. i was about to enquire when he was expected when i caught the reflection of the office boy in a mirror on the wall. he was winking broadly to the girl at the typewriter; i felt the blood rising to my face, and i fear i made a somewhat confused exit. will had many a good laugh over my credulity. i had come all the way from an indiana town to see mr. frohman, and there was about as much chance of being admitted to his presence as the proverbial camel has of slipping through the needle's eye. needless to say, i never mustered sufficient courage to call on mr. frohman again. to-day, however, i was forearmed. the manager to whom i had been recommended by the agent sent out word that i was to wait. a half hour later i was conducted to his presence. as i entered, he was seated in a revolving chair, one foot resting on a small sliding shelf on his desk, and a large black cigar in the corner of his mouth. he did not rise, but nodded to me and motioned me to the seat opposite. while he read the agent's letter he removed his leg from the table and crossed it over the other. he was a short, heavy man, with a preponderance of abdomen. he had thick, loose lips, and his head was as round and as smooth as a billiard ball; his eyes were black and snappy, and threw out as much fire as the huge diamond he wore on his little finger. "well," he finally said, looking at me and shifting the big cigar to the other corner of his mouth, "that reads all right. so you're an _ingénue_" (he pronounced it as if it were spelled _on-je-new_), "are you?" "yes, sir." "well, you look the part all right.... how much experience have you had?" "one season on the road with mr. o'brien's company, but of course i've played in amateur theatricals for...." "voice strong?" he bellowed, tilting himself back in his chair. "oh, yes, sir," i responded, using the loud pedal to prove my assertion. "don't sound like it." "perhaps not now, but--" i hesitated. "but what?" he queried, smiling indulgently at me. his smile gave me courage, and i answered truthfully: "well, i think i'm a little scared just now." "scared? what of?" he removed his cigar while he spat out an end he had been chewing. then he lighted a match and continued talking. "you don't want to be scared of _me_--i'm the easiest thing you ever saw...." here he winked at me. then for the next minute he puffed at his cigar and looked at me. "stand up," was his next injunction.... "you're not very big ... you'll look the part all right." "what kind of a part is it?" i ventured. "didn't tom tell you about it?... it's a pretty part--one of them innocent country maidens that never saw the streets of cairo--that kind. she falls in love with a villain who takes her to the great city, and then throws her down--hard. the poor girl's afraid to go back to home and mother, and just as she's about to commit suicide a good-natured sucker comes along and marries her. it's sympathetic and appealin'--goes right to the heart. can't help but make a hit. dressin' ain't much, and we expect to run all season in new york." "what's the salary?" meaning to appear business-like. "twenty-five in new york, and thirty on the road." i did not reply, for my mind was making rapid calculations. twenty-five dollars a week, with the prospect of running all season in new york! why, i should be able to pay my own expenses and lay aside a little besides. "that's a good salary," began the manager, taking my silence for dissent. "if you make a hit, i'll raise it five. i tell you what i'll do: i'll give you a letter to the stage manager. they're rehearsing now. the dame we engaged for the part, way last summer, got married on the quiet, and has got to retire for family reasons." he winked at me again, as he took up his pen. i waited uneasily while he wrote. "here's the letter," he said, moistening the flap of the envelope with his lips. "now, run along and see mr. thompson at the academy. he's the doctor." he rose by way of dismissal, and indicated a door other than which i had entered. i thanked him and assured him my voice was quite strong. "you're a pretty little thing," he said as he accompanied me to the door. "pretty little figure ... what d'ye weigh?" "i don't know really how much, but i think about one hundred and ten pounds," i answered with some confusion. "as much as that? where do you carry it all?" he ran his fat, stubby hands over my shoulders and down about my hips. his smile became a leer. before i could realize what was happening he had taken me in his arms, and his heavy, wet lips were pressed against my mouth. his hands played over my body, and, though i struggled to cry out and to release myself, i was unable to do either. it seemed as if my senses were deserting me; then, the muffled bell of the telephone sounded, and he released me. "damn that bell," he said. nauseated with disgust and fright, i cowered in the corner; he tried to draw my hands from my face, laughing as he whispered: "like it, like it, do you?" then with another oath at the continued call from the telephone, he crossed to his desk. "run along now," he directed, without a look.... i never knew how i found my way down the stairs to the street. i did not wait for the elevator. i saw that people looked at me as i hurried along the street--whither i did not ask myself. only when i collided with someone on the stairs did i realize that i had gone straight to the agent's office. "hello, little lady!" i recognized miss burton's voice. "my, we're in a hurry! for god's sake, child, what's happened to you? what's the matter? you look as if you were going to throw a fit! here--let's go to a drug store." after a dose of sal volatile, miss burton called a hansom and insisted on taking me home. i did not want her to accompany me. i wanted to be alone. when we were safely in the house i lost all control. she let me have my cry out without asking a question. then, when i was calmer, i told her what had happened. "the old blackguard! the old blackguard! i've heard that about him before. why didn't you hand him one? why didn't you smack his face?" "i'll leave that to my husband," i replied with tearful dignity. miss burton contemplated me between violent puffs of her cigarette. then she shook her head. "um-um, girlie; no, sir ... you mustn't tell your husband." "why not?" i demanded. "well, if you tell your husband, and he's the man i think he is, he'll go straight up and knock the old beast down. that will get him in bad; this manager is a power and controls a dozen attractions, as well as theatres. your young man may find it difficult to get an engagement in the future." miss burton paused to allow the idea to percolate into my brain. "then there's another side to it. if you tell your husband and he does not go up and knock the fresh gentleman down, you'll despise him for it ... oh, yes you will! you would not acknowledge it even to yourself, but, way down deep in the bottom of your heart, you would never forgive your husband for not resenting the insult to you.... better not tell him at all...." we both were silent for some time. i was struggling with a thousand conflicting emotions. "you see, girlie, you've got an awful lot to learn. you're new to the game. that's the reason these things go so hard with you." "do you mean that 'these things' are a part--a regular part--of the business?" i began, with a burst of resentment. "i don't believe it! i can't believe it! i'm sure my experience was exceptional. i know that girls who typewrite for a living, clerks and even housemaids have unpleasant experiences, for i have read about it in the papers. there are bad men in all walks of life. i travelled nearly a whole season before i was married, and--" i stopped short. my mind visualized a situation. when i joined the company in which i met my husband i was singled out for marked attention by the star. i believed this attention to be a kindly interest in a novice. it never occurred to me to question the intent and purpose. i was the understudy for the leading woman; the star had told me that i had exceptional talent, and with the proper direction i should develop into a splendid emotional actress. quite often we would have private rehearsals--sometimes in the theatre, but more often in the star's apartment in the hotel. invariably we rehearsed alone. i was flattered and sincerely appreciative of the star's efforts to develop my talent; we played scenes from romeo and juliet, and my star played romeo with such fervour that i quite forgot my lines. when the star's wife joined the company the rehearsals were suspended; it seemed quite natural to me that the star wished to devote his time to his wife. she was still a beautiful woman, though her face was sad and bore a discontented expression. she kept aloof from the company, and it was said that she did not approve of stage-folk, especially the women. i wondered why she had married an actor. later, when will and i became friends, he questioned me about these private rehearsals; then i began to notice that he managed to drop in for a call on the star when we rehearsed at the hotel, or he would wait about the stage when we were in the theatre. this happened frequently as our courtship progressed. i recalled how, one day when will was discovered in the wings, that the star called out to him quite irritably, "you were not called for rehearsal, were you, mr. hartley? you're not needed, and your presence makes miss gray self-conscious." shortly after that will insisted upon announcing our betrothal to the star. i never went to rehearsals unattended after that, and the calls became less frequent. soon they were abandoned altogether. now, for the first time, i understood will's watchfulness--perhaps i understood why the star's wife had so sad a face.... "and what?" miss burton repeated after me. "i was thinking, that was all." "girlie, you'll never get on in the show business, unless ... look here, i'm going to open your eyes to a few things that may come handy to you.... i've been on the stage since i was a kiddie; i was born in it. i made my first appearance in my mother's arms, and they say i never waited for cues, but yelled right through other people's lines. i grew up in railroad trains, hotels and theatres. i was wise to the game before i was out of short skirts. anything i did was done with my eyes wide open. i was never stage-struck, like you, and so many fool girls who look on acting as a 'divine art.' i had to make my own living, and the stage offers a pretty good living if you are willing to play the game." miss burton looked at me significantly. "play the game?" i asked. "yes, that's just what i mean.... virtue and chastity have about as much chance in the show-business as that famous little snowball of purgatorial fame. i don't know of any other profession where immorality is a virtue. i suppose that's what you call a paradox. virtue and success do not go hand in hand in this business--even our mothers recognize the truth of the statement and wink at it. your average stage mamma values virtue in the ratio of the advancement its possession assures. let any star or manager cast covetous eyes upon her daughter, let her but scent leading lady--or stardom--and she will not only lend herself to intrigue but encourage it. she knows the game; she knows that a girl, no matter how pretty, how talented, cannot get on in the show-business without 'giving up.' she's got to have money or influence, or both. i don't know what there is about the stage that brings out the baser passions, but i do know that it's rotten to the core. and the worst of it is, that the good is sacrificed to the bad. girls like you are drawn to the stage by its illusion and romance. with others, it's the looseness, the freedom from restraint that appeals. there never was a woman with a screw loose in her moral machinery who didn't hanker for the stage. why? because it's a convenient place to show goods. every millionaire, every fur-tongued man about town looks upon the women of the stage as his legitimate prey. you've only got to mention the fact that you are, directly or indirectly, connected with the show-business, to lay yourself open to the advances of the male creature who thinks he is sporty. you may be as chaste as ice and as pure as snow, but the chances are against it, if you are on the stage." i felt choked with indignation. "i don't believe you, i don't believe it's true," i stormed. "look at such women as--" (i named a number of prominent women stars). "they are honoured and respected----" "you mean their accomplishment, their art is honoured. each and every one of these women has been grist to the mill. do you suppose that side of it ever reaches the public? no, and what's more, it's none of the public's business. these women are successful. the price they have paid is their own secret. don't misunderstand me--i'm not sitting in judgment on the women of the stage, any more than i would sit in judgment on you if you went wrong. i'm telling you the conditions that exist--conditions which every woman who enters the theatrical profession has got to face sooner or later. you had your first experience to-day...." it had grown quite dark in the room. miss burton got up and moved about in the twilight. i almost hated her. i could not prevent myself from saying, "do you think it is nice to befoul your own nest?" she answered me gently: "you don't understand my motive, girlie. i wouldn't say these things to an outsider for anything in the world. why, if a thing like this were to be given to the public, the whole theatrical profession would rush into print to deny it. there would be an awful noise, but _each and every one of them knows it's the truth_, _god's truth_, _and nothing but the truth_." we were again silent. miss burton sighed heavily. "you know, girlie, if i were an artist i should like to paint my conception of the 'divine art.' the divine art is a soulless procuress; she takes your youth, your beauty and your virtue. she saps you dry, and, at the first signs of age, she turns you out." miss burton stopped in front of the large photograph of will which adorned the mantel. after a lengthy scrutiny, she said: "fine head! looks as if he would have made a good lawyer." "he was educated for the law," i answered proudly. miss burton looked out of the window with a far-away look. then she came to me and took both my hands in hers. "little girl, why don't you persuade him to give up the stage and go back to the law?" "because he does not like the law, and because he has a great career as an actor ahead of him," i retorted, feeling myself on the verge of tears. after miss burton had donned her hat and gloves, and stood with her hand on the door-knob, she spoke again: "i'll see tom to-morrow, and have him set you right with that old beast." "set _me_ right!" "yes, for not showing up at the academy. i'll say you got in a trolley jam, and when you arrived there they had gone. you can show up bright and early to-morrow--don't you intend to take the engagement?" "not if i never got another engagement in my life!" i declared, with a wave of disgust passing over me. miss burton drew me into her arms and kissed me impulsively: "stick to that, girlie, and god bless you!" and she rushed off.... i didn't sleep much that night. early the next morning came a telegram from will, saying he expected to be home on sunday. his company was to "lay off" and rehearse two weeks, preparatory to "the assault" on broadway, as he expressed it. the knowledge that i should soon feel his arms around me acted like a tonic. my resentment against miss burton gave way to pity. why were not all husbands and wives as much in love with each other as were will and i? chapter iii the boy hamlet failed to attract the public. after two weeks on broadway the notice went up. the company was to reorganize, which, in this instance, meant reducing expenses--and "back to the woods." will agreed to double the king with the ghost for a small rise of salary and the condition that i be added to the roster. in return for my railroad fares i played one of the strolling players and the player-queen. the company made one night stands only; we made early and long jumps to out-of-the-way towns, which will declared were not on the map. the hotels were often so bad that we were driven to patronizing the village grocer, and to supplement our meals with chafing-dish messes. through rain, snow and slush we plodded our way to the railroad stations; sometimes there was a hack and the women rode back and forth. the theatres were cold and the dressing-rooms filthy. the stage entrance invariably gave upon a foul-smelling alley, and a penetrating draught swept the stage when the curtain was up. once, after will in the character of the king had been killed by hamlet and lay dead upon the stage, he sneezed explosively. the audience appeared to enjoy the situation. but, in spite of the physical discomforts and the stultifying grind, we were happy--we were together. by the end of the season we had saved almost three hundred dollars. then will played a few weeks with a summer stock company--a "summer snap," as it is termed--and in the autumn we were able to make a stand for the much-desired joint engagement. when the company gathered at the railroad station bound for a city of the middle west, it more resembled a family party than a theatrical organization. the manager himself played a part, and his wife was the lady villain. the comédienne and the stage carpenter were man and wife, and the leading lady--a girl not much older than i--was chaperoned by her mother. will was the leading man and i the ingénue. there was the prospect of a pleasant season ahead. i smiled a little contemptuously when i thought of miss burton's terrible arraignment of the stage. she had been unfortunate in her association, that was all, i told myself. the comédienne and i shared dressing-rooms. she was a beautiful woman with a strain of latin blood. i loved her from the first moment i met her. i was disappointed in her husband; her superior breeding and education caused me to wonder at her choice. later, when i better understood the needs of the woman, i grew to like him; he was clean-minded and sincere--virtues i later discovered to be rare ones among actors. it was about the second week of the season when our family party first showed signs of incompatibility. there had been some gossip connecting the leading lady's name with that of the manager, but as she was protected by her mother it appeared to me ridiculous and unwarranted. one night, as the curtain fell on the first act, the manager's wife ordered the leading lady's mother out of the wings. immediately there followed a war of high-pitched voices which penetrated the walls of our aerial dressing-room. the curtain was held and the orchestra played its third overture. during the wait margherita, my dressing-room mate, told me the circumstances of the case. the leading lady's mother was the "friend" of the "angel" of the company; in this capacity she assumed privileges which were galling to the manager's wife. adding to this the fact that her husband was too obviously interested in the leading lady, the outbreak was not to be wondered at. the manager himself was one of those round, flabby men, suggestive of a fat, spineless worm. physique is often coindicant of character. this night the mother had been more obnoxious than usual. it was her habit to stand in the wings while the manager's wife was on the scene, and by petty distractions to goad the actress to expression. gradually members of the company were drawn into the dissension; it was an intolerable situation. our sympathies were with the manager's wife, but we diplomatically held aloof. matters finally reached a climax. one night during the performance there was a stage wait. in vain will and the heavy man filled in the hiatus. the manager's wife had surprised the leading lady in the arms of her husband somewhere behind the scenes, and thereupon slapped the girl's face. a moment later she came upon the stage to play her "big" scene; she was labouring under great emotion, and i thought she had never acted so well. in a speech to me (i played her daughter)--it was part of the stage business that i take her hand in mine; i am not sure that i did not press her hand in silent sympathy. she drew me towards her; in another moment the lady villain was sobbing in my arms, and there was an emotional storm not indicated in the manuscript of the author. i led her up stage as the house fairly rose to her splendid acting. when the storms of applause had died away we went on with the scene as if nothing had happened. i wonder why it is that women invariably punish their own sex and exempt the man? do they instinctively demand a higher code of honour from their kind while meekly acquiescent to the conventional license for men? subsequently the "angel" joined the company, and, to all appearances, an adjustment was reached. for a time peace was restored. the leading lady assumed an air of injured innocence, and left off rouging her cheeks to heighten the effect. then, suddenly--or gradually, i never realized how it came about--it became obvious to all that the leading lady was "making a play" for will. her attentions became so marked that the men of the company chaffed him about it, declaring the manager would presently challenge him to mortal combat, or--and what was more likely--discharge him from the company. will accepted their allusions in good part, but i observed the subject was distasteful to him. to me he called the woman "a little fool," and was irritated with being placed in so ridiculous a position. indeed i think will suffered as much as i did. without being rude or boorish, there was nothing he could do to check her advances. she was planning her _début_ as a star the following season, and made will a proposition to become her leading man; she consulted him concerning the new plays which were being submitted to her, and planned for the current season special matinées of classic plays with which will was familiar. she called him to preliminary rehearsal and discussions in her rooms at the hotel; sometimes, between the acts of the performance, called him to her dressing-room, where she received him in a state of _négligé_. new bits of stage business were introduced, or the old elaborated; she would run her fingers through his hair, or prolong the kisses which the rôle demanded; or, in his embrace, she would draw her body close to his and writhe about him to a point of indecency. in countless, intangible ways she brought her blandishments to bear upon him. will declared she was playing him against the manager, whose relations with her had become strained since his wife had interfered. in all things she was aided and abetted by her mother, who fawned on will and made his position the more equivocal. my own emotions were confused; it was inconceivable that i should be jealous of the woman. no, the sensation she aroused was nothing more than disgust. to be jealous of my husband connoted a lack of faith, and he had done nothing to betray my trust in him. jealousy had always appeared to me a debasing and an undignified emotion.... i resented the position in which my husband was placed; i would not add to his discomfiture by hectoring. i had promised myself when i married that never should i be jealous when i saw my husband making stage-love to another woman--perhaps in the back of my mind was the hope that i should always be the other woman, his leading lady. nevertheless, i was determined to stand the test without flinching. it was high time that i began to realize that the conditions which confronted me were but a part of the game--the _game_! the word was reminiscent of miss burton. i fought down the suggestion blindly, passionately.... i began to dread going to the theatre; often, while i was making up, i found margherita's eyes fastened wistfully upon me--they told how she longed to comfort me. unhappily i could not talk about the thing which was troubling me. what was there to say? there are emotions which never find tangible expression. then the idea of asking my husband to resign from the company suggested itself. i endeavoured to look at the question from a material standpoint: it would not be easy to find another engagement in mid-season, besides, there were the expensive railroad fares back to new york--we were then touring california--and probably another separation.... perhaps it was the strain of hard travel, or it may have been the certainty of my condition which i had heretofore only suspected, or a combination of both, which made me lose my self-control. i had always believed strongly in the influence of suggestion upon the unborn child, and the unclean atmosphere in which i was living preyed upon my mind until it became an obsession. i grew to hate the woman and her witch-like mother. we had had some racking railroad jumps, and the loss of sleep was telling on every member of the company; the leading lady was stimulating on champagne. her mother stood in the wings, bottle and glass in hand, and applied the restorative whenever the girl came off the stage. one night, under the influence of the wine, she became more brazen in her advances to will; she took liberties which made even her mother, watching in the wings, gasp with amusement. something she said _sotto voce_ to her mother reached my ears. i began to watch her. as the act progressed she elaborated the detail with ever-increasing audacity, and, when the action required her to throw herself in will's arms, she flung me a look of laughing defiance, coincident with a broad wink to her mother--old hecate of the wings--then fed upon his lips like a vampire sucking blood. i am not sure that i responded to the cue which some seconds later brought her into my arms. (we were fellow nihilists under arrest.) the contact of her hand against mine ... will told me afterwards he would never have believed me possessed of such physical strength. i choked her.... i drove my nails into her flesh.... i dragged her to the wings and beat her with my fists.... i vented upon her the long pent-up fury.... oh, the shame, the ignominy of it! i, who resented a vicious influence upon my unborn child--i, its mother, had descended to the level of a fishwife!... it was margherita who brought me back to consciousness; it was she who restored to me a modicum of my self-respect. i believe she was secretly pleased at what i had done. that night, as she sat beside my bed, she told me something of herself. as a young girl she possessed a wonderful singing voice. her parents--poor italians--who came to america when she was a babe in arms, could not afford proper masters. she went on the stage to support herself, hoping to earn enough to pay for her musical education. her beauty attracted a patron "of the arts"; at least, that is the way he was referred to in the newspapers. but it was not margherita's art that he cared about--it was the woman. he considered his money a fair exchange for her body; margherita was not willing to pay the price. she struggled on, and one day, after several years of hazardous existence, she found herself stranded in a far western city without money, without friends. in a state of despondency she had walked to the outskirts of the town, and there in a lonely wood she sat down to fight out a choice between life and death. in a moment of emotion she burst forth into song; her troubled soul found solace in gounod's _ave maria_. at the end her voice broke, and she sobbed. a hand was laid on her shoulder. it was a big hand, strong and sinewy. the man that went with it was big--"big all the way through," margherita said proudly. they were married not long after; ever since he had remained at her side, helping to fight for a clean career ... making her life's work his.... dear margherita! i can see you now, with your glorious black eyes, your coronet of raven hair with the poppies over your pretty ear.... oh, the pity of it! weakened by the hardships and privation her life entailed, she died a few years later.... when will came into the room that night, he held a paper in his hand. it was our resignation. his eyes twinkled with humour when he told margherita that he was taking the bull by the horns, and sparing us the ignominy of dismissal. i was glad to see he was not angry with me. then margherita whispered something into his ear. he came to the bed and took me in his arms, and what he said concerns only a man and wife.... margherita stole away, but before she went she kissed us both, and there were tears in her eyes. on the way back to new york, will and i sat hand in hand looking out at the monotonous stretch of desert-land. "i'm glad to have it over--i'm glad that's out of our life," he reiterated, pressing my hand. "it was rotten!" suddenly he burst out laughing. he continued long and sonorously. "do you know, girlie," he said, "do you know that with a little more fullness of figure and a pair of two-inch heels, you'd make a grand lady macbeth? phew!" and he laughed again. chapter iv the question of bearing children had given me many a bad hour. my husband felt that the coming of a child, at the outset of his career, would be a burden and a handicap; once he was established and could afford to maintain a home, it would be time enough, he declared. he felt that, at best, children born and reared in the theatrical profession were the victims of unnatural conditions. it was not practicable to carry a young child about the country, and, if left behind, to the care of either relatives or hired attendants, the child was robbed of its natural protection. obviously i must make up my mind to separate from one or the other--my child or my husband--until the little one was old enough to travel. here arose another knotty problem. children are little human sponges; they absorb the atmosphere of their environment. a stage-child is no more immune to the vicious influences about it than to a scarlet-fever germ. should i then be willing to expose my child to dangers of more far-reaching consequences than physical ailments, and at a time of life when character is formed? my husband and i discussed these problems at length, and finally concluded that, since the inevitable had happened, the wisest course was to make the best of it. how many children, i wonder, are conceived in the same spirit? how many births the result of accident? how few planned with the wish to bestow the best of one's flesh and spirit upon the little stranger? can the influence of unwelcome conception upon the child itself ever be computed? may not criminal tendencies and moral delinquencies be traced to such a source? if, at the beginning, i were guilty of misdirected sentiment, i set myself to right the wrong as the weeks grew into months. i no longer chafed at separation; i lived in a kind of spiritual exaltation. my plans and dreams of the future were now transferred to the coming of my child. will was so fortunate as to secure another engagement almost immediately. his success led to the opportunity he most desired, and in the early autumn he played his first engagement as leading man of a new york production. the company opened out of town; in theatrical parlance this is what they call "trying it on the dog." our boy was born during will's absence. it must have been very hard for will to have the nervous strain of a first night's performance and the worry of my illness at the same time. i had gone to the hospital alone. will had made the arrangements before he left town. he said he would feel better if he knew i was in skilled hands and not at the mercies of a lodginghouse-keeper. it seemed cruel to be alone at such a time. i cried a little when the big, cheery nurse held my boy for me to kiss.... i wanted will's arms around me as i had never longed for them before--or after.... the little chap had black hair like will's, and his forehead bulged in the same way. i had always admired will's forehead.... baby was six weeks old when his father first saw him. i laughed when he held the boy in his arms--he appeared so awkward. after a successful new york opening, the play settled down for a run. we moved from our furnished room to an apartment. will found it difficult to sleep with a crying baby in the same room. with the coming of the child, and the "front" will's new position demanded, it was hard to make both ends meet; for a long time i did the housework except the washing, but when my health began to fail will made me hire a servant. will was very fond of our little boy. even as a small baby, the child showed his preference for his father; he would stop crying the moment he heard will's voice. indeed, i believe that when temptation lured him in her most attractive form it was the child who held him close to me. temptation there was plenty; his success had been unqualified. the critics hailed him as a young man with a great future. his pictures began to appear in the magazines and in the pictorial supplements of the sunday papers. he joined an actors' club, where he dined on matinée days. will's family developed a pride in him, hitherto carefully suppressed. they had shown decided disapproval of our marriage when it became expedient to announce it to them. my introduction to the family, during the week our late-lamented company had played will's home city, was strained and unsatisfactory. now, however, the sight of the family name in print gave unalloyed joy to will's father, who collected newspaper clippings for will's scrap-book with more zeal than did will himself. will said this sudden interest reminded him of a story he had heard at the club. it ran like this: a handsome young irishman of humble parentage had long yearned for the footlights. unable longer to restrain himself, he confided his ambitions to his mother. now, the old lady was an ardent church-goer, and looked upon the stage as a quick chute to perdition. "jimmie, jimmie, me boy! to think you'd want to be an actor! to think you'd want to bring shame on your old mother, this disgrace on your dead father's good name!" the old lady rocked herself to and fro in her grief. in vain jimmie endeavoured to soothe her. finally the idea occurred to him. "but, mither, mither, darlin'," he caressed, "i'll not bring disgrace on your name--you know actors always change their names when they go on the stage, and no one will ever know who i am." the old lady stopped her moaning and was silent for a moment. "but, jimmie," she protested, "jimmie, supposin' you became a gr-r-e-at mon, supposin' you became a great lion, with your pictures in all the papers--and adornin' the fences ... then, jimmie, how'll they know you're me son?" ... it was at a matinée that i first saw will in his new part. it was the first time since our marriage that i had not heard his lines or helped him with his costumes. he had told me all about the play, and i knew the cue for his first entrance almost as well as he himself. my heart thumped so hard and fast i feared my neighbour would guess who i was. his entrance was greeted with a burst of gloved applause, accompanied with such exclamations as, "there he is!" "isn't he a love!" ... "just wait until you see how he can make love!" i confess i hardly knew whether to be proud, or indignant. the familiarity with which they discussed him grated on me; i resented the proprietary tone. then i smiled at my silliness, for i realized that this very interest made for popularity, the most valuable of the actor's assets. i listened to the gush of the matinée girls, and their discussion of the private lives of theatrical people with a good deal of amusement. coming out of the theatre, i heard one woman ask another whether will was married. i wondered what difference that would make in his popularity. after the matinée i went back to will's dressing-room. will had planned what he called a little junket. we were to dine together at a restaurant--a pleasure we could not often afford. while will washed up i told him the nice things i had overheard. i predicted he would become a veritable matinée idol--a term which he scorned. there were some letters lying on his make-up table. i picked them up idly; will followed my action. "read them," he said. "you'll be amused. they are my first mash-notes." there was so much roguishness in his smile that i laughed back at him. some of the letters were innocent enough, written in girlish hand, with requests for autographs and autographed photographs. one or two asked will's advice about going on the stage, and there was one from a tooth-powder firm, wanting the right to use will's picture in which his teeth showed. there was one--a violet-scented note on fine linen, written in the large loose vertical scrawl so much affected by smart women--without signature. it ran as follows: "if you will pardon this somewhat unconventional method of making your acquaintance, my dear mr. hartley, i shall be most happy to have you join me at tea, after the matinée, at sherry's (other drinkables not excluded). i was present at the opening night of your play, and was quite carried away by your splendid acting. where _did_ you learn to make love? i have occupied the right hand proscenium box every saturday matinée since the opening. isn't that a proof of my devotion? do i flatter myself that i have caught your eye once or twice as the curtain falls? i invariably dress in black and wear gardenias. if you are interested, you will have no difficulty in identifying me. for family reasons i withhold my name for the present. do come, mr. hartley." as i folded the letter and replaced it in its cover, i recalled that will _had_ glanced towards the right hand proscenium box several times. "i think i'll put you on a car and send you home," began will, but something in his voice belied his words, and i made him an impudent _moué_. "how do you like being married to a matinée idol?" will asked, giving the final touch to his dress. i did not reply; i was asking myself the same question. chapter v will made friends easily. perhaps it were better to use the word "acquaintances." at any rate it was not long until he received more invitations than he could accept. he was called on to give his services for charitable purposes, but i noticed these hostesses never received him in their homes. it must be said that will rarely accepted an invitation which did not include me, though i often realized i was invited as a necessary evil. after supper the guests invariably played poker, and i knew nothing about cards. the late hours sapped my strength, and my boy always wakened early in the morning. sometimes the suppers were held at a well-known restaurant, like rector's or martin's. i had not the proper clothes for such occasions; it was imperative that will dressed well, and i did not want it said that his wife was shabby. the other women wore wonderful gowns and much jewellery. after a winter's round of these parties, i was able to distinguish one particular set from another. there is a smart set, a fast set and a loose set which, though none of them can be said to be strictly "in society," form a kind of brass-band appendage or fringe to it and differ one from the other only in their gradations--or degradations--of moral laxness. it is the loose set to which the actor is drawn, or inclines. one finds in this particular stratum the artist, the journalist, the divorcée and semi-detached woman whose name is legion. the lady who maintains a handsome apartment and entertains lavishly is probably a "kept" woman with an ambiguous past. occasionally one finds a multiple divorcée with money, playing at patroness to some impecunious song-writer or handsome actor with more brawn than brain. but the "kept" lady predominates. she is ubiquitous. she dresses à la mode, she is an habituée of the smart restaurants, an inveterate first-nighter. her "particular friend" may be a married man of the "my wife-don't-understand-me" brand, or he may be one of the "get-rich-quick floaters" who joyride across the financial horizon into oblivion. it is to this set the stall-fed woman of the leisure class turns to whet her jaded appetite. and a hostess' sunday at home is highly suggestive of the "obit" of a town topics. individually and collectively they are rotten. mistaking the sex-heat aroused and stimulated by cocktails and other alcoholic beverages for real love and passion, they wallow in the erotic mire to their heart's content. nobody criticizes; nobody cares; the faster the pace the greater the joy. it was upon this subject that my husband and i encountered our first real rift. he had commented rather flippantly on the moral tone of a recent supper party. we fell to discussing the players' status in society. i had observed that with one or two notable exceptions the actor is not received by "our best people." to be sure there are a few cities outside of new york where quite respectable families, bored by the drab routine of conventional society, entertain the actor as a kind of _sauce piquante_ to their monotonous lives. but this is the exception and not the rule. wholly misinterpreting my motive, will defended his profession with a blind prejudice. after that he did not ask me to accompany him to the various functions. it became quite a common thing for him to telephone me from the club that he would not be home until late that night. i was sorry that i had expressed myself so plainly to will; if only i could make him understand that i wanted him to be true to the best that was in him.... it hurt me to hear him speak lightly of the women with whom he associated, and still continue to go among them. miss burton was now a frequent visitor at our home. she adored the boy and never failed to bring him a present when she came. she took upon herself to lecture me for not going out with will, declaring i was spoiling him, and that i would make him selfish. i thought over what she said, and resolved that i would go with will when next he asked me. also i began to formulate a little circle of my own. there was a sculptor to whom i was particularly attracted. he was a western product, and was preparing to go abroad to study. i had always had a fondness for sculpture, and during my enforced retirement i amused myself at moulding with clay. a baby's hand i had made attracted his attention one day he had called on will. he advised me to continue my efforts. miss burton sent me a wonderful outfit and i took up my work of sculpturing in earnest. my sculptor friend brought other friends with him, and it became a regular thing for me to receive my friends on sunday afternoon. i saw that will enjoyed my little parties, though they were simple and i made no pretensions. one day--it was at christmas time--miss burton sent me a beautiful gown; with the package came a characteristic note: she begged me to accept the gown and not to feel hurt, that she was dead broke and could not afford to make me a "decent" christmas present. the gown, she said, had been spoiled by the dressmaker, who had made it much too tight, and it would make her happy if i would accept it with her love.... it was so pretty--all creamy white and fluffy, and there were little pink flowers scattered over the net. i put it on ... and, as i looked at myself in the mirror, i felt quite pleased with the reflection. white was always becoming to me.... i did not tell will about my present, but the next time he casually mentioned an invitation to dinner i accepted with an alacrity which surprised him. when sunday came, i dressed with the excitement of a conspirator, and when will called me to help him with his tie i walked into his room with an air of unconcern worthy of a star. will was delighted with my appearance. when we entered the house of our hostess i no longer felt the desire to hide myself; instead, i felt quite mistress of myself. it's wonderful what a difference clothes will make in one's feelings. miss burton told me once that, whenever she was down on her luck and felt depressed, she forthwith went on a sartorial debauch. she bought everything in sight. her new clothes re-established her self-respect, and somehow, some way, a good engagement came along and helped her to pay for her prodigality. we were a little late in arriving, and when i came down from the bedroom, where i had left my wrap, the second round of cocktails was being passed. will was standing at the foot of the stairs talking with his hostess. a large nude figure carrying softly shaded lights decorated the newel-post, and screened me from view of the woman who was talking to will. "you handsome dog!" i heard her say. "what have you been doing to alice? she's gone clean off her head--threatens to leave her husband, and is drinking like a fish!" "i haven't done anything," will began, but at that moment our hostess saw me and nudged will, who joined me and we entered the drawing-room. i felt will's questioning eyes on my face, but i did not look at him; instead, i gave my hand rather impulsively to my sculptor friend who was standing alone, and i did not notice the returning pressure until my wedding ring cut into the flesh, and made me wince. i was wondering who "alice" could be and what will had to do with her. our hostess's "friend" was present. he was a middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion, iron gray hair and a closely cropped moustache. i had once seen him at the horse show in one of the boxes, and he had been pointed out to me as a prominent railroad man. he greeted will noisily. "hello, hartley," he yelled, "you're late on your cue. i suppose you wanted to make an effective entrance!" at the table i sat next to the sculptor; on my other hand was a dentist who had leaped into fame by having been expelled from a certain european country where he had set up a successful practice. a _liaison_ with the wife of a man close to the throne had led to his downfall, and he had returned to his native land to be received with open arms by the set in which we were now travelling. he had a face such as i imagined molière conceived for his tartuffe; his voice was caressing and made me sleepy. opposite me sat a well-known star. he was famous for his magnetism. although i could not discern it, there must have existed something of the sort, for every leading woman who engaged with him, sooner or later, succumbed to his charm. i myself knew of one girl whose life was almost ruined when he took up with another woman who had joined his company to play a special engagement. this girl was one of the prettiest i ever saw; she was "chaperoned" by a complaisant mother. this irresistible gentleman was married, but his wife refused to live with him and made her home abroad. for the sake of the children she refused to divorce him. a comic opera singer sat beside the hostess. the dentist, assuming that i knew the situation, asked me, _sotto voce_, how long i thought it would be before "papa took a tumble to himself." when i confessed my inability to follow him, he proceeded to enlighten me. the hostess was infatuated with the singer, who was as poor as job's turkey, and while her protector was absent--(he was married and had several grown children)--the lady consoled herself with song. this easy, matter-of-fact way in which these topics were discussed, the utter lack of restraint between the sexes, no longer shocked me. i was on the point of asking my purveyor of illicit news whether he could tell me who alice was; instead, i turned to the bored man at my right, and by degrees i got him to tell me of his ambitions, his work and his ideas of life. i found we had much in common. while we were talking, there was a noisy argument going on at the other end of the table. "i wouldn't stand it for one minute!" rang out the voice of our hostess, and i saw her shoot a meaning glance at the singer. "ask an actor's wife! ask mrs. hartley!" bellowed the host. "mrs. hartley?" "yes?" i responded, not knowing the subject of conversation. "pardon me for interrupting so interesting a conversation, won't you, calhoun," he said, addressing my sculptor friend with exaggerated courtesy. "i'll give her back to you in a minute.... mrs. hartley, the ladies want to know how it feels to watch your husband make love to another woman?" i caught will's eye. at another time i should have been embarrassed. to-night, however, i felt a strange self-control. "oh dear, what an old chestnut!" i answered flippantly. "i believe that's the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time i've answered that question this season." i noticed that my voice took on a bored tone. "well, tell us!" urged mine host. "to tell the truth," i began, "i never give it a thought." will's eyes twinkled; he was seated at the far end of the table between two stall-feds. "it's a part of the business," i continued, "just as dictating to his typewriter is a part of the routine of a business man. does every wife suspect her husband's stenographer?" "yes! yes!" came the chorus from the curvilinear gentlemen at the other end of the table. i shrugged my shoulders. "very well, then, it seems to me, since you gentlemen won't behave, that it is up to the women to see that you do!" i sat down. i felt ashamed of my vulgarity. our host suggested a toast and scrambled to his feet. "here's to our wives and sweethearts--may they never meet!" there was more laughter. the dentist murmured something about moss-grown jokes, and the hostess asked why husbands and lovers were excluded. i felt my mouth drawing down at the corners, and i buried my lips in the american beauty rose the sculptor had purloined from the centre-piece. it was probably the frequent replenishing of the wine glasses which led the doctor-dentist to level all his batteries of fascination upon me. he moved nearer and closer, until even the hostess noticed his efforts; she thought it funny. finally, he slipped his hand beneath the table and let it rest upon my knee. i arose and asked the sculptor to exchange seats with me. i think he understood, for as i passed him he said to me in a low, intense tone, "is that beast annoying you?" i did not answer. in my confusion i upset a glass of wine, and the wine-agent across the table told me he was sorry i didn't like his wine. as the dinner progressed some spicy stories were exchanged. the time we lingered at the table seemed interminable. mr. calhoun told me i should take a drink of brandy, for i was growing quite pale. he could not, of course, realize that at that moment i had suddenly noticed that will's companion was dressed all in black and wore gardenias. a moment later the hostess had called her "alice." ... she leered at will with wine-shot eyes, her breath coming in quick, short gasps, and i noticed that his right and her left hand were under the table.... as we left the table i had asked mr. calhoun what time it was. when he told me it was after eleven i ran quickly up the stairs to the room where i had seen a telephone. it was my habit to awaken my boy at half-after nine every night to give him nourishment. he was put to bed at five o'clock, and the period between that and morning was too long to go without food. i wanted to ask my maid whether she had remembered my instructions. the telephone was in a kind of closet off the hostess's bedroom; beyond the bedroom was her boudoir, reached by a door from the corridor. i had finished with my message, and was about to go downstairs, where the singing had begun, when i heard someone enter the boudoir beyond. i stopped and drew back, why, i do not know. a moment later there were footsteps on the stairs, and will entered the room. he came quickly and began speaking at once. "my dear alice," he said, "this thing can't go on. you are making a fool of me and of yourself. the first thing you know your husband will get on to it and there will be the devil to pay!" "that's right! make it harder for me," the woman answered. "why do you always bring my husband into the conversation? you know how it is between us. we haven't lived as man and wife for years. he's never understood me and i can't go on with him any longer. i won't--that's all!" there was a pause before will spoke again. "come on, don't go on like that; everybody will know what's happened. you'll spoil your eyes." another pause. i think these silences were the hardest to bear.... "you had no right to let it go this far if you didn't care," the woman went on resentfully. "this far? how do you mean? there has been nothing that you need be ashamed of--nothing that you couldn't tell your husband if it came right down to it," answered will. the woman laughed angrily. "is that so? i suppose you count a few motor rides and a few suppers on the side nothing. i suppose you wouldn't mind telling your wife that you had held me in your arms and kissed my eyes and my hair...." "good heavens! neither of us meant anything wrong! we were just carried away for a few minutes--you're a fascinating devil--and the wine helped some.... now, don't do that, don't do any of that foolish business with me...." what was she doing, i wondered? did she intend to kill him or kill herself? i almost started to will's rescue, then--she laughed. "powder your nose and let's go down. somebody will notice our absence." evidently she obeyed, for there was another pause. "you needn't worry about your wife," she said. "the giant from the west is keeping her busy. better keep your eye on him." will did not reply. my eardrums seemed on the point of bursting from the surging of the blood to my head. they came out into the corridor. at the head of the steps she stopped. "i suppose it amuses you to make women love you," she said. "my dear woman, you don't love me; i don't flatter myself to that extent." she laughed sneeringly. would they never go? "kiss me good-night and good-bye," she half whispered. "this is the last one," he answered, "the last, remember." there was a stifled cry as she clung to him, and i saw will release himself and run down the steps. a few minutes later she followed. i found my way down the servants' stairs and entered the dining-room from the butler's pantry. when will came to look for me i was drinking brandy frappée with the wine merchant.... that night i slept on a couch beside my boy's crib. chapter vi after that memorable dinner party things were never quite the same between will and me. i am sure, however, that will was unconscious of the fact. he went about as usual. at this juncture boy came down with scarlet-fever. the enforced quarantine acted as a bar to any intimacy between my husband and me. i welcomed the isolation. my feelings had not yet recovered from the bruise i had received. how many times i had re-lived the scene to which i had been an unwilling eavesdropper! i blamed myself for not at once having made my presence known. i excused myself on the ground that to have done so would have placed will in a ridiculous and embarrassing situation. for some inexplicable reason the idea of embarrassing my husband was repugnant to me. my resentment was concentrated against the woman. i felt sure she was to blame. i invented all kinds of excuses for will and at the same time i recognized that they were pure inventions. i could not bring myself to kiss my husband--at least, not for a long, long time. his arms no longer connoted a haven. how utterly wretched i was--how lonely and heart-hungry! only a fierce struggle with my self-respect kept me from throwing myself into my husband's arms and crying out my hurt against his breast. after boy had recovered, will one day remarked that i was looking tired. he said i was stopping indoors too closely--would i not accompany him to a little ... i tingled all over my body. i dared not trust myself to look at him. instead i forced a smile and shook my head in negation. "i reckon you don't like the bunch," he quizzed. "i fear i'm not even a little bit of a sport," i answered. he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. the glance was characteristic of will. often i had seen this same expression when some one had recognized him on the street or in a restaurant. it was a curious blend of boyish self-consciousness and exaggerated unconcern. with the coming of summer began the annual hunt for an engagement. a walk along that part of broadway known as the rialto during the early months of the heated term leaves the impression that there has been a lock-out of the whole theatrical profession. actors block the corners and hem the sidewalks. the supply far exceeds the demand. year after year they make the weary rounds of the agencies. season follows season with but a few weeks' employment for many of them. one wonders that the impermanency of his profession does not drive the actor to other vocations--perhaps "trades" were the better word, since the rank and file are better adapted to plumbing than to acting. the microbe which infects the actor is as deadly in its effect as the tsi-tsi fly. it produces an exaggerated ego from which the victim never recovers. the only palliative is the lime-light. retirement from the stage is never permanent. farewell tours of prominent players, like the brook, go on forever. it is the spirit of make-believe with which the actor is saturated which leads him to make a front even to his confrères. "signed for next season?" one overhears, edging one's way through the crowd. "no, not yet--i've had several good offers, but not just what i want. i'm in no hurry," and he twirls his cane with a nonchalant air, though he may not have the price of next week's board-bill. and so it goes, ad infinitum. his is the kingdom of bluff. will was one of the fortunates. after several weeks of haggling over salary, he was engaged by "america's foremost producer." the actor of established position--"established" being a mere figure of speech, since at best the actor's position is an aleatory one--those of prominence usually demand to read the play before signing a contract. in this instance will waived this privilege. absolute secrecy was maintained as to the character of the play. the reason for this lay in the fact that the manager was at war with the theatrical syndicate. his grievances he had made known to the public. as a lone, solitary saint george of _art_, fighting the monster dragon, _commercialism_, he made a "play" for the public's sympathy--and won it. the momentous question of employment disposed of, we started for our summer holiday. it was will's first idea to go to a village on nantucket island. here a group of more or less successful actor-folk had established a summer colony. some of them owned comfortable bungalows or were in the throes of buying them. after maturer deliberation will concluded he wanted a change of "atmosphere." in other words he wanted to get away from "shop." a residential park in the catskills was finally decided upon. the cottagers were for the most part staid brooklyn families and will felt in this environment he was reasonably sure of privacy. the delusion was a short-lived one. as we left the train and made our way to the 'bus which was to convey us to the park i heard a whisper and titter from a bevy of pretty girls who had come to the railway station to watch the new arrivals. "there's mr. blank, the actor!" and will understood that he was "discovered." some of the girls climbed into the 'bus, others followed on foot. all giggled and made significant remarks. at the inn it was immediately noised about that an actor was in "our midst." we became the cynosure of all eyes. curious maiden ladies looked us over--at a respectful distance. our most insignificant movements were under observation. now, it is one thing to be stared at on the stage; quite another to have the minutest detail of one's private life under constant surveillance. will, who had planned to live the simple life, which he had construed for himself as going unshaved for days at a time, wearing baggy trousers and flannel shirts all day and dining in that garb if it so pleased him, now found himself donning white ducks (the salvage of a former season's wardrobe), playing tennis, bridge, or lounging about the piazza answering endless inane questions concerning the stage and its people. if we went for a walk we were soon overtaken; if we planned a quiet day in the woods there was arranged an impromptu picnic-party to accompany us. to be sure the attention thrust upon us was of kindly intent, though will declared the pleasure was theirs and more or less selfishly bestowed. an actor and his family at close range is a novelty apparently as much coveted as a man at a seaside after the week-end hejira back to town. one week of the cuisine at the inn drove will to dyspepsia tablets. instead of fresh vegetables, home-grown fowl and the other concomitants of the country-board illusions, we were served with such delicacies as creamed cod-fish, canned salmon and johnny cake. i came to the conclusion that the housekeeping and servant problems had driven the brooklynites to a state of submission where even the fare provided by the inn was better than bridget's dictation. the rooms of the caravansary were veritable cockle-shells. the partitions were so thin that we carried on all conversation in subdued whispers. we wished that other guests would emulate our example, alas and alack! up with the lark and early morning sunbursts were not in will's curriculum. he said he did not object to a sunrise if he could sit up all night with convivial friends to await it. and, when a man is in the habit of lying abed till noon, it is difficult to change his régime. he soon developed nerves. one morning, after futile attempts to sleep, will dragged himself into his clothes and disappeared. when finally he returned he had the roguish face of a boy who had been stealing little red apples. he had found a farm-house and after some "dickering" on both sides he had rented house, farm and all for the remainder of the season. "just think, girlie," he enthused, "what a circus it will be! there's a garden with all kinds of vegetables, there's a cow, bushels of chickens, an old nag, a dog, to say nothing of the pigs and----" "who," i gasped, "who is going to care for this menagerie?" "we are--you and me. besides i need the exercise. i want to take off a few pounds of this embonpoint or i'll lose my 'figger.' of course there's a hired man who'll come in to do the milking and the heavy work, and his sister will cook and 'tidy up' for us. it'll be great!" he stopped long enough to throw out his chest, inhale deeply and to exhale noisily while he pounded his lungs--a little trick he had of expressing a sense of well-being. "fresh vegetables, fresh eggs and the cow--think what the cow will do for the kiddie! you never saw me work, did you?--man with the hoe business, i mean. i used to love that kind of thing when i went home to visit the old folks in the summer. come along, girlie, let's get things together. the coach and four will be here soon." he swung boy over his shoulder and carried him pick-a-back to our room. while we packed he told me the details of his "find." the farm belonged to an old man and his wife, whose children--three sons--had yielded to the call of the city. bit by bit the lonely old couple had sold the land, not being able to work it themselves and unsuccessful in their attempts to induce the children to return to their heritage. for a long time they had "hankered" to visit the boys in brooklyn, but money was scarce and the little farm with the live stock could not be left uncared for. the old man had advertised the homestead for rent, furnished. "the few who came to see had one excuse or another for not wanting it," the old man had told will. "most of 'em wanted a bath and runnin' water and they shied at the oil lamps." "they evidently wanted the simple life with all modern appliances," will continued. "after talking it over with ma whilst i waited on the porch drinking buttermilk, pa returned and asked if i meant business. i assured him i did and proved it by offering to pay the summer's rent in advance." i caught my breath. mental arithmetic failed me. will had told me before leaving new york that we were "playing pretty close to the cushion," and i knew what that meant. if will noticed my perturbation he evinced no sign, but went on in the same enthusiastic vein. "pa and ma talked it over again, 'if ma ain't lost her taste for visiting brooklyn,'--ma hadn't, but she wanted a week to get ready. pa said he could pack all he wanted in a paper bag. i said i must have the place at once or not at all--and--here we are." i was not surprised at our sudden change of base. will always acted on the impulse of the moment. when will went down to pay our hotel bill it was lunch-time. nearly all the cottagers in the park had assembled. much regret was expressed at our desertion of the inn. (i quite understood that "our" was a mere form of courtesy, inasmuch as i was looked upon as only an appendage hitched to a star.) will laid our desertion to the boy. "he needs a cow," he explained blandly to a group of admirers. "a child of his age needs one brand of milk. one can't be too careful in hot weather, you know," and will's whole bearing portrayed paternal solicitude. the farm wagon arrived opportunely. will winked at me. he had told me that he was "side-stepping" the lunch of dried lima beans and creamed cod-fish. "i wanted to do it gracefully, of course. they are all nice people and it's good business. that's the kind of thing that gives an actor his following; just the same i'm glad to get away and relax. this being always on parade--! they simply won't concede an actor any privacy. they won't let you be natural. they expect you to act 'on' and 'off.'" it was a long and bumpy drive to the farm. we could have walked it in a third of the time by cutting 'cross country. the poor old horse driven by aaih, the farm hand, looked moth-eaten and worn. it hurt my conscience to add to his burden, so will and i climbed down and walked the rest of the way. will, carrying boy first on his shoulder and then on his back, reminded me of pictures i had seen of early settlers making their way through the wilds in search of a home. once in every little while will would burst forth in a lusty halloa which made the welkin ring. "halloa" came back from the echoing hills. even boy saluted the great god pan. there was an exhilaration in the air which made one glad to be alive. it was a noisy trio which swung into the lane leading to the farm house. ma was on the front porch awaiting us. she made a quaint picture in her rusty black alpaca with her gingham apron half turned back under her arm. at her neck there was an old daguerreotype set in a brooch--probably a likeness of a child she had lost. the lack-lustre eyes were kindly, almost pensively so, and the red spots in her cheeks indicated the excitement under which she laboured. while we sprawled on the porch she bustled about for buttermilk. boy had taken a shine to aaih, and refused to leave him for the "one brand of milk," the virtues of which will had expounded to the lady cottagers. pa called out a friendly greeting from the kitchen where he was "poking up the fire" in response to orders from his wife. the odour of cooking things whetted our already keen appetites. "i had pa kill a chicken at the last minute," the dear old lady explained, "for everybody who comes to the country hankers for fried chicken." i shot a glance at will. will was "a nice feeder" and i devoutly hoped his epicurean tastes would not balk at a freshly-killed fowl. it would be a sin not to appreciate the old lady's kindliness. mentally i resolved to eat every helping if it killed me. i fear there was poor picking for aaih after we left the table. i helped ma with the dishes and after they were cleared away she showed me the run of the house. later we joined the men folks out of doors and made a tour of the farm. there was something pathetic in the way they asked us to take good care of snyder, whose mixed breed reminded one of the much advertised pickles. old ben, we were told, was not fast but he was trust-worthy even in the face of automobiles. good laying hens were pointed out, but i could never remember one from the other. we made the acquaintance of bossy and were warned that the other cow with a calf was not so friendly. we talked so long that at the last moment ma got flustered. she came very near forgetting the home-made jelly she was taking to her niece at kingston where they were to stay the night, going on to new york on the morrow. when at last they drove away to take the train, we followed the buggy to the end of the lane, then watched them out of sight with much waving of hands and repeated good-byes. the sun was dropping behind the peaks. across the valley spiral coils of smoke showed gray against the blue-green hills. how calm, how serene it was! neither spoke. will was leaning against the snake-rail fence, thoughtfully ruminating. presently he fell to whistling softly. i smiled. "give my regards to broadway, remember me to herald square" was ludicrously out of joint with our surroundings. will divined my thoughts and smiled quizzically at me over his shoulder. "it's a long way from broadway, eh, girlie?" "not nearly long enough!" i responded. and i was right. if, upon leaving the inn we had deluded ourselves with the idea of retiring from the public eye, we soon discovered our mistake. our retreat was unearthed; our privacy intruded upon. at inopportune moments passers-by would appear ostensibly to inquire their way, obviously to get a glimpse of the actor "at play." it came to be an annoyance, especially after will was caught in the act of clearing out a duck pond or helping aaih to whitewash a chicken-house. when will indulged in manual labour he relieved himself of all superfluous clothing. when a hero does this sort of thing on the stage he manages somehow to look pretty. but a matinée idol with streaks of whitewash laid across his sweating brow, sundry snaggs in disreputable trousers, a handkerchief around his neck with utter disregard of artistic effect, is a treat reserved for the bosom of his immediate family only. so, after repeated offences, whilom visitors were warned off by the threatening admonition--in more or less uneven lettering-- "private property--no admittance." experience dorset was aaih's sister. she might have been his twin, so alike were they. the only apparent difference was that plainness in a man becomes homeliness in a woman. in so far as we were able to discover, experience belied her name. true, she made delicious bread and crullers, and one never felt her apple dumplings after forty-eight hours, but, other than these, experience's experience was as drab as her complexion. she was slow of speech--and exhaustive. her invariable "now, ma'am, what'll i fly at next?" was contradictory to her deliberation. nothing ruffled her. in a temperamental family this asset is not to be despised. to experience will was an enigma. she confided to me, soon after allying herself with our household, that she was never sure when will was making believe and when he was himself. she felt certain he must sometimes mix himself up. it was her way of explaining a dual personality. will liked to play golf. several times a week we tramped across the hills to the club, some two miles distant. we never left the links without several girls in our train. it was impossible to shake them off. sometimes they accompanied us to the house and sat on the porch to rest. later they discovered that afternoon tea was an institution with me. i am sure that experience enjoyed these little tea-parties as much as did the girls. punctually at four o'clock she would appear on the porch, neatly dressed. with scissors in hand she raided the flower-beds for lady-slippers and clove-geranium with which to adorn the table. the stone jar in which she kept the cookies was never empty. and when the girls came trooping up the lane she was the first to hear them and to rouse will from his siesta. will said he felt like a bull in a china shop at these informal teas. i thought he was charming and agreeable though he pretended he was bored. after tea we would wander out of doors. nearly all the girls took snap-shots of will. he tried to find a new pose for each of them. "the man with the hoe" showed will among the cabbages, resting on the handle of the hoe. "under the old apple tree" was effective even if the apple tree was an oak. reclining on a mound of hay, carted for the purpose by the faithful aaih, was labelled "in the good old summer time." "the actor at play" showed will with a golf-stick in his hand. later will autographed the pictures. many were the questions we were called upon to answer concerning the stage as a career. we were asked to verify all sorts of silly gossip about players. it was well-nigh impossible to convince them that all male stars were not in love with their leading ladies and vice versa. it goes without saying that i should not escape the inevitable question, "how did i feel when i saw my husband making love to another woman?" it amused me to watch the little subterfuges to which the girls resorted to win my favour. bon-bons were the bribes most in vogue. one day i overheard a newcomer to our circle tell another girl, "you didn't tell me he was married--and a baby, too. how terribly unromantic! i'll never go to see him act again as long as i live." will and i laughed over the situation, albeit there is a considerable ground for the managerial contention that actors and actresses should not marry, or, if married, the fact should be suppressed rather than advertised. indeed, who likes to think of her romeo as dawdling a colicky baby during the wee sma' hours about the time he should be exclaiming with unfettered fervour, "what light from yonder window breaks? it is the east, and juliet is the sun!" i recall a tragedy of my own romantic youth upon discovering that a favourite actor was not only a father, but that he wore--o, horrible, most horrible--a toupee! there was no escaping the amateur theatricals. i predicted it early in the summer. the proceeds of the entertainment were to be applied toward the discharging of the debt of the golf club. will was asked to take entire charge of the programme. his position was no sinecure. it was their first intention to give "as you like it" in the open, but as every young woman thought herself particularly adapted to the requirements of rosalind, will found himself in a delicate position. the young men of the community themselves cut the gordian knot. they aspired to be comedians. vaudeville was finally decided upon. a quartette of college students blacked up and gave a minstrel show. some of the jokes were local and aimed at the idiosyncrasies of the cottagers. others were purloined from jo miller's joke-book. there was a trombone solo by the village farrier, several vocal duets and a selection from the mikado. will contributed several monologues. but the star feature of the evening was the performance of dolly in a scene from the wizard of oz. she was a dainty creature with dresden china beauty and bovine eyes and had been much admired by the male contingent of the colony. everybody felt sure there was a treat in store for them. there was. when dolly entered, leading the amiable bossy, a gasp reverberated through the erstwhile bowling alley. dolly's short skirt revealed nether extremities which would have done great credit to barnum's fat lady or a baby grand piano! our vacation passed all too quickly. the day approached when we needs must bid good-bye to our retreat.... the memory of the old farm-house lingers still. the chill in the air at nightfall; the warmth of the log-fire; the sense of comfort and content; the green paste-board shade on the lamp; the rag rug on the floor. in my mind's eye i see the old couple sitting here of winter nights; ma, piecing together the vari-coloured rags for the summer weaving; pa, nodding over last week's news; snyder stretched out in front of the fire, whimpering in his dreams. how far removed from the feverish walk of our life, with its hopes, its struggles, its heart-burns, and its empty fame! yet, they, as we, were "merely players." chapter vii rehearsals for the new play began in august. the days were wilting but the theatrical world up and doing. every available stage, hall and loft was requisitioned. several companies shared the same stage, dividing the hours between them. will's manager had his own theatre and the rehearsals were all-day affairs. will studied his part at night after "the family" had retired. sometimes i would lie awake and listen to him, talking aloud, reading a line first with one inflection and then trying another. will's voice was one of his greatest assets. experience had come back to town with us. before leaving the mountains, will had jestingly asked her whether she would like to see broadway. she took him at his word. we flattered ourselves she had become fond of us. we discovered later that it was the profession, not the family, which lured her. she had found a new volume of faery lore. will was the faery prince. sometimes i wondered just how experience reconciled will's morning grumpiness with her preconceived notion of a hero. i recall how after seeing will in a new rôle he had asked her how she liked him. she expressed herself as pleased with the play in general and with him in particular. but after he left the room she confided to me the following: "ain't he the naturalest thing when he yells at that man with the powdered hair, jackwees or somethin' like that--'jackwees, bring me my sword!' i declare, ma'am, i jumped a foot and started for that sword! it was so natural; that's just the way he yells when i forget the morning papers." the reliability of experience brought me more leisure. i was free to go about without worry over the boy. i felt that intellectually i needed stimulus and i planned a winter's work. of course everything depended upon the play "getting over," to use the vernacular. will said he did not see how it could fail. everyone connected with the production said the same thing. success was in the air. several times i had dropped in to see a rehearsal. i was interested to know the "method" of this particular manager about whom so much had been written. his productions were always effectively mounted. magazine articles, full-page interviews had from time to time printed his recipes for evolving successful stars as well as money-making plays. one thrilling account in particular--supposedly his own words--told of the strenuous training of the tyro; how he aroused in his actors the precise degree of emotion necessary to a given scene. "i dragged her by the hair!" or "i pictured her own mother lying dead, foully murdered, before her until she cried aloud at the picture i had conjured." again, "i tied my wrists together, i rolled about the floor, struggling to free myself; i wanted to feel just what a man would feel under similar conditions!" these and other highly coloured statements had from time to time been served up to the public. it is amazing how gullibly the public bites at the press-agent's worm. in nearly all such instances nothing could be farther from the truth. my own observation convinced me that the man's genius lay in his ability to select the right person for the right place. having made the selection he played upon the _amour propre_ of his puppets. he led them to believe he had supreme confidence in their ability. the ruse was successful. it is the better part of human nature to want to measure up to the good opinion of others. his methods of conducting a rehearsal were the simplest. he had infinite patience and perseverance. he left nothing to chance. a scene or an effect was repeated until the "mechanics" became automatic. his voice never rose above a conversational tone. he knew that to command others he must first be in command of himself. he left the roaring to petty understrappers with inflated ideas of their own importance. once in a blue moon he let go. the effect was electrifying. i strongly suspected, however, that there was more or less "acting" in these outbursts. just as his reluctant appearance before the curtain on first nights was a "carefully prepared bit of impromptu acting." the frightened expression of his face; the quick, nervous walk; the almost inaudible voice when he thanked his audience, "on behalf of the star, the author (or co-author), the musicians, the costumers, the scenic artists" and so on down the line; this with his mannerism of tugging at a picturesque forelock, this alone was worth the price of admission. first and last he was a good showman. the star who was the stepping stone to his fame and fortune was a lady with a past. she had entered the stage door through the advertising medium of the divorce court. after several unsuccessful attempts at starring she placed herself under the tuition of the manager, then allied with a school of acting. possessed of abundant animal vitality--"magnetism," if you prefer--as well as "temperament," the ugly duckling developed into a star of first magnitude. when will joined the company she was at the height of her success--a success which later dulled the finer artistic restraint and listed toward a fall. but act she could, playing upon each reed, each stop of the emotional organ, with a conviction of which few actresses are capable. in the choice of plays the genius of the man again displayed itself; the right play for the right person. doubtless, he understood that temperament, after all, is but the flood-tide of our natural predilections. to the layman a rehearsal is a bewildering and murky affair. seated in the "front of the house," in the clammy shadow of shrouded seats, a student of human nature finds much to interest him. under the light of a single "bunch" or the "blanching" irregular foots, the players look old and insignificant. the blue white light has a cruel way of exposing the lines and seams. they sit about or stand in groups, the blue-covered typewritten parts in hand awaiting the call of the first act. a youngish man, probably the assistant stage-manager, sets the stage; that is, he marks the entrances and the boundaries with plain wooden chairs and stage-braces. the homely wooden chair plays many parts; now it stands for a fire-place or a grand piano, again it may be a rocky pass beyond which are the mountains. a fagged looking man enters the stage door with a hurried, important air. by the bundle of manuscript under his arm shall you know him. it is the stage-manager. he greets the members of the company with a curt, preoccupied air and hurries down to the prompt stand. there are consultations with the working staff and perhaps with one or two of the players. while he is thus engaged let us enquire into the personnel of the company; that tall good-looker in the well tailored gown is a newcomer to the stage. she has been given a small part--a half dozen lines at best. on twenty dollars a week she carries a maid--and a jewel case. no, she does not _have_ to work for a living; neither is she the spoilt child of a multi-millionaire. she belongs to that great class of women who have no class. time hangs heavily on her hands. it looks better to be connected with some kind of a profession; a legitimate profession. besides, her vanity makes her "want to do something." the stage has always appealed to her. with a little "influence" she gets a part. salary is no object. perhaps the management has saved five or ten dollars a week on the deal. at any rate a good-looker adds "class" to the personnel. she drives to the theatre in a taxi; sometimes she comes in a big limousine car accompanied by an elderly gentleman with watery eyes. on the opening night he will send her great boxes of american beauty roses. after the show they will sup at rector's, and his friends who have been in front with him will tell her how pretty she looked. of course she will not go on the road with the company. dear no! she will leave that to some other girl who is not so young, not so pretty, but who needs the money. the white-haired lady with the sweet face and the stern old man who has brought her a chair are man and wife. theirs is one of the few stage marriages which have endured. perhaps it is the very rarity of the case which makes them so popular and well-beloved. one hears them invariably referred to as "dear old mr. and mrs. so and so." one looks at them wistfully and wonders at the secret of their success.... the actor with the monocle, oddly cut clothes and the overpowering savoir-faire is an english importation. managers assert that the average english actor plays the gentleman more effectively than his american cousin. it all depends on what kind of a gentleman the rôle demands. when an englishman is called upon to portray a gentlemanly officer of the united states army the effect is incongruous to say the least. the american manager, vulgar and uncouth himself, is impressed by the english complacency. a bluffer, he has a sneaking respect for anyone who throws a bluff and gets away with it. the several youngish men with a hint of effeminancy in their make-up might be called the "stationaries" or "walking gentlemen." one of this _genre_ is to be found in nearly every company. too proud for the ribbon counter, too erratic for commercial life, he drifts into the profession because he feels the call of the artistic temperament. he plays small parts, disseminates gossip, flatters the star--or the leading lady--reads a little, sleeps much--and drinks more. that beefy looking man is the leading heavy. not many years since he was a leading man. now when a leading man takes on flesh he is marked for a reduction in value. the first step down in his career is the day he begins to play heavies. to be sure, there are heavy men who never have been leading men; these, however, come under the head of character heavies. the gentlemanly heavy unfailingly aspires to heroic rôles. the present incumbent of villainy had "fallen on his feet." some seasons previously he had played an inconsequential engagement under the same management. the star took a fancy to him. henceforth his engagements were assured--until the fancy waned. everybody understood; they shrugged their shoulders and smiled. nobody cared. neither did the heavy man. character actors without exception are envious of the leading man. "call that acting?" demands the man behind the make-up. "call it acting to walk on and play yourself? why, it's a cinch!" "_o, is it?_" retorts the leading man. "you ought to try it. it's the most difficult thing in the world to walk on and be perfectly natural. i'd like to see some of you fellows who hide behind your wigs and queer make-ups go on and play a straight part. why you wouldn't know what to do with your hands!" ... there was something plaintive about the woman who sat in the shadow of the set-pieces, piled high against the wall. the rouge on her cheeks but accentuated the lines in her face. the brassy gold on her hair showed gray against her temples. "better days" was clearly stamped all over her. perhaps she was thinking of those days--when _she_ was a star; when being a star meant something more than an animated clothes-horse. her mother had been a great actress in the booth and barrett days. she, herself, had lisped some childish lines with them. later, she had become a soubrette and a star in merry little plays in which she sang and danced and "emoted," all in one evening. there are no soubrettes nowadays. the term has degenerated into a slangy sobriquet. "ingénue" has replaced it; nothing is required of an _ingénue_ but saccharine sweetness and vacuous prettiness--and youth, youth, _youth_! o, the harvest of age! the public which she had amused for years has forgotten her. they scarcely recall her existence: not even a hand of recognition on her entrance. occasionally a reviewer will dig her out of the dust of the past--only to speak of her as "in memoriam." managers, too, hesitate to engage her. there are so many has-beens and so few parts to fit them. besides, there are freshly spawned pupils from the divine academies to be had for the asking. why waste money?... a psychical ripple disturbs the ether. necks crane toward the door. the star arrives. she comes slowly, with the air of one assured of an effective entrance. she punctuates her animated conversation with the manager with smiles and nods. that meek-looking person bringing up the rear is the author. he gropes his way through the dark passage to the front of the house and is lost in oblivion. "first act!" calls the prompter. _"first act!_" * * * * * the play opened out of town. the working force was sent ahead with the scenery and the baggage. there was a special train for the company. besides the regular staff there were costumers, flash-light photographers, relatives of the players and guests of the management. the guests included several critics from certain new york journals. one of these had an ambitious wife who was a member of the company. the other, rumour had it, was on the salary list of the management. this may or may not have been true. subsequent effusive reviews and the manner in which these critics took up the cudgels against the enemies of the manager did not, however, indicate unbiased opinion. "subsidized or hypnotized"--that was the question. the persuasive art of "fixing" is not confined to politics. when the train arrived in----, there was barely time for a hasty bite before rushing off to the theatre. one felt the thrill of excitement at the very stage door. even the back doorkeeper was infected. when will stopped to look through the pigeon-holes for mail, the keeper of the sacred portal was exhibiting a brand new litter of kittens. "everyone of 'em black; just like their mother. your show'll be a big success--talk about your mascots!" stage-folk are as superstitious as a nigger mammy. a whole chapter might be devoted to their lore. one of the greatest hoodoos is to speak the tag of a play before the opening night. the tag of a play is the last several words immediately preceding the final fall of the curtain. when it comes to the tag, the actor to whose lot the final lines fall either stops with a gesture or perhaps he purloins hamlet's last words--"the rest is silence." back on the stage there was the sound of hammers, the shouts of the stage-hands to the men in the flies, "drops" being adjusted, calls of warning to some reckless person about to come in contact with a sandbag at that moment lowered from the flies. abrupt blasts of the orchestra reach one's ears. the music cues are being rehearsed, the director shouting against the din on the stage. on the "apron," with a bottle of milk in his hand and surrounded by a half dozen coatless and perspiring men, is the producer. a shaft of light darts from the spot-light machine in the gallery, and hovers over the stage like a searchlight at sea. green, yellow, red and blue slides are tried and a weird waving moving picture effect brings a shout of laughter from the privileged watchers in front. in the dressing-rooms the players are making up. the wardrobe mistress hurries from one to another, needle and thread in hand. there are impatient calls for the head costumer; "props" taps at the doors and delivers the properties to be carried by the various actors in the play. the actors talk across the partitions or run through lines of a "shaky" scene. "fifteen minutes--fifteen minutes!" warns the assistant stage manager making the rounds. below stage, the supers or "extra people" sit about in noisy groups awaiting the call. some of them are as "nervous as a cat," to use their own expression. these are not the rank and file of supernumeraries. the promise of a long run in new york ofttimes tempts women who have "spoken lines" to go on as extra ladies. as a sop they are given a leading part to understudy. the excitement is infectious. with the lowering of the curtain and the first strains of the orchestra one instinctively shifts forward to the edge of one's seat. it is either the lights or a missing prop or a hiatus between speech and action which the first acquaintance with the scenery develops or a "jumbled" ensemble or something unexpected which brings the rehearsal to an abrupt halt. the dialogue stops like a megaphone suddenly shut off. the director hurries down the centre aisle, the prompter's head appears at the proscenium arch. "loved i not honour more!" repeats the actor, looking expectantly off stage. "loved i not honour more!" bellows the stage-manager, getting into the game. "that's _your_ cue, mr. prime minister. mr. jones. mr. jones! where _is_ mr. jones?" "jones! jones!" reverberates about the stage and in the flies. "here i am! i hear you!" answers a muffled voice up-stage. "i can't get through. the entrance's blocked with a sacred elephant!" there is a rush of stage hands in the direction indicated. simultaneously mr. jones appears l. i. e. "i'm sorry," he says, "but i couldn't butt in through the stone walls of the castle, now could i?" indicating the boxed set which formed the outer walls of the scene. the obstruction is removed amidst a heated confab and the stage cleared for action. "go back--go back to miss melon's entrance." miss melon enters. the scene starts flatly enough. it is difficult to pick up a scene and get back into the atmosphere at once. one must "warm up to it." a star requires an effective entrance. the audience must be apprised of her approach. "here she comes now!" (accompanied by a look off stage.) or, a flunkey enters and solemnly announces, "his highness, prince of ptomania, mounts the steps." these helpful hints prepare the reception which the ushers start at the psychological moment. many persons are backward about applauding for fear of making a mistake: just follow the usher. the supporting actors understand that they are expected to "humour" the applause, either upon an entrance or for a scene. stars, however, do not always encourage applause for their supporting actors. some of them go so far as to "shut it off" by flashing on house light on a curtain in which they do not figure, or dimming the foots or directing the actors to "jump in" with the next speech. in the midst of a scene which sends little shivers up and down one's spinal column the star hesitates, stammers, repeats, then interpolates while she searches frantically among the papers on the table for the missing prop. "where's the knife--the fatal dagger?" she demands, dropping the rôle as one would step out of a petticoat. the man about to be killed joins in the hunt for the deadly weapon. "i can't kill you very well without a knife, can i, jack? unless i stab you with a hatpin--" there is something so incongruous in the rapid contrasts that everyone, including the star herself, gives way to laughter. meanwhile the stage-manager's yells for props have brought that culprit from the flies where he has been touching up a damp cloud with a paint brush. "the knife!" a chorus hurls at him. "what knife?" he demands, continuing to mix the silver lining to the cloud. "the dagger! i told you the last thing not to forget it!" fumes the bumptious stage-manager. "aw, what's the matter with you?" replies props witheringly. then he ambles down to the star, who by this time is lost in a little side-play with her heavy man. "miss blank," he begins with punctuation marks between each word, "miss blank, didn't you tell me to leave that knife on your dressing table so you could place it where you wanted it on the table centre?" "i did, i did! i apologize, johnny--i beg everybody's pardon!" she makes a contrite bow toward the front of the house. johnny shuffles off, muttering to himself, and madame's maid enters with the missing link. "let's begin at your cross," madame says to the heavy. "just before you say, 'darling, my life, my love, you're mine at last!' and jack--i hope your wooden chest protector is in place, for i'm going to strike to-night just as i am going to do to-morrow night and turn it r-r-round and r-r-round, as if i loved your blood--and mr. director," she glides to the foots and shades her eyes from the glare, "herr director, can't you play a little more _piano_ just at that point? i want my gurgle of delight to get _over_--understand?... o, mr. hartley, while i think of it----" she toys with the ornaments on his dress as she speaks. "in our next scene give me a little more room; play farther down stage. it's better for our scene." mr. hartley smiles to himself as he disappears in the wings; he is "on-to" the little tricks of stars and leading ladies. to make a _vis-à-vis_ play the scene down stage is to rob him of any effective participation in the scene. "to hog" is the vulgar but expressive infinitive applied to this trick of the trade. after many false starts, the end of the act is finally reached. the players are then posed in certain effective scenes from the play and the flash-light pictures are taken. then comes a change of costume and the second act is set. during the long wait members of the company come in front to get a glimpse of the scenery or to discuss the play and the performance with their friends. i recall an instance which will exemplify the jealousy of one star for another, especially those under the same management. during the early years of will's career he had played with a summer stock company. the leading woman of the organization was now one of the stars under will's present management. she had come on from her country home--(her own season had not yet opened)--and was an interested spectator of the dress rehearsal. she and will had kept up a desultory interest during the intervening years and were on a friendly footing. "what do you think of the play?" he asked, sitting down beside her. "it's a sensation," she predicted. "how does your part pan out?" "o, it's a fair part. i've got a couple of big scenes, but the _heavy_ makes circles all around him. if i had read the play before i signed, i believe i should have turned it down." "what do you care--you're the _hero_, and that is what counts with the women. it fits you like a glove; and, speaking of parts, what do you think of _that_ for a star-part? did you ever see anything like it? she's the whole show.... when i think of the _also-ran_ i am playing for a star part ... let me tell you--just between ourselves--that he'll have to hand me out something fatter next season or there'll be something doing in another direction. little abe's syndicate has been making eyes at me and--you never can tell. glory! i never saw such an acting part in my life! why, she isn't off the stage two minutes during the whole first act!" * * * * * it is past midnight when the curtain goes down on the second act. the lights have worked badly and for an hour the electricians have been put through the paces until the desired effect is reached. spirits begin to flag. the englishman's wife sets up a tea basket; friends and relatives are sent out for sandwiches and "something to wash 'em down." at this stage of the siege one becomes a mere machine. there is no attempt at acting. it is now a mechanical perfection. when the scenic effects refuse to act on cues or "anticipate" the same, or the supers jumble and everybody grows cross and "on edge," one shudders to realize that the opening night is close at hand. one hopes and prays things will not go like this to-morrow night. there is consolation in the old adage: "a poor dress rehearsal--a good first night." we leave the theatre when the milkman is making his rounds. a day of fitful sleep with its undercurrent of tension; the opening night with nerves tuned to the highest pitch, then success or failure, who can tell? the box office is the arbiter. the opening night is not the only strain attendant upon a new production. one is on tenter-hooks for days, perhaps weeks, to learn whether the play has "caught on" or not. favourable, even laudatory, reviews will not drag the public into the theatre if they do not like the offering. stars may have a certain drawing power, but "the play's the thing." no star ever yet saved a bad play from oblivion or spoiled a good play with bad acting. i am sure that will and the members of the company watched the "houses" from the peep-holes in the curtain as eagerly as the star and the management kept an eye on the box-office receipts. "how was the house last night?" was the daily question i put to will with his morning coffee. finally we settled back with the assurance of a season's run ahead of us. i set in motion the plans i had outlined for myself. i induced will to study languages with me for a time, but his hours were so uncertain that he finally dropped out. music was a passion with me. i went through a whole season of the opera treat i had promised myself for years. will was fond of music, too, and sometimes we would go together to the sunday night concerts at the metropolitan. of course there were still the dinner-parties and the supper-parties and matinées for benevolent purposes. will seemed to have tired of the parties and spent more and more of his time at the lambs. he never came home to supper after the theatre nowadays. i missed my little talks with him across the supper table. there was no longer any need to throw cold water in my face to keep myself fresh until his coming. sometimes when i was wakeful i would hear him come in; it was generally daylight. sometimes, on sunday morning, if he found me awake he would hand me the morning telegram. no wonder they call it "the chorus girl's breakfast." among other things i did not like about the lambs was that irritating way the telephone boy had of asking "who's calling, please." will said they do that at all clubs. chapter viii by this time i had my own little _coterie_ and i prided myself it was a cosmopolitan gathering which graced our little apartment on the second and third sundays of the month. there was so much to learn, the interests were so diversified that i eagerly welcomed members of other professions than our own--if they were worth while. our sculptor friend brought men who had travelled in remote parts of the world; they in turn brought others. we numbered several army and navy officers, a german scientist, men and women journalists, a cartoonist and an artist, women engaged in settlement work and the quaint old french professor who taught me the language. when we could overcome his diffidence he was a mine of information. he had witnessed the commune of paris and was working on a book on that subject. it is an interesting study to divide the _pastiche_ from the real. the time-killers and the curious soon dropped out. it was not difficult to limit our _coterie_ to the dimensions of our home. i could not but contrast my simple "at homes" with those of the dingleys. we had received several cards for their sundays and will said we must go to at least one of them. the dingleys had sprung from humble beginnings. they were jocosely referred to as the "ten, twent' and thirt's." when i was a little girl in short skirts they were members of a répertoire company which played our town during county fair week. the répertoire comprised such good old timers as the two orphans, the danites, east lynne, the silver king, streets of new york, camille and the ticket-of-leave man. mrs. dingley was the leading lady and her husband the utility man. she was my ideal of a heroine--in those days. her hair was very golden, and as the weepy heroine she wore a black velvet dress with a long train. that black velvet (later experience told me it was velveteen) played many parts. it was a princess, and for evening wear the guimpe had only to be removed. or, when the heroine was ailing, as becomes a persecuted woman, the princess, with the help of a full front panel, was converted into a tea-gown. again, it was used as a riding habit, draped up on one side and topped by husband's silk hat wound round with a veil. with a good deal of crêpe drapery from the bonnet, the same gown passed muster as widow's weeds. mentally, i resolved that when i became an actress i should have just such a prestidigital gown in my wardrobe. by dint of hard work on mrs. dingley's part and unmitigated nerve on the part of her husband they had finally arrived on broadway. they had recently acquired a large house in the older part of the city and i understood it was mrs. dingley's idea to establish a _salon_. certainly she was successful in drawing a crowd. the house was strikingly furnished. there was much gold furniture and antique bric-à-brac; canopied beds and monogrammed counterpanes. after a personally conducted tour of the house and an enlightening dissertation upon the real worth of and prices paid for the fittings, one retained a confusing sense of having had an exercise in mental arithmetic. it seemed rather catty of the women to make fun of the dingleys behind their back and at the same time accept their hospitality. two smart looking women whom i recognized as members of mrs. d's. company appeared to get no little amusement out of the coat of arms on mrs. dingley's bed. "why didn't they purloin a beer-stein, quiescent on a japanned tray?" i heard one say. "or a holstein bull rampant on a field of cotton," the other giggled. i failed to grasp the significance of their remarks, though i saw the humour in their allusion to the empty book-shelves which lined the walls of the library. "why not buy several hundred feet of red-backed books, like a certain politician who wanted to fill up the wall space in his library?" "pshaw! it would be cheaper to use props," scoffed the other. i myself thought a dictionary and a few grammars a sensible beginning, as mrs. dingley was a veritable mrs. malaprop. later i committed a _faux pas_, though i meant no offense. in my effort to say something nice to my hostess i remarked that i had seen her years ago during the early days of her struggle and that i had been one of her ardent admirers. the way she said, "yes?" with the frosty inflection made me understand she did not care to remember her beginnings. while we were drinking tea out of priceless cups--the history of which was being retailed by our host--there was a commotion and a craning of necks toward the stairs. the hostess hurried forward to greet the late arrival. there was considerable nudging and innuendo exchanged as a small pleasant-faced man with a van dyke beard entered the room. our host greeted him jovially, almost boisterously. "here comes the king--here comes the king!" hummed the two actresses, winking significantly at me. there was a buzz of voices while mrs. dingley paraded the lion of the occasion about the room with an air of playful proprietorship. the little man had a penchant for pretty girls and flattery. he got both. everybody fawned on him, mr. dingley laboured heroically to be witty. my curiosity finally drove me to ask my neighbours who the little man was. "is he a manager, or a producer, or?--?" i whispered. there was a peal of laughter before i was answered. "o, he's a producer, all right! why, don't you know who he is? he's the goose that laid the golden egg!" taking in the gold furniture with a comprehensive sweep of her hand. she lowered her voice and leaned toward me. "he's mr. ----!" i recognized the name of the multi-millionaire. "is he?" i queried, trying to get another look at him. the women relapsed into their confidences. "how do you suppose she explains it to ----?" calling mr. dingley by his first name. the other woman shrugged her shoulders. "she doesn't have to explain; money talks." on the way home i asked will what they meant. he smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "they do say that the little man is an 'angel.'" "well, suppose he is?" i began indignantly. "there is such a thing as clean-minded men of the world: patrons of art without ulterior motives. all art needs fostering, and who better able to help the climbers than ----?" will laid his hand on mine, a little way he had when he wanted to reassure me. "i haven't a doubt in the world that there are clean-minded men of means without 'ulterior motives,' as you express it. i also believe that hen's teeth are rare." * * * * * there were other near-salons to which we were invited. some of them were highly temperamental gatherings. every large city has its artistic set, but new york may safely claim the medal for the half-baked neurotics who wallow in illicit cults which they sanctify in the name of art. one of the most typical and, by the same token, the most amusing of these esoteric feasts was presided over by a lady-like creature who had spent some time in the far east. we were met at the outer portal by a jet black, down-south negro done up in full eastern regalia. an air of mysticism permeated even the box couches against the wall. they had a peculiar "feel" to them and one sank into their enfolding depths as one is taught to sink into the arms of nirvana. it must have been awful for short, fat persons to scramble to their feet, after once being beguiled into sitting on these couches. the mysticism was enhanced by burning incense, shaded lights, draperies, and the host himself, who received us in eastern garb, resplendent with the famous jewels, a gift from some potentate or other. we were conducted to a dais where the guest of honour--an oily, complacent swami--received us. if we were pretty, the swami held our hands longer than the amenities of good society demand. some of the guests were highly sensitized beings. some were lean like cassius; perhaps they "thought too much." there was a preponderance of greek and other classic dresses, over un-classic figures. (why _will_ doctors condemn the corset?) hair-dressing was simplicity itself; in fact, the simplicity suggested a lick and a promise. sometimes there were beads woven in the scrambled mess. the sockless damsel was in evidence and nobility was represented by a certain antique baroness with a penchant for baby blonde hair. affinity hunters abounded. by the dreamy longing of their watery eyes shall ye know them. some there were who had made several excursions into the realms of free and easy love, but _all_, all had returned empty-handed, unsatisfied. o cruel fate! and so they go, hunting, hunting.... after a call to silence, the swami with the ingratiating smile and good front teeth made an address. it was a mystical, tortuous, rambling discourse which sounded to me a good deal like an advocation of free love. he told what ailed us; he said we didn't love enough. he assured us it was o, so easy to get our slice of the wonderful, all-pervading ether with which we were saturated. we simply didn't know how to use it. he had come to teach us: his the mission to prescribe for us. electricity had been harnessed, why not love? i shuddered when i thought of the possibilities of a love-trust. of course it would be cornered by some of the millionaires. after the address everybody clustered around the dispenser of oriental pearls. the swami slipped little printed matters into the palms of the neophytes. they told how farther enlightenment could be attained, on given days at given hours and given prices. later our brute element was fortified by wafers and a mysterious punch. i felt sorry for the late-comers who missed the intellectual feed and arrived just in time for the refreshments. wafers are not very sustaining. the punch was a mysterious and subtle concoction with a tendency to promulgate the tenets of the swami's new religion. before we took our leave i thought the eyes of the new disciples had grown more languishing and were considerably lit up. it may have been, of course, that the swami had taken the lid off a few vats of his cerulean ether which was too highly rarefied for those present. as we closed the door and stepped out into the winter night, we instinctively inhaled the cold air, which, though it may not be full of love, is full of common-sense ozone. "when boston people want to be naughty they go to new york." our hostess nodded sententiously across the table as she made the statement. "why confine it to boston? why not philadelphia, washington or ----?" "because i don't know anything about those cities, and i do know my home city," interrupted his wife. "i guess you're right," mr. mollett answered. "it's the same spirit which keeps alive le rat mort, or maxim's, or any of those resorts in paris. you rarely meet a parisian at these show-places. if it were not for the foreigners--principally americans and english--they'd have to shut up shop." "that's precisely my contention. one does things in paris or new york one would never think of in boston." will had met mr. mollett at a lambs' gambol one sunday night during the recent season in new york. they had taken a shine to each other, to use mr. mollett's expression, and had exchanged cards. "i liked your husband from the start," mr. mollett once said to me. "he's not a bit like an actor; he's natural and not a bit of a _poseur_." it appears that when anyone wants to pay an actor a particularly high compliment he tells him he is not a bit like an actor! this is not flattering to the rank and file of players, who labour under the misapprehension that to be effective they must act on and off the stage. on the opening night of the following season in boston will was pleased to find a card from mr. mollett and a note from his wife, asking whether i was in town; if so, would i waive the formality of a call and join them at "beans" on saturday night after the performance. mrs. mollett's saturday suppers were as much of an institution as the beans themselves. our hostess was a bright, intelligent little woman without the pretense of the intellectual. externally, she had all the ear-marks of a boston woman. she wore the practical but disfiguring goloshes of a boston winter and she carried a reticule. her dress might have been made in paris, but it had a true new england hang to it. it wasn't a component part of her; it was _a thing apart_. her skin was rough and fretted with pin-wrinkles. i never saw a jar of cold cream on her dressing-table. the molletts enjoyed a comfortable income which they appeared to use judiciously. their home was comfortable and in good taste. their library was a treat; not merely fine bindings and rare editions. the volumes showed an intimate acquaintance with the owner. by the process of elimination they had formed a selected chain of the better class of actors, who found a warm welcome awaiting them whenever they played boston. the molletts' leaning toward the artistic had no taint of the free-and-easy predilection. the element of illusion furnished by their player friends was precisely the variety needed to counteract the monotony of their daily routine. both sides benefited by the exchange. boston was the first stand on tour. the second season had opened with a six weeks' engagement in new york and one, two or more weeks were booked in the larger cities. the original company was advertised and--rare integrity--maintained. will decided that it was cheaper to carry the boy and me on the road than to keep up two establishments. luckily we sublet our apartment. i was for sending experience back to her home, though i had become sincerely attached to her and so had boy. will declared we could not manage without a nurse. i assured him we could. "you don't suppose you can carry that buster around in your arms, do you? and wouldn't i look nice climbing on and off trains, and coming into hotels with a baby in my arms? pretty picture for a matinée idol! no, ma'am, experience remains. besides," he smiled at me, "a nurse and a valet help to make a good front. it'll keep the management guessing." unfortunately the management were not the only ones kept guessing. good hotels were expensive and will's position did not permit him to stop at any other kind. it worried me a great deal to see will's envelope come in on tuesday and scarcely anything left on wednesday when we had paid the bills. i suspected, too, that will had some debts hanging over from last season. i knew he had drawn on the management during the summer. we foolishly took a cottage at allenhurst on the sea, where we spent our holidays. the week-end parties proved expensive. it was easily accessible to new york and i never knew how popular will was with the profession until that summer. i regretted we had not gone back to the farm in the catskills. i saw a great deal more of will on the road than i had in new york. there was no lambs' club and, though will had guest-cards to clubs in various cities, there was not the lure of intimate association. we took long walks together, browsed in the book-shops, visited public buildings such as the library in boston, and sometimes lunched or "tead" with friends. will did not care to accept invitations to dinner; he said it made him "logey" to dine late and interfered with his evening performances. altogether we came nearer to the old intimacy and comradeship than we had known for several years. at christmas time we planned the boy's first tree. we believed he was now old enough to appreciate it. santa claus now became a name to conjure with; it acted as a bribe to good behaviour or a threat of punishment. will and i went shopping together. the big toy-shops proved the most fascinating things in the world. we spent hours looking at the wonders of toy-land which the present-day child enjoys. will said it made him feel like a boy and surely it brought out all the youth in his nature. his eyes would snap and sparkle with delight over a miniature railway with practicable engine and carriages, electric head-lights, block signals and the like. "gee! what wouldn't i have given for an outfit like that when i was a kid!" he would exclaim. as for me, i couldn't make up my mind which i enjoyed the most; the pretty children who crowded the shop or the toys they came to see. we made several visits to santa claus land without being able to decide what would best please boy. experience advised us to have him make his own choice. when experience took him for a tour of the shops he decided upon everything in the place. suddenly the whole world faded into insignificance: "senyder!" he stuttered, pointing imperiously to a dog whose breed seemed as indeterminate as the prototype. all dogs were snyders to boy, but perhaps the perpetual motion of the tail which wagged automatically reminded him most strongly of the original. it did no good to tell him that santa claus would bring snyder down the chimney. boy had his own ideas about fairies and their ilk. he refused to leave the shop without the dog. needless to say the dog went home with us. will never could endure boy's shrieks. but, in extenuation, let it be said that not one of the toys boy found grouped about his tree on christmas morning--and their name was legion--gave him the joy he found in the mongrel pup. miss burton sent a box from far-off san francisco, where she was playing. the chinese dolls interested him for a moment, but his heart was true to snyder. he slept with him, shared his food with him, sobbed out his childish grief with snyder in his arms, and refused to part with his faithful friend even when old age robbed him of his woolly coat and shiny eyes. the star gave a party on christmas eve. when the curtain went down on the last act, the applause was choked off by the flashing on of the house lights. the stage-manager gave the order to strike, and in a short time the stage was clear. the carpenters then put together the improvised banquet board--great long planks of lumber resting upon saw-horses. from the iron landing of the first tier of spiral stairs upon which will's dressing-room gave i watched the caterer's men lay the table. i had spent the latter part of the evening in the cubby hole--a rare occurrence, since i seldom went behind the scenes except with friends of will's who had attended the performance and who wanted to see what the back of the stage looked like. shortly before twelve o'clock the members of the company and a few outside guests assembled on the stage--where they were received by the star-hostess. in the midst of the chatter the lights went out. at first everyone thought it an accident until a bell in the distance chimed the witching hour. as the last stroke died away a faint jingle of sleigh bells wafted across the air. nearer and louder they came, interspersed with the snap of a whip. a great shaft of light from above shot obliquely across the stage. from out of the clouds, as it seemed, a full-fledged santa claus descended like a flying machine. with the aid of a little "sneaky" music furnished by the orchestra and the faithful spot-light which dogged his very footsteps, santy placed the huge tree in the centre of the table and unloaded his pack. with many a grotesque antic he surveyed his labour of love and finally, having sampled the contents of a decanter which graced the table, he rubbed his much padded pouch in satisfaction, laughed merrily, shouted a "merry christmas to you all," and disappeared into the clouds. the effect was so bewitching and so eerie that old kris received a spontaneous "hand" on his exit. i thought of boy and how much he would have enjoyed the scene. myriad little lights twinkled like stars upon the wonderful trees. a warm, red glow poured from imaginary fireplaces off stage. to the accompaniment of ohs! and ahs! and a merry potpourri from the orchestra we took our seats at table. i am sure any audience would gladly have paid a premium for tickets to this special performance. the supper proved to be an eight-course dinner. there was everything from nut-brown turkey to hot mince pie. the drinkables were varied and plentiful. i noticed that after the third or fourth course everybody was telling everybody else what a good actor he or she was. it developed into a veritable mutual admiration society. will kicked me under the table several times when the character man told him what a good actor he was; it was common property that the character man "knocked" will behind his back. the tall, good-looking girl i had noticed at rehearsals passed around a new diamond pendant she had just received from her friend in new york. "he's just crazy about you, ain't he?" chaffed one of the actors. the good-looking girl laughed and winked. "he sure is," she answered, "and i never even gave him as much as _that_," measuring off an infinitesimal speck of her thumb nail. a shout of laughter greeted her remark. a little later when she got warmed up she made eyes at will across the table and threw him violets from her huge corsage bouquet. "ev'ry matinée day i send thee violets," she paraphrased in song, the significance of which was lost on me until some days later. toward the end of the dinner the packages were opened. each memento was accompanied by a limerick hitting off the idiosyncrasies of the recipient, who was asked to read it aloud. whoever composed the limericks was well paid for sitting up o' nights, for they caused a deal of merriment even if they were not entirely free from sting. after dinner there was vaudeville. the star gave some imitations of a _café chantant_ which brought down the house. the musical director had composed a skit which he called "very grand opera." the theme hinged on a leave-taking of one or more characters from the other. the book consisted of one word; _farewell_. i had never realized how long-winded the farewells of opera are until i heard the parody. the humour of it quite spoiled the tender duos, trios and choruses of the genuine article. dear old mr. and mrs. ---- contributed a cake-walk. no one suspected the grumpy old gentleman to have so much ginger in him. a good old virginia reel and "tucker" limbered everybody into action. before we dispersed, old santa claus--impersonated by one of the walking gentlemen--again donned his beard and buckskin and accompanied by a noisy crew carried the great tree to the boarding-house where the child-actress of the company was staying. at the street end of the alley which led from the stage-entrance a big burly policeman stopped them; they _were_ noisy to be sure. but even the officer laughed when santy touched him on the arm and in a "tough" dialect asked him, "say bill, do youse believe in fairies?" if will had any experiences in boston only one came under my notice; rather, it was forced upon me. it was during the second week of the engagement that will began to bring me violets. now, he had not shown me this attention for several years. i was too much flattered at the time to notice that the flowers always came on matinée days, after the performance. will generally took a walk after a matinée. he said it refreshed him for the evening performance. he would come in, glowing from the exercise, simply radiating health and energy. i knew what time to expect him and i would sit listening for the elevator to stop on our floor. i knew will's step the minute he came down the hall. when he opened the door i instinctively sniffed the fresh air he brought in with him. i liked to feel his cold cheek against mine ... and to hear him puff and growl to amuse boy as he pulled off his heavy coat. he was irresistible. the violets came in a purple box with the imprint of the florist in gold letters. the first time he brought them he set the box on the table without handing them to me. one of my weaknesses is flowers. "what's this?" i asked, pouncing upon the box. "open it and see," he answered with one of his quizzical sidelong glances. "for me?" i asked a little dubiously. i lost no time in opening the box. if the shadow of a thought that an admirer of will's had sent him the flowers flitted across my mind it was lost in will's smile as he answered, "for my best girl." i buried my face in their cool depths. "violets! o, the beauties! i like the single variety best, don't you, will? they're so fresh and woodsy." then my conscience smote me. violets are expensive this time of year. "will--weren't they _horribly_ expensive?" just the same i was pleased to death--as i had heard matinée girls say--and i made up my mind to forego something i needed to offset will's flattering extravagance. i nursed and tended those violets until the next matinée day came round. when they faded i pressed them between blotting paper, intending when i got back home to put them away with other flowers will had given me.... it was on tuesday, the day after christmas. i had gone out with mrs. mollett to tea at a woman's club. the violets will had brought me after the christmas matinée were reinforced by some lilies of the valley. the huge bouquet looked particularly smart against my fur coat. mrs. mollett and i were late in getting back. i felt sure i should miss will, who was going out to dinner with some friends at a club. as i passed through the hall to the lift a bell-boy overtook me. he told me there was someone in the parlour waiting to see me. i asked for a card but none had been sent. wondering who could be calling on me--i had so few acquaintances in boston--and anticipating a pleasant surprise i followed the boy to the parlour on the second floor. it was a large room and i stopped in the portièred doorway half expectantly. the only occupant of the room was a tall person--whether woman or girl i could not discern. she stood with her back to the door, looking out the window. as she glanced over her shoulder with no sign of recognition i turned to go. the bell-boy, however, had waited behind me. "that's the lady who asked for you over there." he approached the girl, who turned timidly. "you wanted to see mrs. hartley, didn't you? this is she." it was probably the surprise of hearing correct english from the lips of a bell-boy which diverted my attention for a second. when i looked at the visitor i saw that she had flushed and was overcome with confusion. "there is--there appears to be some mistake," she stammered, addressing herself to the retreating boy and averting my gaze. "i asked to see mr. hartley--mr. william hartley," she called after the boy, though her voice was scarcely audible. she looked toward the door in a bewildered manner as if her only desire was to get away. there was something so distressing, so pathetic about her embarrassment; not a modicum of _savoir faire_ or bluff to help her out. i found myself saying in a kindly tone that only added oil to the flames: "i am mrs. hartley; mrs. william hartley. is there anything i can do?" for a full minute we stood and looked at each other. under the full light, which the boy had switched on as he went out, her face and figure were sharply limned. a tall woman has always the best of it in any controversy, though i am sure my _vis-à-vis_ did not realize her advantage. if her mind was as confused as her face indicated she was to be pitied. she was not merely a plain woman; she was the epitome of plainness. nature had not given her a single redeeming feature; there was not even a hint of sauciness to the upturned nose; not a speculative quirk to the corner of the mouth or a fetching droop to the eyelids which sometimes illuminates the plainest of faces. perhaps she realized the niggardliness of her gifts. there was an evident attempt at primping. her hat sat uneasily upon a head unaccustomed to the hair-dresser's art. the shoes, too, i felt, were painful: they were so new and the heels so high, and unstable--a radical departure from the common-sense last which was as much a component part of her as the feet themselves. i visualized her home, her life and her commonplace associates ... the eternal illusion of the stage ... will's magnetism, combined with the perfections and never-failing nobility of the stage hero.... i saw it all as clearly as i saw the strained, vari-expressioned face before me. all this in a brief fleeting moment. i smiled encouragingly. her eyes met mine, then wavered and drooped, and drooping rested upon the violets--and we both understood.... "won't you sit down?" i said, leading the way to a divan with the idea of easing the situation. "do have a pillow!--there, is that more comfortable? these sofas seem never to fit in to one's back.... i'm sorry mr. hartley is not in. usually he _is_ in at this hour, but to-night he is dining out. i know he will be sorry to have missed you, for i am sure he wants to thank you in person for the lovely flowers. yes, he told me all about it and we both appreciated your sweetness in sending them. i hope mr. hartley wrote and properly thanked you,"--i rattled on, hoping to give her time to recover herself. "he is, as a rule, quite punctilious in these matters, but with the holidays and the extra matinées--" i finished with an expressive shrug. there was a disheartening silence. "i think i must be going," she faltered at last, waiting for me to rise. "i'm afraid i've kept you too long.... you've been very kind.... i hope you haven't been shocked by ... by ... the unconventional way i...." her speech came in jerks. "not at all," i answered, jumping in and anticipating my cue. "not at all!" i reiterated, injecting more warmth in the confirmation than i intended. i walked with her to the elevator. "i'm sorry it is so late or i would ask you to stop for a cup of tea. but you will come again, won't you?--perhaps you'll telephone me one morning--not _too_ early----" i laughed a little as i pressed the button--"we're not early risers, and we'll arrange a time when mr. hartley can be with us. i want you to meet the boy--o, yes, we've got a baby, too! of course, _we_ think him the most wonderful baby in the world. aren't parents a conceited lot?" ... i pressed her limp hand and smiled good-byes as the lift bore her out of sight. then the smile went out of me. i felt angry with myself: i felt i had overdone it. what was the woman to me that i should exert myself to put her at ease with herself? she was but one of the silly creatures who "chase" the actor and pander to his vanity. i regretted the impulse which prompted me to ask her to tea. truly, i had made a fool of myself.... at least, i had prevented her from making a farther fool of herself--and of me.... i went to my room but did not turn on the light for fear of attracting experience, whose room was across the court. she was probably waiting for me. i wanted to be alone. i removed the violets from my coat. my first impulse was to throw them out the window; then i thought better of it--and of her. they represented a woman's illusions--no, two women's illusions.... will had deliberately fooled me; even miss merdell, the tall good-looker, knew he was fooling me. that was what she meant when she chaffed him about the violets at the christmas party. perhaps it was not of great consequence, but, does a woman ever forgive a man for wounding her self-respect?... i did not look at will when i told him of the visitor. he extricated himself gracefully. he said he thought my perspicacity would have made me tumble to the truth and when i didn't he concluded it was a shame to put me wise. and, after all, what did it matter? he had brought the flowers home to me when it was an easy matter to have turned them over to the extra girls.... miss gorr--that was her name--came to tea; in fact, she came several times. will declared she was in a fair way of becoming a bore. "for heaven's sake, don't turn her loose on me," he expostulated. "i'm willing to give her photographs and advice but i don't want to be seen about with a freak like that!" i caught myself wondering--and i was ashamed of the thought--whether will would have been bored were miss gorr not so hopelessly plain. alice was _smart_ and there had been others and would probably be more to come. i reached the point where i could shrug my shoulders indifferently. it was all a part of the game and i was learning to play it.... chapter ix following boston, the company played philadelphia, baltimore and pittsburgh. each city has its distinguishing characteristics, but certain types are to be found all over the country. there is always the "fly" married woman hanging about hotel lobbies, lying in wait for the actor or any dapper visitor who, like herself, is seeking diversion. she drops in for a cock-tail or a high-ball and looks things over. she has a sign manual of her own. the headwaiters know her and wink significantly when she comes in with her friends. these women are not prostitutes in the general acceptance of the word. they are products of our leisure class. their husbands are business or professional men in good standing. with comfortable, even luxurious homes, or a stagnant life in a modern hotel, time hangs heavily upon their hands. they have no intellectual pursuits other than bridge and the "best seller." they pander to their worst desires and wallow in their alcoholic-fed passions. these are the _stall-feds_; the drones; the wasters; the menace to the womanhood of america. these are they who are grist to the divorce mills; who clog the yellow press with prurient tales of passion; who stigmatize innocent children and handicap them even before birth; who breed and interbreed with such unconcern that it is indeed a wise child that knows its own father. and in the end, when the nemesis of faded charms overtakes them, the army of harlots is swelled. the "neglected wife" has become a hoary old joke. it is worked to death. my husband is responsible for the statement that in nine cases out of ten women use this excuse to condone their own infidelity. "my husband doesn't understand me; he knows nothing but business, business, business. he doesn't realize there is another side to my nature which is utterly starved." or, "my husband is interested elsewhere. what am i to do? for the sake of the children i don't want a divorce, and i am too proud to let him see how i feel it. i am only human." that there are neglected wives a-plenty is a truism. but it is a spurious brand of pride which sends a woman roaming, seeking the consolation of the toms, dicks and harrys of the world. as for the children, there are greater evils than divorce. the influence of a house divided against itself, the surcharged atmosphere of deceit and degrading quarrels cannot fail to impregnate a child's mind, and probably at a time when character is being formed. it is a lucky thing for the honour of the family that the actor is not less scrupulous. "they who kiss and run away may live to kiss another day" is probably indicative of the worst of his peccadillos. he takes the goods the gods provide and credits so much popularity unto his irresistible self. if occasionally he is "caught with the goods" it makes good copy for the yellows. incidentally it advertises the actor. the woman pays the piper. "what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander" is likely to remain a nebulous supposition. * * * * * there is only one chicago. other cities--pittsburgh and cincinnati notably--may be commonplace or vulgar, but chicago is the epitome of commonplace vulgarity. it struck me forcibly as i looked over the first-night audience. the men are commonplace; the women vulgar. the women impress one as ex-waitresses from cheap eating houses or sales-"ladies" who have married well. few of the male population appear to own a dress-suit. the women wear ready-made suits with picture hats and a plentiful sprinkling of gaudy jewelry. some of them "make-up" atrociously. their manners are as breezy as the wind from the lake and they "make you one of them" the first time you meet. if there is a cultured set in chicago the actor never meets them; it probably resides in chicago through force of circumstances, not through choice. the middle class is super-commonplace. the smart set isn't smart; only fast and loose. chicago is a good "show-town." it might be better if managers kept their word to send out the original companies. the western metropolis resents a slight to its dignity. will's management, therefore, played a trump card when it sent the new york production and players. the house was sold out for weeks in advance. it was evidenced on the opening night that will had left a good impression in chicago from former visits. he received a hand on his entrance. when a supporting actor is thus remembered it proves his popularity. after the performance we went to the college inn with some friends of will's. everybody who is _anybody_ goes to that ill-ventilated hole below stairs; one gets a sort of _revue_ of the town's follies. chicago is hopelessly provincial. there is a profound intimacy with other people's affairs. such purveyors of privacy as the clubfellow and town topics must find it no easy matter to get copy which is not already common property, with the edge taken off. our host and hostess of the evening kept up a running fire of gossip concerning the people about us. at a table near-by sat a gross looking woman with a combative eye. her escort was a pliable, colourless youth, who, i assumed, was her son. this person was on bowing terms with many of the _habitués_ of the inn. a number of actors lingered at her table and laughed effectively at her sallies. when will told me she was a certain female critic on a chicago newspaper i understood the homage paid her. i did not understand, however, her reason for marrying the youth i assumed was her son. our hostess said something about the "grateful age" which i didn't understand. the lady critic wrote with a venomous pen when mood or grudge impelled her. many an actor writhed under her lashes. it was rumoured, however, that her bark was a great deal worse than her bite and that if one approached her "in the right way" "she would eat out of your hand." ever since a person revelling under a euphonious _nom de plume_, which recalls to mind the romantic days of robin hood, perverted the function of dramatic criticism, imitators have sprung up all over the country. "imitation is the truest flattery." to be caustically funny at the expense of truth, to deal in impudent personalia, to lose one's dignity in belittling that of others is the construction of the gentle art of criticism which american reviewers reserve unto themselves. will's friends were a convivial lot. before the evening was over our party had been considerably augmented. each newcomer added another round of drinks. "have one with me" is a strictly american characteristic. when we broke up i had a handful of cards and a confused list of tea, dinner and supper engagements. fortunately i was not the only one to get mixed. several of the whilom hostesses simplified matters by forgetting the invitations they had extended. while we were waiting for the automobile one of the women chaffed will in the following manner: "why, you sly, handsome pup! you never told me you were married when you were here before." "i supposed you knew," was will's response. "o, you did! um! i never say anything about being married, either, when i go away for a lark.... never mind, i'll forgive you if you'll call me up. where are you stopping? how long is your wife going to be in town?" the rest was drowned in the approach of the car. we did not go to mamma heward's this time. heretofore when will played chicago we had lived at a theatrical boarding-house kept by a dear little old scotch lady. her's was one of the few good ones throughout the country. unfortunately one had to take a long trolley ride to reach her house and will's performances ended late. then, too, he had heard that the table had gone off and that the service was inadequate. i imagine, however, that will felt he had outgrown the boarding-house days. he decided upon a family hotel on the north side. during the week i called on mamma heward and took boy with me. it was the first time she had seen him and she raved over him sufficiently to satisfy even a young mother's vanity. she enquired after will and had kept in touch with his progress. she had always been fond of him and had dubbed him bobby burns, whom he somewhat resembled. i saw she felt hurt by our apparent desertion and tried to assure her that we should be much happier and more comfortable with her; that if it were not for the distance from the theatre---- the dear little old lady patted my hand as if to spare me further dissemblance. "that's the excuse they all give, but it's no farther than ever it was and the theatres are as near as ever they were," she said sadly, the scotch burr falling musically upon the ear. "it isn't that.... they're forgetting me now they're getting up in the world. it didn't use to be too far when they couldn't pay more than eight or ten dollars a week for their board ... and the little suppers mamma had waiting for them after the theatre...." she sighed but there was no trace of bitterness. "it's what you must expect when you get old and worn out.... it's the way of the world and god was always harder on women than he is on men." there was no answer i could make; i could not have spoken had there been anything to say. i felt choked and on the verge of tears. it was all so pitiful. there was an air of desolation about the place. the warmth which prosperity radiates was no longer evident. where formerly there had been leading players, even a star or two, now there were only the lower ranks, and but few of them. nothing remained of the good old days save the rows and rows of photographs which lined the walls, all of them autographed and inscribed "with love, to mamma heward." arm in arm we reviewed this galaxy of players. "there is ----," she said, stopping in front of a well-known actor. "and that's his first wife. she was a dear, good girl. i'm afraid herbert didn't treat her as well as he should. many's the time she has cried out her heart in mamma's arms.... she's married again--no, not an actor--and she's got two boys, the littlest one the size of yours.... now could you ever guess who that is? yes, that's ---- when he was leading man with modjeska. the women were crazy about him.... and he was a dear--such a kind-hearted man. i remember once how he kept the furnace going when our man got drunk and disappeared for three days. if only i had a picture of him shovelling in coal--his sleeves rolled up and spouting macbeth at the top of his lungs.... dear old morry! he was his own worst enemy...." she sighed heavily over the actor's bad end. "and there! do you recognize that? and isn't the boy the livin' image of his father?" i looked more closely at the photograph. boy's resemblance to his father was even more clearly marked in some of will's earlier pictures. "do you remember the first time you came to me? you hadn't been married long. you had a dog, a bull terrier pup. let me think, now, what was his name? yes, billy, that's it! and do you mind how ye locked him up in your bathroom when you went to the theatre and how he ate the matting off the floor while ye was gone?" we both laughed at the recollection, though i had not laughed at the time. i was in fear lest billy be relegated to the cellar where he would cry out his puppy heart. but mamma heward was never in a bad humour. she was all kindness and consideration ... and now she was getting old and could no longer please an exacting clientèle. the cost of living had gone up; rents were higher; but the little old lady could get no more for her rooms. to make both ends meet she dispensed first with one servant, then with another, until she and one frail daughter shared the entire work of the house. it was no easy matter to cook and serve a dozen breakfasts in the rooms at any and all hours; to cater and prepare meals and then to wait up until midnight that the players might have a hot supper after the performance. how many of those whom she had tided over the hard times, how many who had "stood her up" for a board bill, or whom she had nursed in times of illness, remembered her now in her time of need? "i'm not finding fault," she said softly, breaking a long silence while we looked beyond the pictures. "i don't blame them for not coming here to live ... only--i wish they'd drop in to see me sometimes when they come to town, just for auld lang syne...." when i told will of my visit he looked very serious. i am sure he felt sorry we had not gone back to her. the next day we went together to see her. will took her a bottle of port wine. later he sent her two seats for the performance and i promised her that the next time we came to chicago we should stay with her, even if will were a star.... chapter x will's friends certainly provided one continual round of pleasure, if dissipation may be classed under that head. i was brought to wonder how they found time for "the petty round of irritating concerns and duties" of life. they appeared always to be dining or lunching out. one met them in the various restaurants at all hours, drinking round upon round of cocktails, and polishing them off with cognac. the pompeian room at the annex between five and six in the afternoon is chicago typified. the artistic gentleman who conceived the decorative scheme of the pompeian room had a sly sense of the eternal fitness of things. he also knew his chicago. the great bacchic amphoræ--copies of those classic receptacles utilized as relief stations by old romans who had wined too well--are concrete reminders of his sense of humour. i have seen more women in chicago under the influence of liquor than in any other city in the world. this probably accounts for their low standard of morality as well as for the emotional debauches in which they indulge. there was one couple typical of the class of high-flyers in which chicago abounds. the husband was a throat specialist with a splendid practice. he was popular among stage-folk. will had met the doctor and his wife during a former engagement. the wife expressed herself as "strong for" will. scarcely a day passed without a telephone message or a call from mrs. pease. she would drop in at the most inopportune times. "don't mind me," she would say, settling herself comfortably. "i've seen gentlemen in dressing-gowns before. that red is very becoming to your peculiar style of beauty, sir. nothing if not artistic." mrs. pease was a tall woman, built on the slab style. she affected mannish tailormades and heavy boots. when she sat down she invariably crossed her legs. the extremities she exhibited were not prepossessing. she was also expert in innuendo and _double entente_. she flirted outrageously with will and made me feel like the person in the song, "always in the way." in fact i came to the conclusion that wherever we went i was accepted as a necessary evil--among the women. there was always a "pairing off" after dinner or supper; surreptitious _rendezvous_ in the obscure cosey corners; _sotto voce_ conversations, not intended for my ears. i found myself getting the habit of talking stupid nonsense with persons in whom i was not interested, simply to cover the follies of the others. the men flattered me. flattery is a habit with men; they think most women expect it--and they do. after a little practice a woman can tell to a certainty just what a man is going to say under certain conditions. how can any one be flattered by the saccharine platitudes which are ground out automatically like chewing-gum from a slot-machine? so few women have a sense of humour. they have less self-respect. chicago lake-wind claimed me for a victim. i came down with a bad throat. will insisted upon my consulting his physician friend. he was a handsome chap--this popular doctor pease--as blonde as will was dark, but already marked with the ravages of dissipation. he had a genial raillery which made it almost impossible to take him seriously. i did not know whether it was a part of the treatment to unbare my throat and shoulders and sound my lungs and to let his hand linger on the uncovered flesh, but i didn't like it. neither did i believe my age, my weight and my bust measure had any connection with my throat trouble. of course i didn't tell will anything about it, but the next time i needed treatment i asked him to accompany me. will liked the doctor, so i kept my own counsel. one noon-day mrs. pease telephoned that they were going off on a motor trip for a tour of the country clubs, at one of which they had planned to dine. they wanted me to join them and after the matinée they would send a car to pick up will, and return him in time for the evening performance. i told will i did not want to go, giving the excuse that my throat was still sore. mrs. pease answered that the doctor said the air would do me good and that he would be responsible for me. i endeavoured to compromise by promising to meet them at the theatre after the matinée when they picked up will, but the doctor himself came to the 'phone and will decided for me. when the telephone announced the arrival of the party i went down to the reception room, where i found the doctor awaiting me. he bundled me into my great fur coat and insisted upon my wearing a fur cap his wife had sent me. he cautioned me to wrap up well, as the car was an open one. when we went out, as i supposed, to join the others, i was surprised to find that the doctor was alone. "the rest of them have gone on ahead," he answered my enquiring look. "i was detained at the office and told them not to wait on us. we'll overtake them if the car is in good shape." i felt strangely uncomfortable as i took my seat beside him in the racing machine. he secured the robes about me with his easy familiarity and tucked me in with a good deal of care. as he seated himself at the wheel and drew on his gloves he smiled at me and asked whether i was timid. he said he made it a rule to kiss a woman whenever she screamed. that was not a propitious beginning, i thought. the doctor drove skillfully, although recklessly. the boulevard system of chicago is an excellent one. we covered miles of smooth paving, from which the snow had been removed, before we reached the country roads. after he had "let her out a bit" and showed me what she could do, he slowed up and turned to me with a little laugh, "that's going some, isn't it?" it struck me at the time that "going some" was probably the motto on the city's escutcheon. everybody wants to be faster than everybody else. the air _was_ exhilarating. my face tingled from the contact with the wind. the doctor's glances made me uncomfortable. "you look like a rosy-cheeked boy," he said. "i'd like to bite you." i silently thanked the stars the car was an open one. farther on we stopped at a country club. the doctor said it was a long time between drinks. as we drove into the club-grounds i noticed another motor under the shed. i hoped it might belong to other members of the party. the doctor made straight for the shed. when i looked at the deep snow, and only a narrow path cleared to the club house, i apprehended some silliness on the part of my host. disregarding his suggestion to sit still while he put up his machine, i climbed down and picked my way over the slippery path. i had not gone far when the doctor overtook me and, seizing me from behind, lifted me in his arms. not even the presence of the men shovelling snow prevented. my first impulse was to free myself, and i believe i administered a kick or two. the more i remonstrated the more he laughed. the picture of making a ridiculous show of myself made me submit to being carried the rest of the way. after ushering me into the living-room the doctor had the good sense to leave me alone for a while. by the time he appeared i had sufficiently recovered my equilibrium to receive him frostily. my dignity was lost on him. he pulled up a great armchair in front of the roaring fire and bade me drink the hot scotch the waiter at that moment brought in. a subdued titter from an obscure corner of the room sent the doctor in search of other occupants. he discovered them behind a screen. "aha!" he greeted them in mock-seriousness. "discovered!" "stung"; responded a masculine voice. "so this is why you wouldn't join our party, eh? you sneaked off by yourselves. i didn't think anybody but me would have the nerve to try this place so soon after the snow-storm." "neither did we!" "for heaven's sake don't give us away, will you?" it was the woman who spoke.... "who've you got with you?" she added in a lower tone. "o, a little friend of mine," answered the doctor. "come over and meet her. i think you know her husband--hartley, the actor." i fear the couple whose _rendezvous_ we had discovered were not impressed with the popular actor's wife. my conversation was limited to monosyllables. the omission, i fancy, was not serious. they had their own topic of conversation. it revolved chiefly around the tenth commandment. in fact, one might conclude with perfect assurance that the seventh and the last of the commandments are the _raison d'être_ of all conversation among that set.... i lost count of the drinks. the doctor said that in the future he would provide maraschino cherries by the bottle for my especial delectation. when we left the club it was dark. the doctor's friends went at the same time. they had a chauffeur. the doctor's bloodshot eyes made me wish we, too, had one. the cold air, happily, set him right. he drove more carefully than earlier in the day. perhaps he recognized his own condition. once he slowed down and looked at his watch. "we're going to be late," he said. "i've half a mind to telephone that we've picked up a puncture and have gone back to town for repairs. what do you say?" he appeared to be turning the matter over in his mind, but i could see that he was not taking me into consideration. "no, we can't do that," i said without too much emphasis. "mr. hartley would be worried." he smiled at me as he replaced his watch. "yes, i guess you're right; it will have to wait until some other time." he patted the covers above my lap. "little girl," he murmured, rather too tenderly. i was glad i could not see his eyes. the car shot ahead. for the next half hour i had a bewildering sense of flying over the snow-clad earth, coming now and then in contact with it as the car struck a rut. the lights, striking against the stalactited branches of the trees and foliage, scintillated like the tiara of a comic-opera star--or the diamond horseshoe on society night at the metropolitan. we were the last ones to arrive at the country club where we were to dine. this time the doctor dropped me at the door. someone was drumming the piano as i came in. by the time i had taken off my wraps the doctor joined me. there was a general noisy greeting when we entered the great hall. nearly all of the women i had met before. "i thought the doctor had smashed you up," one of them said. "or punctured a tire and gone back to town," another added, giving the doctor a broad wink. "leila's gone back to town to get mr. hartley," volunteered someone else. (leila was mrs. pease.) i settled myself in a niche of the chimney-seat, hoping to thaw out eventually. i was chilled to the very depths of my being, and it was not altogether physical. there were lots and lots of cocktails before dinner. judging from the spirits of the company there had been a few before we arrived. when i heard that mrs. pease herself was driving the car in which she had gone to fetch will, i had visions of his being dumped into a snow-bank or of colliding with a trolley. it seemed an interminable time until they appeared. we had reached the entrée. there was a noisy greeting and a round of sallies. "explain yourself!" "we thought you'd eloped or got locked up for speeding!" "stopped on the road, i'll bet," said the doctor, who had risen and grasped will's hand. will waved to me across the table. "o, you actor!" came from the woman at my right but one. i recognized the person who had reproved will after the supper at the college inn on the opening night. when the champagne was served will raised his glass to me. "drink it--it won't hurt you; you look tired," he said, in a stage whisper. "stop flirting with your wife!" remonstrated mrs. pease. "doc--_doc_!" (the doctor was busy with a little blonde lady on the left.) he turned enquiringly to his wife's bleat. "you're neglecting your patient. handsome willy here says his wife is pale and wants to know what you've been doing to her!" the doctor leaned over me solicitously. "never mind--i'm the doctor." for the rest of the meal he devoted himself to me. during the dinner a party of five came in and sat at another table. two of them proved to be the couple we had met at the other country club. the man winked discreetly to the doctor. "ye gods!" exclaimed the woman at my left but one. "it's sid!--and i'm supposed to be home, sick in bed with a headache!" she looked at the man i had met and i assumed he was "sid." "damn such a town, anyway, where you can't go out without running into your own husband. doc, who's he got with him?" she leered across the room at "sid's" good-looking companions. "never mind, bell," soothed the doctor, "neither of you have got anything on the other." bell blew him a kiss. "dear old pain-killer!" she purred. a little later "sid" came over to the table and the doctor joined the other party. sid's wife started to introduce him to me. "i've met the lady," he interrupted, not giving me credit for any discretion. "o, you have," she said in an unpleasant tone. as he passed on behind her chair he said to her _sotto voce_, "headache, eh? i like the way you lie." "o, you go to hell!" was the gentle rejoinder. there was still a trace of the anger which illuminated her bleary eyes when she turned to me. "what do you think of him trying to put it over me?" she steered back to the subject which was on her mind. where had i met her husband and when? i told her i didn't recall--that he was probably mistaken. she knew i was lying. i am sure i don't know why i did it. someone started telling funny stories. they were not really funny; only smutty. the women were more daring than the men. will always declared that women were "whole hoggers" when once they started. i presume they labour under the impression that it is sporty or that it pleases the men "to go them one better." ever since eve was made for adam's pleasure the female sex has been as pliable as the original mixture of mud and a floating rib. women, generally, are what men want them to be.... as time went by i began to fret lest will be late for the evening performance. finally i caught his eye and he understood my message. he looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. "doc, what's the best time your machine can make? i've got precisely twenty minutes before the curtain goes up." "i'll get you there," answered the doctor as he left the table. "i'll drive him in," called the doctor's wife. "no, i guess not!" he answered over his shoulder. i devoutly, if mutely, thanked heaven. i am sure the doctor realized that his wife was "three sheets to the wind"--to use will's favourite expression. i made my adieus and rose to follow will. "where are you going?" called mrs. pease. "no, you don't--you don't shake us like this! willy, tell your wife to sit down and behave herself." in vain i expostulated that i must go back to the baby. "never mind the kiddie; he's asleep and don't even know he's got a mother." she followed us into the hall where the doctor and will were hurrying into their fur coats. "you can't go this trip, little lady," and the doctor pushed me out of the draughty doorway. "there's no room in the car and we're going to ride like hell." i appealed mutely to will, who drew me aside. "stick it out a little longer, girlie. they'll feel hurt if you don't. you can telephone to the hotel if you're anxious about the boy." he kissed me lightly. i felt on the verge of rebellion. "shall you be late?" i managed. "no--unless something breaks down on the way. i'm not on until after the rise, and if necessary i'll go on without my make-up." "come on, hartley!" the doctor was already at the wheel. we watched them spurt ahead. "i hope your husband's insured," gurgled one of the women.... i felt sick and wretched. i wanted to go home, even if it were only a hotel room. home was where boy was. i had a wild impulse of stealing out unnoticed and asking my way to the nearest trolley line. then i remembered i had not a cent in my purse. the return of the doctor relieved my mind as to will's safe arrival. i comforted myself with the thought that the party would soon break up. the diners across the room had joined us before the return of the doctor. there was another round of liqueurs and at last someone moved to break up. "sid's" wife, whose tongue was getting thick, suggested that we all go for a drive and end up by having supper at rector's. there was general acquiescence. "let's make a night of it," was the slogan. while the others were dividing themselves to suit the accommodation of the various automobiles, mrs. pease and i went to the dressing-room. "lord! don't i look a sight?" she exclaimed, scanning her reflection in the mirror. "that's the worst of booze; it makes me white around the gills." she daubed on a bit of rouge and patted it over with a powder puff. i took advantage of our tête-à-tête and asked her if she would be so good as to arrange to drop me at my hotel on the way back. "why, my dear, you're not going home yet; you're going right along with us." "i really must not.... mr. hartley wouldn't approve, i know. i have not been well and----" "rot! you leave that to the doctor. he'll stop and leave a note at the theatre.... doc! _doc!_ come here...." the doctor peeped in the doorway. "o, come in--we're only powdering our noses," mrs. pease called to him. "say, look here! mrs. h. thinks hubby might not approve of her going on with us----" "i didn't mean--" i began. "i tell her you'll fix it up with him," she interrupted. "it's fixed--long ago. i told your husband we'd come for him after the show. he'll want a bite to eat anyway, and why not be sociable? he told me to tell you to be a good little sport and wait for him." he laid an arm around my shoulders and mrs. pease, still busy in front of the mirror, laughed in mock seriousness. "o, don't mind me!" "did mr. hartley--did my husband say he expected me to wait?" "sure mike," broke in mrs. pease. "doc, you go pilot that bunch so they don't butt into my preserves. saidee is soused, and when saidee gets soused she gets nasty drunk." the doctor disappeared. "i can't stand for women who don't know their capacity," mrs. pease continued, working on her complexion. "you're a wise little gazabo to go slow on the fizz. i watched you to-night, and the way you manipulated the glasses was a scream.... do you know you made a great hit with the doctor? you're just his style--dark eyes, full bust and not 'higher than his heart.' ... o, i'm not jealous! the doc and i are on to each other." she winked at me and led the way to the hall. "on to each other." ... i mulled over the expression as i watched husbands and wives pairing off with and showing their preference for someone else. everybody seemed to be "on to each other." it was a game of _stalemates_. i drove back with the doctor. there was no way out of it without making a scene. "sid" and the doctor engaged in a brush along the road. the reckless speeding fitted in with my mood. there were moments when i almost wished that something would break and land me with some broken bones, if nothing more. i was smarting under will's obvious lack of consideration; he knew the atmosphere was not a congenial one, yet he sacrificed me to it without hesitation. i wanted with all my heart to have him popular and sought after; i was willing to play the game--up to a certain point. but when the game entailed a loss of self-respect, of confidence, or of equivocation with one's better instincts, there i drew the line. it ceased to be worth the candle. i could no longer shut my eyes to the encroachments upon our happiness the very exigencies of his profession demanded. my passionate and childish efforts at blind man's buff were not convincing. the time had come when my husband and i must have a complete understanding. i must make clear to him how i felt. after that, if he were still blind to the dangers which threatened our life--no, i would not dwell on such a contingency. i felt sure will would see things at their true valuation. for the first time that day i settled back to something approaching a state of composure. one always feels less perturbed after determining upon a course of action. i resolved to see the evening through with as much equanimity as possible. there was something grimly humorous about the situation: if will really wanted to make a sport of me i was "cutting my eye-teeth" with a vengeance. so engaged was i with my own thoughts i had not noticed that we had slowed up. coincidentally the car came to a stop. the doctor rose to his feet and looked behind him. "anything wrong?" i questioned. "no; i only wanted to make sure the coast was clear." he knelt with one knee on the seat and pulled the robe about me from behind. with his free hand he raised my face close to his, and held me there. "i'm going to have one kiss from those luscious lips--if it takes a leg," he said. the doctor was a strong man. will had often remarked that no one would suspect me of having so much strength. yet i was a mere child in the doctor's hands. he pinioned my arms beneath the weight of his body. he kept his lips on mine until the strength oozed out of my finger-tips from sheer suffocation. when he raised his head it was only to look at me and breathing hard again to fasten himself upon me with a fiercer tremor which shook his whole frame.... only once or twice in all our married life had will kissed me like that. i had believed it an expression of purest love. i realized now that it connoted other emotions less pure.... "baby! baby!... put your arms around my neck.... you haven't fainted, have you?" ... he lifted me to my feet. i could not repress a hysterical sob. "there--that's better! i didn't mean to be so rough, but i'm mad about you. you drive me crazy! kiss me of your own free will...." i succeeded in holding him back while i looked him in the eyes, struggling to express what my lips refused to say.... "o ... o...." i finally stammered. "is it right?... do you think it's right?..." wholly misconstruing my words, he strained me to him and kissed me more tenderly, endeavouring to soothe me. "right? little boy, who the devil cares whether it's right or not! it's nice, isn't it? don't you love it?" "my husband ... do you think it's right to him?..." something of the disgust i felt must have pierced him, for he released me with a change of expression. "o, come now--don't spring that old gag on your friend the doc.... what do you care as long as he doesn't get on to it?... you know as well as i do that a good-looking fellow in his profession has it thrown at him from all sides. you don't think he turns 'em _all_ down, do you? you've got too much sense for that.... come on, now ... let's understand each other.... you're as safe with me as a babe on its mother's breast.... i'll call you up on saturday and we'll go off some place together ... where we can talk it over.... god, baby! i'm crazy about you!..." * * * * * when will and i walked into our rooms at the hotel the little travelling clock on my bureau pointed the hour of three. i slipped out of the fur coat the doctor had loaned me and left it in a heap upon the floor. i don't know how long i stood contemplating space.... then i heard him cross the room and pick up the coat. i felt his eyes fastened upon me. i roused myself and went into the bedroom, where i began to take down my hair in front of the mirror. will followed me and i saw that he was watching me in the glass. after a moment he spoke to me. "girlie ..." his voice was kind.... "you'll have to learn to gauge your capacity.... you're not a tank like the rest of the crowd.... look at your face; it's as red as a red, red rose--and has been all evening." he patted me on the arm and went into the bathroom. i felt as if i were going to shriek.... _will thought i was drunk...._ i looked at myself in the glass.... my face was drawn and there were red burning spots in my cheeks.... my eyes peered but like two burnt holes in a blanket.... yes, it was plain to see that i was not myself.... i smothered a burst of hysterical laughter.... i started toward the bathroom where will was preparing for bed. i intended to tell him that in all, during the entire day, i had taken only one glass of champagne--and that at his request.... then i stopped. i did not dare to trust myself.... i knew he would laugh and pet me and say he had not meant to criticize and then he would take me in his arms ... and i would cry it all out upon his heart.... i would tell him the whole miserable experience ... and he ... what would _he_ do? if he called the doctor to account there would be a scandal.... it would be degrading.... i could never endure it.... _and if he did not call the doctor to account--if he merely cut him without demanding satisfaction_, i should _despise_ him--i should _hate_ him.... "o, yes you would--you _know_ you would, though you wouldn't acknowledge it even to yourself" ... it was miss burton's voice.... "take my advice--better not tell him at all." i switched off the light, so that will could not see my face.... * * * * * chapter xi i revelled in the heavy cold which kept me indoors. no amount of urging or cajoling on the part of my husband could induce me to see the doctor. were i to express a preference for some other physician, will's suspicions might be aroused. experience applied old-fashioned remedies and in a few days i was able to be about the room. mrs. pease telephoned daily and called several times in person. will saw her, but experience had been instructed that i could see no one. during my retirement i had turned things over in my mind, arguing _pro_ and _con_ the advisability of a thorough understanding with will. it appeared to me that the danger of such a proceeding lay in the tearing down of barriers which could never again be replaced--a rending aside of all illusion between us. heretofore i had refrained from any expression of animadversion of his profession or his conduct. if he suspected any dissatisfaction on my part he preferred to let it pass without comment. spasmodically he indulged in bursts of confidence--confidences of the kind not calculated to improve my opinion of his profession. at such times he appeared fully to appreciate the corroding atmosphere in which he lived. he even contemplated retiring from the stage. these phases were rare, however, generally attending a disappointment in a rôle, discontent with an engagement or unfavourable criticism of his work. the mood soon passed and he appeared to be content with the ephemeral joys of the moment. the longer i brooded over the subject the less sure i became of any good to be attained by a frank expression of my mind. were i to eliminate all circumlocution and say: "my husband, there is something fundamentally wrong with a profession which demands a compromise with one's best instincts," or "the class of people with which you come in daily contact make for your ultimate degradation," or, again, "i do not approve of your petty deceits, the complacency with which you accept moral obliquity, the low standard which permeates our entire life," this would call for amplification, an indulgence in personalities which could result only in a greater breach between us. i might even be accused of jealousy, inconsideration for his future, and a lack of faith in the man. it had often occurred to me that there was such a thing as too great intimacy, a too careless frankness between husband and wife! a lack of reserve which ended in a secret contempt for each other's weaknesses. to be tolerant of and to respect these weaknesses while striving to stimulate the best in each other's nature; in short, to be a complement, each to the other, this appeared to me the basic principle of marriage. and as i had done in the past i again fell back upon my inner self. i wanted, o, i so wanted to develop the best that was in him ... and there was much, nearly all of him was good. the danger lay in environment.... one day--it was a week later that will had planned to dine at the press club--i lay on the couch watching boy. he sat on a fur rug on the floor, playing with snyder. experience had gone down to an early dinner. there was a knock on the door. i called out, "come in." it was the doctor. "i took advantage of my professional capacity and came up unannounced," he said, easily, without directly looking at me. he removed his coat and tickled boy's face with the tail of the fur lining. boy drew up his nose and laughed at the sensation, and the doctor dropped the coat upon the floor for him to play with. then he squatted beside him while boy stroked the fur and called it "cat." for several minutes the doctor busied himself with the child, deploring the deformities of snyder and imitating a dog's bark. "great boy, that!" he concluded, rising to his feet and taking a long breath. "now, then, tell me all about it," he said, drawing up a chair in a purely professional manner and looking at me without a trace of self-consciousness. "you're pale; that's what you get for not sending for the doc. how's your pulse?" he reached for my hand and held it regardless of my frowning face.... "rotten ... you need a tonic. i'll write a prescription right off." there was silence while he wrote. then he rose, placed the slip of paper on the table, tossed the boy in the air and crossed back, looking down at me with his hands in his pockets. "well, little girl, what have you got to say for yourself?... i suppose you're still sore on me ... forget it and forgive. i apologize. i acted like a beast, i know.... it was the booze. it got the better of my judgment. just the same, _in vino veritas_, i was most terribly stuck on you--and still am--no, sit still! i'm cold sober.... i thought, of course, you were like the rest.... come, shake hands with me and say all is forgiven. i saw your husband to-day and he told me to come and see you.... i knew then that it was all right.... i felt sure you had too much common sense to tell hubby.... when are you coming out of the nunnery?..." he threw himself into the chair and smiled genially. i was holding fast to something he had said: "i thought of course you were like the rest." ... "doctor, will you answer me a question--truthfully, i mean?" "i will if i can," he flashed back at me. "you said a few minutes since that you had thought me like the rest. who did you mean by 'the rest'--women as a class--the class you go about with--or the women of the stage?" "well ... if you want the honest truth--i had actresses in mind when i spoke." "you believe actresses are any worse, even as bad, as the women i met at dinner last week?" "um ... ye-s ... i think actresses would go farther." "_go farther!_" "yes. none of these women--at least not many of them--you've met would really go the limit. they do a good deal of playing around the edge, but it's only once in a while they get into a scrape.... look here! i don't hold a brief for judging the relative virtues of women. i don't blame anybody for squeezing all the enjoyment they can out of life--for you don't know what's coming hereafter." the doctor showed signs of irritation.... a sound from boy suggested my next remark. "suppose one has children?" "that's a horse of another colour.... though when you come right down to it i don't see that a family cuts much ice. children are for the most part accidents. they just happen. their conception is the result of carelessness or laziness. their ultimate arrival is accepted a good deal like a deluge or a fire; you do everything you can to stop it--to the verge of self-destruction--then you throw up your hands and accept the inevitable. there isn't one love child in a million. i mean a child of love in the sense of premeditated and welcome conception. men and women marry for one of a half dozen reasons, most commonly because they believe they are in love. when the honeymoon wanes and you get right down to commonplace, every-day life in all its ugliness, we begin to feet that we've been buncoed. if we are truthful with ourselves we acknowledge a share of the bunco game. way back in our subconscious mind the sensation of our courtship, the pursuit and the first mad moments of possession have stuck fast.... we fairly throb at the thought of them. we begin to hanker for a repetition of these sensuous dope-dreams.... presently we are off hot for the chase ... and a little dash of the forbidden fruit acts as a stimulant. like all stimulants it becomes necessary to increase the dose after a while to insure efficacy. that's where we begin to slop over...." the doctor leaned back with the air of one who is satisfied with his diagnosis. "we are getting away from the subject," i remarked caustically. "not a bit of it ... we're running along converging lines. the stage is the mart for the prettiest and most magnetic of women. a pretty woman may be moral, but the chances are against it. every man looks upon her as so much legitimate loot. they differ only in their methods of getting away with it. sometimes they effect a legitimate sale: this is what our social system calls marriage. more often the rate of exchange is usurious on the part of the man. it varies from a bottle of wine and a few pretty clothes to a diamond necklace and equally brilliant promises.... now here's where our lines converge. the stage is a good place to show goods. our eternal chase bids us go in and look 'em over--and--if you are in a mood to trade--to say nothing of having the price--you'll find a bevy of ambitious beauties with a keen eye to business." "you infer, then, that the society lady sins for love only--and that the actress bestows her affection for purely mercenary motives?" "i don't make any such broad distinction as that--but i believe the actress has always an eye on the main chance and that she wouldn't let a little thing like love interfere with business.... the society woman, on the other hand, usually goes wrong because she's unhappily married and tries to make up for what's missing by stealing a little happiness on the side." "then i am to believe that the stories one reads about lovers who present other men's wives with bejewelled gold purses and other little feminine gew-gaws are wholly fictitious; pure emanations from the brain of newspaper reporters--or the french dramatist ... and from the divorce records?" the doctor threw back his head and roared like a lion.... "perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me under what head you classified me--being neither a love-lorn society lady nor an ambitious actress with an eye to the main chance...." the doctor sobered to the point of anger. "i have told you that i am sorry.... i have apologized.... after all, what are we rowing about? you've proved an alibi--you're not like the rest--so let's forget it." "i _can't_ forget it.... you are judging a whole class by a few individuals who share your perverted ideas ... individuals who would be immoral in a nunnery.... would any of the women of your set--name any one of them--would she--_could_ she be less moral on the stage? impossible! i don't believe you when you say none of them would 'go the limit!' women who drink as much as they do; women whose tongues are furred with vulgar stories; women who proclaim they are '_on_ to their husbands' and that their husbands are _on_ to them and still continue to live under the same roof, occupy the same beds; women who write other women's husbands love letters and arrange places of assignation ... do you mean you do not _know_ these women 'go the limit'?" ... my indignation and resentment had swept me like a storm and left me weak and bedraggled. the doctor made no response.... i felt that he was watching me. after a while i proceeded more quietly.... "the trouble with you, doctor, is that you form your opinions from the newspapers. the man who writes the head-lines believes it is his bounden duty to accentuate any and everything pertaining to the stage. the most obscure chorus girl is 'an actress.' every divorcée whose antics have emblazoned the hall of ill-fame expects to become an actress and the newspapers record her aspiration in large type. a police court magistrate in new york once told me that three-fourths of the women arrested on the streets for accosting men gave their occupations on the police blotter as 'actress.' do you think any yellow sheet ever let an opportunity like that go by?... if all the petty affairs of your clients or your friends and casual acquaintances, both scandalous and innocuous, were printed from week to week, do you think there would be an appreciable difference between the standard of morality of the doctors, the dentists, the butchers and bakers and that of the actor?... i don't think you take into consideration that the actor's life is public property. he is denied the right of privacy in all matters. nothing is too trivial, too delicately personal, to be shared with the public." "and who's to blame for that, my lady, but the player himself? publicity is his stock in trade. he's got to advertise, or drop out.... if ever i want a divorce, i'll dig up an actor as co-respondent: not because there may not be others, but because the actor would appreciate the advertisement." ... the doctor leaned toward me to better enjoy my discomfiture, then laughed tormentingly. i rose to my feet; he accepted his congé lingeringly. "well, at any rate i've done you good; your face has got back its colour." ... he stood contemplating me for a second. "you know ... you've got a good deal of think works under that dusky head--only don't think too much.... it's bad business for a woman of your temperament." he turned to pick up his coat. boy had fallen asleep upon it, nestling close to the warm fur. "what a shame to disturb him--don't do it. i can do without the coat until i get home." i lifted boy gently and carried him still asleep to the bedroom beyond. the doctor followed to the alcove and stood watching while i covered the child. then he picked up his coat and threw it over his arm. "i guess you're equal to holding handsome bill by the leading strings, all right.... hartley's a fine chap; one of the nicest actors i ever knew, and i'm downright fond of him." ... i could not repress a sneer in the safety of the twilight. it was not lost on the doctor. "i know what you are thinking about," he said quietly, "but you know as well as i that where there's a woman in the case there's about as much honour among men as there is among thieves." ... he stretched out his hand. "good-bye, little girl.... i'm glad to have had this talk with you; it's better than dodging each other and arousing suspicion. aren't you going to shake hands?... o, well if you look at it in that light ... just the same, i'm yours to command whenever you feel the need of me." ... exit doctor. chapter xii toward the end of the engagement in chicago it became expedient that i undergo a minor operation. will suggested i enter a private hospital near at hand, that he might be in daily communication with me. i preferred, however, to return to new york, and place myself under the care of our family physician. our apartment being still occupied, i decided on one of the smaller hotels, which abound on the cross streets between twenty-fourth and forty-fifth. will's company was booked for a week in cleveland following the chicago engagement. i received daily letters from will telling me how lonely he was without boy and me, and every other day he wired me some nice little greeting. the operation was simple and, as experience was permitted to bring boy to visit me during given hours of the afternoon, the time passed quickly. by the end of the week i was able to leave the hospital and i had apprised will of my intention. consequently i was not surprised to find a telegram awaiting me at the hotel. experience said it had probably been delivered while she was on the way to fetch me. i waited until i had made myself comfy in a big arm chair which experience had ready for me, and while she made a cup of tea over our alcohol lamp i settled back to enjoy will's message. it was a long one, i saw at a glance. experience turned enquiringly at my ejaculation. the telegram had been sent from cincinnati, where will was now playing, following cleveland. it read: "come at once if you are able to travel. not ill, but need your presence. have wired money to bank. best train big four limited leaving at six-thirty p.m. new york central. telegraph on departure. love, will." i read and reread the message. my perturbation grew. what did will mean by "need your presence"? he forestalled any alarm about his health by saying he was not ill, but had he told the truth? perhaps he had met with an accident, a terrible disfiguring--surely i was letting my nerves run away with me.... but why did he urge me to come to cincinnati when we had planned to meet the following week in st. louis, his home city, and where there was to be a kind of reunion of the family relatives? it was obvious that he expected me, as he had taken the care to look up trains and had telegraphed the money. there was something very much the matter.... i glanced at the clock. it lacked a few minutes of five, and the train left at half after six.... the bank was closed, but i could get a check cashed. whatever had happened it was my duty to be with will. i jumped to my feet, forgetful of my convalescence. the weakness had vanished. i felt strangely well. "experience ... never mind the tea.... we leave for cincinnati at once...." experience set down the kettle and looked at me with her hand on her hips.... i made no explanation, but began to don the clothes i had only a moment since removed. the necessity for immediate action finally seeped into experience's brain. "then i guess i'll have to fly at packin' up.... law-zee, if this ain't seein' the country!..." will met us at the station. the first glimpse of him through the iron grill relieved my suspense concerning his health. he was not ill, and appeared to be whole and undamaged. he was solicitous about my condition. i _did_ look a bit of a wreck. after the excitement of getting off had subsided and there was nothing to do but listen to the monotonous clickety-click of the speeding train, i had collapsed. the reaction was too great. it was not until we were in sight of our destination that i dragged myself to my feet and steeled myself to meet whatever emergency confronted me.... naturally i asked no questions during the drive to the hotel. the general aspect of cincinnati was typical of my state of mind: an unsunned sky and a smoke-filmed atmosphere.... it occurred to me how fallacious was milton's conception of "evil news." ... "for evil news rides post while good news baits." it has always appeared to me the other way about. good news flashes on to its destination gathering impetus as it goes, while harbinger of bad lags on behind, retarding the very hours by its sable weight.... the mental rack of suspense, of waiting, while the imagination conjures an endless chain of dire probabilities.... when, at last, experience and boy were settled in an adjoining room will closed the door and turned to me. it seemed an interminable time before he spoke. he seemed to be bracing himself for the effort. "first i want to thank you for coming without question.... i only hope you will not suffer a relapse...." i waved aside the preamble.... "well," i said.... * * * * * i think i was stunned. nothing seemed quite real about the room. even will's voice sounded remote. i had experienced the same sensation coming out of the ether after my operation. the doctor's assuring "it's all right, little lady; just open your eyes" reached me from across spanless space. then, as now, followed a great wave of nausea, whirling me into a relentless undertow, leaving me limp and racked with pain.... mechanically i re-read the clipping will had thrust into my hand by way of preparing me for what followed. it was an excerpt from "the club window" and ran as follows: "a certain clique of rough-riders allied with a north side country club are laying odds on a high-stepping filly of their set who for some time past has been riding for a fall. the inevitable cropper will involve a certain actor who for the past month has been delighting chicago audiences with his manly pulchritude as well as his histrionic ability. the lady in the case showed marked preference for the society of the actor during one of his former visits to the windy city. from time to time there has reached the ears of the seat-warmers in the club window gossip of certain little junkets to new york during the past winter. it may have been purely coincidental that the actor was playing a season's engagement in the metropolis but--be that as it may--the advent of the company to our parts was watched with considerable gusto. likewise it may have been purely chance that the husband of the third part was away on a hunting trip. 'the best laid plans of' and so forth; the unexpected happened when the actor's wife accompanied him on his visit to us. the affair was for the moment in abeyance. _but_--no sooner had the wife returned to new york than the fire broke out with renewed ardour probably fanned by the previous adverse winds of cruel fate. when the company left for another city the fair chicagoan was missing from her accustomed haunts. subsequent investigation affirmed the rumour that the lady was a guest at a leading hotel in cleveland. incidentally her suite of rooms was on the same floor as that of the actor. let us hope that some busy bee does not buzz about the head of the mighty hunter and bring him back gunning for the destroyer of his peace. verily, verily, the actor hath power to charm." "you must realize, girlie, that i wouldn't have worried you with this nasty business if i hadn't been afraid of letting us both in for something worse.... what do you think of the damned cat who cooked up a thing like that? it was pure spite work. you see it was like this: when i met this female reporter two years ago she was all for me. you remember the nice things she wrote about me when i played chicago the last time? well, she came on to new york last winter and i took her to lunch and showed her other little attentions just to keep on the good side of her. about the same time the other dame blew in, and i felt it was up to me to discharge some of my social debts to her. here's where the elderly spinster reporter got sore. she thought she had a corner on the market. it's hell to be such a fascinatin' devil!..." will winked at me, albeit a little dubiously, sensing a probable lack of appreciation on my part. "when i came back to chicago this trip," he continued, "i received a note from my quondam friend and later she came back to my dressing-room to see me. she made some pertinent remarks about the other woman, hinted at some persons being ingrates after all she had done to boom them when they were 'also rans' and, now that they had got there, threw down their old friends. i lost my temper a bit and we parted bad friends. the result was she transferred her booming to ----" (will named the character actor of his company) "and proceeded to lay it over me on every possible occasion.... these damned women are always worse when they get along in life...." "what did this 'club' woman expect of you?... what did she want?" will looked at me blankly, then batted his eyes.... "why ... why, i suppose the old hen wanted me to make love to her: she made a play for me and i threw her down hard." he took the clipping from my fingers and replaced it in his wallet. "did you know that the--_the_ lady was coming to cleveland?" i asked. "why--not exactly; she said something about it while we were still in chicago but i thought she was bluffing. as a matter of fact i thought she had more sense than to do a thing like that." "what led you to believe she had better sense?--anything in her past performances?" "no--but women are pretty foxy: they generally take care to cover their trails no matter how reckless they pretend to be. not many of them want to lose their homes in spite of their protestations about giving up everything for 'thou'...." "why did you not insist on her returning home at once? couldn't you have gone to another hotel?" "what good would that have done? she would have followed. when she turned up in cleveland i handed it to her straight, you may imagine. i didn't mince matters a little bit." "was she afraid to go back home?" "i don't know; she said she'd left for good and that she'd never live with her husband again. i told her she could do as she pleased about _that_, but i didn't propose to become involved. then she threatened to commit suicide--throw herself in the lake. i told her to go ahead and then she had hysterics all over the place. i had a fine tea-party, i can tell you.... somebody sent me a marked copy of the club window. i knew, then, it wouldn't be long before her husband would get wise to it and i didn't know what kind of a game he'd spring on me. i guess it's not the first time the lady has kicked over the matrimonial traces, according to reports. maybe he's looking for just such an opening." the room was thick with tobacco-smoke. will was burning up one cigar after another. "she made a fine spectacle of herself and of me by showing up at the railway station looking like a boiled owl. after our scene she capped the climax by getting a peach of a jag.... by george, i never will hear the last of it from the members of the company." he pulled down a window from the top and stopped at the desk, where he took a telegram from his portfolio--a christmas present i had made him. "yesterday morning i received this." i read the message: "call me long distance friday noon sharp. important. (signed) doc." "it was decent of the doc, wasn't it? well, i got him on long distance and the first thing he asked me was whether the lady were with me. 'well, not exactly _with_ me, but i can't shake her,' i shouted back. 'you've got to,' the doc went on, 'for your wife's sake you mustn't get landed with the goods.' the doc is one of these 'from-missouri' gentlemen and wouldn't believe i was innocent under oath. just the same he's a good fellow. he told me he knew all about my predicament and that he'd taken time by the forelock and got hold of madame's sister, who was standing beside him while he talked. she had her grip with her, ready to start for cincinnati at once. i told him to send her by the fastest express. the doc said that madame's husband had returned to town unexpectedly--just as i had anticipated--and after a stay of twenty-four hours had again disappeared. no one at his office or at his home knew where he had gone. the sister said he had called her up and inquired where his wife had gone and had rung off abruptly. then the doc quizzed the stenographer, who was an old chum of his, and she confided to him that the husband's secretary had bought a ticket to cleveland.... 'he's on the trail,' the doc warned, 'and there's only one thing for you to do ... send for your wife if she's able to travel.... make her get to cincinnati before he does. your wife is a level-headed little woman and if you put it to her straight she'll play up.... together you can cook up something to placate the irate husband....' can't you just hear the old doc roar? well, i thought his advice good and i wired you at once." ... "has the sister arrived?" ... i found it difficult to make myself heard. my voice was dry and grated harshly.... "yes, she's here; they're on the floor below." will poured a glass of water and handed it me. then he sat on the edge of the bed and waited. it was his turn to be silent. he seemed to have talked himself out.... "which of them is it?... do i know her?" "yes; we had dinner at her house one sunday night." "blonde?" "um--yes...." "art's triumph over nature, i suppose." ... i could not resist the thrust ... suddenly i sat bolt upright. "will ... _will_.... not--mrs f.--not the woman with the two little girls ... not the mother of those children...." he nodded and raised his shoulders with a gesture which was half deploring, half deprecating. "o!!!...." i covered my face with my hands ... the picture was _too_ revolting.... "children don't cut much ice," the doctor had said. i stopped up my ears to shut out his voice.... "how did it begin?" i said at last. "o ... the usual way ... supper--or dinner, i've forgotten which--a little flirtation, lots of booze, motor-rides, rendez-vous while you listen to the neglected wife song and dance, more dinners and suppers and motor-rides ... and the first thing you know the fool woman is in love with you, or thinks she is, which is worse.... i hope you don't blame _me_. i can't help it if women make fools of themselves over me." ... something in will's tone--a _sang froid_--almost a _braggadocio_--sent the blood to my face with a rush of anger. i leaned forward in my chair and looked him in the eyes. "will ... do you mean to tell me that you never encouraged this woman?" "how do you mean--encouraged?" "in god's name don't juggle with your words--don't equivocate! you know what i mean as well as i do!--to encourage in a hundred intangible ways; to show that you are flattered by a woman's attention; to let her believe that _you_ believe you are the only one upon whom she has bestowed her favours; to let her tell you that you are the first man for whom she has betrayed her husband, though she has been neglected and unhappy for years and years; to cram down your throat the intimate confidences of her married life and to tell you she has never sought consolation elsewhere; to let her do all these without giving her the lie when you know in your heart she was lying. that's what i mean!... o, believe me i am beginning to understand the intricacies of the game ... and if you have gone the limit ... i don't ask you to confess it ... fidelity does not hinge upon the sexual act, alone--though you men place that above every other virtue in a woman--but i do ask you for the sake of your manhood, for your own self-respect, don't, _don't_ play the part of a cad!" will winced as if i had struck him in the face. his face had grown quite pale and his lips were compressed. when he spoke his voice cut the air like a fine blade of steel. "so that's what you think, is it?... i've obviously made a mistake in sending for you ... but i did so more for your sake than for my own ... to prepare you and save you from a shock if there was a blow-out.... i never knew before what a poor opinion you had of me." "don't distort my words, will, if you please...." he paced back and forth, beating the back of one hand against the palm of the other. "i know you're sick and weak.... i'm trying to make every allowance for your state of nerves. up to date you've played up like a brick. i've often watched you and secretly admired the way you handled things, but--if you're going to spoil it all by developing into a jealous woman at this stage of the game...." i turned on him quickly. "i'm sure you can't say that i've ever annoyed you in that line." "no, i'll admit, you've been a level-headed woman ... but remember i've played square with you and i think you'll admit _that_. i've never had a serious affair with any woman--and the lord knows i have it thrown at me from all sides. the woods are full of potiphar's wives.... if you had some men to deal with ... how many of 'em can stand up against that sort of thing without losing their heads?... why, i've had people tell me we were a model couple ... and, here, the first time i get into anything like a serious predicament----" "then you admit other predicaments?" "why, of course, there's been ... o, hell--what's the use of trying to argue with a woman! you're like all the rest!--when it comes to a show-down they're not deuces high!" ... he crossed to the telephone and called a waiter. "i've got to order an early dinner; i'll have a fine dose of indigestion as it is--after all this infernal row.... of course, if it came to a show-down and he named me as co-respondent it wouldn't do _me_ any damage but it would upset the pater and the rest of the family all along the line. you know how they feel about the stage...." "what about me?" was on the tip of my tongue but i did not voice it or the thoughts which followed. how should i feel to see a home broken up and to know that my husband shared in the wrecking?--whether directly or indirectly--the results were the same. and the woman--and the two little girls ... what of them?... a knock at the door caused my very heart to contract. had the husband arrived to demand heaven only knew what?... the waiter entered with a menu. i had completely forgotten that will had summoned him. when the waiter had taken the order and gone, will crossed and laid his hand on my arm. "come now, girlie--we musn't let this fool thing come between you and me. it isn't worth it! you know i love you ... you're the only woman i've ever loved ... ever _will_ love...." o, wise husband! he knew i could no more resist his tenderness than a flower resists the warm sun.... he let me revel in my first fierce burst of tears and comforted me mutely; then, still holding me in his arms, he went on talking: "sometimes i hate this damned business and feel that i'd like to chuck it altogether ... but what's a man to do after he's given the best years of his life to one thing? it takes a long time to get established in any profession, nowadays ... and i'm getting older every day.... i'm sorry i was ugly ... _my_ nerves are a bit frazzled, too ... but i'll be all right, now that you and i understand each other ... come, now ... let's forget it.... come in the bath-room and bathe your eyes. i've ordered a nice little dinner and a bottle of fizz; it'll buck you up. then, before i go to the performance, we'll outline some plan of action...." "what do you want me to do?" i asked, as i came out of the bath-room a little later. chapter xiii when i entered the room i had no intention of engaging in a slanging match. i had telephoned my coming and her sister was awaiting me. i felt almost sorry for the girl standing beside the bed, her eyes meeting mine uncertainly, her lips forcing a greeting. "won't you sit down? fannie, here is mrs. hartley...." the woman in the bed turned and raised herself on her elbow. her face was swollen, the lips blue and loose, and her eyes had the look of watery gelatine. without meeting my eyes, she moaned theatrically and buried her face in the pillows. "what--_what_ must you think of me?" she whined. "i think you're a fool!" slipped out before i could prevent it. "all women are fools--we're all fools over some man," she exclaimed, pounding the pillows with her fist and working herself up to a zazaesque brand of hysteria. "mrs. f., i did not come here to listen to a dissertation on the sex-question nor to hold your hand while you have a fit of nerves. you've got to pull yourself together or i'll wash my hands of the whole affair. i've come all the way from new york to help you out of a nasty, a _dirty_ scrape. if you wish to hear what i have to say you'll stop that silliness and act like a full-grown woman with a modicum of discretion.... your husband is apt to walk in at any moment and it may be well for all concerned that we arrive at some plan of defence." her sister, who had retired to a corner of the room behind me when i sat down, now crossed to the bedside. "mrs. hartley is right, fannie--frank is liable to show up at any minute." fannie fished for her handkerchief under the pillows and sniffed tearfully while her sister arranged the pillows. "please pardon me, mrs. hartley; my nerves are all gone." "i have a few nerves, myself," i thought. i found myself grasping the arms of my chair as one sometimes does at the dentist's and my teeth fairly ached from the clinching of my jaws. when mrs. f. had folded and dropped her hands into her lap with the air of a long-suffering woman, i proceeded. "mr. hartley and i have decided that you are my guest: that it was at my invitation you went to cleveland with us and that i urged you to continue on the trip until your husband returned from his hunting trip. on your arrival here, you contracted a heavy cold which developed into the grippe; grippe will answer as well as anything else and is not sufficiently serious to call in a physician. are you familiar with the symptoms of the grippe?" mrs. f. nodded. "very well. when you began to grow worse you telegraphed your sister." "but," interjected the sister, "that won't do; that won't hold together because frank called me up on the telephone a few moments after he returned to chicago and i told him i didn't know where fannie was...." i stopped to think.... "then we'll have to make the telegram reach you immediately _after_ he telephoned and, as he disappeared so abruptly without telling even his office force where he was going, you have an explanation for not being able to reach him.... now, about the cleveland week: you didn't know that your sister had gone away because you yourself were out of town. i believe that really was the case, was it not?" "quite true," replied the sister. "i was spending a few days at wheaton." "then so far, it is clear, is it not?... mr. hartley will take care of the article which appeared in the club window ... and if your husband arrives, i'll try to take care of him.... now, ... let us think: are there any points we have overlooked?" there was a silence while each of us reviewed the situation. it was mrs. f. who spoke first. "suppose--suppose frank has set detectives on my track and they find out that you've not been to cleveland! o, i'm sure he'll do it! it's just like frank! you don't know what a brute he can be. o, it's all very well to say that i am to blame--that i am in the wrong, but if you had lived with frank for eight years as i have you'd understand some things--and not treat me as if i was a ----" "stop that!" i felt my eyes snap with the blaze she had kindled. she snivelled and sobbed a bit, then relaxed into sullen silence. "if your husband _has_ employed detectives we'll have to meet the contingency by standing together. in other words we'll perjure ourselves like--perfect ladies. mr. hartley says--and being a man he ought to know--that no man would have the courage to tell me i was not telling the truth, even if he thought so." "we'll never get away with it--we'll never get away with it," wailed mrs. f. it was the sister who spoke next. "and suppose frank does not show up--suppose he doesn't come at all but waits for the detectives' report and----" "and begins action for divorce without even saying a word about it!" it was madame who interjected this possibility. "wouldn't that be just like him! wouldn't that be frank just down to the ground? edith knows how cold-blooded he is, don't you, edith? o, it's too awful! i never could live through such a thing! i wouldn't live! i'd kill myself--i'd throw myself into the lake! i'd----" "don't you think you are wearing that threat a little threadbare?" i asked quietly, henceforth addressing myself to the sister. "in the event that your brother-in-law does not come or that we hear nothing from him, there is only one thing left: you must take your sister back to chicago ... and i'll go with you...." i believe my voice petered out before i completed the sentence. the idea was repugnant, but was it not all revolting in the extreme? i had given my promise to will to "see it through" and i intended to do so to the best of my ability. mrs. f.'s sister broke my train of thought. she stood before me with averted eyes struggling to keep back the tears, and twisting her hands nervously. "mrs. hartley ... i don't want to appear maudlin ... but i think ... you understand how i feel.... it seems almost inane to say ... how much we ... appreciate what you are doing.... for my sister's sake i thank you ... i...." "i'm not doing it for your sister's sake"--i tried to speak gently but everything in me seemed to have grown hard and unyielding--"nor for my husband's sake; neither for my own; i've got a boy--a son ... and there are two little girls...." a volley of sobs smote our ears and shook the bed. "my poor babies! the poor darlings!... i wish they had never been born!" ... "it's too bad you didn't think of them before, fannie," her sister answered caustically. it was the first expression of censure she had voiced. mrs. f. bounced to a sitting position: yes, _bounced_ is the only adequate description. grief had made a quick shift to anger. she glared at her sister. "so you've turned against me, too, have you? i might have expected it: that's the gratitude you feel for all i've done for you. where would you be if it were not for me?--you'd be pounding somebody's typewriter for five dollars a week! this is the thanks i get for sacrificing myself for the whole family! every one of them will blame me for the whole business. what right have you to judge? how does anybody know what i've suffered for years living with that man?... literally starving for affection, ... he never took the trouble to understand my temperament ... he neglected me, he----" "hah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-" ... it was my turn to indulge in hysteria, only mine was of the laughing variety: i laughed until the tears came--until i sank back from sheer exhaustion. from their expression madame and her sister thought i had gone suddenly mad. "what are you laughing at?" she snapped, glaring at me with suppressed rage. "my dear," i responded feebly, "my dear, don't you realize what an awful old chestnut that neglected wife story is? mr. hartley says they all use it ... it is the cardinal excuse, the subterfuge all married women resort to, to justify their own infidelities." "did--did mr. hartley intimate----?" "o, no! mr. hartley betrayed none of your confidences ... but, tell me honestly ..."--i leaned forward and clasped my knees to better accentuate my words--"do you really expect a man of the world to believe that--or care whether you are neglected or not? you know that men gossip and bandy women's names about their clubs--not in so many damning words, but with a knowing wink, a shrug of the shoulder, this head-shake, or, 'by pronouncing some doubtful phrase ... or such ambiguous giving out' ... my dear ... i have a rare collection of mash-notes which my actor-husband has from time to time tossed laughingly into my lap. their character varies like the colour of the paper on which they are written. there is the white, the pale blue, and several shades of lavender.... the actor's world is full of lavender ladies of the bovary type: the wonder of it is that so many of them 'get away with it' as you have so elegantly expressed it. suppose _you_ don't get away with it ... suppose your husband divorces you ... what will become of you? how will you live? you're not equipped to make your own living. you couldn't even typewrite--like your sister. suppose i were to divorce my husband, naming you as co-respondent: do you flatter yourself he would marry you? and let us assume that he did: how long do you think it would last? he is a poor man. his profession is a purely speculative one. his income is assured for only two weeks at a time, except in rare instances. he couldn't give you the jewels, the furs, the motors and the luxuries you now enjoy. how long do you believe your mad passion would endure, stripped of little appurtenances like wine suppers and suites of rooms in the best hotels?... perhaps you'd become an actress like so many women who look on the stage as an open sesame to a life of immorality.... like so many women with a screw loose in their moral machinery ... no, don't you say a word! this is my scene--and i am going to hold the centre of the stage for once in my career!... i know your kind, mi-lady.... you belong to that great class of over-fed and under-bred women who make life so hard for the rest of their sex. you're one of the wasters; you waste what does not rightfully belong to you; what you usurp in your greediness, in your pandering to your vanities, in your compromise with your better instincts, in your connivance with the very devil who finds some mischief still for idle hands to do! you stimulate your passions with alcohol and mistake the fumes for love! you haven't the courage to come out and be a genuine prostitute, but you ply the trade in the rôle of an adulteress. for god's sake, wake up! look yourself in the eyes before it is too late! if you have no self-respect, no respect for your sex, try at least to respect the rights of those little souls you've brought into the world without their asking. o, yes, cry!... crocodile tears and alcoholic drool!... it's a mistake to believe that all women have the maternal instinct ... so have female cats and dogs--and rabbits." ... i had risen as my fury sought to master me. i stood beside the bed looking down at her ... making an ineffectual last-ditch fight for my self-control. something about the woman ... the very quality of her night-dress--the heavily jewelled fingers--maddened me. the poison coursed through my veins like quick-silver ... once before in my life i had felt it ... before my boy was born ... _then_ i had succumbed to a desire to wreak physical vengeance ... the same madness seized me now ... i saw her shrink from me.... "o, you--_you_ ----!" ... i didn't say it; i caught myself in time. the blood stained my face with shame--shame with the very coarseness of the thought; shame with the whole revolting situation. was i, too, become impregnated with the corroding influence of my environment? i turned and walked toward the door. as i reached for the knob, it opened and some one entered abruptly. i jumped aside to avoid being struck. i knew who he was though i had never seen him before. the next moment i had reached for his hand and grasped it impulsively, at the same time laying a warning finger on my lips and indicating the bed. "o, mr. f., you don't know how glad i am to see you. we've been worried to death ... she's asleep now, after the most racking night ... do you mind not waking her for the present?... of course if you'd rather ..." i waited while he looked at the figure of his wife, lying helpless with her face to the wall, while his eyes roved to question those of the sister, then back to mine with the single word: "sick?... how long has she been sick?" "ever since we arrived here; it's the grippe, i think, though we couldn't induce her to see a doctor. she's been so upset at not hearing from you.... do you mind stepping into the hall where we can talk more freely without danger of disturbing her?... edith will call us if she awakens, won't you, edith?" ... * * * * * edith did not call. the hall was draughty; i managed a sneeze. mr. f. suggested that we go down to the grill and have a drink. in the elevator i saw him glance furtively at me.... i was humming softly to myself. i watched his eyes in the mirror; they had a confused look not unmixed with suspicion. not until after the second cocktail did he thaw a bit. he asked me whether i had dined. i told him i had not. after he had ordered, he leaned back in his chair and gave me a penetrating look. i met his eyes and smiled a little. "you look tired," i said. "i am--rather. these sleeper jumps take it out of a fellow." "they surely do ... and i presume you've been worried to death about fannie." the name slipped glibly from my lips. he shot me a quick glance which told me the familiar use of his wife's name had been effective. he shifted uneasily in his seat as he answered. "well, yes----" "we have been fairly living on the long distance telephone trying to reach you. what on earth was the trouble? edith received fannie's telegram a minute after you called her up and when she tried to reach you--well, she couldn't, that's all...." "there was something the matter with the connection ... it's been off for several days ..." he replied. "of course we could have telegraphed but we didn't want to alarm you," i went on, meeting his own brave lie with another. "as a matter of fact i think we all were more scared than hurt. fannie had had a cold while we were still in chicago--that's a trying climate in the winter. then when we reached cleveland, there wasn't much of an improvement in the matter of weather and i felt a bit guilty in having urged her to go with us." i toyed with, the celery and wiped off imaginary soot. "were you in cleveland?" i looked up at him in mild surprise. "why, of course. it was at my invitation that fannie accompanied us. she was bored to death in chicago ... it must be deadly monotonous--this same routine day after day ... the same faces and nothing new to talk about.... you know--you know if you were my husband i shouldn't let you run away on hunting trips and leave me behind.... i don't think you men realize how stupid it becomes with no change of menu--as it were...." i reproved him with a smile. for the first time his eyes sent back a glint of warmth. "how long have you known fannie? it's odd that i've never--had the pleasure of meeting you before." (the pleasure was an after-thought.) "o ... i've known fannie for ... let me see ... nearly three years...." (i made a mental note of this for "fannie's" benefit.) "we met when will played chicago two seasons since. we took quite a fancy to each other, and last winter when she came to new york we went about together and became quite good friends.... i presume you were away on one of your hunting trips last winter ... naughty sir ... that's the reason i didn't meet you.... this trip i brought boy to chicago.... you haven't seen my young son, have you? you must make his acquaintance to-morrow. we're most awfully vain about him ... think he's the only boy in the world. i suppose you feel that way about your little girls ... they _are_ beauties. they've got your eyes, though they have inherited fannie's regular features...." would my tongue never stop wagging? what manner of woman had i suddenly become? i did not recognize myself. was it a case of self-hypnosis and was i really feeling the interest and friendliness i pretended? he was not precisely an adonis; there was something rough, almost uncouth, about him in spite of the veneer his money had brought. but there was a kindliness, a wholesouledness that made itself felt. under any other conditions i should have liked him.... i saw him look at his watch. "what time is it?... the performance will soon be over and mr. hartley will wonder where i am.... wouldn't he be surprised to walk in here and see me dining with a strange man?... i hope you're not afraid of getting yourself talked about...." "no, i guess not," he laughed back. i was silent for a time, while i wrestled with the breast of a squab. i felt his eyes upon me. when i looked at him i saw that he was revolving something in his mind, and i sensed the subject. i gave him time to think it over. after a while i leaned back in my chair. "i'm sorry to confess it, but i'm beginning to feel a bit tired," i sighed. "even your genial presence will not keep my eyes open much longer.... edith i'm sure is feeling the strain, too. well, we'll all sleep better to-night--after our worry. 'all's well that ends well'--and that reminds me--my husband and i were admiring a set of shakespeare you have in your library." "um--yes; i remember it. i bought it for the binding. don't believe i ever saw the inside of it...." he freshened my glass of wine. "you're not much of a drinker, are you?" "haven't got brains enough to stand it," i answered flippantly. he laughed; it had a true ring to it. the game was in my hands. "i guess you mean you've got brains enough to _with_stand it." would the dinner never come to an end? i thought. my body seemed to grow old with the minutes. at last the waiter cleared the table. when he had gone for a liqueur, mr. f. took some letters from his pocket. from the packet he selected a piece of printed matter. he laid it face down upon the table while he replaced the letters. then he looked at me, drumming with his fingers over the spot where the clipping lay. the waiter returned. mr. f. drained the cognac glass and called for another. while it was being brought he folded his arms upon the table and leaned toward me. "i wonder whether i'd better show you something...." i assumed the same attitude; it was conducive to confidence. "show me what?" his drumming became louder. "no, i guess i won't!" ... "now, i call that unkind--to pique my curiosity and leave me suspended in mid-air." he folded the clipping and rattled it between his fingers. "is that what you were going to show me? wait a moment." ... i leaned toward him to better examine the paper, then relaxed against the back of the chair and smiled. "i think i know what it is.... will you lay me a wager? what will you wager that i can guess what that paper is the very first time?" he sprawled and tilted back his chair good-naturedly. "o, i'll bet you a box of candy or a bunch of violets." "a five-pound box of candy--i don't like violets. agreed?" he nodded. "it's a clipping from the club window...." "then you've seen it?" "of course i've seen it, silly man--hasn't everybody seen it? and wasn't my willy furiously angry? he wanted to take the first train back to chicago and clear out the whole establishment. it was all fannie and i could do to calm him.... he said he was going to see you about it because he thought you and he should get together and take some kind of action against the slanderous sheet. i tell him he's foolish to pay any attention to it; just let it die of inanition. don't you think so?" "well, i was a little upset myself when i read it. i didn't know what the devil to think...." "well, i know you've got too much sense to believe anything wrong about your wife.... i can appreciate how you and will feel about it and that you'd like to make them retract--but--isn't it best to ignore it?--so long as _we_ know it's a malicious lie.... it's a shocking thing the way the press in this country construes license for freedom.... the libel laws are wholly inadequate. they manage that sort of thing much better in england.... there are so many evil-minded people in the world--don't you find it so?" "well, i confess, there's always somebody hanging around anxious to disseminate gossip, though i've never observed any of them helping along the nice things you hear." "now that we are on the subject, i'll tell you how this happened; the woman who concocted that libellous attack is an ugly perverted creature--she must be perverted or she would not be earning her livelihood in such a questionable way, don't you think so? several years ago when she met my husband she volunteered to write some nice little personalia about him. he wasn't as well known then as now and every little bit helps, you know.... well, will kept up a desultory acquaintance with the woman and saw her from time to time. she was in new york when fannie was there last winter, by the way. i don't know just how it came about, but the spinster scribbler developed a jealous streak and upbraided will for being ungrateful for all she had done for him. i'm sure she could not have done a great deal for anyone in a wretched paper like the club window. to tell you the truth she was infatuated with will. to use his own words--she made a play for him and he threw her down hard! mr. hartley is not given to that sort of thing--and if he were--you may be sure i should have something to say about it." i nodded sententiously. "yes, i guess you'd make it pretty warm for any poacher on your preserves!" we both laughed. i believe i even jerked my head pertly to mark my cocksureness. and, as i turned away, my eyes settled upon will. he was standing in the doorway, evidently having just entered, since he still wore his overcoat and carried his hat in his hand. i half-rose. my host followed my move. "it's will--it's mr. hartley ... come in, will...." i beckoned to him and stole a glance at mr. f. no, there was no hesitation on his part. he rose and crossed to meet will with outstretched hand. my hand shook so that i could hardly raise the wine glass to my lips. i drained the last drop and sank into my chair. the game was won.... * * * * * it was nearly an hour later when i rose to leave the table. will had eaten the supper which mr. f. had insisted upon ordering and they were still calling for wine. i had steered the conversation clear of the perilous rocks and felt that i could now safely leave the two men together. they rose with me. "i'm sorry to leave such delightful company--i believe i said something like that an hour ago, did i not, mr. f.?... i want to drop in on edith and make my peace with her. i fear she'll feel neglected. if you require my services during the night please don't hesitate to ring me up, though i feel sure fannie will be ever so much better now that you've arrived. i presume you two gentlemen want to talk things over--that wretched slander, i mean--only--" and at this point i assumed a mock-serious attitude--"don't do anything until you hear from me, will you?... now, please don't move.... i'll find my way.... good-night, sir ... and don't forget that you owe me five pounds of the best candy in cincinnati." when i reached mrs. f.'s room, her sister had already opened the door. she had heard the elevator stop and was waiting. the girl's face was drawn and the circles under the eyes had deepened. mrs. f., too, showed the strain of waiting. "mr. f. and my husband are downstairs; they were exchanging funny stories when i left ... there will be no pistols--nor a divorce on this count ... now, if you have another spell of hysterics i think i shall kill you.... edith ... we had better begin calling each other 'dearie' and that sort of thing to accustom ourselves, for we've known each other three years ... please repeat it after me so that you won't forget it.... edith, should you mind pouring me a dose of fannie's valerian?... i think i took a wee drop too much ... my teeth are fairly chattering ... now let me think.... i'll begin at the moment we left the room together ... please don't interrupt unless there is something you do not grasp ... he may come at any moment...." * * * * * i went to the telephone directly i entered my room and called for the room clerk. i told him i wanted another room on the same floor. while i waited for the bell-boy to bring the key i wrote a note and pinned it on the mirror where it would attract will's attention. "i have gone to another room. don't disturb me, please. we'll talk it over to-morrow." when i had turned the key in the lock and had surveyed my own domain i felt strangely light in the head. i opened a window and mechanically arranged my toilet articles. then i disrobed, unpinned my hair and cleansed my face with cold cream. at least, i _assume_ that i did all these, for the next day, when i awoke to consciousness, everything was in place, my hair was braided in two pig-tails, and my face still showed traces of cold cream. from the moment i had locked myself in i had no recollection of what followed. the doctor called it "syncope." chapter xiv "st. louis, mo., march th. "darling girl: "i am taking for granted that you arrived safely. there has been no word from you since you returned home a week since. i hope you found the apartment in good shape and that things did not suffer too much wear and tear at the hands of our late tenants. "just as i predicted, the folks were much disappointed at not seeing you here. there was a regular family reunion. grandma murray came on from indianapolis and two of my paternal aunts all the way from kansas. as none of the relatives has ever seen boy you may imagine how disappointed they were. however, it couldn't be helped. naturally i did not tell them that you had been to cincinnati. i let them infer that you were not sufficiently recovered from the effects of your recent operation to permit your making the trip. i fully appreciate the state of your nerves and that a relapse was inevitable; just the same i think you should write me and keep me informed of your condition. take it quietly for a few weeks and you'll come out all right. don't let that cincinnati affair prey on your mind: a little later when your health is better, you won't take it so seriously. now don't jump at the conclusion that i don't appreciate the way you played up, or the narrow escape i have had. you may feel sure that sort of thing will never happen again. and that reminds me: i had a letter from mr. f. saying he had consulted his lawyer about taking action against the club window and had been advised to let the matter drop. (_requiescat in pace!_) he wished to be remembered to you. "the weather is depressing. i'm not feeling up to my standard. i suspect i have been eating too much and exercising too little. well, girlie, the train leaves in an hour and i have still some odds and ends to look after. i enclose our route to follow kansas city. now write me at once or i shall begin to worry about you. a bunch of kisses to boy from his dad, reserving all you want for yourself, of course. "with all my love, "your devoted husband, "will." this letter was a week old. i had made several attempts to answer it but all had ended in the waste-basket. following my home-coming, i had been glad to lie quietly in bed in obedience to the doctor's orders. a heavy inertia lay upon me. my nights were an amorphous jumble of improbable situations; i awoke of mornings with a nausea at heart. my mind was furred with unpleasant memories. it revolved in circles. the more i thought the faster it whirled, resulting in complete confusion. inner adjustment seemed impossible. i realized in a hazy way that i must arouse myself or fall a prey to melancholia. even boy's laughter as it was wafted to me from another room unleashed a thousand apprehensions. the effulgence his being had shed into my life was now dimmed by fears for his future. should i be able to steer his craft, even launch it safely, _preparedly_ on the turbulent sea of life? it was, probably, in the very nature of things that i should exclude my husband from any participation in my plans for the child. a fierce, almost a defiant, sense of proprietary right began to assert itself in relation to our son. the inertia gave way to a state of turbulence, which burned like a consuming fever. to will's numerous letters and enquiries i at last responded by telegraph, "all well," i said. one day there came a bulky envelope addressed in will's handwriting. it enclosed a letter from john gailbraith, the sculptor, who was still in paris. across the top will had written: "this will interest you." under separate cover came a package of photographs, reproductions of the colossal work he had recently completed for the spring exhibition at the salon. "i have great hopes for this," he wrote. "(hope is always promise-crammed, isn't it?) you will see that i have called it 'super-creation.' it was conceived like a lightning flash but the working out, the compelling cold, hard stone to express clearly what i intended to convey is the result of a dogged grind of nearly three years' incessant toil. have i succeeded, do you think? of course you have not seen the original, but the photographs are excellent work, having been taken at various angles and positions and under my supervision. you will observe that the work is--well, nothing short of monumental will express it. and, unless a government or an institution is moved to buy it, i shall probably have to build a house around it! however, i'm not discouraged though i've gone in debt for years to come and mortgaged almost my soul in order to get the wherewithal to complete the work. i suppose this is what you call 'the artistic temperament.' but i simply had to do it--i had to get it out of my system and in doing so i feel that i have lived up to the best that was in me. after all there is some consolation in the thought that one _has_ lived up to one's best instincts. how goes your own work? and your missus? ask her to write me and tell me without circumlocution what she thinks of my effort, especially the conception on the whole. i should like to have discussed it with her and to have had her opinion in the making. over here one gets only the one-sided opinion of one's confrères or the unimaginative view-point of a few moneyed americans who want names (_big type_) to fill up the bare wall-spaces.... i should like to ask your wife whether she is pursuing her work in earnest or whether like so many lady _dilettantes_ she is only amusing herself.... how i should like to see you both here this coming summer! is it not possible? i'll turn over my ménage to you if that is an inducement. let me hear from you soon and send me the latest picture of the son and heir. "yours fraternally, "j. g." i had thrilled at the mere suggestion of a trip abroad but relegated the thought to a background of remote probabilities and gave myself up to an eager contemplation of the photographic reproductions of the sculptor's work. following the numbers indicated on the back of each, i arranged the photographs consecutively across the wall. the form appeared to be a kind of spiral, each step or incline complete in itself yet suggesting a connecting thread. at first glance i was struck with the multiplicity of figures, all nearly life size. but as my eagerness gave way to soberer perspective, something i had overlooked now asserted itself: _in the score of characters represented there were but two faces--that of one man and one woman!_ that is to say, the two faces were reproduced ... yet ... or did one's fancy play at tricks?... i applied the magnifying glass.... yes, there were but two faces, both repeatedly used by the artist, but with what wondrous and illuminating difference! starting from the left and lowest plane--symbolic of the theme--there was embodied in the figures of the man and maid the lowest form of love.... the youthful prettiness of the girl, the soft roundness of her form, the maiden breast ... all these but accentuated the undeveloped soul. her very attitude, the abandon as she lay smiling, half-hid amongst the leaves and blooms ... here, indeed, was "a parley to provocation." ... above her towered the figure of a man. in his spare, sinewy form, conscient of its strength, vibrant with sex, the young male was epitomized.... "instinct" need not be carved across the base.... instinct, the first and lowest form of love. from the grassy knoll the path ascended to a rocky promontory, bleak, arid. straining 'gainst the fury of the storm, the man and woman climbed; his muscles tense, confusion limned upon his face; the woman, crouching in her fright, hiding her face in her wind-tossed hair; while underfoot they trampled on a mask, the leering mask of former self ... and, riding on the wind, half cloud, half god, a phantom with veiled face laid on the lash.... confusion.... chaos.... the path led on and up through thorny underbrush; a parched earth; the cactus plant; some blanched bones, a horned toad. he stood apart with sullen mien; his features thick and brutalized; his muscles lax and loose, as if impotent rage had yielded to dumb apathy. the woman, lying prone, distorted with revolt and fright, seeking to shut out from view the hideous deformity at her breast--half man, half beast; its clenched fists, contorted legs raised to rebel; the grotesque mask miming its own despair. and in the background, poised on abyss-edge, a hecate band whirled in orgy-dance.... where is the tutelary goddess now--the better self, the soul of things? and even as i asked i followed in the path which, still inclining, reached a broad plateau. in the foreground, the man--gaunt and grim--the grimness of despair; his muscles knotted, his horny hands, the poised axe. through the matted woods a skulking wolf.... beyond, the woman; haggard of face, drawn with fatigue; no longer full and round of form. dropping seeds on fresh-tilled earth; a living burden on her back; around her neck two chubby arms. and at the entrance to the cave, half blended with the rocks, the inscrutable one stood guard.... "the will to live" was written here.... the path winds on, steeper, more tortuous still; by cliffs, abyss, _impasse_, bald peaks, the mount is reached ... and here they rest.... like complements they stand, hand clasping hand, looking out and beyond; serene of brow, though scarred with age. an august peace, the harvest yield. a straight firm youth hangs on his mother's arm ... and in that life is blent the best of both--the purpose of the race. the mantle of the clouds half moulds a form; the hands reach forth to stroke their eyes.... it is _the awakening_.... chapter xv when experience came in some time later, bringing a cup of chicken broth, she found me at my writing desk. commenting on my flushed cheeks, she urged me back to bed. but a feverish energy had seized upon me: to work, to accomplish, to be independent of another's maintenance. there was a prescience that in the not far distant future i should have need of such resource, materially and spiritually. i shook off the foreboding as a connotation of my physical condition. to take my place in the world's work was the grandiose euphemism with which i lulled my uneasiness. that same night i unearthed my working kit from the closet in which it had been stored. one of the rooms of our apartment bearing the honorary title of "boudoir" had a southern exposure, and, as we were on the first floor nearest heaven, the light was good even on gloomy days, which abounded at this season of the year. i shall never forget the sense of exhilaration with which i cleared the decks for action. it was as if some great force had breathed the vital impetus into my nostrils. when i had donned my brown overall-apron i paused and inhaled, deep and long. it was the first free breath i had drawn for weeks. in reviewing the busts i had made of boy while he was still a baby i was struck with the child's likeness to his father. even experience commented on it. i set to modelling other heads. inspired by the example of our sculptor friend i essayed studies in expression. boy, in a laughing mood; boy, crying; sulking, in a temper; boy asleep, his head pillowed on snyder--snyder, now so altered and disfigured by painless surgery at the hands of experience as to be hardly recognizable. from the face and head i turned to a study of the hands. it had always appeared to me that there was more of the real character written in the human hand than in any other feature of the human form. i studied, absorbingly, the expression the artist had portrayed in the hands of the inscrutable one as they emerged from the cloud-like drapery in the final grouping on the mount. strength, firmness, a certain largeness and benignity and withal a caressing tenderness.... it pleased and surprised me to observe, how, with each new effort, the clay responded more readily to my touch. sometimes i made experiments with modelling wax; a pinch here, a pressure there and the whole expression changed. when my touch had mastered a certain sureness and deftness i planned a nude of boy with the idea of later executing it in marble. i worked unceasingly; a relentless energy urged me on--to what purpose it never suggested itself to enquire. in my ardour i hardly paused to eat. but, conception is one thing; execution another. i began to understand the "dogged grind" the sculptor had spoken of. a kind of despair flagged my spirit. at such times i dragged myself out of doors. sometimes boy would accompany me on these walks, but for the greater part i went alone. i liked the overcast, drizzly days best. there was a quiet, a solace, in the unfrequented paths and woodsy corners of the upper boundaries of the park. i spent hours sitting upon the rocks feeding the friendly squirrels, or tramping in the leaf-mouldy tangle. and by degrees my spirit yielded to the balm of solitude. once again life fell into a groove. i told myself i had reached a readjustment of my life. for boy's sake, if for no other, my husband and i should go on together. the fact that i still loved my husband i placed as a parenthetic consideration, in my plans. boy was the capstone of our married life. having brought him into the world without the desire or power of selection on his part, obviously our first duty was to the child. "honour thy father and thy mother" had always appeared to me in dire need of amendment. why honour parents who are not qualified to command either respect or affection? "be fruitful and multiply": whether saint or sinner, breed! breed! breed! paugh! when will a wise prophet arise to reveal a doctrine of eugenics?--to preach that _quality, not quantity_, makes for the betterment of a race--that to be well born is the rightful heritage of the unborn.... with the resolution to write my husband out of the fullness of my convictions i hurried homeward. the wind had shifted, and sharp bits of sleet cut against my face. hearing me come in, experience had brought me a cup of tea. i smiled at the ginger-bread dogs--all replicas of snyder--which she told me she had made with the hope of amusing boy. he had been querulous and quite unlike his happy self; she feared he was not well, though at this moment he was sleeping quietly. i tip-toed into his room and, discerning no unnatural symptoms, i left him undisturbed. the letter written, i gave myself up to the quiet hour: it was dusk, and with night a soothing hush seemed to pervade the activities of man. in the shadows of the room the whiteness of the plaster casts gleamed like tombstones, the lonely sentinels of the dead. i recall i shuddered at the thought and forthwith switched on the light. once in every little while i looked in upon my boy. when at last he opened his eyes and smiled at me, i hugged him to my breast with such vehemence as to make him cry out. his bedtime bath had always been the signal for a romp. to-night, however, he seemed disinclined to play. a hot dryness of his skin caused me to take his temperature. i found nothing disquieting in the slight rise, and in response to his mood i lay down beside him to wait for the sand-man. all night he tossed. in the morning the temperature had risen to an alarming degree. i sent for the doctor. he came twice during the day. in the night boy was seized with a convulsion. when the doctor arrived in answer to a summons by telephone, he looked grave. something clutched about my heart. it was with almost superhuman effort i framed the words.... "shall i ... send for his father?..." the doctor nodded. "how long will it take him to get here?" he said.... chapter xvi in a driving rain, under a weeping sky, we followed the little white casket to the grave--the three of us. there, in the presence of only the mole-faced grave-diggers and the man of professional black, we yielded him up. experience had asked, with a kind of awe, whether she should call in a minister. i could have shrieked at the mere suggestion! a minister? on what pretence? to mumble platitudinous euphemisms, worn thread-bare from usage--to essay to comfort me with specious consolation ground out like a gramophone: "be brave, my child! he has gone to a better world," or "the lord giveth and the lord taketh away," or, again, "you are not alone in your affliction; other mothers have suffered their dear ones to be removed," et cetera, et cetera. words! words! words!... as they lowered him in the grave, his father held me close and, in a voice tremulous with tears, he quoted reverently: "and from his fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring." ... and when the earth thud harshly 'gainst the coffin lid, closing him away forever ... never again to hold him in my arms--never again to feel his cheek on mine.... o, death! your sting lies buried in the hearts of those who stay behind ... and then to leave him there ... alone ... in the heavy silence of the dead ... so cold ... all unresisting, his roguish laughter hushed ... his lips, once red, now blue and drawn ... the wax-like lids shadowed with heavy fringe ... my boy ... my boy ... whose coming we had deplored, whose little life had so entwined itself about my heart as made a part of me--the better part.... well ... he had not tarried long.... boy ... _boy_.... in the overwhelming grief which had come to me, life appeared a void; a vacuous, heavy-footed thing, with moments of suspended thought, a merciful numbness of despair, a sound, a familiar sight, a rush of memory, a freshet of tears, each overlapped the other, so fast they followed. one of the unpardonable and most resented slights to those in affliction is the even tenor with which the world wags on its way, callous and indifferent. one would have it stop, take heed, upheave.... so, when will announced that it were expedient to rejoin his company almost immediately i felt a sacrilege was about to be committed. his rôle was being played by an understudy, who, after the manner of understudies, was neither prepared nor equal to the emergency which had suddenly confronted him. will urged me to accompany him, pointing out that to remain in the apartment alone with ever-present reminders of my loss were to nurse my grief and keep the wound always fresh "unnumbered cords, frail strands full fraught with pain, that join the soul to things of time and sense." the thought of leaving all that held the nearness of his spirit was repugnant to me. i wanted to be alone with my grief. gradually i came to realize that it was for the best. experience, too--simple, honest soul--was shaken by the suddenness and swiftness of our loss. i decided to send her to her home for a rest and change of scene. after all, what did it matter where i went?... boy was not there.... the season dragged by, drab and comfortless. will's devotion to me was the only ray of light in the murkiness of my spirit. our common grief had bridged the gulf between us. all the gentleness, the tenderness in his nature seemed to revive. he never left me to accept invitations in which he knew i could not share; something like the old camaraderie was restored between us. i found a kind of balm in the thought that, if the death of my son had been the means of bringing my husband and me closer together, the sacrifice had not been in vain--and yet--and yet ... in the inner consciousness of my heart i knew the truth: had i been called upon to choose, the sacrifice had not been boy. truly, life is a continuous compromise. the season ended, we returned to new york. because we could not afford to move--there being the usual deficit in the family budget--we opened the apartment. to dwell upon the resurging pain which the reminders in my home undammed were to make fetish of my grief. neither did i ask experience to return. she, too, belonged to the past of things. will had determined to leave his present management and seek new fields. the company for the next season was to be curtailed and the cast cheapened, an extended tour of one-night stands. the summer was passed in new york, and luckily, except for periodic waves of tropical heat, the weather was not unendurable. will spent a goodly part of his time at the lambs' club, where he said he kept in touch with the activities of the managerial world. the season promised to be backward. plans appeared to be slow of consummation. the tedium began to tell on will's nerves and his temper, especially when he found himself suspended from the lambs for non-payment of dues. none of his colleagues came to his rescue. that the theatrical profession is a fraternal organization is another of those popular fallacies. there can be no spirit of fraternity in an overcrowded profession. it became expedient that will appeal to his father for financial assistance, a resort which he postponed as long as possible, since the old gentleman invariably accompanied his grudging remittances with advice, censure and no little contumely. will could not understand why he was not "snapped up" at once, so he expressed it. he had made good in his last engagement, had kept himself well advertised (_vide_ the press-agent) and it would appear that, as a natural sequence, his services should be in demand. he commented on the statement made by several managers, viz.: they had nothing in his line. it was evident that in making a pronounced success in a certain _genre_ of plays he had become identified with the one type of hero and the managers could "see" him in no other. managers are, with rare exceptions, an unimaginative lot. in no other way can one explain the deluge of plays patterned on the same type: for example, let a manager by hit or miss produce successfully a play built around the far west, immediately there spring up a dozen of the ilk. or, again, let a play of farcical construction score a hit; the public is immediately surfeited with a run of farces. so with the actor. let him once become identified with heroes of romantic drama and the manager fears to entrust him with the dress-suit rôle, and vice versa. more and more i was impressed with the ephemeral quality of the actor's success. at best the actor's is an aleatory profession and, as in all games of chance, the losses score highest. it was well along in the autumn when will signed and immediately began rehearsals. the star was a petulant little lady who, by grace of her marriage with a manager, had been hoisted to her present position, a position to which she was not equal either by training, personality or talent. for several seasons the husband-manager had invested--and lost--large sums of money in the attempt to build up a following for his wife. the present venture was a kind of last straw. that there was more or less "feeling" between the couple was evinced by their frequent _passages d'armes_ of a personal nature, at rehearsals. accustomed as he was to the thoroughness of the stage-management under which he had worked during the past two seasons, will found the hit and miss methods of his new affiliation disconcerting and irritating. in addition to this, the husband-manager-director had a picturesque if not a literate command of the language. he was in the habit of standing in the centre aisle or at the back of the theatre and shouting his directions to the members on the stage. when, as sometimes happened, a member resented the manager's method of criticism in no uncertain terms, that personage would back down and with tearful, if blasphemous, appeal explain himself. on opening nights, in response to the persistent calls from the claque, the manager reluctantly (!) appeared before the curtain to bow his acknowledgment--in shirt sleeves--his air of exhaustion contrasting sharply with his jaws which worked a piece of chewing-gum like a ticket-chopper in rush hours. it would seem that the vanity of actors is not an exclusive attribute. the metropolitan reception of the play and star was not one of unmitigated joy. the husband-manager, not liking the opinions of the press, talked back both in print and from the stage. two ghastly weeks in new york, playing to a papered house or empty seats, and the company took to the coal regions. another fortnight was spent sparring for open time, reluctantly doled out to the weak, and the company gave up the ghost. obviously will had entered upon a cycle of bad luck. i took upon myself to look for an engagement. not only on account of the material consideration, but because the emptiness and loneliness of my life had become no longer endurable. self-imposed tasks palled. my mind refused to concentrate upon the line of study i had outlined. "and thus the native hue of resolution is sickled o'er with the pale cast of thought." the career i once planned for myself had been consigned to the dump heap of lost illusions. i could not touch the clay which once had thrilled me with ambition. will went about with me on my visits to various managers. he encouraged me in my intention and i was glad to interest him, to take him out of himself, as it were. his run of hard luck had preyed on his nerves and frayed his temper. there was reason for me to suspect he was drinking more than was good for him. finally there came an offer of a small part in a musical comedy which had settled down for a run in new york. the fact that i was possessed of no great amount of vocal equipment did not preclude me from the field. the manager intimated that what i lacked in voice i made up in pulchritude, though i recall he referred to it as "shape." the salary was to be thirty-five dollars a week. the gowns were furnished--those worn by my predecessor--though i was called upon to supply my own shoes, silk hose and gloves. in reality i was to be nothing more than a show-girl, with a few lines to speak. will was in front the night i made my début. after the performance we went to a restaurant, there to talk it over. congratulating me on my "getting away with it" and telling me how "peachy" i looked, he laughingly predicted a line of johnnies at the stage door, flowers, and the usual perquisites of the chorus girl.... "if you weren't wise to the game, i'd give you a few pointers," he said, ... "but" ... and here he reached across the table and patted me on the hands.... "i reckon you're equal to any situation, old pard.... just sit tight until i again land on my feet and then you can cut it out, if you like." i did not find myself subjected to any fierce onslaughts on the part of the johnnies or _viveurs_ about town. once or twice i received a note accompanied with flowers. the former i destroyed; the latter i promptly presented to the least pretty of my five dressing-room mates. she wore them on the stage and made eyes at the donor, who occupied an upper box, much to my amusement and to his confusion. i discouraged intimacies of all kinds, with one exception. but of this more hereafter. the stage director never attempted to chuck me under the chin or call me "baby," as he did other members of the cast. i had had my little run-in with him at rehearsal when he essayed to yell at me after the manner of his kind. i stopped short, the orchestra petered out in discord and, walking to the apron of the stage, i modulated my voice, so that it reached him quietly but effectively, where he stood in the back of the theatre. "mr. m----," i had said, "if you have any further suggestion to offer, you will please do so in a less offensive manner. my hearing is good and i believe i have the average amount of intelligence." there was an ominous silence and the martinet started down the aisle. behind me i heard a buzz of approbation from the girls who had suffered at his hands. just why the bully changed his mind i never knew. at any rate the rehearsal was continued. later the manager chaffed me about the incident. the manager was an undeveloped little person--as if some hereditary blight had nipped him in the bud--distinctly semitic in all his traits. will had known him from the time he had abandoned haberdashery for theatrical management; indeed, i believe he had been a member of the manager's first venture into the field. one feature which stands out most prominently in retrospect was my adaptability to my surroundings. conditions which once had shocked me no longer left an impression. obviously the finer edge of my nature had worn blunt. things appeared to me in a kind of impersonal light. my present path had been chosen from necessity; a part of the scheme of things, yet a thing apart. the commonplace round of concerns and duties went on, but life, real life, for the time being lay fallow. occasionally, when i caught myself dropping into the slang and jargon i had absorbed from my fellow workers, i mused a bit and pulled myself up with a sharp curb. but, as i have said, i was no longer disturbed or impressed with conditions which once had sent the blood to my cheeks. the easy familiarity between the sexes which i had thought sufficiently deplorable in the "legitimate" branch of the theatrical profession was in the comic opera world flagrantly increased. i have heard a distinction made between immorality and unmorality, but i fail to observe any slight deviation from the general result. vulgar stories, steeped in smut, went the rounds. each new one was welcomed and passed down the line. if one betrayed her disapproval by ignoring the _raconteur_, she was laughed down and thereafter referred to as "very up-stage." in the dressing-rooms modesty of person was an unknown quantity. not infrequently i found "extra" gentlemen performing lady's maid service for one of the girls. on one occasion when i slipped on the iron stairway leading to the stage, badly wrenching my ankle, a sturdy stage-hand picked me up, carried me to my dressing-room, and, before i realized what he was about, had pulled off my shoe and was in way of removing my stocking when i protested. "o, well, if you're that fussy--" he said as he went out.... one of the most pernicious influences to be contended against by the girl who tries to go straight is the never-ceasing topic of "men" and "money." the man behind the bankroll is the basis, in one form or another, of all the chorus-girl conversations. to be picked out by a man of means to marry, or, failing this, to be set up in a "swell" apartment and "put it all over" the girls of her acquaintance, is the hope which springs eternal in the chorus-girl breast. even in hard times, when the champagne appetite needs must be quenched with beer, she dreams of diamonds. standing in the wings, waiting for the cue, one hears an exchange of banter such as this: "heard you was at the abbaye last night.... where'd you pick him up?... say, don't you believe anything he tells you! henny knows all about him and he says that for a tight-wad he's got russell sage skinned to death!" or ... "i was at morrisheimer's to-day; they're havin' a sale of models. i gotta three-piece velvet suit for thirty-five dollars, marked down from seventy." ... "say! he must be good to you. why don't you introduce me to some of your gentlemen friends?" i once asked a chorus girl of considerable notoriety how she had come to enter the profession. "o," she replied, "my folks was the poor but respectable kind. there was a big family of us, and i, bein' the oldest, had to help out. i didn't get much schoolin' and, after tryin' half a dozen things like bein' a chamber maid, waitin' in a restaurant and that kind of business, i tumbled to the fact that i wusn't bad lookin'. that's all i had; my face and my shape, and the stage was the best place to show 'em." my dressing-room mates were typical show-girls; manièré, self-conscious and always on parade. it was painfully evident they felt themselves above the chorus, though some of them were pleased to forget the fact that they were but recently graduated from that class. one of these girls afterward married an english baronet. i have since wondered what disposition was made of the baronet's mother-in-law. i made her acquaintance in the dressing-room one evening, whither she had come to mend her daughter's wardrobe. she was a splendid specimen of the complaisant stage-mamma. clad in rusty black, her portly figure bulging from ill-fitting stays, one might mistake her for the type of scrub-woman one sees about the large office buildings of early mornings, but never, never would one suspect her of being the mother of this near-vere-de-vere. voluble to a point of madness, she would acquaint you with the family history, the cause and intimate details of her husband's untimely taking off and the great hopes she entertained for her daughter's "getting on." sometimes she brought with her the youngest of her offspring, a little girl of six who had already made her début as a child-actress. like all children of the stage, she was precocious and most unchild-like. in the enactment of laws which are aimed to protect the child-labourer, an attempt is being made to bring about an exemption of their application to the stage-child. that the child-actor receives better pay, that he or she works less hours and under more sanitary surroundings than do children in other trades and professions, cannot be gainsaid. but is the economic welfare of the child the prime and only consideration? is the physical protection the one and uppermost consummation to be desired? what of the spiritual, the moral side of the stage-child? if environment bear the strong influence on human life we are led to believe, then should the stage-child be removed from its infectious surroundings. the old saw to the effect of pitch and defilement is here most applicable. i have referred elsewhere to the exception i made in my discouragement of intimacies. on that morning at rehearsal when i had resented the stage-director's mode of criticism, among others who had approved my act was a girl whose face had at once attracted me. she was pretty and of less common type than the chorus averages. there was something individual about her. her appearance was neat and i had observed that her clothes were neither so new nor so extreme as were those of her colleagues. also i was impressed with a quiet refinement of manner and her usage of good english. as we became better acquainted she sometimes waited for me after the performance and we walked together to the underground station, where our lines diverged. later i had asked her to dine with me on a sunday when will was away on a week-end motor trip. she appeared to enjoy the home atmosphere and visited with me in the kitchen while i was preparing dinner. feeling that with our reduced income we could not afford it, i had dispensed with a servant. and as will rarely, if ever, dined at home, my housekeeping duties were not onerous. "this is what i have always longed for--a little home all my own," leila had remarked, smiling wistfully.... it was after dinner and we had settled ourselves for a chat. "then, in the name of common sense, dear girl, why did you go on the stage? home life and a stage career are as antipodal as the poles." "and yet you manage to blend the two rather charmingly," she retorted. "absurd! i'm not trying for a career, and as for home life ... my dear child, it's the merest pretense. half the time we are not at home and the flat has either to be let or remain closed. one never knows from day to day when the furniture will be packed off to storage." "yes ... i presume you are right.... how did i come to go on the stage?... well, i suppose it was because i wanted a career of some kind.... i wanted to _do something_; you know how empty and shallow the average girl's life is, with the endless round of parties, visits, fancy work and that sort of thing. i was an only daughter, too. father was well-to-do and wrapped up in the affairs of the small city in which we lived. after he died, mother thought she would like to travel. we went abroad. it was over there that the idea of a career took a stronger hold on me. about the only talent i could lay any claim to was music. i had always played and sung at our home concerts and church sociables.... but mother didn't encourage me in my ambitions. she argued that, since father had left us comfortably fixed, why should i want to worry my head about work? besides, she said my first duty was to her as long as she lived. so there it rested.... we just drifted from place to place ... vegetating...." "some parents are like that," i commented. leila rested her chin in her palms and went on.... "after mother died i resolved to go after that career. i returned abroad to study...." she chuckled a little, probably, at the remembrance.... "of course, the _teachers_ said i had a great future ahead of me ... with application and patience ... infinite patience. meanwhile i must study--and pay exorbitant prices for my tuition. the income which had been ample for my needs heretofore did not go very far under the new régime. i found it necessary to cut into the capital, realizing the danger of such a move, but soothing my fears with the dream of my great future.... well, honey, the splendid career as you see has ended in the chorus.... and, what's more, i'm living on my salary." she picked up will's guitar and began strumming on it. "what i can't understand," she continued after a while, "what i feel most is the fact that i don't seem able to pull myself out of it. i see other girls lifting themselves to better positions; i know i can sing better than any one of them.... there was miss nelson whom you succeeded. as soon as i heard she was to retire i went to the manager and asked for her place. he sent me to the musical director, who heard me sing, commented favorably and said he would report to the manager. that was the last i heard of it until rehearsal was called and i learned that you had been engaged.... tell me, honestly, what's the matter with me? why don't i get on? is it because i haven't any _pull_ or because--" she did not finish her sentence, but switched to another.... "take our prima donna for example: three years ago she was playing a part not bigger than yours. now look at her! my voice is as good as hers, if not better, but i can't get them to let me even understudy her." ... a vision of the prima donna passed before my eye; an insipidly pretty woman whose sudden rise to fame had turned her empty little head. vain, impetuous, over-keyed, already the marks of dissipation were leaving their indelible stamp. whenever i saw her, resplendent in sables, dangling her jewelled gold-mesh purse, my mind reverted to a well-known club-man's comment on virtue: "i always measure the chastity of the unprotected female by the size of her gold-mesh bag; the larger the bag the less the virtue." leila, bent on relieving her mind and heart, went on: "when i went into the chorus it was a choice between that and macy's. of course i'd heard things about the life, but i told myself that a girl who wants to can go straight in any walk of life. i had all those copy-book maxims at the tip of my tongue: 'virtue is its own reward,' and 'then let us be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labour and to wait,' or something like that.... willie stewart--you know the little black-eyed girl who plays next to me on the left--it was she who gave me my first eye-opener. seeing that i was new at the business, she came to me shortly after we opened and asked me if i didn't want to meet some gentlemen; that she had been asked to bring some of the girls with her to a beefsteak party which was to be pulled off that night. i thanked her and told her i did not care to go. willie squinted her eyes a little in sizing me up, then treated me to the following advice: 'look here, angel child, you'd better go back to home and mother. this is no place for a minister's daughter. if you haven't got sense enough to take a chance when it's brought to you on a silver tray--well, all i've got to say is that you're in wrong. managers want the girls that are popular and the way to be popular is to mingle. just remember that you don't get anything for nothing in this business or in no other, as far as i've been able to observe. it's give up--_give up all along the line_ and it's only the foxy dame that gets what's comin' to her, even then!'" "willie has a very large gold bag, i have noticed," i said. "and a sealskin coat," leila added. then she jumped to her feet and struck at the sofa pillows viciously.... "it isn't the clothes and that sort of thing that appeal to me. it isn't the fact that i'm living in a dingy little room and trying to make ends meet; i'd live on a box of uneeda biscuits a day if i saw any hope, the faintest ray of hope that i could win out clean, on merit alone, in the end.... sometimes i think i'm wrong and that they are right--" "leila! you don't think anything of the sort! you know you are right! hold on a little while longer; you're sure to win! why, with a voice like yours, and your beauty, i should feel so sure of winning that nothing else would matter--and it doesn't, leila, nothing else really counts if you live up to the best that's in you!" i had worked myself up to a state of enthusiasm where i almost believed my own words. i took her by the shoulders and held her at arm's length. we looked into each other's eyes, each trying to pierce the veil behind which are concealed our true thoughts. it was nearing the holidays when will signed for the engagement which was destined to play such an important rôle in our future lives. the star was of foreign origin, with a fascinating accent and a steadily increasing reputation for eroticism. under the guise of "high-brow" drama she revelled in the portrayal of abnormal femininity. her adeptness in "suggestive" scenes, to which she lent a startling verisimilitude, soon gained for her a large, if not altogether intellectual, following. will was not altogether satisfied with his rôle, but what actor ever is? i consoled him with the fact that the salary was good and that but little of the present season remained. with will on the road, left to myself in the empty apartment, the blue devils renewed their lease. and when the approach of the christmas season began to manifest itself in shop-windows and in holiday rush, my heartache increased manifold. leila and i were much together in those days. my little friend's increasing depression, instead of augmenting my own, acted as a spur to brighter moods. together we made the round of the shops or tramped through the snow in central park. sometimes we lingered to watch the young people skating on the ice; again we hitched ourselves to sleds to the merriment of small folk. coming home alone from a matinée i would find myself following a party of children out on an ante-holiday survey. standing close to them i listened to their prattle and eager expectancy of a visit from santa claus.... if the tears came i swallowed hard. no one was near to heed. in the seclusion of my home i fought it out alone. it had been my intention to carry a box of flowers to the dear one's grave on christmas morning. passing one day through a wretched quarter of the east side in search of a dilatory laundress, my steps halted in front of a cheap toy-shop. beside me stood a small boy, clinging to the hand of an older girl, their eyes riveted upon the display within. with one grimy little hand, stiff and rough from the cold, the small man smeared the tears from his eyes and snivelled. his threadbare coat, sizes too large for his meagre frame, his toes showing through his shoes. the girl's face was peaked and old, as if the despair of life had already left its stamp. there was something infinitely tender in the way she held the boy close to her, mutely comforting his grief, her eyes meeting half defiantly the tinselled magnet of the shop-window, her lips compressed to stop their mutinous tremble. when at last i brought myself to break in upon their thoughts, they looked at me like startled fawns.... the overture was on when i rushed into the theatre that afternoon. with leila's help i was in time for my cue. and it was with leila's help that i dressed the toys and trimmed the tree and between us, late on christmas eve, we toted a big basket on and off the cars, up the dingy stairs where maggie kept house for "me brudder" while their mother went out to work.... it was boy's offering, not mine.... chapter xvii coming out of the stage door after the performance one night shortly after the new year, the back-door keeper met me with the information that a gentleman was waiting to see me. before i could frame a reply a bulky figure emerged from the gloom. i recognized mr. f. of chicago. there was something akin to embarrassment in the way he proffered his hand, though his grip was not lacking in geniality. of the two i was the more self-possessed. to my polite inquiries about his family he murmured something about their being all right, he guessed, and abruptly changed the subject by asking me to "come jump in a taxi and let's go somewhere for a bite of supper." i did not understand why i so readily acquiesced. on the way to rector's--he himself having made the choice of restaurant--we exchanged amenities. i believe i deplored the fact that i was not dressed for the occasion, and he had replied with a flattering speech intended to salve my vanity. after he had ordered the most expensive items on the menu, he settled back in his chair, toyed with his fork, looked at me searchingly, then broke out laughing. the laughter was not pleasant to the ear; it left an unpleasant apprehension. he leaned across the table with a confidential air and smiled quizzically.... "do you remember the last time we had supper together?" i nodded and coaxed a smile. "perfectly," i responded. a silence, while mr. f. traced strange hieroglyphics on the napery. after a while he tossed aside the fork with the air of one casting off unpleasant memories, and settled back in his chair. "tell me about yourself," he commanded. "how is the world using you? what in the name of wonder ever took you on the comic opera stage? i couldn't believe my own eyes when i spotted you to-night, and, of course, the name on the programme meant nothing to me. i shook my friends as soon as the performance was over and interviewed the back-door keeper. he told me you were mrs. hartley in private life.... well, what's the answer?" "there's nothing mysterious about my present occupation. mr. hartley hasn't been especially lucky this season, and when a chance to help out a bit presented itself i took it ... that's all.... i presume you know that we lost our boy...." "yes--yes ... i knew, of course." his tone was curt, but i understood his reluctance to dwell upon the subject. the return of the waiter ended a painful silence. after that mr. f. kept up a running fire of gossip and questions about stage life. but beneath the surface i sensed and lent him tacit aid in his effort to steer clear of the topic i knew to be uppermost in his mind. from time to time rumours of a fresh rupture with his wife had reached me. in fact, it was will who had acquainted me with the news of their final estrangement. he confided the details of the lady's latest excursion into the realm of the illicit, with the sententious air of, "there! didn't i predict what would happen?" and a shrug of the shoulders. i am not sure that it was not will's intent to sympathize with himself as a victim of circumstances over which he had no control. indeed, the occasional bursts of confidences which he thrust upon me, and in which he discussed quite frankly the indiscretions of certain lion-hunting ladies, were made, i felt, with the hope of impressing upon me the pitfalls with which a man in his profession is surrounded. or was it vanity, or a desire to fan the old flame of passion he once had aroused--a passion, which, if the paraphrase is pardonable, was now "tame and waited on judgment?" in some way--i am not certain how it came about, since "made" conversation is at best disjointed and lacks in sequence--a random remark inspired a challenge from mr. f., who offered to lay a bet that i was in the wrong. "o, no," i had replied, "i don't want you to lose; besides, you do not pay your gambling debts promptly. do you know you never sent me that box of candy i won from you in cincinnati? mr. f.... you're not a good sport!" with a shock i realized i was in shallow waters.... he looked at me with his eyes narrowed to mere slits.... "well, little woman, i can't say that of you, can i?... i can't say that you're not a good sport--after that performance in cincinnati." ... i flushed but made a heroic effort to control my voice. "i don't think i follow you." mr. f. beat up the bubbles in his glass and watched them come to the surface before he answered. "of course you've heard about her latest affair with that italian opera singer.... well, i caught her with the goods this time.... for the sake of the children i'm letting her get the divorce...." he left off frowning and contemplated me with an amused smile. "say, little woman, you did put it all over me there in cincinnati, didn't you?... i suppose you're wondering how i got wise to it? well, i wrung the confession out of her; i wouldn't let her get the divorce until she told me the truth, and then i checked it up through her sister, who's a pretty good sort.... all my life i've had a deep-rooted respect for a game sport.... when i look at that pretty little face of yours and think of the job you cooked up at a moment's notice--well, i take off my hat to you, that's all!... look here, little woman: if anything ever goes wrong between you and handsome bill--and by gad! i thought it had when i saw you on the stage to-night--if ever you need a friend, just tap the wires. there's my club address ... and, little lady--don't be afraid that i'll ask anything in return--do you follow me? i'm not any better than the rest of my kind, but i think i know the real thing when i meet it." while donning my wraps in the cloak-room some time later, i was surprised to see my little friend leila enter and present her coat-check to the maid. she flushed a little in surprise as she greeted me: "why, mrs. hartley! i didn't know you were here! where were you sitting? why didn't you tell me you were coming?" "i didn't know myself. i found an old acquaintance waiting, and of course he wanted to see 'where the soubrettes hang out.'" "how funny! my coming was unexpected, too. i'll tell you all about it to-morrow." she hurried away, a little eagerly, i thought. as i passed out in response to a beckon from mr. f. i saw leila being helped into a handsome fur coat. i told myself it was none of my business; that leila knew perfectly well what she was doing and that any amount of advice from me would not only not be acted upon, but would be resented. already she avoided me. to my pleadings that i was lonely--would she not dine with me at my home?--she responded with ever-ready but piffling excuses and subterfuges. i would see her emerge from her dressing-room after the performance, prettily dressed, get into a waiting taxicab and be whirled away. the situation preyed on my mind. once i took courage in both hands and called at her lodging-house only to be told that miss moore had moved away a month since. i got the new address from the back-door keeper, and when my little friend was out of the cast through illness i seized the opportunity to call on her. it was one of those smaller apartment hotels in the west forties; i was taken up in the elevator without challenge. the coloured maid who cautiously opened the door said she did not know whether her mistress would see me. something in my manner, however, caused her to stand aside and let me enter. the rooms were tastefully if cheaply furnished. leila was lying on a couch, propped with pillows and clad in a dainty silk kimono. she was taken by surprise and flushed a little as she extended her hand. the maid placed a chair for me. "i--i thought you had forgotten me," she stammered as i offered the flowers i had brought. "how good of you!" "they're only seconds, leila, but the best i could afford." and, compared to the big american beauties reposing in a vase near at hand, they certainly did look shop-worn. "it's a beastly day, isn't it? let me send for a cup of tea or maybe you'd like a high-ball...." i declined both. the maid disappeared. leila squirmed about on her pillows.... "i'm sorry to see you ill, leila," i ventured by way of breaking the ice. "o, i'm not really ill ... only a slight cold. i'm a bit run down and the judge--that is--the doctor thought i should rest for a while. i'm not going back to the theatre this season.... it's awfully good of you to bother about me...." "leila?" i said finally.... "leila, is it worth it?" "is what worth----".... "all this." i indicated the apartment, the piano, the silk négligée--and the ring on her finger.... "is it worth the price you are paying?" i asked gently. she lifted her shoulders. "i don't know!" her tone was half question, half defiance.... "i _do_ know that the other way wasn't worth the sacrifices, the scrimping and mean pinching. i couldn't go on like that--i couldn't! i am young; i want some of the good things of life while i am still young ... and i was lonely. i didn't fit into my environment." "i understand, leila.... perhaps i appreciate the loneliness, the rebellion, better than you think.... you see other girls enjoying the good things of life and apparently happy. but, after all, happiness is purely relative, and what makes for their happiness might not make for yours. leila, dear girl, couldn't you make up your mind to stick it out just a little while longer?... things were sure to come your way--or, perhaps, you would meet the right man and marry and settle down in the little home of your own which you told me you have always craved." "the right kind of men don't marry chorus girls. the exceptions are rare. and what manner of men are they who _do_ marry a girl out of the chorus? old worn-out roués, almost senile from the debauched lives they have led. they crave something young and fresh as an elixir of life. sometimes it's a young blood with money; a black sheep of the family who drinks and sports, and in the end there's divorce if nothing worse.... i couldn't marry a man like either of these.... it's a mistake to be too fastidious...." "is--is--he married?" "he--o.... yes, he's married--in a way. his wife and he have not really lived together for years. for the sake of the family they keep up appearances.... she doesn't understand him...." "did _he_ tell you that--and you _believe_ it?" "but i know it's true! you'd believe it, too, if ever you were to see her. he married her when he was young and poor." "i presume they loved each other then; she probably pinched and scrimped in those days to help him--to help him get where he is to-day." "i don't know anything about that, of course. but i do know that i admire him; he has a wonderful mind. it's a privilege to be associated with a man like him. if you knew him, you would not think so badly of the--the arrangement." i left my chair to sit beside her on the couch. "dear girl," i said, slipping my hand in hers, "don't misunderstand me. i'm not sitting in judgment, neither am i criticizing you. but i want you to think of the future. have you ever thought of the time when you will be no longer young? have you never observed that type of woman one finds hanging around restaurants or hotel corridors, hoping to pick up a man, any man, it doesn't matter what kind of a man so long as he has a little money? these women are getting along in years, taking on flesh, hiding the ravages of time and dissipation with rouge, hair-dyes and more dissipation. they are fighting life and getting the worst of it, having put into life only their worst: thrown from one man's arms into another's: down the line--always down grade, lower and lower until--until what remains? the streets, the work-house, or suicide.... have you thought of that?" "no! _no! no!_--and i don't want to think of it!" she pounded her fists vehemently together.... "i'm tired of thinking of the future! i've done nothing all my life but think and live in the future--and now i'm going to get what there is--all there is--out of the present, if it's only a pretty gown, only a bright flower! what incentive has a girl like me to be good? go away! go away, please, and don't bother about me!" ... as i walked up fifth avenue on my way home, the shops and various dressmaking establishments were disgorging their workers: pale girls, for the most part, poorly clad. here and there one prettier than the rest, showing in her dress the innate love of display; passing the well-dressed saunterer along the way with a pert glance, an inviting eye; dreaming of the silks she had handled all day; longing for the comforts of life which money alone can buy.... after all, is it a question of morals or economics which leads these girls astray? as my little friend had put it, "what incentive have they to go straight?" chapter xviii will's season closed early. my own promised to run well into the summer months. will's return was marked by a happier frame of mind and a corresponding good humour. he had been re-engaged for the coming year, and the fact that his maternal grandmother had recently died and left him a small legacy, which would be made over to him during the summer, relieved his mind of the worry over money matters which had been oppressing him. with characteristic prodigality he invested in a complete new wardrobe--to be paid for when the legacy arrived. also he contemplated buying a motor-car, though i endeavoured to point out to him that a trip abroad would be a better investment, if spend his money he must. it was well along in june when--with a silent _te deum_--i saw the notice posted. one of those periods of tropical heat had descended upon new york and brought the run of the opera to an abrupt close. it was a welcome relief to be allowed to remain at home for days at a time. i set about to refurnish my summer wardrobe. with the acquisition of an automobile still pending in his mind, will spent much of his time away from home, trying out various makes of cars. it was during one such week-end hejira that john gailbraith returned from abroad. he had only that morning disembarked, and after settling himself in a downtown hotel had come to call on us. i hailed his advent with delight. our long talks, the exchange of ideas, his alert mind refreshed and stimulated my own. will once laughingly remarked that i had developed into a veritable human question mark. but in no other way could i induce our friend to talk about himself or his art. he had travelled much and when once started on the subject would retail his experiences in foreign lands. my interest was kept on the _qui vive_. then there was his work and achievement. long were the discussions and criticisms of the "super-creation" and the thoughts and ideas which had led to its conception. as yet, i had not been inclined to resume my own work which my son's death had caused me to lay aside. now, under the influence of my master's encouragement and sympathy, the old ambition quickened. as the summer progressed we came to see a great deal of john gailbraith. indeed, he became a part of our daily life. a genuineness which made itself felt, a cleanliness of mind and speech, together with a quiet humour and a gift of sympathetic understanding, endeared him to his friends. will shared my feeling, else he had not thrown us so continuously together. "john gailbraith is one of the few men in the world to whom i would entrust my wife's honour," he had said one day. i had chided will for so repeatedly throwing me upon our friend for amusement or companionship. it had become a common thing for will to hail his friend thus: "old man, if you haven't anything better to do to-night, take my missus out to dinner, will you? i have an engagement to hear a play read," or, "i say, jack old boy, look after the missus while i'm away. i've been asked to go on a motor-trip for a few days and i know it's punishment to drag the poor girl along." (parenthetically will rarely asked me to join him on these motor-trips.) it was on such an occasion that i had reproved will for saddling john gailbraith with a responsibility which may not have been to his liking. "there may be other friends to whom he may wish to devote himself; besides is it wise that i be seen so continually in his company and without my husband? you know how malicious the world is. people will say----" "o, hell! i believe with bernard shaw: 'they say--what do they say? let them say!' people will always find something to criticize. so long as i am satisfied it's nobody's business. i'm not afraid, girlie, of anyone taking you away from me." and he dismissed the subject. my husband not only encouraged the idea of my working under the guiding hand of the sculptor but developed an enthusiasm which quite took away my breath. in one of his impulsive moods he rented a studio from an artist member of the players' club, who was planning to go abroad for a year. "it's just the thing she needs; something to occupy her mind. besides, any little pleasure i can throw her way is coming to her, after the way she stood by when i was down on my luck. it isn't every wife who can support her husband, is it, old man?" and will slipped his arm about my shoulders with an amused wink. he was in high humour these days. there was a great scrubbing and cleaning before i pronounced the studio habitable. will said i was not a true artist. i failed to find art and dirt synonymous or mutually connotating each the other. the building which housed the studio was in a small street or, more properly, an area-way in the vicinity of lower fifth avenue within a stone's throw of washington square. john gailbraith said it was his favourite part of the city. it came to be mine. sometimes, after we had taken luncheon at a near-by restaurant, we would stroll in the square or sit on one of the benches. our lounging neighbours were interesting studies in real life. john would point out the various foreign types and compare them with their countrymen on their native heath. at other times i would have our recently acquired cook-lady prepare a dainty lunch basket, which i carried to the studio, and at the noon-hour, while john made the tea, i laid the table. here we would linger, absorbed in the discussion which with passing days grew more frank and intimate. i no longer felt cramped or warped. expansion had become an almost measurable sensation. during our vari-toned _pour-parler_, one subject was by seemingly tacit consent taboo. no reference or allusion was ever made to my conjugal affairs. whatever john gailbraith thought or knew concerning will's peccadillos, he gave no intimation. it was not possible that he had not heard of my husband's various _liaisons_. in fact, will, himself, made no attempt to conceal the attentions of certain women who rang up at his home under flimsiest pretence. he joked lightly about their indiscretions and commented on the fact that he "was getting to be the real thing in the way of a matinée idol." the period following upon my son's death when will had devoted himself to me with something of the sweetness of our early married life was short-lived. and if i closed my eyes and ears to the recurring lapses of his fidelity it was because i still hoped that some day he would need my love. whether john gailbraith believed there was an understanding between my husband and me i could only surmise. to have him regard me in the light of a complaisant wife gave me many uncomfortable moments, yet i could not touch upon the subject. the truth lovingly told is that i came nearer to being happy during those summer months than i had been for--how many years had passed since will and i had set up housekeeping in the little furnished flat of halcyon days?... when will's absence from home became more frequent and of long duration i exerted myself to greet his return with a pleasant word and a serene face. and if, sometimes, i felt john's eyes upon me--those great gray eyes with large iris and the black fringed lids--i strove the harder to dissemble. sometimes will would swoop down on us with a noisy party in tow and insist upon an impromptu dinner in the workshop. the suggestion was invariably hailed with delight by the women, who regarded the studio as an open sesame to forbidden fruit and free speech, while to the men it connoted models in the nude and bacchanalia. on one occasion will brought his star to see the minute whirling figure the sculptor had but recently completed in refutation of the criticism that his work was effective only in large design. posing as a _connoisseur_, the lady had expressed the wish to see john's work. i think i hated her at first glance. there was something snake-like even in the movement of her body and in the craning of her long, thin neck from which a sharp jaw projected. she fascinated while she repelled. being temperamentally reserved in the presence of strangers--and the lady temperamentally interested in the opposite sex--i had an opportunity to study her. my scrutiny was not unobserved. indeed, she was always conscious of self, though apparently not self-conscious. in the act of taking her leave she stopped quite suddenly and addressed herself to me: "and so you are _meesus_ hartley.... what fine eyes you have ... such ... what _ees_ the word? yes, tangled, tangled depths ... and the shadows!... if i were a man i should make love to _meesus_ hartley...." she shot a glance at john gailbraith, then dropped her lids over her eyes. but the suggestion was not lost. it was not meant to be. "madame has a pleasing way of expressing herself," i drawled, meeting the much affected wide baby stare of her orbs with a like expression. suggestion is insidiously effective. from the moment my husband's star had dropped the seed--thoughtlessly or maliciously, who shall say?--it took root. the calm surface over which i had been gliding during the past months ruffled and disturbed my equilibrium. the old _camaraderie_ between john gailbraith and me gave way to self-consciousness on my part. i felt what i imagined might have been the sensation which overwhelmed mother eve after eating of the tree of knowledge. for the first time during our intercourse i looked upon john gailbraith as man--myself, woman. i caught myself expecting, anticipating, parrying any indication on his part which might be construed as a prelude to tenderness. my attitude became constrained, unnatural; his, more gracious, gentle, tactful. perhaps he analyzed my mood as the natural result of gossip which connected my husband's name with that of the "star." that he pitied me heaped coals of fire upon my head--and his. i was glad of the opportunity which took him to washington in response to a letter from a prospective patron and left me to myself. with mathematical precision i questioned myself: why should i permit the insinuations of a not disinterested woman to mar a friendship which had become dear to me and which i had hoped to retain all my life? was friendship between persons of opposite sex not possible? can there be no relationship between man and woman disassociated from sex? had this man by look or word professed other than friendship for me? had i professed or felt any emotion other than which i indicated? then why permit the bond to be severed by a wholly suppositious breach? i resolved that upon john's return to the city i should take up the thread where i had left off. there was consolation in the determination. the time had arrived when i was to begin the nude of boy in marble. it was to be my winter's work and i was eager to be well advanced with it before john went abroad again. i looked forward to his going with genuine regret. more and more will had estranged himself from me: whether deliberately or not i was not prepared to answer. the relentless examination continued. what was it which held me to my husband? did i still love him despite his infidelities, his ever-increasing neglect and selfishness? or was it the tender memories of our youthful love at whose altar i worshipped, feeding the smouldering embers with incense of bruised and crushed illusions? might i not, after all, with patience, devotion, tolerance and a single-heartedness of purpose lead his wandering steps back to me? if life was barren now, what should it be without him? no, i must find my solace in my pride in him; must squeeze what comfort i might in helping him on to success; always with the hope--hope!--the promise-crammed! it had become a custom of mine to carry my perturbation of heart and mind to my boy's grave; there, in the silence and the nothingness of life, to find a balm and fortitude. it was upon such a mission i set out one day late in september. under the early autumn haze the meadows lay carpeted with golden rod and fleecy lace of the queen's handkerchief. soothed by this tryst with my loved one i returned to town prepared to take up the battle. arriving at the grand central station i decided to telephone to will's club with the hope of finding he had returned during my absence. stopping to pay the toll i glanced listlessly around the waiting-room. a familiar figure caused me to start forward, then draw back. there, coming through the station was my husband and his "star." from the handbags he carried--one of which i recognized as his--it was evident that they had come direct from the train. i recalled that will had mentioned the fact that the star had recently bought a country residence. and, too, it recurred to me that, when on saturday night will had telephoned me that he was at a turkish bath and would remain there all day, his voice had a far-away sound to it, as if the message were at long distance. sunday and monday had passed with no word from him. i now understood where he had been.... i watched them drive away in a hansom.... then i took a car home. chapter xix it had never before suggested itself to me that divorce was the only solution. divorce had always appeared to me an acknowledgment of failure--failure of married life. when my son was taken from me i had cherished the delusion that our differences lay buried in his grave; that an adjustment of our married life was imminent.... divorce! to give him his freedom; to turn me upon the world without anchor, ballast or compass.... a kind of terror took possession of me--not the terror of being thrown upon my own resources for a livelihood, since i was not dependent upon my husband for maintenance, a consideration which prevents many women from severing a bond which has become repugnant to them--but the terror of loneliness. i had already tasted of this bitterness--was i now to be surfeited with it? if only boy had been spared to me! o, god, the pity of it all!... and yet, there was no other way. to carry on the farce of married relationship; to submit to him, feeling only revulsion, repugnance, was nothing short of prostitution. and had i not already prostituted the best that was in me? already the corroding influences around me had begun to tell. even john gailbraith had noticed the change in me and had alluded to it under the veil of kindly intent. if i were to save anything from the wreckage i must begin now, at once--before it was too late. i had seen women, good women, stronger women than myself, break under the strain of neglect and loneliness.... well, i should not break. pride should sustain me.... the future ... no, i dared not yet think of the future. it made me quail and falter in my purpose--a purpose i determined to make known to my husband on his return. arriving at the studio the next morning earlier than was my custom (will had not yet put in an appearance and the delay but strengthened my purpose), i found that john had not yet returned from breakfast. his small sleeping-quarters, giving upon the studio proper, were open and, without meaning to be curious, i paused in the doorway. a charcoal sketch caught my eye. it was my own likeness. scattered about the room were other sketches in various stages of development. i turned away, closing the door behind me. a warm flush suffused my being. i told myself it was shame at having intruded where i had not been bidden.... the various models of my son stood about the room and beckoned me. i ran my fingers over the little head, the pouting lips, and laid my cheek to his in silent salutation. the flood-gates strained and throbbed, threatening to break through.... a hand closed over mine.... i knew the hand.... in my complete immersion of thought i had not heard him come in.... i bent and pressed my lips upon his hand.... we stood looking at each other. something of the shock i felt was mirrored in his eyes.... "margaret ... margaret," he had said ... and i, all unyielding, had sought the solace of his arms.... some time later he placed a chair for me and forced me gently down ... still quivering under the shock of revelation--revelation, not of what i had done, but of what i _felt_! the spurious sentiment which had held me to the past of things shook me with its last convulsive gasps.... seated in front of me, his hands clasping mine, he read the confusion in my mind: confusion which speech alone could dissipate.... "i want you to know what is in my mind and heart.... doubt, a great question over-shadows all else. i ask myself, can a woman love more than once? is there a love for youth, a love for maturity?... you see, i am not sure that i really love you. i am haunted with the fear that my loneliness, my wounded pride, my unsatisfied life have caused me to seek consolation. and i have come to you for that consolation because i respect and admire you. propinquity has proved that we are companionable and that we have much in common. but love demands something more than companionship, respect and admiration. _you_ would demand something more.... whether i am prepared to give you that which you demand is the question. as i feel now, i could not give you all the marriage relation implies. do you understand my scruples? i have the feeling that to go from one man's arms to another's is nothing short of indecency. perhaps time will alter the perspective. but i don't know, john, i don't know! you see i want to be honest with you. i want to promise nothing about which i am not sure.... then, there is your side of it. can i give all a man expects from the woman he makes his wife? what have i to give? the bloom of my womanhood, the ardent passion of youth is forever gone. what is left may not satisfy you.... it is right that you should go away at once ... but i shall be lonely.... god and my heart alone know how lonely i shall be...." "margaret, i thank you for your frankness. it only adds to my love for you. i appreciate and respect the feeling which bids you send me away at this time. only don't sacrifice yourself to a prudish modesty; don't make a fetish of the past. conserve your tender memories, if you will, but strip them of overvaluation.... you ask what have you to give.... do you believe that because the bloom of your womanhood, your first passion and its fruition have belonged to another, that there is nothing left to give? shall i be giving, does any man give, what he demands of a woman as the prerogative of his sex? you see, little woman, we are the victims of a false education. there is one standard for woman, a different standard for man. it is this faulty double standard which is responsible for so many unhappy marriages. some day this will all be changed. there are signs even to-day of the awakening.... rid your mind once and for all of the spectre that the past will stand between us. don't stultify your womanhood with a sentimentalism which is the curse of your sex. life lies before you. the motherhood which your nature is crying out for is your rightful heritage. look ahead, dear. be true to the best that is in you ... and remember ... i am waiting...." i bade him good-bye--and had lingered. his strong hands clasped mine once more and held me there.... mutely we looked into each other's eyes ... and thus my husband found us.... coming in unannounced--whether intentionally was of small moment. we did not start; instead, i think he held me closer and met the other's sneer with a clear gaze.... "drop my wife's hand! drop it, i say!" will raised his cane to strike. i heard it snap and saw the bits in the other's hand. they clenched and glared at each other.... "it is not necessary to indulge in heroics," i interposed.... "suppose we talk it over--sensibly." as we seated ourselves in preparation for the "_pour-parler_" the ironic humour of the situation came to my rescue. there was something absurdly theatrical about will's attitude: a stentorian breathing; his stride across the room; a certain punctuated deliberation in the way he relieved himself of hat and gloves. i had seen him do thus in "strong" scenes on the stage, many and many's the time. i felt as if i were waiting for a cue.... "so!" will began after placing his chair firmly centre.... "so this is the way you abuse my confidence in you both!... my god, where is your sense of honour? if i hadn't trusted you so implicitly it wouldn't be so bad ... but to deliberately strike me from behind!" he rose, strode left centre and back again. "and you--my wife! _my wife!_ i would not have believed it of you! i would never have believed it possible that my wife could so deceive me.... i've been warned about this.... i've been warned that such a thing as this might happen, but i refused to listen to gossip ... and nobody had the nerve to tell me the truth.... it's the same old story ... a husband is always the last one to hear of his wife's infidelity.... margaret! _margaret!!!_" he stopped and waved his hand tragically in the direction of the models of boy.... "how could you.... how could you!... here under the very eyes of our little son! have you no shame, have you no reverence for the memory of that sainted child?... o, my god! woman!..." the mention of the child electrified me ... his cheap grief was revolting.... "stop that! stop your acting! i'm sick, _sick_, _sick_ unto death of the theatre!... haven't you one honest, sincere emotion in your nature? play the plain, rugged manly hero for once in your life, if act you must!... you wouldn't believe it of your wife ... _your_ wife.... do you think _your wife_ is not made of flesh and blood and sensibilities like other human beings? what right have you to expect _anything_ from your wife? how dare you conjure with my son's name?... you, fresh from the arms of that--that creature!..." will eyed me narrowly. "o ... so you've been listening to gossip, have you? you've been discussing me between you, is that it? no doubt our friend, here, has done his best to put you wise, eh? i've had enough of this...." "you shall stay and hear me out!... it may surprise you to know that our friend, here, has not even intimated that he knew of your flagrant liaison.... it may shock you to know that it was your wife, the gutta-percha doll, who made the first declaration of tenderness, and i'm glad, i'm glad that i had so much real passion left! i'm glad to realize that after all i am a human being still, capable of feeling" ... (a sudden weariness overcame me and left me limp and exhausted). "the trouble is--you are so impregnated with the rottenness about you, that you judge all by your own standard.... let's have done with this!... any further discussion will be carried on in the privacy of our home.... i am sorry ... sorry to have subjected you to this humiliating scene." my last words were addressed to the man who, tall, gaunt and pale, looked on--and waited. through a blur of tears i held out my hand to him.... "good-bye," i said and left them together. it was dark when will returned. i heard him softly close the hall-door after him. he came into the room where i was lying and sat down beside me. "girlie ... i have something to say to you...." his speech showed a little thickness and i smelled the liquor on his breath. his tone was kindly and i felt my rancour soften. "first, don't let us lose our heads again ... it doesn't help matters.... gailbraith and i have talked it over ... and the kindest thing i can do is to give you a divorce.... that sounds cold-blooded, doesn't it, between you and me?... but it's the only thing ... the only right thing. gailbraith says i'm not playing fair by you; that i am ruining your life and cheating you out of happiness which i can't give you myself ... and i guess he's right.... i guess gailbraith's right.... we've drifted pretty far apart--i realize that now ... but--i want you to believe me when i say you are the only woman i have ever loved--or ever will love. the rest are just--experiences; some of them fascinating while they last, but none of them the real thing. no one will ever replace you in my heart ... that's certain.... it's too bad--too damned bad.... it's this hellish business! there ought to be a law to prevent actors from marrying.... now for the business end of it: i know you won't drag in any names as corespondents. we'll fix that up later. i'll give you a lump sum, now--it can't be as large as i should like it to be, for there isn't much left. when my season opens i'll make you a weekly allowance until--until such a time as you are able to dispense with it. i'll see my lawyer--to-morrow, and fix things up with him..... don't you think it might be well for you to go away for a few days to avoid the newspaper blow-up?" i nodded. i could not speak.... "there, old pard ... don't take it so hard.... i guess that's all for the present. i'll be at the club any time you want me.... good--good-night, girlie ... and god bless you...." in the days which followed i appeared to myself like a rudderless ship in a choppy sea. i did not see john gailbraith again. he sailed within a few days after the scene in the studio. in a letter written from the boat he told me he had not forced himself upon me, knowing my wishes and respecting them. "be true to yourself is all i ask," the letter ran, "and know that whatever you may decide as best for yourself that shall i abide by." following the serving of the papers on will for absolute divorce, i left town. those wretched days were spent on railroad trains, fast trains, flyers. i got off one only to board another. the sense of "going somewhere" was in keeping with my mood. when i returned to new york, worn and relaxed, i appreciated the quiet of what once had been home.... will had already installed himself at the club. the dismantling of the apartment was a nerve-racking task. memories, bitter, sweet, crowded on each other's heels, "so fast they followed." will had left a list of books and trinkets which were to be packed and sent to storage in his name. in an old trunk, buried beneath dust and grime in the bin, below stairs, i found endless souvenirs of my married life. photographs, letters, my wedding flowers; press-notices, carefully preserved in a large scrap-book; costumes i had made for will in the early days of our struggle; boy's first shoe.... this inscription on the back of a large photograph will had given to me on the day of our betrothal: "to girlie from her boy--until death do us part and even in eternity." ... letters, breathing hope and fears and always--love.... damp with tears, i gathered the symbols of the wreck and plied a match. i watched them as they burned ... and crumbled to ashes ... ashes.... * * * * * i sat in the rear of the dim theatre where i had slipped unnoticed, after the lights were lowered. i had come to see him as a kind of leave-taking. to-morrow, the open sea ... a new world.... his voice thrilled me as before: i smiled at familiar little tricks and mannerisms.... his features had coarsened somewhat; his figure taken on flesh, but it was the same will ... the same handsome lover of my youth. the scene faded from my view.... i lived again in the past; all rancour dead, a great tenderness and regret--regret that it should be so. silently i stole away, while the lights were low. "god bless you, dear," i whispered in my heart, "god bless and keep you, dear." the end transcriber's note: beside a few typographical errors, the following changes have been made: how long with=>how long will woman as my right=>woman at my right * * * * * _after the honeymoon--what?_ _read the surprising new novel_, "_the indiscretion of lady usher_" _and learn what happens to one woman_. _ mo. cloth binding. for sale by all booksellers or sent, carriage paid, for $ . , by the publishers_ _the macaulay company_ _ west th street_ _new york_ this story is a sequel to "the diary of my honeymoon," one of the most readable books we have ever published. "the indiscretion of lady usher" is written in the same intimate style that has made famous all the writings of the unknown author and we predict a startling success for it. the book will make you burn the midnight oil. are you interested in the preservation of the race? _then read the new novel_ "her reason" ¶this startling anonymous work of a well-known english novelist is a frank exposure of modern marriage. ¶in the state of nature, animals tend to improve through sexual selection. but among the human race to-day a very different process is at work, particularly among _the rich, whose daughters are annually offered for sale in the markets of the world_. "her reason" shows the deplorable results. shall our women be sacrificed? _price $ . net; postage, cents extra_ the macaulay company, publishers west th street new york famous books by well known authors the dangerous age, by karin michaelis here is a woman's soul laid bare with absolute frankness. europe went mad about the book, which has been translated into twelve languages. it betrays the freemasonry of womanhood. my actor husband, anonymous the reader will be startled by the amazing truths set forth and the completeness of their revelations. life behind the scenes is stripped bare of all its glamor. young women whom the stage attracts should read this story. there is a ringing damnation in it. mrs. drummond's vocation, by mark ryce lily drummond is an unmoral (not immoral) heroine. she was not a bad girl at heart; but when chance opened up for her the view of a life she had never known or dreamed of, her absence of moral responsibility did the rest. downward: "a slice of life," by maud churton braby author of "modern marriage and how to bear it" "'downward' belongs to that great modern school of fiction built upon woman's downfall. * * * i cordially commend this bit of fiction to the thousands of young women who are yearning to see what they call 'life.'"--_james l. ford in the n. y. herald._ two apaches of paris, by alice and claude askew authors of "the shulamite," "the rod of justice," etc. all primal struggles originate with the daughters of eve. this story of paris and london tells of the wild, fierce life of the flesh, of a woman with the beauty of consummate vice to whom a man gave himself, body and soul. the visits of elizabeth, by elinor glyn one of mrs. glyn's biggest successes. elizabeth is a charming young woman who is always saying and doing droll and daring things, both shocking and amusing. beyond the rocks, by elinor glyn "one of mrs. glyn's highly sensational and somewhat erotic novels."--_boston transcript._ the scenes are laid in paris and london; and a country-house party also figures, affording the author some daring situations, which she has handled deftly. _price cents per copy; postage cents extra_ _order from your bookseller or from the publishers_ the macaulay company west thirty-eighth street, new york send for illustrated catalogue famous books by well known authors the reflections of ambrosine, by elinor glyn the story of the awakening of a young girl, whose maidenly emotions are set forth as elinor glyn alone knows how. "gratitude and power and self-control! * * * in nature i find there is a stronger force than all these things, and that is the touch of the one we love."--ambrosine. the vicissitudes of evangeline, by elinor glyn "one of mrs. glyn's most pungent tales of feminine idiosyncrasy and caprice."--_boston transcript._ evangeline is a delightful heroine with glorious red hair and amazing eyes that looked a thousand unsaid challenges. one day: a sequel to three weeks "there is a note of sincerity in this book that is lacking in the first"--_boston globe._ "one day" is the sequel you have been waiting for since reading "three weeks," and is a story which points a moral, a clear, well-written exposition of the doctrine, "as ye sow, so shall ye reap." high noon: a new sequel to three weeks a modern romeo and juliet a powerful, stirring love-story of twenty years after. abounding in beautiful descriptions and delicate pathos, this charming love idyl will instantly appeal to the million and a quarter people who have read and enjoyed "three weeks." the diary of my honeymoon a woman who sets out to unburden her soul upon intimate things is bound to touch upon happenings which are seldom the subject of writing at all; but whatever may be said of the views of the anonymous author, the "diary" is a work of throbbing and intense humanity, the moral of which is sound throughout and plain to see. simply women, by marcel prévost "like a motor-car or an old-fashioned razor, this book should be in the hands of mature persons only."--_st. louis post-dispatch._ "marcel prévost, of whom a critic remarked that his forte was the analysis of the souls and bodies of a type half virgin and half courtesan, is now available in a volume of selections admirably translated by r. i. brandon-vauvillez."--_san francisco chronicle._ the adventures of a nice young man, by aix joseph and potiphar's wife up-to-date a handsome young man, employed as a lady's private secretary, is bound to meet with interesting adventures. "under a thin veil the story unquestionably sets forth actual episodes and conditions in metropolitan circles."--_washington star._ _price cents per copy; postage cents extra_ _order from your bookseller or from the publishers_ the macaulay company west thirty-eighth street, new york send for illustrated catalogue